Proving Where I Am To Get Away From The Middle Of Nowhere ...

IT'S 4:30 in the afternoon and I'm tired to the point of "somnolence" ~ shutting my eyes to microsleep at tireless inconvenient junctures.

I went to bed so extremely late last night, I wouldn't look at the time so's not to find the lateness of the hour horrendous enough to cause sleep to flee even further from me. Being as I'd set my alarms from 8am to 8:30 in order to get to my chemists to drink my dose in good time to get to the methadone clinic ~ soon to be my ex-clinic, though I won't believe that until I've picked up my first dose from the pharmacy at the end of my new road. Instead of the old one two bus rides and 40 minutes from my home.

So I had little more than four hours' brainfrazzled rest last night. Seemingly propped up in bed, head not even in contact with the pillow, eyes wide open!

On Thursday 28th I've a doctor's appointment down the new druggieclinic, which is the place I always went for years and years, the place where I feel most at home. The place that really helped me out when I was having a florid mental breakdown less than 18 months ago. The other clinic don't even offer psychiatric support, so if I'd been there I'd never have got to see a doctor, let alone got medication and a diagnosis all under the same roof my methadone scripts were dished out.

My one Issue of Stress: I am required to have a GP in this London borough in order to sign up officially with their methadone service. Getting a GP in London is not always easy as many are so deluged by immigrants their lists are permanently full.

To get any GP, it's necessary to present two proofs of address. I don't even have one, considering my landlord hasn't even given me a new tenancy agreement, saying the new one is simply an extention of the old. Housing Benefit will not accept that fob-off, so I rang my housing manager, who's arranged for me to sign new paperwork on Thursday morning.

I rang the DSS this morning to change my details on their system. They've agreed to send me a proof of benefit. So hopfully by the end of the week I'll have enough paperwork to attain this elusive GP. The idea that I could be stuck at the old methadone clinic for weeks on end purely because I can't prove where I happen to live is just unthinkable ~ but it could happen. And it's the sort of thing that would happen to me if I didn't get my arse in gear and start letter-collecting!

I've been Mr Practicality today. Running so many washloads through my new Personal Washing Machine that the washing powder's all gone. The pound shop at the end of my road sold me washing liquid, conditioner and about fifty clothes pegs in plastic and wood for under £5. I live in a bargainacious area ...

My schizoaffective friend Pinky was released from hospital this afternoon. She's back at home with the most ginormous flatscreen TV I've ever seen in such a pokey room... Of course she was watching the Pick TV show where angry Chinese people are fined for attemptedly lugging petrol tanker loads of deathwatch beetle-crawling traditional Asian vegetables in their handluggage through Sydney international airport and can't understand why there's a camera crew in their face and they're being punished ... Finally Pinky got her Personal Itching salve last night. She says her private parts are calming down nicely ...

My Mum wants to meet me today but hasn't got back confirming the time. She wanted to give me her "thank you for your enquiry" letterheaded proof of address in person. In fact, just about everyone I know in possession of headed paper, including the old druggieclinic, is writing to my new address thanking me for enquiring about their business or charity or for taking their methadone... or whatever it is they do. So when the time does come to demonstrate I've left the London Borough of Crudsville for once and for all, I'll be in possession of a petroltanker full of correspondence to prove it.

Well I don't know if Mumzy is going to get back to me; I left a message over an hour ago. When I do go home I know I'm going to hit unconsciousness the second my bum contacts my sofa ...


Illustrated: the laundry liquid I purchased for £1.29; a "proof of address" card (we don't get them here); men apparently get personal itching too; a tube of soothing "intimate gel" ...