Blogging has been somewhat sparse of late. I’ve settled into some kind of contentment since I moved away from the shit hole that is Stoke Newington in London and relocated into my modern, spacious abode in Clapham. I’d like to call it “blissful”, but that’s probably a bit of a stretch, so I’ll just make do with “adequately satisfactory”. As such, my spleen has been pitifully bereft of any kind of disagreeable contents which require venting in electronic form.
My confidence is hitting new levels. Someone in the office told me the other day that many people consider me to be unapproachable because of “my lack of apparent imperfections”. I’ve now had to start using the service elevator to get my ego into the building (I was already having to use the fire escape).
Before I got a chance to try to dislocate my own arm by patting myself on the back however, swift retribution and confirmation of the old adage “pride cometh before a fall” arrived the very same evening in the form of a particularly violent allergy to a jar of “Bart” curry paste. I didn’t have much of an agenda planned out for that evening, but if I did, I’m pretty sure “make yourself sick 30 times over the space of 5 hours in order to remove the undigested contents of your stomach a single grain of rice at a time, whilst your abdomen knots into uncontrollable paroxysms of searing agony” wouldn’t have been on it.
The episode eventually concluded at about 3am, whereupon I collapsed theatrically on to my bed and passed out, a broken husk of the proudly strutting popinjay I had been earlier that day. Not one to miss such an excellent opportunity to stick the knife in, Lucky Lothario offered his sympathetic words of consolation, which cheered me up immensely in the midst of my ordeal. Might I be so bold as to suggest a career in counselling rape victims?
I’ve been covering some interesting topics with my CBT guy (I call him “the prof”, much to his chagrin) with regard to managing symptoms of anxiety – a surge of adrenaline when talking to a 9.5 out of 10 for instance, which makes it extremely difficult to focus on the delivery of sparkling discourse, effervescent banter and witty repartee. Of note, two techniques known as “detached mindfulness” and “attention training” were discussed, which I will be posting about in a few weeks when I’ve studied and internalised them. We also need data to help analyse and diagnose my “symptoms”, so I also have some homework set – namely to go back to the instigator of all this therapeutic nonsense, the stunningly hot girl who works in Selfridges that so effectively and inadvertently unmanned me on the day I was out with Steve, and try to chat her up. I’ve made enough progress in the last few weeks that the thought actually now more excites than terrifies me, although I’d be lying if I claimed that I was an internal tranquil lake of peace and calm at the prospect of marching up, sober and in broad daylight, to one of the hottest girls I’ve ever seen in real life, and declaring my intentions. Still, the whole point of doing all this crap was to tackle the problem, and the bull must be taken by the horns sooner or later. I’m not too sure she’d appreciate being referred to as a “bull”, although you never know.
I also realised that I’d written a number of posts over the past few months on which I promised a follow-up report, which I have as of yet spectacularly failed to deliver.
I was about to provide updates to them here, but I think they might run a little long, so I’ll make some followup posts in short order with detail.