a tribute to the truly marvellous pink pills which currently reside in my purse

Dear Pink Pills,

It's been a long time hasn't it? Almost seven whole years since we last crossed paths. I take partial responsibility for this, dearest Pink Pills, because I felt I didn't need you (and in truth I really didn't) and also because I couldn't get my hands on you without a prescription and, as much as I love you, my few scruples forbid me from flirting with doctors specifically to procure myself (unnecessary) medication. But this week I found myself needing you, desiring you, begging to have you back in my life (literally, I actually begged someone. Like, down on my knees, prostrate on the ground begged them). And you came through for me, Pink Pills. You made my life better - a place of happiness, light and a non-swollen ass in those hours I couldn't rely on my old mistress Red Wine to take the pain away. (Fabulous though she is, she isn't always appropriate company. Remember the mess she made the last time I enjoyed her company at work? Not. Good.)

You've helped me some tough times before, Pink Pills. Like the time we first met after I had been so roughly assaulted with a hockey stick one November morning (though others may quibble, I maintain that merely taking part in the game of hockey counts as a form of assault and so I will not be swayed in my declarations), or our encounter when you so kindly helped me recover from a tennis related injury (are you beginning to see now why I don't play sports?). But the time that I knew you were really for me, Pink Pills, when I knew that you were more than just a fairweather friend was when you helped me through the pain during my trip to Bolivia. When I pulled my Achilles tendon I thought I was going to pass out from the pain of walking on it. Being stuck in the middle of an area currently undergoing a civil war and knowing the only option was to keep on walking through the volcanic landscape to somewhere that we could finally camp was hard. The people I was travelling with bitching for over an hour about having to split my pack between them was harder. But you made it ok again, Pink Pills. You took away the pain and made it physically bearable.

And now, although I'm not asking you to help me climb mountains again, you have gotten me through the last eight hours at work. So I thank you for that, please don't think badly of me this evening when I abandon you again and run to the loving arms of my old alcoholic mistress. You know I love you - she's just more fun in social situations.

Thanks again, Pink Pills; for some you may be extra strength ibuprofen but for me you are 400 milligrams of candy coated joy.

Yours, analgesically

Alex

entirely self-inflicted

The following is a list of every day things that I cannot do without causing myself immense amounts of pain:

Walk
Sit down
Lay on my left side
Climb stairs
Bend down
Crouch down
Reach upwards

Considering I walked an hour in to work this morning because my travel card had run out of money and I'm currently perched very gingerly on the edge of the world's most uncomfortable chair you can probably guess what kind of a mood I'm in.

Yes indeed, ladies and gents - this little kitten got herself tattooed again. Look very carefully at the list above and you may be able to guess what part of herself she had repeatedly stabbed with needles. But my God is the result pretty. And amazingly the session was far less painful than anticipated, my cunning plan of having headphones plugged in and music playing incredibly loudly worked like an absolute charm, I actually lasted for a semi decent amount of time which bodes well for the future. As it stands I'm about an hour out from having the foreground finished (which will have to be done at a later date as I won't be healed enough to work on that spot again by my next session) - we start work on the background next session, so I get to spend an hour standing in my underwear and being scribbled all over (we're having to freehand the background to make sure everything that needs to be covered gets covered) which should be... interesting. The upshot of all this is that I may actually have the full piece finished by the end of Summer.

I'm starting to regret promising my Mother I'd wait a year before starting on my sleeves. I want to get them started NOW damnit!

Oh yes, no photos this time I'm afraid - there was way too much blood/swelling/running ink to get an even half way decent image but I'll get some next session when the new work's a couple of weeks healed.

I'm off to go and whine some more about how much pain I'm in.

betch says to spill it...

.. and so I shall. As it seems like all the cool kids are doing it I feel it's time for me to get bandwagon jumping and share the story of the time I got explamoded. Unfortunately, intertwined with this tale is the story of my parents' divorce and a fulsome helping of Daddy issues. Obviously this isn't the entire story and while my original intention was to share the gruesome details of my spectacular injury story it kind of morphed into something else. That being said, and without further ado, may I present to you...

Alex and the Model Steam Engine
a tale of fire and bad parenting

First up some background to the story. This story is set during a trial "get back together" period between my parents' splitting up and their eventual, and very welcome divorce. My parents split up when I was three and a half, it wasn't a particularly fun time for my Mother and years of having her husband's infidelity paraded around in front of her (case in point: I spend my second birthday at the zoo with my Father and his "Mistress of the Moment" the dreaded Fiona) and being constantly belittled and manipulated finally took their toll leaving her aged 29 and single, with a three year old daughter, crippling agoraphobia, panic attacks and clinical depression so bad that she refused to be left alone with her own child for fear of what she might be capable of doing. In essence: she was not a well woman. We lived with my Grandparents during that time and slowly but surely she started getting a little better (she's completely well now by the way, stronger than she ever was, totally stable and probably going kick my ass when I inevitably tell her about posting this).

Needless to say that my Father had to fuck that element of her life up too, and so a year later they got back together to "try again", moving into a shabby ex-council flat in the village where my Mother grew up. My Father continued to work in London during this time so he would stay in town during the week (and enjoy all the associated drug taking, easy women and heavy drinking that went with City life in the late 80s) and then come home on Fridays to his wife and child.

This story takes place late one Friday afternoon just before I turned five years old. I was out playing in the street with some kids that lived on the same road as me. As a kid I was a fairly cute creature - button nose, chubby cheeks, absolutely giant green eyes, shiny black hair in a bob - imagine Boo from Monster's Inc. - yeah that was me as a kid (so much so that the movie freaked my Mother out to the point where she can't actually sit through it) - superfluous information I know but things are always worse when they happen to adorable moppets aren't they? That day I was calmly minding my own business, probably lost in a daydream, when two slightly older boys asked if I wanted to look at the toy they had.

That "toy" was a real working traction engine. One of these:

I'd just like to take a moment to draw your attention to the specs of this kind of model, namely the fuel source: dry spirit tablets. Note the "dry" part of that. "Dry" not "damp", not "moist", not "slightly soggy" but "dry". Got that noted? Good.

Do you know what you shouldn't use to heat up the engine and power the thing? Liquid meths. Know what happens if you do use liquid meths to fuel one of these?






Yeah: Kaboom.

Unfortunately, I was leaning over the machine - trying to figure out how it worked -as the meths was lit and the fireball erupted outwards. The flames licked up the backs of both of my legs, they ran up my right arm searing the material of my sweater to my skin and singeing off the hair hanging on that side of my face. I can't remember it hurting. All I remember of it is the heat and turning to run as fast as I could home.

As all of this was happening my Mother was on the phone to her husband. He was due to come home that night and they were arranging what time he'd be back when she heard a blood curdling scream.

Him: "What was that?"
Her: "Oh my God, it's L____!"

Cue her dropping the phone and racing outside to see what the hell had just happened to me. I looked like I'd just staggered out of a warzone, my clothes and face were blackened with soot and what skin she could see was a livid red. Instincts from her time as a nurse must have kicked in, my Mother is superb in any kind of crisis - especially those involving me - as long as it isn't her own, and I was promptly dumped in a bath and covered with icy water, which in hindsight may not have been the best idea but at least stopped me from screaming. All in all, I can't fault her response. I had huge fist-sized blisters all up the backs of my legs, the material from my cardigan had stopped the damage to my arms from being too severe and even more luckily my face seemed to have escaped anything permanent. Still, I couldn't sit for weeks - my clearest memory of the time was lying on my front watching Dumbo on video and getting a crick in my neck from the weird angle. Oh and the bucket. That thing still gives me nightmares.

This I knew, this I remembered. The rest was news to me the first time I heard it a couple of years ago - incidentally even I was incredulous about the claims until I had been told by several different sources - and it has since become my very favourite illustration of bad paternal parenting.

My Father had been on the phone at the time it all happened, he'd heard the scream and he knew it was me. Considering he was due to be back that night anyway he obviously raced back up the motorway and home to his injured five year old daughter, right?


You haven't really been listening have you?


He in fact, does not race home immediately. In fact he doesn't come home at all that night. He instead tuns up the next day, still drunk and informs my Mother that they are going out that evening and that his parents would be babysitting me. Oh, they lived about a 45 minute drive away incidentally. My Mother now would tell him to go fuck himself and the horse he rode in on, however my Mother 18 years ago quietly, and with tears welling up, went and got her coat.

And that is how, at the age of five and with second degree burns I ended up standing up in the back seat of my parents' car for almost an hour while my still over the limit Father drove to his parents' house and my Mother silently decided that she needed a divorce.


Update: I told a good friend of mine about the contents of this post and her response was such:
"Bit fucking bleak isn't it?"

Thought I should probably point out that despite the mopey tone of this post I actually find the whole thing amusing rather than tragic. It's usually funny when I tell it. It's probably something to do with hand gestures.