All quiet on the depression front

On Halloween I gave up all pretence of being sensible and ended up wearing a mask and a cloak. Talk about entering into the spirit of things. It was all Gigi’s fault – of course. We went to a friend in Pimlico, dressed sensibly at first. Naturally we stopped at a pub on the way where we were able to sit outside and watch the evening’s  halloween costumes going past with people in them. Suitably reinforced we proceeded to our destination and donned the necessary garments. Once inside the house. I attempted to divest myself of the encumbrances imposed on me, but was swiftly rebuffed and whilst I lost the mask, (which incidentally reminded me of those awful wartime kids’ Mickey Mouse gas masks we were issued with… couldn’t breath properly in clean air never mind in a gas attack…) I was persuaded to retain the cloak. The dagger came out later.

The party was great, the company was great, the food was great and the booze was great. The last may have been the problem. Suffice to say, on the way home in a taxi, I completely blew it, argued, stormed out of the taxi and walked home from Hyde Park Corner. I apparentl;y shut the taxi door somewhat forcibly because I learned later that the taxi driver thought he should have been reimbursed for the door being slammed. He probably votes tory. I hoped that the walk home would have cooled me down, but it didn’t. So ended the night with me and Gigi apart once more and both angry.

The next day was the Oval Tavern gig and I had arranged to go there and meet Gigi and a couple of her friends there, but as I was now personna non grata, she and they stayed away. That was a pity because it was a gret gig as far as the band were concerned , which just added to my frustration…and guilt. However, the tedium of the journey home by late train was leavened by the memory of the late drinking with Graeme and the staff of the Oval. A great crew for a great pub venue.

The next night was also spent alone. In such a way are the horrors of halloween visited on the party pooper. The third night alone found me in the Skiddaw late, nursing my supposed grievances. A mutual friend of mine and Gigi’s walked past the pub and informed her that I was propping up the bar. Unaware of this I went to the toilet during which time she walked in and, seeing that I wasn’t at the bar, started to leave, but one of the bar staff told her I was in the toilet.

Imagine my surprise when I came back to the bar to find her in my prop-up place. She asked me if I wanted a drink. A woman who knows the way to a man’s heart!  We did a lot of talking and I told her that I’d already made an appointment to see the doctor to change one of my pills which I thought was causing the irritation and mood swings. In fact I’d already stopped taking this particular beta blocker. She said I should  carry on taking it until I’d seen the doctor, which I agreed to.

Later, I saw the doctor and did a box-ticking exercise which suggested I had mild depression. He offered counselling. Everybody gets mild depression, so I persuaded him to forget about the counselling and change the drug,  which he did. So far so good. Things have been great since then. We even went to the Inn on the Green gig which was well attended by various German and Japanese visitors. At last a result! Which is more than I can say about the horses I’ve been backing lately. Mildly depressed? You’re telling me.