The benefits of speaking idiot

These two weeks have been far from joyous. The workmen demolished my kitchen and left me with a pile of rubble. My kitchen is boxed and sitting in the living room, as is my full-sized refrigerator. And the dust and dirt and grime are everywhere. I feel like I'm camping out-and the guys come and go as they wish, which means I am left sitting like a lemon until they decide to grace me with their presence. Anyone who has ever had a new kitchen installed knows exactly what I am feeling: murderous!

I've had my laptop hidden under a pile of clothes, hoping it wouldn't get really dirty. I don't know where all this dirt comes from, or how it gets everywhere-but I covered the microwave (now sitting on the kitchen table, also in the living room) and it is filthy. I guess I know what I will be doing when -if-they ever finish: cleaning. Probably for days, maybe weeks. Ugh. I just try to bear in mind that when it is all done it will be much nicer than the prehistoric kitchen I had before. Hopefully.

I consider myself to be bilingual. My first language is English. My second is idiot. After so many years here, I am quite proficient in idiot. And that didn't help me with most of the workmen, because most of the workmen don't speak a word of English. So there hasn't been a lot of conversation in the past two weeks. There has, however, been a lot of pointing (from me) and a great deal of headshaking (from them). And they look at me when I am trying to communicate-and they grunt. There is a lot of grunting. So today I decided to dig out my laptop, and I'm sitting on the bed with my computer in my lap (good job it's called a laptop, isn't it).

I had one bit of excitement in these two weeks of sitting on my backside and missing any and all really lovely weather. On Friday, the psycho from upstairs walked into my apartment. His kitchen is being replaced, too-and he took it upon himself to try to push past one of the workmen. I saw him in all his garb: dirty white (or, rather, off-white) dress, headgear, the whole deal (I don't know what they call the uniform, so apologies to any Muslims who are offended. Tough). He was trying to get past the workman and I screamed for him get out. I told the workman (Greg) that there is a restraining order against this man, and he practically had to push the psycho out the door. So I called the police.

It has been a trip and a half since Friday. I had to go to the local cop shop and have a two hour interview about all this, and I was told that a police officer would contact me within 24 hours. Good thing I didn't hold my breath-I'm still waiting. Grrrr...between the useless workmen and the even more useless police, all I do is wait. Will they do anything? Probably not. They usually wait for someone to be murdered-and then won't do anything without a witness or CCTV. I suppose it's too much paperwork.

So that is where we are at the moment: drinking coffee and sitting on my behind, waiting for things to be finished. It might be a long wait. See what I mean about speaking idiot.

Next time I will write some jokes. In English, too!

Tits ahoy. The stomach has landed.

I got back last Friday-amazing that a week has gone by already. I wandered around like a lost fart. I was so jet lagged for a week-my stomach and brain were still at 40,000 feet. I felt like my brain had gone through the blender. In fact, I was so dull I was starting to act like a local-not that anybody would notice if my brain stopped working. This is Britain. Nobody else's brain works anyway.

So the flight was okay, nothing exciting. The most exciting thing was the fact that my suitcase was 17 pounds overweight. Imagine-the allowance is 50 pounds (not 50 kilos. Duh), and mine weighed 67 pounds. I had to pay an excess fee of a hundred dollars. I can tell you, that smarted a bit. So I asked the baggage people why someone who weighs twice as much as I do has to pay only the same excess. I pointed out that the total weight (passenger plus suitcase) should count, because that is discrimination against thin people. It was a good try-didn't work, but I tried. And paid. And grumbled. And I was lucky, because my minicab was waiting at Heathrow when I got there, so I didn't have to get the hernia carrying my suitcase!

I don't mind flying, although I would prefer to be able to beam myself wherever I want to go (like they do in Star Trek). So many hours on a plane, inhaling everyone else's used air. Yich. But I can imagine researchers here trying to perfect that kind of beaming thing; they would probably end up sending a body to Manchester, and the head to Australia.

Well, I started going to the doctor stuff on Tuesday. I had to go have bloods taken, and cough and spit in a pot so that I could be checked for pseudomonas. I won't know anything until Monday. And I haven't slept well for over a week. I wonder how many nights I can go before I start to hallucinate...

Yesterday, Conan the Destroyer and his pals came and ripped out my kitchen. They were supposed to put up a plastic curtain so the dust could be contained-but they didn't. You should see my flat now: everything from the kitchen is in the living room, and I can't get from one end to the other without tripping over boxes. I'm told that I need to give them three weeks to do the kitchen properly-so that gives me the excuse to eat out, doesn't it?

There is a shell where the kitchen used to be-and the rest of the apartment looks like it was hit by a bomb. Since I was completely useless last week, I will see how much I can do to make some space before the workmen return on Monday morning. And I still have to unpack my suitcase, which is sitting in my hallway-now that's what I call procrastination!

On the plus side, in three weeks I will either have a new kitchen or the building will have fallen down. And-now I get a chance to see exactly how much stuff I have accumulated (it doesn't get more painful than that!).

I bought some lovely clothes while I was visiting Jessie. So one of the things I had to do was find my prostheses (which I call bra stuffers) and try everything on with boobs intact (ish). Everything still fits, even though I ate like there was a famine while I was in Florida.

I'm already looking forward to going back for another visit-it'll take me a year just to pay for this trip!
Meanwhile, I know I need to stay here for the duration, because at least I can get the treatment I need (until the NHS finishes being privatized).

Good thing I speak idiot, isn't it?