Two
or three weeks ago, I remonstrated with those - primarily lazy
overseas Anglo-Saxon article writers - for habitually claiming it's
always raining in Galicia. Well, after the last 12 days, I'm
compelled to offer a suspension of their sentence. For it's rained
every single bloody day. And sometimes through the night. Not before
time, the sun is forecast to return in the next few days. Actually,
it's just deliberately come now, mocking my concerns.
Still
on the weather . . . As usual, April in the UK has been the
something or other in X years. Driest, wettest, warmest, longest,
whatever. Well, the official prediction is that May'll be the coldest
in 300 years, to be followed by a 'sizzling' summer. Given that the
old joke is that summer in Britain is one sunny day and a
thunderstorm, I guess we can assume there'll be two, or even three,
days of sun this year. 'Sizzling' in Britain, by the way, is anything
above 15 (60) degrees. My own prediction is that the forecast will
only be half right. The half about May being brass monkeys weather.
The
first reprise of the day . . . MoviStar: Chapter 2
Proving
that I am more efficient than this phone company - but what were the
chances I wasn't? - I dug out the original contract and found that
the number used was none of the three discussed yesterday but my
passport number. So . . .
Is
Ana there, please.
No.
she's left.
Well,
can you give her the message that the relevant number for MoviStar is
my passport number, xxxxxxxx.
OK.
But why?
So
she can give it to MoviStar and get them to deliver me the router
I've been waiting a week for. And please remind her it has to arrive
before the weekend as I'm about to leave the country.
Oh,
OK.
Vamos
a ver.
Walking
through town yesterday, I suddenly realised I was doing what the
locals do - walking in front of people as if they weren't there. The
very opposite of what I instinctively do in the UK. So this is
multiculturalism, I said to myself. With a smile.
Wouldn't
you know it, the day I write of my own psychiatric struggles, Dr
Theodore Dalrymple brightens our lives by talking of Shakespeare's amazing diagnostic skills.
Which
is a nice segue into the day's second reprise . . . .
A
little more on my depression. "What", some may ask, "caused
the (huge) black dog to visit you and to stay so long. And then to go
away and come back again?" I have no idea. All the members of
my family have their pet (canine!) theories but there's only one I
give any credence to. And then not a lot.
Just
before Christmas 2010 I was overwhelmed one morning by an anxiety
that came out of nowhere. I visited a psychiatrist that night - I
have often wondered since why he was the only one in town with an
empty appointments diary - and told him I feared it was a prelude to
depression. He gave me an anti-anxiety drug and told me not to worry.
I was back the next day, in the throes of depression. He started me
on an antidepressant, stressed it'd take at least two weeks to kick
in and said that within three months I'd be as right as rain and
looking back and laughing at my experience. I'm paraphrasing but I
still wouldn't trust his judgement on a horse race. Or much else.
As
for the possible cause - For the last 10 years I've been aware that
all the females in my family - my mother, my aunt, my two sisters and
my two daughters - have an under-active thyroid born of Hashimoto's disease. But not me, I was sure, since it really only hit females.
But last year my elder daughter insisted I have the antibody tests, as
depression is one of the myriad possible consequences of a
malfunctioning thyroid. Eventually I did and, guess what, there were
the bloody antibodies. And a recent thyroid panel test showed up low
T4, indicating hypothyroidism. So . . . like all my female relations,
I'm now taking daily thyroxin. My hope is it'll keep the black dog
away from my door. As, frankly, his bark is just as bad as his bite and, in truth, I've really had quite enough of him.
But
if my posts don't appear for more than, say, a week, it'll be
because the bastard is back. Or I'm dead.
Khoda
na Khod.
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