Last Thursday-for anyone who has been on a different planet (or on drugs), we held a referendum. And the Remain side lost, fair and square, 52% to 48%. And-this entire week has been like one long, sad, badly written reality show. Actually-looking back, it's been really hilarious.
Remember that I kept telling you that the Brits-not all of them, just a minority-well, now I think it must be a really large minority- have got the brains of a doorknob, and the class and manners of, say, a pile of dog crap? This last week has been absolute proof. Every day it's more shit hitting the fan.
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot...okay, forget that, what the fuck. The remain idiots started by holding large demonstrations all across London, and demanding another referendum. Why? Because, apart from being ignorant idiots, they all seem to have the emotional maturity of a tantrum-throwing two year old. Spokespeople for these imbeciles stated that they want another referendum, and they want to change the rules-so they will keep having one until they get a different result. How infantile can you get?
Now the remains (remainders being the operative word) want the laws changed because they are saying that older people (you know: "old" means over 50) are too ignorant and uneducated to be able to vote-so they shouldn't be allowed to vote. These are idiots who are between 18 and 24, I think-have probably never worked, and are either living off their parents or living off state benefits. They would do well in Hitler's Germany: they would probably want everyone who is "old" to be euthanized. Not clever. Certainly far from intelligent, and very, very immature. But there you are.
Yes, dummies, let's have another referendum-and another, and another, until you win. How about a re-do of all the battles that didn't turn out so well-until we get the result we like? I'm thinking-hmmm...here we go, let's all fight the Battle of Hastings (I said that to one of the dipshits from church who was saying that all older people should be shot. She'd never heard of the Battle of Hastings. Oops-brain-dead. How typical!) I know. My personal favorite: the Alamo. With nukes this time.
You see my point. The remain voters are screaming and sobbing as if the apocalypse has begun. I asked one person why she was upset; she said she's "grieving". I said, oh, someone's died, I'm so sorry to hear that. She replied, no, it's the referendum. That is the same person who never heard of the Battle of Hastings-or the Alamo. I know. I checked.
Oh, people are saying, what a tragedy. Hell, no. A tragedy is a terrorist attack. A tragedy is a tsunami, or a plague that kills thousands. A tragedy is a nuclear war (at least for the ten seconds we will all have to bend over and kiss our backsides goodbye). Voting to leave an organization that is run by arrogant, corrupt bureaucrats who couldn't care less about the people they allege to represent-that isn't a tragedy. That is a blessing.
It's nearly a week later, and politically, socially and economically we are in the shit so deep that even a ton of shovels won't help. And people are wondering where the leadership is..well, there isn't any.
David Cameron was so certain-in his arrogance-that his side (the remain side) would win that he was shell-shocked last Friday, and had no choice but to fall on his sword. So now all the vultures are circling their prey and jockeying into position to get the keys to 10 Downing Street. Today, Michael Gove, who was Pinky to Boris Johnson's Perky, suddenly turned around and stabbed Johnson in the back by declaring that Boris isn't fit to take office, and he decided to run instead. What an unscrupulous, back stabbing pile of crap he is. Someone in Parliament went on record to say that from now on, when someone brutally betrays someone else and shoves a knife in his back, it will be known as "doing a Gove". What a legacy.
Jeremy Corbyn, the leader of the Anti-Semitic Racist Party (aka the Labour Party) has been given a vote of no confidence by his peers, and refuses to stand down. Apparently he didn't do enough to get his people out to vote remain. Duh?? What was he supposed to do, press gang half the country to go and vote his way? People voted their conscience. And the Brexiteers (everyone has to have a nickname. Brexit-not biscuit. Brexiteers. Not mouseketeers, although I rather like that one) are being pilloried for standing up for what they believe in.
So that is life here in Dipshit Central. The pound collapsed against the dollar, all kinds of celebrities (all mega rich, and most not living in this country) are "upset" about the referendum-Richard Branson, of Virgin Airways, came out with an angry statement about how he's lost a ton of money. Like he would even miss it? Anyway, I've met Branson and he is a mindless tosser-rich, but a tosser nevertheless. I wish all these self-styled "celebs" would just zip it, and go back to having plastic surgery. Maybe some surgeon will sew their mouths shut.
Now we just wait and see-for the next installment. The pound is recovering, the world didn't end, and, I think, history will show that the people-the real people, the people who got sick of being f***ed up the backside (see that? I can be polite. Probably never again) and fought back against corrupt government-and won-did everyone a huge public service.
As for the government crooks-let them all go live in the EU. I'm packing for Iceland (me and everyone I know).
Thursday, 30 June 2016
Friday, 24 June 2016
Head, heart and soul my bony ass
I'm listening to Dave the Douchebag as he realizes that he needs to step down as Prime Minister-and he gives me a cramp. I get those: cramps in my side as my bullshit detector (pretty accurate after years of practice) goes into high gear.
Dave (Cameron, of course, the chief crook and idiot in government in this country) talked about working hard, from "head, heart and soul" to keep us in the EU. Sure: he threatened, frightened, scare-mongered, and did as much as he could to get people to vote his way-and he failed spectacularly. I guess that there goes the knighthood he was probably going to give himself.
This is what happens when you underestimate the power of the people. Threatening is not leading.
Now I'm looking at things that are happening across the Pond. And now I'm going to be cross-examined by friends who want to know who is going to be the next President. I'm just hoping that Trump continues to be a total asshole-and that Hilary takes note of what the people want, not just what she wants.
Hilary: don't make promises if you can't (or won't) keep them. If you want proof of that-just ask Dave.
Dave (Cameron, of course, the chief crook and idiot in government in this country) talked about working hard, from "head, heart and soul" to keep us in the EU. Sure: he threatened, frightened, scare-mongered, and did as much as he could to get people to vote his way-and he failed spectacularly. I guess that there goes the knighthood he was probably going to give himself.
This is what happens when you underestimate the power of the people. Threatening is not leading.
Now I'm looking at things that are happening across the Pond. And now I'm going to be cross-examined by friends who want to know who is going to be the next President. I'm just hoping that Trump continues to be a total asshole-and that Hilary takes note of what the people want, not just what she wants.
Hilary: don't make promises if you can't (or won't) keep them. If you want proof of that-just ask Dave.
Big news from your mole in Dipshit Central
I've been watching the coverage on the referendum since 5:30 this morning-and it's now 9:35, and I'm still watching.
Well, slap my face (smack my gob)-I never thought the people of this country would actually vote to leave the EU-I really believed that most Brits would cave to the threats, scaremongering, and loads of crap from David Cameron and his playmates. Am I surprised, or what?
It was a decisive victory for the Leave campaign: 52% leave, 48% remain. And now all the blame is being apportioned. Cameron is stepping down in October, and things are still really up in the air. People in government are procrastinating over Article 50, which gives the EU notice that we are leaving.
It has been an interesting few months of back-biting, scaremongering, and, of course, Odious Obama coming over here and threatening us (meanwhile, he isn't competent to run my country, so why he was here is still a mystery. All he did was piss people off-and justifiably, in my view).
It will be another few months of apportioning blame, recriminations, double dealing- and speculation. And-after the prime minister invokes article 50, we will still have to wait at least two years before we can actually leave the EU. I watched while members of Parliament were fighting - I mean, really fighting - and I was waiting for men to stop the rhetoric and accusations to jump up and beat the crap out of each other. Now that would have been seriously entertaining.
The media spend an inordinate amount of time speculating about the future of Britain. The pound plummeted, there is unrest throughout financial markets everywhere-people really expected the voters to want to stay in the EU-and continue to be slaves to Brussels when it comes to making our own decisions.
I'm just keeping my head down and noting all the deal-making and sneaking around on the part of the politicians who are ready to move into Downing Street when Cameron finally shifts his ass out in October. I personally think that the majority of Brits have taken back this country, and will-at some point - be able to govern themselves.
Let's all be embroiled in infighting, predicting doom, and general negativity. I will say one thing about the referendum results: it shows that 52% of the voters are actually awake.
And-they're still dipshits. Some things never change...
Well, slap my face (smack my gob)-I never thought the people of this country would actually vote to leave the EU-I really believed that most Brits would cave to the threats, scaremongering, and loads of crap from David Cameron and his playmates. Am I surprised, or what?
It was a decisive victory for the Leave campaign: 52% leave, 48% remain. And now all the blame is being apportioned. Cameron is stepping down in October, and things are still really up in the air. People in government are procrastinating over Article 50, which gives the EU notice that we are leaving.
It has been an interesting few months of back-biting, scaremongering, and, of course, Odious Obama coming over here and threatening us (meanwhile, he isn't competent to run my country, so why he was here is still a mystery. All he did was piss people off-and justifiably, in my view).
It will be another few months of apportioning blame, recriminations, double dealing- and speculation. And-after the prime minister invokes article 50, we will still have to wait at least two years before we can actually leave the EU. I watched while members of Parliament were fighting - I mean, really fighting - and I was waiting for men to stop the rhetoric and accusations to jump up and beat the crap out of each other. Now that would have been seriously entertaining.
The media spend an inordinate amount of time speculating about the future of Britain. The pound plummeted, there is unrest throughout financial markets everywhere-people really expected the voters to want to stay in the EU-and continue to be slaves to Brussels when it comes to making our own decisions.
I'm just keeping my head down and noting all the deal-making and sneaking around on the part of the politicians who are ready to move into Downing Street when Cameron finally shifts his ass out in October. I personally think that the majority of Brits have taken back this country, and will-at some point - be able to govern themselves.
Let's all be embroiled in infighting, predicting doom, and general negativity. I will say one thing about the referendum results: it shows that 52% of the voters are actually awake.
And-they're still dipshits. Some things never change...
Tuesday, 21 June 2016
All Hail, Dipshit Central
I was really sick for a week after the hosepipe up the rectum lark. I felt faint, and just really awful-so I decided that I was having a reaction to the noxious Klean Prep (and who wouldn't?), so I started eating everything that wasn't nailed down. Not a good idea, because I ended up generating enough gas to launch the Hindenburg.
If I had wanted to take a trip home (home as in over the Pond, not my little shoebox, which is only a temporary home-and I call it "home" because I am a very lazy typist, and it's easier), I could easily have farted my way across the Atlantic.
This all lasted until last Thursday, when I went to see my friend Dani, the acupuncturist who works in Essex, the braindead capital of the UK (and possibly the world). If Britain is the dipshit center of Europe (trust me, it is), then Essex is Dipshit Central. Every time I go to see Dani, when I leave I end up blinking several times and checking for a pulse.
So, I had my acupuncture treatment, and I felt better-I swear by acupuncture, and Dani shoves those needles in and I do her computer work. It's a happy trade off for both of us, and we get a chance to catch up on all the news. Fortunately, Dani isn't from this country, so I can crack jokes (in this blog, anyway-she doesn't read it) and know that I'm relatively safe. Relatively.
I've had a tough few days since then, though. That all started at the weekend. Now-I could be wrong, and I probably am-or, possibly I'm wrong. But if you remember the weirdo called John Brook, who decided that he wanted to nominate himself as next of kin when I was in the hospital in March, there is a strange and sad story. I'll share it, of course (don't I always?).
When the whole Mulalley kitchen fiasco was raging on, John (who was one of the property surveyors) decided that he would act for me in a case against Haringey Council and Mulalley. This has been going on for two years now-and it took a lot of fighting to get Mulalley to fix the mess they made of the kitchen (which still hasn't been finished completely). John presented himself as a qualified and competent surveyor, and said that he had handled cases like mine before, so he would be happy to act as my representative. Oops-big mistake.
He's been a little strange for some time, making inappropriate comments, and telling long-very, very long-stories about how wonderful he is, and so on. In fact, in the beginning (two years ago), he was telling me about falling in love with this person who was thirty years younger than him, and wanting to have a baby. So I said-Miss Tactful and Diplomatic-you mean you were with a woman? I was pretty incredulous, because I thought he was gay. So I had to get through that without laughing. It was tough, but I managed it...
Well, anyway, I kept asking for copies of emails to the Ombudsman, who is handling the case against the borough and the idiot builders. Brook kept putting me off with tales of playing drums with Robert Plant. This is someone who must weigh three hundred pounds, and who can barely walk without sounding like he is going to expire any second-and I thought-hmmm. Walter Mitty, anyone? But I let him get on with it. And about six weeks ago he told me that he was moving into another apartment-he and his cat. Great, I said, good luck. He then told me that he had two leather sofas, and was going to have to get rid of one of them because of lack of space. He asked if I was interested. The color? Yellow. Here is someone who is very affected, would mince if he wasn't so huge he waddled-had a cat (which doesn't mean anything until you hear all the stories he tells), and loves to have fresh flowers by his bed every day...and so on. Straight? Sure he isn't. But as long as he didn't get too obnoxious, it was okay for him to act as my rep.
I asked him for a condition report, and I wanted to know how much he wanted-and I wanted photos and dimensions of the sofa. Fine, he said. Did I get them? No. I said nothing, and then a couple of weeks later he commented that he needed to send me photos. Well, excuse me, but I wasn't feeling very clairvoyant at the time. So I decided that he probably wanted to keep the sofa, and that was the end of it-which was good, because he's such a pukebag he might want to come and visit it. Who knows?
Last Wednesday night John rang me - oh, he said, you have to come and see the sofa either Friday or Saturday, because everything else has been moved to the new place. I naturally shook my head at the sheer nerve, telling me that I had two days to buy this second hand piece of (probable) junk. I asked how much he wanted-he said he'd told me, I said no, he hadn't, and that I wasn't up for reading minds. He then said £350. I laughed. £350? I asked. It's a used sofa, it's old (but not antique), it isn't worth anywhere near that much. He insisted that I see it, and that I would love it, and told me that he would come and collect me on Sunday morning, drive me to his old flat, and we could do the deal then.
Well, you know what comes next. This was never going to work, and the man is an insufferable bore, so to spend any time with him other than discussing the case would have given me cramps. And a migraine. So on Saturday morning I sent him a text, telling him that he should have sorted this viewing out two weeks before, and that I decided not to change my plans (made many weeks ago).I then got such a vicious and nasty text back, I couldn't believe it. Of course-I could have (and should have)said forget it on the Wednesday night, so that was my mistake. But I did tell him that I could see it during this week (and I still wouldn't have bought it). But he didn't see it that way.
So I texted him back, telling him that he is an incompetent idiot for not doing all this weeks ago, and that if he was going to behave like he has all the maturity of a tantrum throwing two year old, I agree that he should never represent me for anything. I also called him a crushing bore..and today I called and spoke with the Ombudsman, and deleted him as my representative. And it gets better: he said a lot of things about settling the case and getting a good offer from the council, who had arranged the kitchen deal with Mulalley. And nothing he said was true. Huh. Walter Mitty indeed.
After I texted him, I blocked his number so I wouldn't get any abuse back. I confirmed that he is no longer my representative by email, told him that he is a liar, a moron and a bore, and said he needs to find a therapist. Then I blocked his emails. too. But I did keep his vicious text, just so I can remember that if you have a gut feeling about someone not being trustworthy (or competent) you should follow it.
And that brings you up to date. On Thursday there is a vote to either stay in or leave the European Union. There is so much fighting, so many lies told, so many accusations and so much total bullshit being slung on both sides-actually, it's been really entertaining. Do people really have the balls to vote to leave and become self-governing? No, of course not. They would rather play the "devil you know, devil you don't know" card, and so I predict that we will remain, people will keep bitching and moaning, and this country-already halfway down the toilet-will go the whole way down.
I truly believe that my own people aren't stupid enough to elect the comb-over (the Donald)-but the country has registered the displeasure with Odious Obama and the way things have been going (or not going, as the case may be). So, two predictions: first, Trump loses (please God). Second, Cameron keeps his job, so that he and all his other corrupt playmates can continue to rob the taxpayers blind, and we stay in the European Union and this country continues to go to shit, as the NHS and the economy collapse in a couple of heaps.
As for me--I've made some enquiries. Iceland is lovely this time of year. So I'm starting to pack.
I always wanted to live on a volcanic rock.
If I had wanted to take a trip home (home as in over the Pond, not my little shoebox, which is only a temporary home-and I call it "home" because I am a very lazy typist, and it's easier), I could easily have farted my way across the Atlantic.
This all lasted until last Thursday, when I went to see my friend Dani, the acupuncturist who works in Essex, the braindead capital of the UK (and possibly the world). If Britain is the dipshit center of Europe (trust me, it is), then Essex is Dipshit Central. Every time I go to see Dani, when I leave I end up blinking several times and checking for a pulse.
So, I had my acupuncture treatment, and I felt better-I swear by acupuncture, and Dani shoves those needles in and I do her computer work. It's a happy trade off for both of us, and we get a chance to catch up on all the news. Fortunately, Dani isn't from this country, so I can crack jokes (in this blog, anyway-she doesn't read it) and know that I'm relatively safe. Relatively.
I've had a tough few days since then, though. That all started at the weekend. Now-I could be wrong, and I probably am-or, possibly I'm wrong. But if you remember the weirdo called John Brook, who decided that he wanted to nominate himself as next of kin when I was in the hospital in March, there is a strange and sad story. I'll share it, of course (don't I always?).
When the whole Mulalley kitchen fiasco was raging on, John (who was one of the property surveyors) decided that he would act for me in a case against Haringey Council and Mulalley. This has been going on for two years now-and it took a lot of fighting to get Mulalley to fix the mess they made of the kitchen (which still hasn't been finished completely). John presented himself as a qualified and competent surveyor, and said that he had handled cases like mine before, so he would be happy to act as my representative. Oops-big mistake.
He's been a little strange for some time, making inappropriate comments, and telling long-very, very long-stories about how wonderful he is, and so on. In fact, in the beginning (two years ago), he was telling me about falling in love with this person who was thirty years younger than him, and wanting to have a baby. So I said-Miss Tactful and Diplomatic-you mean you were with a woman? I was pretty incredulous, because I thought he was gay. So I had to get through that without laughing. It was tough, but I managed it...
Well, anyway, I kept asking for copies of emails to the Ombudsman, who is handling the case against the borough and the idiot builders. Brook kept putting me off with tales of playing drums with Robert Plant. This is someone who must weigh three hundred pounds, and who can barely walk without sounding like he is going to expire any second-and I thought-hmmm. Walter Mitty, anyone? But I let him get on with it. And about six weeks ago he told me that he was moving into another apartment-he and his cat. Great, I said, good luck. He then told me that he had two leather sofas, and was going to have to get rid of one of them because of lack of space. He asked if I was interested. The color? Yellow. Here is someone who is very affected, would mince if he wasn't so huge he waddled-had a cat (which doesn't mean anything until you hear all the stories he tells), and loves to have fresh flowers by his bed every day...and so on. Straight? Sure he isn't. But as long as he didn't get too obnoxious, it was okay for him to act as my rep.
I asked him for a condition report, and I wanted to know how much he wanted-and I wanted photos and dimensions of the sofa. Fine, he said. Did I get them? No. I said nothing, and then a couple of weeks later he commented that he needed to send me photos. Well, excuse me, but I wasn't feeling very clairvoyant at the time. So I decided that he probably wanted to keep the sofa, and that was the end of it-which was good, because he's such a pukebag he might want to come and visit it. Who knows?
Last Wednesday night John rang me - oh, he said, you have to come and see the sofa either Friday or Saturday, because everything else has been moved to the new place. I naturally shook my head at the sheer nerve, telling me that I had two days to buy this second hand piece of (probable) junk. I asked how much he wanted-he said he'd told me, I said no, he hadn't, and that I wasn't up for reading minds. He then said £350. I laughed. £350? I asked. It's a used sofa, it's old (but not antique), it isn't worth anywhere near that much. He insisted that I see it, and that I would love it, and told me that he would come and collect me on Sunday morning, drive me to his old flat, and we could do the deal then.
Well, you know what comes next. This was never going to work, and the man is an insufferable bore, so to spend any time with him other than discussing the case would have given me cramps. And a migraine. So on Saturday morning I sent him a text, telling him that he should have sorted this viewing out two weeks before, and that I decided not to change my plans (made many weeks ago).I then got such a vicious and nasty text back, I couldn't believe it. Of course-I could have (and should have)said forget it on the Wednesday night, so that was my mistake. But I did tell him that I could see it during this week (and I still wouldn't have bought it). But he didn't see it that way.
So I texted him back, telling him that he is an incompetent idiot for not doing all this weeks ago, and that if he was going to behave like he has all the maturity of a tantrum throwing two year old, I agree that he should never represent me for anything. I also called him a crushing bore..and today I called and spoke with the Ombudsman, and deleted him as my representative. And it gets better: he said a lot of things about settling the case and getting a good offer from the council, who had arranged the kitchen deal with Mulalley. And nothing he said was true. Huh. Walter Mitty indeed.
After I texted him, I blocked his number so I wouldn't get any abuse back. I confirmed that he is no longer my representative by email, told him that he is a liar, a moron and a bore, and said he needs to find a therapist. Then I blocked his emails. too. But I did keep his vicious text, just so I can remember that if you have a gut feeling about someone not being trustworthy (or competent) you should follow it.
And that brings you up to date. On Thursday there is a vote to either stay in or leave the European Union. There is so much fighting, so many lies told, so many accusations and so much total bullshit being slung on both sides-actually, it's been really entertaining. Do people really have the balls to vote to leave and become self-governing? No, of course not. They would rather play the "devil you know, devil you don't know" card, and so I predict that we will remain, people will keep bitching and moaning, and this country-already halfway down the toilet-will go the whole way down.
I truly believe that my own people aren't stupid enough to elect the comb-over (the Donald)-but the country has registered the displeasure with Odious Obama and the way things have been going (or not going, as the case may be). So, two predictions: first, Trump loses (please God). Second, Cameron keeps his job, so that he and all his other corrupt playmates can continue to rob the taxpayers blind, and we stay in the European Union and this country continues to go to shit, as the NHS and the economy collapse in a couple of heaps.
As for me--I've made some enquiries. Iceland is lovely this time of year. So I'm starting to pack.
I always wanted to live on a volcanic rock.
Friday, 10 June 2016
TGIO (Thank Goodness It's Over!!)
I had a good week-but that was two weeks ago. I saw Jersey Boys, did the infusions, saw Captain America Civil War (I'm such a big kid: I love special effects and stunts. They were great), and I went to McDonald's for the first time in-it must be four or five years.
Oh, my...I ordered a buffalo chicken sandwich. All that salt. All that saturated fat. I just looked at the tray and I could feel my arteries harden. But-it was delicious. Of course, I paid for it for a few days afterward: bloat, and the ever-present knowledge that I smelled like a rat crawled up my ass and died. Would I have another one? Of course-just not for a long while.
I also sold my car on the Friday. That made me sad for the entire weekend-a bank holiday weekend, so I got to be sad for three days instead of two. Did I do the right thing? Why do I need a car when I live in the middle of London and don't need the expense or the aggravation? And so on. But I also realized-somewhere around Monday night-that the car represented freedom. I had the Fiat for eleven years-it was a great little car, but I couldn't drive it after the gentamicin fiasco-I kept it anyway. One of my goals was to be able to drive. Another one, of course, was to be able to walk.
Last Monday I met a friend for breakfast-and she was even more depressed than I was, so I just decided to pull my head out of my backside and listen, and see if I could help. Just my listening seemed to do the trick, and I forgot about my own issues for a little while. Then on Tuesday I had physiotherapy, and that went surprisingly well. I say "surprisingly" because it was raining, and cold, and I don't do well in the cold and wet. But I managed-without falling over. I'm still improving, even though it is now six years since the disaster. I'm even beginning to be able to let it go-quite a feat for me.
I went to the dealership-in the rain-again- on Wednesday morning to pick up my new car. I was a little nervous about driving it back, but I did fine. Didn't hit anyone - or anything. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to drive it again for a week-because I started the prep for the colonoscopy on Thursday. What an experience-one that I happily don't have to repeat for another year. They give you this noxious stuff called Klean Prep. Most people find that with four sachets they get pretty cleaned out, and quickly. Nobody can see anything during a colonoscopy unless the colon is clear. For me, they gave me ten sachets of the stuff. I'm almost famous at the endoscopy unit because nobody can believe I need ten sachets of what I call liquid drain cleaner.
So, from Thursday (last week) to Wednesday (just gone) all I did was take Klean Prep. I couldn't even have anything to eat except white pasta and grilled chicken (they said boiled. No chance.). I have to tell you that a week of that gets really old very quickly.
And now it's over. What an ordeal. I might just as well have moved the television into the bathroom. I spent a lot of time there...and-my favorite proctologist (also my only proctologist), Sean, did the honors. I did make the same old jokes, but his registrar hadn't heard them before, so that was okay. As the registrar was preparing the sedation, the cannula, and everything else, Sean and I were discussing the merits of his moving the family to an area I knew well (I used to live there). That part was good, but the hosepipe up the rectum wasn't. I had to keep moving on the table while the reg was looking at the screen, and it didn't help at all when he kept saying "wow, look at that!", and "you really are a complicated case". Oh, joy...but by 6:30 that night I was back, and I don't remember the last time I was so happy to come into my little shoebox and shut the door behind me.
But-yesterday I had to go to the other hospital for my infusions, and I can tell you that I felt like I wanted to collapse in a heap. The nurses told me not to drive for 24 hours after the procedure (as if I could. I could barely walk), and I should be very careful, don't sign any paperwork, etc, etc. And here I was, going to another hospital the next day. So when I got back yesterday afternoon I collapsed in another heap. And stayed there. And I got into the car this morning and drove to the supermarket, since my cupboard has been pretty bare for a week.
I loved it. I'm really happy with the car. It's great. I can only do short distances for awhile, but I still have that goal in mind: to be able to drive more often-and to be able to walk without the crutch. I'll do it, no matter how long it takes me. If I don't quite get to where I want to be by the end of this year, at least I can say I gave it my best shot. And I still won't give up. I'm just ornery, I guess.
Plus, I've already been told (by Sean and the registrar) that next year I will have to take 13 sachets of Klean Prep. I'm already squeezing my knees together in anticipation. And heading for the Kettle Chips. And maybe McDonald's.
Oh, my...I ordered a buffalo chicken sandwich. All that salt. All that saturated fat. I just looked at the tray and I could feel my arteries harden. But-it was delicious. Of course, I paid for it for a few days afterward: bloat, and the ever-present knowledge that I smelled like a rat crawled up my ass and died. Would I have another one? Of course-just not for a long while.
I also sold my car on the Friday. That made me sad for the entire weekend-a bank holiday weekend, so I got to be sad for three days instead of two. Did I do the right thing? Why do I need a car when I live in the middle of London and don't need the expense or the aggravation? And so on. But I also realized-somewhere around Monday night-that the car represented freedom. I had the Fiat for eleven years-it was a great little car, but I couldn't drive it after the gentamicin fiasco-I kept it anyway. One of my goals was to be able to drive. Another one, of course, was to be able to walk.
Last Monday I met a friend for breakfast-and she was even more depressed than I was, so I just decided to pull my head out of my backside and listen, and see if I could help. Just my listening seemed to do the trick, and I forgot about my own issues for a little while. Then on Tuesday I had physiotherapy, and that went surprisingly well. I say "surprisingly" because it was raining, and cold, and I don't do well in the cold and wet. But I managed-without falling over. I'm still improving, even though it is now six years since the disaster. I'm even beginning to be able to let it go-quite a feat for me.
I went to the dealership-in the rain-again- on Wednesday morning to pick up my new car. I was a little nervous about driving it back, but I did fine. Didn't hit anyone - or anything. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to drive it again for a week-because I started the prep for the colonoscopy on Thursday. What an experience-one that I happily don't have to repeat for another year. They give you this noxious stuff called Klean Prep. Most people find that with four sachets they get pretty cleaned out, and quickly. Nobody can see anything during a colonoscopy unless the colon is clear. For me, they gave me ten sachets of the stuff. I'm almost famous at the endoscopy unit because nobody can believe I need ten sachets of what I call liquid drain cleaner.
So, from Thursday (last week) to Wednesday (just gone) all I did was take Klean Prep. I couldn't even have anything to eat except white pasta and grilled chicken (they said boiled. No chance.). I have to tell you that a week of that gets really old very quickly.
And now it's over. What an ordeal. I might just as well have moved the television into the bathroom. I spent a lot of time there...and-my favorite proctologist (also my only proctologist), Sean, did the honors. I did make the same old jokes, but his registrar hadn't heard them before, so that was okay. As the registrar was preparing the sedation, the cannula, and everything else, Sean and I were discussing the merits of his moving the family to an area I knew well (I used to live there). That part was good, but the hosepipe up the rectum wasn't. I had to keep moving on the table while the reg was looking at the screen, and it didn't help at all when he kept saying "wow, look at that!", and "you really are a complicated case". Oh, joy...but by 6:30 that night I was back, and I don't remember the last time I was so happy to come into my little shoebox and shut the door behind me.
But-yesterday I had to go to the other hospital for my infusions, and I can tell you that I felt like I wanted to collapse in a heap. The nurses told me not to drive for 24 hours after the procedure (as if I could. I could barely walk), and I should be very careful, don't sign any paperwork, etc, etc. And here I was, going to another hospital the next day. So when I got back yesterday afternoon I collapsed in another heap. And stayed there. And I got into the car this morning and drove to the supermarket, since my cupboard has been pretty bare for a week.
I loved it. I'm really happy with the car. It's great. I can only do short distances for awhile, but I still have that goal in mind: to be able to drive more often-and to be able to walk without the crutch. I'll do it, no matter how long it takes me. If I don't quite get to where I want to be by the end of this year, at least I can say I gave it my best shot. And I still won't give up. I'm just ornery, I guess.
Plus, I've already been told (by Sean and the registrar) that next year I will have to take 13 sachets of Klean Prep. I'm already squeezing my knees together in anticipation. And heading for the Kettle Chips. And maybe McDonald's.
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