Bake it baby...

I've got utter mind-fuck syndrome. I need to make a phone call but I can't quite bring myself to actually do it. The consequences of not making said phone call are that I feel sad and distressed and hopeless but somehow that makes it even harder to actually do what I should have done several weeks ago and pick up the telephone.

I've also been in rather deep trouble at work - though it's the kind of trouble that may miraculously morph into huge triumph if I can keep the threads held together. If I can't, well, I'd better do some creative thinking about my career.

I should know by now that there is always a number of therapeutic things that can be done when one is feeling fucked up.

Like withdrawing: I suppose this one is my story recently - avoid the situation at all costs and go hide in bed... or in the pub... also avoid doing anything that might actually make you feel better.

Like going to see the doctor: on this score I'm going to have my mental wealth assessed by professionals on Wednesday and perhaps another course of Citalopram will ensue or the enlightened souls might even do me a bit of CBT. I filled in their assessment tickbox form at a pretty low point last week and am bound to come out of that with massive huge red warning symbols all over me. Other noddy-things they might recommend are stopping drinking (not touched a drop since Thursday now, definitely a good idea) getting more exercise (I get quite a bit) looking after myself and eating proper food (yeah right?) doing something fun and creative to get me out of my slump (whoooo) talking to people (could do a bit more of this) keep a regular schedule of bedtimes and life (totally fucked up - why else do you think I started writing this at 5am). I'd also like to be told I need a holiday.



Like making bread: Couple of weeks ago before this latest personal fiasco properly kicked off I bought some yeast in Tesco thinking I'd get the breadmaker out and have another shot with it. In the past most of my efforts were disappointing for one reason or another, commonly that the bread would rise in the machine and then collapse horribly leaving a mis-shapen and not terribly edible brick. True to form I carefully measured my ingredients (well, sort of carefully) and put them in the machine in eager anticipation of a nice loaf and was rewarded with yet another brick. I had a couple of slices but ultimately threw the brick away. Rubbish waste of effort.

Several weeks later I thought I might have yet another go having sort of decided that the major problem was probably that my dough was too wet. I then realised that I had thrown out the little metal stirry widget from the bottom of the bread maker rendering it useless. This is probably the best thing that could possibly ever have happened. Instead of trusting to some poxy recipe and a cheap-ass bread oven I made up some yeast mixture with a good helping of microbe-food and with flour, salt and a bit of oil made dough in a bowl. I let it rise in the airing cupboard, bashed it about a bit more, stuck it in the useless loaf tin from the bread machine, let it grow again for a while and baked it in the normal regular oven.

People tell you that making bread is all about science and accurate measuring and shit like that. But it isn't. It's about a feeling, it's about feeling the living dough spring around as you knead it, it's about getting the texture feeling just so (something you definitely can't do in a machine) and all importantly it's about that smell when you walk in from the outside and know that you are HOME. Oh and then there's eating a few slices, while it's still hot, dripping with salty butter, heaven. On the back of another slice I might just have the strength to make that phone call.

Update: And indeed I did. Feeling so much better now.