On edge

Mum left yesterday. I was really sad to see her go. She's been so good to me. I just hope that she isn't so alarmed by my situation that she spends sleepless nights from now on worrying about me. I also hope she didn't get too bored up here. She did catch the ferry into town on one of my work days, but unless you're into Gucci watches and Louis Vuitton handbags, there isn't much there. At least she can have no complaints about the weather - we've had glorious autumn sunshine up here the last ten days.

I got a written diagnosis back from the psychiatrist on Thursday. There wasn't much in the report I didn't already know (social isolation - check; avoidant personality traits - check), but as I always try to hide my past, seeing it there in black and white was a bit scary. My father was described as being "a very ordered man" - I found that pretty funny as he's about as disorganised as me.

On Friday I had a tension throughout my body that felt almost paralysing. Even finishing work for the week (albeit a short one for me) made no difference - I was just totally unable to relax. Mum and I had our celebratory dinner at Buona Sera in Devonport. The place was humming. My plate of pasta was colourful, spicy and yummy. We shared a bottle of white wine and a large plate of garlic bread, and each had what I guess you'd call a chocolate brownie cake for dessert. But even though I thoroughly enjoyed my meal (the fact that it was free helped), I was still on edge and not in the mood for celebrating anything. A shame because it was the first time I'd eaten out in ages.

More tennis yesterday. If you're a regular follower of this blog (there must be thousands of you out there, you're just too shy to tell me), you'll be glad to know that the tennis season is almost over and you'll be spared my inane ramblings about hitting a fuzzy yellow ball over a net (or not as the case may be) for the next few months. I played with Bazza in the first match; I felt terrible and didn't want to be out there at all. The yellow ball seemed even fuzzier than normal. I'd calmed down a bit by the second set, but my head was still in my hands between points, I never won a service game, and we slumped to a 6-3 6-4 loss. I must have been visibly distressed as I walked off the court. I was asked "what's wrong?" and told not to emulate one poor bloke who recently jumped off a motorway overbridge. After all that, for some odd reason I was confident we'd win the mixed, which we eventually did thanks to the occasional slice of luck along the way. Facing break point on my serve at 5-all in the first set, I attempted a high smash which doinked off the frame and somehow just cleared the net, landing inches inside the sideline. We hung on to that game and broke for the set at the sixth time of asking. The second set was even closer; it went all the way to the tie-break where at 5-all their bloke, who had been ultra-consistent on serve all day, chucked in a double fault and my partner put away a smash on the next point (slightly more authoritatively than my earlier effort) to take out the match.

Our team won 5-3 which might mean we've won the competition with a match to spare, but that was only part of the story. During our mixed match I saw Bazza lying on the court, his face as white as a sheet. He got up and carried on for two more games before retiring, but still looked terrible. The colour gradually returned to his cheeks and I took him home where he lives with his brother; he pleaded with me not to tell his brother anything had happened. It was the first time I'd stepped inside their house which they've just sold following their mother's death last year. He showed me his bedroom which was even more untidy than mine and stank of, well, Bazza. I noticed on their fridge was a printed emergency checklist of what to do in the event of a heart attack, with the key points emphasised by Bazza's trademark red underlining. He definitely needs a serious lifestyle change or else he'll keel over one of these days - he's got to lose at least two stone, or quite a few kay gees, for a start - but I don't think he's capable of making those changes by himself. I feel I need to do something, but what I'm not sure.