Crispy Critter: Deep-fried in the (Yuk)

I wonder if anyone has ever been electrocuted by sweating into their computer keyboard...if so, it's possible that my days are numbered.

It has been ridiculously hot and humid here. I know that people will laugh when I say that it has been in the 80s, when everyone else seems to have temps in the 90s and hundreds (yes, I know: this is summer, after all). But for me, if it goes above 68F, I am ready to refrigerate myself until the temperature drops. And - humidity-ewwww. It's so bad, I don't walk, I slosh-and so does everyone else. I'm surprised we all don't just slide down the road.

I would say roll on winter-but then I will eat my words when I start chipping ice off my nose. So-no complaining about the weather when there is nothing I can do about it. I'm thankful I'm not in Dubai, or somewhere really hot. You might as well just stick me on a spit and put an apple in my mouth, and stop when well-done.

The problem with the heat, humidity, etc, is that my balance (such as it is) suffers badly from the extremes of temperature, the damp, the occasional rain, the barometric temperature changes. So I have started falling down a lot-gashed my arm last week and nearly sent the computer flying across the room. Swearing? Oh, yes, lots of swearing. And blood. So I stayed away from my desk, from anything electrical, and from my oven until I started to get a little better. I certainly don't want to send my computer into orbit, since I only just got it fixed-by professionals-as I should have done months ago, but I decided I could do it myself. Oops. Wrong.

Everyone seems to be depressed. My sister was badly let down by a very good friend, and that started a period of questioning every bad decision and bad choice she ever made in her life. I know that routine: I do it all the time, especially when I suddenly find myself headed for the floor. So I told her what my college roommate's father used to tell her: if God meant for us to look back, he would have put our eyes in the back of our head. Good advice. I never took it, but it was really good advice!

I'm a bit depressed, but not because of the weather. I'm a bit down because I'm living in Jurassic Park. At least if I was living in the Planet of the Apes, I would be surrounded by creatures who were more intelligent, better looking and probably a lot more polite. Grrrr. I'm so tempted to find an American footballer's uniform-with padding, and helmet-so the next time some witless cretin slams into me they can bounce off - preferably into moving traffic. I'm getting fed up with nursing bruises. And people watch British movies and believe the Brits are polite. Huh. Far from it. Politeness in this country disappeared several lifetimes ago, along with intelligence, wit and looks!

I guess that makes me (and other foreigners) very rare and special! Ewww...send me home, send me home, while my brain is still functioning!!

So-Claire is depressed because she married that miserable SOB- and he's hooked up with some bleached blonde with a huge chest (according to Claire). I asked her about the "other"-and she said the blonde chews gum constantly, and speaks with a really ugly accent. I couldn't resist it: I said-tell me she isn't from Essex!!! Yes, she said: Braintree. Oh, dear God, Braintree!! I started to laugh, which didn't endear me to Claire until I said: bleached blonde, Estuary accent, gum-chewer-Essex, Claire, Essex! Tits like torpedoes (implants, surely), the brains of a cannoli, and clearly a vagina the size of Norway. Just perfect for Geoff, that bottom-feeding, low-life, scum-sucking reptile who has a tiny little willy (according to Claire, who would know).

Claire started to laugh-then I added: think about them having sex. It would be like tossing a gherkin into the Grand Canyon. And that was it: Claire laughed so hard she got hiccups. And I thought-that is pretty good for something I just thought up on the spur of the moment. So feel free to use those descriptions to fit anyone you think really deserves to be pistol-whipped. As for me, I'm writing them down so I remember them in the future.

Debbie is depressed because she has to return to Australia and look after the parents-there isn't anyone else. So she is really stuck. And packing. And panicking.

Sara is depressed because everyone else is depressed.

Then there is Kevin. Kevin is depressed because he wants to put Geoff against the wall and blacken his eyes, then beat him senseless (well, he did hit Claire, after all), and then, when he has caused enough pain, Kev wants to hang Geoff out the window by his toenails and keep him there until he turns purple and his teeth fall out. Wow. And you think I'm a little strange?

That just about brings us up to date. My sister is annoyed because this blog began as a means to help others who have suffered from gentamicin, or have been born with CVID or some other hereditary condition. She says that this has changed into something else.

Perhaps it has...but I have also changed in the last four years. And next week it will be exactly four years since the gentamicin disaster changed my life forever. And-I'm still here. I have no intention of going anywhere. I'll keep taking the mickey out of the Brits because-well, it's so easy to do, and it's fun. I will probably keep falling over every time the weather changes.

But I have become much stronger. I refuse to quit. I keep going-like the Energizer bunny. Age is supposed to bring wisdom. Nah-it doesn't bring wisdom. It brings wrinkles.

Retribution can be good for the soul-and what goes around comes around

I ended up spraining my ankle-that is what I get for not looking at the potholes and staring at the gorilla instead. Silly, really, since the gorilla fit right in with 99% of the population, who still walk with their knuckles scraping the ground (must be hereditary). For the gorilla it was probably like old home week.

So I've been lying around with my leg on a pillow for a few days-but it didn't stop me from going to Claire's on Sunday. And, for anyone who has been dumped by fax, tossed away by Twitter, f***ed over by Facebook, or text, or email, or phone message...here is my guide to getting even 101.

I rang Debbie and Sara on my way to Claire's on Friday, and Debbie met me there. Sara rang her divorce lawyer, called in some favors (she works for a law firm), and got an appointment for Friday afternoon. Perfect. When the three of us were present and accounted for, we called a locksmith and had the locks changed. That is step number 1: change the locks. He left. Tough luck. He can get his stuff from Claire's lawyer. Before we got there, Claire had called her brother Kevin, who works for a construction company in South London. He was on his way-and Kevin is not someone you want to mess with, because his forearm is the size of my thigh (maybe both my thighs). He was going to stay with Claire until the whole thing was over, just to make certain she would be safe from Geoff.

Sara was going to come by and pick up Claire and take her to see the divorce lawyer (and make sure she didn't chicken out, because Claire kept saying well, maybe he'll come back. Duh-he gave her a black eye, why would she want him back??). So Debbie and I made a list of things we needed to do. 

When the locksmith had changed the locks, Deb and Claire took a trip to the bank (step 2). Claire emptied her accounts-and closed them-and emptied the joint account. Geoff had already helped himself to most of it, as we discovered later. Claire then opened an account at another bank, and had all information sent to her brother.

Step 3 is really important. Now, I know that people fall out of love, and split, and all that-but after a ten year marriage, notice of divorce by fax? That sucks, and anyone who does that is a gutless, spineless coward and deserves whatever he gets (except, maybe, having the crap beaten out of him. Maybe. Then again, maybe not). And it occurred to me that we had all been neighbors who had met in Yoga class in 2009, and only got together for July 4th. Call it an Independence Day group, if you will. If this had happened one week before (or after), Debbie, Sara and I wouldn't have known anything about it. I felt rather good to be able to help someone who really, really needed help. We all did.

So, step 3 is to get the goods on the perpetrator. I asked Claire when she and Deb got back if she had any financial information about Geoff's dealings,since he fancied himself an art dealer when he wasn't doing his day job. She said that all the information is in his office (second bedroom), and he keeps it locked. Ah-a little OCD, or something to hide, I wondered? 

Did I mention that Debbie's hobby is kickboxing? Well, bang, one kick and that was the end of the lock-and we knew that Kevin could fix the door (we hoped, anyway). Geoff's computer was sitting on the desk-which was locked, as were a few filing cabinets. Huh-it's amazing what you can do with a good screwdriver, a Stanley knife-and a power drill. I did those-felt great, too-possibly not for the desk and cabinets, but who cared?

We found bank and credit card statements, jewelry, bonds, and-a small book that was taped to a desk drawer. Geoff had made a note of all his passwords and pin numbers. And we were home free. Everything on his computer was copied onto a flash drive, and drive and files (which we copied) were messengered to the lawyer, who called later and said she was hiring a forensic accountant to examine all the financial information. Geoff was, as they say, hoist by his own petard.

IF he had been honorable and had told Claire to her face, perhaps things would have been different. But he also hit her-and that was inexcusable. So nobody was really feeling sorry for him. 

We also found an envelope filled with cash taped to another desk drawer. That was earmarked for the messenger, the locksmith-and a very nice dinner for all of us. Cheers, Geoff, you toe-rag. The gloves are off and you won't know what hit you, we said over a glass of wine. Geoff also considered himself a wine "expert", and bought several bottles of expensive wine-one of which we drank there and then. 

Step 4-feel no pity. And feel no guilt. And take no prisoners. 

We had a really nice (and expensive) meal after Kevin joined us. And we discussed what was going to be done on Saturday, when I was going to Hampstead to rupture myself. 

Step 5-bag and tag. While I was doing the race, everyone was packing up Geoff's things. All of them: clothes, anything Claire didn't want (like books, CDs, etc), went into black bags and were put in Kevin's van, which he then parked several blocks away (so Geoff wouldn't see it).

Step 6-scan the fax and put that and any photos of Claire with bruises and a black eye on Geoff's facebook page-and Claire's. Email the same to everyone in Claire's address book-and his, and email the fax and photos to his work colleagues. I said, dignity looks good in court, so don't slag him off, just post everything and say-if you must-so glad to see the back of him after years of abuse. And that is it, nothing more.

Step 7-delete the facebook account (without reading any abuse from his friends), change the landline number, change the mobile number-and only give the number out to really good friends, family and anyone who needs it. Don't give the number to anyone who might consider giving it to him-because you know he will ask. Screw him (or, rather, let someone else do that).

He didn't give her his new address or phone number, so-step 8 is have the divorce papers served to him at his office. Step 9-ask the police to go to his office (show them the photographs) and tell him that he is to stay away from you. Police are pretty useless, but Claire laid it on thick, and they went to his office and told him to stay away from her. He was screaming, I heard...oh well, if he gives himself a heart attack she won't have to give him a penny. 

So there you have it. And that is what you do to someone who treats you like something they stepped in. 

A week later and Claire told me that Geoff tried to come back-and she told him where he could go. He demanded his clothes, and his wine, and all his belongings-she said he could find them in the charity shop. And she took all the wine and divided it among all of us. Sadly, though, Claire has decided to return to Dublin when this is all over. Sara comes from Ireland, too, and wants to go back. All their friends and family are still over there. And Debbie-her mother isn't well, so she is returning to Australia.

So that leaves me. Next year I will be setting off fireworks on my own-unless I can find another lookout. Maybe the gorilla will be free that night.

The art of getting even

This last week has been a very interesting one. Read "interesting" as a learning experience. Read "learning experience" as being very, very dire. Can't complain too much though. Nobody died.

It all began on Friday morning. I was getting ready for the Race for Life on Saturday, so I went to the gym, but didn't tax myself too much. I also knew that four of us were going to have a firework party that night, so I was also getting out the fireworks that I bought in November. In this country, fireworks are only legal on November 5th, Guy Fawkes Day. I always buy them -we all do-and keep them for July. Plead ignorance if we get caught, I say-and in ten years, we have never been caught. One day I will eat my words.

One of the women phoned me on Friday morning. Claire was really upset, because her dirtbag of a husband informed her that he was in love with someone else and was leaving her. He informed her-by fax. What a gent! I was furious. I said that if he had any balls at all he would have done the deed in person. So I called the other two women, and told Claire I was on my way to her place in East London. Sara had the day off, and Debbie is self-employed, so it all worked perfectly: we congregated at Claire's.

It was the usual: let's kneecap him. No, too messy. How about we cut his balls off? No, I said, if he had any, he wouldn't have told Claire by fax. So we did the usual: changed the locks, called Sara's friend (who was her divorce lawyer), got all the instructions about going to the bank, taking a lien on the property, searches for anything Geoff had hidden away anywhere...and the ball was rolling, to coin a phrase.

I said-let's get even, legally. We all knew that Geoff kept more than one set of books, and he was so arrogant, he clearly believed that he could waltz in and take all his stuff-and his financial records. Surprise. We scoured the house, found a locked drawer in his desk-and found lots of very interesting stuff to give to the lawyer. And the tax man. Geoff will be audited. And we didn't stop there. We put a copy of the fax onto his Facebook page, emailed everyone Claire and Geoff knew, and Sara had taken photos of bruises and black eyes that Claire had suffered by "falling over"-into his fist. All that information went-everywhere. And that is the way to get even. Legally.

We set off our fireworks in Claire's backyard, and on Saturday morning I made my way back to North London, and prepared for the race. I had a bad feeling about the Hampstead Race for Life, and it turned out to be justified. For one thing, it was raining. Hard. I have problems in the rain.

When I reached Hampstead Heath, one of the organizers came over to me, very concerned. It turns out that I was the only person doing the race who was on an elbow crutch. And-there were 2,400 of us doing the race. I did say-2,400. The organizer proceeded to tell me that Hampstead was the worst and most difficult of all the London courses, because there were very steep hills, potholes, uneven pavement, and - because of the rain - lots of lovely mud. She said that there would be marshals along the course, and if I felt I needed to sit down-or stop-someone would be there to assist me. More than one person came up to me to tell me how awful and treacherous the Hampstead course was; why didn't I choose one of the easier areas?

Oh, good grief, they weren't kidding. And I used to live near the Heath, so I have no excuse for thinking that it was going to be (sorry!) a walk in the park. It was horrendous. By the time I reached the 1K marker I was nearly in tears. I wanted to quit. I realized that I had chosen a course that was way beyond my capabilities. I think I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. What an idiot!

By the time I reached the 2K marker, most of the 2,400 had passed me, and some nearly knocked me over. And worse, many locals decided to walk their dogs, their children, their buggies right smack in the middle of all of us, and were stupid enough to think we should be the ones to move out of their way. Never let it be said that there aren't enough braindeads to go around. How many villages were missing their idiots on Saturday?

It was boiling hot, and humid, and I struggled badly. All I could see when I looked ahead were-more steep hills. So I stopped, stepped to the side, took a few deep breaths and tried to cool down, and took a few swings of water. I kept thinking: I really need something to motivate me to go on, because I don't really think I can go on.

Not 30 seconds after I had that thought, I had my motivation. I was overtaken by two small dogs and a woman in a gorilla suit. A gorilla suit was all it took to get me going again-after I stopped laughing, that is!

I struggled and struggled, my muscles were screaming, my entire body was screaming-I was in such a bad state-but as I crossed the finish line, I turned around and saw several people (able-bodied-not on crutches) sauntering up behind me. So I didn't finish last after all. But someone put a medal around my neck (we all got medals as we crossed the finish line), gave me a bottle of water, and applauded. And I still felt like I was going to die.

I don't know to this day how I managed to get home, because I could hardly stand up, let alone walk. I got in the door and had to lie down, and I have been in bed since Saturday. That is how long it took me to recover. But I look at my wall and I can see the card with my race number on it, and next to it I pinned the Race for Life 2014 medal. I still won't ever do that again-if I do the race in 2015, I will choose an easier course. I learned the hard way. I learned the excruciatingly painful way. But I sure as hell learned.

I got so fed up with people (doctors, mainly) calling me "disabled", or "crippled"-or, worse, "frail". I'm not frail, not by a long shot. I have come a long way in the four years since the gentamicin incident. But on my wall I also have a printed saying: never, never, never give up. So now I know my limitations-but I am still working on getting better. I've been told that I will "never" regain all my balance, and that I might have reached the point beyond which I probably will not go. Maybe. Maybe not. Never say never.

I couldn't help thinking about all the people who took part in the race on Saturday. 2,400 people, and all  have taken a hit in one way or another, all have lost someone to cancer, or have had it themselves. I was in tears as we all stood there, having a moment's silence just before the race began. We were all participating for a common purpose: to eradicate this insidious disease once and for all.

I can walk now, and I do feel a sense of triumph and achievement, even though participating in such a tough course was more than a little on the dumb side. I still did it (but I won't do it again!).

2,400 of us. Plus two dogs. And a gorilla.

The first cornerstone of life-rocks

Life is unfair. That's it: never expect anyone or anything in life to play fair. Once you get that, you will never be disappointed.

I walked funny for a few days after I posted last time-and I couldn't raise my arms-but that was self-inflicted, since I knew better than to overdo it at the gym, but I overdid it anyway. It might have been entertaining to any onlookers to see me walking like I had a rod shoved up my behind-but, for me-not so much.

I got through all that, happily-and I am on course to do the Race for Life on Saturday. And-I spoke too soon about the computer being fixed, because Outlook has gone down again. Repeatedly. I've got no idea what the problem is. I switched from Internet Explorer to Google Chrome, and felt very smug because I was able to access my hundreds of emails (mostly junk)...and then, wouldn't you know it, the whole thing went pear-shaped. Again. Grrrr...like I said, life is unfair. So I figured out this morning that I will go on Facebook-if I can remember the password!- and just put it out to whoever is reading to see if any computer wizards know what to do next.

I haven't been bone-idle since the last time I posted. I did go back to the gym last week, but I was more careful - and I feel nearly ready for Saturday. I walk a lot anyway-it's part of physio-so I should be able to do 5k easily (it's only a little over 3 miles). But I also went to see Dimples, and he was really negative about the whole thing. Oh, he had to comment, I'm not strong enough, last year I was such a wreck, cancer, surgery, the knee realignment, etc, etc. What if I have a dizzy spell and fall over? What if someone else knocks me over? All those people rushing past me-I could be injured.

True-but people crash into me and knock me over in the course of walking outside my building, so this would be nothing new. If I fall over, I get up again. If I come in last, who cares? The point for me is that I am doing something I couldn't do last year. Four years ago I couldn't get out of bed without falling over. For the first two years since the gentamicin disaster I couldn't go up and down stairs, or even walk ten steps without someone having to help me. I couldn't see; I couldn't read; I couldn't watch tv or go to a movie. I couldn't go anywhere.

It has taken me four years to reach this point, and I am going for it. I went home in 2012-briefly-and nobody knew just how bad I was then. But I went home anyway. For me, that was an amazing achievement. And now I am walking in unfamiliar, hilly terrain-and probably in 85 degree heat, according to the weather people-and, although it is only 3.3 miles (or thereabouts), this, to me, is nothing short of a miracle. And I am going to finish the course. Who knows? There might be people coming in after me, so I won't be last after all!!

One of the nurses told me that I am an inspiration to so many people. That was nice to hear, but I don't think of myself as an inspiration to anyone. I think of myself as being what the Brits call "bloody minded": determined, and, as we say, ornery. I am as prepared as I can possibly be. I leave the rest up to the day itself. We'll see.

Something Andy said in his sermon last week really resonated with many of us: we become what we do. That fired people up - for about five minutes - but it made people think about sitting around and doing nothing, just being all talk and no action.

In my view, I go a little bit further. We become what we believe. I also believe that miracles happen. So this year I will do the 5K - and next year I will do the 10K. I am determined to be off the stick by this Christmas. I will, of course, keep you posted.

I will let you know what happens on Saturday afternoon. One thing for certain: I will give both Kettle Chips and Jack Daniel's a hammering!!