Day nine

There are now less than two and a half weeks before the performance weekend for the panto. Last night’s rehearsal did not go well, people fumbling around, missing their cues. A real dog’s breakfast.

At the end of the rehearsal, I said to Jenn, who’s directed a few pantos in the past, that I felt like going home and blowing my brains out. She sympathised, said she knew the feeling, that it was always around this point that she used to despair, yet it all somehow magically came together. I do vaguely remember this happening with the 2014 panto, so I suppose it’s true.

Then I came home and really did want to blow my brains out. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at the mind boggling stupidity of the majority of the US electorate. They voted for Nixon, Reagan and Dubya not once, but twice. Why shouldn’t they elect this ridiculous megalomaniac. If only they were just fucking themselves and not the rest of the planet, too.

Silly me, I honestly thought that love could trump hate, that this morning I would be writing about Hillary Clinton’s narrow win, just as I thought in the spring that the likely-to-be 50+1 UK referendum vote would come out on the Remain side.

Instead my Black Dog Diary time was devoted to writing about Donald Trump’s victory.

And all I can say is, thank god the anti-depressant meds have kicked in.