off the map

Disused tube stations:

There's not all that much information about them at the site (it seems mostly to be an art project), but still interesting. Here's some more on St Mary's, with pictures. 

And a tour of the station:

I find it fascinating, the things that people build and then forget about, brick up, or pave over, like repressed memories in London's brain.

the guest house

On Tuesday, I went to see Dr E. It was mainly getting reacquainted, or perhaps I should acquainted for the first time, given how resistant I was to actually telling her anything before. I'm not terribly keen on it now, but I've realised that there are worse things. 

She asked what I wanted to get out of it. I said a lot of things, but what I came to in the end was that it would be good to be able to initiate difficult talks with L without making him feel like it's solely for his benefit, which I think I do. Maybe not intentionally, or at least not with conscious intention, but it's still not good. So. There's that to start with. 

From here: "This tractography image was made to help the neurosurgeon to choose the right approach for his neurosurgical planning. The surgery was at risk of damaging the visual field, as well as damaging complex sensory and visuospatial functions such as orientation in space, perception and motor functions."

The Guest House 

Rumi

translated by Coleman Barks

every day??

L is doing the posting every day thing that we did last November. I suppose I'll make the attempt as well (no promises). I feel singularly uninspired recently though, so I'll need your help. Questions? Post topics? Anything?

Do you think they let people get married in that bombed out church L likes?

Also, I have an appointment with Dr E next week, which L may or may not attend, as he likes. We'll see how that goes. When I rang her she seemed to think I must've fallen into some sort of deep and desperate depression and was rather surprised when I explained. I told her it served her right for not keeping up with my blog... 

a difficult post to phrase politely

Anon wanted to know: When you've been with girlfriends is there anything you miss about men? And now you're with Greg is there anything you miss about women?

The short  answer is no. The slightly longer answer has to do with romance and why I've historically been pretty terrible at it.

In my early thirties I had a string of short-lived relationships with women - a few months each - and I came out of each of them not missing men exactly, but missing how much simpler things usually were with men. And I know (or assume) your question was referring to physical differences, but I never really cared about those much, it was all fine, all good.

The differences I saw were mental and emotional...and also they were nothing to do with the differences between men and women. They were about the differences in romantic relationships vs non-romantic.

But I didn't realise that for a long time, and in the back of my mind I think I blamed the women I was with for not being more like men. By which I meant wanting more of me than I was willing to give to anything except my job and my team.

And then I met Laura (the woman in Egypt, owner of Biscuit), who had no interest in me romantically, and that was great. And as a side effect, I became slightly less of an idiot.

Well. Maybe slightly less of an idiot. Because mainly it served to convince me that I wasn't fit for a romantic relationship at all. Maybe that was true at the time. Maybe not. I don't know really.

But in answer to your actual question instead of rambling about romance: no. I love the human body, I think it's amazing in just about every form, and there are so many more (and more important) differences - even just physical differences - from person to person than male vs female that I just don't think of it that way. I have occasionally missed someone's specific physical traits, but not not men or women in general.

as requested

One year today, I let Dr E bully me into starting this blog, mainly because it was easier than doing anything else she wanted me to do, like discuss my feelings or get on with my life.

...It seems to have worked unexpectedly well. Good job, Dr E. 

home alone

I'm not actually (see title), because Sherlock's home from school now of course, but I have spent a lot of time alone since Lestrade left for Italy. It's odd. The Army doesn't generally leave you a lot of time to yourself, and before that I always had flatmates. On leave I usually went home or to stay with the current girlfriend. I've been trying to think, but I'm not sure I've ever properly lived alone, except for those few months between getting out of hospital and moving into Baskerville Hall with the boys. That seems like it can't be right, but I can't remember more than a few weeks at a time on my own before that. It's...really quiet.

Anyway, just random thoughts. Time for dinner. I think we're having takeaway of some sort. 

like a very small boss

Mycroft's out with the dogs, Sherlock's drawing, and I think L's seriously considering a trip to the Yard to fetch more paperwork. Carla and Mycroft hugged each other goodbye, which was very sweet; Mycroft is not generally a hugger. Sherlock gave Paul a sheet of paper with notes on...something. If it was a stink bomb, I'm very very sorry, Nicky.

I'm going to Tesco soon, because we have literally nothing in the fridge except condiments, and even Lestrade can't make a meal out of jam, mustard, and siracha. First, the substance of what Sherlock said to L's mum. L said he didn't mind if I shared it.

It started with Nicky explaining to Paul and Carla that their grandmother wasn't feeling very well, to which Sherlock's response was, "She smells like alcohol. Lestrade said if you drink alcohol a lot it makes you sick and Harry said it makes you throw up, is she going to throw up?"

the third thing

3. Packed up dinner for L and Sally, went up to his office, giving no thought whatsoever to the photos he'd warned me about. It didn't occur to me for a moment I'd have a problem, and L does tend to be a bit overprotective - it's all right (usually*), makes a nice change from being surrounded by people eager to throw me into mortal peril.

I felt a bit sick while they were eating - like, actually physically ill, wondering if it was the pasta and if I should stop them eating it. And then I realized I was thinking about...how it happened. How the boy in the photos got that way. And I couldn't stop.

two thirds

There are three things. This post will cover two of them.

It's very late, again. So late it's early. I feel odd posting about this while Nicky & Co. are here, but I can't seem to settle down to write about anything else, even though there's quite a lot else to write about. I don't actually want to write about this at all, but my usual methods of repression and denial don't seem to be working all that well.

And I asked Lestrade and he said it was all right. I suppose since he told me about it via blog comment it'd be a bit odd to worry about me posting about it. I still feel weird posting about it. Obviously, or I would've stopped blithering by now and... I'll start with the point weighing most heavily on my mind.

dear internet

 Dear Internet,

Sorry for being drunk all over you last night. It was impolite and uncalled for, but don't worry, I'm suffering for it today.

I probably owe you (or at least Lestrade) an explanation (and it's easier to write it down than say it to his face). And it won't hurt to have the boys hear it either. One thing therapy (or maybe it was blogging?) does teach you is to say things out loud that you'd really not rather even think.

resolution

In training, I had a sergeant who talked a lot about death. I guess to get us used to the idea, to get us joking about it. "When you die, and some of you will die, die with dignity, with honor, with resolution."

As a result, I can't think about New Year's resolutions, about this great beginning of a new, unknown life, without thinking about death. I think if anyone had asked me, at any point in Afghanistan, if I was ready to die, I would've said yes. Not that I wanted to. Just, I felt I'd done enough with my life, I suppose. And when I got back, that same feeling, stronger. Not "done enough with" so much as "done with".

And now I'm anything but done, so, resolutions:

1. Learn to cook one thing so Mrs Hudson can have a night off once in a while
2. Keep anyone I care for from getting kidnapped
3. Live

Phobos and Deimos are asleep on my feet. One great, slobbering, jowly head per foot, wetting down my brand new Christmas slippers.  The boys are all tucked in. Harry's asleep and sober on the sofa. Mrs Hudson's asleep in her own bed downstairs. Lestrade's most likely asleep in mine, which makes me either a very dedicated blogger or a bloody fool. Good night.

starting over

This time last year I was still in Afghanistan. We'd made plans, got extra booze in. There were steaks. Around eight that evening, when we were sitting down to eat, we got word to expect incoming wounded. An ambushed convoy. It was bad. I rang in the new year with my hands in some poor lad's intestines. I can't remember his name. It'd be nice, wouldn't it, to say I remember them all? I don't though.

I still have no idea how I ended up here. How their mum found me. I'm grateful she did. Saved my life, I should think.

I meant this post to be about resolutions, but it seems to have got away from me.

Mrs Hudson's back now anyhow, and we're all going to the shops together.

More before midnight if I can manage it. If not, happy New Year to you all.

new life

Haven't been "utilizing" this blog "to its fullest extent" apparently. I rather thought the point of therapy was to speak privately with someone you, at least in theory, trust. Granted, writing this is currently the same as talking to myself (and I do, in theory, trust myself).

Dr E: Yes, John. But you don't actually talk to me. Perhaps you'll feel more comfortable with the anonymity granted by the internet.

Except my full name's bang in the URL of this thing, isn't it? Well. And whose fault is that, as my mum would say.

All right. Everyone seems quite desperate to get me to express my feelings, so here we go.

I feel bored, if you want to know.

No, I wouldn't want to go back. I'm no use to anyone like this.

Sorry about that last post. If anyone's reading this. Mike told me you can look at the stats and find that out, but I think I prefer ignorance in this. Ignorance and alcohol. But those of us with alcoholic relatives tend to have rules and one of mine is:

1. Thou shalt not drink alone.

So off the pub I go. Maybe there'll be a match on.




Maybe I'll just go to bed.

Fucking, fucking, fucking leg.

good old mike

I met an old friend today, Mike Stamford.

"I got fat."

"I got shot."

There you go. Fifteen years summed up in six words.

I mentioned needing a flatmate. Maybe he'll come up with something. Mike knows everyone. Haven't got much hope though. Who'd want to share a flat with me? (Rhetorical question. No strange offers, please.)

(Try me next month.)

doctor's orders

I'm supposed to write about my life, about the things that happen to me, day to day things. That's what she said. Dr E, let's call her, for the sake of a thin veil of privacy. Hers or mine.

I don't know why I'm concerned; no one's going to read this anyway. I wouldn't, if I weren't me. Ladies and gentlemen of the internet, welcome to the world's most boring blog.