Depression Sessions #2: Even more fun

Ms R wakes up and realises the black dog is not planning to leave but has made a home in her brain and invited its friends for a rave. They have been up early.

Unfortunately today looks exactly the same as yesterday (see below, can't be bothered doing links). At some point Ms R found herself crying while putting washing into the machine ( sorting those whites does it every time).

After about thirty minutes of debate with herself (and chaired by her), she decides she will try and leave the house. She must get it together: even when in her own living hell, the words of her couturier mother about looking your best resonate. Lip gloss, blusher, a nonchalant scarf, leather jacket and we are ready. Or not.

The walk is long and arduous. Ten minutes that feels like the last seven miles of a marathon, a reflection of how your mind can invade your body even when you are seriously fit. Turning back is tempting. Ms R has tears in her eyes. Again.

Actually living in Islington often has that effect, depression or not. For non-Brits this is yet another highly overrated part of London which as well as having multi-million pound houses populated by lawyers and media types, also has one of the highest rates of teenage single mothers and council housing in Europe.

Here you will find the kind of affluent, older mother who is to be found talking to her two year old as if it were an adult.

“Vladimir, you will incur substantial punishment if you persist in that high risk strategy. I will isolate you.”

This woman also believes her children are the natural heirs to the Dalai Lama and are destined to complete their MBA’s by the time they are eight.

“And Tristiana is so good at ballet, I’d be surprised if the Bolshoi didn’t come calling soon.”

Oh fuck off. (Ms R loves children but stops short of worshipping them and declaring their specialness at every opportunity. And non-humorous mummy bloggers, I am not in the mood ok).

Having struggled down the street, Ms R reaches a coffee shop, an overpriced Italian chain of the type that dominate this city. She is exhausted from her travails and thinks she might manage to stop for an espresso. She can even pretend she is her non-depressed self.

Upon entering she encounters a pram; a Boogaloo or whatever they are called. It is one of those off-roaders that costs about £5000 and does everything except act as a launch pad for NASA and make pizza.

The pram is attached to a scowling mother of the kind described earlier as well as a six or seven year old who appears to be trying to suck not just her own thumb, but her whole hand. Aaaagh.

“Excuse me,” says Ms R politely as she squeezes her elegant, well-dressed frame past the monster vehicle.

“You bumped my children.”

Ms R turns to confront the woman who is not only scowling but also shapeless and sturdy.

Who marries these women? Is it an affirmative action programme?

“What did you say?”

“You bumped into them. You should be careful.”

What the fuck is she on? Ms R does not need this. She will end it now.

“Whoa lady if anything your fucking pram bumped me and has possibly bruised my rather slender legs. The world does not revolve around you or them. (Indicates children).

“Excuse me. I won’t let you speak like that in front of my children..”

And then Ms R has had enough. She is feeling besieged. The only thing left to do is turn up the heat and get out of the kitchen.

“Look, why don’t you just shut up and people will only hate you for the way you look.”

And with that Ms R turns and heads for home where she knows she will be safe. By this time she is crying so much, she is having trouble seeing her way down the street.

“Is it a man?” asks a sweet, thoughtful looking thirty-something girl offering tissues.

“If only,” says Ms R, “it was that easy.”