Don’t Worry, It’s All in Hand, This is Normal

I’m back!

I popped out for a loaf of bread in November last year, and I've been drifting about in the wilderness ever since, clutching a mouldy loaf. Still, scrape it off, and it will be ok for toast. 

I’d like to say that a lot has happened in the time, but I’m not entirely sure it has. I mean, I've been able to get to this point without being killed or needing to wear a hat due to unforeseen circumstances at the barbers, as well as arriving at work, completing that work, and safely arriving home each time, but it's not necessarily been blog-worthy. I’m not even sure this is worthy, but I have an urge to write again, so here I am. 

Between January and November (2024), I was definitely on a go-slow brain-wise. I had started getting fit, biking, walking, and running, and Brian ‘the button presser’ in my head was also relatively quiet. I was starting to feel pretty normal (for me at least). I know what you're going to say, “Normal Wally … is there such a thing as 'normal?” I will turn to you and say, “Yeah, there's normal, it's just not as normal as you think the word describes. The neuro/biodiversity in all of us is what's normal. Yes, we are sometimes weird, irrational, and complicated as humans, but that's the point, isn't it? The normal part of how we are is that we just … Aren't. I’m pretty sure the word “biodiversity” is usually reserved for the natural world, but I know what I mean, even if you're not sure.

I was sitting wasting a few minutes on Facebook in the early part of last year (before I ran out of bread) when I had an idea. I decided to get in contact with one of my friends whose account I was linked with. I know! And you thought Facebook was for flicking through holiday photos of people you could never consider to be friends with, yet they sit in your friends list anyway, being told by a girl in a bikini how you could be owed thousands due to a poorly sold finance deal you definitely had 20 years ago, “You dont even need to remember anything about it” she says. “Just type in your name, hell, you don't even need to do that, just close your eyes and imagine yourself filling in our online form, and thousands of your missold pounds could be in your bank account today!”.  Or snooping through your old friend from school's page, whilst feeling super smug about the fact she’d got fat while you're still in the same jeans you were when you’d been drinking Maddog 20-20 in the park with her in 1988, Yeah, take that, Debbie! That's what happens when you kick me in the balls in the second year, whilst wearing stupid white stilettos! There is no “Debbie” That did happen, though, just can't remember anything else but the shoe, oh, and the pain, still remember that!

Anyway, I contacted him, we arranged to meet, and we completely did it! We worked together twenty-five years ago; he lived in Bristol, he still does, and I agreed to travel down to catch up with him. I've always wanted to see Concorde at Aerospace Bristol too, so I thought I'd fit that in while I was there. 

I booked a hotel room for two nights, that's “nights” without the preceding ‘k’, or are you (like me) imagining 2 men in full armour and jousting sticks turning up outside a hotel on horseback. “I'm sorry, what did you say, something about a baboon? Could you possibly lift the helmet visor, I don't understand a thing you're saying?”. I booked a Premier Inn. It looked ok in the photographs online, but if the photographer had taken a shot facing the other way, I would have seen it was sitting on one of the grottiest retail parks I'd ever clapped my eyes on. The only thing premier about it was their impressive collection of smoking drunks and litter. It was fine on the inside, though. Hotels are strange places for me; I never really feel at ease in them, despite their advert campaigns telling me about their comfortable beds, blackout curtains, and “all you can eat” breakfasts. Hold on there Mr Premier, I'm already reeling from the “all you can eat” custard cream biscuits you laid on in the room. I did, at least, have as many custard cream biscuits as I could eat; and as luck would have it, I could only eat two! 

The first night, I asked the concierge (seems too posh a word for the reception guy of a Premier Inn, let's call him deskman) if he could recommend a pub, I might get a beer, I’d driven straight down after work that day, I was ready. He suggested one straight across the road. As I approached the front of the place, I had to walk past a swaying teenager as he focused hard on using the slightly overgrown shrubbery next to the steps as a toilet. I mean, pissing in the street is one thing, but one never gets piss on ones own shoes, does one? I’d started to wonder if deskman had misheard my question, and instead heard “Is there a shithole around here where a weary traveller could get his head kicked in, or stick his favoutite shoes down to the floor for an hour while he does his best to avoid eye contact with everyone whilst consuming horrible beer please mate?” in reality, I quite fancied a red wine, if I asked for that here I was likely to be stripped naked, tarred, feathered and carried around the local area as warning to other ‘poncy twats’ - “yeah lager please, erm pint, thanks”. I drank up quickly and got the hell out of Dodge.

I'm not trying to be a piss poor travel writer, so I won't go into too much detail about the trip, just writing to please myself here, but there was one other odd thing… 

The second night in Bristol, I didn't fancy The Twoccers Arms again. There's a 90s word you don’t hear much these days “Twoc”. I managed to find a really nice country pub. I booked a table. Arriving at the bar a little early, having booked for 7pm, they said just come and sit at that table at the alotted time. I went outside with my alcohol free beer. 

At 6.55 pm, I moved inside and sat at my table. At 7.20 pm, I was still sitting there, with no pub staff interface at all. It was nice enough just sitting, taking it all in, and I wasn't annoyed at the delay, however, I did start to notice patrons and staff members now seemed to be looking my way. Oh damn, did I forget to put jeans on again?! I looked, nope, they're on my legs. Starting to feel a bit awkward now, I got up to ask about maybe getting a menu. “Oh, sorry, sir, we were just waiting for your other dinner guest to arrive first”. “What?” “No, it's just me”. I walked back to the table feeling uncomfortable generally, because now I knew what the looks were for, I'll either be the saddo who's been stood up by his date on a Saturday night, or the saddo eating in a restaurant alone on a Saturday night. I'm not sure which is worse. 

Still, the food was great, and I was tucked up in bed by 10.30 pm.

On a Saturday night, in Bristol?! They're right…you are a saddo. 

My friend and I met up the next day. I thought it might be a bit awkward having been so long ago, but I couldn't have been more wrong. We talked about our lives, showed photos of our kids, and reminisced about people we knew years ago. What a fantastic thing to have done. He was just as I remembered him, and I left feeling that this was a very positive experience.

On the way home, I stopped off in Oxford, which I’d never been and it was sort of on the way back to G’Town (Grantham). Again, I’d booked a hotel, which was slightly better as it wasn’t next to a budget supermarket. I booked a taxi into town when I arrived, and the driver dropped me off smack bang in the middle. After an hour of trying not to appear too touristy, while still trying to take in the sights, I found a nice bar.

The next thing I remember is waking up in the hotel holding a slip of torn-off paper with my hotel name written on it, in someone else's writing! So, that was Oxford done. What a town … I think.

So, you see, life wasn't all that bad, my mental health was stable, and things were ticking along quite well.

Then November arrived. It made itself known by pushing a burning envelope full of dog shit though my door, then running away. Not literally of course, but thats just how it felt, as if I was stamping out the flames of a turd filled jiffy bag with bare feet. You see, I’d had a visit from the agents that handled the letting of the house I had been living in for seven years, the landlord wants to sell. Balls!

Damn my complaicency, damn its eyes! Now what?

I'd been there so long, it felt as if the house was mine already. Why wasn't he just letting me have it? I must have paid almost an entire mortgage worth in rent to him anyway by now! The agents said they were handling the sale, and it could take months before a sale was agreed upon. They told me not to worry or overthink it. These people hadn’t read my fucking book, had they? Worry and overthink the whole thing is exactly what I will be doing, and no amount of them telling me otherwise is going to stop that freight train of thought, thank you very much!

Within 3 weeks, a sold sign arrived … Bigger balls!

The kids and I were sad for a while, Even though they dont live with me, they have their rooms, their stuff, we have places for the christmas decorations, 2 of my kids have more or less grown up with their Dad living in this house. The house has seen me through some tough and conversely great times. During the dark moments, it ws my sanctuary, my place to hide. I wrote my first book there. We produced the first few Whos Wally podcasts there too. 

As I say, It's been seven years since I’d moved, and I'd forgotten just what an absolute joy the whole process was. It was so much fun, in fact, that I started drinking caffeine again just so I could experience the madness through crazed, twitchy eyes with an over-clocking brain. Brian was loving it.

You know that bit in the Grinch where Jim Carrey's character (the Grinch) goes through the Who-ville phone book “Hate … Hate, Hate, Hate … Haaate … Looaath entirely!!” Well, they shot that just after he had started the house-buying process, just to make sure he added the right amount of seething. Now that's ‘Method’, in your face, Daniel Day-Lewis!

They say it is the most stressful thing you can do in life. I’m not sure who ‘they’ are, but I get it, I really do, but these people have never played Buckeroo or Perfection. I have seen people smash the game set up just so they can stop the stress of the anticipation. Buying a house is the same, it's just an excruciatingly long game of Buckeroo. Your new house is the donkey; all the plastic parts you carefully add on the back of said mule are the process, the paperwork, the mental and emotional investment, and the trust you have in the process. The other players are the other poor people in the chain or the professionals you are involved with to help you achieve the goal. Then all it takes is one heavy handed fuckwit to place a peice on a too roughly, and without any real care, then thats it, the back legs shoot up in the air, every one screams, while jumping back as if they werent expecting it. You've lost all your pieces, your trust in the process, the respect for others, and sleep. You almost feel like smashing the process up with tear soaked cheeks, and through gritted teeth, saying, “its, not, fucking, worth, it!” while trying to rip 800 sheets of conveyancing paperwork at once. 

It’s the lack of control of the situation that really gets to me, your estate agent, solicitor, the poor lady working the till at Tesco who said “Hello sir, how are you?” who says it to everyone, hoping to only receive a “Fine thanks, you?” they will all tell you, “Dont worry, its all in hand, this is normal”. Well, if this is all normal, why have I just imagined driving through this very office in a JCB, with a maniacal expression on my face?

You might think that with today’s ‘I need it now’ - digital society that everything would just be so simple … “You need that mortgage application sending in, you say? Here you go, PING!” Well, you'd be wrong. In reality, it all takes longer and is more complicated than I remember the last time I did it. Nobody has a handle on the situation, nobody remembers at what point you are at, if you don’t personally phone, email, text, kidnap the representative drag them to a tattoo shop and physically force the tattooist to permanently scribe “JUST GET ON WITH IT WILL YOU, FOR GODS SAKE!” on their foreheads, then nobody does anything and it all stands still for weeks.

Also, (I’ve started now, so strap in), at one point, I was sent lots of digital files/documents that I was told to print and sign. 144 pages and nearly £50 at Rymans Stationers later, I had no idea where or what to sign. I dropped into the estate agents to ask their advice, 5 of us, yes, that’s correct, 5 individuals, 80 percent of which were selling houses for a living, still we had no idea what the hell to do with the damn thing. Now I come to think of it, in the time it took to complete the purchase of my new house, I probably could have trained as a conveyancing solicitor, I would have understood it then … I think. 

After a phone call, I was informed that they (my solicitor) would forward the parts that needed to be signed. I received 2 sheets, Ha, 2! Well, thank god I didn't print an entire tree's worth of paper before this. Oh, hang on! 

It was approximately 6 months until I was finally able to move into the new place. There was no chain, and I have moved to a previously unoccupied new build. Great work, everyone! British efficiency at it’s finest, the Germans would be proud. I think it was about a month after that that my resting heart rate dropped to nearly 130 bpm. Blimey, am I dead!? I’m looking forward to the day when I won't be able to hear it beating through my skull. 

Aw … Happy days.

On the more serious side, I am enjoying the thought of knowing that now back on the housing ladder, being asked to move out of somewhere I call home is not going to happen again, that, at least is very comforting to know.

As I’m sure regular readers will know, this blog was started by me to write and explore my mental health and how it linked to adoption. It's been incredible to do. I also know that I have been lucky enough to have won a lot of readers, and for that, I’m very grateful. I’m sorry I've done so little of late. (I think I am apologising to myself there, not you, reader.) I love writing, and I have missed it. It's not always going to be related to adoption or mental health on the surface in these blogs, but trust me, that's the reason I do it.

I feel that this particular post is a slight departure from previous work here, but it goes where my head goes. Thanks for reading.

Buy Who’s Wally? - Adoption, Brian, and Me, the book on Amazon

Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash