I have a secret that gets me by on those rare (well, rare-ish) days that melancholy grips me. Churchill called it Black Dog, I call it Poison Head.
I live in a coastal town on the East Coast of Scotland. It's quite beautiful, boasting sheer cliff faces and 3 unique & beautiful beaches (one sadly crowned by a hideous caravan park). There's a nearby RAF base that makes the occasional racket. But it's not too bad. On the whole the sound of the waves is quite soothing.
So what's my secret, when Poison Head sets in and I become a viscious, miserable, grumpy bugger?
It's easy... I picture where I live, that stunning coastline, nestled snugly against the North Sea. I see, floating effortlessly around those clifftops, the hundreds of seagulls, calling to their kin.
The image bright in my mind, I picture a low-flying Tornado sucking one of those awful, dirty, noisy, viscious fucking birds right into its jet intake.
It usually works.