We've got two weapons of mass destruction in this country. They are called Cameron and Clegg. In two weeks the joke of a coalition government will be no more-and the people of this country will be heaving a sigh of relief. Those of us with functioning brains will probably just be heaving.
I have had so much junk mail through my door-and so have my friends-and everyone else-that I am surprised there is a single tree left in this country. Do I read any of it? Of course not. I just exercise my right arm by chucking it all into the bin. Actually, nobody I know reads any of it, either. All those trees - destroyed for nothing.
So here is the update on the general election-where we get rid of two idiots and gain another idiot. And people being people (lazy and stupid) will probably keep Cameron. Cameron. The man who has no ideals, and no agenda-except to be elected. He goes with the wind; he has no policies of his own. Enough people complain about the NHS and he promises to keep it-and fix it. He's the reason the NHS is imploding in the first place!! He put us all into deep doodoo-and refuses to take responsibility for totally screwing up the economy. Sounds like a typical politician: as long as he is still breathing, he is lying. I wonder if he lies in his sleep.
Then there is Clegg, the deputy prime loser. He opens his mouth only long enough to change feet.
Next there is Ed Miliband, the man who actually does make a lot of sense (talks issues, not just how to slag off the opposition). Too bad he has the charisma of a cowpat. And there is Nigel Farage.
Nigel Farage deserves his own paragraph. He is head of UKIP, and against- well, just about everything. The tabloids are fond of ripping him apart, and slagging him off as much as they can. Of course, they're the tabloids: they never heard of reporting the news. God help you if they don't like you. Farage has decided-in his infinite wisdom (of which he has none)- to reverse the ban on smoking in pubs. Now-he's so desperate he is going after the votes of all the smokers who haven't died of lung cancer. He will probably also go after the votes of all the drinkers who haven't died of cirrhosis of the liver, too. The ban on smoking in pubs, clubs and restaurants is the best thing anyone could possibly do. It's common knowledge that smoking is related to lung cancer. Everyone knows this-but people keep smoking. Are they masochistic? Suicidal? Or just plain stupid ('scuse me, we know the answer to that one!). I think that if people want to kill themselves by smoking, that is their choice. But I draw the line at people smoking around me, because secondhand smoke kills. It is even more dangerous than smoking itself. So-Farage is an ass. If people want to smoke, or set themselves on fire, or spontaneously combust, fine. Just don't do it around me. Line drawn. Like I said-Farage is an ass.
Next there are the Greens. Sadly, the Green Party won't get their candidate elected unless everyone else dies. We live in hope.
For the next two weeks I am keeping my head down, not getting involved in any discussions, and, frankly, I don't give a rat's patootie, because I don't think it will make the slightest bit of difference who gets in. One pile of crap is the same as another pile of crap. I think we should elect a chimpanzee. Then we would be in with a fighting chance. On polling day-May 7th- I will be sitting in front of the television, watching the box set of Breaking Bad, with plenty of Kettle Chips to keep me company...
And for the good news, which I saved until last. On Monday I went to Queen Square to see Dr. Davies, the neurologist who is the foremost vestibular specialist in this country. Davies had me do another test, one which I took in 2011, and I failed miserably. So I retook it. It involves standing on a platform-in a harness, so I don't fall over and crack my head open-and there are three walls, one in front of me and one on either side. They all move. And I do mean move-I felt like I was standing on a wobble board. I got through the first five tests, and it wasn't so bad-but the last two were murder. I had to stand with my eyes closed, and try not to fall over. I did really badly on those two.
Davies showed me the graphs after the tests; she also showed me the graphs from 2011. In these four years I have gone from 34% to a whopping 58%. It has taken me five years of very hard work, but I could look at the graphs and see progress. Davies said that she feels that I will get more balance back. As long as it takes, guys, as long as it takes. If Davies had said-forget it-I would have been depressed, but I would have still kept going. She said that my strength and determination-and obstinacy-are what got me this far, and that I need to keep fighting, and keep doing the exercises. I return in six months, and I will be retested. So we will see. I nearly wept. I skipped out of the hospital-well, I nearly skipped out. I'm working on that.
The graphs are pinned up on my wall, so that when I get depressed because I don't think I am getting better quickly enough I can look at the wall and know. I might get there when I'm 100, but I will still get there.
That is it for now. Time for Kettle Chips (in celebration, of course). And a nice large Mojito. Then I'm set for the evening. After all, that's one from every food group.
Friday, 24 April 2015
Wednesday, 15 April 2015
Faster and More Furious
It's another beautiful day in the anus of the Universe. It doesn't happen that often. When it is a gorgeous day, all the office buildings empty out-every building empties out-and people throw themselves onto any spare piece of grass and lie there until they develop skin cancer.
Yesterday I took advantage of the sun-we are so used to seeing rain and more rain that the sun seems almost alien-and I went to the park to enjoy the good weather. I took my book, a bottle of water, and my can of mace. One can never be too careful.
I had a few good, peaceful hours before the juvenile delinquents got out of school and stormed the park. I can still remember my teenage years (back in the Jurassic period), when teenagers pushed a bit, jokingly. These kids punch each other, jump on each other, and generally try to rip each other's faces off. And these are the children who will grow up to be thieves, rapists, murderers, pedophiles, serial killers, and, in all likelihood, Prime Minister. Where do you think he and all his cabinet came from, anyway? Drink to the future. Or just drink.
On Thursday, I went with my friend to see the film I wanted to see: Fast & Furious 7. Oh, it was great: terrific stunt work, great special effects (I'll travel to see a film with great stunts and great effects), and the good guys beat seven kinds of crap out of the bad guys. We were the only people in the cinema who were actually going "yeah!" and punching the air every time the good guys won. Of course, this is England. I remember being at a dinner party recently where people were talking about their favorite television shows. One that came up time and time again was CSI- the original CSI (usually people in this country just dissect the weather, so this was a treat and a half). I asked the man sitting next to me if he had a favorite character. He said he did: Nate Haskell. And the rest of you can google that-because as soon as I could I moved as far away from him as I could. Nothing tells you more about a person than their favorite show and favorite character. This man was clearly a mass murderer-or a wannabe-interesting. Ish.
Now tell me: why is it that some of the ugliest men drive the most expensive cars? Many-not all, but many-certainly in this country. We were having this debate after the movie-because this huge black SUV rolled up in front of us. It looked like a hearse. It was a BMW; so it looked like an expensive hearse. Useful for a second career in case the owner found himself on his uppers.
Who on earth needs an SUV in the city of London? It takes several mortgage payments just to fill up the gas tank (once). Then you have to find a road that is wide enough to take the thing. And the driver-was he ugly, or what? Not only did he look like he'd been hit face first by a bus, but he must have had three people shoehorn him in behind the wheel. We watched him huff, and puff, and turn purple-and his stomach left the vehicle ten minutes before the rest of him.
What is it? Is it the desire to flaunt wealth (either real or imagined)? Is it penis envy (wanting to have one that is bigger than a gherkin when erect)? Wanting to impress everyone (massive insecurity)? Or simple stupidity?
Perhaps he was a politician-so that would have to be a mixture of all of the above. We just laughed-especially when the lardo nearly fell out of the car. That would be terrible if there was a fire: he would easily feed a family of eight.
The end of the film provided a tribute to Paul Walker, who died before the film was finished. It was sentimental, but quite respectfully done. I couldn't help but feel a bit sad-and that started me on a weekend of rumination. There is so much I want to do, so much I want to accomplish. I just need the time - and the energy - and the inclination - to do it all.
Meanwhile, I have paid for the Easter transgressions: my clothes are too tight. Here comes the diet-or at least avoiding all the junk food. I walk down the street and I look over my shoulder to see if I'm being chased by Captain Ahab and his harpoon. In fact, yesterday three people stood very close-too close- as I waited to cross the road. I wasn't sure if they wanted to mug me or if they were just searching for the blowholes.
Sadly, the munchkins will have to start without me.
Yesterday I took advantage of the sun-we are so used to seeing rain and more rain that the sun seems almost alien-and I went to the park to enjoy the good weather. I took my book, a bottle of water, and my can of mace. One can never be too careful.
I had a few good, peaceful hours before the juvenile delinquents got out of school and stormed the park. I can still remember my teenage years (back in the Jurassic period), when teenagers pushed a bit, jokingly. These kids punch each other, jump on each other, and generally try to rip each other's faces off. And these are the children who will grow up to be thieves, rapists, murderers, pedophiles, serial killers, and, in all likelihood, Prime Minister. Where do you think he and all his cabinet came from, anyway? Drink to the future. Or just drink.
On Thursday, I went with my friend to see the film I wanted to see: Fast & Furious 7. Oh, it was great: terrific stunt work, great special effects (I'll travel to see a film with great stunts and great effects), and the good guys beat seven kinds of crap out of the bad guys. We were the only people in the cinema who were actually going "yeah!" and punching the air every time the good guys won. Of course, this is England. I remember being at a dinner party recently where people were talking about their favorite television shows. One that came up time and time again was CSI- the original CSI (usually people in this country just dissect the weather, so this was a treat and a half). I asked the man sitting next to me if he had a favorite character. He said he did: Nate Haskell. And the rest of you can google that-because as soon as I could I moved as far away from him as I could. Nothing tells you more about a person than their favorite show and favorite character. This man was clearly a mass murderer-or a wannabe-interesting. Ish.
Now tell me: why is it that some of the ugliest men drive the most expensive cars? Many-not all, but many-certainly in this country. We were having this debate after the movie-because this huge black SUV rolled up in front of us. It looked like a hearse. It was a BMW; so it looked like an expensive hearse. Useful for a second career in case the owner found himself on his uppers.
Who on earth needs an SUV in the city of London? It takes several mortgage payments just to fill up the gas tank (once). Then you have to find a road that is wide enough to take the thing. And the driver-was he ugly, or what? Not only did he look like he'd been hit face first by a bus, but he must have had three people shoehorn him in behind the wheel. We watched him huff, and puff, and turn purple-and his stomach left the vehicle ten minutes before the rest of him.
What is it? Is it the desire to flaunt wealth (either real or imagined)? Is it penis envy (wanting to have one that is bigger than a gherkin when erect)? Wanting to impress everyone (massive insecurity)? Or simple stupidity?
Perhaps he was a politician-so that would have to be a mixture of all of the above. We just laughed-especially when the lardo nearly fell out of the car. That would be terrible if there was a fire: he would easily feed a family of eight.
The end of the film provided a tribute to Paul Walker, who died before the film was finished. It was sentimental, but quite respectfully done. I couldn't help but feel a bit sad-and that started me on a weekend of rumination. There is so much I want to do, so much I want to accomplish. I just need the time - and the energy - and the inclination - to do it all.
Meanwhile, I have paid for the Easter transgressions: my clothes are too tight. Here comes the diet-or at least avoiding all the junk food. I walk down the street and I look over my shoulder to see if I'm being chased by Captain Ahab and his harpoon. In fact, yesterday three people stood very close-too close- as I waited to cross the road. I wasn't sure if they wanted to mug me or if they were just searching for the blowholes.
Sadly, the munchkins will have to start without me.
Thursday, 9 April 2015
Requiem for the Easter Bunny
I finally put the chocolate bunny out of its misery-or, perhaps, out of my misery-and scoffed it on Saturday morning. At 5am, after eating the rest of the Kettle Chips and having two strong mugs of coffee. Why? Because the deranged psycho upstairs neighbor from Hell was drilling all Friday night. Again. I so wanted him to slip with the drill and put a nice, large hole in his head (I'm pretty sure there's nothing in there anyway, but a large hole would be perfect). Then we would be rid of him once and for all.
I know it's very uncharitable of me. And so un-Christian. And bad karma. Who gives a shit?
The good news is that I bought two chocolate bunnies, just in case I couldn't wait for Easter Sunday. Be prepared-I learned something useful in the Girl Scouts. So I munched through the second one on Sunday. There really wasn't anything else to do, since most of the shops were closed. I had a long walk and took my bunny with me. It was great: the Lindt bunny, the elbow crutch and me, all walking up the hill, trying to trip as many idiots as I could. I was very purposeful-and people really did get out of my way. For once.
I did my going to the hospital thing all week: infusions, blood work, and all that-but a friend rang to ask me if I wanted to go to the movies. The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, or a reasonable facsimile thereof (very long title). The deal? We would go see that and then today would go see Fast and Furious 7. I'm such a sucker for good special effects. Put me in front of anything with car chases or lots of effects, give me a bag of Kettle Chips, and I'm as happy as can be. If I'm that easy to please, I really do need to get out more.
Now isn't the time to simply take a leisurely walk. The general election is imminent, and as soon as you leave the house you get accosted by someone from one of the parties, desperate to get your vote. And-I am political, and everything that is going on has an effect on my healing, whether directly or indirectly. So-here is an inside view of the upcoming election from an objective (well, nearly objective) foreigner who is not an ancient pop star or a rich actress who names her child after a fruit.
Cameron is our incumbent Prime Minister, and Cameron and the Conservatives are doing their best to dismantle the NHS-preferably without anyone noticing. Like a certain President who looked directly at the cameras and took credit for Bin Laden (credit which he certainly didn't deserve, since he did nothing), Cameron loves looking into the camera lens and lying through his teeth. He is a politician-so you know he is lying when his lips move. In fact, he lies when he takes a breath. He is a born liar-and this country is suffering greatly for it. But people are, as you know, incredibly stupid. Braindeads will believe him, and vote for him, and then live (possibly) to regret it. Call me Dave-is a world-class, blue ribbon, totally incompetent, lying douchebag. That is a compliment; I could say so much more (but I leave that to the other politicians, who aren't much better).
Then there is Nick Clegg, the co-imbecile of this coalition government. Clegg just opens his mouth and sticks his foot in it-sometimes both feet. The best description of Clegg is-well, one four-letter word that rhymes with his first name and begins with a D. Enough said. The prospect of having him elected as prime minister is cringeworthy. Maybe even vomit-inducing.
Who is next? Oh dear-Ed Miliband, the head of the Labour Party. To his credit, Ed has been criticizing the pressing financial issues-instead of doing a Call me Dave and spending all his time trying to discredit the competition. But Labour shot itself in the foot by appointing him, rather than his (in my opinion, anyway) more intelligent and more qualified brother, who had the sense to pick his family up and take a job in New York. David Miliband is making big bucks in New York, and Ed-Ed is Ed. He has all the charisma of a cowpat. Would you vote for a cowpat? Exactly my point.
Then there is UKIP. UKIP is vilified by the tabloids, but, of course, the tabloids only hire imbeciles who are unable to spell, or punctuate, or put together a sentence of more than four words (most of them under four letters long). Tabloids: the Mail, Express, Sun, Mirror-they are all on a par with the National Enquirer. People read them. People listen to them. They express their opinions, their prejudices-anything but actual news. And, of course, the Guardian, leftist pseudo-intellectual tabloid wolf in a sheep's clothing, is just as bad, since it appeals to the racist and dimwitted masses.
UKIP is for putting the brakes on immigration, for one thing. If you speak with anyone who was born in this country, who worked all their lives, paid their taxes, fought in one of the wars-they will tell you how unhappy they are with the doors being opened to people from the European Union- because it would seem that many of them come over to claim benefits, not to work.
It is very difficult to separate the lies from the truth, the promises (most of which will never be kept) from all the bullshit. I keep my head under the parapet, keep my opinions to myself (except on this blog, where I feel free to go to town, fire verbal missiles, and just call it as I see it), and on voting day I will be reading a book and minding my own business.
There was something on BBC News (just as bad as everyone else, sadly) about all our emails being investigated by MI5, the NSA, and all the security services. They are looking for key words (allegedly) to pinpoint possible terrorist attacks. So when I say I fire potshots, and missiles, I hasten to add that these are all verbal. Otherwise I will be blogging from jail.
I wonder if they would have working wi-fi? Hmmm.....
I know it's very uncharitable of me. And so un-Christian. And bad karma. Who gives a shit?
The good news is that I bought two chocolate bunnies, just in case I couldn't wait for Easter Sunday. Be prepared-I learned something useful in the Girl Scouts. So I munched through the second one on Sunday. There really wasn't anything else to do, since most of the shops were closed. I had a long walk and took my bunny with me. It was great: the Lindt bunny, the elbow crutch and me, all walking up the hill, trying to trip as many idiots as I could. I was very purposeful-and people really did get out of my way. For once.
I did my going to the hospital thing all week: infusions, blood work, and all that-but a friend rang to ask me if I wanted to go to the movies. The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, or a reasonable facsimile thereof (very long title). The deal? We would go see that and then today would go see Fast and Furious 7. I'm such a sucker for good special effects. Put me in front of anything with car chases or lots of effects, give me a bag of Kettle Chips, and I'm as happy as can be. If I'm that easy to please, I really do need to get out more.
Now isn't the time to simply take a leisurely walk. The general election is imminent, and as soon as you leave the house you get accosted by someone from one of the parties, desperate to get your vote. And-I am political, and everything that is going on has an effect on my healing, whether directly or indirectly. So-here is an inside view of the upcoming election from an objective (well, nearly objective) foreigner who is not an ancient pop star or a rich actress who names her child after a fruit.
Cameron is our incumbent Prime Minister, and Cameron and the Conservatives are doing their best to dismantle the NHS-preferably without anyone noticing. Like a certain President who looked directly at the cameras and took credit for Bin Laden (credit which he certainly didn't deserve, since he did nothing), Cameron loves looking into the camera lens and lying through his teeth. He is a politician-so you know he is lying when his lips move. In fact, he lies when he takes a breath. He is a born liar-and this country is suffering greatly for it. But people are, as you know, incredibly stupid. Braindeads will believe him, and vote for him, and then live (possibly) to regret it. Call me Dave-is a world-class, blue ribbon, totally incompetent, lying douchebag. That is a compliment; I could say so much more (but I leave that to the other politicians, who aren't much better).
Then there is Nick Clegg, the co-imbecile of this coalition government. Clegg just opens his mouth and sticks his foot in it-sometimes both feet. The best description of Clegg is-well, one four-letter word that rhymes with his first name and begins with a D. Enough said. The prospect of having him elected as prime minister is cringeworthy. Maybe even vomit-inducing.
Who is next? Oh dear-Ed Miliband, the head of the Labour Party. To his credit, Ed has been criticizing the pressing financial issues-instead of doing a Call me Dave and spending all his time trying to discredit the competition. But Labour shot itself in the foot by appointing him, rather than his (in my opinion, anyway) more intelligent and more qualified brother, who had the sense to pick his family up and take a job in New York. David Miliband is making big bucks in New York, and Ed-Ed is Ed. He has all the charisma of a cowpat. Would you vote for a cowpat? Exactly my point.
Then there is UKIP. UKIP is vilified by the tabloids, but, of course, the tabloids only hire imbeciles who are unable to spell, or punctuate, or put together a sentence of more than four words (most of them under four letters long). Tabloids: the Mail, Express, Sun, Mirror-they are all on a par with the National Enquirer. People read them. People listen to them. They express their opinions, their prejudices-anything but actual news. And, of course, the Guardian, leftist pseudo-intellectual tabloid wolf in a sheep's clothing, is just as bad, since it appeals to the racist and dimwitted masses.
UKIP is for putting the brakes on immigration, for one thing. If you speak with anyone who was born in this country, who worked all their lives, paid their taxes, fought in one of the wars-they will tell you how unhappy they are with the doors being opened to people from the European Union- because it would seem that many of them come over to claim benefits, not to work.
It is very difficult to separate the lies from the truth, the promises (most of which will never be kept) from all the bullshit. I keep my head under the parapet, keep my opinions to myself (except on this blog, where I feel free to go to town, fire verbal missiles, and just call it as I see it), and on voting day I will be reading a book and minding my own business.
There was something on BBC News (just as bad as everyone else, sadly) about all our emails being investigated by MI5, the NSA, and all the security services. They are looking for key words (allegedly) to pinpoint possible terrorist attacks. So when I say I fire potshots, and missiles, I hasten to add that these are all verbal. Otherwise I will be blogging from jail.
I wonder if they would have working wi-fi? Hmmm.....
Friday, 3 April 2015
I nearly forgot...
I was so busy chuckling about the disastrous meeting on Wednesday (and did I keep my temper? Yes, I did. Barely. I'm learning. Maybe when I'm 90 I might even have learned tact, diplomacy, sensitivity, and to curb the intense desire to smack some idiot in the head).
I've got most of a chocolate bunny left. And another bag of Kettle Chips (buy in bulk, I say-just in case there is a famine). And a bottle of Jack Daniel's (full. That tells you how much I drink. I usually open the bottle and just take a whiff).
It's Easter (yeah, bfd. To someone, somewhere). I'm all set up. I've got one from every food group. Who could ask for more? So bite off those tiny chocolate heads and feet, and enjoy. Good thing it only comes once a year. I would end up weighing 300 pounds and I would have to come and go by the window.
I've got most of a chocolate bunny left. And another bag of Kettle Chips (buy in bulk, I say-just in case there is a famine). And a bottle of Jack Daniel's (full. That tells you how much I drink. I usually open the bottle and just take a whiff).
It's Easter (yeah, bfd. To someone, somewhere). I'm all set up. I've got one from every food group. Who could ask for more? So bite off those tiny chocolate heads and feet, and enjoy. Good thing it only comes once a year. I would end up weighing 300 pounds and I would have to come and go by the window.
The King of Naff
How did I start Good Friday? I bit the head off my Easter bunny. I hasten to add that the bunny is a chocolate one, so don't worry. No harm was done to any animals, real or imagined. Well-only a chocolate one. I buy the Lindt ones, and this sat on my kitchen table for about five days...if it could have spoken, it would have said "eat me, eat me". I did well to wait until 6:00 this morning. And it is still sitting on my kitchen counter, looking very forlorn. Well-it would be looking forlorn if it had a head, which it most unfortunately does not. Good thing I didn't give up chocolate for Lent. Or anything else, for that matter, since I polished off a bag of Kettle Chips last night. And good for me, too.
I have a "naff meter"-I've had this for years, and I find that it keeps me sane (ish). I simply consign people and situations to naff, really naff, and naffed out. I went to see Andy (the minister) on Wednesday, and when you read what happened I think you'll agree that he goes well off the naff scale. I could think of a few other four letter words, but naff will do at the moment.
He phoned me and told me that people were telling him that I was really angry. He wanted to hear it from me personally. So I told him I was, and I reminded him that I had told him in church that I was very offended by his going and forming the yellow shirts (what I call his "love" group). The problem is that nothing sinks in with Andy; he suffers from what I call selective memory: he conveniently forgets what you tell him if it goes against what he wants to believe. So many people are like that-but he is a minister, he is supposed to be above such naff behavior.
So I went to see him on Wednesday morning-and it was the longest and most unpleasant hour I have had since I had to sit in the hospital waiting to have my blood taken. That was like a trip to the Bahamas when compared with listening to Andy. He wanted to know about this mass in my abdomen. He then asked me if I had made any funeral arrangements. Did I want a Church of England funeral? He smirked at that. Did I want music? What kind? Did I want a "living will"? And when I moved the conversation away from sickness (he has decided that I am on death's door. Now I feel like it), he said that if I want to help the social justice team I should chain myself to a fence in central London and contact the press and say that a dying woman is making a stand about the cuts in the NHS. I had to laugh at that...and I finally had enough, said I had to leave. I didn't really want him to decide to help send my on my way...
Well - naffness is everywhere. Actually, that wasn't naff. That was just plain obnoxious and nasty. So I am rethinking whether or not I want to return to the Unitarians. Excuse me if I'm not going to chain myself anywhere. And-I won't know what this mass in my abdomen is until someone decides to cut me open and find out. I think they can do keyhole and remove it. If not, I will consider if I can live with it. I really doubt that it is malignant. Either way, I will deal with the facts when I know the facts.
Did I tell you that Barts Trust has had to sack the CEO, CFO and Chief Medical Officer? If I did, just nod off for a few minutes, because I will chalk that up to CRS.. The facts: Barts has lost 500 million pounds. That is what I said: 500 million pounds. Sterling. How do you lose 500 million pounds in a year? You can't really hide it in your mattress and forget about it, can you? So where did it go?
And what they are now doing is cutting services and cutting staff to try to make up that loss. I am already facing a cut in the amount of immunoglobulin I receive. So it is only a matter of time-according to my nurse, John-before the immunology service is discontinued, and becomes a part of some other hospital. Where? Who knows? Welcome to the NHS. They're Brits. So they're about 18 on the naff scale that runs from 1-10. They're just too stupid to know it.
When this joke of a general election is over and we have either the current moron (Cameron) as Prime Minister or some other moron, I will be able to actually go out and do something besides go to hospital appointments. My professional patient calendar finishes just at the election. So I will have most of the summer to play. I will be so free, I won't know what to do with myself.
Maybe I should get a stash of Lindt chocolate bunnies to go with my stash of Kettle Chips. I might get really fat-but boy, will I ever be happy!! (And I'm not planning on dying just yet. Maybe when I'm 100 and riding down the Pacific Coast Highway on my Harley. What a way to make an exit!).
I have a "naff meter"-I've had this for years, and I find that it keeps me sane (ish). I simply consign people and situations to naff, really naff, and naffed out. I went to see Andy (the minister) on Wednesday, and when you read what happened I think you'll agree that he goes well off the naff scale. I could think of a few other four letter words, but naff will do at the moment.
He phoned me and told me that people were telling him that I was really angry. He wanted to hear it from me personally. So I told him I was, and I reminded him that I had told him in church that I was very offended by his going and forming the yellow shirts (what I call his "love" group). The problem is that nothing sinks in with Andy; he suffers from what I call selective memory: he conveniently forgets what you tell him if it goes against what he wants to believe. So many people are like that-but he is a minister, he is supposed to be above such naff behavior.
So I went to see him on Wednesday morning-and it was the longest and most unpleasant hour I have had since I had to sit in the hospital waiting to have my blood taken. That was like a trip to the Bahamas when compared with listening to Andy. He wanted to know about this mass in my abdomen. He then asked me if I had made any funeral arrangements. Did I want a Church of England funeral? He smirked at that. Did I want music? What kind? Did I want a "living will"? And when I moved the conversation away from sickness (he has decided that I am on death's door. Now I feel like it), he said that if I want to help the social justice team I should chain myself to a fence in central London and contact the press and say that a dying woman is making a stand about the cuts in the NHS. I had to laugh at that...and I finally had enough, said I had to leave. I didn't really want him to decide to help send my on my way...
Well - naffness is everywhere. Actually, that wasn't naff. That was just plain obnoxious and nasty. So I am rethinking whether or not I want to return to the Unitarians. Excuse me if I'm not going to chain myself anywhere. And-I won't know what this mass in my abdomen is until someone decides to cut me open and find out. I think they can do keyhole and remove it. If not, I will consider if I can live with it. I really doubt that it is malignant. Either way, I will deal with the facts when I know the facts.
Did I tell you that Barts Trust has had to sack the CEO, CFO and Chief Medical Officer? If I did, just nod off for a few minutes, because I will chalk that up to CRS.. The facts: Barts has lost 500 million pounds. That is what I said: 500 million pounds. Sterling. How do you lose 500 million pounds in a year? You can't really hide it in your mattress and forget about it, can you? So where did it go?
And what they are now doing is cutting services and cutting staff to try to make up that loss. I am already facing a cut in the amount of immunoglobulin I receive. So it is only a matter of time-according to my nurse, John-before the immunology service is discontinued, and becomes a part of some other hospital. Where? Who knows? Welcome to the NHS. They're Brits. So they're about 18 on the naff scale that runs from 1-10. They're just too stupid to know it.
When this joke of a general election is over and we have either the current moron (Cameron) as Prime Minister or some other moron, I will be able to actually go out and do something besides go to hospital appointments. My professional patient calendar finishes just at the election. So I will have most of the summer to play. I will be so free, I won't know what to do with myself.
Maybe I should get a stash of Lindt chocolate bunnies to go with my stash of Kettle Chips. I might get really fat-but boy, will I ever be happy!! (And I'm not planning on dying just yet. Maybe when I'm 100 and riding down the Pacific Coast Highway on my Harley. What a way to make an exit!).
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