private diary

I have little time for Facebo*k except when someone puts a link to something vaguely interesting and / or maybe humourous. Similarly Twitt*r on which I follow more organisations than people. But I still like blogs and they feel like private conversations although clearly they’re not.  That’s bizarre isn’t it? FB where the only people seeing what you post are supposed to be ‘friends’ feels like it’s shouting to the world look at me and my totally uninteresting life. The whole format of it is somehow irritating and intrusive ... or is it just me? 

It’s not that I have any secrets, sadly. But when I am moved to say something it isn’t to the FB audience, in fact it’s to no-one in particular but definitely not them; even though some of them are also some of you.  And I couldn’t possibly put a link on FB/T to advertise the fact that I’ve written something either. oh, no, no, no.  That’s as bad as FB itself. Not, I hasten to add, that I disapprove of those that do, it’s just doesn’t have the right ‘privateness’ feel for me, which as we have already concluded proves I am maladjusted and ridiculous.

Still, as this is secret, private and confidential, I’d just like to tell you about my day in court.

The whole day was spent in cross-examining me.  You would think given the scrutiny I have been under by one professional or another this last year or so, that I’d be up to the challenge.  Most sadly not, my mind vacated its admittedly feeble grasp on proceedings the minute the Judge told me that I was open to criminal prosecution in his opening sentence. I had signed, and under oath although I wasn’t particularly taking note, a document in which I had made some glaring errors, or bare faced lies if you’d like the Judge’s opinion. I signed this last December, actually I was in hospital at the time and had to leave and be taken to a solicitor and then returned to the hospital where I had a lumbar puncture.  Not something to which  I was looking forward and I imagine it may have been on my mind. I say ‘imagine’ because I have very little recollection.  The allergic reaction to the chemotherapy had robbed me of my ability to walk and had cause encephalitis and ataxia. I couldn’t actually read what I had put some weeks earlier when my ‘please-god-soon-to-be-ex-husband’ had come round shouting and threatening me and advising me in his own sweet way what should be included on the form. I was fully expecting this to be my last Christmas and indeed the palliative care team were on full alert and it was looking increasingly likely that I wasn’t counting months, and weeks might be stretching it.  Did I care about some form? Not much if I’m truthful. Which apparently I’m  not. I did try and point out that my priorities and thoughts were somewhat taken up with trying to stay alive and that I had reached by Christmas (form signed 22 December) the deadline (pun intended) to which His Honour replied that as I had signed the form I had therefore survived. Hmmmmm.  He didn’t really get it I’m afraid. He also didn’t believe that I had succumbed to pressure from p-g-s-t-b-e-h even though the grounds for the divorce (uncontested) are on p-g-s-t-b-e-h’s unreasonable behaviour including violence. 

It took all day for the kindly and understanding Judge to conclude that I was a stranger to the truth and a dastardly criminal to boot. 

We reconvene next week for part two where I’m expecting to be hung drawn and quartered and p-g-s-t-b-e-h gets to have his say about my moral ineptitude and frightening demeanor that he has had to tolerate these last few years.

Plus, my cat is ill.