Right, it's time to let rip...

[When you read ’10 days’, make it ‘17’, and when you see ‘weekends’ add on ‘even Good Friday – sacrilege!’ Thank you. Due to Tom, Blogger and Easter blogging was delayed!]




Aaaaaaaaaaaaaach!

Was that loud enough? A piercing, desperate scream in the afternoon? No.

A bang of my own then on a hollow cupboard door? No.

A grenade through their window perhaps? Oh, now you’re talking. That might put a stop to it..

Ho ho, how we fantasise when the wrongs are being wrought on our beings. The fiction we conjure up in our impatience for Divine retribution, not often seen in this world. Reminding ourselves, just in time, two wrongs don’t make a right.

So that impotent we stay with un-spent anger turning to depression and forming sickness inside us. Depression. Dis-ease. The big D’s of an MSers life.

And which we try so hard to avoid.

You will see it as irony (it is ironic). After all my stresses and miseries over the new Social Landlord and the “improvements” to come, the neighbours upstairs – directly above me – have had builders in for the past 10 days. This is day number 10. Of sledge-hammers and drills just feet away from our heads. Mine and Lucy’s. Together, suffering and starting, as one, with the sudden loud noises. Nervy – worse even than an MSer on a bad day has a right to be – and reaching first for the ear-plugs (me – poor Lucy, I just hope her floppy ears help!) and now (again in my case), for the oxygen can and mask. I bought them after yet more nights of breathless “panic”. Oh dear. What’s happening? I am so upset.

But most of all (nearly!) for Lucy. She didn’t have to be here. And she keeps looking at me like a child who’s just realised her mum can’t put everythng right. And it’s as if she’s saying, “But mum, you don’t like noise, why don’t you stop it?” And I feel guilty and rotten and insignificant. And she keeps running off to hide in the other room.

At first, they [the neighbours] ignored Tom’s inquiries at the door (he goes more “nuts” than me when he’s here) but after a few days he bumped into a labourer in the midst of the rubble outside our window. And was told it was a private job, they were putting in a new bathroom (ah, but it’s sounded more than that now). So the plot thickened. Why not wait for the “Dusty Bird” (DB) [as I now call the Landlord – those involved will get it]?

And to cut it all short – I wish! - oh brilliant, this family has bought “upstairs” – leasehold - from said D.B. - profits, eventually, all round then! And, presumably, can and will do what they like, when they like and as much as they like, with not even a polite warning to us [I could have gone into Respite].

The Housing Officer, Anti-Social officer (goes on late into the evenings and at weekends) and the Leasehold department have all been notified and may or may not contact them. But really, I can see a few people are thinkng it’s me who shouldn’t be here – as if being this disabled I no longer belong with the general population (I won’t rant about euthanasia this time! But it’s wrong by the way.) The Social Worker keeps on bringing up options.

And the MS Nurse - who came again because she knew that at the last place the Medical Officer had advised I be moved before “regeneration” began - suddenly remembered a Care Home she thought might suit me. In a lovely part of Kent. Wait for it: where they accept small pets!

Well, I’ll be looking at the brochures they’re sending. And actually I checked everything - even read the local ‘paper - on Google one noisy night when Tom had gone out!

But... well, we’ll see.

So, I’m sorry Steve (The Power Guides and Lucy’s Comments), I’m not sure I can stay here after all. This is nasty. A whole new ball-game (as my American friends would say!) now.

P.S. Oh and, by the way (talking of American friends – all friends), if I’ve seemed irritable on anybody’s Forum/blog in the past couple of weeks then I apologise, I’m sorry. Hopefully, having read this, you’ll understand. [You know how it is: MS is bad enough.]

oooooooooooooo

And at this point I say “Basta cosi!” Enough things, in Italian. Because I’ve had enough of these tales of woe and want to get back to where I was. What I should be.

And I’ve got a more fun piece I’ve been working on...