Thursday, 16 June 2011
Kennington Park Lido
Jane and I lived right around the corner from Kennington Park and one sunny day we decided to find the swimming pool. It was marked in my A to Z and we often wondered where exactly it was. We searched without luck, how difficult could a swimming pool be to find in a small park? We asked one person but they were unaware of any lido, we asked another with no luck. We searched on. We asked a lady who took a look at my A to Z, pointed out that it was printed in the early fifties and that the lido had been demolished way back in 1981.
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
How I Met Daniel
When I first lived in Stamford Hill, while I was still a University student, my favourite place was Safeways the supermarket. On the opposite side of the junction, I'd use any excuse to visit.
It was there that I bumped into the singer from my favourite band at the time The Television Personalities and his girlfriend Alison. I can't remember what I said but I do remember it being a bit awkward. I don't think that the name of his band was quite as well known in those days as it is today and this made it feel like an even bigger coincidence somehow. I'd play his records every day, I thought that his songs were just great.
They were at a Pastels show that I went to a few days later at The Garage opposite Highbury and Islington tube. He was feeling very introverted and sullen, which I'd say now was down to not having taken heroin, since at the time, he was an addict. Alison was feeling a little upset by Daniel's mood (she didn't know the extent of his drug taking, in fact, I don't think that she knew that he took the stuff at all) and I think my being there was an irritation. We travelled home together and I invited him over for the next day to meet Jane, the invitation was reciprocated and we became friends.
We were to spend a great deal of time with each other, right up until his disappearance. and I got to know Alison well, who's a great person, and their flatmate Declan too who was overwhelmed with an obsession with the blind South American singer José Feliciano.
It was there that I bumped into the singer from my favourite band at the time The Television Personalities and his girlfriend Alison. I can't remember what I said but I do remember it being a bit awkward. I don't think that the name of his band was quite as well known in those days as it is today and this made it feel like an even bigger coincidence somehow. I'd play his records every day, I thought that his songs were just great.
They were at a Pastels show that I went to a few days later at The Garage opposite Highbury and Islington tube. He was feeling very introverted and sullen, which I'd say now was down to not having taken heroin, since at the time, he was an addict. Alison was feeling a little upset by Daniel's mood (she didn't know the extent of his drug taking, in fact, I don't think that she knew that he took the stuff at all) and I think my being there was an irritation. We travelled home together and I invited him over for the next day to meet Jane, the invitation was reciprocated and we became friends.
We were to spend a great deal of time with each other, right up until his disappearance. and I got to know Alison well, who's a great person, and their flatmate Declan too who was overwhelmed with an obsession with the blind South American singer José Feliciano.
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
Blackbird
I was in my bedroom one day in the spring of 2004 when I heard a terrible commotion in the courtyard. I rushed, as best I could, out of my door and down the stairs and saw a small bird of prey with a fledgling in it's claws.
The baby bird was too heavy and the bird of prey, (a sparrowhawk perhaps) dropped it repeatedly, grabbed it and all the while the father blackbird was screeching at it and flapping it's wings close.
I shooed it away, the bird of prey, and saw that the fat little fledgling was in quite a state, covered in blood and with its wing crooked, so I took it upstairs and popped it in a shoebox.
I contacted The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds and they said that their van was passing after midnight and would pick it up. They advised me to leave the box on the street. I wondered if they were insane, having me leave a bird in a box on the street in central London and told them I'd rather stay up for them. I waited until three but they never showed, nor the next day either. On the third day I spoke to a representative on the telephone again. 'You do realise,' said the girl, 'that it won't be able to ever fly again so they will kill it?'
I had been providing it with water from a pipette but now it was time to follow, loosely, some instructions on feeding from the internet. I bought bacon and scrambled some eggs both of which the little one enjoyed.
After ten days it seemed to have recovered and I released it. I lived in a flat with a lovely courtyard then. All day long the blackbird family, the four other fledglings being unable to fly still, would be hopping around in the vines which covered the outer wall under the watchful eye of the father. My young blackbird was unable to flutter up to join its siblings and so followed the group from the floor.
I assumed it had been eaten by someone when I could no longer see it hopping on the floor a week later but, in fact, it had regained the ability to flutter. A while later still and the fledglings were growing their adult feathers. My blackbird grew a streak of white where his wing was damaged and so I could identify him for three years to come as he fathered little groups of blackbirds in the courtyard.
Consuelo saved a blackbird a few weeks ago and, in doing so, reminded me of mine. Qué coincince! Years later Consuelo and I would feed birds in the courtyard from our kitchen window, encouraging more species to nest there. We had bluetits, great tits, blackbirds, finches but then a great big jay came along and scared everyone away.
The baby bird was too heavy and the bird of prey, (a sparrowhawk perhaps) dropped it repeatedly, grabbed it and all the while the father blackbird was screeching at it and flapping it's wings close.
I shooed it away, the bird of prey, and saw that the fat little fledgling was in quite a state, covered in blood and with its wing crooked, so I took it upstairs and popped it in a shoebox.
I contacted The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds and they said that their van was passing after midnight and would pick it up. They advised me to leave the box on the street. I wondered if they were insane, having me leave a bird in a box on the street in central London and told them I'd rather stay up for them. I waited until three but they never showed, nor the next day either. On the third day I spoke to a representative on the telephone again. 'You do realise,' said the girl, 'that it won't be able to ever fly again so they will kill it?'
I had been providing it with water from a pipette but now it was time to follow, loosely, some instructions on feeding from the internet. I bought bacon and scrambled some eggs both of which the little one enjoyed.
After ten days it seemed to have recovered and I released it. I lived in a flat with a lovely courtyard then. All day long the blackbird family, the four other fledglings being unable to fly still, would be hopping around in the vines which covered the outer wall under the watchful eye of the father. My young blackbird was unable to flutter up to join its siblings and so followed the group from the floor.
I assumed it had been eaten by someone when I could no longer see it hopping on the floor a week later but, in fact, it had regained the ability to flutter. A while later still and the fledglings were growing their adult feathers. My blackbird grew a streak of white where his wing was damaged and so I could identify him for three years to come as he fathered little groups of blackbirds in the courtyard.
Consuelo saved a blackbird a few weeks ago and, in doing so, reminded me of mine. Qué coincince! Years later Consuelo and I would feed birds in the courtyard from our kitchen window, encouraging more species to nest there. We had bluetits, great tits, blackbirds, finches but then a great big jay came along and scared everyone away.
Monday, 13 June 2011
Hitchhiking From Glasgow To Cambridge
I travelled to Glasgow thinking that I was going to be studying at the Strathclyde University there. No sooner than I arrived, with boxes of all of my stuff, I realised that I hadn't read the prospectus so well. I was only interested in studying literature but the course that I had chosen would only specialise 100% in the subject by the fourth year; the first year comprising five subjects, then three and two in the third. So I spent the next month putting off enrolment and attempting to transfer to Glasgow University. I stayed at a halls of residence on Cathedral Street, played scrabble and made a Super 8 film of the blood trails to be found around the city centre (I found new ones every day.) I spent nights at the art school bar, which I heard was a good place, pretty much always on my own (I was awkward and found it impossible to meet people) until Jane showed up. She stayed for a week, during which time all money ran out and we lived, pretty much, off potatoes. I had to steal packing tape. By this time my transfer to Glasgow University, which seemed to a simple formality at first, had been turned down since the course was over subscribed. There was nothing for it, I would have to hitch hike to Cambridge with as much of my stuff as I could manage; two apple boxes, a couple of shoulder bags and a couple of plastic bags.
One evening, a couple of days after Jane returned home by train, I prepared. What I wouldn't be able to manage I packed away in boxes and stored in a closet to be collected by courier when I could afford it. I didn't sleep well that night and at four o'clock I was boiling the last of my potatoes and, by five, I was staggering up the road with my boxes and bags to the M8 motorway. I felt very miserable with such a burden and not even enough money for a cup of tea.
I positioned myself by the side of the road, I had made a huge sign offering all the possible routes that could be of use to me, I was surrounded by all my stuff. Unexpectedly, a middle aged man emerged from a pile of rubbish that I had been standing beside for a quarter of an hour. He was a very friendly vagrant. He was not an alcoholic, he pointed out, but had preferred homelessness all of his life. He bought me a cup of tea and a sandwich from a mobile café.
Soon I got my first lift, a courier travelling South via Edinburgh. In no time at all dawn had risen and I was waiting for him in a quiet cul de sac of townhouses. Returning with his parcel, he drove off at speed, tyres screeching. I pointed out that he had very nearly run over a cat. 'If there's one thing I have learnt driving as a courier' he said seriously 'it's to never, ever be distracted by anything furry or flappy on the road.' The man was an idiot. Later he risked gunning down a road which was reduced to a single lane for both directions due to its narrowness, even though the lights had been red for some time. 'I should have done it, I should have just gone for it,' he had said to himself anxiously as we waited at the red lights. 'Fuck it,' he declared, deciding to just take the risk. It was frightening.
He dropped me off South of the border. I was picked up by a man who wasn't in the mood for conversation and, by mid afternoon, I was at Sandbach services on the M6.
I waited there by the exit with my sign and my stuff. It was crisp and cold but the sky was clear and the sun warm. I was offered a lift by a woman who looked like a model and drove a red Ferrari. Unfortunately it turned out that she was going to Birmingham. I was then picked up by a banker who had just made what he described as a 'an amazing fortune' trading. He kept impressing on me how he'd never do such a thing as pick up a hitch hiker if it weren't for the fact that, on that special day, he felt like 'giving something back.' We soon fell into silence.
Another couple of rides later and, at eight o'clock in the evening, fifteen hours after setting out, I was in Huntingdon. I felt very happy with my achievement. My parents didn't seem happy though and informed me that I could only stay with them for a day or two. After that I travelled to Bristol and shared Jane's room at her halls of residence until we got a flat there together in St Paul's.
One evening, a couple of days after Jane returned home by train, I prepared. What I wouldn't be able to manage I packed away in boxes and stored in a closet to be collected by courier when I could afford it. I didn't sleep well that night and at four o'clock I was boiling the last of my potatoes and, by five, I was staggering up the road with my boxes and bags to the M8 motorway. I felt very miserable with such a burden and not even enough money for a cup of tea.
I positioned myself by the side of the road, I had made a huge sign offering all the possible routes that could be of use to me, I was surrounded by all my stuff. Unexpectedly, a middle aged man emerged from a pile of rubbish that I had been standing beside for a quarter of an hour. He was a very friendly vagrant. He was not an alcoholic, he pointed out, but had preferred homelessness all of his life. He bought me a cup of tea and a sandwich from a mobile café.
Soon I got my first lift, a courier travelling South via Edinburgh. In no time at all dawn had risen and I was waiting for him in a quiet cul de sac of townhouses. Returning with his parcel, he drove off at speed, tyres screeching. I pointed out that he had very nearly run over a cat. 'If there's one thing I have learnt driving as a courier' he said seriously 'it's to never, ever be distracted by anything furry or flappy on the road.' The man was an idiot. Later he risked gunning down a road which was reduced to a single lane for both directions due to its narrowness, even though the lights had been red for some time. 'I should have done it, I should have just gone for it,' he had said to himself anxiously as we waited at the red lights. 'Fuck it,' he declared, deciding to just take the risk. It was frightening.
He dropped me off South of the border. I was picked up by a man who wasn't in the mood for conversation and, by mid afternoon, I was at Sandbach services on the M6.
I waited there by the exit with my sign and my stuff. It was crisp and cold but the sky was clear and the sun warm. I was offered a lift by a woman who looked like a model and drove a red Ferrari. Unfortunately it turned out that she was going to Birmingham. I was then picked up by a banker who had just made what he described as a 'an amazing fortune' trading. He kept impressing on me how he'd never do such a thing as pick up a hitch hiker if it weren't for the fact that, on that special day, he felt like 'giving something back.' We soon fell into silence.
Another couple of rides later and, at eight o'clock in the evening, fifteen hours after setting out, I was in Huntingdon. I felt very happy with my achievement. My parents didn't seem happy though and informed me that I could only stay with them for a day or two. After that I travelled to Bristol and shared Jane's room at her halls of residence until we got a flat there together in St Paul's.
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Working in a Service Station I
When I was seventeen I worked for a while in a Shell garage for six months before they sacked me for incompetence and bad time keeping. In the daytime it was far too busy, I just couldn't keep up and people were forever driving away without paying for their petrol, and the night shifts were very dull indeed.
One time Howard dropped by in the middle of the night and persuaded me to let him roll a joint in the back room.
It was typical of my bad luck that just as soon as Howard had said goodbye a local policeman, who would come in from time to time for a chat, drove up and decided to take the opportunity to share all of the many problems of his marital life with me. He wanted to tell me everything. I was concerned about the possibility of him smelling smoke from the back room, or him noticing that I was stoned, it was unpleasant.
You know, I don't think that I ever enjoyed smoking that stuff once but I always seemed to have been doing it.
One time Howard dropped by in the middle of the night and persuaded me to let him roll a joint in the back room.
It was typical of my bad luck that just as soon as Howard had said goodbye a local policeman, who would come in from time to time for a chat, drove up and decided to take the opportunity to share all of the many problems of his marital life with me. He wanted to tell me everything. I was concerned about the possibility of him smelling smoke from the back room, or him noticing that I was stoned, it was unpleasant.
You know, I don't think that I ever enjoyed smoking that stuff once but I always seemed to have been doing it.
Friday, 10 June 2011
Tony P.
One summer’s day, when I lived on Camberwell New Road, I was walking through the churchyard near Oval Tube Station and a couple of drunks sitting on a bench asked me for change. I had none but we chatted for a while and they seemed like nice people. They were very surprised when I returned a few minutes later with a can of Special Brew for each of them. They were surprised that I didn't want to drink one myself on such a beautiful sunny afternoon. It turned out that Rocco, who Tony P. would later tell me was losing his mind through drink (he was chuckling constantly) needed to use a telephone. Since none of us had a ten pence piece I invited them around to my girlfriend Jane’s flat, where I was sharing her room. Caroline, Eve and Jane were at home, everyone got along fine, Rocco made his call and soon they went on their way.
Shortly afterwards I received a letter through the post from Tony, inviting me to his house that following Sunday in Colliers Wood, South London.
I remember the journey there well. I was in the habit of always leaning out of the open window in between carriages (possible only with the low windows of the old style trains.) I would enjoy the wind in my hair as I listened to my walkman very loud. I was admiring the art deco fixtures and the unusual configuration of the platforms on some of those stations South of the river on the Northern Line where both North and Southbound trains share the same tunnel. The journey was not memorable because of this though, rather because whilst I was marvelling at the architecture a mad man tried to strangle me through the windows of the doors, from the neighbouring carriage. I hit him in the face and he lost interest. I hate violence and I found the need to punch the man disturbing.
When I got to Colliers Wood I found that Tony had cooked me a roast chicken lunch. His welcome was so warm and I found his cooking for me so touching that I didn’t have the heart to let him know that I am a vegetarian, and ate with him all the same. Neither did I have the heart to tell him that I wasn’t an alcoholic but since he had gone to all the trouble to buy eight cans of Tennents Super, we drank all afternoon.
I saw quite a lot of Tony after that. He introduced me to old friends in Brixton (where he wanted to be rehoused after having been forced to move away,) and we’d make journeys to the West End. We looked quite intriguing walking down the street I think, an immaculately dressed older Jamaican man wearing a Panama and a young, middle class white boy with a stupid haircut. In fact Tony’s daughter was quite suspicious of our relationship, especially since I was in the habit of sleeping on the sofa after not being able to contend with the mental cosh that is Tennents Super. Once we had both assured her that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on she remarked that I looked like Hugh Grant and said that I’d be quite handsome if only I cut my hair. Tony then rolled a joint. I hate getting stoned but I had a drag or two all the same. His daughter asked me if I had ever slept with a black girl. The grass was strong and so I found it difficult to react coherently when she suggested that I could sleep with her if I painted her kitchen which badly needed redecorating. I turned down the kind offer but I was so stoned that it felt awkward to turn it down politely.
"Oh Graeme," he would often say "when we touch down in Montego Bay, we'll pick the fruit straight from the tree." He was a very good man, Tony P. full of enthusiasm for life but life was just too difficult for him. He had been found asleep at the wheel of his car, an empty bottle of rum in his hand and the keys in the ignition a few years before I met him. They took away his driving license which meant taking away his job as a bus driver. He said that he had enjoyed driving buses, although the pre pneumatic assisted clutch had given him problems in the joints of his left leg.
He began to lose his mind, Tennents Super, a drink marketed at alcoholics, has odd additives in it that have this effect. Eventually I had to break ties with Tony P. He was just too much of a handful. The last time that I saw him was at my second flat in Stamford Hill. He was being very rude to Dino who had dropped by and, four times in a row, he couldn’t get down the stairs and into the cabs that I ordered for him. Eventually I had to get rid of him by giving him this acoustic guitar that I owned. He had been remarking all evening as to how he would very much like one and, after hours of him overstaying his welcome, I told him outright. Get in the cab, I’ll pay for it, I’ll give you an acoustic guitar, if only you get in the damn cab.
I know that a woman called Darlene wished to save him, picking him up and trying to take him to church once a week providing he was sober enough. He wasn't interested in the church but he liked Darlene. I hope something good came of all of that but, since we have lost touch completely, I shall never know.
Shortly afterwards I received a letter through the post from Tony, inviting me to his house that following Sunday in Colliers Wood, South London.
I remember the journey there well. I was in the habit of always leaning out of the open window in between carriages (possible only with the low windows of the old style trains.) I would enjoy the wind in my hair as I listened to my walkman very loud. I was admiring the art deco fixtures and the unusual configuration of the platforms on some of those stations South of the river on the Northern Line where both North and Southbound trains share the same tunnel. The journey was not memorable because of this though, rather because whilst I was marvelling at the architecture a mad man tried to strangle me through the windows of the doors, from the neighbouring carriage. I hit him in the face and he lost interest. I hate violence and I found the need to punch the man disturbing.
When I got to Colliers Wood I found that Tony had cooked me a roast chicken lunch. His welcome was so warm and I found his cooking for me so touching that I didn’t have the heart to let him know that I am a vegetarian, and ate with him all the same. Neither did I have the heart to tell him that I wasn’t an alcoholic but since he had gone to all the trouble to buy eight cans of Tennents Super, we drank all afternoon.
I saw quite a lot of Tony after that. He introduced me to old friends in Brixton (where he wanted to be rehoused after having been forced to move away,) and we’d make journeys to the West End. We looked quite intriguing walking down the street I think, an immaculately dressed older Jamaican man wearing a Panama and a young, middle class white boy with a stupid haircut. In fact Tony’s daughter was quite suspicious of our relationship, especially since I was in the habit of sleeping on the sofa after not being able to contend with the mental cosh that is Tennents Super. Once we had both assured her that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on she remarked that I looked like Hugh Grant and said that I’d be quite handsome if only I cut my hair. Tony then rolled a joint. I hate getting stoned but I had a drag or two all the same. His daughter asked me if I had ever slept with a black girl. The grass was strong and so I found it difficult to react coherently when she suggested that I could sleep with her if I painted her kitchen which badly needed redecorating. I turned down the kind offer but I was so stoned that it felt awkward to turn it down politely.
"Oh Graeme," he would often say "when we touch down in Montego Bay, we'll pick the fruit straight from the tree." He was a very good man, Tony P. full of enthusiasm for life but life was just too difficult for him. He had been found asleep at the wheel of his car, an empty bottle of rum in his hand and the keys in the ignition a few years before I met him. They took away his driving license which meant taking away his job as a bus driver. He said that he had enjoyed driving buses, although the pre pneumatic assisted clutch had given him problems in the joints of his left leg.
He began to lose his mind, Tennents Super, a drink marketed at alcoholics, has odd additives in it that have this effect. Eventually I had to break ties with Tony P. He was just too much of a handful. The last time that I saw him was at my second flat in Stamford Hill. He was being very rude to Dino who had dropped by and, four times in a row, he couldn’t get down the stairs and into the cabs that I ordered for him. Eventually I had to get rid of him by giving him this acoustic guitar that I owned. He had been remarking all evening as to how he would very much like one and, after hours of him overstaying his welcome, I told him outright. Get in the cab, I’ll pay for it, I’ll give you an acoustic guitar, if only you get in the damn cab.
I know that a woman called Darlene wished to save him, picking him up and trying to take him to church once a week providing he was sober enough. He wasn't interested in the church but he liked Darlene. I hope something good came of all of that but, since we have lost touch completely, I shall never know.
Thursday, 9 June 2011
Reclusiveness
I have mentioned reclusiveness and MS a couple of times in previous entries. I have put off writing this but I suppose that I better just get it over with and explain myself. I wouldn't be at all upset if you just stopped reading this entry here and now, in fact, I'd prefer it if you did.
* I realised that I had MS in 2003 after reading an article in the Observer magazine by a newly diagnosed journalist. She felt very sorry for herself but, after the shock, I wasn't too bothered.
* I was officially diagnosed a year later.
* I was convinced, right up until 2006 when I could barely walk a step, that I'd beat it through an incredibly restrictive diet called The Best Bet Diet.
* I was treated for MS related CCSVI, a new and controversial treatment, in Alexandria, Egypt in December 2010. It helped me enormously and lots of symptoms disappeared. Today I can't use my legs much, but apart from that there aren't many things wrong. Sitting opposite me at a table, you'd never guess that I was ill. It feels like the CCSVI treatment has stopped any activity of the illness and this spring was the first for seven years where I have not had a seasonal MS relapse. I don't expect to get any worse any more. I went to Dr Tariq in Alexandria, although I could have chosen to travel to Brussels, Frankfurt or Glasgow, because he is innovative and seems the best choice of practitioners. My brother Adrian, my father Brian and Consuelo, who very kindly took time off from her school in Spain, accompanied me and we had a lovely time. I have never met a nicer people than the Egyptian people, everybody was exceptionally good natured and kind.
* I became a recluse because I was prescribed a pill called Tizanidine. The dose was titrated up for three months so I didn't think it to blame for the awful side effects. I put the psychosis that I suffered down to my being better informed about my illness. I began to take it on Adelaide's birthday in the summer of 2009 and began to lose my mind in winter. I decided that, being now realistically aware of the unlikelihood of a cure (whereas I had always been very optimistic in the past) resulted in an understandable depression and frustration. I would regularly complain of a sensation of having been buried alive, I became agoraphobic, I would obsess over the things that I could no longer do as a consequence of my illness and I would list the things in life that I considered to 'be nothing' which was an endless list. I really had lost my mind. Consuelo thought that it must be a symptom of the MS. She tried so hard to be cheerful and to help me but, after six months of dark gloom she just couldn't take it any more. It had all made her depressed, and, understandably, she escaped back to Spain. It did give me some great, intricate, fascinating hallucinations, as I lay in bed at night though. Another side effect was terrible, although infrequent, eye pains. In April this year, just in case although I thought it unlikely, I stopped taking the pills in order to see whether it would affect the eye problem.
The next day a miraculous change occurred within me and I realised that I was balanced and cheerful again. I can leave the house, I am always happy and I don't care about any illness.
* I realised that I had MS in 2003 after reading an article in the Observer magazine by a newly diagnosed journalist. She felt very sorry for herself but, after the shock, I wasn't too bothered.
* I was officially diagnosed a year later.
* I was convinced, right up until 2006 when I could barely walk a step, that I'd beat it through an incredibly restrictive diet called The Best Bet Diet.
* I was treated for MS related CCSVI, a new and controversial treatment, in Alexandria, Egypt in December 2010. It helped me enormously and lots of symptoms disappeared. Today I can't use my legs much, but apart from that there aren't many things wrong. Sitting opposite me at a table, you'd never guess that I was ill. It feels like the CCSVI treatment has stopped any activity of the illness and this spring was the first for seven years where I have not had a seasonal MS relapse. I don't expect to get any worse any more. I went to Dr Tariq in Alexandria, although I could have chosen to travel to Brussels, Frankfurt or Glasgow, because he is innovative and seems the best choice of practitioners. My brother Adrian, my father Brian and Consuelo, who very kindly took time off from her school in Spain, accompanied me and we had a lovely time. I have never met a nicer people than the Egyptian people, everybody was exceptionally good natured and kind.
* I became a recluse because I was prescribed a pill called Tizanidine. The dose was titrated up for three months so I didn't think it to blame for the awful side effects. I put the psychosis that I suffered down to my being better informed about my illness. I began to take it on Adelaide's birthday in the summer of 2009 and began to lose my mind in winter. I decided that, being now realistically aware of the unlikelihood of a cure (whereas I had always been very optimistic in the past) resulted in an understandable depression and frustration. I would regularly complain of a sensation of having been buried alive, I became agoraphobic, I would obsess over the things that I could no longer do as a consequence of my illness and I would list the things in life that I considered to 'be nothing' which was an endless list. I really had lost my mind. Consuelo thought that it must be a symptom of the MS. She tried so hard to be cheerful and to help me but, after six months of dark gloom she just couldn't take it any more. It had all made her depressed, and, understandably, she escaped back to Spain. It did give me some great, intricate, fascinating hallucinations, as I lay in bed at night though. Another side effect was terrible, although infrequent, eye pains. In April this year, just in case although I thought it unlikely, I stopped taking the pills in order to see whether it would affect the eye problem.
The next day a miraculous change occurred within me and I realised that I was balanced and cheerful again. I can leave the house, I am always happy and I don't care about any illness.
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