Black Dogs & Brief Delights: Del Hughes Finds her Feet

Del Hughes

 I’m gasping for air, my loins are aflame, and the less said about my lady bits, the better. It’s now agonisingly clear that my chosen form of exercise is nothing short of a saddle-shaped harbinger of hurt.

Every footfall sends a fresh jolt of pain, and my throbbing nether regions are crying out for generous slathers of Savlon and a few bags of ice. Ouchy!

And if the physical torment weren’t enough, it seems that a middle-aged woman, wobbling atop a balance bike – yes, like the ones toddlers have, just bigger – raises more than a few eyebrows, and attracts quite a bit of attention.

In fairness, though, I guess the daisy decals don’t exactly scream subtlety.

See, I’d envisioned 2025 as a year dedicated to building my fitness, supercharging my diet with fruit and veg, and finally kicking the fags.

Getting back into my writing groove was also high on the to-do list, as aside from a few Christmas articles, my pen has been dormant since July.

Drained 

But as January dawned with weak, grizzled light, I felt as drained and wan. Even the tree lights seemed to have lost their festive cheer, mirroring the melancholy that had abruptly settled over me. With each passing day, weariness and despair tightened around me, like a vast greatcoat of gloom – a heavy, immoveable weight from which there was no escape.

Willpower became won’t-power, I took root on the sofa, and the only fruit that passed my lips were Terry’s Chocolate Oranges. Pyjamas were my everyday fashion, accessorised with an endless array of Nordic socks – courtesy of my other half, Tim, who apparently believes Scandinavian hosiery is every girl’s Christmas dream. Wistful sigh. Gone are the days of flirty underwear and fishnets.

(Actually, long gone, because in my twenty-plus years with Tim, a Halloween party in 2005 was the only time I’ve ever worn fishnets. Getting home late, feeling pleasantly merry, I attempted a seductive disrobe. It was going rather well until I peeled off the tights with a triumphant ‘Ta-Da,’ and Tim convulsed with laughter.

Not the reaction I’d hoped for. When he finally caught his breath and explained, I cracked up too – because, honestly, my stomach really did bear a startling resemblance to a baked ham! And with that passion-killing image, back to my woes.)

Daily ablutions became a test of endurance. Tooth-brushing and a quick swill were manageable mostly, but the bi-weekly hair wash frequently felt impossible.

My days were framed by Tim’s work routine, with the empty hours in between, marked by unyielding inactivity.

Essentially, I couldn’t be bothered to bother – with anything or anyone – and life itself felt interrupted, and devoid of purpose.

Family and friends tried their hardest, but no amount of kind-hearted advice helped. Yet, even though they couldn’t fully grasp the depths of what I was feeling, their presence and unwavering support grounded me, reminding me that I wasn’t entirely alone in my struggle.

Joy

And as for joy? That did a runner, with my creative muse in tow. Writing, once a solace, ghosted me, leaving a blank page and a restless mind. In their absence, I turned to relentless doom-scrolling – a hollow distraction, and far too easy to embrace, in a world where doom is never in short supply.

I mastered the fine art of procrastination – so much so, I could have earned a PhD for my (lack of) efforts. Ironic really, considering I sadly decided to step away from my actual PhD course; the mental strength and hwyl to persevere had deserted me, leaving behind only a barren sense of failure.

Most distressing of all, the Del I’d known – optimistic, outgoing, and mostly happy – had vanished. In her place, a stranger stared back at me from the mirror, unfamiliar and unnervingly distant.

It’s shocking how quickly a sense of self can unravel, how the person you’ve always been can silently slip away. What started as disorientation soon turned into a creeping fear, like losing the very foundations that once held me steady.

I couldn’t carry on like this. One, I was piling on weight, big time – not great for either spine or self-esteem. And two, when your other half, arguably the most curmudgeonly chap in Christendom, brands you a ‘mood-hoover,’ something’s seriously amiss.

So, I did what any rational person would – Googled ‘Am I depressed, or do I have depression?’, and promptly fell down the first of many rabbit holes. One landed me at the Met Office, where I unintentionally learned far more about Northern Hemisphere weather systems than I’d ever intended, and discovered ‘the doldrums’ aren’t just a turn of phrase.

But by the time I finally snagged a GP appointment, I had a fair idea of what was up.

Health, grief, and stress

Dr Jones was very understanding. In my ten-minute appointment, I explained how the past two years had frequently found me in said doldrums, due to health, grief, and stress.

But these last few months felt distinctly different. I wasn’t in control – I was unwell, exhausted, simple tasks seemed insurmountable, and I desperately needed help. And then I sobbed my way through a full eight-pack of Kleenex XL 2-Ply! Sad sniff.

His verdict: mild to moderate depression. He referred me for counselling –  ‘though an appointment might take a while’ – and pointed me toward online self-help resources to tide me over. We discussed antidepressants. I wasn’t keen (I take more than enough pills as is), and surprisingly neither was he, because his hunch was that a sluggish thyroid might be the culprit. He arranged a blood test, and with a final ‘don’t call us…’ I was done.

So, yeah, depression. It’s not a subject I ever imagined I’d write about.

In fifty-five years, I’d never personally encountered the infamous Black Dog. However, I do have a fluffy version at home – quirky, peculiar, and unmistakably tangible.

Wolfie, and his brother John, are brim with life, curiosity, and unbridled happiness, and thus make it damn near impossible for me to reconcile the metaphorical canine with something as soul-crushing as depression.

It was Winston Churchill who popularised Black Dog, to describe his lifelong struggles with low mood and melancholy. But the term predates him, rooted in English folklore, and later used by Victorian nannies to describe the intemperate moods of their precious little lambs.

Whatever its origins, I won’t be adopting it, because surely there’s a more fitting symbol for such suffocating bleakness, without associating it with something as universally cherished as dogs.

So, for now, I’ll stick with my greatcoat of gloom, and will welcome whatever pleasure my own black dog brings.

And, despite it all, there have been a few glimmers of light that briefly lifted my spirits this year. The first couple came in January, when my pal, Sarah, and I escaped to a cosy Pembrokeshire cottage for a DIY writing retreat.

I wrote not a word, and instead, dedicated myself to devouring, not only the first four Cormoran Strike novels, but also my body weight in Sarah’s irresistibly delicious, home-baked treats. (What that woman can do with sourdough is nothing short of kitchen witchery!)

Thrilling

But the true high point of our mini-break was an experience billed as ‘not for the faint-hearted’ – a thrilling encounter with one of the world’s most formidable predators: the Sumatran tiger.

Carnivore carer, Sophie, handed us two buckets of duck necks (gulp!) and a pair of tongs each, then led us to the enclosure where Jaya, an adult male, prowled the perimeter, chuffing deeply in eager anticipation of his lunch.

(N.B. If, like me, the word ‘chuffing’ is intrinsically linked to the pinging of Bobby Ball’s braces, you might be surprised to learn, that in tiger circles, chuffing is a soft, breathy snort, used to strengthen social bonds, reassure cubs, and express friendliness. Aw, bless.)

Mind you, Jaya didn’t look that friendly: one hundred and forty kilos of pure, menacing muscle, terrifying teeth, and paws the size of dinner plates. He was truly magnificent. And when Zaza, his nine-month-old daughter, slunk over for a bite, we were absolutely chuffed, and did a fair bit of chuffing ourselves!

Another mood boost came in February when we travelled to Yorkshire to visit Tim’s family. Despite the change of scenery, I found myself retreating, snug in pyjamas, reluctant to leave the holiday cottage or engage with the outside world. But on our final day, Tim gently nudged me out of my insular comfort zone, arranging the perfect incentive – a meandering, scenic drive toward a sculpture I’ve always wanted to see… and hopefully hear..

The Singing Ringing Tree is a striking landmark, perched high on a hillside overlooking Burnley. This panopticon – formed from layered steel pipes – takes the shape of a wind-bent tree, its very structure harnessing the gusts to generate a haunting, melodic song.

And it was spectacular, with the vast views across the Lancashire countryside, and the distant, brooding silhouette of Pendle Hill, adding to the experience. And despite no wind, and a bare breeze, my worries that the tree would neither sing, nor ring, were unfounded.

Its mournful cry could be heard in the car park, and when we stood directly beneath it, the notes were eerie and mesmeric. It was 100% awesome… well, I thought so.

Tim, however, was distinctly unimpressed, striding back to the car without a backward glance, punctuating his exit with a grumpy, ‘That’s ten minutes of my life I won’t get back.’ (Hard eyeroll!)

And now, with sincere apologies for the lengthy diversion, we return to my burning loins – sans fishnets, obvs. Because a last blast of joy came courtesy of my new mobility aid, Anwen, despite her undeniable sadistic streak.

See, last year, my already lousy mobility took quite a hit. Walking more than a few steps became difficult, and I desperately needed something to get me moving again. Enter the ‘Van Raam Walking Bike, which enables the rider to glide along pavements at three to four mph, whilst giving your legs a gentle workout.’

‘Them’s the breaks’

It was love at first sight, I knew she’d fit the bill – even if that bill was eye-wateringly high. Sadly, them’s the breaks when buying any device aimed at the disabled market, so I dithered. £850 isn’t exactly small change, but I had a cunning plan. Mwahaha!

Weeks of dramatic sighing and puppy-dog eyes ensued, until Tim, finally goaded beyond endurance, kindly announced that he’d happily fund the purchase: ‘Just order the bloody thing!’ I hit ‘Buy’ in record time – before he could either reconsider or, worse, check the price. Lol.

I added a few extras to the order – bell, basket, and a fifty euro decision to eschew the default grey bodywork in favour of blue. And a mere ten weeks later, she arrived. Naturally, I wasted no time in customising her. Florals were my decals of choice, paired with faux blooms for her basket. When I finished, she was positively dazzling, and I cleared a cosy little spot for her beneath the stairs, where she could comfortably await her grand debut…

… a debut delayed for far too many months. By then, my body was fully committed to its sit-in, and my mind, drained of sense and strength, couldn’t even attempt to persuade it to get up, get dressed, and go out. As for adding Anwen to the mix? Utterly ridiculous.

Soon, she became a symbol of everything I loathed about myself, a silent reminder of my lethargy, mocking my inaction at every turn. But last weekend, everything changed. And the catalyst? None other than the charlatan in chief, Donald Trump. (Yep, honestly.)

I rarely discuss politics in my articles, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the current, beyond-horrifying global situation is feeding my dismal mood. So, I’ve been attempting to swerve the social media mis-infosphere, which teems with Orwellian doublethink because that way, madness lies. But there’s no avoiding that insanely irresponsible orange, who signs executive orders with impunity and seeds chaos with every wheezing exhale.

Flabbergasted

Anyway, last Sunday, when the White House released Trump’s glowing medical report, I was flabbergasted – emphasis on flab – to discover that I weigh exactly the same as that bloated bag of custard! (Cue the bell of shame!)

Yes, the last few months have seen me migrate from Plumpington to the fringes of Fatsville, but really? The same sodding weight as him! You can imagine how a discovery like that might galvanise a gal to take immediate action, depression or no.

The very same day, I binned the crappy ready meals I’d relied on for months, ordered an avalanche of superfoods, and took Anwen on her first official outing. It wasn’t pretty, it was far from graceful, and every manoeuvre set my thighs ablaze, and left my undercarriage painfully pulped.

Still, we’ve kept at it, gone walkabout every day, and I’m holding out hope that I’ll soon find that elusive gliding groove. (Fingers firmly crossed – legs, unfortunately, not. Double ouchy, with a generous side of myalgia!)

And that’s my year so far – leaden skies with brief bursts of sun. But there’s an occluded front gathering, air masses colliding, uncertainty rising.

In seven days, I’ll step into its shifting currents, facing my most significant challenge to date – chatting about my book at the Llandeilo Literary Festival. Double gulp! Petrified doesn’t begin to cover it. (And yes, the Met Office has left its mark.)

Speechless

Because, right now, every one of my insecurities – and they are legion – is magnified, and the thought of speaking in front of actual, real people genuinely terrifies me. In fact, just imagining it leaves me speechless – which, let’s face it, for a bookish chat, with Q&A, doesn’t bode well. Sigh.

Yet, that I’m determined to go through with it – even at my lowest ebb – must surely mean that a tiny spark of adventurous spirit still smoulders within? And frankly, I’m taking showing up as a victory in itself.

Which is why, on a day that celebrates renewal and fresh starts (and though my greatcoat remains firmly in place), I can sense tiny shoots of possibility stirring: a hushed revival of hope and a tender reminder that, even in the toughest of times, new beginnings can quietly take root.

So I wish you all, not only a very happy Easter, but also, in the iconic words of Dr. Frasier Crane himself, good mental health.

If you’re carrying your own greatcoat of gloom, below are some websites that can help. And remember you’re not alone, and it really does feel good to talk:

NHS

MIND

TARGETED NHS LINKS

SAMARITANS UK

The big cat experience took place at Manor Wildlife Park near Tenby. It’s Grrrreat! 

And tickets for Llandeilo Lit Fest are available from their website. Hope I’ll see you there.