Catmachine

At times like this it is sometimes very handy to know the future. Certain aspects of it anyway. All I am trying to find out is what the weather is going to be like over the next four days or so. Shouldn't be too difficult in this day and age. There are any number of up to the minute websites all too keen to tell me what the forecast is and if that's not enough, there's also an app for that. No bother at all. Except that none of them agree with each other. They don't even agree with themselves from minute to minute and  right now  the little icon on the phone screen is blatantly contradicting what I can quite clearly hear rattling on the skylight above the bed. It's raining again. As has been the case for the entire history of humanity, it is still quicker and easier to stick your head out the window. The big problem of course is that you can't stick your head out of the window into tomorrow. Predicting the future has been an overriding obsession of the

Sometimes it is hard to think positive - as we are all frequently told to do - when you feel so awful. I am not talking about physically awful and am aware that by complaining about this whilst there are people in real physical pain and discomfort there is always the danger of coming across as a moaner. But having a broken brain isn't really any fun either. Sometimes it can make you feel like life is merely a case of keeping going out of sheer bloody-mindedness in the hope that perhaps a wonderful happy time is just around the corner. The problem comes when you realise that it has been just around the corner for twenty years or more. Is this is a disease or disability or is it just the way things are? Someone with a bad leg spends their day limping as a matter of course and will be happy to take painkillers, use a stick or crutch and attend any number of physiotherapy clases in an attempt to make it better. Hell, they may even have an operation. And none of these attempts

The smells of September always stir in me memories of going back to school for the Autumn term. It wasn't all bad; there were the occasional subjects I enjoyed. Well two subjects, English and Art. And fifty per cent of the time English was boring so it was more like one and a half subjects. One problem with Art was that even though I liked it I wasn't exactly talented at it. Despite being one of the few good guys, the teacher kept expecting us to paint and I usually ended up making a mess. Drawing I enjoyed and could be quite good at. But we rarely did drawing. The other problem with Art was that they seemed to think it would be enough if we only did it once a fortnight. Never mind that we had History or French every bloody day . On the weeks we didn't do Art we did something much worse. Woodwork. I still remember my first Woodwork lesson very clearly. We were ushered into the hallowed basement of the wood shop and gathered around as this rough voiced bloke who appare