new address

We've got one! I won't be posting it here obviously, and I haven't actually seen it, but I'm reliably informed that it exists. I think their mum is just buying the entire building. I can't imagine what it must be like to have that sort of money.

No, you know what, that's a lie. I can absolutely imagine it. Especially having lived here for a bit, with the mysteriously lit fires and breakfast in my room when I wake up and no cleaning to do ever. I think I'd hate it, really. No offense to Mrs Hudson, and it's lovely she does all this for us, but I keep thinking about the time between getting out of hospital and getting this job.

If I hadn't needed to look after myself, I might've just got in bed and stayed there. I'd like to think I'm not the sort of person who'd do that, but knowing now what it's like to wake up to tea within reach... I just don't know. There's something to be said for having to work for the necessities of life. Then again, if I'd had Mrs Hudson then I think she'd have chased me out of the house with a broom if necessary.

Huh. I think this has suddenly become the longest post I've written on this thing yet. And look, Dr E, that's introspection up there, that is.

i don't even know where to start

Life is suddenly moving quite quickly, which is a change after months of not moving at all. I've only got time for the condensed version, so here goes:

Day 1 at Baskerville Hall: spent the entire night searching for a very sneaky five year old who was secretly following me about.

Day 2: Spent most of the day looking for him again, out on the moor. Found him, fell asleep in a cave, got attacked by a gigantic hound covered in glow-in-the-dark paint. (The hound was painted, not us.)

Day 3: Helped DI Lestrade solve a serial killing case and rescue Mycroft from the killer.

I'll try to expand on this at some point in the future. Possibly far in the future. 

PS: We're moving back to London. I haven't even unpacked yet.

something happened

I got a job offer today. It went like this:

I was walking. I walk every day because the alternative is to stay home, and I haven't even got a telly. A pay phone rang as I walked by. Odd, but not that odd. Kept walking. A phone in a shop rang as I walked by. Coincidence. Then, another pay phone. I answered it. Why not? What else have I got to do?

It was a woman's voice. She knew my name. Dr E's going to think I've lost my marbles, but she had me watch the surveillance cameras as, one by one, they all looked away. Leaving me in a blind spot. Then the limo pulled up.

Long story short, I'm going to Devon tomorrow to look after her two children.

Can't sleep. It's nearly four, so there's no point trying. I don't mind the dreams about the war so much, even the bad ones. It's the dreams about London that really unnerve me. The ones where there's no one here but me.

skip this one

You'd think in a city the size of London, running into someone I know would be relatively unlikely.

First Mike, now my sister. Perhaps I was asking for it, going to the pub three times in one week. I suppose she hits them all eventually. Maybe she has a rota drawn up.

I may be a bit drunk at the moment as well.

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.