And back later I am. I've been throwing myself around the bed trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, but no luck, so I've come downstairs to write. It's still incredibly quiet for a Saturday night, although they hardy rock in this village. The only time we get excited is for the Dorset Knob Throwing. Before you become too bemused, I should explain that a Dorset Knob is a spherical, dry, tasteless biscuit that is supposed to go with cheese, and which is disgusting and difficult to eat. However, it has a cult following here in Dorset, and every year we have a festival to celebrate it. There's throw the knob, catch the knob, find the knob, guess the weight of the knob and sundry other knob events. However, the real purpose of the day is to hold a food festival, and people come from miles away to exhibit and sell their wares. It's usually packed solid, particularly if it's a nice day.
I'm getting desperately fed up with my sleep pattern - or rather, lack of pattern. I do all the right things, like no caffeine after 5pm, no stimulating activities, I have a milky drink and then I take my tablets and go and lie down. Then sweet fuck all. I might as well drink Red Bull all evening. HT advised me to take my lorazepam, which I've done, so I'll see if that works. The surgery has given me the white lorazepam tablets, and they don't work as well as the blue ones. No doubt the medics will say that the tablets are the same, but they're not. Ho hum. I'll have another milky drink.
I've put some more of that new cream on my hands as I scratched yet another bit raw earlier. There's also a bad patch on my chin where I've been attacking it. Yet another fag has bitten the dust, along with the drink. I'll go back to bed and try again.
I spent 16 years in the RAF defending the Free World , then got bunged out unceremoniously for being bipolar. I and was subsequently diagnosed with PTSD. Funny old world, isn't it?