Oh! Eckky Thump! By the Great God Entwhistle (famous old Yorkshire God - didn't you know?!). I had crafted this blog today about money and how it muddles me cos I don't speak it's language. I had even referred to the two pages of correspondence I had received from the Tax Man(Manette) explaining to me, in a language I am unable to decipher, that he/she has adjusted my tax code by making it smaller and that, should, I have earned £37,000 ish during the past year then I must understand that I shall be paying tax at 20%, and, 40% at anything else above that figure. My perplelexedness comes from the fact that the authorities know everything there is to know about me: medically, mentally and monetarily. So what idiot thinks it is likely that in the period of the one year past I am likely to have earned £37,000 or above? And!!! If I was likely to earn above and beyond that figure, that I would, er... actually be on benefits......? Ho hum.
So I had written several paragraphs that went on to talk about medieval-ness and bartering and general chitter chatter when I went to edit some mistake. Yep! Wiped the flipping lot! every word, 'cept the word that I had just edited. Couldn't find the blog anywhere. So here we are then with fresh one. Clearly the Blog Fairy thought the previous version was a little too, how shall we say, open?
Despite having retired early last evening, I awoke very tired this morning and remained so. In fact, it is fair to say that I could have gone back to sleep after the first cup of tea. But I didn't. I allowed sufficient time for medications to do their thing, chatted on chat with my Beloved Daughter-in-Law, and then made my way via the Rhubarb plant to the village. I'd harvested the first six sticks of the crop and took them into the animal feed shop. We bartered: D got the rhubarb and I got two days supply of food for my dog, my cats and the Wild Boys. Now that's the sort of market forces I understand!!!!!! Must be a medieval soul, always said I was born out of my time.
Took MaddyMoo to Howden's Pullover to play fetchy catchy and en route we saw two magpies. Oh joy! Previous readers will recall that I have an irrational love for the so called Devil's Bird and am always rridiculously pleased to see a pair. So I grabbed the omen tightly to my chest and hoped. MaddyMoo was delighted to arrive at her new favourite play place. Something, however, spooked her. She, the fearless Patterdale crossed with a Collie who would take on the biggest, fattest, smelliest monster if it was attacking any member of her tribe. She became distracted. Looking beyond me to the horizon she could clearly hear or see something I was not privy to. I confess that I was struggling on account of the fact that I had miss-timed the meds, again, and was finding it hard to throw the toy but I tried to encourage her to play a little longer. Nope! MaddyMoo picked up her toy, leapt into Florence and looked at me in that 'Can we go home now please' kinda way. Gratefully I fired up Florence.
Then I decided that I would just pop over to 'my' church to see what was happening. I was a bit concerned. The conservators have been here for over a week restoring the font and the door was wide open and the lights were on but no car or truck parked up. They had already asked me to keep the church locked as there was £5,000.00 worth of tools stored in there whilst the work continued. Me and MaddyMoo went to investigate. The young man in his mid-twenties was in fact in the church continuing with his work on the wooden lid of the font. He explained in answer to my worried enquiries that he had had to park his car away from the church because someone coming out of the farm entrance next door had hit his car! This is a rural road! One car parked by the Church, several collared doves wandering along the road, the odd, very odd as it happens, Wood Pidgeon and several sparrows. And she managed to hit him how?????
Ah well I guess we can all get into muddles.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Where the beauty and the humour hide ...
Monday, 11 April 2011
Sunday, 10 April 2011
A Lazy Sunday Afternoon in April
I'm not sure where I am on the lazee-itis spectrum but as an unwashed benefit claimer sus-sppose I must be somewhere near the top percentile. Percentile. What a funny word! Before it was explained to me by our wonderful Head of Learning Support, I thought it was a Latin derivative used to describe the symptoms of special needs. Anywhey! it's one of those words that fascinates me - like 'exquisite' (which I see as delicate, sparkly and tiny - a bit Kylie My-nog-knee ish; or, 'mayhap' which conjures up for me a serf in drab beige-y brown-y clothing but wearing a jolly red hat and long-toed shoes in royal blue. (No, I don't get it either.) Back to being lazy; and I have been today - 'Idle-itis! That's your middle name!' I hear my dead Catholic mother say.
The appearance of being busy is not the preserve of Catholics alone. Oh - No - Siree - Bob!!! How many people do you know who can manage to expand the task to fit the time? It's as if they have discovered how to bend time to their will. That young chap from Accounts? Always with the busy, busy, busy ! He's forever up and down the corridors between floors 5 and 9 with reams and reams of papers. Ah, but, the astute observer will have noted that; a) the file is always the same file and is dated 1989, b) he times his excursions fifteen minutes prior to authorised breaks and always returns to his work station precisely at the agreed return time from the scheduled break. Monitoring his activities over say, a five day period, would, in fact, prove that he actually only spends 3 hours attending to actual work out of his contracted seven and a half hours.
I spent some time today regretting that I had not realised the film Mama Mia! was on the goggle box last night! I fell upon it around an hour short of the end. What a shame! I wish I had seen it from the start. Flipping great it was: wonderful!!! Cheesey? but of course; believable as a tale? certainly not, a triumph of actors singing splendidly? not at all! What it was was a damned good, a feel good, an in-your-face-having-a-great-time homage to those Music Meisters: ABBA. It made me laugh out loud, suspend belief and rather unexpectedly, weep (I gave myself a right good telling off I can tell you!). It was obvious to a blind tortoise that those taking part were having a thoroughly good time! How fabulous! I do hope it is re-screened soon.
I'm kinda struggling today; got too cold - April can be very deceptive don't you think? She looks pretty enough in her spring frock with all its promise of the joys to come but she can be cruelly cold without warning.
I also think I may have used up the small amount nenergy I was granted today what with the washing and the setting of my hair and stuff. I have fed my babies and fed myself so I think I shall indulge in a little more idle-it-ist and just go snuggle in the den and doze.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
The appearance of being busy is not the preserve of Catholics alone. Oh - No - Siree - Bob!!! How many people do you know who can manage to expand the task to fit the time? It's as if they have discovered how to bend time to their will. That young chap from Accounts? Always with the busy, busy, busy ! He's forever up and down the corridors between floors 5 and 9 with reams and reams of papers. Ah, but, the astute observer will have noted that; a) the file is always the same file and is dated 1989, b) he times his excursions fifteen minutes prior to authorised breaks and always returns to his work station precisely at the agreed return time from the scheduled break. Monitoring his activities over say, a five day period, would, in fact, prove that he actually only spends 3 hours attending to actual work out of his contracted seven and a half hours.
I spent some time today regretting that I had not realised the film Mama Mia! was on the goggle box last night! I fell upon it around an hour short of the end. What a shame! I wish I had seen it from the start. Flipping great it was: wonderful!!! Cheesey? but of course; believable as a tale? certainly not, a triumph of actors singing splendidly? not at all! What it was was a damned good, a feel good, an in-your-face-having-a-great-time homage to those Music Meisters: ABBA. It made me laugh out loud, suspend belief and rather unexpectedly, weep (I gave myself a right good telling off I can tell you!). It was obvious to a blind tortoise that those taking part were having a thoroughly good time! How fabulous! I do hope it is re-screened soon.
I'm kinda struggling today; got too cold - April can be very deceptive don't you think? She looks pretty enough in her spring frock with all its promise of the joys to come but she can be cruelly cold without warning.
I also think I may have used up the small amount nenergy I was granted today what with the washing and the setting of my hair and stuff. I have fed my babies and fed myself so I think I shall indulge in a little more idle-it-ist and just go snuggle in the den and doze.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Bits and Bobs on a Spring Day
If you have been, thank you for reading ;-). Having awarded myself a Purple Fairy Bank Holiday yesterday, I was supposed to be a Worker Bea today. I have failed. Do I feel guilty? Yep but only mildly. Cos, actually, there is only me to tell me off and I'm rather bored with the concept of self flagellation.
So just what has today been about then? Well, I had intended to be as daft as a brush all the live long day and me and LL managed a flying start this morning with our potty posts on Facebook. Then I spoke/chatted with five of the people I love and made an arrangement to swap seeds and stuff with K and her daughter tomorrow. I did the crucial chores between bouts of pain but not the ones that were on my 2DoMent List. Oh! I had great plans to get out into the garden and to try and deal with the runaway hedge, the rampaging grass and the dastardly dandelions infesting one of my pots which houses a rose.
I did have a bit of a scare early in the day: My MollieMoo did not attend me with her early morning enquiries after my health. I kinda thought she was punishing me for, yet again, letting that flipping dog occupy the BEST spot when sleeping with THE Purple Fairy. I didn't panic straightway because I thought she was safely tucked upstairs in or on my bed. I called up the stairs and invited her to partake of breakfast. Nothing. Zip. Nada. No little answering squeak and big eyes peering at me from the top of the stairs. No matter I thought, she'll surface when she's hungry or when she needs the 'What DO you mean you haven't cleaned the litter tray' facility. With half an anxious ear tuned into possible MollieMoo sounds, I carried on carrying on.
Since poverty has gripped me in it's horny hand, I daily think of ways of making money, food, fuel, all resources in fact, go further. One of the side effect from this has been the reduction of speed as I travel in Florence. Those who know me, know that I am no stranger to the 70, 80, 90, and heaven forfend! 100 miles per hour on the speedometer. However, now, as I eke out the pitiful amount of fuel I cannot afford for Florence, I try to estimate the number of trips the amount in the tank will take me to the nearest town. Fortunately those clever French engineers have created a guesstimator that tells me how many miles I have fuel for. The result of this is that I appear to have lost contact with the accelerator and tootle along at sensible speeds watching to see if the guesstimator's predictions increase. For shame!!! Oh my Goodness, I will be wearing beige next!!!!!! And if this distancing of myself from the gas pedal, as my American chums say, continues when the hell WILL I be able to play my Meatloaf and my Bonnie Tyler tapes, just answer me that!!!!
Actually, I am beginning to think that the cocktail of medications I now take is having a crucial impact on my view of the world. I did something today I never, ever, thought I would be capable of. I was shocked. Nay! Stunned. I spent £1.90. No! Really I did! I spent £1.90 on a copy of the, oh I can barely bring myself to even type the word; a copy of the GUARDIAN! I have never, ever, knowingly even read a paragraph from the Guardian, let alone bought a whole newspaper before. Some people, I assert wrongly, judge your character and your politics by the newspaper you read. (For the purposes of this discussion I discount the Star and the Daily/Sunday Sport by reason of their efficacy as toilet paper.)
When I was being brunged up I avidly read the Daily Mirror from cover to cover because that was the newspaper my father read. And, besides, I just loved Andy Capp. As I grew older I became uncomfortable with it's tone, the newspaper's tone not the tone of Andy Capp. At about the time I was going out with a rather gorgeous, highly intelligent young man (no! I don't know how I snared him either) he thought to add to expand my intelligence by 'encouraging' me to read The Times. Every day, he brought me a copy. Every day I looked at the front page. Sometimes I even unfolded the broadsheet and looked at the second half of the front page and once, I looked at the back page. Michael would test me on what I had learned each evening. After about a fortnight, he became, how shall I say? perturbed. Perturbed at my lack of progress in the intelligence stakes; confused that I could not answer the simplest of his questions posed by the big issues of the day and covered by The Times. This lead to friction. Miserable after the fourteenth fight over my inability to get beyond the front page, I yelled at him that I couldn't understand the bloody headlines never mind the bleeding paragraphs underneath the headlines. Michael, somewhat dignified I thought, withdrew from the role as edjumactor of the Thick One. It may come as a surprise to you to know that the relationship, sort of, well, failed actually.
Somehow I found myself in the world of the Daily Mail as I grew older. I read every word, including the back pages; all the columnists - oh how I miss Keith Waterhouse!! My day was incomplete if I did not obtain a copy. In fact I got vexed if I could not buy a copy and have been known to walk several miles to bloody well get one!!! I consumed the newspaper in the same way as I consumed books; greedily, totally without pausing for breath. I could not bear it if someone handled or read MY newspaper before I had! My love affair with the Daily Mail lasted throughout my Second Age until the reading gene broke down about three years ago. Since then I have bought the local newspaper for my nearest town (generally to see if I recognise any of the arrestees as my 'boys') once a week. I have occasionally bought a copy of the Mail at the weekends and struggled with the sheer weight of them!!! Sadly it would be fair to say that sometimes, not only have I not unfolded it, but I have used it to light the fire without reading a word.
So why the Guardian I hear you say? In my defence, I say that, as a person of conscience (God! what a curse!) it appears to have cornered the market on the collective consciences for the Nation. From the MPs' expenses scandal to the present revelations of the JobCentre Plus targeting people in order to reduce their benefits. It seems to chime with the burgeoning rage of the silent majority. So I have brought the first copy home today. I am comforted that the bundle should last me at least a week in reading terms - provided of course that I can concentrate long enough to absorb the contents. I'll keep you posted as they say!
And so back to MollieMoo. By midday, it would be fair to say that the panic was indeed beginning to surface. No answer came the stern reply to all my callings. Taking my courage sternly by the throat, I ascended the stairs and went to my bedroom. Harrumph! Did I really leave the wardrobe door open like that; and that pile of freshly ironed clothing dumped on the bed, and what about clean bedding you were supposed to be putting away! The answers, of course, were yes; yes and oops! No MollieMoo; no MollieMoo in the spare room, the bathroom, in the walk in cupboard, not a single glimpse of her. I was, by now half expecting to find a corpse, inside or outside of the house. Looked around the downstairs again - nope. As I was about to totter along the road and to check the dykes, I had an Eureka Moment; opened the door to the Garden Room and sleepily, MollieMoo blinked at me as she lazily lifted herself off the cushion and squeaked at me. I swear she said 'What took you?'
take care, love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
So just what has today been about then? Well, I had intended to be as daft as a brush all the live long day and me and LL managed a flying start this morning with our potty posts on Facebook. Then I spoke/chatted with five of the people I love and made an arrangement to swap seeds and stuff with K and her daughter tomorrow. I did the crucial chores between bouts of pain but not the ones that were on my 2DoMent List. Oh! I had great plans to get out into the garden and to try and deal with the runaway hedge, the rampaging grass and the dastardly dandelions infesting one of my pots which houses a rose.
I did have a bit of a scare early in the day: My MollieMoo did not attend me with her early morning enquiries after my health. I kinda thought she was punishing me for, yet again, letting that flipping dog occupy the BEST spot when sleeping with THE Purple Fairy. I didn't panic straightway because I thought she was safely tucked upstairs in or on my bed. I called up the stairs and invited her to partake of breakfast. Nothing. Zip. Nada. No little answering squeak and big eyes peering at me from the top of the stairs. No matter I thought, she'll surface when she's hungry or when she needs the 'What DO you mean you haven't cleaned the litter tray' facility. With half an anxious ear tuned into possible MollieMoo sounds, I carried on carrying on.
Since poverty has gripped me in it's horny hand, I daily think of ways of making money, food, fuel, all resources in fact, go further. One of the side effect from this has been the reduction of speed as I travel in Florence. Those who know me, know that I am no stranger to the 70, 80, 90, and heaven forfend! 100 miles per hour on the speedometer. However, now, as I eke out the pitiful amount of fuel I cannot afford for Florence, I try to estimate the number of trips the amount in the tank will take me to the nearest town. Fortunately those clever French engineers have created a guesstimator that tells me how many miles I have fuel for. The result of this is that I appear to have lost contact with the accelerator and tootle along at sensible speeds watching to see if the guesstimator's predictions increase. For shame!!! Oh my Goodness, I will be wearing beige next!!!!!! And if this distancing of myself from the gas pedal, as my American chums say, continues when the hell WILL I be able to play my Meatloaf and my Bonnie Tyler tapes, just answer me that!!!!
Actually, I am beginning to think that the cocktail of medications I now take is having a crucial impact on my view of the world. I did something today I never, ever, thought I would be capable of. I was shocked. Nay! Stunned. I spent £1.90. No! Really I did! I spent £1.90 on a copy of the, oh I can barely bring myself to even type the word; a copy of the GUARDIAN! I have never, ever, knowingly even read a paragraph from the Guardian, let alone bought a whole newspaper before. Some people, I assert wrongly, judge your character and your politics by the newspaper you read. (For the purposes of this discussion I discount the Star and the Daily/Sunday Sport by reason of their efficacy as toilet paper.)
When I was being brunged up I avidly read the Daily Mirror from cover to cover because that was the newspaper my father read. And, besides, I just loved Andy Capp. As I grew older I became uncomfortable with it's tone, the newspaper's tone not the tone of Andy Capp. At about the time I was going out with a rather gorgeous, highly intelligent young man (no! I don't know how I snared him either) he thought to add to expand my intelligence by 'encouraging' me to read The Times. Every day, he brought me a copy. Every day I looked at the front page. Sometimes I even unfolded the broadsheet and looked at the second half of the front page and once, I looked at the back page. Michael would test me on what I had learned each evening. After about a fortnight, he became, how shall I say? perturbed. Perturbed at my lack of progress in the intelligence stakes; confused that I could not answer the simplest of his questions posed by the big issues of the day and covered by The Times. This lead to friction. Miserable after the fourteenth fight over my inability to get beyond the front page, I yelled at him that I couldn't understand the bloody headlines never mind the bleeding paragraphs underneath the headlines. Michael, somewhat dignified I thought, withdrew from the role as edjumactor of the Thick One. It may come as a surprise to you to know that the relationship, sort of, well, failed actually.
Somehow I found myself in the world of the Daily Mail as I grew older. I read every word, including the back pages; all the columnists - oh how I miss Keith Waterhouse!! My day was incomplete if I did not obtain a copy. In fact I got vexed if I could not buy a copy and have been known to walk several miles to bloody well get one!!! I consumed the newspaper in the same way as I consumed books; greedily, totally without pausing for breath. I could not bear it if someone handled or read MY newspaper before I had! My love affair with the Daily Mail lasted throughout my Second Age until the reading gene broke down about three years ago. Since then I have bought the local newspaper for my nearest town (generally to see if I recognise any of the arrestees as my 'boys') once a week. I have occasionally bought a copy of the Mail at the weekends and struggled with the sheer weight of them!!! Sadly it would be fair to say that sometimes, not only have I not unfolded it, but I have used it to light the fire without reading a word.
So why the Guardian I hear you say? In my defence, I say that, as a person of conscience (God! what a curse!) it appears to have cornered the market on the collective consciences for the Nation. From the MPs' expenses scandal to the present revelations of the JobCentre Plus targeting people in order to reduce their benefits. It seems to chime with the burgeoning rage of the silent majority. So I have brought the first copy home today. I am comforted that the bundle should last me at least a week in reading terms - provided of course that I can concentrate long enough to absorb the contents. I'll keep you posted as they say!
And so back to MollieMoo. By midday, it would be fair to say that the panic was indeed beginning to surface. No answer came the stern reply to all my callings. Taking my courage sternly by the throat, I ascended the stairs and went to my bedroom. Harrumph! Did I really leave the wardrobe door open like that; and that pile of freshly ironed clothing dumped on the bed, and what about clean bedding you were supposed to be putting away! The answers, of course, were yes; yes and oops! No MollieMoo; no MollieMoo in the spare room, the bathroom, in the walk in cupboard, not a single glimpse of her. I was, by now half expecting to find a corpse, inside or outside of the house. Looked around the downstairs again - nope. As I was about to totter along the road and to check the dykes, I had an Eureka Moment; opened the door to the Garden Room and sleepily, MollieMoo blinked at me as she lazily lifted herself off the cushion and squeaked at me. I swear she said 'What took you?'
take care, love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Friday, 1 April 2011
Little things, it's ALWAYS the little things - like a decimal point eh Asda?
Oh! Hello! I notice it is Friday. The end of the week for most people, save for shift workers, retirees, the jobless and those whose attention wavers from the calendar. It is also April Fools Day. The Day of Fools. Not many societies, I suspect, can claim a day (well, actually only half a day cos it all ends at midday) set aside in the calendar just for Fools. I missed the possible joke on the Today programme this morning but truth be known, I have managed to spot the joke for several years, so I guess I didn't miss it that much. I also missed the spoofs in the newspapers on account of the fact that I only ever buy a newspaper now once in a blue moon and usually use it to light the fire rather than read it. Whilst I remain politically active, committed and impassioned, I am so fed up with the spin doctoring of the presentation of news. One misplaced , misjudged word can throw the entire 'story' out of kilter.
It's been a sort of frustrating day really. I wanted to 'get on' and 'do stuff'. No! Honestly, really I did. I had intended to do a little of this, a bit of that, some of the other and a lot of the thingie. The Rat-in-Me-Back; the telephone and the distraction of the bag-o'-words in me head saw a different outcome. I did so the fire thing; the collecting of the wood thing and the chopping of the sticks thing. The Rat-in-Me-Back appears to have smuggled in a cousin of his into his lair cos each time I have tried to pick something up, or move something, or, indeed make my way through the throng of animals, the Spiteful Cousin stuck a red hot knitting needle deep into my bone causing me to yell out. First layer of frustration.
A little light distraction with the computer games temporarily puts the pain on the back boiler. Doesn't make it go away of course otherwise I wouldn't need the meds, but concentrating on something else takes the focus away from those nasty little teeth as they chew through my nerves. I haul the weary carcass to the village and had intended to let MaddyMoo loose at Howden's Pullover for a bit. I even packed a fresh new tennis ball, such was the sincerity of my intent. But. Got as far as the store. Now, I am currently greatly in need of meat and I toyed with the idea of getting some bacon so that I could do baked potato dressed with bacon bits, beans and grated cheese. Before I went to the butcher I just checked again the dwindling stock of coinage in my wallet. After the third moth flew out I realised that purchasing bacon would mean the non purchasing of another essential item. Turning away from the butchers me and Percy, my walking stick, hobbled into the store to ponder.
Once upon a time I rampaged through the world at 90 miles an hour, carried a tonne of produce and groceries, knitting my own yogurt as I planned the next exciting adventure for my family and friends or worried about the next project at work. These days, I lopsidedly shuffle from aisle to aisle trying to remember what it was I HAD decided I might buy. Choice at my local village store is limited. Time spent preparing and producing food is also limited. Sometimes I have to eat and I have to eat NOW! There was nothing that leapt out and said 'eat me eat me!' So I settled for a tin of mushroom soup and some high fibre wholemeal bread. Second layer of frustration settled down without my noticing.
As I fired up Florence the Rat-in-Me-Back and his Spiteful Cousin danced around the already overheated damaged area of my back and I realised that, uh oh! yet again, I was out of time with the meds. 'So sorry MaddyMoo' I said 'I need to go straight home, eat and then take the meds.' 'Minnits' I said unconvincingly, our word for maybe, soon ...
I used to be scared of microwaves. Way too scary for me. All that talk of danger and leaking and radiation and rock hard stuff you had to eat with a pick axe and hammer made me very nervous. I managed to keep my first microwave with a power factor of about 250 watts for about 12 years. It's longevity probably explained by the fact that I barely knew how to do anything with it other than make things hot so it was unlikely to get worn out. My current version is a little more powerful, all shiny stainless steel, and, I'm told, quite capable of splitting the atom or at least cooking a joint. I have mastered about one third of the controls and knobs and functions ... It is of course ideal for heating soups, re-heating cold cups of tea or coffee or heating frozen foods what I have saved from a previous cooking session. Mmmmm mushroom soup I thought.
Once upon a time if you needed to open a tin of food, you had to use a rather peculiar shaped instrument that looked a little like a fat fork with two prongs. One prong was actually a cutting blade sharpened into a point and the other prong had a nick cut into it where you placed the rim of the tin, once, that is, you had stabbed the tin with the pointy bit to make a hole in the lid. The technique required that you carefully and slowly manipulated the cutting blade around the whole of the lid until you were able to, everso carefully prise the cut tin lid away from the body of the can and access the food therein. The secret was to make sure you had just enough of the lid to manipulate; not only to expose the food but also to ensure you did not slice the top of your fingers off. The experienced pracitioner learnt, after several cans of food were spoiled with blood, to use the two-pronged can opener to remove or bend the lid backwards rather than your naked fingers. Armed with appropriate microwaveable container I picked up the tin of mushroom soup with its new fangled ring pull lid. Turn ring, straighten ring, insert finger and pull backwards towards you. No more ripped digits with this new invention. Ah! The ring on the tin was broked. Three failed attempts later, four expletives deleted plus sore forefinger, I reached for the swanky tin opener. Three failed attempts later I realised that the siting of the easy new ring pull lids were actually a tad deeper than the depth of the cutting wheel on my fancy can opener. Third layer of frustration solidified into temper tantrum.
At the end of the 15 minute process of trying to prepare a light, but warming, lunch in order to line my stomach prior to the injestion of the overdue meds, there was: a sore forefinger; a half opened can of mushroom soup, a draining board decorated in mushroom soup artfully arranged in the style of Jackson Pollock and a blue tinge to the air in the kitchen as various filthy Anglo Saxon words looked for somewhere to hide. Nice.
And so, once more I have procrastinated, put off dealing with the troublesome stuff, the stuff that's too big for me to deal with but I have enjoyed a wonderfuly long telephone conversation with Beloved Son and Heir and my lovely Daughter-in-Law; my Best Friend, chatted with my chums, and heard that the final stages of the end of the Second Age are approaching the final straight where freedom beckons. Now all I need is for someone to ...............
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
It's been a sort of frustrating day really. I wanted to 'get on' and 'do stuff'. No! Honestly, really I did. I had intended to do a little of this, a bit of that, some of the other and a lot of the thingie. The Rat-in-Me-Back; the telephone and the distraction of the bag-o'-words in me head saw a different outcome. I did so the fire thing; the collecting of the wood thing and the chopping of the sticks thing. The Rat-in-Me-Back appears to have smuggled in a cousin of his into his lair cos each time I have tried to pick something up, or move something, or, indeed make my way through the throng of animals, the Spiteful Cousin stuck a red hot knitting needle deep into my bone causing me to yell out. First layer of frustration.
A little light distraction with the computer games temporarily puts the pain on the back boiler. Doesn't make it go away of course otherwise I wouldn't need the meds, but concentrating on something else takes the focus away from those nasty little teeth as they chew through my nerves. I haul the weary carcass to the village and had intended to let MaddyMoo loose at Howden's Pullover for a bit. I even packed a fresh new tennis ball, such was the sincerity of my intent. But. Got as far as the store. Now, I am currently greatly in need of meat and I toyed with the idea of getting some bacon so that I could do baked potato dressed with bacon bits, beans and grated cheese. Before I went to the butcher I just checked again the dwindling stock of coinage in my wallet. After the third moth flew out I realised that purchasing bacon would mean the non purchasing of another essential item. Turning away from the butchers me and Percy, my walking stick, hobbled into the store to ponder.
Once upon a time I rampaged through the world at 90 miles an hour, carried a tonne of produce and groceries, knitting my own yogurt as I planned the next exciting adventure for my family and friends or worried about the next project at work. These days, I lopsidedly shuffle from aisle to aisle trying to remember what it was I HAD decided I might buy. Choice at my local village store is limited. Time spent preparing and producing food is also limited. Sometimes I have to eat and I have to eat NOW! There was nothing that leapt out and said 'eat me eat me!' So I settled for a tin of mushroom soup and some high fibre wholemeal bread. Second layer of frustration settled down without my noticing.
As I fired up Florence the Rat-in-Me-Back and his Spiteful Cousin danced around the already overheated damaged area of my back and I realised that, uh oh! yet again, I was out of time with the meds. 'So sorry MaddyMoo' I said 'I need to go straight home, eat and then take the meds.' 'Minnits' I said unconvincingly, our word for maybe, soon ...
I used to be scared of microwaves. Way too scary for me. All that talk of danger and leaking and radiation and rock hard stuff you had to eat with a pick axe and hammer made me very nervous. I managed to keep my first microwave with a power factor of about 250 watts for about 12 years. It's longevity probably explained by the fact that I barely knew how to do anything with it other than make things hot so it was unlikely to get worn out. My current version is a little more powerful, all shiny stainless steel, and, I'm told, quite capable of splitting the atom or at least cooking a joint. I have mastered about one third of the controls and knobs and functions ... It is of course ideal for heating soups, re-heating cold cups of tea or coffee or heating frozen foods what I have saved from a previous cooking session. Mmmmm mushroom soup I thought.
Once upon a time if you needed to open a tin of food, you had to use a rather peculiar shaped instrument that looked a little like a fat fork with two prongs. One prong was actually a cutting blade sharpened into a point and the other prong had a nick cut into it where you placed the rim of the tin, once, that is, you had stabbed the tin with the pointy bit to make a hole in the lid. The technique required that you carefully and slowly manipulated the cutting blade around the whole of the lid until you were able to, everso carefully prise the cut tin lid away from the body of the can and access the food therein. The secret was to make sure you had just enough of the lid to manipulate; not only to expose the food but also to ensure you did not slice the top of your fingers off. The experienced pracitioner learnt, after several cans of food were spoiled with blood, to use the two-pronged can opener to remove or bend the lid backwards rather than your naked fingers. Armed with appropriate microwaveable container I picked up the tin of mushroom soup with its new fangled ring pull lid. Turn ring, straighten ring, insert finger and pull backwards towards you. No more ripped digits with this new invention. Ah! The ring on the tin was broked. Three failed attempts later, four expletives deleted plus sore forefinger, I reached for the swanky tin opener. Three failed attempts later I realised that the siting of the easy new ring pull lids were actually a tad deeper than the depth of the cutting wheel on my fancy can opener. Third layer of frustration solidified into temper tantrum.
At the end of the 15 minute process of trying to prepare a light, but warming, lunch in order to line my stomach prior to the injestion of the overdue meds, there was: a sore forefinger; a half opened can of mushroom soup, a draining board decorated in mushroom soup artfully arranged in the style of Jackson Pollock and a blue tinge to the air in the kitchen as various filthy Anglo Saxon words looked for somewhere to hide. Nice.
And so, once more I have procrastinated, put off dealing with the troublesome stuff, the stuff that's too big for me to deal with but I have enjoyed a wonderfuly long telephone conversation with Beloved Son and Heir and my lovely Daughter-in-Law; my Best Friend, chatted with my chums, and heard that the final stages of the end of the Second Age are approaching the final straight where freedom beckons. Now all I need is for someone to ...............
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Thursday, 31 March 2011
What a clever sausage!!
That Melvyn Bragg eh? What? My goodness how DOES he hold all that complicated stuff inside his brain? My intimate friends (and the divorce court) know that I am a Radio 4 fanatic. Fiend in fact. Tis true that every single radio (which will end up on land fill apparently together with my old fashioned telly cos I'm not upgraded) is tuned to Radio 4. Radio 4 accompanies me wheresoever I go in the cottage: from the ahem! smallest room to the bathroom to the den to the bedroom where I frequently listen to the shipping forecast and the currently decimated World Service. For those not familiar with the World Service I can confirm that not only is it a vital, essential, necessary form a communication across the planet (and probably beyond!) but it has sustained the alone, the terrified and the ignorant over the years. Even captives report the warm comfort of the transmissions in their darkest hours. And the presenters seem much more relaxed that their daytime colleagues. There is a gentleness (and an equal fierceness actually!) about the programmes laced with slightly cheeky humour which I find delightful. And it's not just me: glowing comments are recorded everywhere from strange sounding Countries with exotic sounding names.
But back to Our Melv: He frightens me. I would be absolutely scared to death to share a dinner table or a platform with him. Each week, week after week after week, he engages in highbrow conversation on subjects as diverse as the inter galatic impact of the chain reaction effect of a butterfly taking off in the Amazon to the nuances of the obsure religion of the Goo Goo Ga Tribe. Marvellous! Seriously I mean it he is Marvellous Melv. The depth and breadth of his knowledge is phenomonal. There appears to be no subject complicated enough; obscure enough or terrifing enough to throw Our Melv. I don't think in all the years I have listened to him I have ever heard him say 'I don't know'. There is no subject this man does not know something about. He speaks a form of English it is now too late for me to learn. I understand every fifth word he speaks: 'Good' 'Morning' 'Yes' 'Really?' 'Why?' for example. The words in between are an utter mystery to me. And, no! I am NOT sneering! I genuinely admire his apparent knowledge. I am, in fact, jealous. Please God make me a teeny weeny bit 'telligent like what Our Melv is. I hunger for knowledge, always have done. Loved school, cried when I was cruelly removed too soon.
And now, having given the Rat in my Back sufficient time to be slightly snoozed by the pain meds, I guess it is time to be growed up again and attempt to right the ship that is my life. Postie's delivery received just now has been painless (but of course there is Friday to come; the traditional day for creditors and bullies to write in apocalpytic terms to you in time for you to spend the weekend in sleepless terror); the rain has stopped (shame!) the wind has risen and the sun is shining. All I have to decide next is which actual chore will I pick up next. I have three and a half hours until the Rat in my Back will need sedating again, so let's see what I can achieve in that time.... Oh, and the the way, for some reason spell check won't play today so although I have managed to edit and stuff a couple of times, any errors? Live with them ;-)
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
But back to Our Melv: He frightens me. I would be absolutely scared to death to share a dinner table or a platform with him. Each week, week after week after week, he engages in highbrow conversation on subjects as diverse as the inter galatic impact of the chain reaction effect of a butterfly taking off in the Amazon to the nuances of the obsure religion of the Goo Goo Ga Tribe. Marvellous! Seriously I mean it he is Marvellous Melv. The depth and breadth of his knowledge is phenomonal. There appears to be no subject complicated enough; obscure enough or terrifing enough to throw Our Melv. I don't think in all the years I have listened to him I have ever heard him say 'I don't know'. There is no subject this man does not know something about. He speaks a form of English it is now too late for me to learn. I understand every fifth word he speaks: 'Good' 'Morning' 'Yes' 'Really?' 'Why?' for example. The words in between are an utter mystery to me. And, no! I am NOT sneering! I genuinely admire his apparent knowledge. I am, in fact, jealous. Please God make me a teeny weeny bit 'telligent like what Our Melv is. I hunger for knowledge, always have done. Loved school, cried when I was cruelly removed too soon.
And now, having given the Rat in my Back sufficient time to be slightly snoozed by the pain meds, I guess it is time to be growed up again and attempt to right the ship that is my life. Postie's delivery received just now has been painless (but of course there is Friday to come; the traditional day for creditors and bullies to write in apocalpytic terms to you in time for you to spend the weekend in sleepless terror); the rain has stopped (shame!) the wind has risen and the sun is shining. All I have to decide next is which actual chore will I pick up next. I have three and a half hours until the Rat in my Back will need sedating again, so let's see what I can achieve in that time.... Oh, and the the way, for some reason spell check won't play today so although I have managed to edit and stuff a couple of times, any errors? Live with them ;-)
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Wednesday, 30 March 2011
Little things mean a lot
One opiate down... Did I really see the pidgeon riding shotgun on the white van at 7.30 am? I did! I KNOW I did. Was is a real pidgeon? Or was it a pretend pidgeon? You know those wonderful refuse operatives who drive the big, noisy trucks at silly o'clock in the morning and collect the garbage we don't know what to do with...? Well I notice that each wagon appears to have some sort of toy attached to its radiator. A monkey here; a parrot there, and, horror of horrors! a teddy bear too! I assume that it is a sign; a badge, a form of communication between members of a specific profession. Bit like the Freemasons perhaps? Maybe White Van Man (or Woman) has borrowed the communication tool.
Ah ha! The postman has arrived!!!! Shall I pray fervently BEFORE I open the door or after I have inspected the postbox? Both methinks. Hmmmm. Now, there's interesting. Postie, who is a chum of the Estranged One, sent me to Coventry several weeks ago. He went from years of friendly exchanges of mutual greetings and enquiries after each other's health to studiously avoiding even setting eyes on me through my Hive window. For a while, I was outraged, hurt and bewildered. Being a literal bean I tend to believe you if you are friendly. Equally I tend to accept it when you indicate you can't stand the sight nor sound of me. Shit happens. People don't always like other people. But what I do struggle with is when you change attitudes without explanation. Like a maggot feasting on a wound, the thought chews away: 'Why? What did I do? How shall I deal with this? What's been said? Shall I face him down? Shall I leave a note?' No. I do what I always do, eventually, bewail the unfairness of it all into the ever patient ear of my BF. No wonder she has tinnitus! In the end I decide I actually don't give a flying flicker after all. His problem not mine.
Anyroadup, today I WAVED AT POSTIE even though he was avoiding my fisog. Breakthrough!!! A wave returned with the merest hint of a lopsided smile. That'll do thank you. Delivery? and breathe. Seed catalogue trying to lure non existent pennies from my purse and begging letter on behalf of the birds. Now all I have to do is worry about the 'phone ringing ...
Spoke with my lovely Sister in Law: We share two connections, apart from my Baby Brother. We both work in education and suffer the slings and arrows of living in a goldfish bowl being tested to death. We both suffer back problems. L's are significantly worse than mine - although pain comparisons are a complete waste of time; your pain is your pain and my pain is my pain. She is recovering from a mammoth operation to try and repair the damage done by the previous mammoth operation. The second surgeon shared with her the awful reality of what he had found and we thank God! for the timely intervention. For those 'colleagues' of hers who bitched about her being seen shopping in town the weekend prior to the 6 hour operation, thereby attempting to diminish her suffering and her bravery, I reserve my most vitriolic words. I confess to white hot anger on her behalf and I counselled, as fiercely as I know how, that she should only ever take notice of the opinions of those she values and disregard the rest. Sometimes I hate members of my tribe.
Last night's TV surprised me. I spend an inordinate amount of time on tinternet/laptop and blogging and stuff. But I try to make myself spend time in the other rooms of the Cottage, to justify their existence really. So, I usually close down anytime between 7.30 and 10.00 pm depending on how humorous or interesting the intercourse is with Framily and Chums. Early close down saw me retreating to the den to do 'something else'. The choices: continue creating the blanket I am making for my BF (which should have been completed in February); read the newspaper I bought on a whim, or poke the fire and watch the telly. Settled for the third option as the first two required less pain plus the power of concentration. Four and a half channels now means that sometimes I am just stuck with what there is. And, sorry JM, not matter how wonderful you think Professor Brian Cox is (Professor? professor? For God's sake he doesn't even look old enough to have left the Upper Sixth yet!) I cannot get beyond the boyish good looks and sharpened cheekbones. I wish I could! Then I might come across as 'telligent.
So to Eastenders then - hey! you there! yeah! you! the one sneering in the corner: it's known as a distraction technique! I don't always remember the names of the actors or actresses (yes I DO insist on referring to the feminine as an actress - I refuse to be utterly cowed by what is supposed to be free speech). The scene between the characters Kat and Jean were worthy of a repeat watch and perhaps should form part of a training package for 'professional carers'. Each actress captured the nuances of depression and mental illness perfectly. The tenderness with which Jean gently wiped the much fought tears coursing down the over made up face of Kat was breathtaking and believable. The damaged trying to heal the damaged. I'm not suggesting that all therapists should be damaged before they are released to help others but my goodness, unless you have been there ... Kat's portrayal of absolute hollowness and bewilderment at her lot was perfectly pitched. I know it's not fashionable to praise the script writers of 'soaps' but sometimes, just sometimes, they hit the spot. Funny enough, apropos no connection at all, a professor type chap was being interviewed on Today and talking about his book this morning in which he confirms that happiness, after a brief visit to you as a small child, actually avoids you again until you reach old age. Within the discussion he referred to mild and severe depression: he said that if you could describe your severe depression you didn't actually have it. Spot on Prof!
Hairy Bikers! Oh my! THE Hairy Bikers! I am not a foodie; it's fair to say that actually, food and I have a, shall we say, difficult relationship at the best of time. Didn't used to be the case. I could eat as much as me Dad. These days I guess less physical activity means less expenditure of energy ergo, less fuel required. It also doesn't help that one of my multiple medical matters relates to the entire digestive system. But the Hairy Bikers. I fell over them acidentally a week or two ago and was mesmerised by them. They laugh! They have long hair! They are clearly well fed! Their carefully choregraphed chaos beguiles me. No Nouvelle Cuisine from this pair thank goodness! No three blobs of brown stuff artfully draped over a teaspoon of raw fish dressed with a single grape carved into a rose these two! Oh no! Lovely, home made, proper food treated with reverence and care. Last night's sausage casserole receipe confirmed the benefits of good home cooking from scratch with no scientific babble. The Hairy Bikers come across as real. From the brushing of the hair away from the face, to the little accidents, to swatting the flies - real people preparing real food for real people to eat. Magic! Sorry Heston; sorry Gordon, sorry Jamie. I know you each have your place and welcome to it you are but if I ever get rich enough again, I want to attend a live presentation of the Hairy Bikers.
Time to stop being self indulgent: although I have managed some chores today, I have had to indulge in more respite time between chores hence the waffle of words above. Looking forward to trying me Chili Con Carne Hotpotch I made from scratch, adding the left overs from the fridge, this morning - inspired by the Hairy Bikers.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Ah ha! The postman has arrived!!!! Shall I pray fervently BEFORE I open the door or after I have inspected the postbox? Both methinks. Hmmmm. Now, there's interesting. Postie, who is a chum of the Estranged One, sent me to Coventry several weeks ago. He went from years of friendly exchanges of mutual greetings and enquiries after each other's health to studiously avoiding even setting eyes on me through my Hive window. For a while, I was outraged, hurt and bewildered. Being a literal bean I tend to believe you if you are friendly. Equally I tend to accept it when you indicate you can't stand the sight nor sound of me. Shit happens. People don't always like other people. But what I do struggle with is when you change attitudes without explanation. Like a maggot feasting on a wound, the thought chews away: 'Why? What did I do? How shall I deal with this? What's been said? Shall I face him down? Shall I leave a note?' No. I do what I always do, eventually, bewail the unfairness of it all into the ever patient ear of my BF. No wonder she has tinnitus! In the end I decide I actually don't give a flying flicker after all. His problem not mine.
Anyroadup, today I WAVED AT POSTIE even though he was avoiding my fisog. Breakthrough!!! A wave returned with the merest hint of a lopsided smile. That'll do thank you. Delivery? and breathe. Seed catalogue trying to lure non existent pennies from my purse and begging letter on behalf of the birds. Now all I have to do is worry about the 'phone ringing ...
Spoke with my lovely Sister in Law: We share two connections, apart from my Baby Brother. We both work in education and suffer the slings and arrows of living in a goldfish bowl being tested to death. We both suffer back problems. L's are significantly worse than mine - although pain comparisons are a complete waste of time; your pain is your pain and my pain is my pain. She is recovering from a mammoth operation to try and repair the damage done by the previous mammoth operation. The second surgeon shared with her the awful reality of what he had found and we thank God! for the timely intervention. For those 'colleagues' of hers who bitched about her being seen shopping in town the weekend prior to the 6 hour operation, thereby attempting to diminish her suffering and her bravery, I reserve my most vitriolic words. I confess to white hot anger on her behalf and I counselled, as fiercely as I know how, that she should only ever take notice of the opinions of those she values and disregard the rest. Sometimes I hate members of my tribe.
Last night's TV surprised me. I spend an inordinate amount of time on tinternet/laptop and blogging and stuff. But I try to make myself spend time in the other rooms of the Cottage, to justify their existence really. So, I usually close down anytime between 7.30 and 10.00 pm depending on how humorous or interesting the intercourse is with Framily and Chums. Early close down saw me retreating to the den to do 'something else'. The choices: continue creating the blanket I am making for my BF (which should have been completed in February); read the newspaper I bought on a whim, or poke the fire and watch the telly. Settled for the third option as the first two required less pain plus the power of concentration. Four and a half channels now means that sometimes I am just stuck with what there is. And, sorry JM, not matter how wonderful you think Professor Brian Cox is (Professor? professor? For God's sake he doesn't even look old enough to have left the Upper Sixth yet!) I cannot get beyond the boyish good looks and sharpened cheekbones. I wish I could! Then I might come across as 'telligent.
So to Eastenders then - hey! you there! yeah! you! the one sneering in the corner: it's known as a distraction technique! I don't always remember the names of the actors or actresses (yes I DO insist on referring to the feminine as an actress - I refuse to be utterly cowed by what is supposed to be free speech). The scene between the characters Kat and Jean were worthy of a repeat watch and perhaps should form part of a training package for 'professional carers'. Each actress captured the nuances of depression and mental illness perfectly. The tenderness with which Jean gently wiped the much fought tears coursing down the over made up face of Kat was breathtaking and believable. The damaged trying to heal the damaged. I'm not suggesting that all therapists should be damaged before they are released to help others but my goodness, unless you have been there ... Kat's portrayal of absolute hollowness and bewilderment at her lot was perfectly pitched. I know it's not fashionable to praise the script writers of 'soaps' but sometimes, just sometimes, they hit the spot. Funny enough, apropos no connection at all, a professor type chap was being interviewed on Today and talking about his book this morning in which he confirms that happiness, after a brief visit to you as a small child, actually avoids you again until you reach old age. Within the discussion he referred to mild and severe depression: he said that if you could describe your severe depression you didn't actually have it. Spot on Prof!
Hairy Bikers! Oh my! THE Hairy Bikers! I am not a foodie; it's fair to say that actually, food and I have a, shall we say, difficult relationship at the best of time. Didn't used to be the case. I could eat as much as me Dad. These days I guess less physical activity means less expenditure of energy ergo, less fuel required. It also doesn't help that one of my multiple medical matters relates to the entire digestive system. But the Hairy Bikers. I fell over them acidentally a week or two ago and was mesmerised by them. They laugh! They have long hair! They are clearly well fed! Their carefully choregraphed chaos beguiles me. No Nouvelle Cuisine from this pair thank goodness! No three blobs of brown stuff artfully draped over a teaspoon of raw fish dressed with a single grape carved into a rose these two! Oh no! Lovely, home made, proper food treated with reverence and care. Last night's sausage casserole receipe confirmed the benefits of good home cooking from scratch with no scientific babble. The Hairy Bikers come across as real. From the brushing of the hair away from the face, to the little accidents, to swatting the flies - real people preparing real food for real people to eat. Magic! Sorry Heston; sorry Gordon, sorry Jamie. I know you each have your place and welcome to it you are but if I ever get rich enough again, I want to attend a live presentation of the Hairy Bikers.
Time to stop being self indulgent: although I have managed some chores today, I have had to indulge in more respite time between chores hence the waffle of words above. Looking forward to trying me Chili Con Carne Hotpotch I made from scratch, adding the left overs from the fridge, this morning - inspired by the Hairy Bikers.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Tuesday, 29 March 2011
At the end of the day (and other cliched claptrap) ....
Ho Hum! Herculean effort to suppress symptoms this morning and get to the hospital appointment at silly o'clock paid off, well sort of. Without an alarm I woke up at 5.45 except, I didn't. Having managed only to change the clock on the microwave and the cooker, the mantle clock is an hour out so I actually got up at 6.45. This meant ingestion of painkillers/anti inflammatories delayed until 7.15 ish: the consequence of which means that the rat which chews away at my spine continues to chew causing chronic pain. It still has not and will not ease today.
All medical appointments require planning but hospital appointments requires specific and additional planning. Now I am 'alone' and 'partnerless' there is no automatic cry of 'Don't worry! I'll take the morning off and take you there and hold your hand'. (Er... was there ever??? Ed.) So my lovely BF is dragooned to meet me in the car park. I actually manage to arrive on time, with sufficient coinage for the car park penalty one pays for being ill, and, although it took ten minutes to do so, I even managed to key in my car registration correctly. So far, so successfull!
I'm second in the waiting room and presenting myself to the receptionist I suddenly realise that I have not actually spoken with BF to confirm where we shall meet. Terrified I shall lose my place I explain that I need to nip out to the car park to make a call all the while hoping that the nurse type person doesn't come and call out my name whilst I am absent. BF is on voicemail. Of course she is! She's bloody driving you idiot! Shivering I return to the waitng room anxiously trying to see if my file has been removed from the pending tray. I can't tell.
Mobile rings and BF has been caught up in the complicated roadworks I got caught up in. Seconds later, it seems, the weighing person calls me into a side room and weighs me. (I have already checked on my home scales and note under 8 stone to be the measure.) The scales at the hospital, of course, are not in English and when I ask the weighing person to tell me what the English version of 52 and a bit killogams is, she is unable to do so because she does not have a conversion chart. There is, I discover later, about a 4lbs difference between us. I am returned to the waiting room and shortly my BF sweeps in majestically and we both sit shivering. There is a certain sort of 'OMG what time of day is this' tinge to our conversation bordering on hysteria. My name is called and we are shown to the second waiting area.
We watch as women in uniform and men in plain clothes stalk the corridor we are seated in. Busy, busy, busy! Some are carrying notes, some are carrying equipment, some are taking patients into side rooms. Patients to be weighed, patients to be measured, patients to be examined. Cups of tea collected from trolleys - oh! how me and BF would welcome a cup of tea. My consultant's nurse comes out of his room and we exchange greetings. She has a big, beautiful smile and makes me want to be hugged. My consultant today is the one assigned to the gastro section of my bodily malfunctions and our consultation is the follow up to the CT scan. His door opens again and out he pops. I smile winningly and he ignores me as he enters the room next to me. He's not, of course, ignoring me. He simply has not seen me. It is not my turn. I am not scheduled to be in his consciousness for at least another ten minutes, hence he does not respond.
Last time we met, Dr S came to where I was seated, smiled, greeted me, shook my hand and escorted me to his room. This time he tentatively stood in his doorway and called my name. BF and I enter his inner sanctum and I remind him I am alone now and that my BF is with me to help me fill in the gaps. He shakes her hand. What followed next was, simply, appalling. The consultation was adversarial. What had I done to change things? Why was I taking one particular tablet? How frequently do your 'you know whats do the you know what? No I don't want to know about today specifically. Four times so far today you say? But what about other days? And what does it look like? You have too many things wrong with you. You have too many different pains. There is nothing I can do for you. The last drug I recommended to your GP? Oh that? Well you have just told me the steroids prescribed for your chest have had no beneficial effect on your digestive system and as the last drug I recommended is a targeted form of steroid there's actually no point in your taking it. You might as well continue with the chest ones. Gallstones? Oh yes! Nearly forgot. Leave them alone. They are doing no harm. Oh? they are causing you pain, then you need to go back to your GP for a referral to a surgeon. I don't do gallstones.
My Beloved BF is making notes for me because although I have brought a pencil and my daily log, I am too disheartened to remove it from my bag and record what he has said. Dr S dictates the bones of his letter to my GP into his recording device and tells my BF, rather sharply I thought, that she does not need to make notes, that he will do so, and, that he will send me a copy of his letter. I shake his hand and thank him for his time because I am well brunged up. What I really want to do is hit him! God help me I want to hit him. And me a pacifist, a hippy, a peace chick! I want to slap him. I am angry. I am hurt. I feel diminished. I am a bloody nuisance. I cling onto BF and fight angry tears through gritted teeth.
The de-brief takes place in my car in the car park. I am so glad BF was with me and I seek her agreement that it was as bad as I describe. She agrees. She is angry too. She confirms that, in her opinion, it was appalling. We jointly agree that if I had just the ONE thing wrong with me instead of FOUR, I might stand a chance of either being assisted in managing the problem, or, heaven forfend! be offered a repair!! So, there you go! My fault for having more than one thing wrong with me. Now we will look towards alternative sources of assistance, advice and just plain bloody concern. It would of course, suit society better, and be a lot more helpful of me if I just bloody well shut the hell up, stop whining and either develop a crisis condition which they can deal with as an emergency, or just up the doses until I no longer remember my name.
No dear reader I am not whinging and whining. I feel like a reporter. It's as if this crap is happening to someone else and not me. I can understand why people go under. God knows I have been there! Those who have loving framily and friends are fortunate because such support stops you sinking under the weight of worthlessness that is cast upon your shoulders. No wonder people die alone in their homes unfound for months. There comes a stage, if you are alone, when your resources are utterly depleted and you simply cannot fight back on any level. Negotiating life in the 21st Century appears to resemble walking through treacle whilst negotiating quicksand and speaking to people incapable of hearing.
I am fortunate: My resources, boosted by my framily and friends, have returned to me, albeit in a slightly squiggly, uppy sidey downy sort of way. My need to share words and experiences is almost an addiction that did not exist before 2008. More writer than reader now. Dr Blog. Writing therapy - don't really care what it's called. This appears to be my way of 'managing the processes' as they say in behavioural therapy circles. It's not anonymous of course. And I suppose that there may come a time when I shall be mortified at the misquotation of something years hence causing embarrassment to my framily or friends. But, whilst this helps, I shall continue. Until it is time to stop.
Stay well, for God's sake, stay well!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx ps: BF fixed the clock in my car so I shall consult Florence when I need to know the time.
All medical appointments require planning but hospital appointments requires specific and additional planning. Now I am 'alone' and 'partnerless' there is no automatic cry of 'Don't worry! I'll take the morning off and take you there and hold your hand'. (Er... was there ever??? Ed.) So my lovely BF is dragooned to meet me in the car park. I actually manage to arrive on time, with sufficient coinage for the car park penalty one pays for being ill, and, although it took ten minutes to do so, I even managed to key in my car registration correctly. So far, so successfull!
I'm second in the waiting room and presenting myself to the receptionist I suddenly realise that I have not actually spoken with BF to confirm where we shall meet. Terrified I shall lose my place I explain that I need to nip out to the car park to make a call all the while hoping that the nurse type person doesn't come and call out my name whilst I am absent. BF is on voicemail. Of course she is! She's bloody driving you idiot! Shivering I return to the waitng room anxiously trying to see if my file has been removed from the pending tray. I can't tell.
Mobile rings and BF has been caught up in the complicated roadworks I got caught up in. Seconds later, it seems, the weighing person calls me into a side room and weighs me. (I have already checked on my home scales and note under 8 stone to be the measure.) The scales at the hospital, of course, are not in English and when I ask the weighing person to tell me what the English version of 52 and a bit killogams is, she is unable to do so because she does not have a conversion chart. There is, I discover later, about a 4lbs difference between us. I am returned to the waiting room and shortly my BF sweeps in majestically and we both sit shivering. There is a certain sort of 'OMG what time of day is this' tinge to our conversation bordering on hysteria. My name is called and we are shown to the second waiting area.
We watch as women in uniform and men in plain clothes stalk the corridor we are seated in. Busy, busy, busy! Some are carrying notes, some are carrying equipment, some are taking patients into side rooms. Patients to be weighed, patients to be measured, patients to be examined. Cups of tea collected from trolleys - oh! how me and BF would welcome a cup of tea. My consultant's nurse comes out of his room and we exchange greetings. She has a big, beautiful smile and makes me want to be hugged. My consultant today is the one assigned to the gastro section of my bodily malfunctions and our consultation is the follow up to the CT scan. His door opens again and out he pops. I smile winningly and he ignores me as he enters the room next to me. He's not, of course, ignoring me. He simply has not seen me. It is not my turn. I am not scheduled to be in his consciousness for at least another ten minutes, hence he does not respond.
Last time we met, Dr S came to where I was seated, smiled, greeted me, shook my hand and escorted me to his room. This time he tentatively stood in his doorway and called my name. BF and I enter his inner sanctum and I remind him I am alone now and that my BF is with me to help me fill in the gaps. He shakes her hand. What followed next was, simply, appalling. The consultation was adversarial. What had I done to change things? Why was I taking one particular tablet? How frequently do your 'you know whats do the you know what? No I don't want to know about today specifically. Four times so far today you say? But what about other days? And what does it look like? You have too many things wrong with you. You have too many different pains. There is nothing I can do for you. The last drug I recommended to your GP? Oh that? Well you have just told me the steroids prescribed for your chest have had no beneficial effect on your digestive system and as the last drug I recommended is a targeted form of steroid there's actually no point in your taking it. You might as well continue with the chest ones. Gallstones? Oh yes! Nearly forgot. Leave them alone. They are doing no harm. Oh? they are causing you pain, then you need to go back to your GP for a referral to a surgeon. I don't do gallstones.
My Beloved BF is making notes for me because although I have brought a pencil and my daily log, I am too disheartened to remove it from my bag and record what he has said. Dr S dictates the bones of his letter to my GP into his recording device and tells my BF, rather sharply I thought, that she does not need to make notes, that he will do so, and, that he will send me a copy of his letter. I shake his hand and thank him for his time because I am well brunged up. What I really want to do is hit him! God help me I want to hit him. And me a pacifist, a hippy, a peace chick! I want to slap him. I am angry. I am hurt. I feel diminished. I am a bloody nuisance. I cling onto BF and fight angry tears through gritted teeth.
The de-brief takes place in my car in the car park. I am so glad BF was with me and I seek her agreement that it was as bad as I describe. She agrees. She is angry too. She confirms that, in her opinion, it was appalling. We jointly agree that if I had just the ONE thing wrong with me instead of FOUR, I might stand a chance of either being assisted in managing the problem, or, heaven forfend! be offered a repair!! So, there you go! My fault for having more than one thing wrong with me. Now we will look towards alternative sources of assistance, advice and just plain bloody concern. It would of course, suit society better, and be a lot more helpful of me if I just bloody well shut the hell up, stop whining and either develop a crisis condition which they can deal with as an emergency, or just up the doses until I no longer remember my name.
No dear reader I am not whinging and whining. I feel like a reporter. It's as if this crap is happening to someone else and not me. I can understand why people go under. God knows I have been there! Those who have loving framily and friends are fortunate because such support stops you sinking under the weight of worthlessness that is cast upon your shoulders. No wonder people die alone in their homes unfound for months. There comes a stage, if you are alone, when your resources are utterly depleted and you simply cannot fight back on any level. Negotiating life in the 21st Century appears to resemble walking through treacle whilst negotiating quicksand and speaking to people incapable of hearing.
I am fortunate: My resources, boosted by my framily and friends, have returned to me, albeit in a slightly squiggly, uppy sidey downy sort of way. My need to share words and experiences is almost an addiction that did not exist before 2008. More writer than reader now. Dr Blog. Writing therapy - don't really care what it's called. This appears to be my way of 'managing the processes' as they say in behavioural therapy circles. It's not anonymous of course. And I suppose that there may come a time when I shall be mortified at the misquotation of something years hence causing embarrassment to my framily or friends. But, whilst this helps, I shall continue. Until it is time to stop.
Stay well, for God's sake, stay well!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx ps: BF fixed the clock in my car so I shall consult Florence when I need to know the time.
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