Blimey O Reilly!

Two weeks of chicken pox. The spots have lost their battle but the germs are apparently keeping me down. They can't last much longer. I don't think anyone's had any virus for 7 years so something should improve sooner or later. I can't dwell on it generally, you just feel like it's normal (after 2 weeks it's hardly a surprise) and will never feel different. God forbid.

I can't report a bloody thing since yesterday, but being confined to barracks blogging is one of my many options I can still take up. I have stories though. No present but plenty of past. Little nearly as much as I wanted by some was nice, just lacking that peak experience so many others manage but nearly always eluded me. The first 21 years were as a family, and as close to decent as it got. Being an only child I was never fully happy as I knew what I was missing, and then I stopped growing at the height of a 14 year old so had to get used to that for the rest of my life.
But nothing unusual and beyond overcoming. Then my mother left, and I spent another 12 years in and out of the family house until it was sold.
I was ready for marriage once I got my degree out of the way. But as I took so long everyone else was paired up once I was again let free on London's scene. I spent a few years with agencies and met bitter and twisted divorcees in their 40s and mad single women who could never hold down a relationship. Back then my energy and nerves were relatively normal. I would eat out but only selected places and literally travelled the world. A bit like a great performer who retires at least I feel I did that lot so have no need to continue.

When I moved into my first flat in 1988 the first thing that struck me was there were only my own things there. After 28 years I was alone. That hit me hard and since I finally left the old place for good that is how it remained besides a few tenants who were mainly worse than nothing. I know some people are happy to be alone. Some people are happy to starve and be at war as well so I've been told but I wouldn't recommend either. It sucks and anyone who says it doesn't either lived for years with crowded families or a tyrant or is lying like a dog. Be honest guys, having to live alone is not fun and it can't be. If your wife doesn't like you leaving stuff on the table, move it. Big deal. I may be able to fart when I like, but no one appreciates it either. And any wife that objects to you farting should get used to it. All this freedom crap is just that. You have no freedom in a desert. You have no obligations and no activities. And what freedom have you got doing all the housework and shopping yourself? None. Or earning the money to do so? Freedom? That's hell, no less. Not being able to share anything? It's like having your hands tied behind your back. I could be given a job for some charity that should exist but doesn't spreading the truth about living alone so people can come out and be honest. It's not freedom it's the worst form of encarceration there is outside actual prison. Coming home to exactly how you left the house a minute or a year earlier every time (unless the cat has left a present, which no one else will clean up) is demoralising to the ultimate.

So every time you hear someone say they like living alone, see in huge lights above their head the word 'LIAR' as it's almost bound to be bullshit. I am an authority on both my studies, my interests and my experiences, and finding a woman in London and living alone are two of my experiences few if any people can know more about. When hearing a voice from the house next door is the highlight of the month you know you're in deep deep caca.