Material things.

It’s funny how we get attatched to material things, isn’t it? I mean, I have more junk than any sane man should. My room is a tip.

I got home tonight, and found the front door ajar. Someone seems to have been in, and gone through the most ovbious rooms in the flat – the downstairs hall, and my bedroom, which is at the top of the stairs.

Thankfully, my room is a tip. There was only one obvious and easily portable thing of value sitting out in the room.

My Nikon D70.

I’m in tears. I can’t afford another, and we don’t have household insurance, because I was too fucking stupid to get it sorted out in time.

I’m fucked. I owe most of a grand on a camera that I adored, and have now lost and cannot afford to replace, and I’m in tears over it. I would never have thought that loosing a material possession could fuck me up like this.

Shit.

So far this morning:

I have been evacuated from one tube station, walked half an hour back in the direction I came from (on the advice of tube staff) in order to get on another line, and then, just as I was on my way down on the escalator, it was stopped, and a load of armed police came belting down, and I’ve now been evacuated from that station, too.

Teen Angst

A few people have remarked that I seem stressed, lately.

Without becoming tedious about it: yes, I am, for a number of reasons. I am, of course, not the only one, but I’m the only one that I’m repsonsible for. I am endeavouring to do something about the things that I can do something about, but in the short term, I am not likely to magically become a ray of sunshine. (I am aware that “not a ray of sunshine” by my standards is still pretty cheerful by most people’s. That’s because I’m ace, me.)

However: If I am, or have been, short with you, or generally less understanding that I should have been, I can only apologise. I have very little patience at the moment, but that’s not an excuse for not biting my tounge.