Plod On

Where to begin, I find this the hardest part. What opening line to use? What’s the attention grabber? Invariably I use the word ‘So’, as if you've been waiting in anticipation of the next thrilling installment and now you can expel the baited breath you’ve been holding for the last four months.

I thought of using an overused quote, something pithy like “the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated” but then those who see my life played out in pictorial form on instagram would see the quote as pointless.

I think my favourite quote would be “I told you I was ill”. It pretty much applies to my whole life and attitude, as my nearest and dearest will attest to. If I were to have a headstone that would certainly be on it but, as I don’t see the point of being buried, it can be written on a post-it note and stuck to the beer bottle placed upon the fireplace in which my ashes will sit. A reminder to the family of the grumpy old bastard who used to inhabit the chair by the fire.

Wow not even two hundred words in and I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil, cheery as ever, Levine! Obviously the phrase ‘mortal coil’ would suggest there is another coil that we shuffle on to. I'll clear this up for you, there isn’t. However, we won’t get into my or indeed your existential crisis now.

My ability to witter on really does astound me at times.

So *massive expulsion of breath around the world* what’s been happening in the last few months and why the sudden impetus to update you all?

I’m no longer a dinner lady, rocking the tabard look has gone; I’m now assistant manager at the bar I was doing a few shifts at. I’d like to say that my meteoric rise from having never pulled a pint before September to a management position was down to some innate ability, a genetic disposition to the hop and not just drinking it. The truth is less inspiring, everyone pretty much left and I didn’t. Last man standing and all that.

I was signed off from the doctor and therapy, no longer a mentalist...and then I was signed back on again, a mentalist once more. A temporary blip people say, the increase in my medication a preventative measure they assure me. Internally it’s a failure and a realization that I’ll never be ‘better’ or ‘normal’. Don’t get me wrong, I have no yearning to be normal. It’s not me. And, as I’ve discussed before, I have no idea what ‘better’ means. I’d just like the waves of uncontrollable sadness and emptiness to fuck off.

What I struggle with most is that things are pretty good at the moment. I really love working at the bar, although I find having to ‘act’ constantly upbeat tiring. I’ve never been upbeat about anything. I’m naturally dour and morose.

Home life is good again. It goes without saying that we all do each others heads in, argue, fight, make up but what family doesn’t? You try living with my lot for 24 hours!

The main canon of my therapy was that it’s ok to feel sad, low, and miserable. We all do - events happen and you will have emotion. It’s your reaction to that emotion that can lead to problems. You feel low so you shut yourself away and spiral. We all have our own patterns of behaviour. I do shut myself away - as I’m writing this I’m meant to be at a brewery I was invited to. I made my excuses but the truth is I can’t face people today.

What’s happened then? What’s the X that’s led to me feeling Y and behaving like Z? The answer is nothing, I can’t explain my current state and it’s pissing me off.

It all leads to the question of why can’t I be happy? What’s wrong with being content with what you’ve got right now?

*No Spoiler alert* The next part will give you absolutely no insight or answers to the above questions.

Happiness – a mental or emotional state of well-being, characterised by positive or pleasant emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy.

Sounds just like me.

Have I ever been happy?

I’ve certainly felt warm and fuzzy inside, albeit fleetingly, but I do think that part of me is missing at times. When I’m on form I’m really on form, I find myself a rather witty and charming character, fun to be around.

These times are just infrequent, highs of being out with family and friends to massive lows within the space of days. I made a throw away comment to the doctor that I’m probably bipolar, she agreed!! And put up my dose. Well, at least it filled some time for me, researching the symptoms of being bipolar and also the side effects of the medication.

There are things that I enjoy and derive pleasure from but these are tinged with a massive fear of failure. It's not that I have to be the best at something - above average will do fine - I just don’t want to be shit.

I’m the same in whatever I do, whether it’s sport, baking or my new addiction to painting.

I don’t like getting things wrong; some of you will remember the time I decided I was going to make macaroons. I couldn’t be satisfied with a good attempt or those that tasted good but looked shite. Nope. I made the fiddly little bastards for five days solid until they were to an acceptable standard. The house was full of them and Mrs. L hasn’t eaten one since.

It’s like the painting now. I’ve never painted before but I expected to be able to do it. The first day I sat in front of a blank sheet and couldn’t bring myself to put pencil to paper for 30 minutes, the fear of producing something utterly appalling was crippling. I eventually produced something and although it sounds pretentious, which I am, I do enjoy painting. It lets me switch my brain off and get lost in it for hours.

Maybe it's age, the illness or the medication but the list of things I enjoy are diminishing. Currently I have to abdicate my title as king of ‘self abuse’, as the pills leave me chemically neutered. Now that was something I did enjoy. If knocking one out had ever become an Olympic sport I'd have been captain of that team. My record is seven in a day; I was 15 and had taken the day off school sick. Why seven? That’s like asking someone why they climbed Everest? The answer - because it was there. Though I have to admit the climax (see what I’ve done there) to the seventh was more a puff of exhaustion rather than the spurt of triumphalism that the feat truly deserved.

Anyway, away from such base things. As I said I have no answers and part of my problem I know is the constant search for the answers.

I'll just have to accept that I feel a bit shit at the moment and plod on. I’m sure it's what most people do.

Does anyone have a clue what it's really all about?

I left twitter, hardly in a blaze of glory more like a damp squib.

The reasons seemed clear in my head at the time, I was living vicariously through others and not living my own life not leaving my chair. I was too reliant on others for my mood, my own happiness. In my mind though I wasn’t giving anything back, constant tweets of misery were annoying me if no one else.

So what did I expect to happen when I deactivated my account along with my FB account? Was a burden to be lifted? Would I wake up the next day magically ‘cured’?

I know it’s hard to believe but none of those things happened. I didn’t feel any different. I didn’t spring out of bed throw on my clothes and whistle a merry tune as I left for work.

Nope I got up, got dressed and sat in my house. The only thing that had changed was I’d lost pretty much my only contact with the outside world.

This was fine it was my choice I had wanted to run away. You see you can’t feel you’re annoying people if you don’t speak to them. There was a slight flaw to my plan, I say slight flaw, my plan was actually as ill conceived as the Charge of the Light Brigade. What about the people who had my phone number?? Yeah well as I say I hadn’t really thought this one through.

Now don’t get me wrong there weren’t hoards of people knocking down my door demanding to know where and how I was, Royal Mail didn’t have to lay on extra staff to deal with the sackfulls of post.

There were and are however a few kind souls who showed their concern. At one point I did consider turning my phone off to avoid contact with everyone apart from those unfortunate to live with me. I didn’t and am glad of this.

So with all this extra time on my hands what have I learned? Well I know social media isn’t the thing stopping me from functioning. I know Prozac hasn’t helped me and so it’s on to another type of Anti Depressant to try to help. I know I’m amazed at the kindness that family, friends and what were initially complete strangers have shown. I also know I can still knock up a mean cake when I want to, it seems there are some things you never lose through it all.

I have tried to rationalise everything out but have come up empty handed, raising more questions than answers. It seems a year spent studying philosophy wasn’t a complete waste of time.

I decided I believed in Determinism but then I again I would wouldn’t I (there’s one for the philosophers amongst you.)

Apart from that I’m still struggling. I think essentially I’m looking for an identity. I don’t know who or what I am.

Yes I’m a dad, a husband, a son, a friend, and a sometime baker. These though are governed by the relationship to other people or other things. Who and what am I?

I have no tribe to belong to I’m not religious. They say football is a religion and I used to believe I was a fanatic but not so much anymore.

I don’t have a ‘look’ I don’t dress or style my hair in a tell tale way. I don’t have tattoos or piercings that would place in an exclusive club.

I read, when I can concentrate, different genres. The same can be said for films and TV programmes. And with music, anything and everything goes. The word for me is eclectic, I like a shitload of different things (I’m not sure that’s the correct collective noun but it seems to fit.)

The question is do I really want to fit in to a type, a club? Isn’t individuality enough, shouldn’t we be non-conformist. The answer is I really don’t know (see as I said – no answers.)

At University I wrote my dissertation on why people join right wing movements. Don’t worry I’m not goose-stepping round the house, although my comb over and dodgy tache do look vaguely familiar.

The conclusion I came to in its simplest form being ‘mans’ fear of freedom, the necessity to belong to something, anything. We just need to be told what to do, to have some kind of direction.

I don't think I've ever had that I've never known what I’m going to be when I grow up.

I think the problem, much to my dismay is that at 40 I suppose I am grown up but I’m still as clueless as the boy who never had a burning desire to be a pilot or a train driver.

So I’m giving up philosophising about things it’s getting me nowhere. Instead I’m trying to function again, doing little things each day that are deemed normal by my peers.

Todays ‘thing’ is writing this nonsense.

Oh I still have my fixations, currently it’s on having a slick back haircut, I’ve even ordered Pomade from a shop online. Maybe I am slowly trying to join a club and declared to my long-suffering wife that this new ‘look’ was going to be me now until death.

So I may return to twitter, I’m already back on Instagram posting dull photos of food.

I do feel however I’m slightly more suited to some form of Unsocial media though.

Pie Dreams & Cake

Lemon Butter Cake

Well you could say it’s been an odd couple of weeks but odd doesn’t really do it justice.

No I haven’t encountered extra large babies again leaving me speechless or attended parties at soft play centres which would no doubt have had me turning the air blue.

N’s School Sports day did provide some light relief. It’s a small village school and parents are encouraged to attend and give moral support.

N did well managing to finish in the top 3 in all events. This may have been down in no small part to the fact that there are only 3 girls in her class but who am I to piss on anyone’s bonfire? Don’t answer that.

She did however win the egg and spoon race, so all the hours of training we’d put in weren’t in vain.

In her age race my younger daughter M sprinted to a 30 yard victory over the other nursery children, she’s pretty much a year older and double the size of the rest and as she went on the G of Go the others stood on the start line either crying or filling their nappies.

I looked on proudly, trying not to be one of ‘those’ dads who takes the sporting endeavour of their child a little too seriously, I failed. Apparently booing the other kids and then unfurling the union flag and doing a lap of honour around the cricket pitch with your 4 year old in celebration isn’t the done thing, who knew?

Unfortunately I was cajoled into taking part in the Dad’s race and as I took my place alongside the others, all young skinny bastards, I heard the little voice saying – Don’t fuck up, don’t embarrass your daughters, don’t pull a hamstring, don’t slip another disc. Ok I may be a hypochondriac but it comes with my heritage.

Needless to say riddled with these self-doubts I didn’t win although I did avoid the ignominy of last place beating someone’s grandad. I think a ‘short head’ is the sporting phrase used to describe my margin of ‘victory’ over him. In your face old man!

No my odd couple of weeks actually involves something a little more important.

I’ve resigned from work and am now officially jobless.

Please don’t worry this isn’t some thinly veiled cry for help or a begging blog for you to send money so the family Vino don’t go hungry. It’s safe to read on.

Do people really believe and respond to those emails you receive? You know the ones informing you of inherited cash or asking for help and that the person will pay you back as soon as they’re back on their feet? One hit my inbox a few months ago telling me I’d been left £120k to help me continue my wonderful Evangelical Christian work. I mean I may be a lot of things but a preacher of the good book definitely isn’t one of them.

That said I am quite happy to attach my bank details to the bottom of this blog and if you feel that you’d like to spare a few quid I’m not too proud to accept.

No this was an actual conscious decision to leave a steady job with a good income but that said, a job that left me thoroughly miserable and if I’m being honest it would probably have been easier to live with Saddam in his bunker than me for the past few months.

So on a level of keeping my sanity it was an easy decision to make however on the level of not knowing if I’m going to have to sell the girls to Madonna to pay the mortgage leaves me a little petrified if the truth be told. The main problem with this is I’m not sure the girls are ethnic enough for Madge.

I haven’t quit without a plan for the future. That would be completely bat shit crazy.

No…

I have a dream. Now I’d like to say this is as grand as Martin Luther King Jnr’s dream of a racial equality for all. It’s not.

No mine is the lesser known I have a dream speech, given to various friends and relatives over the last few months, one where I tell people my dream of making Pies and Cakes for a living.

I’d also like to say it was initially as well received as MLK’s speech. It wasn’t.

I am however happy to report that Mrs. Vino is fully behind the venture, it was hard for her to see the job I was doing making me ill. Though I think really she likes the idea of being married to Little Ribston’s very own Alan Sugar, either that or she really loves to eat pie and a lot of it.

So the last few weeks have seen product development in full swing. Pies and cakes are being baked on a daily basis and waistlines are expanding. I’ve also been distributing them to anyone with a mouth that wants it filling for free and funnily enough there are plenty of those around.

I should be able to give you further information and news once the Council fulfills its commitment to process my food application in the timeframe they set. Although if having a very close friend working for the Council is anything to go by I’m not filled with confidence that this will happen and I’m not holding my breath. Not that I’m bashing the Council in any way I’m sure they’re very productive on the days that they do some work.

The sign that will hopefully one day hang over the door

In honour of my prospective venture here’s a lemon butter cake recipe that may adorn my menu in the near future.

It’s from Dan Lepard, yes I know I go on about him a little too much which obviously has nothing to do with him responding to me on twitter but trust me his recipes are really very good.

Lemon Butter Cake

Ingredients

2 Medium Eggs – Separated

150g Caster Sugar

100g Unsalted Butter – Melted

125g Condensed Milk

100ml Lemon Juice

Grated Zest of 2 Large Lemons

275g Plain Flour

2 Tsp Baking Powder

Icing

Grated Zest of 1 Large Lemon

100g Icing Sugar

25ml Lemon Juice

Method

Set the oven to 180c

Line a Loaf tin – preferably 19cm long, I used what I had and it was perfectly fine.

Beat the separated egg whites with an electric mixter until they’re frothy and then gradually add 25g of Caster Sugar and whisk to a soft meringue consistency.

In a different bowl beat the egg yolks, remaining caster sugar, melted butter, condensed milk, lemon zest and juice.

I didn’t grate the zest if I’m honest I just I zester and had short strips of the zest – it made no difference.

Sift the flour and baking powder into the mixture and beat until smooth.

Fold the egg whites in to this carefully and quickly as not to lose the air from the mixture.

Spoon into your tin then smooth the mixture out.

Bake for 40 – 50 minutes or until a skewer comes out with only a few crumbs. Mine took just under 40 minutes but then again my oven enjoys cremating things.

Let your cake cool and then ice it.

To make the icing beat the zest, icing sugar and lemon juice in a bowl until smooth and cover the top of the cake. If you don’t let it cool the icing becomes runnier and will come down the sides of the cake as well. I know this from experience.

Enjoy

Ax

Follow me on twitter @Vino_73