Feeling blue in the grey and black

October. The sun glistens amongst the sparse, flaming leaves on the trees. The streets are carpeted with a soft, rustling cover. People are wrapped in scarves and topped with hats and they say their final farewell to their dresses and shorts for another six months. Little witches and skeletons, zombies and ghosts appear out of the darkness and come knocking at your door for treats.

November. The sky is alight with stars and glitter, swirls and sprays of sparkle. Small kids twirl sparklers in the darkness, making shapes and writing their names. Young people take photos of their sparkler creations and have Bailey's hot chocolates in the cold night, watching the sky ignite.

A firework display in Sheffield, 2009

Yes, it's true, this time of year is horrendous. Despite our best efforts to try and make it exciting, it is inevitably very tough on the human psyche. The human animal is not all that different from the other great apes, and indeed from many other animal groups. Similarities exist in the need we have to socialise with other humans, form social hierarchies, live amongst nature (looking around at the ficus and the chilli plants that we've slightly neglected to water recently, it's clear that we love greenery in our homes). And as part of nature, sunlight and daylight is essential for the well-being of all of us. And the human animal, in its evolved complexity and intelligence, has also evolved some sun-deprivation disorders.

SAD, or seasonal affective disorder is not uncommon amongst Europe. Scandinavian countries suffer a whole half a year in darkness, and it's not surprising to hear depression is high in that period. But a mere British winter is also enough to dampen anyone's mood.

Not too many years ago, I was struck by depression. The stupidest thing was how long it took me to realise. If I have a cold, my snivelling nose, my scratchy throat and my aching head are clear enough signs that I'm unwell. Not to mention the croak of my voice as I call in sick from work. If I clumsily kick the edge of the table, a huge blue-and-purple bruise and pain every time my leg moves serves as a signal that maybe I'm not okay. Depression is slow and murky and you may easily not realise it's there.

The world was just quite grey. Nothing really excited me or brought me joy. Not going out with my friends, not a steaming takeaway... I was actually not really eating very much at all. I liked the feeling of hunger - that slight pain that you get from having your stomach struggle and churn. That empty feeling that you are completely in control of, and that you can fix whenever you want, it felt a little relieving. And the pain was a real reason to be upset.

My cat, Joey, enjoying a standard, 18-hour nap

To anyone with any sense about them, that sounds a bit wrong and messed up. But not to someone who's very slowly been descending into depression. But the penny finally dropped when I was going home to see my beloved cat, Joey, and feeling completely indifferent... Hang on - not even seeing the cat once made me ecstatic? The cat I begged my parents for? The cat that I've been in love with since he was a palm-sized kitten? The cat who made me laugh by chasing the snooker balls on the screen and try and stalk the computer mouse? Something was gravely amiss here.


Indeed, that was my first inkling that something's actually kind of wrong. I was not just in a semi-permanent state of bad mood, I was actually not very well.

Sitting in the doctor's waiting room, I was twiddling my thumbs and contemplating my escape. Everyone saw me come in and sit down... it would be quite obvious if I just got up and left without going upstairs to the doctor's office... would I look really weird for just going to have a bit of a sit down in the doctor's waiting room and then leaving... But what if the doctor tells me I'm ridiculous? *BEEP* My name showed up on the surgery's screen. I guess I might as well go in and get laughed out of the room, I thought.

The doctor, surprisingly, didn't find it stupid, or funny. He handed me a booklet, several leaflets, several questionnaires, and sent me on my way with homework. He asked if I wanted to speak to someone, but the last thing I wanted to do was talk. So I opted for the DIY, follow-these-instructions-stringently method the doctor gave me.

Exercise at least three times a week, but preferably every day.

Go and socialise even if you don't feel like it.

Eat healthily.









Little make-shift fixes for a life-changing problem. And truthfully, I just could not be bothered. I would rather sit and wallow, cry every evening, not care or enjoy anything. I was used to this life now, I didn't see any difference from day to day, I couldn't be bothered making time for exercise, I couldn't be bothered doing forward thinking with my shopping so I'd eat healthier. I couldn't be bothered plastering on a fake smile and trying to muster enough interest and care to socialise with anybody. It was hard and it felt like it was to no avail.

But every day I would get a phone call from my mum and dad who would ask me what I did that day, they would encourage me to go make dinner and watch something nice on TV, tell me things that happened in their days and tell me what the cat was doing. I was monosyllabic, monotone, mono everything, but they rang every day to speak to their robotic daughter. They sent me books in the post, they paid for me to go to Paris with my sister. And I was still monosyllabic, I was constantly sad and they never got feedback of any success of their efforts.

But whether they knew it, it helped. It helped a lot. They made me feel like I had a safety net, like I wasn't alone. Having them know that I wasn't myself made me feel a bit better, like I had an army behind me to take the slack sometimes, but I was always going to be the driving force. Nobody else could fix it for me.

And very, very, very slowly, through the wintery darkness, the world started to have a little glow of early springtime. Some days were grey and sad still, but other days were slightly better. I bought a guitar on a whim. It cost next to nothing for a guitar, and I learnt an iffy version of the mighty Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah, and a couple of Bulgarian ditties. It was just for me, a little project for me to complete because it took me far away from reality and it brought me pleasure.



I also started volunteering at a cat shelter on the weekends. I had to go in at half past nine, clean a room from top to bottom and then I could spend the rest of the morning sitting with the cats. Wise people say that the dog is Man's best friend. I reckon I'd stretch that to pets are Man's best friends. They become a member of your family and they themselves begin to feel a part of the family.

And best friends, they are. They have an incredible power to bring joy. Doggies have done rounds in the children's wards of many hospitals to raise morale of sick children and give a kind of healing that no pill can provide. Wise people have also said that stroking the soft coat of a kitty is relaxing and unloading. The cats at the cat shelter definitely gave me a little injection of joy that I desperately needed.

Cooper, a Happy Tails therapy dog

In the end it was a slow, persistent, and sometimes almost mechanical, robotic doing of what I knew I had to do: go to lectures, go swimming, go out. It wasn't a race, and every day was a step in the right direction, whether I felt it then or not. On the worse days, I stuck with it, to ease the pressure from my silent, ever-present, ever-supportive army.

The summer holidays came around swiftly. I was in the car on my way home and my heart was pounding. I got out of the car and ran into the house. Joey was sitting on the sofa with his head cocked to one side slightly. I picked him up and cradled him like a baby. He grazed my nose with his. I felt happiness.

High-fliers and shortcomings.

On a warm summer's eve everything is peaceful. There's a gentle breeze rolling in from the window to keep me cool, my legs are bare and resting casually on the edge of the small sofa, the sky is still light and birds are still chirping at half past 7 in the evening... It's all glorious.

Apart from the flies. At first there was one. He was HUGE. The kind you can hear from the other side of the room. When he approached my head I dove for cover for fear of being ploughed down by a jet engine! This was shocking. Armed with a rolled up GQ magazine (makes for a hefty baton) I charged at the fly. He was clever though. A bit of mindless waving around the room, and he left. But it felt as though he was entertained by dodging my swing, and eventually decided to leave on his terms.

I sat down gleefully contemplating my victory, and continued browsing the internet. Not two minutes later, I spotted three new flies circling around my drying nighty, hanging off the window cornice. Did the huge fly procreate in that two minutes? Did he split into three? Was he just the fly king, who decided to send forth his minions? I guess I'll never know, but I suspected he was to blame.


GQ at my aid, I once again began 'encouraging' the flies to leave. But this time, they were faster and more nimble. Damn.

I put my nighty away, thinking it might smell like flowers, or lotus flower... or black diamond or whatever fabric softener smells like these days. Alas, it wasn't the smell. They continued to circle around each other playfully, mockingly.

My next solution was an old classic I remember from my grandma's cottage in Bulgaria; the dishcloth. The cottage was full of flies in the summer, and grandma used to wave the cloth gently at them, funnelling them towards the open door. Occasionally, for some stubborn ones, she would execute the old wet-towel flicking trick. Her aim was incredible; there was no messing with grandma.

Dishcloth... dishcloth... my blue shorts will do. I started gently, as a friend to the animals, waving the flies towards the open window. Two of them reluctantly left and I felt empowered. There was only the one left. Little did I know, this one was special: he was the Neo of the group, the Luke Skywalker, the Kung Fu panda. No amount of gentle waving and gesturing would stop him.

So I recalled grandma's skilful towel-whipping technique, her poignant stare, her mercilessness. I channelled all of her teachings, aimed my shorts and blasted a killer flick towards the fly.

My shorts flew out of the window. Fuck!

I ran to my attic window and looked out, to see them caught on the guttering having slid down the side of the roof. Fantastic. I live on the third floor, in the attic room and the guttering is practically inaccessible to me. For a small second I considered climbing out of my window to try and get them, but rescuing my shorts wasn't really the way I wanted this life to end. I then contemplated leaving them there; I mean how much do I wear them anyway? LOTS! They were my favourite shorts, which ironically I'd found in my wardrobe at grandma's cottage. Damn it.

I fashioned a fishing hook out of wool and the bare hanger from which I'd removed my nighty. I forced myself to recall all my A-level mechanics knowledge... F=ma... the forces that act on a circle... Trying desperately to apply them to the situation, I swung the plastic hanger-hook in a circle towards my shorts, hoping it will hook them.

Fail. Fail, fail, fail. The hanger was too light and the cooling breeze was wreaking havoc on my brilliant solution. I desperately continued, cursing the breeze and the flies and my own idiocy. Neo was buzzing around with as close to a smirk as a fly can have.

Eventually, it was time to upgrade the hook. I took a heavier, wooden hanger and tied two pieces of string either end of it, to better control the angle of the hook. This was a winner. It took seconds. The ascent of my shorts up the slanted roof was like watching your country's flag being ceremonially raised. Such a fantastic achievement! And they said maths would never come in useful (which it sort of didn't)... In your face, Neo!

I feel like the battle was won, but the war has been monumentally lost, as I now sit and write this piece commemorating the day my shorts were nearly lost, with the three flies weaving an invisible plait just exactly where they first appeared.

Paddy McGuinness - could he be any more Irish?

"Oh, pfft, yeah, he's from Bolton," my friend Liam stated when we were watching Take Me Out - ITV1's new and improved Blind Date. Our beloved Cilla has now been replaced by dapper comedian Paddy McGuinness but they have the same "match-maker" quality - friendly, funny and understanding.

Growing up in the Blind Date generation, I was drawn to Take Me Out as soon as it came out, to fill my Saturday night void for love-devoid men and women, dancing the line between romance and cheese, getting set up, and being shipped off somewhere for peculiarly-themed dates.

It's kind of interesting from a biological point of view though. As in the majority of mating systems in birds and mammals, the male is bold and bright and has to be all-singing-all-dancing to impress the choosy females. Take Me Out's boys have to show their appearance, their personality and some impressive tricks to make a group of 30 ladies keep their light on so that he might get a date. Not that I am watching it with a view to conduct studies to see who's attracted to who, but it just struck me that this is strangely reminiscent of what my university lecturers call courtship displays.

So the ladies get three rounds in which to decide of the displaying male is an adequate specimen. First round is basically his appearance. The guy comes down the "love lift" circles in front of all the women and then says hello to them and where he's from. Blatantly just the "check me out in my glad rags, ladies" portion.

Then, his friends and family give a little snippet about him - job, personality, temperament, habits - like a show of what he can provide. And finally, my favourite - the party trick! The male can show his incredible genetic gifts for a magnificent display in hopes that the female will want to procreate with him... We're not quite at procreation station on Take Me Out, but it's a similar principle - look at this amazing thing I can do, don't you want me on your arm?

In turn, if a guy finishes all three rounds with some women still with their lights on, he has to select two within the space of about a minute; it's all about first impressions and any snippets of personality they may have caught from them when they chat to Paddy. But then he gets the chance to ask a revealing question, which will tell him exactly what he needs to know to make the perfect choice. And the question?

If I went clay-pigeon shooting, what would you wear to distract me?
What's your guilty pleasure?
If you had your own perfume, what would you call it and why?

That's not exactly tell-tale stuff, but at least they get the opportunity to ask. So generally it goes to show you that just like in the animal kingdom, women are pickier and choosier than men when it comes to having dates. Not always, but often.

To be honest, whilst a huge part of me loves the whole thing, but my heart does race a little when I see the line of girls turn into a rejecting red wall. It must take a whole bag of courage to go on this show and be thrown to the wolves for judgement. It's equally awful when a girl continuously leaves her light on in hopes of being picked for a date, only to be turned off time and time again. But the guys are lucky. Should they fail to court any women, they get some Paddy love.

And after a season and a half of watching the show, all I want is for Paddy McGuinness to take me to the Isle of Fernandos...