A Day in the Life

When I was growing up in Stoke, the reputation of our local psychiatric hospital took on almost mythic qualities. Based in Cheddleton, the St.Edward's hospital was the subject of many, possibly apocryphal, stories, and whenever anyone would act a little "crazy", people would always say "be careful, you'll end up at Cheddleton". The remark was usually delivered in a derisory or humorous fashion, and what it made clear was that those who actually did find themselves "at Cheddleton" were separate from the rest of us. "They" were the insane, while we were, to quote Foucault, shining examples of "a reason sure of itself". So, the element of stigma was clear. The inmates of St.Edward's weren't like us. They were almost a different species, the insane, and I remember thinking very clearly that I would never end up in such a place. Little did I know. St.Edward's Psychiatric Hospital, Cheddleton. But what this got me

This will be just a short post to say thank you to my very dear friend Gary, aka klahanie, who has seen fit to pass on the "friendly blogger" award to me. I would just say that I don't think I deserve this award half as much as Gary does. I know he spends hours at his computer communicating back and forth with other bloggers, offering them his kind, warm-hearted friendship. Gary often tells me that he is sometimes "exhausted" by all the communication he so selflessly gives to others, but being the type of guy he is, I don't think he ever fails to respond to some one's comment or email or, if you're like me, telephone call. So here's to you, Gary, my hirsute, hippy pal! Anyway, as it is expected of me to pass on this award to other bloggers, I thought I would mention just the few who always leave me kind and supportive comments. They are as follows: The Manic Chef. bazza at "To Discover Ice". Dixie at "dcrelief". Occas

For those of you who live outside the UK, you won't know that quite recently we experienced something of an Indian Summer. Indeed, on Saturday October 1st, temperatures reached an astounding (well, for us anyway) 30 degrees centigrade. That's the hottest temperature for that time of year ever recorded in Britain. So, as the weather was so nice, I got out my camera, went outside, and took some photos of what I saw. There is, perhaps, nothing more cliched than a picture of a sunset, but we were having such remarkable ones at around that time, that I thought it would be nice to capture them for posterity. The following are actually pictures of the sky around where I live at dawn. I think you will agree that they are quite beautiful, with their astonishing amalgams of pinks, yellows and blues. I don't know why it is, but I've always been fascinated by the sky- that little bit of atmosphere that protects us from the dark chill of space. So, as I mentioned sunse

The above title is taken from a quote by George Orwell, one which was more recently updated by Martin Amis, who said that "by the age of 40, everyone has the face they can afford." Amis' little saying may be the more apposite for our times, but there is something about the original Orwell, with its implications that all our experience, all our sins and virtues, may be written on our visages, that captured my imagination. So, as I pass 40 this year, on December 5th, to be precise, I thought I would print here what my own face actually looks like. Up until now, readers of this blog will only have seen the picture I use of myself as a child. So, for the first time, here is what the nearly 40 year old David looks like. Oh my, what a handsome chap I am! Seriously, though, if all our sins and virtues do happen to be written on our faces by this age, then I think, perhaps, I'm not doing too bad. Indeed, I am now quite happy with the way I look, but this was not always th

"There are three sides to every story: my side, your side and the truth. And no one is lying."   Robert Evans, "The Kid Stays in the Picture".     It just struck me that most of the posts on this blog are simply "my side" of a long and protracted story. The story of how I became unwell. The story of what I felt was mistreatment at the hands of some in mental health services. The story of my own experience of stigma, and of course how this impacts on others in the same situation. And in my last post, there was a little bit of politics, which has been the subject now of quite a few of my blogs. The thing is, all this is from one perspective. My own. And, as Robert Evans, Hollywood producer, attests above, there may not be only one, but three sides to every story. So, what struck me most was the question, am I an unreliable narrator? I try to make this blog, particularly in terms of mental illness, as factually accurate as I can, but there are some t

I recently watched a TV series on BBC2, called "The Hour". Set during the 1950s at the time of the Suez Crisis, it used a basic thriller format to ask wider questions about the nature of democracy. Our democracy. But what struck me most in the programme was a small segment in which footage was shown of the Labour politician Aneurin Bevan delivering a speech in Trafalgar Square. The speech was delivered in a voice seldom heard today. It was a voice of disagreement and dissent. It was the voice of the "old" left. And, to me, it was inspiring. Bevan had the guts, it appeared to me, to actually say what he thought about our involvement in the crisis, a crisis which, as far as I can make out, seems to have parallels with our current situation in Iraq and Afghanistan. Indeed, I think this may be why the programme makers chose this particular moment in history as the subject of their drama- to make us think about what is happening today. I remember very well the initial