I do like a bit of entrepreneurial spirit.

They are selling this as a package in our corner shop.

My favourite bit is the label which says ‘Fresh from our Deli’

We visited the spectacles shop today.

Mummy’s vision, alas, is on the wane, thus making it necessary for her to wear corrective glasses for reading and some other daily tasks.

It’s the natural way of things. My knees are not what they used to be. We all age in our own way.

I was there to give sartorial advice on the choice of frames. Sadly ignored.

However something occurred to me when mummy got the results of her eye test.

They demonstrated that one eye was significantly stronger than the other.

I don’t know why this should have been a revelation. After all I don’t expect my knees to deteriorate at exactly the same speed, so why should the eyes?

My first thought was that the optician might get mummy to wear a patch.

I remember they used to do this for kids in school who had a lazy eye.

But it was never even discussed.

Instead they tailor the glasses with slightly different strengths in each lens.

I couldn’t dispute this was an effective remedy, but weren’t we all overlooking the obvious?

I asked the nice man who worked there what sort of trade they do in monocles.

He said they did none.

This surprised me. It was a solution that was practical, economical and surely more elegant.

Also you are less likely to lose or break a monocle than a pair of spectacles if you have it safely attached to your waistcoat.

I asked if it was something they might consider.

He said it was not.

This saddened me a little. However my faith in the durability of a good idea restored me.

I was glad that I had made a useful contribution to the day. I hate wasted time.

‘I’m glad you’re in a better place now.’

That’s a statement I’ve heard and read countless times in the past month. If you hear or see the same words over and over again they eventually lose any proper meaning in your mind.

I’m partly to blame, no doubt. When people keep asking you how you’re doing then you get used to using empty cliché as a diversionary tactic. I’ve certainly assisted people in forming the simplistic view that everything’s fine.

I mean what’s the alternative?

‘Actually I was having some suicidal thoughts just before you dropped round. Now, do you want a chocolate biscuit with your tea?’

I don’t think most people want that much honesty.

Everybody praises the bravery in speaking out. But what they really want to hear is that there’s a happy ending. That you’ve beaten it. No messy loose ends please.

But here’s my truth. There is no better place. I can no more stop the workings of my mind than teach my hair to grow shorter.

The terror is still there. Every day. The raven of despair still flies constantly. The dark thoughts as inevitable as a Monday morning.

On my very best days, the absolutely happiest times of my life, I will have life-ending thoughts. Maybe one hundred times.

Does that sound incessantly bleak?

Well, it shouldn’t. Because that’s the breakthrough.

That’s the realisation that perhaps saved me.

Being able to say those couple of sentences finally gave me what I’d been searching for all of my life. A little bit of peace.

Let me explain. For as long as I can remember I’d always assumed I’d get to an age where everything made sense. When all the edges of the shapes would rub together smoothly. At 20. At 30. At 40.

I would reach a point where I would beat my own monsters. Where my mind would be tamed. Where I would just feel security and happiness.

I would get off the pills forever. I’d never have to be afraid again. I’d stop feeling the maggot worthlessness that infests my soul.

But it just never seemed to happen.

Not only that, but things were clearly getting worse.

Those who’ve read the previous instalments of this story know how the more successful I was at work, the more chaotic my world became. The breakdowns, the suicide attempts, the time in hospital.

I’d had to leave my job. I’d had enough. I had a young son to care for. I had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. I had no idea if there was going to be a rest of my life.

I was tired.

Just tired.

Tired of fighting against my own mind.

So I stopped.

There was no decision made to do it. No convenient moment of clarity that I can use as a neat story to build this post round.

I suppose just being away from the pressure of work must have relaxed me a bit. Being free for the first time in 20 years of the unrelenting pressure of deadline and the next edition allowed me to begin to heal my shattered nerves.

Because of work I’d missed my son’s first week of nursery school. Now I was free of it and able to help him when he needed me. He was struggling with the adaptation to the new environment. I was able to be there. To be with him

I was there in the mornings. To help him have his breakfast, to fight over the dressing ritual. I was there to hold his hand as we went to the school door. There to talk calmly to him as he wept and pleaded to be allowed to go back home. There to hug him and wave goodbye.

I was there, standing among all the mummies when it was time to go home. I’d usually see him before he saw me. As the teacher led him outside there’d be a look of uncertainty, almost fear, on his face. Then he’d spot me and start to run, his bottom lip trembling as he jumped into my arms.

Soon I began to enjoy it. I became familiar with all the drop-off and pick-up times. I learnt the names of all the pupils and made friends with the parents. We went to the park often.

I was there for the school trip, the nativity play, the school disco, the spring fair, the open day, the sports day.

The birthday party invitations started to come. We went to them all. I always tried to be the daddy who played with all the kids, the first one in the bouncy castle. I made a cake for my son’s party. I learnt how to make balloon animals for the kids.

We enjoyed lots of time together as a family. Mummy, my son and me.

People told me I looked better. I gained some weight. Grew a terrible beard. Became easier to talk to, less serious.

I entered the Santa Run in Hillsborough. The look of joy on my boy’s face as he stood by my side when I was presented with my second place medal was memorable.

So had I been healed by a few months away from work?

Absolutely not. All of the old problems and fears still remained. I remember one day being in a shop with my wife and suffering such a severe panic attack that she had to rush me straight home.

But the strange thing was, it didn’t seem to bother me so much anymore. I didn’t allow getting down to get me down. I tried to accept the nasty thoughts which buzzed around in my head as part of me. When I had a low period, I just waited for it to pass.

I had stopped battling against my own mind. Instead I had accepted it. This is me. It’s the way my brain is. I stopped being so hard on myself.

I had found what balanced me out against the worst excesses of myself. Just a little bit of contentment.

I’d done all the treatments. The medication, the counselling, the meditation. But simply having fun took me a lot further. Learning to smile. To laugh. To play. My son gave that back to me.

Everyone who suffers is different. We all just have to find what works best.

I lived the life of the stay-at-home daddy as I tried to figure out what to do with myself. I loved being a full-time parent but there was still a part of me which needed a creative outlet.

There were moments when I felt cut off from the world. Isolated. I needed stimulation, just like my son.

I played around with the idea of doing some writing. But nothing ever seemed to work out. I could never seem to make an idea stick.

I think it was almost a year back that my wife first had the idea that I should do a blog. I’m slow at making decisions, like a cruise ship turning around. The idea stayed latent somewhere in my brain, neither accepted or rejected. A few other people made the same suggestion to me.

I knew nothing about blogs (I still don’t). I had never even read one in my life. It was perfect. I loved the idea of my innocence and the ignorance about the format. The world’s least likely blogger. I decided to do it.

At around this time I also started to explore the idea of writing for therapy. Once I got over the first hurdle of telling people about my suffering, of accepting that this would be my label from now on, it all got a lot easier.

The process worked like this. I’d always found it easier to express my ideas through stories. Often thoughts which don’t make sense internally achieve a logic when they’re committed as part of a narrative.

I found aspects of my own struggle seemed to lose part of their terror when I posted about them.

Then there was the power of solidarity, of networking. Of discovering that thoughts and fears which I had always thought were peculiar to me were actually common, even universal. The wonderful warm feeling of support from others.

It feels good to be part of something creative again. I feel more relevant to the world around me than I ever did working in newspapers. I’ve connected with more people in a few weeks as a blogger than I did in years working in the media.

I feel like I’ve started something. I’m not sure what and I’m not sure where it’s going, but I’ve definitely started something.

It’s exciting and fun. And it helps me.

I don’t have any complacency about my own mental health. I never know when the next bad day is coming. The next breakdown. The next collapse. None of us do.

But I do feel that if it comes I’m better equipped than ever to cope. I’ve got my family. My writing. My smile.

Once you accept the internal terror, then it doesn’t seem to be quite as scary anymore.

So to bring it back to where I began, I’m not in a better place.

I’m in the same place. But I’m learning to love that place.

I’m learning to be kinder to myself.

* If you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this blog or need immediate help call Lifeline on 0808 808 8000.

I haul myself out of bed.

I can’t say I’ve just woken up. That would imply that I’d actually been asleep in the first place. Rather I’ve just summoned the energy to pull myself upright.

Well, almost upright.

It’s a quarter to eight. We have to be out of the house by a quarter past eight.

If I wasn’t so tired I’d be starting to panic now. If I was clear headed enough to think about all of the things which need to be done in the next thirty minutes I’d be really panicking.

It’s like writing a news story right up against deadline. If you stop to think about it then you simply wouldn’t be able to do it.

I look my my son, still sleeping. Mouth open, eyes closed. He ended up clambering into our bed at some point in the night. Again.

He woke us up a couple of times in the early hours looking for a drink. He woke us up needing the toilet.

At one point I woke up and he was lying on top of me. His feet resting on my face.

At another point he moaned ‘Daddy you’re squashing me’ as he sprawled out on the bed and I was banished to the Siberian cold outer edges of the mattress.

Now he’s sleeping sweetly. Of course. Now that I need him to be washed, breakfasted, dressed.

I decide to shower before he’s awake. The water is tepid. Naturally.

You could argue that if we were a normal family we’d have set the alarm, set the timer to warm the water, had the schoolbag packed, the clothes ready. If we were a normal family.

I come back into the bedroom. Mummy is sorting through piles of clothes. I presume there’s a point to this.

My son is climbing out of bed, hair like leftover spaghetti. He smiles.

‘Is it morning already?’

It’s cute, yeah. Adorable. But a little sinister too. Like he knows a little too much. Is it a smile or a smirk? I give him a hard stare.

I try to rush him downstairs for breakfast. But in my haste I’ve forgotten his light sabre. I lose another minute running back to get it. Everybody knows you can’t have breakfast without your light sabre.

I go through the motions of trying to get him to eat something healthy.

‘Do you want some fruit?’

‘Honey Monsters.’

‘Maybe an apple?’

‘Honey Monsters.’

‘I could peel it and slice it up?’

‘Honey Monsters.’

‘Or I could make a smoothie? I’ve got some lovely fresh strawberries.’

‘Honey Monsters.’

I think for a second.

‘Ok, you can have Honey Monsters today because we’re late but tomorrow you’re going to have something healthy. You can’t have Honey Monsters every day.’

I ponder my own breakfast. The array of cereals in the cupboard. Fresh fruits in the fridge. Nuts and seeds. I decide to have Honey Monsters.

But he won’t start eating until the TV is on. I fumble with the remote control, my fat fingers bouncing off the buttons like King Kong trying to play a harpsichord.

There used to be a time when you pushed a switch and the TV started to work. A simpler time. Now you have to endure a seemingly endless process where the telly seems to be warming up.

A taunting message keeps flashing on the screen. ‘Nearly there…..nearly there…..nearly there….’ And then the screen goes blank again.

When I was a kid you had five minutes of children’s TV a day. And you felt grateful. My son insists on his favourite programme. His favourite episode of his favourite programme. His favourite scene from his favourite episode of his favourite programme.

And then we can eat.

I run upstairs with a cup of tea for mummy. She’s still doing something with clothes.

‘Where’s the wee man’s uniform?’ she challenges me.

‘How would I know?’

‘Well you took it off him last night.’

‘No I didn’t.’

I know I did but sometimes you just have to hold the line. I glance at the top of the basket, where I always throw clothes in a crumpled pile. The uniform isn’t there.

We go into the spare bedroom. His uniform is laid out neatly on the bed. Clean underwear and socks. The advantage has moved to me. Mummy clearly did this before bedtime but had forgotten. To admit it now would be to admit she was the last one to touch the uniform.

‘There you go,’ I declare insufferably, ‘just where I left them.’

She lets me have the moment. Then she thrusts the uniform at me.

‘Well you can get him dressed then.’

I trudge back down the stairs. It’s part dressing, part all-in wrestling. With Honey Monsters thrown in.

I’m gently encouraging him. ‘Come on son, you should be putting your own socks on by now.’

He’s bashing me over the head with his light sabre. Not gently.

But somehow he ends up dressed.

‘We’re all ready!’ I shout up the stairs to mummy. A hint of triumphalism and challenge in my voice.

‘Is he washed? Has he brushed his teeth? Are his shoes and coat on? Have you packed his snack?’

I don’t respond.

I wash his face roughly with a flannel like I’m cleaning graffiti off a wall.

‘Too rough daddy!’ he tries to protest but his mouth is full of facecloth.

I turn my attention to his lunchbox. I have to come up with a healthy snack for my son every day. This is a boy who regards chocolate raisins as a health food.

There’s a note from the school. Some of the children have allergies. Can we avoid sending anything in which contains nuts or egg. I stare at it with disbelief. My plans for a cashew and pecan frittata have just crashed around me.

I put a crumpet and a little box of raisins in his schoolbag.

Then it’s shoes. I’ve been able to put my own shoes on now for….I don’t know….forty odd years, but putting someone else’s shoes on seems to throw me.

My son gives me the usual warning.

‘Put them on the right feet daddy. Check they’re on the right feet daddy. Are they on the right feet daddy?’

‘Look I’ve only sent you out with your shoes on the wrong feet once!’ I growl back.

‘You did it twice daddy.’

‘Ok, well, I’ve put them on the right feet more often than the wrong ones.’

Mummy comes down the stairs as I’m fastening him into the car seat.

I think we’re ready to go now but instead she’s looking for envelopes in the kitchen.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We have to send in these reply slips for the teacher.’

‘Why didn’t you do this last night?’ I say, without a hint of irony in my voice.

‘Why didn’t you?’

I think about this. To say that I didn’t because I was watching a repeat of last year’s Superbowl seems to lack authority, so I shut up.

Then I notice her slipping money into one of the envelopes.

‘What’s that for?’ I protest.

‘To buy some stuff for his art projects.’

‘What do I pay my taxes for?’

The pedant could point out that as I’m currently out of work I don’t actually pay any taxes, but hey, we’re against the clock here.

Finally we’re ready for the car. I lock the front door. At this exact moment, just as I do every other day, I realise I’ve forgotten to take my pills.

I’ve been taking my pills for so long now that it I’ve no idea whether they actually do anything for me. Perhaps if I didn’t take them there’d be no obvious reaction. On the other hand perhaps I’d turn into a completely different person. Maybe Sid James. Perhaps I’d develop a dirty laugh and go around in the mornings expressing a world-weary ‘Cor, blimey!’

I rush back inside and hurriedly down the little white tablets with a glass of water. Then I run back outside and start the car.

At this point my son says.

‘I need the toilet!’

For a moment nobody says anything.

Then mummy speaks.

‘Did daddy not check if you needed the toilet before you left the house son?’

‘No mummy.’

As she takes him back towards the house I shout out the window, ‘We’re already late so blaming people now isn’t going to help us or get us to school any faster.’

I sit back, thinking that I’ve slightly softened the edges of my defeat.

Soon they’re back in the car and I’m driving faster than I should, flashing my lights and beeping my horn in the school carpark to get children and mummies with prams to move out of my way.

As we take our son through the gates I notice I’ve put his coat on inside out. I decide to let it go. He’ll be taking it off in a few seconds anyway.

We take him to the classroom. We’re not even the last ones there. We kiss him goodbye and walk away. Leaving him in the care of his teacher.

Just like a normal family.

It’s our wedding anniversary today.

Eight years ago Debs and I and our families and friends were on the Amalfi Coast of Italy in the stunning village of Ravello.

Ravello is dramatically perched high on the edge of a mountain, like a pretty little bird on a tip of a branch.

We had found it some years previously when travelling through southern Italy.

We were badly organised on that holiday, a trait which has followed us through our married life. We arrived at Ravello to discover that neither of us knew or had any record of where we were supposed to be staying.

We walked into the village, hot and sweaty, dragging heavy cases and arguing, each insisting that it was the other’s responsibility to know about the accommodation.

Then we stepped into the square. The beautiful crumbling piazza with its panoramic views of the rugged coast.

We stopped, looked at each other and both said ‘This is where we have to get married’.

And then we went back to fighting again.

As I recollect we ended up in the tourism office where a bemused assistant was reading us the names of all of the local hotels until we heard one which sounded familiar.

We stuck with our instincts and two years later, eight years ago today and after overcoming several bureaucratic and church-erected hurdles, we married in that same village in a tiny stone church.

The week before Gary Lineker and Danielle Bux had also wed in Ravello.

Ours was a slightly more modest affair but rich in love and laughter.

I remember the poolside party the night before. Every person who was important in our lives was there.

I remember the fun of trying to make sure we didn’t see each other in a tiny village before the ceremony. Sending my little brother on a covert mission to recover my wedding socks and tie which I had left in our shared hotel room.

I remember having some quiet time with my brother Paul, my best man, who I very rarely see. Just sitting chatting over a beer before we went to the church.

I remember laughing through the service. The lovely priest had gone to the trouble of learning some phrases in Irish, only to discover that not a single person in the congregation knew what he was saying.

I remember all the Ravello locals coming out of the shops and restaurants to greet us as we walked through the narrow, stone streets, showering us with rice as we passed.

I remember, I’ll always remember, how beautiful she looked on that day. How I felt like the luckiest man in the world.

The reception was unconventional. We didn’t have a disco, instead a nine course banquet of beautiful southern Italian food in a tiled taverna right on the edge of a cliff.

Hours of eating, chatting, drinking and laughing.

The tired orange sun finally sank into the sea. The night was clear. Far below forest fires raged on the side of the mountain, as if they had been laid on for our entertainment.

We had been worried about the weather. But it had been beautiful throughout. The day after the wedding the rain came. Rain like I’d never seen, rain which you think will never end.

We didn’t want our time there to end. But end it does. Life must move forward.

The time since has been eventful. Work crises, personal crises, health crises.

But we’ve kept going. Kept moving forward.

Even in the worst of times. When I’ve had breakdowns, when my communication to the outside world has been disabled, I’ve always been able to talk to my wife.

I now can’t imagine any sort of life without her. Don’t want to imagine.

Yes we drive each other crazy. 

She’ll never understand why I insist on picking the furthest parking space away from where we’re going.

It’s lashing with rain today. We’re doing the school run. My wife is frantically pointing out parking spaces.

‘Look, go in there! There’s another one! Where are you going?’

‘The sign says those spaces are for the staff.’

‘But we’re only stopping for a minute. Look all the other parents are going in there! Where are you going….’

Similarly I’ve calmly explained countless times to my wife that if she just rinses the bowl quickly after eating her cereal it stops the cornflakes sticking to the sides.

But yet when I come downstairs this morning there’s a bowl from last night on the sideboard, some rogue uneaten cornflakes glued fast to the white porcelain.

That’s just the way we are. We both know we’ll never change. I suppose that’s what marriage is, learning to work round what is different about each other.

But so much is the same as well.

One of our favourite things is those couple of hours at the end of the day. When all the work and chores are done. When our son is asleep. When we can snuggle together on the sofa. Watch some nonsense on the telly. Tell each other about our days.

Or just have a laugh.

Because that’s what the last eight years have been. Tears yes, but many more laughs.

The joy of shared time together. The solace of that intimacy.

That’s why it’s always worth making the effort. The occasional bunch of flowers. A hug when it is least expected.

Making a little fuss over the anniversary. Taking time to pick the right card.

We wish each other a happy anniversary. We exchange gifts.

We open the cards. 

We both begin to laugh……

It’s been raining most of the day.

We’ve all been stuck in the house. It’s a bit claustrophobic. Tempers are a bit ragged.

There’s a break in the showers. We decide to go to Hillsborough Lake. To feed the ducks.

The ducks, swans and geese at the lake must be among the best fed in the world. It’s not unusual to see several groups of parents and their kids giving them leftover stale loafs.

And they can be picky.

I once baked a gluten-free superseed loaf. I couldn’t get any humans interested in it (it was rank to be honest).

I took it to the lake, broke it up and threw it to the ducks.

They poked at it with their bills before leaving it untouched, floating on the surface of the water.

Even the seagulls wouldn’t touch it and I’ve seen them peck at dog poo.

This evening there are few people but lots of feathers.

I start to break up a bit of bread for my son to throw into the lake.

But then I have a feeling that I’m being watched.

I turn and there’s a particularly bold goose right at my feet. This alarms me a little. Geese can be notoriously crabid and can give you a nasty peck.

My son is so alarmed he jumps into mummy’s arms. I’d like to do that too but don’t think it sends out a positive paternal message.

I try to shoo him away but he’s unmoved. His eyes are like little specks of black glass, his feathers grey and black, his thin bill orange.

I take a step back. He follows. He’s got his eye on the bread.

I throw a bit at his webbed feet. He gobbles it up and looks straight back at me.

I think about the situation. I throw a piece of bread behind him, trying to create some distance. 

He gobbles it up and returns to my feet.

But now…

But now all the other geese in the lake have observed what is happening and start to waddle towards me.

Where there was one goose, now there are a score. They surround me. Their shiny little eyes fixed on the bread.

Now I’m more than a little afraid. I don’t particularly fear death but being pecked to death by a herd of hungry geese….well, it’s no way to go.

It reminds me of a scene from a horror film. I just can’t think which one.

I’m retreating slowly. Walking backwards. Throwing little bits of bread as I go. The geese follow like pilgrims.

I can hear myself saying ‘Nice geese, there’s a good goose.’

It crosses my mind to run but I have an idea of how absurd it will look if they start to chase me.

Or, even worse, if they start to fly after me.

And then…

Then, the bread runs out.

I hold my hands up.

I think I might actually have said out  loud, ‘I’m sorry.’

The goose which is closest to me stops. Geese don’t have shoulders but he makes his equivalent of a shrugging gesture.

He turns. All the other geese turn. They waddle back to the pond.

I stand there. I look around to see if anyone is watching. I roll my neck and flex my shoulders, some sort of masculine gesture of strength.

I find my wife and son. He’s jumping in the puddles left by the showers.

‘What were you up to?’ my wife asks.

‘Just feeding the geese.’

‘Are you ok, you look a little pale?’

I brush away the question with a little show of frustration.

‘Of course I’m ok, why wouldn’t I be?’

Mummy shakes her head. We watch my son.

The murky brown puddle water is being splashed right over the top of his wellies and onto his trousers.

But he’s having so much fun we just let him be.

He takes a running jump yelling ‘Muddy puddles, here I come!’

He sends the filthy water cascading in all directions.

After a while it begins to drizzle again. Then the rain becomes heavier.

We retreat back towards the car.

We all hold hands.

Sometimes you just need to get out of the house.

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