Yesterday morning I had what I call a case of the Christmas Day Blues. I really wanted to be home, celebrating with family and friends-mostly friends, because whenever my family got together, it ended up a free for all. I truly don't miss my family at all (as the saying goes, you can pick your friends, but you are stuck with your family).
Plus, it seems like the death rate goes up at Christmas. Accidents, illness, age-these things can't be helped. It isn't as if you can say "pardon me, I want to wait until the 3rd of January to pop my clogs". But people wait until Christmas to off themselves. How very inconsiderate of them. How bloody rude, in fact. Someone has to clean up the mess at Christmas (so glad it isn't me).
My friend's mother died last week. Another friend's brother in law died last week. People are dropping like flies. The unemployment rate (according to the a**holes in this government) have dropped dramatically. That is because the death rate has risen. And all this at Christmas...
But there was some happy news yesterday. Britain has its first astronaut in space-he's called Tim something or other-Peakes, I think. I just call him Twin Peaks. It's easier to remember (and if you don't get the reference, there is always everyone's best friend: Google). So Twin Peaks decided to call home-from the space station-to wish his family a Happy Christmas. And he called the wrong number. The people were shocked when they discovered that it wasn't a hoax call.
Imagine: this prat (there goes another pound in the shoebox) is trusted with millions of pounds of spaceship and hardware, plus his crew-and he can't even make a phone call. Duh. What a schmuck (and there goes yet another pound). Did I mention that Twin Peaks is in space? He's spaced, all right.
So I went along to the church to help out with their Christmas lunch (for eighty people who had nowhere else to go). I helped wash vegetables, and I put crosses in the sprouts (I was on sprout patrol). It was all well planned, since this church does this every year. Most of the people were very nice-all except one grumpy old woman called Nell. She was offended by the fact that I was casually dressed. Oh, excuse me: I'm working in a church kitchen on Christmas Day. What was I supposed to do-wear a tiara? It transpired that Nell spent most of her life waitressing, so she (naturally) knew everything about kitchen work. At one point, she (deciding that she was my boss) told me not to take any plates out because lack of balance meant that I would possibly drop a full plate of food in someone's lap. So she put four plates up her arm-of course, Nell was the expert, wasn't she?- and set off on her way. The rest of us were busy laughing-because there was an almighty crash, and three full plates of food ended up on the kitchen floor. I was doubled over-nobody else could stop shaking with laughter, either. And Nell was told by the real boss-John-to clean up her mess. I was conscripted to leave the sprout patrol and go serve. I have to say that I did it perfectly-no food anywhere except where it belonged: on the plate. Poor old Nell was most unhappy. Like I gave a shit (yes, I know: a pound in the swear box).
After everyone was finished, and we'd cleaned up, I came back, made a strong cup of coffee, and my very good friend from Pennsylvania called me. It was great: a long chat was just what I needed. I really felt like I had done something worthwhile. I was able to chat quickly to some of the guests-and there were people who told me that their children didn't want them, and that I was the first person (apart from the carer who drove them) to talk to them in weeks. For some, it was months. I couldn't help but hope I never end up like that.
How many other older/disabled/homeless/disadvantaged people are out there, with nowhere to go at Christmas, when it should (you would think) be time for families and friends to be together? I didn't have Christmas (or any holiday) in 2010. My life seems to be divided into BG (before Gentamicin) and AG (after Gentamicin). This was the first year I was able to get out and help someone else. I couldn't help but remember all the years when nobody tried to help me-I'm determined to help others avoid that fate. It's really not very pleasant.
So today is Boxing Day, when stores are open and people are killing each other over items they would never otherwise buy-except that stuff is on sale. Just what everyone needs: more stuff. I'm avoiding going anywhere I see a "sale" sign. For some reason, I am just not in shopping mode. I am, however, in eating mode. I might even decide to be in "glass of wine" mode. After all, I made it through another year, and believe me when I say it hasn't been easy. But I'm still here. Still swearing like a sailor.
My swear box is nearly full-and it isn't even the end of the year yet. Amazing. I will, in 2016, learn to swear in French. It sounds terribly romantic - and I will save myself a bloody fortune. I wonder if Twin Peaks swore when he realized that the entire country knows he is a total pillock..
Saturday, 26 December 2015
Thursday, 24 December 2015
'Tis the Season to be Maudlin
Actually, it's the season to sit back and watch while people are busy beating the living crap out of each other over a bag of brussels sprouts. Now-that was this morning, while the lines for payment were so huge you would think there was a famine. One bag of sprouts, two idiots fighting-I like sprouts, but not enough to get arrested for assault. On Christmas Eve, yet!
So many people are using this time to fight. Even the idiots in the government are fighting. Perhaps we should change today's name to Tosser Thursday. I don't even get upset anymore; I just shake my head in disbelief and watch ordinary people suddenly turn into savages. And I stay home, if I can.
This is-you wouldn't believe it if you watch the "news" (or, rather, the newsreaders' opinion, usually having nothing to do with any news whatsoever), or hear people talking outside, sometimes loud enough to burst your eardrums - a time when some people (myself included) become very soppy and sentimental. I begin to look back at the year and wonder where the time went, and wonder (with amazement) how I am still alive (and, occasionally, thriving). I find myself developing a sudden case of what I call "Christmas OCD": what have I accomplished, apart from not dying? That is obviously quite an accomplishment-for me, anyway-but I have done precious little-apart from all those hospital appointments.Huh. Once again, I haven't had a life. I've survived-but I haven't lived. Not really.
If I ignore what is going on in the world - not an easy feat, considering I am very political, and I get hugely pissed off (and there goes another pound into the swear box/Bahamas fund) at the government, at the implosion of the NHS, and the dire state of this country (it wasn't like this when I first came over here. That isn't what I call progress; it is what I call regress). It's very frustrating when you know that you can't really do anything to change things, because apathy is what rules here.Ick.
I've been thinking about the year that is just ending-and I've decided (again) not to start the new year in the way I'm finishing this one. I was in the supermarket this morning, watching the sprout fight (and laughing, I confess), and one of the sales people said to me that there are three things she doesn't ever worry about: the weather, traffic (absolutely nothing to be done to change either of those, is there?), and other people's opinions and attitudes. Very wise-I don't know why she said that-it was out of the blue-but obviously it was something I needed to hear at the time. I most definitely heard her. There is a lesson in there somewhere...
Well, the cards and presents are out, the Christmas lights are up (I told you: I'm sentimental), I'm already thinking about how I am going to start living in 2016, and tomorrow I am going to one of the local churches to help with feeding 80 people who have no place to go on Christmas Day. These are older people whose children (in some cases) are busy, or just don't want them around; there are some who are homeless; there are some who have no family at all. I used to do this years ago, but then Gentamicin 2010 happened, and I couldn't do anything. Now I feel like I can carry two full plates of food and not drop one (or both) on someone's head.
Wouldn't that put a damper on someone's Christmas! I see waiters and waitresses who can carry plates of food all the way up their arms and not drop anything-and I have to admire them. In fact, I'm a bit jealous. I couldn't even do that when I still had a balance mechanism. So when I rang around three weeks ago, found a church that's doing Christmas lunch for the -what, aged? Needy? I don't even want to put a negative label on them - I told them that I can do a lot, but not everything. I could feel them practically jumping up and down as we were talking on the phone.
I will be spending the day peeling sprouts (I'm the sprout peeler), chopping parsnips (hopefully there will be no blood loss and swearing), and serving up. So fingers crossed that no plates of food go flying across the room.
I will naturally be posting about my new job as a potato/parsnip/sprout peeler and server- and I wish each and every one of you a very Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year.
I will probably have a full swear box before New Year's Day. In fact, I'm planning on it!
So many people are using this time to fight. Even the idiots in the government are fighting. Perhaps we should change today's name to Tosser Thursday. I don't even get upset anymore; I just shake my head in disbelief and watch ordinary people suddenly turn into savages. And I stay home, if I can.
This is-you wouldn't believe it if you watch the "news" (or, rather, the newsreaders' opinion, usually having nothing to do with any news whatsoever), or hear people talking outside, sometimes loud enough to burst your eardrums - a time when some people (myself included) become very soppy and sentimental. I begin to look back at the year and wonder where the time went, and wonder (with amazement) how I am still alive (and, occasionally, thriving). I find myself developing a sudden case of what I call "Christmas OCD": what have I accomplished, apart from not dying? That is obviously quite an accomplishment-for me, anyway-but I have done precious little-apart from all those hospital appointments.Huh. Once again, I haven't had a life. I've survived-but I haven't lived. Not really.
If I ignore what is going on in the world - not an easy feat, considering I am very political, and I get hugely pissed off (and there goes another pound into the swear box/Bahamas fund) at the government, at the implosion of the NHS, and the dire state of this country (it wasn't like this when I first came over here. That isn't what I call progress; it is what I call regress). It's very frustrating when you know that you can't really do anything to change things, because apathy is what rules here.Ick.
I've been thinking about the year that is just ending-and I've decided (again) not to start the new year in the way I'm finishing this one. I was in the supermarket this morning, watching the sprout fight (and laughing, I confess), and one of the sales people said to me that there are three things she doesn't ever worry about: the weather, traffic (absolutely nothing to be done to change either of those, is there?), and other people's opinions and attitudes. Very wise-I don't know why she said that-it was out of the blue-but obviously it was something I needed to hear at the time. I most definitely heard her. There is a lesson in there somewhere...
Well, the cards and presents are out, the Christmas lights are up (I told you: I'm sentimental), I'm already thinking about how I am going to start living in 2016, and tomorrow I am going to one of the local churches to help with feeding 80 people who have no place to go on Christmas Day. These are older people whose children (in some cases) are busy, or just don't want them around; there are some who are homeless; there are some who have no family at all. I used to do this years ago, but then Gentamicin 2010 happened, and I couldn't do anything. Now I feel like I can carry two full plates of food and not drop one (or both) on someone's head.
Wouldn't that put a damper on someone's Christmas! I see waiters and waitresses who can carry plates of food all the way up their arms and not drop anything-and I have to admire them. In fact, I'm a bit jealous. I couldn't even do that when I still had a balance mechanism. So when I rang around three weeks ago, found a church that's doing Christmas lunch for the -what, aged? Needy? I don't even want to put a negative label on them - I told them that I can do a lot, but not everything. I could feel them practically jumping up and down as we were talking on the phone.
I will be spending the day peeling sprouts (I'm the sprout peeler), chopping parsnips (hopefully there will be no blood loss and swearing), and serving up. So fingers crossed that no plates of food go flying across the room.
I will naturally be posting about my new job as a potato/parsnip/sprout peeler and server- and I wish each and every one of you a very Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year.
I will probably have a full swear box before New Year's Day. In fact, I'm planning on it!
Saturday, 19 December 2015
It's Panic Saturday (ho ho ho)
Black Friday. Cyber Monday. Now Panic Saturday. It's the last weekend before Christmas, and that is why someone has chosen to call this a panic day: because it is the last chance to buy presents before the big day. And you should see the fighting!
This is more like fight club: people turn into savages. The prospect of buying anything, no matter how cheap and nasty it is -as long as it is on sale- seems to bring out everyone's inner Neanderthal. People punching each other over marked-down televisions (not expensive ones like Sony, but no name ones, like...? who??), women ripping dresses so that someone else won't be able to buy them, and, of course, the prize: I saw someone punch someone in the face over a pair of Uggs. Uggs!! These are supposed to be made in Australia (at least, originally), and they are probably called Uggs because that is Australian for ugly. Ugly. Yuck. Australia has gotten even with the Brits for all the people sent to Oz as a penalty. These things are - well, awful. Buy Uggs if you want to go outside and look like a Yeti. Bring out your inner Essex: everyone will see that you have absolutely no taste whatsoever. And people do battle over this crap? Ewww!
I'm just keeping my head down. I went to the Tate Modern the other day (I took my life in my hands and braved the idiots),and saw the Alexander Calder exhibition, which was excellent. I did my infusions at the hospital on Thursday, and now-hallef****ing lujah, I have a week off. No doctors. No tests. No hospitals. No nothing. I am a free woman. And I won't know what to do with myself, it has been so long since I have been free.
I've also started a swear box (would you believe). It's in pounds sterling, since that is the local currency-and a pound is worth somewhere around $1.50, so I am ripping myself off. But every time I use a four letter word (which I do a lot outside, as people practically knock me over because it takes a modicum of intelligence to look where they are walking), it's a pound in the box. As we get closer to Christmas, and tempers become more and more frayed out there, I will soon be trading my shoebox for a suitcase. At the current rate, by next Christmas I should be able to buy a trip to the Bahamas. Perhaps I'll just be able to buy the Bahamas.
I was cheered by the news that Britain has finally put an astronaut into space. Of course, the Russians and Americans did this nearly half a century ago...but the Brits are treating this like nobody else has ever been in space before (it's like the Olympics, where Britain came a distant and humiliating third place, and everyone was so busy slapping themselves on the back that I was surprised that the hospitals weren't filled with people who dislocated their shoulders).
I must say that I was pleased, though. After all, someone finally has the intelligence to become an astronaut. It just goes to show you: sperm banks and surrogacy really do work.
The other item that hit the news was Keith Richards-the ancient pop star is complaining about migrants coming to his village. When all the photos of those poor people hit the news, people in this country wanted to know why David Cameron (you remember him: the tool who is Prime Minister) didn't want to take what his European counterparts believed (and still believe) refused to take Britain's fair share of migrants to be resettled here. There was a huge outcry. And now, people (not just Keith Richards, but many others) are saying we should take the migrants, but don't put them in my village. We don't want them next door.
The unfairness of this position really rankles me. I would swear, but I save that for times when I have to deal with idiots outside-or when I fall over, which I am happy to say is a rare occurrence these days. Isn't it our responsibility-as a country that has so much-to care for those who have so little?
People say that I should write this blog about my progress after gentamicin (and cancer), and leave my political views out of it. But-I want everyone to know what it is like for an American to live here-not a rich pop star or actress, but just a working stiff, one of the worker bees who actually works (or, worked-up until gentamicin finished that possibility forever).
Everything that happens outside affects everything that happens in here - it's a vestibular thing. I get upset, or I don't sleep well, or I'm overtired, or the weather changes, or I don't eat well or drink enough water-all these things affect my balance (and my ability to get more back). And nothing winds me up more than idiocy-except, perhaps, injustice.
I just keep my head down, and I keep resolving to keep my mouth shut-but you know that isn't going to happen in a hurry. Even Parliament is filled with punch-ups. Shall we leave the EU? Shall we stay? If we stay, why do we let Brussels dictate what we can and cannot do? And so on. The country is falling apart, the NHS is a mess, and the politicians-well, they're politicians. They couldn't even put on a nativity play-because they couldn't find three wise men. And there is a great deal of doubt as to whether any of the politicians have a penis and a brain. Many don't seem to have either.
This is more like fight club: people turn into savages. The prospect of buying anything, no matter how cheap and nasty it is -as long as it is on sale- seems to bring out everyone's inner Neanderthal. People punching each other over marked-down televisions (not expensive ones like Sony, but no name ones, like...? who??), women ripping dresses so that someone else won't be able to buy them, and, of course, the prize: I saw someone punch someone in the face over a pair of Uggs. Uggs!! These are supposed to be made in Australia (at least, originally), and they are probably called Uggs because that is Australian for ugly. Ugly. Yuck. Australia has gotten even with the Brits for all the people sent to Oz as a penalty. These things are - well, awful. Buy Uggs if you want to go outside and look like a Yeti. Bring out your inner Essex: everyone will see that you have absolutely no taste whatsoever. And people do battle over this crap? Ewww!
I'm just keeping my head down. I went to the Tate Modern the other day (I took my life in my hands and braved the idiots),and saw the Alexander Calder exhibition, which was excellent. I did my infusions at the hospital on Thursday, and now-hallef****ing lujah, I have a week off. No doctors. No tests. No hospitals. No nothing. I am a free woman. And I won't know what to do with myself, it has been so long since I have been free.
I've also started a swear box (would you believe). It's in pounds sterling, since that is the local currency-and a pound is worth somewhere around $1.50, so I am ripping myself off. But every time I use a four letter word (which I do a lot outside, as people practically knock me over because it takes a modicum of intelligence to look where they are walking), it's a pound in the box. As we get closer to Christmas, and tempers become more and more frayed out there, I will soon be trading my shoebox for a suitcase. At the current rate, by next Christmas I should be able to buy a trip to the Bahamas. Perhaps I'll just be able to buy the Bahamas.
I was cheered by the news that Britain has finally put an astronaut into space. Of course, the Russians and Americans did this nearly half a century ago...but the Brits are treating this like nobody else has ever been in space before (it's like the Olympics, where Britain came a distant and humiliating third place, and everyone was so busy slapping themselves on the back that I was surprised that the hospitals weren't filled with people who dislocated their shoulders).
I must say that I was pleased, though. After all, someone finally has the intelligence to become an astronaut. It just goes to show you: sperm banks and surrogacy really do work.
The other item that hit the news was Keith Richards-the ancient pop star is complaining about migrants coming to his village. When all the photos of those poor people hit the news, people in this country wanted to know why David Cameron (you remember him: the tool who is Prime Minister) didn't want to take what his European counterparts believed (and still believe) refused to take Britain's fair share of migrants to be resettled here. There was a huge outcry. And now, people (not just Keith Richards, but many others) are saying we should take the migrants, but don't put them in my village. We don't want them next door.
The unfairness of this position really rankles me. I would swear, but I save that for times when I have to deal with idiots outside-or when I fall over, which I am happy to say is a rare occurrence these days. Isn't it our responsibility-as a country that has so much-to care for those who have so little?
People say that I should write this blog about my progress after gentamicin (and cancer), and leave my political views out of it. But-I want everyone to know what it is like for an American to live here-not a rich pop star or actress, but just a working stiff, one of the worker bees who actually works (or, worked-up until gentamicin finished that possibility forever).
Everything that happens outside affects everything that happens in here - it's a vestibular thing. I get upset, or I don't sleep well, or I'm overtired, or the weather changes, or I don't eat well or drink enough water-all these things affect my balance (and my ability to get more back). And nothing winds me up more than idiocy-except, perhaps, injustice.
I just keep my head down, and I keep resolving to keep my mouth shut-but you know that isn't going to happen in a hurry. Even Parliament is filled with punch-ups. Shall we leave the EU? Shall we stay? If we stay, why do we let Brussels dictate what we can and cannot do? And so on. The country is falling apart, the NHS is a mess, and the politicians-well, they're politicians. They couldn't even put on a nativity play-because they couldn't find three wise men. And there is a great deal of doubt as to whether any of the politicians have a penis and a brain. Many don't seem to have either.
Sunday, 13 December 2015
I'll be a blue nosed reindeer
When I was growing up, my parents forbade me to say any bad words in the house. "Bad", to them, meant things like "damn"-which got me grounded for a week when I said it. The object was to ensure that I would grow up to be a lady (please, everyone who knows me, don't choke on your muesli when I say that-I'm still a work in progress. Damn.). Anything worse than that got me grounded for a month. Unfair, I thought-but I also was threatened with having my mouth washed out with soap and water-something my father tried because I cut my finger and shouted "oh, fuck"- well, excuse me, but I was bleeding all over the kitchen floor at the time. He only tried once-first, I threw up over him, then I kicked him. Hard. And he didn't try that again in a hurry. If someone did that today, they would be arrested for child cruelty. In those days? Hmmm...
So, off I went to university, and the first person I met was named Betty. Betty smoked about three packs of Marlboro a day-in fact, I never saw her without a cigarette in her mouth. She also had a mouth like a sewer, and she drank-well, I wondered where on earth she put it all. And that was my introduction to university. I hung out with Betty for my first year-but then, she was having so much fun, she flunked out. Bye bye Betty. Sad, really. I learned how to drink (and that was terrible, because I just wasn't good at it. I didn't like alcohol, and it certainly didn't like me. But I tried. What a trouper).I learned how to smoke (cigarettes, kids, cigarettes. And I did try the other stuff, but, of course, I didn't inhale. Yeah, right? If Bill Clinton can give us that load of crap, so can I).
Every time I went home to see my family, I had to watch my language. My mother had this bright idea of putting a "swear box" on the table. Bad word? That's a dollar in the box. I found it amusing until one day my mother dropped something in the kitchen, and said "oh, shit" (you did know that was coming, didn't you?), and I said "that will be a dollar in the swear box". We had a big fight over that; she refused, saying that she could swear, but I couldn't- and I told her where she could put her swear box, and I turned around and left. I didn't go back to see them for a year. When I told Betty all this, she said that she got around swearing in front of her parents by saying "I'll be a blue nosed reindeer!", instead of "I'll be damned". And-she said to shout oh sugar-and oh, poo, and-I love this one-oh, freak! You can't argue with those, can you? Still, by the time I graduated, the swear box was full several times over. I have a hunch that my parents bought a brand new car with the proceeds from the swear box-it's a hunch. Probably a good one.
I mention all this for a reason (don't I always?). The Friday before last (the 14th) I had to go see a cardiologist at the Royal Free. Several tests that had been taken at the Royal London (and Barts) were repeated. That turned out to be a good thing. It was at Barts that I was told in 2012 that I would never develop breast cancer (oops. Idiots!). It was at Barts that I was given gentamicin, and told that it was safe (as if) and that I would be monitored (oh yeah. That didn't happen)-and we all know what a huge success that wasn't. It was also at Barts (and the London-all part of the same hospital trust) that I was told several years ago, after a stress test and an echocardiogram, that I have a bad heart valve. They said they would "watch it" - no prizes if you guessed that never happened. So, I had all the same tests again at the Royal Free.
On the Friday, I went to meet the new cardiologist. He was great: great manner, very reassuring, professional, and his wife is one of my doctors (he laughed when I told him this. Then he was even more reassuring. He showed me the results of the tests, and showed me the echo, suggesting that I probably knew how to read the screen in front of me (I did). And-there is nothing wrong with my heart valve. It isn't defective, it is fine. In fact, there is nothing wrong with my heart at all. I have, he said, a perfect heart. That was such great news, I could have hugged him (I didn't). My heart, after all, is number 1 on my list of top ten organs. And I have a perfect heart. So much for Barts and the London. I practically skipped out the door (I didn't; I would have ended up falling and breaking something).
I wanted to come back and get online and post this on Friday-but, Murphy's Law being Murphy's Law, I was already feeling really sick by the time I got back from the hospital. I got hit by the vomiting virus-another virus that is going around (there are several), and leaves you with your head in a bucket for a week. The worst part-even worse than puking my guts up (so sorry if you're reading this while eating), was that I had to go and see Dr. Dimples on Monday. I managed-how, I don't know-but I sat in the clinic and kept thinking that someone had passed this virus along to me, and why are these people breathing? If they would only stop breathing, I would be perfectly healthy. Sad, really. But Dimples was great, very pleased with my progress, and wants me to carry the elbow crutch on the other side-and stay off it as much as possible. I'll see him again in 6 months; he is monitoring my progress, along with the folks at Queen Square.
I'm so happy that all my medical appointments are coming to a close for this year. I only have my infusions every two weeks-and one more test at the end of December-but this one won't be irradiating or magnetizing me, so I should be fine by New Year's.
Of course, I was incensed at the news that Obama (the odious Obama) has turned around and said that he is putting boots on the ground in Syria. Sure-he's a lying scumbag, because he promised not to do that. He is just another inept politician-and politicians, as we know, only lie when they are breathing. If they could lie in their sleep, they would. What a bastard (that's two dollars I owe the swear box). Why is it that it is always OUR men and women who have to go in first, risk their lives, when the only other people who seem keen are the French? And they are only keen because of Paris. Who knows how many of our men and women are going to die-after being hideously tortured?
This whole thing just really pisses me off (that's three dollars). The last time we sent our soldiers into someone else's country, fighting a war we couldn't possibly win, was Vietnam. And we all know what a huge success that wasn't, don't we? I wish I knew the answer.
I know what isn't the answer: Donald "Mr. Comb over" Trump, the chief dick of the United States (yes, another dollar. Well deserved). He has done more to damage the reputation of the United States overseas than (God help us) George W. Bush. And that is saying something, because people still sneer and comment on Bush. Now Trump. If anyone has added to the desire for terrorist attacks on US soil, it is Trump. What a prat (I'm losing count). There are online petitions to ban him from this country-and there are more than 500,000 signatures-and counting. Now, if we could also ban him from the United States, we could all have a party: a kick the crap out of Donald the Dickhead party (anyone keeping count? I've given up).
So, it just goes to show you: you can be a millionaire, or a billionaire, and still have zero common sense, and be a racist, bigot, misogynist, and general tosser-plus have no charm, no personality, probably very little hair, and be incredibly ugly. Did I miss anything?
And now you are up to date. I'm just keeping my head down and hoping that everyone who actually backs that piece of s**t (no money for that one!) returns to something resembling good sense. Hopefully. But if they voted for Bush-who is to say? This country sucks, my country is in the grip of Trump insanity, the French are-well, the French- and there is nowhere on earth where we can all go and hide. Yuck. Someone pass the Kettle Chips.
So, off I went to university, and the first person I met was named Betty. Betty smoked about three packs of Marlboro a day-in fact, I never saw her without a cigarette in her mouth. She also had a mouth like a sewer, and she drank-well, I wondered where on earth she put it all. And that was my introduction to university. I hung out with Betty for my first year-but then, she was having so much fun, she flunked out. Bye bye Betty. Sad, really. I learned how to drink (and that was terrible, because I just wasn't good at it. I didn't like alcohol, and it certainly didn't like me. But I tried. What a trouper).I learned how to smoke (cigarettes, kids, cigarettes. And I did try the other stuff, but, of course, I didn't inhale. Yeah, right? If Bill Clinton can give us that load of crap, so can I).
Every time I went home to see my family, I had to watch my language. My mother had this bright idea of putting a "swear box" on the table. Bad word? That's a dollar in the box. I found it amusing until one day my mother dropped something in the kitchen, and said "oh, shit" (you did know that was coming, didn't you?), and I said "that will be a dollar in the swear box". We had a big fight over that; she refused, saying that she could swear, but I couldn't- and I told her where she could put her swear box, and I turned around and left. I didn't go back to see them for a year. When I told Betty all this, she said that she got around swearing in front of her parents by saying "I'll be a blue nosed reindeer!", instead of "I'll be damned". And-she said to shout oh sugar-and oh, poo, and-I love this one-oh, freak! You can't argue with those, can you? Still, by the time I graduated, the swear box was full several times over. I have a hunch that my parents bought a brand new car with the proceeds from the swear box-it's a hunch. Probably a good one.
I mention all this for a reason (don't I always?). The Friday before last (the 14th) I had to go see a cardiologist at the Royal Free. Several tests that had been taken at the Royal London (and Barts) were repeated. That turned out to be a good thing. It was at Barts that I was told in 2012 that I would never develop breast cancer (oops. Idiots!). It was at Barts that I was given gentamicin, and told that it was safe (as if) and that I would be monitored (oh yeah. That didn't happen)-and we all know what a huge success that wasn't. It was also at Barts (and the London-all part of the same hospital trust) that I was told several years ago, after a stress test and an echocardiogram, that I have a bad heart valve. They said they would "watch it" - no prizes if you guessed that never happened. So, I had all the same tests again at the Royal Free.
On the Friday, I went to meet the new cardiologist. He was great: great manner, very reassuring, professional, and his wife is one of my doctors (he laughed when I told him this. Then he was even more reassuring. He showed me the results of the tests, and showed me the echo, suggesting that I probably knew how to read the screen in front of me (I did). And-there is nothing wrong with my heart valve. It isn't defective, it is fine. In fact, there is nothing wrong with my heart at all. I have, he said, a perfect heart. That was such great news, I could have hugged him (I didn't). My heart, after all, is number 1 on my list of top ten organs. And I have a perfect heart. So much for Barts and the London. I practically skipped out the door (I didn't; I would have ended up falling and breaking something).
I wanted to come back and get online and post this on Friday-but, Murphy's Law being Murphy's Law, I was already feeling really sick by the time I got back from the hospital. I got hit by the vomiting virus-another virus that is going around (there are several), and leaves you with your head in a bucket for a week. The worst part-even worse than puking my guts up (so sorry if you're reading this while eating), was that I had to go and see Dr. Dimples on Monday. I managed-how, I don't know-but I sat in the clinic and kept thinking that someone had passed this virus along to me, and why are these people breathing? If they would only stop breathing, I would be perfectly healthy. Sad, really. But Dimples was great, very pleased with my progress, and wants me to carry the elbow crutch on the other side-and stay off it as much as possible. I'll see him again in 6 months; he is monitoring my progress, along with the folks at Queen Square.
I'm so happy that all my medical appointments are coming to a close for this year. I only have my infusions every two weeks-and one more test at the end of December-but this one won't be irradiating or magnetizing me, so I should be fine by New Year's.
Of course, I was incensed at the news that Obama (the odious Obama) has turned around and said that he is putting boots on the ground in Syria. Sure-he's a lying scumbag, because he promised not to do that. He is just another inept politician-and politicians, as we know, only lie when they are breathing. If they could lie in their sleep, they would. What a bastard (that's two dollars I owe the swear box). Why is it that it is always OUR men and women who have to go in first, risk their lives, when the only other people who seem keen are the French? And they are only keen because of Paris. Who knows how many of our men and women are going to die-after being hideously tortured?
This whole thing just really pisses me off (that's three dollars). The last time we sent our soldiers into someone else's country, fighting a war we couldn't possibly win, was Vietnam. And we all know what a huge success that wasn't, don't we? I wish I knew the answer.
I know what isn't the answer: Donald "Mr. Comb over" Trump, the chief dick of the United States (yes, another dollar. Well deserved). He has done more to damage the reputation of the United States overseas than (God help us) George W. Bush. And that is saying something, because people still sneer and comment on Bush. Now Trump. If anyone has added to the desire for terrorist attacks on US soil, it is Trump. What a prat (I'm losing count). There are online petitions to ban him from this country-and there are more than 500,000 signatures-and counting. Now, if we could also ban him from the United States, we could all have a party: a kick the crap out of Donald the Dickhead party (anyone keeping count? I've given up).
So, it just goes to show you: you can be a millionaire, or a billionaire, and still have zero common sense, and be a racist, bigot, misogynist, and general tosser-plus have no charm, no personality, probably very little hair, and be incredibly ugly. Did I miss anything?
And now you are up to date. I'm just keeping my head down and hoping that everyone who actually backs that piece of s**t (no money for that one!) returns to something resembling good sense. Hopefully. But if they voted for Bush-who is to say? This country sucks, my country is in the grip of Trump insanity, the French are-well, the French- and there is nowhere on earth where we can all go and hide. Yuck. Someone pass the Kettle Chips.
Tuesday, 1 December 2015
The Camel: redefined (by me)
You all know what a camel is: it's a horse that is designed by a committee. I wish I could take credit for that-but no, it came from my grandmother, who delivered many pearls of wisdom as I was growing up. That one was when I was old enough to be interested in politics (an interest which lasted about a year, but waned as I became totally disillusioned). Other brilliant pearls include: never volunteer for anything (I only just started to listen to that one. Talk about late!). Always wear clean underwear, you never know when you will be hit by a car (everyone has heard of that one, it seems to be universal). And-wear matching underwear so you don't embarrass yourself in the ambulance (huh?). Another firm favorite: if God wanted us to look back, he would have put our eyes in the back of our heads. Hmmm....good point. But my personal favorite: do squats. Do squats every day, at least 100 squats. That way, you will never, ever have to sit on a public toilet seat. (plus, you will have really strong quads. It's a win-win, isn't it?).
Granny was a very smart woman. And she made the best blueberry pie I have ever tasted. Forget the Jamie Olivers, the Niges, the bake off what's her face-granny's blueberry pie trumped them all. I went to visit her just for the pie-she always baked a fresh one when the grandkids came to see her-so whether we wanted to or not, we went for the pie. And there is the greatest lesson of all time: never underestimate the value of bribery.
The Thanksgiving weekend passed without incident-except that now everyone in the government is fighting everyone else. As usual. The French are peeved with the Belgians, because the Belgians let the one remaining terrorist lunatic over the border-when the borders were allegedly closed. The Russians are fuming at the Turks for blowing up one of their aircraft-which, the Russians say, was on the way to bomb Syria. The Brits have joined that battle, saying that of course, nobody trusts the Russians (ya think?) and they have to answer for the doping scandal at the Olympics. This, of course, has nothing to do with Syria, but the Brits are accusing Russia of drug taking-completely ignoring the fact that they (Britain) came a distant and humiliating third place in the Olympics anyway. To them, even third place is call for celebrations. Now that figures, doesn't it?
Now Parliament is having a debate-and all their committees are fighting to and against bombing Syria. Cameron, the chief dick of Britain, has finally come off the fence and said that Britain needs to join its allies, France and the United States, and bomb the hell out of all the strongholds in Syria. This is, of course, Britain being late to the party, as usual. They only join in after everyone else has done all the work, has taken financial responsibility, and has risked (and lost) the lives of brave men and women who have been fighting Islamic State terrorist maniacs for years. Britain wants everyone else to do the work, and then it will sneak in and say they did their part. And the most annoying part:
we have in this country, a total moron called Jeremy Corbyn, who is the leader of the Labour Party. Corbyn is so against dropping bombs, he has told all his MPs to vote against joining the fight; the voting on this is tomorrow. Corbyn says we should arrest these guys and bring them to trial. I wonder what planet Corbyn is living on-certainly not this one! Arrest them? Try to negotiate? EXCUSE ME? These are monsters who kill because they like it, not for any real religious ideology. What is Corbyn going to do: invite them to tea, and have a chat about ethics while the terrorists shoot up half of London? The man is delusional. Corbyn, sadly, has a lot of followers in Parliament. They call themselves "peaceful", and perhaps they think they can pray their way out of attacks here in Britain. I've got a better definition of these well-meaning but rather stupid people: cowards. They aren't reserved; they are cowardly. And this is where there is a problem, because Corbyn and his idiot followers are saying that no attacks will take place in this country. That is exactly what they said before the London bombings a decade ago. Well, their declarations didn't go so well then, did they?
I've now decided to just keep my head down, and to shut up in public. Stabbings are up, there are guns out there-crime is sky high, although the government claims that crime has dropped. Sure-crime and unemployment have dropped, but the death rate has risen dramatically. Fire engines are being sold off to save money-and the fire brigade chief says that this is still okay, and that everything can be handled as usual. Tell that to the people whose houses are burning down.
Everything the government does (or, more likely, doesn't do) affects me in one way or another, because I still have to live here, still have to travel, and I refuse to be conquered by fear. Been there, done that-I've lived with fear for five and a half years, and it was the fear (and anger at injustice) that kept me going. So no more fear-vigilance, caution, not swearing at anyone who crashes into me (at least, not out loud), because you never know who is armed. And a lot of people are armed.
Now I've got a question for any readers who are in the USA (and my friends over there keep up with this, so you get to answer): who on earth decided to back Donald Trump for President? Mr. Comb-over, who has a permanent bad hair day (call it a bad hair life-why not just be bald and be done with it?). The man is ignorant. He is a misogynist, racist (by all accounts), an absolute joke who will make us the laughing stock of the entire planet if he got anywhere near the White House, and, let's face it, he is the douche bag from Hell. Who is backing him: Bush supporters?
I consider the possibility of the Donald as President and I get an immediate stomach cramp. And who are these other contenders? And Obama-well, he's such a tool, I will be glad to be rid of him, but we need someone who is strong enough to try to undo the damage Obama's done in his tenure as chief prat of the world. Clinton-let's have a woman President, someone who has balls and will fight for us, not some idiot whose hair will go flying in a strong wind.
I wonder how the Donald keeps his few strands of hair down. Does he use tape? Or some kind of glue? Wouldn't it be more than mildly amusing if there was a debate among the hopefuls-and someone brought a really powerful wind machine? Now that would be a bit of fun! Perhaps he'll give Sarah Palin a second shot as Vice President. Then I predict there will be a mass exodus: about 300 million people moving out of the States until it is safe to return. Yikes??
Granny was a very smart woman. And she made the best blueberry pie I have ever tasted. Forget the Jamie Olivers, the Niges, the bake off what's her face-granny's blueberry pie trumped them all. I went to visit her just for the pie-she always baked a fresh one when the grandkids came to see her-so whether we wanted to or not, we went for the pie. And there is the greatest lesson of all time: never underestimate the value of bribery.
The Thanksgiving weekend passed without incident-except that now everyone in the government is fighting everyone else. As usual. The French are peeved with the Belgians, because the Belgians let the one remaining terrorist lunatic over the border-when the borders were allegedly closed. The Russians are fuming at the Turks for blowing up one of their aircraft-which, the Russians say, was on the way to bomb Syria. The Brits have joined that battle, saying that of course, nobody trusts the Russians (ya think?) and they have to answer for the doping scandal at the Olympics. This, of course, has nothing to do with Syria, but the Brits are accusing Russia of drug taking-completely ignoring the fact that they (Britain) came a distant and humiliating third place in the Olympics anyway. To them, even third place is call for celebrations. Now that figures, doesn't it?
Now Parliament is having a debate-and all their committees are fighting to and against bombing Syria. Cameron, the chief dick of Britain, has finally come off the fence and said that Britain needs to join its allies, France and the United States, and bomb the hell out of all the strongholds in Syria. This is, of course, Britain being late to the party, as usual. They only join in after everyone else has done all the work, has taken financial responsibility, and has risked (and lost) the lives of brave men and women who have been fighting Islamic State terrorist maniacs for years. Britain wants everyone else to do the work, and then it will sneak in and say they did their part. And the most annoying part:
we have in this country, a total moron called Jeremy Corbyn, who is the leader of the Labour Party. Corbyn is so against dropping bombs, he has told all his MPs to vote against joining the fight; the voting on this is tomorrow. Corbyn says we should arrest these guys and bring them to trial. I wonder what planet Corbyn is living on-certainly not this one! Arrest them? Try to negotiate? EXCUSE ME? These are monsters who kill because they like it, not for any real religious ideology. What is Corbyn going to do: invite them to tea, and have a chat about ethics while the terrorists shoot up half of London? The man is delusional. Corbyn, sadly, has a lot of followers in Parliament. They call themselves "peaceful", and perhaps they think they can pray their way out of attacks here in Britain. I've got a better definition of these well-meaning but rather stupid people: cowards. They aren't reserved; they are cowardly. And this is where there is a problem, because Corbyn and his idiot followers are saying that no attacks will take place in this country. That is exactly what they said before the London bombings a decade ago. Well, their declarations didn't go so well then, did they?
I've now decided to just keep my head down, and to shut up in public. Stabbings are up, there are guns out there-crime is sky high, although the government claims that crime has dropped. Sure-crime and unemployment have dropped, but the death rate has risen dramatically. Fire engines are being sold off to save money-and the fire brigade chief says that this is still okay, and that everything can be handled as usual. Tell that to the people whose houses are burning down.
Everything the government does (or, more likely, doesn't do) affects me in one way or another, because I still have to live here, still have to travel, and I refuse to be conquered by fear. Been there, done that-I've lived with fear for five and a half years, and it was the fear (and anger at injustice) that kept me going. So no more fear-vigilance, caution, not swearing at anyone who crashes into me (at least, not out loud), because you never know who is armed. And a lot of people are armed.
Now I've got a question for any readers who are in the USA (and my friends over there keep up with this, so you get to answer): who on earth decided to back Donald Trump for President? Mr. Comb-over, who has a permanent bad hair day (call it a bad hair life-why not just be bald and be done with it?). The man is ignorant. He is a misogynist, racist (by all accounts), an absolute joke who will make us the laughing stock of the entire planet if he got anywhere near the White House, and, let's face it, he is the douche bag from Hell. Who is backing him: Bush supporters?
I consider the possibility of the Donald as President and I get an immediate stomach cramp. And who are these other contenders? And Obama-well, he's such a tool, I will be glad to be rid of him, but we need someone who is strong enough to try to undo the damage Obama's done in his tenure as chief prat of the world. Clinton-let's have a woman President, someone who has balls and will fight for us, not some idiot whose hair will go flying in a strong wind.
I wonder how the Donald keeps his few strands of hair down. Does he use tape? Or some kind of glue? Wouldn't it be more than mildly amusing if there was a debate among the hopefuls-and someone brought a really powerful wind machine? Now that would be a bit of fun! Perhaps he'll give Sarah Palin a second shot as Vice President. Then I predict there will be a mass exodus: about 300 million people moving out of the States until it is safe to return. Yikes??
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