May Day Madness

O! Joy of joys! The jollity of May Day! A double whammy of shitness came my way today. Some of it actually arrived yesterday, but I must have missed it in my post seizure fuzznangle-brain.

Shitness the First: An ESA1 Form arrived for me. I’ve never had an ESA1 Form before. Apparently I need it because I am re-claiming ESA. Not making a new claim. It’s in a horizontal/ landscape format compared to the A4 portrait format of the usual forms. It may not be the horrible ESA 50, but it still caused me to panic and feel shit and horrible and useless and worthless. All at once, in a flash, like magic! That’s the wonder talent of the DWP: they can make you feel 100 negative things all at once. I’ve never done Heroin, but I imagine that the feeling you get from contact with the DWP is like Satan’s Heroin – it’s all deep, deep, complex lows. And for some reason they also sent me a Housing Benefit Form, for no reason. I’m going to have to hide that f*cker from my Dad as he’d love to play with the DWP, and I just don’t need the stress of him. I have until the 27th of May to get my ESA1 form and a Sick Note from my GP to the DWP. Let’s see how this works out.

Shitness the Second: Out travelling in that London. First time I’ve been out for my own selfish purpose in a long time. I last saw an exhibition in January* and I decided today to see a show and visit some churches** in far flung Hackney. On my way home, walking down a very empty road, I got hit by an American football. You know, those odd, rugby ball-like things. I saw the man with it ahead of me across the road. I was the only one on my side. The threw it at me and smacked me in the right arm and hand. Hard enough to make me drop my bag. He was with company and ‘apologised’ – the “sorry, sorry” of a dickhead. He wasn’t sorry, he threw a ball at the only person on the street in the middle of the day, and he managed to hit them. If he’d hit my head and wrecked my glasses, my response would not have been a shocked “What the fuck?”, a glare and a walk off. Of course, he doesn’t know that by the time I got home my arm was stiff and my hand and wrist sore, and that tomorrow I will most likely be even stiffer. My neck is already clenching up. Great. Apart from the actual physical side effects of being hit, the worst part for me was that I saw the man with the ball, and I tried to make sure I was not hit. Just like at school etc. etc. I was bullied by an arse with a ball. History repeating. I have to see my GP this week (for above Sick Note) and I’ll be mentioning this little incident. It’s these little things that annoy me, because they make me sound like a whiny hypochondriac. Being hit by balls, tripping over cracked paving, being walked into by people on phones, smacked in the ankles by buggies: these genuinely cause me physical problems and discomfort, but complaining about them makes me sound like a comedy old fart from The Simpsons. And I know it. Grrrrr. I’ll just get the cough drops and start complaining about The Youth Of Today.

* Exhibitions have the ability to make me love life at times when it really seems unlovable – like rubbing the soft ears of a dog you keep threatening to take to the vet one last time.

** I studied Architectural History as part of my degree and I love Pre-Victorian buildings. I’ve not seen all of London’s interesting churches, but when I’m in an area, I try to fit at least one in. I can recommend St. John-at-Hackney for sheer surprise. The outside has amazing ranks of tombs and the interior… well, that is the surprise. I love Post-Victorian buildings too – it’s just the Victorians that make me uncomfortable. I did try to love them, but, well, I can’t.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s