Category Daily Blog

Apr 12 2014

‘The Peace of Easter’

I put this rant on my FaceAche page just before the schools broke up for Easter.  I must admit to getting just a tad annoyed  by the cacophony outside my kitchen window every weekday morning and afternoon

. It should be pointed out that the local school is of a particular religious denomination and as a consequence many of the pupils and their parents live some distance away – hence the expensive overpowered cars.  The particularly strident parents (some of whom have threatened us for having the temerity to park in our own driveway while they are trying to get their offspring to school or back home)  sound a little bit Scally.

We have been known to take our boys to school by car but when they were small we used to park in the pub car park (with the owner’s blessing – his trade increased hugely on sunny days) and walk round the corner.  When they got bigger and went to high school we were permitted to drop them off and collect them only if we parked in a side road away from the school and didn’t play the car stereo too loud – SO embarrassing.  As the boys are n-n-n-nineteen and almost twenty-one now, those days are gone; replaced by longer and more complicated collections and droppings off.

The school-bound moronic mummies ceased to bother me when I went back to work full-time but now that I am home and not particularly gainfully self-employed, they make me a bit cross – sometimes – at other times I want to dash out there and slash their tyres but I am reluctant to blunt any of my new kitchen knives.

Rant!!!!!! We live on a blind corner. There is a very good reason for 20 mile an hour signs. My breakfast preparations have been marred yet again this morning by the sight (and sound) of screeching brakes and screeching thirty-something harpies in over-powered 4 x 4s who have narrowly avoided a head on crash outside my kitchen window. Oy! Surely it is a greater sin to kill your children, your air-headed selves and to smash up your car than to be a few minutes later for the school drop off? Get up earlier! Drive more slowly! Look where you are going! Oh Brainless Bimbo Mummies! (and Daddies but Mummies are in the majority).  Yes, you know who you are! Your parking is selfish and thoughtless but pales in comparison to your awful driving. Rant over – will eat breakfast now and shut up. The sun is shining and it is good to be alive. Let’s keep it that way eh?

Well, they really are dreadful.  When my boys were small I would often walk them to school and back – when I say walk I mean one in the buggy and the older school age one hanging off the back.  It was me that did the walking. Trying to get past the on the pavement by the school just up the road (not the one my boys went to) was almost impossible. Huge gas-guzzling cars barred my way whilst I ran the gauntlet of gossiping mothers with far bigger, better buggies than  mine, looking down their noses at me as I struggled to get past.  They only used said buggies to transport the youngest from the car  to the school gate; the wheels were spotless and only a matching designer changing bag hung from the handles whilst mine were festooned with carrier bags.

After one particularly frustrating trip which resulted in us taking a detour past the  local shop (once an old-fashioned newsagent with jars of sweets and a man who did bird impressions – now an estate agent), I phoned the council to complain and was rewarded with a set of zig zag lines outside the school.

Not that the mummies took much notice. In some cases they are parked up on the other side of the road as much as an hour beforehand leaving the latecomers to park as close to the zig zag lines  as possible and leave no room for cars to get through the middle – especially when the car doors are wide open as they take an age to lash their little ones into the car seats.

Just before the Easter holidays bestowed peace and tranquility on all our houses; I called the police to have a moan. The woman on the other end of 101 listened patiently and even gave me a crime number.

I was mollified.

Whilst sipping my Vanilla-Latte-Macchiato (no added Valium or painkillers) and idly channel-flipping, I received a call from a very nice PCSO from the local (and very nearby) police station.

She was picking up on my complaint about the speeding and parking.  She was very sympathetic (she’s a local girl) but told me a few facts that make me dread the coming term even more.

  • The 20 and 30 mile an hour signs that have blossomed on lamp posts throughout the locality are not enforceable.  They have been put there by the council as a traffic calming initiative.  This may be why the mummies don’t take any notice of them – or it might just be because the mummies are morons and paid someone else to take their driving test.
  • Similarly, zig-zag lines outside a school are not enforceable and the Highway Code suggestion that you should not park right on road junctions is merely that – a suggestion.
  • The mummies could get done for dangerous driving if caught in the act but with five primary schools and a  high school on their beat, the police are trying to solve real crime – allegedly.
  • The mummies could get busted for obstruction if their god-awful parking barred the lawful progress of an emergency vehicle – no doubt trying to speed through and attend an accident caused by other stupid mummies.
  • The police say it is the council’s responsibility to sort out the parking and speeding issues, the council says it is the school’s responsibility, the school says it is up to the police and hey presto! We are back where we began.

The nice PCSO promised to get a colleague to pop into the school after the break and have a word. I can think of several but I am still mellowed by the uninterrupted sound of birdsong and my dog wuffing at the postman – oh, and the people across the road having a very colourful and explitive filled row – and the man on the other side of them throwing his empty whisky bottles into the blue recycling bin.

Dammit!  Back to earplugs and  ‘Homes Under the Hammer‘ on subtitles next week then.

Apr 11 2014

‘Blood, sweat and breakfast on a Friday morning’

Fasting blood test.

Curious how, after eating a dinner that would usually have proved perfectly satisfactory, the knowledge that you mustn’t eat anything for twelve hours makes you incredibly peckish.

I got through to bedtime by drinking gallons of water every time I felt the need to nibble. That, of course, had a knock-on effect throughout the next seven hours.

Between the toilet trips and hot flushes, it was not a peaceful night.

Seeing to the dog first thing proved to be something of a distraction; canine kibble does nothing for me.  More water and then the dash to the hospital in the hope that we beat the crowds.

My blood is sluggish and my veins dive for cover at the first sight of a needle so blood tests have to be done by the heavy-end phlebotomists in the outpatients department. On the one occasion I let the nurses at the health centre have a crack at it, I was put into a taxi and sent off to the hospital after my veins and I had reduced three nurses (and myself) to tears and my arms looked like pin cushions. It was when they suggested immersing my hands in a bucket of very hot water in order to make the veins ‘pop’ that I rebelled.

So now I go to the nice ladies at the hospital. They see me as a challenge and are determined to fill their vampire vials with as little damage to me as possible.  They have an almost unblemished record.  There was just the one occasion where an over-enthusiastic trainee went in one side of the vein and came out the other.

Black and blue but no lasting damage.

So, armed with another bottle of water  – dehydration slows down blood flow and it is always rather warm in the waiting area.  I clutch my form and a pink ticket that says I am number 43 and I people watch.

It seems that the whole world wanders down this corridor; elderly people with sticks and wheelchairs and helping hands, schoolchildren stringing it out so that they miss maths, pregnant women passing through to ante-natal, a bunch of us middle of the roaders  and pyjama-clad patients returning from the shop, the cafe or a crafty fag outside.

It is the staff that are the most fascinating to me.  They conduct their conversations as if we are invisible.

“You know all the rearrangements we made for Dr B’s clinics? Well, she’s only gone and changed everything back to the way it was before! All those sticky labels I printed! She’s so ungrateful!”

An older lady totters down the corridor pushing a trolley loaded with files; she is beautifully coordinated  in animal print but her stiletto shoes are falling off the back of her heels with a curious sucking noise. The trolley wheels squeak as she staggers into the reception area and unloads.  The empty trolley makes a different sound as she returns and the lack of ballast makes her even more unstable.

“Grandma, Grandma!  What wobbles up in the sky?  A jelicopter!”

Laughing now, the same small child had been grizzling a few moments before; she did not enjoy going into the phlebotomist’s lair and watching  ladies sticking needles into people.

Another member of staff sashays past.  She is wearing a skin-tight red dress with a very visible panty line but is apparently oblivious with regard to  her rear view.

Young doctors hurry past with their stethoscopes swinging.  Consultants amble by; venerable and aging briefcases dangling loosely while they have important conversations about the school run and shopping on their mobiles.

My turn.  I have been clenching and unclenching my fist ever since number 40 was called in.  The optimum position for getting blood out of this stone would be for me to hang upsidehttp://www.warringtonguardian.co.uk/news/11143065.New_look_for_Warrington_Hospital_food_court/ down from a trapeze but I have already discussed this subject on a previous visit and we came to the conclusion that the flimsy curtain rails would not be sufficiently weight-bearing.

I have a sensible phlebotomist; she goes for the outside vein and I barely feel a thing.  The needle is removed, the cotton wool and tape are in place and I am out of the door.

Breakfast in the hospital cafe.

Bacon and egg on brown toast with hot chocolate.  There seems to be a mini-feud going on between the woman on the till and the two women serving up breakfast.  She has to keephttp://www.warringtonguardian.co.uk/news/11143065.New_look_for_Warrington_Hospital_food_court/ asking them what the prices are; they are very snippy with her and in the end one of the women opens up the other till and flamboyantly shows off her speedy till skills.  I steer my tray to the first woman and speed through because she has been deserted by all the other customers.

It is a good breakfast though.  The high cholesterol and sugar content is somewhat at odds with the poster-covered wall advertising eating a healthy diet in order to avoid cancer. I turn my back to the wall and munch my brunch with a smile.

This could be the cause of the internal conflict ……. competition from Costa and Subway looms …….

http://www.warringtonguardian.co.uk/news/11143065.New_look_for_Warrington_Hospital_food_court/

 

 

Apr 10 2014

‘Auntie Glad’

It is Thursday and Thursdays are always good days because Auntie Glad used to visit on Thursdays.

My father was the youngest in a family of thirteen.  Gladys was the eldest and when their parents died, my father went to live with her and her husband.

She was always Auntie Glad to us as children; she was warm and cuddly, interested in all that we did, a loving sister-mum to our Dad and very supportive to our own Mum.

Not a ‘real’ grandmother in the truest sense of the word but to us she was better, and Thursdays were always the best.

My childhood memories up until the age of about eight or nine are almost completely happy.  Long summer days playing out and winter nights reading my way through the local library.  After proving that I really was reading every book that I took out, the librarian allowed me to take out four books on my ticket, smiling benevolently when I came back in the afternoon for four more.

Not on Thursdays though. Nothing was ever allowed to interfere with Auntie Glad’s visits.

Auntie Glad’s husband and grown-up daughter worked at the tobacco factory, so she would come over to our house on the bus after lunch and go back home on the bus in time to cook their dinner.  Somewhere en route she would buy us sweets.  Three crisp white paper bags containing rainbow drops – not those horrible brightly coloured puffed rice things – but little discs of milk chocolate covered on one side by hundreds and thousands.

Within half an hour the bags were empty: no longer crisp but limp, holed by small wet fingers desperate to get the last of the hundreds and thousands from the corners.

It didn’t matter how naughty we were.  Auntie Glad still visited and she still brought us rainbow drops.

I can remember a miserable Wednesday when I decided to scrawl across the wall with my crayons.  Berated by my mother as she tried to scrub off the marks, I wailed “I wish it was Thursday!”

“So do I!” was my mother’s heartfelt response.  Auntie Glad always used to make things better for her too.

When my mother went into hospital for a minor operation, I was sent to Auntie Glad’s for a week.  It was like being in heaven.  I pottered happily around the house following Auntie Glad and ‘helping’; was introduced to the joys of hot Oxo at bedtime; and watched a film called ‘The Rocking Horse Winner’ which both confused and excited me.  Auntie Glad’s husband and daughter came home from work and brought me comics and exciting little tin boxes that smelled of tobacco and had a sailor’s face on the front.

When Auntie Glad became ill, we went on the bus to see her. She became frail and had something mysterious called ‘shingles’ on her face.  It was always covered by a bandage and we could only kiss her on the other cheek and be extra gentle when we hugged.

I know now that she was in a great deal of pain at the time but she always made the effort to get dressed and be ready for our visits, determined not to upset us by showing us her pain.

Her death hit all of us hard. For my parents it was the death knell on their marriage: she had been the glue that held them together, the role model for my mother, and her understanding of my father’s depression always enabled her to bring him out of his black gloom.

A bright light went out for me.  Every time I thought of Auntie Glad I heard the words of the song ‘Puff the Magic Dragon‘.

“Then one night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more and Puff the Magic Dragon, he ceased his fearless roar“.

I know.  It was Jackie Paper that grew up and stopped visiting the land of Honalee, but when Auntie Glad died and there were no more wonderful Thursdays it was as if my own magic dragon had died too.

The Thursdays came back eventually as I discovered that there were other magical people in my world who could also make me happy.

Rainbow drops are still wonderful, even if they no longer come in little white paper bags and Thursdays will always be special days.

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Apr 9 2014

‘Fear is the monster you fight’

‘Fear is the monster you fight,

In the darkest moments of the night.

So move like you have a choice,

And speak out in your loudest voice.’

 

I woke up with this in my head.Sunset_Cat_8XhkszoaLJiM5tSNDFNtQ

 

 

Apr 7 2014

‘Stop Press! Monday Moan turns into a Happy Monday’

Today marks the seventh day of trying to write something fresh every day of April.

Until today I had a good idea each night of what I wanted to write the next day and duly jotted notes in the little book given to me by a thoughtful friend for just such a purpose.

Last night. Nothing. This morning. Nothing.

I turned to my Hub for inspiration having been deserted by my muse.  Hub reminded me of Jon Richardson’s experience of not being able to write  – so he wrote about not being able to write and turned into a very funny and successful part of his stand up act. Love Jon Richardson. Love Hub.

It occurred to me that perhaps the reason why I couldn’t write anything was because I’m having too good a time of it.

In fact, this weekend we’ve all been having a good time of it really and it looks as if the fun isn’t going to stop there.

Saturday was a day of comings and goings, of a front room further obstacle-coursed by camouflaged clothing, bags of armoury, the giant paintball suitcase and a confused dog. I admit that the floor is already cluttered by my boxes of stuff and piles of paper but that is the normal status of the room.

The delayed but extremely welcome arrival of Bezzie Mate led to a very late night chatting and chortling over ”The Big Bang Theory‘.  So good to have friends who laugh at the same things as you do.

Three hours sleep later and I am up with Hub, who is taking two friends off to a scrapyard paintball game in Doncaster.  Hub is waved off at 0615, the Scoob has watered the Hebe bush and I am free to blog till 0700 when I have to wake Gap Boy so he can gather up his guns, boots and flak jacket for a day of shooting people with BBs. His lift is late and I have to spend three-quarters of an hour mollifying him and fending off his anxiety insults.  BM was warned to stay in his room until I texted him to sound the all clear.  An anxious GB does not make for good company.

By 0900 Scoobs and I are dozing on the sofa.  I put ‘Mythbusters‘ on to distract GB whilst he was waiting then fell asleep when he left.

BM emerges from his room and we celebrate the day with a breakfast of Marmite toast and experiments with my Pingu coffeemaker – not as leisurely as the cafetière but the pods provide an enormous variety and frothy milk.  As always we chat and chat and the morning passes before we know it.  I managed to get tickets for the three of us to see Rich Hall next month whilst we were chilling though.
We go shopping together, have a lovely shared lunch, do more silly shopping then hurry home in the rain  to await the weary warriors – and Uni Boy who has travelled to Doncaster to meet his dad and come home for the night.

GB bursts through the patio doors – his camo gear unsullied and his gorgeous hairdo barely ruffled.

“I shot loads of people.  A couple in the face and one in the b*****s.  They shouldn’t have got in the way!”

BM, Scoob and I exchange covert grins.  We listen attentively to GB’s shoutiness, knowing that  he will quieten down soon.  Supplied with fizzy drink and crackers, he stomps off to his room to shout at his computer.

An hour later the battle-scarred paintballer returns with a happy but tired UB.  Hub has a post-paintball unwinding routine of putting things away and washing the mucky stuff. GB subscribes to the ‘dump it on the floor where people will trip over it.  They can move it if they are annoyed by it and I can get annoyed with them if it isn’t where I left it next time I need it‘ school of thought (Does he actually think?). Love him, squeeze him, throttle him.

Takeaway time – curry for four of us and Chinese for UB who doesn’t do curry (Sorry Dad).  BM and I volunteer to be the hunter-gatherers as Hub is flagging and home delivery takes hours.  Our local shopping square is peaceful and almost pretty in the red light of the setting sun.  From the Spar shop to the Chinese chippy and finally the Indian takeaway, we return with our spoils.  UB retires to his room to eat and GB to his, leaving BM, Hub and me to eat, talk and enjoy each other’s company.  Scoob waits expectantly and is eventually rewarded with the leftover pappadum bits.  Happy dog.  Happy me. I have four of my favourite people (and Scoob) back in my nest.

The end of the night sees us all outside waving BM off on his journey home after much hugging and manly handshakes.  Scoob pees against the gate and sniffs the night air for cats. They are sensibly indoors.

GB decides to go out for a blat on his bike now that the roads are quieter and darker.  Being the worrywart that I am, I sit up until he is home safely and so is BM. Although BM has a longer journey, his is less eventful than GB’s.  My boy bursts in through the patio doors again, blathering about the idiots on the road and how his mirrors keep turning round.

I am so ready for my bed.

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So, my moaning about a lack of inspiration has been turned into the happiness engendered by my nearest and dearest.  We are taking UB back to York today; a leisurely road  trip, mammoth supermarket shop and dinner out  at the wonderful www.redchillirestaurant.co.uk/york_gallery.asp . before Hub and I complete the day with a companionable drive home singing along loudly to the radio.

Next weekend Hub and I are going back home to the seaside for a big birthday party; to see family, visit old haunts and enjoy hotel breakfasting together.  GB and UB are dog sitting and partying (not in our house I hasten to add!).

We have a good seven days ahead of us. Happy Monday!

 

Apr 6 2014

‘Clicketty-Click: Confessions of a really bad Bingo caller’

During a summer many years ago, I found myself working under  the job description of ‘Events Organiser (Elderly Persons).  This was a very grand title for one of a handful of people who went round the lunch clubs held at different homes for the elderly.  This was long before any swingeing governmental cuts;  in the days when most homes had at least one large lounge where the residents and day centre attendees could cluster and hopefully be entertained. The lounge would inevitably smell of disinfectant and the stale urine that lingered in the crevices of the institutional high-backed vinyl-covered chairs regimented in a semi-circle.  Faded silk flower displays cluttered the surfaces in a failed attempt to cheer up  the pale green or blue painted walls, dark spill-proof carpets and curtains that were never closed unless there was a funeral.

There was always a gentle rivalry between the residents and those who were brought to the home in the minibus from their own homes. Residents tended to be frail and confused whereas the day centre people were judged to be more self-caring but in many cases they were just hanging on to independence by their fingertips.  The day centres gave them the opportunity to go somewhere warm where they were guaranteed morning and afternoon coffee and biscuits, as well as a hot lunch and some form of ‘entertainment’.  I use that word very loosely.

I spent most of my time in the early part of that summer doing the washing up.   There was always a great deal of it and it was the ideal opportunity to escape from the scariness of old age and confusion.  No matter how hard I tried, I always left someone out on the coffee round, or failed to order enough lunches.  This kind of catastrophe resulted in a hurried reloading of plates by the kindly but gently disapproving volunteers who had been helping out at lunch clubs for years and were vaguely condescending to us paid employees.

As the summer wore on, I found myself participating and then eventually organising the activities for groups of twenty to thirty elderly people who weren’t always sure where they were or why. We had quizzes and memory games, local entertainers would come with a Bontempi organ, small amplifier and a microphone to sing wartime songs and send the odd hearing aid haywire .  There would be outings in the minibus; to garden centres, museums and sometimes the beach.  Long trips entailed the organisation of lunch somewhere, usually in a pub which could be guaranteed not to lose patience with our haphazard ordering and the probability that at least half of our charges would have forgotten what they had ordered beforehand anyway.

We couldn’t take everyone on these trips and it was always sad to see the faces of those left behind peering out from behind the ever-open curtains like disappointed children.

The mainstay of the lunch club entertainment was Bingo.  Every home had a box containing photocopied Bingo blanks, half-sized ball pens that had been pilfered from Argos or Littlewoods, a set of numbered balls in a black cloth bag, and the number chart and counters so that the caller could blank off the numbered ball  once it had been called.

Some homes were more sophisticated; they had invested in proper Bingo (or Lotto) sets with a see-through circular ball into which the numbered balls were loaded and dispensed randomly, defeating any allegations of cheating. I always got stuck with the black cloth bag.

The Bingo prizes were donated by the lunch club attendees and had to be closely vetted.  I remember one packet of coconut mallow biscuits that turned up at nearly every lunch club, donated by the person who won it last time.  The mallow had dried out, the biscuits were soft and the coconut had gathered in a pile at the bottom of the cellophane packet.  The sell-by date had been worn off by the many pairs of old, dry hands that had clutched the packet triumphantly.  I took an executive decision one day and binned them, together with out of date tins of baked beans, tomato soup and snails – probably an unwanted present from someone’s daughter-in-law after a family trip to France.

I replaced them with nicer, newer food from my own larder and was gently but firmly reprimanded by one of the older volunteers who felt that I shouldn’t be wasting my money. I was never quite sure why this lady volunteered.  She was always the first to snatch away half-drunk cups of coffee, half-eaten lunch plates and was hustling the day centre attendees into their coats long before the bus had arrived.  Every activity was accompanied by a long-suffering sigh and she spent even more time washing up than I did.

I will never forget the first time I was asked to do the Bingo.  I though it would be easy.  After all, I had spent many sessions observing and helping (badly) to cross off numbers once they were called.

Part of the job was remembering the names for the numbers; two fat ladies, Kelly’s eye, key to the door and my nemesis, clicketty-click. I was so bad at remembering the names that one of the old ladies very kindly wrote them down for me but her writing was so tiny and cramped that the stress of pulling the balls out of the bag rendered my list unreadable.

It seemed that whenever I did the Bingo there were no early winners, just a cluster of elderly people  fighting over tins and biscuits at the very end.  It got to the point where my ineptitude was so legendary that they would ask for me to do the Bingo just so they could have a good laugh. To this day I don’t know what I was doing wrong but Bingo is a game I avoid at all costs.  I tremble at the sight of halls full of people with their multiple cards and brightly coloured dabbers for marking off the numbers. Far more efficient than our badly photocopied blanks and tiny pens.

For my last day at the lunch clubs, before moving on to bigger and more challenging things, I was allowed to organise a day trip, and to bring my husband along – such a very supportive man.  I arranged for us all to have lunch in a pub that we knew would be particularly sympathetic, was wheelchair accessible, had disabled toilet facilities ( a rarity in those days) and wasn’t far from our afternoon excursion to the beach at Mudeford.

Lunch went off with only one wrong order – and that was the bus driver.  We loaded our satiated charges back onto the bus and headed for the sea.  It was sunny but one of those pleasantly balmy afternoons where you can happily sit for a while and bask without burning.

There were no mishaps at the beach either; Dame Fortune smiled on me that day but was probably smiling at the sight of two dozen elderly people paddling in the sea or sitting in the wheelchairs on the sea wall clutching their 99 ice creams in the sunshine.

It was truly a grand day out.

 

 

Apr 5 2014

‘Five a day – What fruit are you?’

At any given time you can log on to FaceAche and find at least one question application that will help you to appreciate who or what you are – allegedly.

Sometimes I ignore them, sometimes I click and complete the questionnaire but don’t post them to my timeline because the outcome is fairly predictable.  Occasionally I come across one that makes me smile and want to share it with others.  These are a rarity though.

‘What fruit are you?’ aroused my interest for a minute or two and then I was distracted and moved off in another direction.  I lost the app because I couldn’t remember who, amongst my friends and family had posted it originally.

Later that day, still curious and with a few minutes to spare, I did a search on Google and found loads of  fruity personality quizzes – some of them highly unlikely to give any clue to your personality, they were clumsy and poorly spelled, the worst of them contained the following questions:

3. Do you prefer to work alone or as a team?
As a team, but I am always the leader
As a team, then I don’t get the blame when it goes wrong
On my own, because I hate my other colleagues
On my own, because I feel I work better that way
I don’t care
and
7. If you found a wallet with a large amount of money in it whilst walking in a field would you?
Keep it, finders keepers, losers weepers
Take the wallet to the police but take the money
Take the wallet with the money to the police
Don’t know
Apparently this app can conclude from your answers whether you are a:
Succulent strawberry?
Lonesome pear?
Jolly banana?
Ambiguous tomato?
Bitter lemon!
I am a succulent strawberry apparently:
How sweet.  I must put this in my CV.  Why not have a look yourself – http://www.fruitquiz.co.uk/
This wasn’t actually the app that I saw on FaceAche.  I found it later and discovered that the questions were a bit more sophisticated and that I wasn’t a strawberry after all but a grape! As a grape I am ‘adaptable and intelligent, always one step ahead, my friends rely on me to know answers to questions (hope no one asks anything about maths or science – gulp) and if I wrote the ‘Rules for Life’ the world would be a better place‘.
Wow. Go me!
I could have been a banana, an apple, an orange or a watermelon on this site. Having tripped through the 9  questions giving different answers, I turned into an orange and then a watermelon. I also came to the conclusion that the app had a random generator effect and that the answers to the questions bore no relevance to the fruit designation you receive at the end. Having looked at the personality descriptions allotted to each fruit – yeah – they are all a bit ambiguous and generalised. Bananas are stolid, apples are boring, oranges are not the only fruit and I’m very glad that I’m not a watermelon.
I’m not a strawberry or a grape.  I’m a cherry.
Well that’s half an hour of my life I’ll never get back again.
Apr 3 2014

‘Three Degrees of Social Influence’

“Jason! Hey Jaaaayssssonnnn!”

Jason looked up from his laptop and smiled at the vision before him.  Nico; red skinny jeans, lime green polo shirt,virgin white Converse and a casually draped peach cardigan that was in danger of slipping off his fashionably slight shoulders.  Pulling out the chair opposite, Nico sat down with a flourish and crossed one leg over the other, his foot flipping in an attention-grabbing manner. He was being watched by the other students in the room and he knew it.

“Guess what!”

Jason shrugged his chunky and less fashionable shoulders, camouflaged by a uniform black tee-shirt and grey hoodie that enabled him to blend in with most backgrounds.  “What Nico?  What have you heard?”

“Well.” Nico leaned forward conspiratorially, “You know like, I was going to a party at Amelia’s last night?  So sick! Huge country farm, parents away, big brother in charge but like he is always SO out of it!”

Having been omitted from the invitation list, Jason had tried to ignore the buzz that had gone around college regarding the party. As it was a major talking point, this had not been easy and packing up his books to go home on Friday night, it had been particularly painful listening to the excited babble.  He slid out of the room as quietly as he could and walked home trying to convince himself that the party would be a total failure, that Amelia was a stuck-up phony and that he wouldn’t have gone anyway even if he had been invited.

“Anyhoo!  It was a DISASTER!” Nico squealed, his expressive legs crossing and recrossing themselves. “Somebody put the address on FaceAche! There were like literally HUNDREDS of people there!  Police, ambulance, fire brigade – did I tell you that someone torched the barn?  Amelia was like totes DEVASTATED! She’d been so careful just to keep the invitations to friends ONLY but one of her friends must have like posted the information to THEIR friends and then like  they posted the invitation to THEIR friends and ZILLIONS of strangers turned up!”

“Much damage done?” Jason said as he executed a couple of swift keystrokes on his laptop.

“Oh my days yes! The barn burnt down.  Rooms were trashed, all the booze went and like the caterers left once the food fight started.  Amelia’s brother was arrested for a public order offence – he was like TOTES drunk – and Amelia threw everyone out.  Some of the girls were supposed to be staying the night and they had like NOWHERE to go!”

Raising his eyebrows slightly, Jason stopped to take a sip of his Americano coffee from the utilitarian white mug.  The waitress brought over Nico’s beverage; creamy beige in a tall glass with a long spoon and accompanied by a flake and marshmallows.  It rejoiced in the name of Choco-Mocha-Vanilla-Latte-Macchiato; Nico had opted for extra whipped cream and a sprinkle of cocoa powder. It was a barrista’s work of art with a carefully executed heart-shape in the cream.  Other students rushed to the counter to order the same, but no one came back with a solid white mug.

“Is that your essay?  I’m going to have to ask for an extension.  I just don’t understand this three degrees of social  influence stuff at all.”

Smiling slowly, Jason saved his essay, emailed it to his tutor and pressed delete in his FaceAche settings. He looked pensively at his friend.

“How many FaceAche friends do you have Nico?”

“Oh, like hundreds I suppose.”

“So suppose you had some good news.  Such good news that you wanted to tell ALL your friends on FaceAche.  That’s one degree.  Then one of your friends decided to tell all of their friends, none  of whom actually know you personally. That’s two degrees. One of your friend’s friends thinks that the news is SO wonderful that she decides to tell all HER friends too.  Suddenly loads of people who you don’t know are aware of your good news.  It’s been established that good news spreads more quickly than bad.  Isn’t social media a wonderful thing?”

Nico’s gorgeous brow furrowed.  He opened his mouth to speak, looked over at the innocent face of his friend and tried to remember if he had actually told Jason where Amelia’s party was being held. He felt a little nauseous and pushed his coffee creation away.

Satisfied that the fake FaceAche profile he had created on Sunday morning had been well and truly deleted leaving no trace to himself, Jason closed down his laptop, drained the last of his Americano, and got to his feet.

“You coming Nico?  Class starts in five minutes.”

Mar 30 2014

Fooling around in April

Time to get back to work  and flex these fingers. My big PC has moved downstairs so that the Scoob can keep me company whilst I tappety-tap away when the muse moves.

Going to try and write something every day in April if possible; an exercise in self-discipline and looking outside the parameters of my own little world.

Needless to say, any beady eyes looking to cause trouble should check out the disclaimer page first and then look to their own consciences – if they have any.

All fiction has its roots in fact,  and however deep those roots go, I believe that is what makes it readable.

 

Mar 7 2014

‘Offally painful’ – my devilish kidneys

kidney_stones

For the past week I’ve had a nagging pain – not in the neck – but in my back and side.

It disturbed my nights and messed up my days.  Monday was especially bad and going to bed was a waste of time so I got up at 0500 hours and surfed the net for my symptoms – as you do.

I didn’t have a temperature. My blood pressure was normal.The waves of hot and cold were attributed to the curse of  middle-aged women-ness and I discounted the idea of kidney stones because the pain wasn’t that bad.  I already knew about the pain they cause thank you.

Hub had kidney stones when the boys were younger. He was nauseous and in such pain that when my dad drove us to hospital, I had to physically hold Hub down to stop him getting out of the car when we stopped at the traffic lights.  I will never forget the look of relief on his face as he lay on a bed in A&E and the morphine injection kicked in.

They kept him in hospital for two days, and when they scanned him there was no sign of the stone, so it must have sneakily sidled off into the hospital’s sewage system.

Hub remembers the time as one of pain, boredom, annoyance at the squeaking of the night nurse’s shoes and tells me that the clock stopped every time I left him.

I remember that time as one of awful division; wanting and needing to look after the boys but wanting and needing to look after my Hub, who looked so desolate in a ward full of creaking and groaning  old men.

It was wonderful to have him home again and a scan a year later showed he was still stone-free – maybe that’s what Jimi Hendrix was talking about when he wrote the song?

Back to the present and after a  few hours of web-torture I stumbled back to bed and into a troubled sleep that saw me wake at 0900 hours; half an hour too late to book myself an online GP appointment – they go on the website at 0830 hours and are all gone within minutes – possibly due to the depersonalisation aspect and not having to wrangle with a curmudgeonly receptionist over whether you deserve to see Doctor or not.

We had things to do in town that day so I gritted my teeth and took one last desperate attempt to get an emergency appointment ……. “Surgery has finished for the morning.  There are no doctors here. If you want an urgent appointment you need to phone back in an hour but I can’t guarantee you’ll get one.”

The receptionist obviously misunderstood the meaning of the word ‘urgent‘.

Hub and I went to town; walking actually seemed to ease the pain and I felt better, deciding that whatever it was had gone away.  Buoyed up by a sense of achievement at getting things done (taking our passports to the nice check and send lady being one of the things) we went food shopping and I attributed the now dull ache in my back to the usual twinge of a degenerating spine.

The pain came back though; Hub was on night shifts for two nights and on the first he left me some money in case I needed to get a taxi to A&E whilst he was away. It subsided and although I was up till 0230 hours watching dogs doing assault courses on the TV – not actually ON the TV, it was a programme – I got some sleep and put things off for another day.

The next night was worse; I couldn’t get comfortable and the realisation finally set in that whatever it was that was giving me grief, it wasn’t going to go away unless I did something about it.

Awake again at 0500-ish hours and it was You Tube clips of ‘Smack the Pony‘ and ‘Life of Brian‘ put on by old college chums, that helped me make it through the night.

I texted Hub and he got an early go from work to come home and take me to A&E.  Scooby dog was very confused at such comings and goings but after feeding him and packing my rucksack with the necessities of life: Kindle, water, money and a spare battery for my Blackberry, we set off.

Plus points; the receptionist was fine and I was triaged and asked for a urine sample by 0720 hours.  Half an hour later we were following a nice doctor into the minors section and I was soon safely situated on a trolley, tethered by a BP cuff and blood oxygen monitor (the plastic clip thing that they put on your finger).

When the doctor returned we played a twenty questions game to see how thorough my medical surfing had been. He won.  I had kidney stones but they needed to do blood tests and a CT (computerised tomography – all those years of studying psychology were not in vain  – or vein) to see what was going on in my kidneys.

I warned the nice nurse about my manky veins; veins which look as if they might give up a bit of blood but withdraw speedily at the sight of a needle.  She did brilliantly though and within a few pain-free minutes, had drawn sufficient blood and installed a canula in case she needed to come back for more. I was given some very cold water and told to drink it up as my bladder would need to be full for the scan.

Hub went home at my insistence; he was just as tired as me and needed food.  In addition our trusty car was going to the dint man at 1030 hours, to be replaced by an unknown quantity courtesy car (hope it’s bigger than the Ford Ka they gave us last time). It turned out to be a Citroen C something – small, silver and Gap Boy says it looks gay.

I drank more water.  My nice nurse was replaced by a distinctly more abrupt one who thrust the thermometer in my ear with what I considered to be unnecessary force.  She barked terminological questions at me and when I looked blank, explained in a patronising and long-suffering way, that she wanted to know if I had been for my CT scan yet.

I looked down at the BP cuff and blood oxygen monitor holding me to the bed and shook my head.  She tutted and wandered off. I drank more water.

At 0925, the trolley, me and my worldly goods; rucksack, boots and hoodie were wheeled off by a lovely porter who became a friend – largely due to the fact that he seemed to be the only porter in the hospital but also because he was very kind and had a sense of humour – unlike Nurse Ratchett who pulled an extremely smacked-arse face when we arrived at the Clinical Decisions Unit (otherwise known as the Make Your Mind Up Ward) and they knew nothing about me.

The porter and a Ratchett replacement in pale blue made me up a bed  – he willingly, she with another smacked-arse face. My aching kidney, bursting bladder and I climbed aboard the bed to wait, and wait, and wait.

Twice I went to the toilet because my bladder hurt more than the kidney did.  Twice I filled up my bladder again. I didn’t get breakfast because no one had told the ward staff whether I was nil by mouth or not.  They didn’t think to check.  The lady next to me went off to her MRI (Magnetic Resonance imaging – go me!) scan a quarter of an hour late because the staff forgot to ask the porter to take her.  She was so annoyed by this that she went out to the ward doors to wait for him instead of compliantly waiting on her bed  – like me.

The woman at the other end of the ward was having hysterics and decided to discharge herself and her water infection because she wanted to go home.  The very attractive girl two beds down read a newspaper and politely reminded staff that she hadn’t had her breakfast.  The trolley had been removed by then so they gave her some Ribena. The old lady opposite who had wanted toast, was told that she couldn’t have any.  She was given bread and jam; the porter scavenged some butter from another ward and came back brandishing it proudly like a warrior returning with spoils.

The staff nurse asked me if Ratchett 2 had done my obs (BP and all that jazz).  She hadn’t.  She was last seen hiding behind a monitor at the nurses’ station.  The old lady opposite me  was waiting for her daughter to come and take her home.  She waited for the staff to get her dressed; she waited, and waited, and wet herself.

The staff nurse and Ratchett 2 were in the middle of completely strip washing the old lady when her daughter arrived. They were not unkind to the old lady but a tad brusque and annoyed at all the extra work her incontinence had caused.  I listened to their all-too-audible grumblings and thought – yeah, if you hadn’t spent so long chatting at the nurses’ station this wouldn’t have happened.

A cleaner in a lilac top listlessly mopped and wandered about the ward picking things up and putting them down.  Apparently her duties do not include emptying the overflowing paper towel bin in the toilet although it came in useful to prop the door open whilst she performed the cursory mop.

Another nurse in a green top seemed to be the only one able to carry out her duties without grumbling or being distracted.  I liked her.

My doctor returned; confused as to why I hadn’t been for my scan – after all it was 1100 hours by this time. I still hadn’t been able to take my breakfast time medication – due to a lack of breakfast and my bladder was reaching killer wave proportions.  He promised to write me up for some pain relief, get me a sandwich and find out why I hadn’t gone for a scan yet.  I liked him.

The staff nurse came over, took the obs that Ratchett 2 hadn’t, explained that they had no food on the ward  but that she would get me a sandwich later, she also said that she had phoned the scan department and the porter would be along shortly to take me down.  I kind of liked her.

The porter arrived and we sped off to the scanning department where I was told that they had been waiting for me since 0900 hours and had made phone calls trying to track me down but no one seemed to know where I was.

An old man in Guantanamo Bay orange pyjamas sat silently in a wheelchair beside me whilst I squirmed in bladder agony. We were then joined by two more patients who were taking it easy in hospital beds.  It was getting rather crowded in there.

My turn! I was pushed into the scanner room and a schoolboy asked me if I was pregnant.  My bladderific state prevented me from coming up with anything too sarcastic.  I had to lie on my stomach (ouch) and as I clenched my pelvic floor muscles desperately. an American voiced female said “Take a deep breath and hold”. I slid into the scanner and out again. “Breathe”. that was a relief.  I slid in and out again and it was all over.

I don’t know about being pregnant but my waters broke as I hefted myself off the scanner couch.  I apologised to the schoolboy who grinned and said he was used to it.  I clenched my pelvic floor muscles again and staggered out to the toilet only to find that the ladies was blocked by another hospital bed.  My schoolboy ushered me into the gents with another endearing grin.

Oh Reader – the relief!

I was however, rather damp below and embarrassed, annoyed that none of this need have happened if I’d been taken for my scan at 0900 hours as requested, starving hungry and a bit wobbly through not taking my morning medication.

My porter took me back to the ward where Ratchett 2 appeared to be in charge.  I had heard her and the staff nurse making complex arrangements earlier about breaks and lunches and other such vital things.  That was when the old lady opposite wet herself.  Now I was in the same predicament.  What price personal dignity on a hospital ward?

I texted my Hub for clean clothes and got my medication out so that I could take it when my sandwich arrived. I waited, and waited, and waited.

Managing to finally catch Ratchett 2’s eye and receive a responsive smile, I was rather downhearted to see her then disappear into the other ward.  I continued to wait. It was now 1145 hours.

She returned and hunkered down behind her monitor so that she didn’t need to make eye contact with anyone.  A tin of Quality Street appeared and was passed around the occupants of the nurses station, which now included an occupational therapist who talked very loudly on the telephone about another of the patients. I really didn’t need to know about the woman’s involvement with social services or domestic violence but discretion seemed an unknown concept to to the O/T.

Her indiscretion was outdone however, by the administrator sitting in the open door office behind the nurses’ station.  She really had a loud voice and if it wasn’t for the  fact that I was either bladder-obsessed (pre-scan) or seethingly damp (post-scan) I could have acquired information on all my fellow patients very easily.  Note to staff – referring to patients as ‘Bed 1’ and ‘Bed 7′ is not discreet when we can all see our bed numbers.

Finally, I managed to attract the attention of Ratchett 2 who very reluctantly and slowly approached my bed.  I explained that I had been told I would have pain relief and something to eat with my morning medication when I returned from the scan.  I had been waiting for 25 minutes by then and no one had acknowledged my return to the ward.

Ratchett 2 denied all knowledge of my needs because she had been on a break – apparently checking the patients’ notes when she returned was not in her remit.  She was extremely defensive and claimed that she hadn’t noticed me waving (but not drowning) because she had been so busy.

I pointed out that she hadn’t been too busy to sit at the nurses’ station and eat Quality Street. I asked if she realised how this action impacted on patients such as myself who were waiting for food and medication.  She didn’t think it was any of my business.  The nice nurse in green came over and tried to calm the situation by offering me cereal or a slice of toast (why was the old lady opposite refused toast then?) The administrator came out of her office and made no valuable contribution to the conversation other than to lend support to a defensive Ratchett 2 and glare at me.

We were then joined by the irate cleaner who claimed ownership of the Quality Street and maintained her right to offer it to whoever she wanted, it was none of my business anyway and she wasn’t going to let me have a go at HER!!!!!

I did not shout, nor raise my voice nor swear.  I asked Ratchett 2 not to patronise me or call me ‘my love‘ in such a sarcastic tone.   Ratchett 2 responded by telling me that I had no right to come on her ward and upset her staff. At this point I told the administrator that I wished to make a complaint about my treatment and could she organise it please?

Ratchett 2 and the cleaner disappeared, leaving me with the nice green nurse who (finally) explained that they could not get me a sandwich until 1200 noon when the food trolley arrived.  Why no one had thought to give me this simple but vital piece of information earlier, I don’t know.

The food arrived.  I asked for ham on brown bread but got corned beef on white processed.  Healthy fodder? No matter, it was food. Hub arrived with clean clothes and was tucked into a side lounge – no visitors on the ward whilst meals are being given out.  Is this health and safety or is it to prevent visitors from stealing the patient’s food? Corned beef sarnie anyone?

I took my pills. I started my sandwich.  they gave me Tramadol for the pain. I stopped shaking.

The assistant matron visited me and was very apologetic about the way I had been treated.  She went back to speak to Oooh Matron.  I put on clean clothes, threw the hatefully small hospital gown on the bed, pulled on my boots, and clutching the other half of my sandwich, fled to the safety of the side lounge and Hub’s enveloping arms.  Safe at last.

My nice doctor came back; deeply sympathetic but also bearing tidings of great joy.  My blood tests were back and there was only one teeny tiny stone left in my kidney (approximately 2mm) which wouldn’t hurt when in made the leap into bladder land. I have good-looking kidneys too apparently.  Not that important to most as no one else sees them but as good to hear for me as was the news that I have beautiful pulses in my feet and no nasties in my eyes.  Diabetes can be very cruel to kidneys, feet and eyes so I am blessed. Hub went to get me more painkillers from the pharmacy, the nurse in green removed the canula with no pain or blood, and the staff nurse returned from lunch.

She was very kind but also guarded about the behaviour of her staff.  She promised that she would be looking into the situation and gave me the telephone number for PALS  – the service that attempts to mediate between hospital and patients – some job.

We had been waiting to see Ooooh Matron but the gloating administrator came in to tell us that she was too busy doing interviews to talk.  The staff nurse took our telephone number and said that she would ask Matron to call us the next day so that we could go home and get some much-needed sleep.

Scooby was overjoyed to see us.

Hurrah for Hub, and Bezzie Mate who kept me diverted with off-colour jokey texts throughout the morning.

Hurrah for A&E reception, triage nurse, nice doctor, canula nurse, porter, CT receptionist, sweet schoolboy, nurse in green, assistant matron – and staff nurse.

Boo to Ratchetts 1 and 2, and the throughly incompetent and unpleasant cleaner.

I’d like to think that these were isolated incidents but recent exposure to other hospitals further south has led me to believe that what we have here is a failure to communicate.  Despite all the patient’s charters that are pinned to the hospital walls, there is a lack of appreciation on the part of the staff that the patient’s needs should come before the tin of Quality Street or what time you take your break.

Time for more painkillers.  The sneaky stones have left me bruised and I am instructed to listen out for the tinkle of the last one as it splashes into the toilet bowl.  Lovely.

If in pain, don’t ignore it. I was relieved to find that I had easily treatable kidney stones and nothing worse.

Update: just spoken to Oooh Matron.  I liked her too.