Wild Camping in the Mourne Mountains

When I was nine years old and living in Norway I joined the Scouts. I lived in Scandinavia from aged nine to fourteen but it was such a formative experience it might well have been my entire childhood. In the Scouts we learnt how to chop down trees, make shelter, trap animals to eat, fish, make igloos, ski, and use anything nature could provide to help us survive outdoors. I could ski cross country, use an axe, catch fish through ice then prepare and cook it and make a shelter in the snow by the time I was ten. I had no major concerns about snaring a rabbit, preparing it for eating and then making a fire for cooking. I could shoot air rifles for hunting before I even got to Norway because my grandfather was a farmer and taught me how to shoot. I knew every knot, I could handle a knife like an adult, I could start a fire in minutes and could navigate with a map, a compass and, at night, the stars. I loved being outdoors, particularly in the woods.
But when I returned to England I got out of these habits, I was back in the city and life was pretty normal. I spent a few weekends camping in a tent when I was a teenager but otherwise I stayed indoors until only a few years ago, my late thirties.
I began to rediscover my need of being outside when I started running for fun. Running by the sea a mile from my house was exhilarating and running next to the hills and cliffs a mile in the other direction was awe-inspiring. But there is nothing like running through a forest. The undulations of the terrain, the columns of trunks holding up the sky, the damp smell, birdsong, a thousand shades of green, they all point to one very specific emotion deeply hard wired into the fabric of my brain by two million years of human evolution- they make me feel safe. In the woods I will find water, food, shelter, sanctuary. In the woods I am home.
My interest in bushcraft and camping have returned and so, when I felt able to justify buying the equipment I would need, and with amazingly loving encouragement from Claire, I set the idea in my mind of wild camping, fire-making, hiking and nights out under the stars (a major change though is that I am now vegetarian so there would be no hunting and that my ethos now would be based on leaving no trace behind).
So last year I bought some bushcraft and camping gear- rucksack, lightweight one-person tent, goose-down sleeping bag for four seasons, cooking equipment, and fire making tools- axe, sheath knife, folding saw, firelighters- with the express purpose of wild camping. Each weekend passed through 2017 and for one reason or many the conditions were never quite right for camping. Until now.

Last Saturday I woke to an eye-wateringly bright sun, 24 degrees celsius and a windless, cloudless sky. I decided to combine a hike up to the top of Slieve Donard in the Mourne Mountains with an overnight camp on a different hill which, in hindsight, was a misreading of my abilities. I also decided to take the more winding and stony path if ever there was a choice (on the rare instances that I took a path) but otherwise committed to hiking in straight lines off-path, traversing the shortest point from A to B. I drove two hours to Bloody Bridge, the gateway into the mountains, threw my green canvas Swedish army rucksack over my shoulders and I tramped up and around, up and around, over streams, across gullies and eventually to the base of Slieve Donard. The final 850m ascent took three hours and was such extraordinarily hard work I had to rest for twenty minutes at the top and, before the descent, do a "body scan" for any telltale signs of arrest or collapse. I seem to be in one piece although melting in sweat ("sweat is fat crying" I was told by a personal trainer) but happy and very, very humbled. My knees were shaking and my quads were burning but I was buoyed by awe.
From the summit of Donard I had the perfect view, the Mournes were spread out across the west like a Tolkien fantasy, hazy with mist and shadowed by each other. To the north was Belfast. To the east was the sea as blue as Earth from space, dazzlingly so, and to the South was my goal, Chimney Rock Mountain. It was only a few miles away but I had to go down, down, down to the valley between mountains and then up the other side. So I followed the beautiful dry stone Mourne Wall (which totals 22 miles long over fifteen peaks) from the top of Donard, down to the valley, up towards Chimney Rock and then a final scrabble to the top for more views that dumbfounded me- Donard, the rest of the Mournes from a new angle and, most excitingly, the sea to the East where I would aim my tent for a 4am sunrise.
I pitched my tent on a small flat spot near some smooth rocks that were my table and chairs for the evening, cooked dinner, put on some warmer clothes as the temperature dropped and I watched the sun set over the mountains. I thought about my mum who would have loved it on the mountain even though she would not have ever been healthy enough to climb it. Of course I thought of Ruby too and I cried because she wasn't there to share it with me. I cried with the sheer beauty of it all.

The Mourne Mountains are old stone. If you pick up a pebble you would be surprised at its unexpected weight. The mountains are of the densest granite with a potentially overwhelming solidity. I could sense their mass, immovable against even the unstoppable force of time. That night, alone on the mountain with no-one for miles around, I felt utterly calm and protected. The mountains were sentinels watching me and watching the world move past because they are immense, quiet, without fissures, without fuss.
They reassured me into an early sleep and I woke at 5am to the most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen in my life, blasting onto the front of my tent, beckoning me. Then oats for breakfast, pack away, rucksack on, thank the mountain, walk towards the sun, leave nothing. Quick paddle in the ice-cold stream stained rusty from filtering through peat bogs on the way down to the sea. Back at the car park I sat incongruously in my air-conditioned car just behind its internal combustion engine spewing the result of burnt fossil fuels drinking a machine-made coffee and eating a highly processed chocolate bar. The cognitive dissonance was almost overpowering and I had a strong urge to climb back up into the mountains.

There is a great deal of discussion in mental health about "being in the present" and about being mindful of "the now" and there are fewer more profound ways of being in the present than being in mountains. Out of necessity I was utterly in tune with myself, my surroundings and their interactions throughout my weekend in the Mourne Mountains- I was astutely aware, with immediacy, of the air temperature, the humidity, the wind speed and its direction and steadfastness, compass bearings and the time of day due to the sun's position, when it last rained, the limitations of my own body, my hunger, thirst and so on.
In the end these essential things are simple, they are shelter, food, water, mobility. They are the basics, the bare minimum I need for survival, the very least I need to call somewhere home.

This is a good hour, right now

Right now- this hour- is a good hour, in an average day within a difficult week in a better-than-average year. This is the nature of grief- by the hour, by the day, by the week, by the year.
Some hours I cannot be or do. Some weeks I cannot be or do. Recently I could not be or do for weeks because I was paralysed into inaction due to the extraordinary yearning I had for Ruby that was breaking my heart all over again. It was physically painful- the yearning- my chest gaped, grabbing for her again. There were some minutes, some hours too, that my legs could barely support the heaviness of me as something, the Earth maybe, pulled me into it. There were some minutes, some hours too, that I wanted to be pulled into the Earth. And I would have if I could dissolve and permeate through the floor as I wished I could.
The yearning can be immense, sometimes monstrously, for a minute, for an hour, sometimes longer. I gape but nothing comes into me so I close my chest, I fold my arms back in, I breathe again. What am I to do? Everything passes.
Right now, this hour, I can write this. This is a good hour.


It was the anniversary recently- Ruby died five years ago- and the unexpectedness of grief surprised us again.
In the run up to the anniversary each year Claire and I habitually plan a day of relaxed order and simple goals. In the early years we cycled or hiked around the hills, being active and healthy and helping others by raising money for charity. During the recent anniversaries we instead arranged to meet family at the only significant location connected with Ruby- a bench with her name on in her favourite park (Crawfordsburn Forest)- for a stroll and lunch and then Claire and I would do our own thing for the day, picking up Tom from school, trying to have fun, normal stuff.
I felt a little different this year, less sure of my sadness, yearning less, more in charge. I had experienced an inexplicably tough few weeks before this and thought that maybe I had been subjected to my allocated quantity of grief for this anniversary period already. In the run up to the day itself my mood was stable and I was able to cope with stresses better than in previous years. I was confident, I could be a rock to others. The day itself was relatively uneventful, my mood was flat and I was seemingly unaffected by the weight of occasion.
But for a week after that day I became anxious and irritable and thereafter I was angry that I had lost control of my emotions, assuming I ever really had control. I shouldn't have been surprised that this anxiety kicked me when I was feeling confidently in charge- during grief one should always expect the unexpected- but I was initially angry with myself for losing my autonomy. It's five years down the line, I'm seasoned, I know what to do, I'm a mental health professional but the sudden impotence was jarring.
So I was anxious for a few days and truth be told, pretty shitty to be around. Claire deserved a holiday from me, a couple of work colleagues exercised great patience and restraint because of my insolence and, even though I genuinely tried as hard as I could I was no fun for Tom to be with for a while. The lack of control over my mood and my anxiety angered me, even the potential for self-actualisation seemed unattainable.
And then, as suddenly as it had dissipated, a sense of insight and freedom returned. Just a day to start with, a warmer connectedness to myself and a gentler treatment of my guilt and discomfort. Gradually, over a few days, I became more me (almost "more human" but then what is more human than grief and its peculiarities?) and I returned to a sense of routine and familiarity. I was post-anniversary. And a strange one it was too in its own way with its own identity.
Maybe I was complacent before the anniversary, assuming I could cope without the active input of insightful coping mechanisms. Or maybe I wasn't complacent- we had made plans after all, we had discussed how we felt, what we wanted from the day- but instead I had simply been affected by the unpredictable nature of grief.
Whatever the reason for my difficulties on this year's anniversary I am to remain vigilant during important dates and I must, of course, expect the unexpected.
I remain without Ruby. But right now, this hour on this day, I can write this and that's OK.

There are no borders in times of peace

There is something drone-like about the everyday existence, about routine and the familiar. It is easy to just coast along with little proactive engagement, letting life glide by like water under a bridge. For much of the time it isn't necessary to engage too deeply with surrounding stimuli- if I wish I can drift along at work, in my family, with friends. I suspect this is much the same with most people- familiarity creates a baseline upon which to rest and settle. And my grief can be a low level hum in the background, always there, mostly manageable.
There are times though when I move away from my routine- I go on holiday or stay away from home for a few days- and then everything feels different. Of course I want this, I want to feel different. I want to feel like I am away from the routine, away from day to day stress and normality. Just away. Holidays.
But at those times I am reminded of my grief and I am reminded that I remain without something, even here on holiday, even here when I am supposed to be free and without work and without responsibility. I still do not have Ruby even in this lovely place, especially in this lovely place, surrounded by trees, near the lake, sun in the sky, my wife and my son in my arms, barbecue on, gin and tonic in hand. These fleeting and simple joys that I love and value so much, stabs of happiness, remind me that there still remains a gap in our lives that should be filled with the missing member of our family, the fourth person who should be here to enjoy all this with us.
The juxtaposition of pleasure and pain has existed for the last five years but is getting stronger all the time as if any new joy sharply focuses my loss, as if I need new glasses that, along with the delight of clarifying happiness that exist, zeros in on the dirt and grime that surrounds me. Maybe my capacity for experiencing and expecting joy increases all the time and I allow myself, incrementally, to accept guiltless and comfortable happiness but I also know there is a direct connection between this odd permission for fun and the reminder that I shouldn't go too far, not too much, don't ever forget what has been lost and with whom I should be sharing this pleasure.

I was off work for a week recently for Easter. Claire, Tom and I went to a hotel for two nights (we have stayed there before. It is too expensive for us, truth be told, but it's a once-a-year treat) and then away in our touring caravan for three night (we bought the caravan one year after Ruby died and get great pleasure from it. As my counsellor said at the time "well, that makes sense- you're too anxious to travel so you take your home with you"). As a family these are enormous pleasures for us, to be together on holiday, away from our static home, reduced stress, strolling through trees, sharing the seasonal changes, play parks and climbing frames, short jogs over hills, eating out, barbequed sausages, searching the constellations on cool cloudless nights wrapped in blankets. Our free time is precious and is experienced simply- fresh air, activity, food- and is only truly valuable when we are together. But "us" is disabled from straightforward family life because we are a body missing a limb. Although we move and we are in unison we sometimes limp and lurch awkwardly.

I have earned the right to be happy. But the cost of this right is the grief that bonds to it. The justification I am compelled to abide by forces me, during every pleasure, to be reminded of my loss.
I feel this more and more acutely as time floats by. I assume that as my grief continues to striate and blur with my wellness and with my personality I will be less sharply affected by this disparity (as is the way with grief I expect time to be the great explainer).
It has occurred to me that national borders are most clearly represented in times of war and that in times of peace and solidarity there are no demarcation lines. As I have written many times, I don't seek to rid myself of grief but instead I need to navigate this new land. There are new paths to traverse, some stony, some smooth, some have to be explored delicately barefoot, other paths can be run free and fast, barely looking in front of me, admiring the scenery. Occasionally my journey is halted abruptly by a shocking boundary too sharp and gnarled to fight through but then after consideration and weighing up I realise that the key to navigating this particular obstacle is to make peace. Confutation gets nowhere, conflict puts off the inevitable, wilful ignorance makes the pain lurk in the background and so instead I must make peace. I must compromise and understand that I may never understand, that me and my grief need to coexist. It may always remain itself within me but it is, nevertheless, just that- within me.
I will have to embrace my grief and work towards reducing those borders and maybe then I will have those "differences, together" so valued in peace negotiation. Maybe then my grief and I can live in conjunction, in a kind of peace without borders.

I Believe Her

After working for twenty years in the field of mental health I often consider whether it remains the right job for me. Each day, each week, each month hardly varies from the mean average of the longitudinal effects of such specific stress but the effects are cumulative. To spend more waking time with the dispossessed, the vulnerable, the victims and survivors than I do with my own family takes a toll I thought I had ameliorated through years of practice. But the toll is almost imperceptibly gradual, too slow for recognisable increments, until an uncomfortably honest and necessary reflection jolts me into admission. I have seen myself, year after year, being tough and flexible, dependable, calm under pressure. But only now, after the death of Ruby, am I looking at who and how I am with a clarity I never had before. Only now, through a new lens and framed within a new setting, am I beginning to notice the subjective effects of two decades in the company of distraught and damaged people who, like me, are trying their best to live, maybe to thrive or maybe just managing to tread water for a while.
The effects are broad and deeply affecting. The effects are stratified through who I am, like lode combing down my timeline. The effects are veined between my new and old skeletons and are intertwined with the framework of who I was and of who I want to become.
I can feel weighed down, tethered by the shared ownership of others' suffering.
But then there are times when I think I save a life. or reduce harm or just make things  a bit better for someone. There are times I can see my value, when there is obvious pragmatic change for the better, when someone leaves a meeting with me and we both know they are likely to make it for at least one more day, maybe a little less afraid or a little less alone. At times like that I have to reconsider my position as a support worker and revaluate the breadth of my shoulders.
I get more fragile and more sensitive and I am more affected by the needs of others as I age but also the older I get the finer the balancing act between providing solace for others and defence for myself.
Compassion fatigue is indefensible- anyone who gets near that point should have left their profession many patients ago- but tiredness of the heart is an intermittent and temporary litutle death that can remind me of my compassion and the necessary commitment to love and to empathy. Adversity can let me know how much is at stake and how much it is all worth.

And then sometimes an event happens of such magnitude that it feels like I've been kicked by a stranger, an event that clarifies my position as a potential helper to those in need.
Yesterday was the result of a nine-week long court case here in Belfast of a young woman sexually assaulted by four men. I had been following the case closely as the victim was hauled over the coals by the solicitors involved who evoked the age-old techniques of victim-blaming and of discrediting her with patriarchal, bossy, misogynist nonsense. There were flaws in the police presentation, flaws in the media reporting and extraordinary pressure on her over eight days of questioning. The jury was ordered to vote unanimously, with "beyond reasonable doubt" at the front of their mind and taking into account the "character" of the assailants.
The rapists walked free from court with a "not guilty" verdict. And I am furious. I am not surprised but I am furious.

It should go without saying that many more women will now not report their experiences of sexual assault and will be feel less hopeful about the justice system.
What is less likely to be recognised is the strength and courage that many people, me included, can take from her experiences.
I know how awful grief can be, I have experienced a horrifying sense of loss. I am on first name terms with courage but, even with my experiences in mind, I constantly revere the valour women possess in the face of sexual violence. This survivor of such awfulness, and many women like her, possess an extraordinary strength that I admire and can learn from. She, and other women with similar experiences, have taught me so much.


She has taught me to always speak up about gender inequality. Always.
She has taught me to confront bullies. Always.
She has taught me that, even when confronted with a legal wall, an authority designed to hold me back, there is always a right thing to do. Always.
She has taught me to hold fast through adversity. That there is an end, a goal, and to always aim for it.
She has taught me that, even if my ultimate goal is not achieved, there are positives to be taken from any endeavour.
She has taught me that some laws and rules are plain wrong and need to be directly challenged.
She has taught me that the capacity for human flexibility, stamina and bravery is almost limitless.
She has taught me that life goes on and that the key is not to relinquish to fate but instead to learn to navigate.
She has taught me that truth can be absolute and is always worth defending.
She has taught me that it is a natural human trait if, in the search for truth and justice, my voice cracks.
She has taught me to use my privilege constructively. To not do so would be a waste of my time alive.
She has taught me the importance of using feminism and humanism as the ultimate frameworks for daily living.
She has taught me the weight of bodily autonomy.
She has taught me the power of solidarity.

I believe her and I believe the millions of other women who know how she feels.

#ibelieveher
#repealthe8th

There will be no public enquiry

I am two months away from the fifth anniversary of Ruby's death.
Claire and I received the final decision from legal entities involved in investigating the circumstances around that fateful day in Scotland- the final legal decision is that there will be no public enquiry.
There will be no public enquiry.

This side of Ruby's death- the investigation of what happened before, during and after her death- is an aspect of grief I have found too hard to bear. Claire has lead and managed this throughout our grief with the help of her family (this is one of many unexpected aspects of grief- how personal it is and how each of us vary in our resilience and coping strategies from one incident to the next) and I have remained very much on the side, observing and occasionally contributing, but generally finding it too painful to grasp all the details about these investigations.
There have been three major aspects- the NHS Trusts involved in her care from birth to death, the education board that manage her school and the legal powers in Scotland that support the police at the scene and the subsequent management of all investigations.
As usual the NHS were as efficient as they could be and were transparent and exemplary in their actions. All carers for Ruby throughout her short life- cardiac surgeons, consultant paediatric cardiologists and others- convened and reflected on every detail of her medical history from Claire's 20 week scan when she was pregnant with Ruby, Ruby's major heart surgery at four days old (transposition of the great vessels) and thereafter her yearly follow-up appointments with cardiologists keeping an eye on her progress in London and then here in Northern Ireland. The medical team, with agreement from Claire and I, concluded that they had done everything they knew at the time was possible to do to look after her as best as medical research knew how. Some changes, new tests, have now been implemented for other children having similar cardiac follow-up to reduce the risk of this ever happening again (after Ruby's death the pathologist discovered that Ruby had been slowly developing a very unusual, and nearly undetectable, heart condition as a result of her surgery as a baby- it was this that caused her fatal heart attack). In other words, the medical staff reflected and reassssed their approach and implemented the findings. This happened within a few months. An apology was offered and accepted, counselling was offered and accepted and Claire and I continue to hold up that team, and the NHS in general, as being a sentinel guiding us through these extraordinary times.
The police that investigated Ruby's death were intensely thorough and diligent (and mercifully brief) and the protracted legal process kept us informed of all processes and developments.

The dissatisfaction I feel is aimed squarely at the education board who runs the school she attended. I have deflected my anger over the last five years which could have been (rightfully) directed at her school and the education board because to not do so could have destroyed me. I will continue to deflect and mange this as best as I can.
There is no one individual to blame for Ruby's death, this is true. There were no suspicious circumstances surrounding her death, this is true. What is true is that more than one person made a mistake in her care on the night she died which resulted in her not being given the opportunity of survival. Her death was barely avoidable, as was agreed by the pathologist and others, but due to lack of thought, management skills and appropriate risk analysis we, her parents, will never be able to know whether she might have survived that night and thereafter had subsequent surgery to allow her to live and thrive.
It was a heart attack, incompetently managed, that allowed her to die.

We wanted a public enquiry to show the world that mistakes were made. We wanted to show that her school were not as blameless as everyone thought and that may other parents, who were relying on Ruby's school to look after their children and keep them safe, were misguided in their beliefs.
One year after her death the school went on another week-long trip. And the parents, who know of little else, let their children go. These trips continue even now, after little change in policy.
We wanted a public enquiry to clarify, with absolution, the potential for avoidance of such a tragedy again.
We wanted a public enquiry so that certain people and organisations involved would apologise. And would apologise unequivocally after reflecting on their poor practice, learning from their mistakes, knowing how they went wrong and then unambiguously say sorry without exception before changing policy and actions.
We wanted a public enquiry to give us some closure. But, as is the way with grief, there is of course no closure, just a series of small doors closing an exit to a dark corridor.

How to...

‪How to empathise:‬
1. Imagine how they feel- weigh and consider their experience and picture yourself there
2. Extrapolate from your own experience- eg. you may not know grief but you know loss. Use those feelings to connect
3. Be warm and genuine- it is obvious if you are not

‪How to listen:‬
1. Be quiet. You should be able to silently recite and review what someone has just said
2. Allow the space between you to be the 3rd participant in your relationship (silent, angry, reflective, etc)
3. You are not a passive recipient, you are an active participant

‪How to manage grief:‬
1. Embrace it. It is a normal reaction to a universal experience, you will survive
2. Practice self-care. Do what you enjoy and what helps
3. Make no big decisions for a year
4. Be honest about how you feel

‪How to find nice people:‬
1. Practice unconditional self-regard - your relationships are a reflection of how you feel about yourself
2. Be flexible and tender
3. Know that you see the world how you are, not how it is

‪How to live well:‬
1. Consider how you want to live- in fear, with love, playfully, intensely, etc.
2. Disregard that which is out of your control
3. Be kind, always. You will never regret this
4. Contribute
5. Connect with others

‪How to have courage:‬
1. Adjust your parameters. Sometimes it is courageous simply to get up on a morning
2. Make achievable small steps.
3. Slow down, even to a crawl, but don't stop
4. No pressure. Goals are not necessary but may be helpful to some

‪How to feel safe:‬
1. Appreciate that your perception may not be the same as reality
2. Know that you will get through adversity. Always.
3. Hone your bullshit detector
4. Look for helpers, they are always there.

‪How to not feel guilty:‬
1. Know you have earned the right to be free of guilt
2. Let go of things that are out of your control
3. Be realistic about your goals and responsibilities
4. Be tender but firm with yourself when asserting your autonomy

‪How to have fewer regrets on your deathbed:‬
1. Work less unless it brings you immense joy
2. Connect more. The endeavour is worth it
3. Do stuff. You will regret inaction
4. Be yourself not the person others expect you to be
5. Allow yourself to be happy

‪How to feel a type of happiness:‬
1. Love
2. Be unafraid
3. Enjoy subjective beauty.
4. Contribute and create
5. Be silly
6. Question all authority
7. Advocate for, and empower, others
8. Take no bullshit
9. Take active steps to do good
10. Remember that everything passes

My grief at Christmas

I work as a psychiatric nurse with homeless people who have long-term mental health issues, physical disabilities and drug and alcohol problems. My patients are not suddenly removed from my thoughts when a season of enforced fun (surely the most woeful type of adult pleasure) envelops me like a leaden duvet. How can I allow myself to enjoy Christmas? 

I am told by social media and politicians to think about lonely people this Christmas (it is literally my job to think about the lonely. And if I didn't I am unlikely to be the kind of person whose behaviour will be positively changed by their message). I am told by capitalists to spend money because it will make me happy (and I know, from the enamel on my teeth down to the nails on my toe that this is bullshit of flabbergasting obviousness). I am bellowed at by advertisers with the nuance of a prison shank, their infantilising, saccharine, constant pre-watershed, radio-friendly drone eats away at the last warmth in me aimed at Christmas until, when the day itself arrives seemingly years after I am reminded that it is only round the corner, I have so little festive cheer left that I want nothing to do with anything other than my wife and my son and my own physical space. And I am told, as a vegetarian, that I need to eat lots of meat because nothing says compassion at Christmas time more than piles of pointlessly dead animals. I have become increasingly angry over the last few weeks at the disgusting consumerism that pervades Christmas, people buying shit they don't need and can't afford and getting poorer and poorer. It is rotten and ugly. 

It certainly isn't Christian anymore (a blessing in disguise, I guess. Spiritual connections to Christmas were eroded a long time ago not that they ever mattered to atheists like me). 

I think about Ruby every hour of my waking life and I hope, every single night when I go to sleep, that I will dream about her. Some nights I go to sleep and don't want to wake up and I want to be dreaming about her forever or, at least, not ever wake up to be reminded every hour that she isn't there. Christmas is a persistent reminder that my immediate family is missing someone and there is a constant gnawing of my resolve in the entire run up. I am told this is a family time but a quarter of my family doesn't exist anymore. 

Our Christmas cards don't have Ruby's name on them. We didn't buy her any presents this year. There is no stocking under the tree with her name on. Her brother Tom gets innappropriately expensive presents we can't afford to compensate for our "well, life is too short" explanations for being in debt. I spent the day with my in laws and they drink all evening and sing. Ruby is dead and they sing. On this "family" day. I made excuses that a recent back injury means I have to move around the house and keep mobile just so I can avoid their company to stop myself from crying every time a new song starts. I have found this Christmas to be alienating and lonely because I still get bewildered and squashed under the encumbrance of loss at times like these. There is no psychic weight like that of a gravitational mass beyond my control for which there is no pill, no treatment other than time (if that, even), to control its descent. 

My mum died a few months ago. My sister nearly died a few months ago and spent many weeks in a coma in intensive care. She barely survived. There were many aspects of my professional life that also contributed to 2017 being one of the worst years of my life and I'm glad to see the end of it. My Christmas was symbolic of the ugly mess and the chaos of the last year. 

Fortunately I have a genetic predisposition to optimism and, by lucky chance, I have an astute bullshit detector so I am staring intently at 2018 as it sidles over the horizon. It had better deliver.