Brexit, Brunch and Prozac

That’s not a firm of solicitors.  Though if it were, I wouldn’t trust any of them.  I’ll take them in reverse order to show why:

PROZAC.  It struck me today how difficult it is to get meds when you’re off-grid.  According to the GP I’d have to register temporarily with a clinic in a given destination and ask for an appointment with their quack to get a repeat prescription.  Given how long it takes to get an appointment these days it’d mean hanging around for ages, which defeats the object of this project as I want to be somewhere else all the time.  These explanations meet with some sympathy and a compromise is reached whereby I get given two months’ supplies instead of one, to keep me going at least.  After that, God knows what’ll happen to me.  All in all a dissatisfying audience; I’d gone to get anti-depressants and came back feeling depressed.  Another defeat for the object.

It doesn’t make sense.  Nothing makes sense to me these days, no wonder I always want to be somewhere else.

BRUNCH.  Another thing that makes no sense any more is the English language, or at least the bastardisation of it.  I mentioned the hash-tag-tossers from the BBC yesterday (see Baby Wipes) and it got me thinking I should blog more on this.  Then, over drinks last night I mentioned to my good friend Kim that I was looking forward to a bacon butty on the way back from the docs.  The Tram Stop is a butty wagon off Langworthy Road in Salford that does the best bacon barms I’ve ever tasted, and for peanuts.  Kim said what time would this be and I said about 10.30.  Oh, she said, so it’ll be brunch.  I laughed and said nobody had ever used that word to me before.  Why was I so averse? a) because it always struck me as a middle-class bourgeois concept, and b) because I don’t like such word amalgamations.  Which brings me to

BREXIT.  I’m absolutely sick of hearing the word.  Hard Brexit, Soft Brexit, All-Day Brexit.  I have a short attention-span anyway, but the more a word is bandied about by pompous politicians the less I’m interested and the less meaning it has.  I’m not having a go at Kim, she’s a real friend and I love her dearly, but the twat who first coined the word Brunch has a lot to answer for (I’m reading George Orwell again and I recall Newspeak in 1984 and how prescient the author was).

We were joined for a drink by a brilliant Coronation Street actor and real friend of mine, and he seemed genuinely admiring of my chosen life.  We discussed Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London and other things profound: the meaning of life, the notion of solipsism, the renouncing of materialism and the need to “just be”.  It was a fascinating conversation amidst the Media hordes with their Costa coffee in one hand and their phone in the other.  Hash-tag-tastic!

Which brings me to textspeak as the ‘perfect’ embodiment of bastardising language.  LOT.  OMG.  Totes Amazeballs.  I’m thinking of certain people and contortionists when I think of this, and it makes me feel sick.  I know I’m not the first to whinge about it but I guess I’m dropping it in because it’s another thing that fuels my depression.  It works like this: Totes Amazeballs – bad working memories – depression – doctor’s appointment – depression.

I need to get off this vicious cycle, climb into my van, head for the hills, and “just be”.


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