Raining again. The filthy birds are using the feeder way too much. It’s beginning to be a one-way relationship. I feed them, they peer maliciously at me. They are useless and don’t do anything like tricks, or talking, just fix grim stares. The wildlife around here behaves like it’s auditioning for a Hitchcock movie.
But all of that doesn’t matter because it’s raining. The fucking grim, grey, wet, shitty weather default for the Dales. I read somewhere that this area is the second most visited National park in the entire world (after Mt Fuji). On summer days I can believe it, but the tourists would be crazier than I am to be here now. This is suicide weather. It sucks all the good out of a soul.
Today I have to walk in this pissing rain up and down an almost vertical hill to the next village. I have to meet my new Psychiatrist. This will be the third one I’ve had in a little over a year. The local NHS can’t keep its staff. The going rate for a consultant Psychiatrist is around £125,000 a year yet still the job can’t stick on someone. Maybe we’re (the local crazies) too much to take? Which might be true but if I had to relocate here from the South I would bet my medication that the fucking weather has something to do with this turnover somewhere. Listening to people’s crap is hard enough, try doing it all day and then sitting in a traffic jam up a hill in the rain for an hour on your way home, stuck behind a tractor/horse/traction engine. What would it take for me to do my Psychiatrist’s job? A lot. I’d ask for a speedboat and a set of matching duelling pistols for starters. And a set of diamond encrusted ear plugs for Client time. Jesus… those poor fools in Psychiatry. All that power and responsibility, and for what? To get wet like me under cold, grey skies.
I’m a little nervous when I meet a new Psychiatrist. They have the magic power to turn the next time I see my girlfriend into a shouting match through a Perspex screen. Nobody wants that kind of scene. And no-one likes drooling down themselves through enforced medical intervention. You think you’re strong, but they have access to meds which can turn you into a whimpering baby within seconds.
No. Today I will play the game. Wet as I’ll be. We’ll get on and I’ll smile a lot and nod approvingly at everything she has to say. I will comply with treatment plans and I’ll say thank you a lot.
This, I’ve found, is how you remain free to feel the wetness of rain, instead of watching it from inside a reinforced room with no sharp edges.
(Picture copyright Charles Schulz)