Apr 8 2014

“Only Lazy Gods make snakes”. I’ve liked this as a title ever since I watched children using Play-Doh.’

For my big brother – a wonderful Grandad. 

 

Harry sat in the middle of a grassy lawn.  He was surrounded by beautiful flowers and fantastic insects.

He frowned with concentration as he picked out the colours and shapes.

Every object had to be different, and he smiled as he placed them on the grass and watched them come to life.

Other small gods occupied the lawn, each intent on their own marvellous creations.

The Big Benevolent One smiled as he wandered past looking at their labours.

His fingertips touched Harry’s head.

Harry looked up and smiled back.  He was very happy.

“Good job Harry.  You can move on to something bigger now.  Some animals and birds perhaps?”

Flushed with pride at such a compliment, Harry collected more materials and set to work.

He started small; a mouse and then a brightly coloured lizard.

Placed carefully on the grass, the mouse shook his whiskers and scurried off to make a home.

The lizard took his time. He stretched and let the sunshine warm his shimmering skin.

“Time for something bigger now.  I shall call it Dog and it will be my friend.” Harry said to himself and was just putting together the items he needed when he heard an unfamiliar sound.

The Big Benevolent One was standing in the corner of the lawn staring down at Milo; a slightly larger god who had put together some especially clumsy-looking cactus plants.

There was an ominous rumbling.

“You can do better than this Milo.  Look around you. Look at the colours and the shapes. Move on to something beautiful or you’ll have to spend time making rocks.”

Milo frowned. He hated making rocks. It was boring, hot and the other larger gods shouted at him.  They had only a few more days to finish the Earth after all. and everyone was working as hard as they could.

Except Milo, who just wanted to lie under the trees and watch everyone else working.

The Big Benevolent One moved on to admire someone else’s work and Milo sulkily picked up some brown clay.

He rolled it idly between his hands, then on a piece of flat stone until it grew longer and thinner.

He started another, and another until the stone was covered with a number of long thin brown snakes of varying sizes.

Harry glanced over at the snakes; all blind and hungry and dull.

He got to his feet, picked up a handful of pieces left over from the lizard and walked over to Milo who felt that he had done enough and had fallen asleep.

The snakes were given jewel-bright eyes and long forked tongues.  Harry striped their brown skin with green and white, red  and blue for the big ones, and for the last he covered the brown with yellow and white stripes.

Stroking the warm skin as it came to life, Harry smiled.

“You will be a corn snake and your name will be Dave.'”

Hearing the sound of the Big Benevolent One approaching, Harry got up and returned to creating Dog.

Milo woke and looked at the fabulous snakes slithering around happily in front of him.

“Well done Milo!  Take a little break now.  Usually only lazy gods make snakes but you have done well. ” The Big Benevolent One patted Milo’s head but looked across at Harry and winked.

Harry was happy, especially when Dog came to life, wagged his tail and licked Harry’s face.

Milo snored in the sunshine.

corn snake

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.

118950093

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 4 2014

‘Sally Forth’

Her husband held her particularly close that morning as he left for work. She waved him goodbye and checked her watch.  Six fifteen. Shower first or breakfast?

The dog’s soft whine and imploring eyes were a momentary distraction from her purpose. She stuffed her feet into a pair of old suede boots, pulled on her duffel coat and opened the patio doors.  He ran out into the garden with a joyous abandon that made her smile initially, then feel slightly envious. Picking up his lead and some doggy treats, she gingerly stepped out in the courtyard to join him.

There were few cars and even fewer people around at that time of the morning.  The dog performed a ten-second wee, then dragged her back towards the house.  His momentary distraction by a low-flying wood-pigeon nearly pulled her off-balance and she felt the racing pulse of fear begin. The dog seemed to sense that something was wrong however, He stopped pulling and waited patiently for her to open the gate that would let them back into the safety of the courtyard.

Back inside the house, she sat down briefly in order to calm herself.  The doggy brown eyes worked their charm again; he was soon settled with his breakfast and she was free to continue with her own preparations. She checked the clock. Twenty to seven.

Breakfast first and she took the easy way out with cereal and fruit juice.  Knocking back the parade of pills lined up on the counter top, she wondered if she would ever get back to a time when she was pill-free? Pain-free? Panic-free?

The dog joined her on the sofa as she crunched her way through the cereal.  The BBC news provided a slight distraction but the dog’s warmth on her leg, the touch of his silky ears and the occasional grateful lick, all these provided her with the reassurance she needed for now.

She washed up her bowl and glass, leaving them on the drainer to put away when she returned.  If she returned.  How silly! Of course she would return.

Giving the dog a brief hug, she went off for a shower, hoping that the hot water would wash the muzziness away and help her to think more clearly.

The stimulus lasted long enough to help her choose her clothes for the day. Nothing sloppy but nothing too restrictive or uncomfortable.  She needed to be comfortable.  The last thing she wanted to worry about was her appearance but she took extra time drying her hair, applying her brave face and finally, getting dressed. She checked her watch. Had a whole hour and a half gone past?

There was still no need to rush though.  They had arranged to meet at ten o’clock. It took five minutes to walk to the bus stop (ten to allow for her reduced speed of walking).  She had checked the bus timetables on-line and the journey took twenty-five minutes provided the bus arrived on time.  She had a back up  bus going from the other side of the road in case the first bus failed to turn up.  She dared not think any further than that because the panic rally would set in and she’d never leave the house.

Standing in the kitchen, fully dressed now, she checked that everything was there. Keys, purse, phone and rucksack so that she could carry her worldly goods and still have her hands free.  The Midas card that she and her husband had purchased two days earlier so that she didn’t have to get anxious about having the correct money for the bus.  The walking stick.  Her constant companion for the past nine months, only ever replaced by the support and comfort of her husband’s arm.

She went back in and gave the dog another hug, knowing that she was procrastinating.  It was time to go. Her heart pounded as she pulled on her coat, filled the pockets with the items she needed immediately and pushed her arms through the straps of the rucksack.

Locking the door was achievable, so was walking down the garden path to the point where the dog regularly watered the shrubs by the front door. Opening the gate was harder.  She took a deep breath and hurried through, pulling it closed behind with a clang.  The stick!  She forgot the walking stick! Retracing her steps with a speed that had been alien to her for so many months, she unlocked the door, grabbed the hated stick, locked up again and was back onto the pavement before she realised it.

She checked her watch. Only seven minutes to get to the bus stop! Concentrate. Walk fast but don’t fall.  The stick will help you.  She could see people waiting at the bus stop.  Would they ask the driver to wait for her if they saw her hobbling down the road? Would she fall? Would she lie there like a stranded fish; unable to get up, embarrassed by the concern and kindness of other people again?

She put on an exceptionally brave spurt of speed and got to the bus stop with time to spare, joining the queue of elderly people and their walking sticks.  She looked down at hers, feeling less resentful and more grateful for the support it had provided.

The bus arrived. There were plenty of seats. The Midas card worked and as she picked up her ticket and sat down, she could feel some of the anxieties ebbing away; each one a hurdle that she had overcome.

She checked her watch again. On time and only one more obstacle along the way.

As the bus neared town, she felt herself grow cold. As she approached the scene of the accident she grew hot again. For nine months they had driven the other way, had avoided the place where the careless driver had hit her as she crossed the road, throwing her into the air and against a wall, where she lay, winded, confused and in such pain. Nine months ago.

Nine months of struggling to walk again.  Nine months of being too afraid to go out alone in case she fell. Nine months of falling in the house, of not being strong enough to take the dog out for a walk, of needing her husband’s arm to support her.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying desperately hard not to panic. She had to do this.

The bus stopped and opening her eyes, she realised that the danger had passed.  They were at the bus station.  She was safe again.  She got to her feet to join the other passengers and as she and the stick got off the bus she heard a sound that made her smile and banished all the fear. She turned and saw her friend, grinning like a loon and hurrying towards her.

“Sally! You did it! I’m so proud of you! ”

 

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.”

Apr 2 2014

‘Seconds Away! Round Two’

Saturday afternoons. ‘World of Sport‘ in the mid 1960s.

Curled up on the sofa next to her beloved Daddy for a whole three-quarters of an hour that seemed to go in a flash.

A fair-haired tomboy who lived for the moment that her Daddy came home from work mid-afternoon, reveled in the joy that was British wrestling, then stole quietly from the room so as not to disturb him whilst he listened to the final scores and checked his pools coupon.

Jackie Pallo, Mick McManus, Kendo Nagasaki, Big Daddy (why would anyone call a boy Shirley?) and best of all, Les Kellett.

It never occurred to her that anyone got hurt when they wrestled; they seemed to be made of india-rubber, and although there were times when her funny hero Les appeared to have been worn out and in pain, she learned quickly that this was just part of his act.  He would be on the verge of collapse but once his opponent had been lulled into a false sense of security, Les would come back with a vengeance and wipe the floor with him.

Together the child and her Daddy shouted encouragement and hissed at the designated ‘baddy’ who in turn was hurling mild insults at the umbrella wielding grannies ringside. It was real and scary and exciting; at that time there was little talk of fixing matches and the limited black and white camera shots showed only what the producers wanted the public to see.

It was bliss. It belonged to a time when she was Daddy’s little ‘Chuckles’.  A time when she first encountered the consequences of choice.  Coming home on the bus from her Auntie’s house in the early evening.  Should she fall asleep leaning against the warm cloth of Daddy’s coat sleeve, then be carried home in his loving arms and put straight to bed.  Or should she stay awake, enjoy the ride, skip home holding his hand and have  the luxury of a few extra minutes before it was bedtime?

Mummy was home; laughter and mock anger, the shaking fist whenever they tried to take a photograph of her, the steak and kidney pie which always had a little bit of pastry left over so that the child could make a grey and grimy jam tart.  Mummy was the one that read books and answered questions.  If she didn’t know then the four handsome blue and gold-bound volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica did.

It was a time of few complications. Of a large and loving family, of sunny evenings playing out with her friends, of learning to ride a friend’s bicycle, despite it being too big and the cause of her falling off often only to get straight back on it again.  The fearlessness of this action impressed her Daddy so much that he walked five miles to the nearest bicycle shop, bought a bicycle that they could ill-afford and proudly walked it back home. To see the look of joy on the child’s face and watch her, wobbling at first but growing in confidence as she rode round and round the grassy triangle outside the house, it made it all worthwhile.

Halcyon days with no indication of the storms to come.

In any relationship between two people there will be issues and challenges. Opposites may attract but the strength of a relationship depends not on the ability of one person to change the other, but on the desire to adapt to each other, to grow together or to part before any real damage is done.

Take a volatile woman with ambitions; with a need to acquire knowledge and experiences.

Take a man with a tendency to dark moods; with a history of war horrors and a need for quiet domesticity.

Take a child who loved them both dearly and who was growing distressed by her Daddy’s constant pleas that she would stay with him and always be his Chuckles, and by the increasing amount of time that her mother was spending at work .

The storm broke late one night. Her Mummy had been out at work, her Daddy had been particularly sad and demanding when she had wanted to be left to read her book.  She had felt resentful towards both of them and went off to bed early.  Raised voices from downstairs woke her and the child was witness to the sight of her Mummy, knife in hand, being strangled by her beloved Daddy.  The presence of the screaming child brought them to their senses and they backed away from each other, not realising that the scene would be imprinted in the child’s memory for many years, and that she would always feel that she was the cause of their separation.

Bags were packed, a taxi called and the child left with her Mummy in the middle of the night. She was shocked by the sudden change of circumstances and guilty because she felt that somehow, it must be her fault for having been cross with her parents.

She saw her Daddy once but the visit was spoiled by his insistence that her Mummy was a bad woman who had split the family up.  She wanted reassurance from him but all she got was anger and hurt.  She concentrated on her relationship with her Mummy from then on and her anger became focused instead on her Daddy.

The child stayed away from him for five years. Her Mum remarried and the child became a resentful and truculent teenager.

Adolescence raises many questions and circumstances led to a reconciliation.  An unspoken decision between the girl and her Dad meant that they never discussed her Mum.  The girl visited him once a week and ate his overcooked meals and eye-watering pickled onions with a love that repaired their separation.

There was no need for choice anymore.  She loved them both and the passage of time had mellowed the hurt for all of them.

The girl became a woman and after a series of wrong turnings, she found the right man.  Her Mum loved him and so did her Dad.  She knew she had made the right choice and was determined that if they had children, they would never have to experience the sudden shock of separation as she had, would never be frightened  by the murderous anger between two people who once loved each other.

Both parents are gone now but they lived to see their children make happy marriages and to know their beloved grandchildren.

For a long time the woman continued to blame herself for the events that led up to that night when she so nearly lost both her parents.  Eventually, and with some help, she realised that her parents – as adults – were  responsible for all that happened.  How could she, as a child, possibly have influenced their actions?  Her presence had not caused the split but it had certainly prevented a potential death and incarceration.

She broached the subject with her Mum some years after her Dad’s death, only to find that time had eroded the details of that night and been minimised to a minor spat, engineered by her Mum because she needed to escape the marriage so desperately.

The woman was glad that she had never discussed it with her Dad.

Saturday afternoons. Seconds Away!  Round Two.

 

Apr 1 2014

‘Won’t get fooled again’ The Who

I don’t remember exactly when we first met him.  It’s been twenty-five years now and memory has the fortunate trick of losing those details that are irrelevant or unpleasant.

He was a young chap; slim, active, passably good-looking, with the ability to charm the women  and be blokey to the men. Everyone else in our social circle thought he was a great guy and welcomed him into their homes. Right from the start he gave me a feeling of unease that I couldn’t explain so I did my best to be pleasant too.

None of us were well off and most of the group had small children.  An evening out usually consisted of sitting in someone else’s house, drinking endless cups of cheap coffee, putting the world to rights and watching videos – yes, it was that long ago. We were more mobile than everyone else because we hadn’t started our family yet but we lived on the other side of town  so we were never in the habit of just dropping in on anyone.

We spent many such happy evenings at the home of my oldest friend and her husband.  They had three small children and we enjoyed helping them  with bathing and bedtime, then settling down for a companionable evening.  We were arranging our wedding for the following year and our friends were very much involved.  I always phoned ahead though, to check that they had no other plans and that we were welcome.

Occasionally there would be a bit of a party amongst our group, where we all contributed food and drink; liasing with each other beforehand so that there wasn’t a plethora of garlic bread – the must-have ingredient for any social scene at the time but not so enjoyable if there was nothing else to eat.

A few weeks after the young man had appeared in our midst, I noticed that he had taken to dropping in on my friends.  No courtesy call, just turning up on the doorstep, sometimes with a bottle of wine or some biscuits, usually empty-handed but always with his winning smile.

We were polite at first; after all, our friends liked him and we had no right to dictate about who came to their house, but he had a tendency to dominate the conversation and there were times when we found that we couldn’t talk freely when he was around.  He had taken to repeating things we’d  said, to other friends, and always with a little extra added – of his own invention.  We laughed it off  and said that he must have mis-heard but I was beginning to feel that the young man was out to cause mischief – and we were the targets

I mentioned this to my friend.  She laughed and said she’d have a word with him but that she was sure that he meant no harm.  I wanted to tell her how uncomfortable he made me feel but I said nothing.

It wasn’t so bad when he turned up mid-evening; we’d already had a chance to spend some time with our friends and their children.  We’d often make our excuses and leave earlier than was our habit. Then the pattern changed and we’d arrive at our usual time only to find that he was already there, had helped with bedtime and was ensconced on the sofa, grinning – perhaps smirking – or was that just my imagination?

The only mobile phones around in those days were huge black monsters that made you look ridiculous so I continued to phone from home first before we visited. If my friend told me that the young man was already there, I’d make more excuses and cancel.  I felt a distance growing between us; my dearest friend was in thrall to this young man and could see no wrong in him.  I made some vague mention about his always being there  and her response was full of empathy; how he had nowhere else to go, no family in the area, had no phone so he couldn’t call first and see if they were busy, and how helpful he had been to her, especially when her husband was at work.  I said nothing.

A couple of weeks later we attended my friend’s birthday party.  Life was busy and it was easy enough to manufacture reasons for staying away in the meantime but we had missed our friends. Missed the children and the late night badinage.  We couldn’t help but feel resentful towards this cuckoo in the nest but we said nothing and set off for the party with our wine and garlic bread.

Needless to say he was already in control of the party.  Filling glasses, handing round food, chatting as he passed from couple to couple, and always with that charming smile.

Because we hadn’t been round for a while, we were greeted by our friends with even more enthusiasm than usual, and as we hugged, I glanced over my friend’s shoulder and saw the young man staring.  His smile had been replaced by a glare of such malevolence that it sent a shiver down my spine.

I spent the evening avoiding him but as we were putting our coats on to go home, he came up to us, all smiles and arms outstretched.   He gave me a hug and whispered in my ear “You can’t beat me, you bitch.  I always win.” He backed away, still smiling and rejoined the party.

I told my husband-to-be as soon as we were safely in the car.  We were due to go away on holiday later that month and decided that this would be a good enough reason to keep out of the way.  I felt saddened by the loss of time with our friends and frightened by the evil I  had heard in the young man’s voice and seen in his eyes.  What was it that he wanted to win? What was the prize? Was it just to have our friends to himself, or had he realised that because I had seen through the unctuous manner to the unpleasant persona beneath, I was a threat to him?

We had a lovely holiday and tried to forget about what had happened at the party.  We sent a postcard to our friends and hoped that they were okay.

On returning home we found that the answer phone was full of messages.  I rewound the tape.

The first message was from my friend.  She sounded strange; nervous giggles punctuated a tale of how she had come down from settling the children for bed to find that her husband had been called into work, and that the young man was vacuuming the front room. Except that he was naked apart from her apron. She said that she laughed, then told him to put his clothes back on, before running back upstairs to her children. She picked up the extension phone to call her husband at work but all she could hear was heavy breathing on the line. She felt trapped and was so terrified that she pulled a heavy chest of drawers across the door and sat huddled on the floor between beds and the sleeping children.

She thought she heard the front door slam but wasn’t prepared to go downstairs in case it was a trick.  Gingerly she had picked up the phone and on hearing the dialling tone, called her husband and begged him to come home.  She was still upstairs behind the barred door when he returned but the young man had gone, leaving the apron and the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the front room.

Neither of them were sure if it was a joke; my friend had often said that one of her fantasies was to have a handsome young man in an apron do her housework for her, but it was then that my friend remembered my misgivings about the young man. My friend needed to let me know that she understood my discomfort and that was why she left the message on my answerphone.

The next message was from another of our friends. They had come home from work to find all the lights on in the house, and the young man sitting in their living room watching their TV and drinking their coffee.  He said that he had come round to see them and thought they were being burgled so he climbed in through a window and checked the house for them before making himself at home. They politely asked him to leave and when he had gone, they found money and some small but treasured items were missing.

There were two more messages from other friends; the first stating that the young man had turned up at their house in tears claiming that we had been spreading rumours about him and trying to turn everyone against him. The second was from a friend who lived alone.  She sounded scared.  She had forgotten that we were away.  The young man was outside her house, banging on the door and screaming at her to open it. She rang off saying that she was dialling 999.

We phoned her first to check that she was okay.  The call had been made two days earlier. I felt relieved when she picked up the phone.  The reign of terror had begun the day we went on holiday. No one had seen the young man since that evening.  He ran off before the police arrived and there were signs that he had packed up and left his flat when the police called there looking for him. The items that had been removed from our other friends were left in the middle of the floor. Just trophies.

Things returned to  – whatever normal is  – after that.  We carried on planning the wedding; no one spoke about the young man again and though I desperately wanted to jump up and down shouting “I told you there was something strange about him.”  Was he mad or bad or both? I said nothing.

Several months later my friend received a postcard from the young man. He had moved to another seaside town, changed his name and become very involved with the gay community there.  He said that his actions were due to a nervous breakdown and apologised for his behaviour.  He blamed me because I had never made him feel welcome.  My friend tore up the card and gave me a hug.

Since then I have come across a handful of people who evoked the same feelings of unease.  Without exception my first impressions have turned out to be correct, although friends and colleagues have been charmed and chided me for being too judgemental.  No one ever says “Sorry, you were right all along” when the person finally shows their true colours.

I know who my real friends are these days and who I can rely on.

Caution is my watchword.

Won’t get fooled again.

 

 

 

 

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.