29 th.October.

29 October
I awake, having had a reasonably good quality sleep,
long period spent dreaming, none of which caused anguish or disturbed me.

The sun is shining and the sky is streaked with weak wispy clouds,
which threaten no more than to momentarily block the sun.
My seat in the room is bathed in sunlight.
I relax listening to guitar instrumentals while typing this.

I’ve been to the toilet and feel better for it even though it was a strain to chop a log, which has had days to mature.

I look at the bottle of whisky and see there is ample left for today if need be.
The bottle has lasted since Friday and in my mind that is good value for a litre bottle;
after all I had promised my self an enjoyable weekend and the cost was nowhere the level of dope expenditure.
The spirit has no doubt helped me to sleep, probably helped by the small amount of effort needed to clean up the flat.

I should really take advantage of the weather conditions and do my small amount of washing, but know in the back of my mind that is not going to happen.

The sunlight encroaches upon my eyes and they react by watering.
Since the episode a couple of days ago when my right eye was bad the sunlight and its effect has been troublesome.
I’ve left my contacts out for three days now to give it a chance to recover but the impact of the sunlight is strong.
I could be sat at home with my parents now having finished a no doubt large Sunday dinner,
I miss it but am happy in my situation.

When I first awoke my head was heavy and neck stiff,
stomach rumbled with anticipation of evacuation,
but now an hour after rising I feel better, no doubt the effect of the sunlight upon my person.

I pause to roll up a cigarette and my art slide show begins, something I tried to put together years ago.
I cannot understand how it should have been so difficult, pause work and slide show of artwork begins, this gives me a break and allows me to peruse the collection whilst the music plays in the background.
I don’t ask much from the machine and so far it is delivering.

I’m on my second cuppa and third rollie and still the stomach craving is strong,
not enough to cause distress but enough to be noticeable.
This rollie will, I think quell the feelings.

When I first woke up my mind raced with ideas of going out to dine or have a drink;
Reality is I have the makings of a meal ready and have a third of a litre of enjoyable spirit left,
so why venture out?

I’m forced to half draw the curtains to shield my eyes from the glare of the sun,
I open the window sufficiently wide to let some of the smoke out.

My typing has been quite fast and accurate today and I only now notice that the receiver is some six-foot away in a position I moved it to enable me to vacuum yesterday.
I’m pleased that it is once again working from a reasonable distance, the last few weeks I’ve had to have the receiver working three foot from the chair to allow the keyboard actions to be picked up.
I like it when things work as they were planned to work.

I take a drink of tea and pat myself on the back for returning to the use of proper sugar instead of the sweetener I’ve been using as late.
The new batch of dried milk seems to be better than the somewhat aged stuff I’d been using.
Dried milk has been my lifeline for years now;
it takes away the necessity of travelling to the shops for fresh milk and of course it doesn’t go off and get wasted, as these huge containers tend to do if not used up quickly.

I used sweetener instead of sugar because of the calories but after learning one teaspoon is equivalent to only 16 calories and I use only half a spoonful I saw no reason to keep with the sweetener with its artificial tasting sweetness.

The spell and grammar check is working overtime today,
managing to keep up with my style of writing and use of abbreviated words.
I no longer have to struggle to raise my head to see what has been written and therefore am able to write more without pausing.
I can type and be confident that 90% of what is laid down will be correct,
obviously a sign that my keyboard skills are improving,
I still only use about six fingers for typing but they are coping with the speed of thought,
the rhythm of the music helps also.
A Spanish guitar shuffling in the background provides a myriad of riffs and rhythms to write to.

I search under my chair for any filter tips which may be lurking there and discover my Zippo lost three days ago,
I find a tip and once again am enjoying the menthol taste of another roll up.

The sun has crept almost imperceptibly outside the restriction of the curtain but I am loath to draw the curtain further so have to put up with its rays falling on my face.


Am I content? Should I be?
I’m sat with only dressing gown on, bathed on sunlight, relaxed in a comfortable chair listening to nice sounds using a wireless laser keyboard to control it. Whisky, tobacco by my side.
No thoughts of hunger, very little pain.

I think back to the last woman I "had" and the terrible conditions she and her cat were living in.
Single attic room smaller than mine with not enough headroom for me to stand upright.
Cat shit in the shower.
Filthy roll out bed settee, small portable TV with an almost unwatchable reception.
Floor littered with cheap deodorants, no doubt to mask the smell of her and her clothing and cat tray.
I was lucky to get away from her with my health.
To cap it all she was paying more rent than I do for this place.
I am used to bed sits and single room accommodation, having spent many years living in same but I draw the line at filth to that degree.

To get back to the thought of the moment; sex;

I’ve done without it for a few months and intend to keep away from any possible relationship till at least I’m back on my feet financially and physically, probably next spring.

Sex is like any other commodity, food or drink,

I can do without for a while then get a craving for too much,
which tends to bring me into contact with the usual array of weirdos.
Almost immediately after the break up of my last relationship I had females with their eye on me as a potential partner/ money source.
I have telephone numbers, which would give me sex on demand,
and I know of some females who would deliver once they saw the contents of my wallet.
I applaud myself for my self-isolation and intend to keep things the way they are for some time yet.
Sex for sex sake is fine and I’m glad I’ve met a few females who think along those lines but when I’m fitter I’ll be searching for a companion of some description.

The ideal woman would be someone who has taken control of their lives and got their own home and lifestyle,
Someone who seeks companionship after completing her work, not too energetic.

I leave that subject knowing that judging by past experiences I’ll probably just drift from relationship to relationship until some one appropriate causes a spark.

The sun continues to cling to the underside of the top of the window frame throwing its strong rays onto the keyboard and my upper body;

A part of my mind is detached and playing out its own reminiscence of times spent basking either abroad or in England on the occasional times I’ve been lucky enough to have good weather while on holiday fishing.

Now there’s a thought do women freshwater fish?
I’ve only seen a few; one was lucky enough to have her own pond and public house!
Pity she was married!

I skin up and watch the slide show, reminded of my intention to dabble in electronic art.
I place reminder to investigate DOGWAFFLE.

At one time I’d happily have spent £2000 on video and still equipment coupled up to on board laptop;
I now see myself having a run out in the car, only short distances required to capture the moorland as it descends into winter.
I do regret having destroyed my analogue video camera but no use crying over spilt milk, besides there will be no doubt a good supply of second hand camcorders after Xmas.

The guitar music reminds me of my own attempts to master the instrument,
I ended up giving it away, my fingers are too stiff now to pursue it as a hobby but its good I can still gain pleasure from the sounds.

The sun is slowly but surely slipping over the yardarm,
I make myself another brew and re roll the contents of 15 dogends to produce another rollie.
Waste not, want not.
My Mother has taught me well.
The rollie tastes awful, more so because of the lack of a tip.

I remember feeling some tips in my coat pocket and will investigate prior to rolling next one.

My memory seems to have improved over the last few weeks.

My Father would immediately put that down to my cessation of Cannabis, I may tend to agree.

The long hours in bed both awake and sleep have been full of memories of the last 18 months or so;
Some memories painful but all vivid, as I piece together the events of my last few years I have become more aware of the depth of my condition and hopefully will be better armed to fend off any possible future attacks, bearing in mind that some elements were enjoyable.

The smoke and smell is unacceptable and I stub it out.
I was once ordered by a nurse not to re roll dogends,
It was beneath me, he had said,
Obviously he’d never lived on the breadline, which I did for years,
that’s probably why I can now save money even from my meagre income.
I say meagre but there’s a helluva a lot of people out there who would gladly swap shoes with me.
If it wasn’t for my lack of physical ability I’d be happier in them myself.
I have always strived to know my limits, there has been many times when I’ve overstretched myself, both physically and mentally and because of this I’ve learnt how near I can now venture to the line between success and self-harm.

I tear a page from the reporter’s notebook and empty the useless and offending contents of the ashtray into it, placing in on the floor to be disposed of at leisure.
The sun passes by the frontage of the window and I’m left in half-light;
there is no or little wind today so the window can be left open.

What a vast difference from when I first awoke at 6 this morning with the wind howling down the chimney!
I wouldn’t have guessed I’d be greeted by such a fine day when I returned to bed.

I did have ideas of owning a log cabin set in 10 acres of woodland in Scotland,
I thought I’d find the peace and solitude, which at the time I was seeking,
but in reality I was forgetting the harshness of west coast winters.
I’m fifty with aching joints and have come to appreciate the efficiency of having a good central heating system heating a small area.
For someone on a restricted income this place is indeed ideal.

I live in one room and therefore heat only that room for as long as necessary to produce an ambient temperature.

I previously would have had to fire up 13 radiators to heat a house in which 99% remained unoccupied!
I myself lived in those conditions accepting lack of heat as a by product to healthy p.c. use,
I cared more for the continuing well-being of a machine than I did for personal health!
I now have a monitor capable of heating a small place by itself!

Living in a large house is nice if ones lifestyle needs that much space,

I chose the size to give me isolation from other occupants, even retired to the smallest room in the house to gain privacy.
I could tolerate my relationship with partner because I could escape them when and as necessary.
I suppose I’ve always been a loner; life in bedsits etc. tends to mould one into a solitude seeking person.
Socialising would involve amounts of alcohol or drugs to be successful and therefore I came into the company of habitual drinkers or drug takers, the latter of which I preferred.

With the advent of random drug testing a big slice of people I knew were unable to use drugs for recreation and therefore turned to alcohol at a time when I’d weaned myself off social drinking.
I cannot remember the last time I was in the club, must be getting on for three to four weeks now, during which time I’ve enjoyed the company of a bottle of vodka and two bottles of whisky.

I’m still labouring under the idea that the medication is acting upon the pleasure centre and is therefore restricting the effects of dope and alcohol upon my senses.
I no longer get drunk; simply drink till time to go to sleep;

I cannot remember the last time I had a hangover or had to have assistance in staggering.
I watch others drinking and thank my lucky stars that I got out of the routine of daily drinking when I did.
The financial aspect was to be sure a prominent factor in my leaving it alone, but the lack of effect was just as strong.
I found a drinking partner who could consume as much as me yet remain co-herent and produce a conversation till fatigue overtook us both.
I do miss those sessions but also enjoy a few drinks on my own, on my own space at my own pace.

My doctor’s at one time would be apparently worried about the amount of alcohol I was drinking; they still have a picture of a dependent in their notes, yet I’m not.
I have mastered alcohol and drugs, although the mastery of the latter has been due to its drought and poor quality,

I only have the addiction to Nicotine to control and I’m free from dependency.

I now realise I have actually achieved what I’ve written.
My intake is often less than the so-called Governments guidelines.
A measure of Whisky is 0.9 compared to 1.8 for a pint of lager,
I may have three doubles and then no more for a week or so.
On the odd occasions I pop into the pub whist in the village I drink two pints,
seldom extending to three.
Since buying a bad score prior to going on holiday I have left the dope alone and as usual never craved for it,
I know in myself I can take it or leave it and am sure I’ll never return to the amount I consumed prior to my breakdown.

Obviously there is no safe limit for smoking and I feel deeply guilty at continuing to smoke having gone through expensive heart operation but my ability to go long periods of time through out the week must help.
Some would think,” take away my smoke and what’s left?”
Well, I’d like to find out.
I fear the damage to my lungs has already taken its toll and will by now be irreversible,
But if I did succeed in stopping I think I may still feel the benefit eventually.
I had made a mental note that the end of this month would be a good time to try an all out stop.

I have cut down to less than a quarter of an ounce per day; have noticed the usual early morning stomach cramps hove lessened and therefore I may be ready.
I know full well that the success of any exercise program during the winter will depend on my giving up smoking to get any visible benefits.
I’m relaxed and reasonably happy with my lot so perhaps I can really try this time,
I know I’m sick of chastising myself for failing to get through the 24 hr. barrier, but am heartened by ability to go 18+ hrs without a smoke, o.k. a lot of that time has been forced sleep but either way such long times must help release the grip of the addiction.

The premature deaths of a couple of acquaintances haven’t deterred me so will power has to be the tool.
I panic at the thought that tonight may be the end of the baccy because I could easily finish off what’s left with company of a few whiskies, which I intend to have tonight.
I realise I’ve forgotten to take the day’s medication and use the dregs of my tea to take them with while putting four ice cubes into my half pint glass which I use for whisky.
While taking the pills I look at the clock and momentarily wonder why it’s showing plus one hour, then realise once again I’ve been caught out by the clocks being altered.

I put the time right and return to my seat, pour the whisky over the ice, add the lemonade and realise there will not be enough lemonade to mix more than one healthy whisky mix,
I could nip to the shop to get another bottle but that would involve getting dressed and I’d be tempted to buy more baccy so I decide to face the shortage of mixer crisis if and when it happens.
I did discover a simply named 5 juice which mixed well with clear spirit such as gin and vodka but may be a little too strong for effective mix with whisky, will see.

I enjoy a good slug of drink and the coolness slips slowly down my throat.
I light up another rollie and draw deeply as one would enjoy a cigar with a glass of spirit.
I picture the crew I used to know in the clubs who would be venturing home by now with six to eight pints of beer inside them to either a spoilt dinner or a sleep on the sofa.

Sunday in most establishments was a male orientated session of gluttony,
Most men would leave their partners to prepare the meal while they spent on average three to four hours drinking.
I myself soon slipped into that cycle until one day whilst on holiday I happened to examine the contents of the dustbin outside the chalet where we were staying and found the remnants of two Sunday dinners.
My partner had thrown then out because a friend and myself had failed to return at the time promised.
I never missed a meal after that.
Only now am I realising the full effort required to produce an acceptable meal.
I hate waste.

My Mother produces what I’d consider to be a Sunday dinner every day for my Father, the only difference is on a Sunday the proportions are greater!

I think of what I’ve missed.
The last time my parents were down she said she thought I would have been up for a meal,
my Father had added,” he knows what time to come”, and yes I do, at one o’clock its served and I’m sure I’d be welcome but I wouldn’t dream of just turning up and expect a meal because Mother would probably make excuses saying she has had to share it and thus explain the smaller proportions.

I may treat myself to a carvery meal tomorrow if the weather is fine, the walk would do me good and I enjoy the meals served in the local establishment.

Being so hell bent on getting through each day without spending money, which I deem to be better saved, I am unable to treat myself, indeed the only treat is tobacco and that has to be knocked on the head.
A large meal costing less than the price of two pints surely must be worthwhile instead of a steak pie washed down with two pints of beer!
I check my lottery results and have matched three!
So near yet so far.
Never having got anything for nothing I don’t get too excited at the prospect of winning in such things as Lottery or premium bonds but at least I’m in it,
And you have to be in it to win it.

I wonder if I can get away with an ice free drink then decide; no it’s worth the walk to the fridge to make the drink I’m used to.
I heap six cubes into the glass, thinking more ice, less lemonade.
I light up another rollie with a Zippo, which is destined to be one of two used for ornamental purposes if I give up,
The spell check correctly tells me I forgot to use capitals when mentioning such an object.
Who else do I know who could spend 14 hrs? In bed, get up and with only the help of baccy, tea and whisky spend the next five hours on keyboard writing about nothing in particular?
I think to myself why do I do it?
To kill time till I find something else to do.

Time is hard to kill yet will kill us all in time.

I wonder at why I smoke, is it the passing of the smoke down my throat, the taste, and the absorption of the nicotine?
What the hell is the pleasure of inhaling a carcigenic mixture into my body?
Whatever it is, I’m addicted to it and know not why.
If the medication is restricting my pleasure centre then why does smoking still give pleasure,
or is it simply routine.
A routine I opted for when working in a steel mill,
I switched to rollies because I was literally eating tailor made whilst working and playing cards.

A cool drink; smack of the lips in appreciation.
Yes I think I have found my preferred poison.
Only the taste of smoke in my mouth spoils the overall effect.

Taking 50 calories per drink my intake so far today has been 150 which falls a lot short of the 2,000 or so which is said to be necessary for everyday living.
Obviously my sedentary lifestyle needs a lot less than that figure and the lesser the figure is the more body fat is used to make up the shortfall, that is how I try to lose weight; does it work?
Painfully slowly!

I scratch my head and rock my crossed feet to the rhythm, that’s the only exercise so far today, apart from walks to the kitchen.
I really am an idle old Hector!

The spelling mistakes are getting more and more, this I put down to the lack of workable light and the possible effect of the drink, yet still I can produce almost perfect typing.
Just wish my life had some interesting elements.

After all is said and done who wants to read about a guy who lives in a chair?

There was an old man who lived in a chair,
Who’s only exercise was to brush his long hair,
He seldom ate; drank spirits and mixer,
Proclaimed Cannabis as being his elixir.
He smoked baccy, which was often burnt black,
Till one day he said, “I’ll have to stop doing that!”
If only he could.

A song comes on the radio which sounds like, we loco amour,
I agree I’m loco, the Spanish beat is enough to get my interest and I realise I’ve wasted a lot of time listening to predomitory English music.
I now enjoy tuning in to some of the alternative channels and listening to world music’ knowing full well I’ll never come across sounds I’ve heard before,
I therefore back up my idea of not succumbing to the temptation of starting a collection.
There is a world of music out there on the airwaves and god knows how many other devices, which is so numerous that it would be a sin to collar oneself to a particular genre,

Even worse, to dwell in the decades of ones past.

The sun has gone down and the place begins to chill, my feet are the first indicators so I decided to put my socks on and close the open window.
04:14 PM Another day wasted.