getting what you give

"Hello, is this Get Stuffed taxidermy? I'm calling from Royal Holloway, University of London. We're putting on a production in the drama department and we're looking for a rather unusual prop, I was wondering if you could help us?"

"Certainly love, what is it you need?"

"A dead rabbit. Please."

"Well, I'm afraid most of the animals I have are family pets..."

"Oh no, not stuffed, just dead."

"Just dead?"

"Yup."

"Not stuffed?"

"Nope."

"Why don't you just go out and catch one?"

Why indeed.

"No, sorry, actually we're looking for one with the skin still on, if that's possible..."

"Um, I don't suppose it matters what colour..."

"Preferably not too cute, we don't want to upset anyone.

This, ladies and gentleman, is what you get for doing drama.

*****

And for kindness, what do you get? For being a pussy, maybe. This woman stops me in Egham town centre in her car, says her mum's in hospital in Chertsey, she lives in Basingstoke, she's got no money and sure enough she's run out of petrol, could I lend her some cash?

She'll give me her name, phone number, address, license plate...

Never mind love, consider it a good deed. I'm far too polite to call you up and ask for it back and I doubt you'll call me up to offer so just take it. Whether she's lying or not matters less than whether I'm willing to part with money, which in this case I am.

And it comes around, then. After my shopping, I'm suddenly exhausted and Egham hill has never looked bigger. A man at the station, heading to a conference at Royal Holloway offers to share a cab with me and pays for my ride, giving the driver two extra pounds to take me right to the door of my halls.

Everybody wins. This time anyway.

*****

In other news, I got the job. That's the toned down version of yesterday's reaction ("Yes!!! I got the fucking job!!!") but I'm still over the moon about it.

I'm also over the moon about having to buy a dead rabbit, but that's another story.

*****

My call register has never looked better, with the numbers of Dialogue Direct, two butchers and the college psychiatrist respectively.

Coming off meds without the knowledge of your doctors is a bad idea. Mainly because when you go back on them, you have to readjust to them all over again but also because when you eventually do get them flowing through your bloodstream again they might not actually work anymore.

This does not bode well.

My bag has never been more loaded with substances, between the alcohol and nicotine and Anadin and Citalopram... Up to my eyeballs. It's fantastic, even if the future does seem upsettingly full of withdrawal and adjustment and withdrawal and adjustment again.

*****

Sometimes, it's all a bit much, a bit scary. Sometimes it's not, sometimes it's so easy I just want to smile. Isn't it always that way?