Christmas dinner suddenly became a huge deal. There were nine of us around the table: eight Brits (well, six English, one Scots, one Welsh)-and me. So I thought it would be prudent to watch myself and not say anything controversial. I needn't have worried.
I'm exaggerating, of course-but it seemed like there was enough food to feed a small third world country. The table was just groaning. Before long, we were all groaning. My old friend Terry is a really good cook. Her coffee could double as paint stripper, but that is a very British condition - everything else just was great. And we all ate too much, and drank too much...I felt like I could paint a stripe down my side and double as the Goodyear blimp. Really-I looked like a Zeppelin at the end of the evening. I didn't eat as much as anyone else-but I ate way too much for me. I'm not used to looking down and seeing a belly that looks like I have swallowed Manchester United. All of them.
And we drank. Of course. I had four drinks (wow, so much for me!!) and I discovered that I had drunk myself sober. I wish I'd taken a camera-or a tape recorder. Boy, could I have had some good stuff for blackmail! The more everyone drank, the more they all slagged off this country, the media, the royals, the government-you name it, and I was in my element. Brits slagging off Brits-go figure. I just sat and smiled. And drank. And ate. And thought I was going to explode. But it was a really good Christmas. And then, the next day (Boxing Day in this country), we did it all over again. Gluttons for punishment. Or-just gluttons.
Boxing Day was (allegedly-everyone has a different opinion) originally the day that the landowners presented a box to their employees: food, dry goods, money, whatever-as a token of thanks for all the year's work. That is, some say, the meaning of Boxing Day. Originally. Now, Boxing Day is the beginning of the after-Christmas sales. All the shops have huge sales that go into January (the January sales). So nutjobs who want to grab cheap, nasty sale televisions and crack open the skull of some poor sap who is after the same piece of junk have a second chance to do some real damage. Honestly? I keep a very low profile after Christmas when it comes to shopping. Who wants to reach out to grab something and have some lunatic break your arm?
Can you imagine if aliens came to earth and monitored our behavior? They would come to the Boxing Day and January sales and conclude that everyone here is totally insane, and that earth is filled with savages who aren't worth worrying about. Someone should do a film about that...
One of the topics of conversation was aging-a wonderful topic for Christmas, don't you think? We all agreed that one of the first things to go when you hit middle age-after lines, wrinkles, sagging skin, liver spots, aches and pains, grey hair, and assorted other grumbles-is the memory. Once you hit 40, it's all downhill from there. Who cares who says differently? You begin to forget things. You begin to forget things. You begin..(sorry, couldn't resist that. Terrible, wasn't it?)
I coined a name for this condition when I hit forty and the fertilizer began to hit the fan (Christmas. I'm being polite. That ends tomorrow). I call it: CRS-which means Can't Remember Shit. I'm surprised I remembered that-but I cheated, I wrote it down. CRS got the seal of approval from everyone. We had all tried all kinds of memory training-but fighting CRS? My solution: writing things down. Now all I need to remember once I have written everything down is what I did with the paper...It's possibly with my keys. I can never find those, either. And CRS hits when you get to 40. Sometimes it hits at 35, or 25. If you're from Essex, it hits at 12.
That was my Christmas. And yesterday, there was ice on the ground (the borough never salts or grits the roads or pavement; they want people to fall over and break things and end up in the hospital. That is how they get their jollies. Idiots.), and I went, as the (cute) saying goes, ass over tit and ended up splat on the ground in the middle of the road. Some prat stopped his car and waited for me to get up and move out of his way. Did he help? Of course not. He just looked, looked at his watch, and waved his arm for me to move. I wanted to wave my arm-complete with one finger sticking up-but I was afraid he might drive over me. So much for the absolute myth of the Brits having manners. But I was only bruised-which is good, because I didn't want to be carted off to hospital. Who knows which part of my anatomy they might amputate?
Now I am getting ready for New Year's Eve-but I will do what I did on Boxing Day: eat very, very little.It took me two days just to be able to zip up my jeans! I will have a few drinks, though. After all, calories don't count until tomorrow. And I think I ate at least a week's worth of those last week.
I haven't written any new year's resolutions yet-not because I will write them and forget where I put them, but because I always end up breaking them the next day. But I am thinking about it. I do know that I have had a very, very bad five years-very bad. Gentamicin in 2010 trumps everything-all the bad chest infections, all the other stuff-but cancer trumps that. If I could wipe out 2010 through 2014, I would do so in a millisecond. But that all happened, and I need to somehow let it go. So I think that number one on my new year's resolution list would have to be to let go of everything (and everyone)-difficult to do, easy to say.
I'm working on it. And by tomorrow I will have a list of resolutions I will really keep. No shopping. No more stuff. Health-that comes first. If you don't have your health, what else could possibly matter?
Happy New Year. Celebrate. Eat (oh, no, not again!!), drink (absolutely), and leave 2014 behind. In my case, well behind. It's a new year. It's a new chapter. I don't know how long I am going to be here, but I can tell you that I will make the most of every minute. So-see you tomorrow!!!!
Wednesday 31 December 2014
Thursday 25 December 2014
Somebody get me a gun.....
I've said that for years, every time I get upset by someone. You can imagine how often I've said it since I've lived here: practically every other sentence!! Of course, if someone did actually give me a gun, I would probably fall over while shooting myself in the foot. So much for a gun.
So who pissed me off this time? The same people who pissed me off the last time: the builders. Are they finished? Hell, no - they have to make a return visit after New Year's - oh lucky me. I'm amazed that no walls have fallen down. Yet. Who knows what will happen while they are hiding wherever it is they're hiding?
Now, here is the thing. My kitchen measures a measly 8 feet from wall to wall, not from cabinet to cabinet. On the other side it measures-maybe 8 feet, but certainly no more than that. And the major work was done on the first day. The wall cabinets that needed replacing were done, the electric socket moved, two cupboards and the washing machine were moved...all the rest was supposed to be simple painting, some filling in of holes,stuff that could have -and should have - been completely finished in less than a week. But that is assuming the workmen were competent. We are talking about Mulalley, after all.
Since this is Christmas Day-and it has taken a long time for me to actually unpack the computer, set it up, and clean all the places that were covered (but still ended up covered in dust. Including my lungs)-here is a question for you. And I will get a little biblical (after all, it is Christmas. Get biblical).
If creation took only six days, how is it that the workmen couldn't paint one ceiling and three (part) walls, and do the bits of decorating-in two full weeks? Two weeks? And still not finished. A chimpanzee with a paintbrush and a screwdriver could have finished in three days. Obviously Mulalley should have hired chimps. One "painter" was supposed to paint the doorframe, then return to do the ceiling and walls. It took him two and a half hours to paint a simple doorframe-then he disappeared, not to be seen again for a week. Must be the effect I have on idiots.
It has all been about the bloody kitchen. This has been going on for nine and a half months, since they first ripped out the old kitchen. I could have had a baby in that time. You could have had a baby in that time. We all could have had a football team in that time. Personally, I would rather have a kitchen...
So that has been my November/December from Hell. And all the hospital stuff finished on Tuesday, so I am free to try to put my apartment back to normal now. Or, normal-ish.
So it is Christmas, and I meant to wish you all a very Merry Christmas (and Happy New Year, but I will post before that-if Firefox will allow me to get online. Firefox is crap). I will shortly be on my way to stuff my face, so I would like to share my Christmas rules (I do Christmas rules. How anal of me) with you.
First, eat as much as you can of everything you like-as long as it isn't nailed down or on someone else's plate. Feel free to nick it from anyone else's plate-but only if you are bigger than they are and can run faster. Eat. Stuff your face. Calories don't count at Christmas (Rita's rule number One: calories don't count from Christmas Eve to New Year's Day. Once it's January 1st, you are out of luck).
Drink even more (Rule Number 2). Studies (whose? Probably some alcoholic) have shown that women can drink two glasses of wine daily, and two glasses will extend life. Or maybe, it'll feel like life (ever have a hangover?). So it stands to reason that if you don't drink between now and New Year's Eve, you can save up all those glasses and have them all at once...Makes sense to me!! That is two glasses for women, and -is it four?-glasses for men. Boy, am I giving you leeway. And a serious hangover next week.
Rule number 3: everyone lies at Christmas. We lie when we look at a dinner that looks like it will give us food poisoning for the next week. Do we eat it? If we don't want to hurt someone else's feelings. My take on that: tell the cook you are getting over a stomach virus. Eat little bits of vegetables (you would think that nobody could ruin vegetables. If that is what you think, you haven't been to Britain. You name it, they wreck it). Drink wine, unless it is cheap and noxious-then stick to water. Get out of there as quickly as you can and go for a pizza. At least your stomach won't be exploding.
Speaking of lying: women will always ask if their behind looks big in this-usually when "this" is an outfit that is six sizes too small. If you want to live to next Christmas-if you want to live to tomorrow!!- men, you just lie. Say that the color doesn't bring out her eyes, or whatever you need to say-but NEVER tell her that her backend looks the size of the Queen Mary. Unless you can run fast and duck at the same time.
Ghastly presents: thank goodness for charity shops. Wear a mask so you aren't embarrassed to go and give those striped nylon naff socks from Primark. Ewww...or your credibility will be nil.
Oh, and rule number 4: obviously, don't drink and drive. No shit-obvious, yes? Get someone to be sober and the driver, and promise that next year you will be the driver. Of course, you're lying (see rule number 3)- but by next year, who will remember?
So that is it for now. I'm going to have a dinner with friends-and put the noxious workmen behind me. Would I shoot them, really? Nah-too messy, illegal-and pretty much antisocial. I wouldn't mind gelding them, though. I think that would be an improvement. In fact, I would be perfectly happy to sit back, have a glass of good wine, and watch them all spontaneously combust.
So I will post again when Christmas is finished - if nobody has beaten me for nicking their food, of course. I'm not as fast as I used to be-but I am getting really, really good with my stick!!
So who pissed me off this time? The same people who pissed me off the last time: the builders. Are they finished? Hell, no - they have to make a return visit after New Year's - oh lucky me. I'm amazed that no walls have fallen down. Yet. Who knows what will happen while they are hiding wherever it is they're hiding?
Now, here is the thing. My kitchen measures a measly 8 feet from wall to wall, not from cabinet to cabinet. On the other side it measures-maybe 8 feet, but certainly no more than that. And the major work was done on the first day. The wall cabinets that needed replacing were done, the electric socket moved, two cupboards and the washing machine were moved...all the rest was supposed to be simple painting, some filling in of holes,stuff that could have -and should have - been completely finished in less than a week. But that is assuming the workmen were competent. We are talking about Mulalley, after all.
Since this is Christmas Day-and it has taken a long time for me to actually unpack the computer, set it up, and clean all the places that were covered (but still ended up covered in dust. Including my lungs)-here is a question for you. And I will get a little biblical (after all, it is Christmas. Get biblical).
If creation took only six days, how is it that the workmen couldn't paint one ceiling and three (part) walls, and do the bits of decorating-in two full weeks? Two weeks? And still not finished. A chimpanzee with a paintbrush and a screwdriver could have finished in three days. Obviously Mulalley should have hired chimps. One "painter" was supposed to paint the doorframe, then return to do the ceiling and walls. It took him two and a half hours to paint a simple doorframe-then he disappeared, not to be seen again for a week. Must be the effect I have on idiots.
It has all been about the bloody kitchen. This has been going on for nine and a half months, since they first ripped out the old kitchen. I could have had a baby in that time. You could have had a baby in that time. We all could have had a football team in that time. Personally, I would rather have a kitchen...
So that has been my November/December from Hell. And all the hospital stuff finished on Tuesday, so I am free to try to put my apartment back to normal now. Or, normal-ish.
So it is Christmas, and I meant to wish you all a very Merry Christmas (and Happy New Year, but I will post before that-if Firefox will allow me to get online. Firefox is crap). I will shortly be on my way to stuff my face, so I would like to share my Christmas rules (I do Christmas rules. How anal of me) with you.
First, eat as much as you can of everything you like-as long as it isn't nailed down or on someone else's plate. Feel free to nick it from anyone else's plate-but only if you are bigger than they are and can run faster. Eat. Stuff your face. Calories don't count at Christmas (Rita's rule number One: calories don't count from Christmas Eve to New Year's Day. Once it's January 1st, you are out of luck).
Drink even more (Rule Number 2). Studies (whose? Probably some alcoholic) have shown that women can drink two glasses of wine daily, and two glasses will extend life. Or maybe, it'll feel like life (ever have a hangover?). So it stands to reason that if you don't drink between now and New Year's Eve, you can save up all those glasses and have them all at once...Makes sense to me!! That is two glasses for women, and -is it four?-glasses for men. Boy, am I giving you leeway. And a serious hangover next week.
Rule number 3: everyone lies at Christmas. We lie when we look at a dinner that looks like it will give us food poisoning for the next week. Do we eat it? If we don't want to hurt someone else's feelings. My take on that: tell the cook you are getting over a stomach virus. Eat little bits of vegetables (you would think that nobody could ruin vegetables. If that is what you think, you haven't been to Britain. You name it, they wreck it). Drink wine, unless it is cheap and noxious-then stick to water. Get out of there as quickly as you can and go for a pizza. At least your stomach won't be exploding.
Speaking of lying: women will always ask if their behind looks big in this-usually when "this" is an outfit that is six sizes too small. If you want to live to next Christmas-if you want to live to tomorrow!!- men, you just lie. Say that the color doesn't bring out her eyes, or whatever you need to say-but NEVER tell her that her backend looks the size of the Queen Mary. Unless you can run fast and duck at the same time.
Ghastly presents: thank goodness for charity shops. Wear a mask so you aren't embarrassed to go and give those striped nylon naff socks from Primark. Ewww...or your credibility will be nil.
Oh, and rule number 4: obviously, don't drink and drive. No shit-obvious, yes? Get someone to be sober and the driver, and promise that next year you will be the driver. Of course, you're lying (see rule number 3)- but by next year, who will remember?
So that is it for now. I'm going to have a dinner with friends-and put the noxious workmen behind me. Would I shoot them, really? Nah-too messy, illegal-and pretty much antisocial. I wouldn't mind gelding them, though. I think that would be an improvement. In fact, I would be perfectly happy to sit back, have a glass of good wine, and watch them all spontaneously combust.
So I will post again when Christmas is finished - if nobody has beaten me for nicking their food, of course. I'm not as fast as I used to be-but I am getting really, really good with my stick!!
Monday 15 December 2014
Finished? Hell, no...
The builders were supposed to be finished by Friday-last Friday. Actually, they told me Wednesday (last Wednesday). Why am I not surprised?
I told you about the Post-its-love those post-its. And on Friday, Derek was on his own. So by 4:15 he'd had enough-and was done for the day, leaving me with piles of kitchen in the living room. I'm getting used to it.
Today the painter is here, and the chippy (carpenter) should be here later. Tony, the site manager, was here about 15 minutes ago, and nobody had shown up. I've given them until 4pm to finish-I've got physio today, and I am not planning on missing that. It's the last one of this year. I get to be assessed. Woe is me! That is because I haven't really walked since the guys showed up on Monday. When I don't walk, even for a day, I see the difference. I did do short ones-but short ones aren't enough.
There is one good thing about the builders taking so long: I get to negotiate piles of cups, plates, all the usual kitchen stuff that is now taking up most of my living room. I have to step over stuff to find other stuff; I have to step over stuff if I want to get to the phone; I get to step over stuff if I want to switch on the television. I call it "rehabilitation": vestibular physiotherapy. And it has been very, very difficult.
The first few days saw me nearly falling over. I had to catch myself, and I thought I had broken some glasses when I tripped (I didn't). By Thursday I noticed that I was finding it easier to step over and around stuff. I thought that was interesting (If I thought that was interesting, I really need to get out more). This all shows that my brain was getting used to stepping around and over-and, although I wasn't pleased about builders dirt all over the place (and in my lungs, too, which I found decidedly underwhelming), I could see the difference in the way I was moving. Shows that my brain is still working (of course it is; I'm not British, am I?).
I had tremendous trouble with breathing, though. I'm trying to get outside as much as I can, just to see if I can clear my lungs out a bit. I cough so much I sound like I've got some terrible disease. But flu is going around, so everyone around me sounds the same. I'm in good company. So far, no flu-but I shouldn't say that, because that is an open invitation, isn't it?
Yesterday I met my friend Daniela at the Royal Festival Hall-it's been many years since I've been to a concert there. It was the Christmas concert, and I really enjoyed it. It was Daniela's first outing since her husband died in June, so it was difficult for her-but we had a good time, and there was an outside food market that was still open when we got out at 5:15. We took our lives (and health) in our hands and bought some vegan food at one of the stalls. We figured it couldn't be too bad-of course, it could have been, but it was delicious, and then she went to get her car and I took the Underground back to the bus, and back home. That was a trip!
In the beginning-now four and a half years ago-I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't walk. I couldn't do anything. For two years, I was effectively crippled. It was scary. Now it is four and a half years later, and all the determination to get better has had results. I've got a long way to go-but I have come a long way, too. I have trouble in the dark, in the rain, in the dark and the rain, in bright sunlight-but now I don't let it stop me. I went out. I took the bus in the dark. I got on the tube -a major, major achievement, because I didn't fall over, although I got a little bit dizzy as I got on and off the train. Walking through the station was tough, because people don't seem to look (or care) where they're going or who they nearly knock over. But I did it. A few bruises-but I'm getting used to it. Probably too used to it.
I haven't come nearly as far as I wanted-but I have come a long way. And it's funny (funny odd, not funny as in ha ha) - I was speaking with one of the admin ladies from my doctor's surgery, and she commented that I am incredibly strong and brave-and powerful. Well, that gave me a bit of a boost. A lot of people - the ones who know what I have been through - say the same thing. Of course, they don't see me on the really bad days-but the bad days aren't as frequent as they were in the beginning. Life isn't great, but it is far better than the alternative. I won't quit. I can't quit. I can't stop now. I need to work harder, and more consistently.
Anger, bitterness, hatred, the sense of injustice-all those things drove me to keep pushing. Now I need reasons that are less negative, and less destructive. I need to find positive reasons to keep going. I'm working on it. It won't happen overnight-but it will happen.
I told you about the Post-its-love those post-its. And on Friday, Derek was on his own. So by 4:15 he'd had enough-and was done for the day, leaving me with piles of kitchen in the living room. I'm getting used to it.
Today the painter is here, and the chippy (carpenter) should be here later. Tony, the site manager, was here about 15 minutes ago, and nobody had shown up. I've given them until 4pm to finish-I've got physio today, and I am not planning on missing that. It's the last one of this year. I get to be assessed. Woe is me! That is because I haven't really walked since the guys showed up on Monday. When I don't walk, even for a day, I see the difference. I did do short ones-but short ones aren't enough.
There is one good thing about the builders taking so long: I get to negotiate piles of cups, plates, all the usual kitchen stuff that is now taking up most of my living room. I have to step over stuff to find other stuff; I have to step over stuff if I want to get to the phone; I get to step over stuff if I want to switch on the television. I call it "rehabilitation": vestibular physiotherapy. And it has been very, very difficult.
The first few days saw me nearly falling over. I had to catch myself, and I thought I had broken some glasses when I tripped (I didn't). By Thursday I noticed that I was finding it easier to step over and around stuff. I thought that was interesting (If I thought that was interesting, I really need to get out more). This all shows that my brain was getting used to stepping around and over-and, although I wasn't pleased about builders dirt all over the place (and in my lungs, too, which I found decidedly underwhelming), I could see the difference in the way I was moving. Shows that my brain is still working (of course it is; I'm not British, am I?).
I had tremendous trouble with breathing, though. I'm trying to get outside as much as I can, just to see if I can clear my lungs out a bit. I cough so much I sound like I've got some terrible disease. But flu is going around, so everyone around me sounds the same. I'm in good company. So far, no flu-but I shouldn't say that, because that is an open invitation, isn't it?
Yesterday I met my friend Daniela at the Royal Festival Hall-it's been many years since I've been to a concert there. It was the Christmas concert, and I really enjoyed it. It was Daniela's first outing since her husband died in June, so it was difficult for her-but we had a good time, and there was an outside food market that was still open when we got out at 5:15. We took our lives (and health) in our hands and bought some vegan food at one of the stalls. We figured it couldn't be too bad-of course, it could have been, but it was delicious, and then she went to get her car and I took the Underground back to the bus, and back home. That was a trip!
In the beginning-now four and a half years ago-I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't walk. I couldn't do anything. For two years, I was effectively crippled. It was scary. Now it is four and a half years later, and all the determination to get better has had results. I've got a long way to go-but I have come a long way, too. I have trouble in the dark, in the rain, in the dark and the rain, in bright sunlight-but now I don't let it stop me. I went out. I took the bus in the dark. I got on the tube -a major, major achievement, because I didn't fall over, although I got a little bit dizzy as I got on and off the train. Walking through the station was tough, because people don't seem to look (or care) where they're going or who they nearly knock over. But I did it. A few bruises-but I'm getting used to it. Probably too used to it.
I haven't come nearly as far as I wanted-but I have come a long way. And it's funny (funny odd, not funny as in ha ha) - I was speaking with one of the admin ladies from my doctor's surgery, and she commented that I am incredibly strong and brave-and powerful. Well, that gave me a bit of a boost. A lot of people - the ones who know what I have been through - say the same thing. Of course, they don't see me on the really bad days-but the bad days aren't as frequent as they were in the beginning. Life isn't great, but it is far better than the alternative. I won't quit. I can't quit. I can't stop now. I need to work harder, and more consistently.
Anger, bitterness, hatred, the sense of injustice-all those things drove me to keep pushing. Now I need reasons that are less negative, and less destructive. I need to find positive reasons to keep going. I'm working on it. It won't happen overnight-but it will happen.
Friday 12 December 2014
Three days of Hell: the builders have returned!
It's actually five days of hell, not three. I was amazed that they finally arrived on Monday morning-after eight months of constant complaining. You see: when you find the organ grinder, you get results. Eventually.
When Mulalley's manager investigated my complaint-two months ago?- he told me that they would send someone to fix the mess that the workmen had made in March. I really didn't believe that anything would be done. I thought that Mulalley would just ignore the total disaster of a kitchen they left in April. Not so.
About three weeks ago, two men from Mulalley showed up to investigate (again)-and they did not like what they saw. So we made the appointment for Monday (this week). And the two guys couldn't have been nicer. Derek worked all day Monday without a break-and I mean, no break at all. From 8:15 until nearly 4:30 he was banging and crashing and sawing and hammering. I was glad I covered the computer.The level of dust everywhere was amazing. I will be cleaning until Easter. Probably Easter 2016.
I cleared the schedule for all this week-good thing I did-because it seems that the first team made a right mess of this job. Things were done badly, other things were ignored-and, of course, I was unable to open a cabinet because my washing machine was in the way. So poor Derek had some job trying to put right the total disaster that was my kitchen. He worked hard on Monday and Tuesday, and another two people came in on Wednesday to paint, and do some other work, and clean up. I cleaned after they left-and I thought the kitchen looked so much better. I was glad I just made myself a total pain in the ass until I got what I wanted.
And what I wanted was a decent job; why do something if you aren't going to do it right? Oh, yes-this is Britain. I keep forgetting. A half-assed job is far better than no job at all. Allegedly.
Yesterday morning I had a visit from the site manager and a senior Mulalley manager. I assumed they were going to sign off on the job, and that nothing else would need to be done (except the AEG repairman to fix the washing machine that the dummies dropped in March. Twice.) But no, Tony started looking around and was quite upset at the finished work, which he found to be substandard. Hey, what do I know? Everything works, at least they didn't break anything else. But no, Tony came back with John, another senior manager (Mulalley seems to have dozens of senior managers, very few of whom have any idea what they're doing).
Nope. In the afternoon, Tony had his clipboard and John had his wad of Post-its. I love Post-its, by the way (I really need to get out more). Whoever thought up that clever idea must have made millions and millions of dollars. Excellent. I have Post-its everywhere: must do this, must remember to do that, must remember to occasionally glance at the Post-its so I remember what I'm supposed to have done. By November. 2014.
They stopped the list at 31 items that they wanted changed, 31 things that just didn't meet their standards. So today everything that was in the kitchen is still sitting in my living room, I still need to climb over piles of stuff to get anywhere (I call it physiotherapy. Actually, it's a pain in the butt), there is builders' dust everywhere, especially in my lungs. I'm coughing up builders dust. And poor Derek has returned to fix-once again-the mess that was made by someone else. Add to that the fact that he won't be finished today, so we do the whole performance again on Monday. I told Tony that they have to finish by Monday at 4pm.
This will be an interesting weekend, spent climbing over stuff and doing laundry to try to get rid of builders dirt. But when they are finally finished, I will have a working kitchen, and it will look quite good, considering that (according to the senior manager who was here this morning) the budget for the entire kitchen was £300 (roughly five hundred dollars). Huh. No comment. I will do my best not to slam any doors, just in case a cabinet falls off the wall.
I realized this morning that I have spent an inordinate amount of time fighting. I fought for justice after gentamicin poisoning (and we all know how well that turned out, don't we?), I fought hard to regain as much balance as I could, given that I had to rely on my brain making those neural pathways, it takes time, and I have no patience whatsoever. I fought numerous chest infections, a recurrence of pseudomonas, and, of course, let's not forget breast cancer (although I would like to, I have the reminder every time I look in the mirror). I had to fight that, too. I am just a fighter. I'm tired of fighting, quite honestly, and friends (and doctors, and nurses, and physiotherapists) keep telling me how strong and brave I am-and that is probably true, I just refuse to quit. But every once in awhile...I'm tempted to simply give up. Just stop all the medication, and the infusions, and the antibiotics-just quit.
I keep reminding myself that if I quit, all the fighting to survive would have been for nothing. I wouldn't last six months, and all the determination, and the angst, and the fear, and the anger that drove me forward-all that would have been for nothing. So I will do what I do when I get into one of these moods: do my laundry and clean my kitchen. And tomorrow I will feel better, and I will take myself to the museum- and, if I should be hit by a bus or struck by lightning, at least I will have a clean kitchen!!
When Mulalley's manager investigated my complaint-two months ago?- he told me that they would send someone to fix the mess that the workmen had made in March. I really didn't believe that anything would be done. I thought that Mulalley would just ignore the total disaster of a kitchen they left in April. Not so.
About three weeks ago, two men from Mulalley showed up to investigate (again)-and they did not like what they saw. So we made the appointment for Monday (this week). And the two guys couldn't have been nicer. Derek worked all day Monday without a break-and I mean, no break at all. From 8:15 until nearly 4:30 he was banging and crashing and sawing and hammering. I was glad I covered the computer.The level of dust everywhere was amazing. I will be cleaning until Easter. Probably Easter 2016.
I cleared the schedule for all this week-good thing I did-because it seems that the first team made a right mess of this job. Things were done badly, other things were ignored-and, of course, I was unable to open a cabinet because my washing machine was in the way. So poor Derek had some job trying to put right the total disaster that was my kitchen. He worked hard on Monday and Tuesday, and another two people came in on Wednesday to paint, and do some other work, and clean up. I cleaned after they left-and I thought the kitchen looked so much better. I was glad I just made myself a total pain in the ass until I got what I wanted.
And what I wanted was a decent job; why do something if you aren't going to do it right? Oh, yes-this is Britain. I keep forgetting. A half-assed job is far better than no job at all. Allegedly.
Yesterday morning I had a visit from the site manager and a senior Mulalley manager. I assumed they were going to sign off on the job, and that nothing else would need to be done (except the AEG repairman to fix the washing machine that the dummies dropped in March. Twice.) But no, Tony started looking around and was quite upset at the finished work, which he found to be substandard. Hey, what do I know? Everything works, at least they didn't break anything else. But no, Tony came back with John, another senior manager (Mulalley seems to have dozens of senior managers, very few of whom have any idea what they're doing).
Nope. In the afternoon, Tony had his clipboard and John had his wad of Post-its. I love Post-its, by the way (I really need to get out more). Whoever thought up that clever idea must have made millions and millions of dollars. Excellent. I have Post-its everywhere: must do this, must remember to do that, must remember to occasionally glance at the Post-its so I remember what I'm supposed to have done. By November. 2014.
They stopped the list at 31 items that they wanted changed, 31 things that just didn't meet their standards. So today everything that was in the kitchen is still sitting in my living room, I still need to climb over piles of stuff to get anywhere (I call it physiotherapy. Actually, it's a pain in the butt), there is builders' dust everywhere, especially in my lungs. I'm coughing up builders dust. And poor Derek has returned to fix-once again-the mess that was made by someone else. Add to that the fact that he won't be finished today, so we do the whole performance again on Monday. I told Tony that they have to finish by Monday at 4pm.
This will be an interesting weekend, spent climbing over stuff and doing laundry to try to get rid of builders dirt. But when they are finally finished, I will have a working kitchen, and it will look quite good, considering that (according to the senior manager who was here this morning) the budget for the entire kitchen was £300 (roughly five hundred dollars). Huh. No comment. I will do my best not to slam any doors, just in case a cabinet falls off the wall.
I realized this morning that I have spent an inordinate amount of time fighting. I fought for justice after gentamicin poisoning (and we all know how well that turned out, don't we?), I fought hard to regain as much balance as I could, given that I had to rely on my brain making those neural pathways, it takes time, and I have no patience whatsoever. I fought numerous chest infections, a recurrence of pseudomonas, and, of course, let's not forget breast cancer (although I would like to, I have the reminder every time I look in the mirror). I had to fight that, too. I am just a fighter. I'm tired of fighting, quite honestly, and friends (and doctors, and nurses, and physiotherapists) keep telling me how strong and brave I am-and that is probably true, I just refuse to quit. But every once in awhile...I'm tempted to simply give up. Just stop all the medication, and the infusions, and the antibiotics-just quit.
I keep reminding myself that if I quit, all the fighting to survive would have been for nothing. I wouldn't last six months, and all the determination, and the angst, and the fear, and the anger that drove me forward-all that would have been for nothing. So I will do what I do when I get into one of these moods: do my laundry and clean my kitchen. And tomorrow I will feel better, and I will take myself to the museum- and, if I should be hit by a bus or struck by lightning, at least I will have a clean kitchen!!
Sunday 7 December 2014
Pardon my turkey
I'm suffering from blog withdrawal. I did the hospital/physio/consultants run this week, and by the time I got home I was too tired to do anything but sit. I sat. I won't be doing that in the new year, I can tell you!
I looked around last week for some even-handed news-somewhere-you don't get that here, so I did a search on Friday. I found a story that I think is hilarious; you've probably seen this, but for me it was an eye-opener. Now-you know that I have a very low opinion of politicians (and most lawyers. I say "most" because I have a friend who is a lawyer). But-it seems that the mayor of Seattle decided to pardon a turkey for Thanksgiving: a TOFU turkey. Every year the incumbent idiot in the White House pardons a turkey-so this year, the Seattle mayor pardoned a Tofurkey. How can you not like someone who pardons a Tofurkey?
I just loved the story. He must be a Republican..with a great sense of humor (I'm not sure one could say that about Obama. And I'm not a Republican, so I have no axe to grind).
So I started thinking about the pardoning of the turkey by the White House. And there are some questions that need to be answered. Inquiring minds need to know! Where did the turkey come from? Does it have siblings? What is its background? How old is the pardoned White House turkey? Is it a permanent pardon? Does it go to a turkey sanctuary? Does it get preferential treatment? After all, it has been pardoned by the president, hasn't it? And, crucially, what happens when the turkey dies (of old age, hopefully)? Does it get a decent burial in an animal cemetery? Is it cremated? Sold to McDonald's?
The French pass off horsemeat as prime beef-everyone knows that (that's enough to turn anyone vegetarian!). So is the pardoned turkey passed off as-something else? Chicken?
Of course, I was thinking about all this as I was getting my infusions on Monday. Sue was banging on about her bloodtests, bone marrow, and everything else she could think of that would bore me rigid. I was captive, with a big needle shoved into the double-stuffed Oreo in my chest, so all I could do was close my eyes-and think of turkeys, and other things. I finally pretended to be asleep, so she bored someone else for four hours. And I do this every three weeks. Oh, well-at least I am still alive, that is a bonus.
I've been really busy this week-mostly waiting. In hospitals and clinics here there is a huge amount of waiting. But I did see Lieske, the chest consultant, on Tuesday. Finally-after over a year, because every time I was due to see her I was an inpatient. And she was really nice. In fact, she said I am in really good shape. So I asked: do you mean "for my age"? I get that a lot: I'm in good shape for my age. Errrr...and she said no, that everything is being controlled and that if I only have to be an inpatient for two admissions a year I am doing very, very well. That made me happy. Everything else will be followed up. I just need to be vigilant.
So I have infusions in a couple of weeks, and that is all until a few appointments in January (and February, and March, and so on). I will have plenty of time to do other things. Finally. And my next investigation by Sean has been moved to March-so that will be very interesting indeed.
I was speaking with a friend yesterday, and she reminded me that I have a life-changing condition that I'm lucky was discovered a decade ago-enough time to stop things from getting a lot worse. She also reminded me that none of this is my fault, but I've had CVID from birth-it's nobody's fault. I'm just really lucky that the doctor in Pennsylvania decided to do a battery of blood tests, and that flagged the condition. Lucky. Really lucky. I do have to sometimes explain to people that I have nothing contagious, so that is a bit of extra work-and I've lost friends because they were afraid they might catch something-but then, they weren't friends in the first place, were they?
My friend also pointed out (she can do that; I've known her for over twenty years) that I suffered life-changing injuries four and a half years ago, and reminded me to look carefully at how far I have progressed since then. It was unjust, she said, and the people responsible should have been held accountable-but they weren't. It's time, she said, to let it go. And keep working. And keep walking. And carry on and let nothing and nobody stop me.
I reflected on that this weekend. She is right. I will never give up. I will keep working, exercising, falling over and getting up again. Why? Because they all said I can't.
I looked around last week for some even-handed news-somewhere-you don't get that here, so I did a search on Friday. I found a story that I think is hilarious; you've probably seen this, but for me it was an eye-opener. Now-you know that I have a very low opinion of politicians (and most lawyers. I say "most" because I have a friend who is a lawyer). But-it seems that the mayor of Seattle decided to pardon a turkey for Thanksgiving: a TOFU turkey. Every year the incumbent idiot in the White House pardons a turkey-so this year, the Seattle mayor pardoned a Tofurkey. How can you not like someone who pardons a Tofurkey?
I just loved the story. He must be a Republican..with a great sense of humor (I'm not sure one could say that about Obama. And I'm not a Republican, so I have no axe to grind).
So I started thinking about the pardoning of the turkey by the White House. And there are some questions that need to be answered. Inquiring minds need to know! Where did the turkey come from? Does it have siblings? What is its background? How old is the pardoned White House turkey? Is it a permanent pardon? Does it go to a turkey sanctuary? Does it get preferential treatment? After all, it has been pardoned by the president, hasn't it? And, crucially, what happens when the turkey dies (of old age, hopefully)? Does it get a decent burial in an animal cemetery? Is it cremated? Sold to McDonald's?
The French pass off horsemeat as prime beef-everyone knows that (that's enough to turn anyone vegetarian!). So is the pardoned turkey passed off as-something else? Chicken?
Of course, I was thinking about all this as I was getting my infusions on Monday. Sue was banging on about her bloodtests, bone marrow, and everything else she could think of that would bore me rigid. I was captive, with a big needle shoved into the double-stuffed Oreo in my chest, so all I could do was close my eyes-and think of turkeys, and other things. I finally pretended to be asleep, so she bored someone else for four hours. And I do this every three weeks. Oh, well-at least I am still alive, that is a bonus.
I've been really busy this week-mostly waiting. In hospitals and clinics here there is a huge amount of waiting. But I did see Lieske, the chest consultant, on Tuesday. Finally-after over a year, because every time I was due to see her I was an inpatient. And she was really nice. In fact, she said I am in really good shape. So I asked: do you mean "for my age"? I get that a lot: I'm in good shape for my age. Errrr...and she said no, that everything is being controlled and that if I only have to be an inpatient for two admissions a year I am doing very, very well. That made me happy. Everything else will be followed up. I just need to be vigilant.
So I have infusions in a couple of weeks, and that is all until a few appointments in January (and February, and March, and so on). I will have plenty of time to do other things. Finally. And my next investigation by Sean has been moved to March-so that will be very interesting indeed.
I was speaking with a friend yesterday, and she reminded me that I have a life-changing condition that I'm lucky was discovered a decade ago-enough time to stop things from getting a lot worse. She also reminded me that none of this is my fault, but I've had CVID from birth-it's nobody's fault. I'm just really lucky that the doctor in Pennsylvania decided to do a battery of blood tests, and that flagged the condition. Lucky. Really lucky. I do have to sometimes explain to people that I have nothing contagious, so that is a bit of extra work-and I've lost friends because they were afraid they might catch something-but then, they weren't friends in the first place, were they?
My friend also pointed out (she can do that; I've known her for over twenty years) that I suffered life-changing injuries four and a half years ago, and reminded me to look carefully at how far I have progressed since then. It was unjust, she said, and the people responsible should have been held accountable-but they weren't. It's time, she said, to let it go. And keep working. And keep walking. And carry on and let nothing and nobody stop me.
I reflected on that this weekend. She is right. I will never give up. I will keep working, exercising, falling over and getting up again. Why? Because they all said I can't.
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