Thursday 13/4

The past few nights have been nightmarish—I dreamt that I was back in an exam hall doing my exams but not being able to remember anything; I dreamt I was arguing with someone justifying the non-existence of god; I dreamt I was in all sorts of trouble.

And I woke up a lot.

I suppose a lot of these has to do with the elevated levels of stress I've been experiencing. I've also stopped taking the escitalopram because I've been rationing what little I have, with the intention of getting a good (read: more persuadable and gullible) doctor in Birmingham and getting a new batch from them.

One person that is hugely responsible for my stress levels is my estate agent. I've always believed that estate agents are one of the most despicable creatures ever to have roamed this Earth, and it turns out that not only they're despicable unethical bastards, they're also so manipulative that they would put the North Korean propaganda machinery to shame. It is hard to believe that such unethical practice goes unnoticed or unregulated, but I comfort myself with the thought that someday, this estate agent will meet her match, and hopefully, a grisly end.

. . .

Today I decide to see my doctor and attempt to get some beta blockers which will help me calm down and allow me to face the uncertainty and unsettling task of moving to a new city. I walk up the doctors office and sit on a torn leather seat, no doubt a melding cauldron of a motley of pathogens and flesh-eating bugs. An old lady is sat opposite me, wearing a purple satin blouse that is rather unflattering to her figure; rolls of fat bunch up pushing up against her breasts which are trying their very best to obey the inevitable ramification of gravity.

I feel sick in my mouth.

Then sat next to me is a middle-aged Asian man who smells a bit. There is something rather putrid about the odour emanating from him. Or perhaps it is the humid and hot conditions of the waiting room—there's an air-conditioning unit but it's not been switched on. Bastards, I fumed. Further analysis of the situation, I conclude, will only increase the chances of me losing it and punching the man next to me, because at this point the most obnoxious ringtone starts to blare out of his pocket.

Danger! Danger! Wife calling!

And it is accompanied by horrible synthetic Bollywood-style music.

I am slowly curling my fists and start to wish I had bothered to learn kick-boxing so that I can sterilise him (if he has to be warned about his wife, surely he has no need for his reproductive system because he will not want to be near his wife) by kicking him as hard as I can. Perhaps I should have also brought a knife along. I make a mental note.

Then suddenly my name is announced and I find myself seeing the doctor and things happen and we exchange pleasantries and... and I leave with my prescriptions for: escitalopram, omeprazole, and beta blockers. I consider this trip a success.