It's with great relief that THE IMPOSTUNE has posted a new addition to his blog. I had been accused (unfairly) of silencing him with my childish blackmailing. It's not true. He's just been busy trying to finish off his extremely-complicated-lengthy book which sounds like it's taken a hefty toll on his literary stamina. With all due respect, he needs to finish it and move on.

I can reveal the cover of this new work here in a WORLD EXCLUSIVE.

The Radio 3 Curse

I suffer from a Radio 3 curse. Radio 3 is a british radio station devoted to classical music. In the daytime it's nasal shrilly songs in german, at night it's nasal shrilly songs in german until ten when it becomes nasal shrilly chants from patagonian exiles, backed by Brian Eno and Bhoutros Bhoutros Ghali on vibraphone.

The alternative to Radio 3 would be one of those many stations where audio output can be described as ceaseless aural chum. The effect of the barking infantiles on these stations, and their limited "playlists" is like having the crust of cold sores grated into your tea.

So I'm happy to listen to Radio 3.

But whenever I turn on Radio 3, the curse intervenes.

I turn on the radio, and there's nothing. Turn it up...a slight hiss. Turn it up a bit more and..buhh duuhhh de durrrhh!. That's right, I've turned it up just as Shostakovich has decided to suspend the entire orchestra in woody silence. Just as I turn it on there's nothing for about two seconds then the entire orchestra bows, blows, bangs and parps a cacophony to shatter kidneys.

Sometimes the Radio 3 curse waits until the end of the piece being played. It might be one of those wonderful warm romantic pieces from the late nineteenth century, before the bolsheviks could commission orchestral music. In this case I get to hear the sweet sinewy violin motif that whisps it way towards the final elegant note. Then...Well, that was lovely wasn't it (breathe sigh phlegm-sounds) That was ..I get the Radio 3 announcer at volume ten, always a complete shocking misery.

It's not much to complain about in a world of poverty, disease, strife and corruption, but it bugs me. Thank you for reading.

So I went to the pyschiatrist and the psychiatrist says..

So I went to the pyschiatrist and the psychiatrist says..that I'm suffering Major Depressive Disorder (of severe severity) and that I'm also suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (In the top 20% severity).

Well I had to laugh. In an instant I'd overtaken the bipolars and the agarophobics of the world and been given my own "mental" throne from which to declaim the world as cruel and forbidding. Brilliant.

This mean that I can now shoplift, drink excessively or frequent parlours given over to hideously obscure fetishes, without incurring any condemnation that might stick. Brilliant.

It also means that if I'm feeling really selfish or obstructive I can just pull out my psychiatrist's report and wave it in the faces of those who oppose me.

This really is my Willy Wonka golden ticket. Quite remarkable good fortune. I recommend it to you all. This place I'm in could quite possibly be the only sanctuary left for the dilletante and the permanently immature. Nobody expects the psychologically damaged to hit this month's sales targets, I promise.

You don't have be mad to avoid work and spend your life indulging every last febrile whim that strikes you, but it helps.

The only problem being of course is that I'm deeply affected by the contents of that report, to the extent that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts. I had an inkling that something wasn't right when I noticed that I'd spent the last year playing games on a computer and talking to myself for an hour every night in the kitchen, usually about three am.

There had been other clues too, that this report was getting close to the mark. Firstly that I'd been unable to enjoy anything deeper than a funky advert. Also, I'd stopped drinking completely, too depressed. Further signs were spread amongst the numerous abandoned literary works that simply would never be completed. An interest in my professional life seems as alien to me as aliens living in an alien world doing alien things.

I have MDD and PTSD because one crisp September day last year, I watched two people who I love without limit plummet face-first onto a concrete path.

That last bit wasn't a joke.