Still not dead. Not even close. Well-maybe close, but I won't know for sure for another two weeks. Talk about doctors wanting to make a patient suffer over Christmas!
After my last post, I was cheered immensely by the fact that the Ombudsman ruled in my favor. So those imbeciles from Mulalley were forced to come to do the final two minutes (if that) of shoddy work, and then I was rid of them. They arrived, po-faced, knowing that they'd lost the battle. And I was so happy to receive the letter from the Ombudsman that I was skipping all over the flat, punching the air in victory. Now I can get a new computer. Hooray. That is what happens when you persevere, don't allow people to fob you off, or patronize you-and keep fighting until you find the organ grinder. Screw the monkey.
Well, before I could even post my victory, the fertilizer hit the fan, and in a big way. I discovered a lump just under my right eye, showed my GP, who decided that I've got a basal cell carcinoma. She referred me to the hospital, but I was given an appointment in-March, would you believe! But I had to see Steve (the boob and nipple man) anyway, showed him the lump, and he decided that he would get someone on his team to remove it and do a biopsy, just in case. And he jumped on it, so three weeks ago I had the surgery.
This was performed in a little surgery area in the clinic, so I didn't need to go through the performance of going to the big surgery area. Mr. Ali presided. I looked at him, and - believe me, I was already in a state of sheer terror - I asked him if he's done this before. On humans. Live ones. He just looked at me. The nurses, both of whom had known me for some time, started to laugh. Then I said (just to add insult to injury), please remember that you are very close to my eye. I'm very fond of my eye. So don't sneeze. Or cough. And I hope you've got steady hands.
He still didn't crack a smile. But he did (finally) tell me not to worry, that everything will be fine. He proceeded to stick a needle in my face-a needle that, from a very close view, looked like it was about eight inches long. And it hurt like hell. I'm sure he was getting his own back for everything I'd said before. In less that half an hour, he was sewing me up. He said that he wasn't sure he'd got the whole thing out, but the biopsy would show whether I would need further surgery. He gave me some instructions: keep the area dry, keep the dressing on, blah, blah, blah-the usual stuff. And I couldn't resist being funny. Can I ever?
I said that perhaps I should wear an eye patch. I've already got the single crutch, then all I would need is the parrot. And that was enough to send both nurses into spasms of laughter. They got it, but he didn't. No sense of humor-either that, or he wasn't a fan of literature. Oh, please: eye patch? Crutch? Parrot? Long John Silver? Duh?? I just shook my head and left.
I got back and I was no longer numb. I also was developing a swollen right side of my face, and a huge shiner. I looked like someone had punched me right in the face. I felt like I'd been hit head on by a bus (I had to use my imagination there. But you know what I mean). I took old pain pills I'd had since the mastectomy-so you know how often I take pain meds: once every three and a half years. And I cried for more than a week. I only went out to go to all the appointments - mostly I hid, feeling immensely sorry for myself.
You know how, if you have an obvious injury or impairment, you go outside and people stare? They don't offer any assistance if you even look like you need it. They just come close and stare. I was already in pain. Now I was in pain and pissed off. So I avoided going anywhere until the swelling subsided.
All last week-every day, up until the Friday before Christmas-I had hospital appointments. I spent Christmas recovering from four months spent going to various hospitals every single day. I can tell you, it is very wearing on the body-and the psyche. When I told my friend the parrot story, he found it so hilarious that he started calling me Long Jane Silver (I know-tacky, but I found it funny. I'm amazed that I found anything funny). So I now sign off my texts with "beware the squawking parrot". So at least I cheer up my friend and his partner, both of whom are very unwell. I said that my aim is to serve-I'm so full of crap...
So here we are, it's the end of a very bad year for just about everyone I know-and especially for me-and I'm glad to see the back of 2016. I have a full week of appointments in January (why don't I just move in?), and then more hospital appointments but with some space between them. From February onward, I can take a breath. I hope. Every time I think that, something else happens!
Have I made any resolutions? Huh. If you're like me, you break them before the first week of January. So I'm thinking-I just won't make any. I don't want to bring the baggage of 2016 with me into a new year. So maybe that is a resolution-but can I keep it?
I heard the news about George Michael dying on Christmas Day-alone, aged 53, and I realized that I have spent the last few weeks in more than a state of existential dilemma. I've been depressed. Every time I seem to get ahead, I end up a few steps behind. First George Michael, then Carrie Fisher, then Debbie Reynolds. Sad, but it shows that all the money and fame -and talent- won't buy longevity. You really can't take it with you. I felt sad, but I also was able to yank myself out of the depression. Existential crisis my New York Presbyterian ass. It was depression, and it took me longer to get out of it than it should have taken. Blech.
Monkeys, organ grinders, squawking parrots-whatever, I'm back. I just keep fighting back. Knock me down and I get up again. Eventually. So my resolution-if I have one-is to leave all the shit from 2016 in 2016, and start 2017 with a clean slate. I even checked last week to see if it would be a huge palaver to drop my married name and revert to my maiden name-something I've wanted to do since before I even filed for a divorce (an embarrassing number of years ago). People nearly had an aneurysm when I mentioned this. I talked to a lawyer friend (yeah, I know what I said about lawyers, but sometimes they can be useful. Rarely, but sometimes) who said that it would be more stress and aggravation than it's worth, so just use my maiden name for social purposes. Legally I will stick to the married name. I feel schizophrenic, name-wise. Perhaps I will just use my first name, like Madonna and Adele, and-whoever. That way I won't get confused.
So, I wish everyone a very happy and healthy 2017. Dump the baggage. Start from where you are. Leave the past in the past, where it belongs. That'll be fifty pounds. Cash.
Saturday 31 December 2016
Saturday 3 December 2016
Return of the Anti-Christ
No, I'm not talking about Captain Asswipe, the new resident of the White House. I'm talking about Dr. Dickhead, aka Goofy, Tombstone Teeth, Matthew "Bucky Beaver" Buckland. Just when I thought I was safe...no such luck.
I've been at one hospital or another nearly every day for the last three months. I've been so filled with radiation I'm probably going to render everyone in my path completely sterile (that should cure overpopulation)-and I should be glowing in the dark by now (no such luck. I tried).
I've had so many MRIs that I'm surprised I haven't been attracting every paper clip, stapler, and fax machine. I have had a really nice, permanent headache though-all the headbanging. My last MRI was on Thursday evening-and I must admit that, since the tech was kind enough to put music through the headphones, there was a lot of singing and toe tapping at the beginning (until they asked me to stop). But who doesn't sing along to Al Green?
A few weeks ago, I was sitting in the clinic and waiting to see the doctor (90% of being a patient is waiting. And more waiting), when I looked up and I saw what I thought was a sickening apparition: was that the Bucky, the "doctor" who throws temper tantrums, who has severe emotional problems, bullies and threatens his patients, probably beats his children, abuses his wife, kicks the dog? Was that the incompetent pile of crap I saw at the reception desk? Before I could throw up, he had turned and gone. I decided that it couldn't possibly be the case, because what hospital other than the Royal London would want him?
Ah, good grief. On Thursday I went for my infusions, and I just had this feeling of unease. Actually, I had this feeling of severe nausea. So I asked the nurse if there were any new consultants. And she said-yes, there is one who works at Great Ormond Street (children's hospital-just the perfect place for someone who abuses his patients and can't control his temper, who is petulant and threatening to anyone who stands up to him. A children's hospital!).
Oh, really. She said his name is Matt. I just looked at her and said: Matt Buckland! She said that's right. And I groaned and said "Oh, CRAP!!!". Oh, you know him? Oh, yes, sadly I do. And then she left the room (I know I2m not using quotation marks. I'm a lazy typist).
My consultant came in to say hello and check up on me, talk about all the upcoming appointments, and then casually asked if anyone had told me that Bucky was working at the Royal Free. I just said "OH CRAP" again-not as loud this time. Apparently Bucky has left the Royal London (oh, I do hope that he was terribly embarrassed by this blog-which he tried to block last year, but without success) and is working for two days harming children at the Great Ormond Street Hospital-and abusing patients at the Royal Free for the other three days. I asked my doc how I'm supposed to deal with this; she said just say hello if I see him in the corridor.
Hello? I'd much rather smack him with my elbow crutch, knock him down, kick him in the shins (really, I'd rather kick him someplace higher-but who knows if he has any or not?), punch him in the face and ask him if he's still killing and crippling patients. But-that is just a fantasy. I must admit that kicking him in the nuts would make my day.
I got home and thought about the fact that this nutter is now at my hospital-but it occurred to me that if he hadn't gotten even for the things I wrote I would have procrastinated leaving the Royal London for another few months. I wanted to go, but I was going to wait until after surgery. Bucky really did me a favor-two favors, actually. He forced my hand, sent me to a better hospital and a much, much better consultant (and team), and I have been healthier at the Royal Free than I ever was at the London. Add to that the fact that my immunology consultant was so thorough that she sent me to several other consultants, all of whom ordered the London tests redone, and all of whom told me that the results of the London tests (and consultants) were wrong. So I'm now at a place where I'm no longer lied to-and I'm far healthier than I was told previously.
Of course, that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to spit in Bucky's face and kick him in the nuts (if he has any, and if my foot could locate them).
So, no assault from me-and, really, I don't have to ever talk to him or even acknowledge him. I wrote so much (all true) when I was away from Bucky and the Cripplers (good name for a rock band, don't you think?), and so many people read the blog after I moved hospitals-so everyone at the London knows what he is (and what they are), that I think I'm over it all.
The fact that I thought I had metastasis of cancer in my lower back (and I won't know for absolute certain until I get the PET scan results in another two weeks) made me think very hard about holding grudges. I think I was frightened into sitting down and deciding to let go of all the injustices. The people who caused it all couldn't give a rat's patootie. I'm the one who has suffered-and now I need to move forward-preferably without falling over.
Time for Starbucks.
I've been at one hospital or another nearly every day for the last three months. I've been so filled with radiation I'm probably going to render everyone in my path completely sterile (that should cure overpopulation)-and I should be glowing in the dark by now (no such luck. I tried).
I've had so many MRIs that I'm surprised I haven't been attracting every paper clip, stapler, and fax machine. I have had a really nice, permanent headache though-all the headbanging. My last MRI was on Thursday evening-and I must admit that, since the tech was kind enough to put music through the headphones, there was a lot of singing and toe tapping at the beginning (until they asked me to stop). But who doesn't sing along to Al Green?
A few weeks ago, I was sitting in the clinic and waiting to see the doctor (90% of being a patient is waiting. And more waiting), when I looked up and I saw what I thought was a sickening apparition: was that the Bucky, the "doctor" who throws temper tantrums, who has severe emotional problems, bullies and threatens his patients, probably beats his children, abuses his wife, kicks the dog? Was that the incompetent pile of crap I saw at the reception desk? Before I could throw up, he had turned and gone. I decided that it couldn't possibly be the case, because what hospital other than the Royal London would want him?
Ah, good grief. On Thursday I went for my infusions, and I just had this feeling of unease. Actually, I had this feeling of severe nausea. So I asked the nurse if there were any new consultants. And she said-yes, there is one who works at Great Ormond Street (children's hospital-just the perfect place for someone who abuses his patients and can't control his temper, who is petulant and threatening to anyone who stands up to him. A children's hospital!).
Oh, really. She said his name is Matt. I just looked at her and said: Matt Buckland! She said that's right. And I groaned and said "Oh, CRAP!!!". Oh, you know him? Oh, yes, sadly I do. And then she left the room (I know I2m not using quotation marks. I'm a lazy typist).
My consultant came in to say hello and check up on me, talk about all the upcoming appointments, and then casually asked if anyone had told me that Bucky was working at the Royal Free. I just said "OH CRAP" again-not as loud this time. Apparently Bucky has left the Royal London (oh, I do hope that he was terribly embarrassed by this blog-which he tried to block last year, but without success) and is working for two days harming children at the Great Ormond Street Hospital-and abusing patients at the Royal Free for the other three days. I asked my doc how I'm supposed to deal with this; she said just say hello if I see him in the corridor.
Hello? I'd much rather smack him with my elbow crutch, knock him down, kick him in the shins (really, I'd rather kick him someplace higher-but who knows if he has any or not?), punch him in the face and ask him if he's still killing and crippling patients. But-that is just a fantasy. I must admit that kicking him in the nuts would make my day.
I got home and thought about the fact that this nutter is now at my hospital-but it occurred to me that if he hadn't gotten even for the things I wrote I would have procrastinated leaving the Royal London for another few months. I wanted to go, but I was going to wait until after surgery. Bucky really did me a favor-two favors, actually. He forced my hand, sent me to a better hospital and a much, much better consultant (and team), and I have been healthier at the Royal Free than I ever was at the London. Add to that the fact that my immunology consultant was so thorough that she sent me to several other consultants, all of whom ordered the London tests redone, and all of whom told me that the results of the London tests (and consultants) were wrong. So I'm now at a place where I'm no longer lied to-and I'm far healthier than I was told previously.
Of course, that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to spit in Bucky's face and kick him in the nuts (if he has any, and if my foot could locate them).
So, no assault from me-and, really, I don't have to ever talk to him or even acknowledge him. I wrote so much (all true) when I was away from Bucky and the Cripplers (good name for a rock band, don't you think?), and so many people read the blog after I moved hospitals-so everyone at the London knows what he is (and what they are), that I think I'm over it all.
The fact that I thought I had metastasis of cancer in my lower back (and I won't know for absolute certain until I get the PET scan results in another two weeks) made me think very hard about holding grudges. I think I was frightened into sitting down and deciding to let go of all the injustices. The people who caused it all couldn't give a rat's patootie. I'm the one who has suffered-and now I need to move forward-preferably without falling over.
Time for Starbucks.
Friday 25 November 2016
Black Friday-and Black Tuesday-and Funereal Wednesday-thanks for nothing
Two weeks ago my people lost their collective marbles and voted an ignorant, bullying racist to be the next president of the United States. Yikes! That was certainly a black Tuesday in American history; since we learned of this absolute catastrophe in the early hours of Wednesday morning, I think the day qualifies as being even more back: Funereal Wednesday, the day the American Dream died-and became as dead as the dodo.
I received some bad news of my own-and that is why I haven't posted for the past two weeks. I've been that freaked out-plus, I had to get into warrior mode and push to get things done. But more about that later.
Trump? Seriously?? What were my people thinking? Were they thinking? And with what? I've lived in a country that is filled with the braindead, inbred, obnoxious, rude-and just simply lucky to be alive and not be speaking German as a first language. How so many of these imbeciles got past puberty is a mystery I will probably never solve. And now my own people vote for Trump: a racist, fascist, misogynistic, xenophobic, homophobic, anti-Muslim, bullying, pathologically lying, scum sucking reptile. And he's very likely to be a rapist and a pedophile, too. Did I miss anything-besides the factthat he is an evil bastard?
Trump led the lowest, dirtiest political campaign in the history of politics-he has no experience and no scruples (just like a politician), he comes across as a redneck ignoramus, and I don't care how much money he has, he is the worst president we will ever have the misfortune to elect-even worse than Bush, and I never thought that I would say that. He and Malaria stood up when the ghastly announcement came, and they were dripping with insincerity and hypocrisy. And Malaria-well, whether you liked Obama or not, you must admit that Michelle actually did things, learned things, wasn't a plastic first lady. But Malaria? She opened her mouth and you could hear that she is too dimwitted to even be considered a halfwit. She thinks Douchebag Donald is a "wonderful man"-sure, Malaria, he's wonderful. That's what they said about Crippen. And Stalin. And Hitler.
Yesterday I gave thanks for a lot of things-and one of them is the fact that, if the Democrats get their act together, we only have to suffer Trump and his merry band of bigots for four years. Hopefully the damage can be repaired by the next - qualified- president. This one is a total a**hole.
And, by the way, this monster has the nuclear codes. If that doesn't scare the crap out of you, let me repeat it: this degenerate monster has the nuclear codes.
What can possibly go wrong??????
I said I got bad news, and I received it on-Black Tuesday. The MRI results showed the possibility of metastasis in the lumbar spine. I knew that cancer could come back-but I didn't expect it to recur so quickly. So I was more depressed about the possibility that I have cancer than I was about my own people electing a cancer. Eeesh!!
My oncologist ordered an urgent bone scan to really check if there was a recurrence. And the imaging people said that it would be a few weeks before I could have the scan. And this is where it helps to be a warrior. I started making phone calls, and I refused to take no for an answer. I finally was able to reach the cancer nurse, who got back to me the next day and told me that she'd arranged for me to have the bone scan the following Monday morning (last Monday). That was a few hours of being irradiate-and the scanner was moved to within an inch of my nose (no exaggeration: I was afraid the tech would sneeze, or lose concentration, and I would be completely flattened). I then had to wait another week to see Mr. T and get the verdict. Meanwhile, I had other hospital appointments-every single bloody day!- so I was a bit busy. And knackered. And afraid-very, very afraid.
I got the news just in time for Thanksgiving: there is a lot of arthritis (but everyone over the age of 30 has arthritis somewhere-unless they never get out of bed), but no sign of malignancy. Mr. T. is ordering another scan, a very long one, and that will take place next week. This one will show if anything resembling cancer is brewing anywhere-so it's worth the extra radiation just to be certain that there is no cancer anywhere. I'll be so radioactive that nobody should stand anywhere near me if they ever want to have children.
I cried on the way back, I was that relieved. I didn't realize that the whole cancer experience was one from which I never really recovered. The prospect of a reprise sent me into a tailspin. So when I got back, I went online and I ordered a toaster.
A what? I hear you ask? A toaster? Well, I got fed up with toasting things under the grill-which I've done for years-and since I figure I'm not dying any time soon, I bought a toaster-a red one, in case you're interested. And yesterday I stuffed myself with turkey and all the trimmings, and had a glass of wine to celebrate the fact that I'm not dead.
I have a great idea (and when I called my friend in New York to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving, I mentioned it.). Everyone who was intelligent enough NOT to vote for the reptile should have a t-shirt printed, and millions of people should march on Washingto on January 20th to protest against the new fascist president. And what should the t-shirt say? I like statement t-shirts, by the way. So it should read: "Where is Lee Harvey Oswald now that we really need him?"
(the rest of you can just Google it).
I received some bad news of my own-and that is why I haven't posted for the past two weeks. I've been that freaked out-plus, I had to get into warrior mode and push to get things done. But more about that later.
Trump? Seriously?? What were my people thinking? Were they thinking? And with what? I've lived in a country that is filled with the braindead, inbred, obnoxious, rude-and just simply lucky to be alive and not be speaking German as a first language. How so many of these imbeciles got past puberty is a mystery I will probably never solve. And now my own people vote for Trump: a racist, fascist, misogynistic, xenophobic, homophobic, anti-Muslim, bullying, pathologically lying, scum sucking reptile. And he's very likely to be a rapist and a pedophile, too. Did I miss anything-besides the factthat he is an evil bastard?
Trump led the lowest, dirtiest political campaign in the history of politics-he has no experience and no scruples (just like a politician), he comes across as a redneck ignoramus, and I don't care how much money he has, he is the worst president we will ever have the misfortune to elect-even worse than Bush, and I never thought that I would say that. He and Malaria stood up when the ghastly announcement came, and they were dripping with insincerity and hypocrisy. And Malaria-well, whether you liked Obama or not, you must admit that Michelle actually did things, learned things, wasn't a plastic first lady. But Malaria? She opened her mouth and you could hear that she is too dimwitted to even be considered a halfwit. She thinks Douchebag Donald is a "wonderful man"-sure, Malaria, he's wonderful. That's what they said about Crippen. And Stalin. And Hitler.
Yesterday I gave thanks for a lot of things-and one of them is the fact that, if the Democrats get their act together, we only have to suffer Trump and his merry band of bigots for four years. Hopefully the damage can be repaired by the next - qualified- president. This one is a total a**hole.
And, by the way, this monster has the nuclear codes. If that doesn't scare the crap out of you, let me repeat it: this degenerate monster has the nuclear codes.
What can possibly go wrong??????
I said I got bad news, and I received it on-Black Tuesday. The MRI results showed the possibility of metastasis in the lumbar spine. I knew that cancer could come back-but I didn't expect it to recur so quickly. So I was more depressed about the possibility that I have cancer than I was about my own people electing a cancer. Eeesh!!
My oncologist ordered an urgent bone scan to really check if there was a recurrence. And the imaging people said that it would be a few weeks before I could have the scan. And this is where it helps to be a warrior. I started making phone calls, and I refused to take no for an answer. I finally was able to reach the cancer nurse, who got back to me the next day and told me that she'd arranged for me to have the bone scan the following Monday morning (last Monday). That was a few hours of being irradiate-and the scanner was moved to within an inch of my nose (no exaggeration: I was afraid the tech would sneeze, or lose concentration, and I would be completely flattened). I then had to wait another week to see Mr. T and get the verdict. Meanwhile, I had other hospital appointments-every single bloody day!- so I was a bit busy. And knackered. And afraid-very, very afraid.
I got the news just in time for Thanksgiving: there is a lot of arthritis (but everyone over the age of 30 has arthritis somewhere-unless they never get out of bed), but no sign of malignancy. Mr. T. is ordering another scan, a very long one, and that will take place next week. This one will show if anything resembling cancer is brewing anywhere-so it's worth the extra radiation just to be certain that there is no cancer anywhere. I'll be so radioactive that nobody should stand anywhere near me if they ever want to have children.
I cried on the way back, I was that relieved. I didn't realize that the whole cancer experience was one from which I never really recovered. The prospect of a reprise sent me into a tailspin. So when I got back, I went online and I ordered a toaster.
A what? I hear you ask? A toaster? Well, I got fed up with toasting things under the grill-which I've done for years-and since I figure I'm not dying any time soon, I bought a toaster-a red one, in case you're interested. And yesterday I stuffed myself with turkey and all the trimmings, and had a glass of wine to celebrate the fact that I'm not dead.
I have a great idea (and when I called my friend in New York to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving, I mentioned it.). Everyone who was intelligent enough NOT to vote for the reptile should have a t-shirt printed, and millions of people should march on Washingto on January 20th to protest against the new fascist president. And what should the t-shirt say? I like statement t-shirts, by the way. So it should read: "Where is Lee Harvey Oswald now that we really need him?"
(the rest of you can just Google it).
Monday 7 November 2016
Where are we? At the wire, that's where...
One more day and we find out whether or not our country is finished. And here I thought that I'm living in Dipshit Central, land of the obnoxious, inbred and braindead. Oh, crap!
It was always the case that every trend seemed to start in the USA and then find its' way over to Europe. But something has happened. I wonder if someone left Europe and landed in the States with a contagious retard virus. How many people want to see that misogynist, bigoted, exceptionally nasty weirdo and pervert in the White House? Obviously I'm talking about Trump. I watched as his wife stood in front of the media and said that she will make a wonderful first lady, and she just loves, loves, loves the country. I wanted to vomit.
I don't even know-or remember-the name of Trump's wife. I just call her Malaria. Close enough. The thought of Trump and Malaria in the White House is sending reverberations around the world: either it is a vomiting virus or a reaction to Trump buying his way into the White House...it's hard to tell.
Just think: millions of Americans will be committing suicide on Wednesday. And, because Trump feels that everyone should have a gun, the rest of them will be shooting each other. That'll cure overpopulation, that's for sure.
I'm just keeping my head down and hoping that Hillary wins tomorrow-not that it makes a difference to the fact that we are the laughing stock of the entire world. But-at least we would have a president who has experience and capability.
Meanwhile I am preparing to have a case of laryngitis that will last for the next four years (just in case). And I'm packing.
Anybody for Iceland?
It was always the case that every trend seemed to start in the USA and then find its' way over to Europe. But something has happened. I wonder if someone left Europe and landed in the States with a contagious retard virus. How many people want to see that misogynist, bigoted, exceptionally nasty weirdo and pervert in the White House? Obviously I'm talking about Trump. I watched as his wife stood in front of the media and said that she will make a wonderful first lady, and she just loves, loves, loves the country. I wanted to vomit.
I don't even know-or remember-the name of Trump's wife. I just call her Malaria. Close enough. The thought of Trump and Malaria in the White House is sending reverberations around the world: either it is a vomiting virus or a reaction to Trump buying his way into the White House...it's hard to tell.
Just think: millions of Americans will be committing suicide on Wednesday. And, because Trump feels that everyone should have a gun, the rest of them will be shooting each other. That'll cure overpopulation, that's for sure.
I'm just keeping my head down and hoping that Hillary wins tomorrow-not that it makes a difference to the fact that we are the laughing stock of the entire world. But-at least we would have a president who has experience and capability.
Meanwhile I am preparing to have a case of laryngitis that will last for the next four years (just in case). And I'm packing.
Anybody for Iceland?
Friday 4 November 2016
Is Donald Trump America's answer to Jimmy Savile?
I was going to make jokes about being at the hospital so often that I'm thinking about having my mail redirected. I was even going to make jokes about changing the nipple dressings and looking to see that it looks like I've sprung two cauliflowers on my chest. The horrible fact of this is that one is tiny (done by the junior doctor) and the other (done by Steve) is so large I might have to carry it around in a sling. Or a hoist. This is what happens when you are an NHS patient: assembly line/conveyor belt medicine. Bring them in, operate (or talk to them for five minutes), then get them out and bring in the next sucker (oops. I mean "patient"...no, I mean "sucker").
But in the midst of all this medical palaver, what happened? The leaked email scandal happened. And, because this blog is not only about recovery from medical negligence but is also about what it is really like for an American to live in Britain, I have to say something. And say something I will.
Has anybody over there figured out that the REPUBLICAN head of the FBI deliberately instigated this witch hunt less than two weeks before the election? Nobody here has worked that out-but, of course, this is the home of brain-dead inbreds, so that is to be expected. I wonder how much Trump had to pay these FBI tossers to do this for him. Perhaps it's a case of quid pro quo if my people-MY people!! are stupid enough (or desperate enough) to elect the monster to the Presidency.
We had someone here called Jimmy Savile. Savile also hated women, made derogatory-and suggestive, and leering-remarks about young girls. Savile, however, was the BBC's golden boy (read that as "cash cow"). And Savile, who hosted a very popular show called "Jim'll Fix It", brought the viewership of the BBC up substantially, so everything he did was covered up.
Savile was a pedophile, a pervert, someone whose insatiable appetite for minors meant that he didn't just help children who wrote to him. He helped himself to those children, and others. Everyone at the BBC-all the management-actually now we know that there wasn't anyone at the BBC who didn't know that Savile was a sexual predator-covered up all his nasty, perverted activities.
Who suffered from Savile's lust for children? The children suffered. Because he was Jimmy Savile, people were afraid to speak out. And when the fertilizer finally hit the fan, Savile had the bad manners to die before he could be imprisoned. What a scumbag. And further investigations uncovered several other television and radio "personalities" who also sexually abused young people. Did it start with him making lewd comments about young girls? Who knows when or where it started. The point is, the Beeb knew and allowed it to go on (it probably still goes on now).
My point: Trump has made suggestive remarks on more than one occasion. He's a pig and a monster, and I'm wondering if he will go the Savile way. Will he get into the Oval Office and have his FBI friends procure (read that as "pimp") for him? Is he just a loud mouthed misogynist, someone who derides women (well, he is ugly. If he didn't have money, who would look twice at him without throwing up?), someone who obviously feels that all his money can buy the White House.
Can it? Is he right? He will make a mockery of the position of President - and, as it is, we are already the laughing stock of the rest of the world. Imagine him in the White House: anti-Muslim, anti-Semitic, anti-women's rights, anti just about everything that our country stands for. Imagine. He promises to bring back the steel industry (surely people in Ohio and Pennsylvania aren't THAT naive? Surely?? Please??). He's in bed with Putin, obviously. Nice bedmates-but better Putin than as many 14 year olds as he can get his creepy paws on.
What if he is more than just a redneck misogynist with a penchant for bullying and manipulating everyone he possibly can-and for pissing off everyone else? What if he turns out to be another Jimmy Savile? What if??
Everyone in power knew about Savile, and it was one of the most disgusting and disgraceful cover-ups in the history of the BBC (and the media at large. And small). And nobody protected those victims whose lives he destroyed. Nobody.
Nobody stopped the monster Jimmy Savile. Who is going to stop the monster Donald Trump?
But in the midst of all this medical palaver, what happened? The leaked email scandal happened. And, because this blog is not only about recovery from medical negligence but is also about what it is really like for an American to live in Britain, I have to say something. And say something I will.
Has anybody over there figured out that the REPUBLICAN head of the FBI deliberately instigated this witch hunt less than two weeks before the election? Nobody here has worked that out-but, of course, this is the home of brain-dead inbreds, so that is to be expected. I wonder how much Trump had to pay these FBI tossers to do this for him. Perhaps it's a case of quid pro quo if my people-MY people!! are stupid enough (or desperate enough) to elect the monster to the Presidency.
We had someone here called Jimmy Savile. Savile also hated women, made derogatory-and suggestive, and leering-remarks about young girls. Savile, however, was the BBC's golden boy (read that as "cash cow"). And Savile, who hosted a very popular show called "Jim'll Fix It", brought the viewership of the BBC up substantially, so everything he did was covered up.
Savile was a pedophile, a pervert, someone whose insatiable appetite for minors meant that he didn't just help children who wrote to him. He helped himself to those children, and others. Everyone at the BBC-all the management-actually now we know that there wasn't anyone at the BBC who didn't know that Savile was a sexual predator-covered up all his nasty, perverted activities.
Who suffered from Savile's lust for children? The children suffered. Because he was Jimmy Savile, people were afraid to speak out. And when the fertilizer finally hit the fan, Savile had the bad manners to die before he could be imprisoned. What a scumbag. And further investigations uncovered several other television and radio "personalities" who also sexually abused young people. Did it start with him making lewd comments about young girls? Who knows when or where it started. The point is, the Beeb knew and allowed it to go on (it probably still goes on now).
My point: Trump has made suggestive remarks on more than one occasion. He's a pig and a monster, and I'm wondering if he will go the Savile way. Will he get into the Oval Office and have his FBI friends procure (read that as "pimp") for him? Is he just a loud mouthed misogynist, someone who derides women (well, he is ugly. If he didn't have money, who would look twice at him without throwing up?), someone who obviously feels that all his money can buy the White House.
Can it? Is he right? He will make a mockery of the position of President - and, as it is, we are already the laughing stock of the rest of the world. Imagine him in the White House: anti-Muslim, anti-Semitic, anti-women's rights, anti just about everything that our country stands for. Imagine. He promises to bring back the steel industry (surely people in Ohio and Pennsylvania aren't THAT naive? Surely?? Please??). He's in bed with Putin, obviously. Nice bedmates-but better Putin than as many 14 year olds as he can get his creepy paws on.
What if he is more than just a redneck misogynist with a penchant for bullying and manipulating everyone he possibly can-and for pissing off everyone else? What if he turns out to be another Jimmy Savile? What if??
Everyone in power knew about Savile, and it was one of the most disgusting and disgraceful cover-ups in the history of the BBC (and the media at large. And small). And nobody protected those victims whose lives he destroyed. Nobody.
Nobody stopped the monster Jimmy Savile. Who is going to stop the monster Donald Trump?
Friday 21 October 2016
The Rise and Fall of Osama Bin Dickhead
Wouldn't that be a good title for a book...and yes, there is news of the deranged fake Muslim known as Osama Bin Dickhead. But first I want to tell you about the area in which I'm living at the moment, because then you will understand what is really going on.
These apartment blocks (or, blocks of flats, as they call them here) used to be what is known as "sheltered housing". I think the equivalent in the US would be "care homes"? They were for people who were over 65, and who needed more support and a greater amount of care than they would get in the community. There was a warden on site, and the tenants would be visited every day, just to make sure they hadn't popped their clogs during the night (I understand that creates quite a smell).
The year before I moved here (that would be 2009), the minimum requirement was lowered to 45, the warden was removed, the old people who already lived here (many of them in their 80s and 90s, many with various degrees of dementia) were allowed to remain. But as they either died or left (for whatever reason), they were replaced by younger people who were able to care for themselves (more or less). That is how I got in at the end of 2010-although I could barely walk without falling over, and my vestbular destruction was total, the hospital called Haringey and told them that they needed to find me something before I catapulted myself down the stairs and fractured every bone in my body. Plus, the only way I could get up and down the two flights of stairs in my private accomodation was to do so on my backside (I wish that had made it smaller, but no such luck).
Now the people who are moving in as the old folks snuff it are those with various problems, like severe arthritis, COPD (lung disease), post-liver transplants, and other problems. Unfortunately-with the closure of many of London's nuthouses (excuse me-psychiatric hospitals. What a meanie), people who were detained under the Mental Health Act had to be put somewhere in the community, and so we got a whole bunch of them: alcoholics, drug addicts (and dealers), a few seriously disturbed (but hopefully relatively harmless. Relatively.), schzophrenics, manic depressives, and completely psychotic, deranged, and dangerous nutters like Osama Bin Dickhead. He hasn't lost some of his marbles; I think he had no marbles in the first place.
So crime around this allegedly benign disabled community has increased dramatically, and the borough doesn't seem to care. People call this "God's Waiting Room"-well, maybe for them. I'm not planning on going anywhere anytime soon (until I have more balance and can get myself out of here at warp speed).
That is your background, so you have some idea of what I'm facing on a daily basis. And I try to stay out of everyone's way, because who wants to say hello to someone and then hear a half an hour's moaning about their bad back, bad heart, bad feet, prostate problems, and so on, ad infinitum? What a way to start the day-someone spitting at you (because they have no teeth), and complaining about the state of the world?
Well-one of the first people I met when I moved in was an elderly man called Joe. He's now 85-and has some age-related stuff (so does everyone), is mildly diabetic, but is out every day taking his walk. He's always saying how happy he is to have gotten this far-so I have time for Joe. And this day was different.
It was just after my nipple job-I was taking a walk, he stopped me, and told me that Osama had come up to him, in full battle dress (the turban, the robes, all very, very dirty-so dirty and smelly that it was an early warning sign of impending doom. And abuse), got right in his face, and started shouting (and spitting) abuse about how Joe should be a Muslim, and so he is an evil man who should die soon, and Osama wanted to kill him. He freaked Joe out so much that Joe then went back inside and called his children (he has four). He also called the housing people, who proceeded to tell him that nobody else in the area had complained. Well-that's not just a lie, it's a cosmic sized whopper, since everyone knows that I had to have a restraining order taken against the raving madman Osama. Joe knows this-so do his children.
The outcome? Joe's children started calling the housing manager, and his daughter fired off a very strongly worded (polite but threatening) letter asking how they dare lie about the fact that nobody complained, since they know about the restraining order, and threatening court action if they didn't do something about this lunatic before he hurt someone.
By the way, did I mention that Joe's daughter is a lawyer?
For several days I have heard the usual banging and drilling in the middle of the night (I did say that he has more than a few screws loose), but no verbal abuse. He sees me and he looks at the ground, and keeps going. Success at last. I saw Joe's daughter yesterday, and thanked her-she thanked me for starting the war against the maniac.
And-I've had a birthday. Every day I wake up, open my eyes, open and close my mouth, move my head, arms, legs and say: another day without a stroke. Thank God...
Seriously, though, I have been through so much over the last six and a half years that I am endlessly amazed that I am here at all. Another birthday, another year older, and I've been told by nearly every consultant that I am in amazing health for my age (I do wish they'd leave out the "for your age" bit, though). I celebrated by going back to the Tate (I do like the Tate), having both breakfast and lunch out (I can diet tomorrow. Or just decide to be fat and happy), my friend called me from the US and I was so happy-and so homesick!
I figure that I can be a bit silly (and juvenile), since this is a birthday I wasn't sure I would ever have. So I sang a silly song to myself yesterday. Allow me to share, so you can say-oh, God, how could you!!! It goes like this:
Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday, I'm 103 (but I don't look a day over 85), Happy Birthday to me. Don't say I didn't warn you.
All Hail Kettle Chips.
These apartment blocks (or, blocks of flats, as they call them here) used to be what is known as "sheltered housing". I think the equivalent in the US would be "care homes"? They were for people who were over 65, and who needed more support and a greater amount of care than they would get in the community. There was a warden on site, and the tenants would be visited every day, just to make sure they hadn't popped their clogs during the night (I understand that creates quite a smell).
The year before I moved here (that would be 2009), the minimum requirement was lowered to 45, the warden was removed, the old people who already lived here (many of them in their 80s and 90s, many with various degrees of dementia) were allowed to remain. But as they either died or left (for whatever reason), they were replaced by younger people who were able to care for themselves (more or less). That is how I got in at the end of 2010-although I could barely walk without falling over, and my vestbular destruction was total, the hospital called Haringey and told them that they needed to find me something before I catapulted myself down the stairs and fractured every bone in my body. Plus, the only way I could get up and down the two flights of stairs in my private accomodation was to do so on my backside (I wish that had made it smaller, but no such luck).
Now the people who are moving in as the old folks snuff it are those with various problems, like severe arthritis, COPD (lung disease), post-liver transplants, and other problems. Unfortunately-with the closure of many of London's nuthouses (excuse me-psychiatric hospitals. What a meanie), people who were detained under the Mental Health Act had to be put somewhere in the community, and so we got a whole bunch of them: alcoholics, drug addicts (and dealers), a few seriously disturbed (but hopefully relatively harmless. Relatively.), schzophrenics, manic depressives, and completely psychotic, deranged, and dangerous nutters like Osama Bin Dickhead. He hasn't lost some of his marbles; I think he had no marbles in the first place.
So crime around this allegedly benign disabled community has increased dramatically, and the borough doesn't seem to care. People call this "God's Waiting Room"-well, maybe for them. I'm not planning on going anywhere anytime soon (until I have more balance and can get myself out of here at warp speed).
That is your background, so you have some idea of what I'm facing on a daily basis. And I try to stay out of everyone's way, because who wants to say hello to someone and then hear a half an hour's moaning about their bad back, bad heart, bad feet, prostate problems, and so on, ad infinitum? What a way to start the day-someone spitting at you (because they have no teeth), and complaining about the state of the world?
Well-one of the first people I met when I moved in was an elderly man called Joe. He's now 85-and has some age-related stuff (so does everyone), is mildly diabetic, but is out every day taking his walk. He's always saying how happy he is to have gotten this far-so I have time for Joe. And this day was different.
It was just after my nipple job-I was taking a walk, he stopped me, and told me that Osama had come up to him, in full battle dress (the turban, the robes, all very, very dirty-so dirty and smelly that it was an early warning sign of impending doom. And abuse), got right in his face, and started shouting (and spitting) abuse about how Joe should be a Muslim, and so he is an evil man who should die soon, and Osama wanted to kill him. He freaked Joe out so much that Joe then went back inside and called his children (he has four). He also called the housing people, who proceeded to tell him that nobody else in the area had complained. Well-that's not just a lie, it's a cosmic sized whopper, since everyone knows that I had to have a restraining order taken against the raving madman Osama. Joe knows this-so do his children.
The outcome? Joe's children started calling the housing manager, and his daughter fired off a very strongly worded (polite but threatening) letter asking how they dare lie about the fact that nobody complained, since they know about the restraining order, and threatening court action if they didn't do something about this lunatic before he hurt someone.
By the way, did I mention that Joe's daughter is a lawyer?
For several days I have heard the usual banging and drilling in the middle of the night (I did say that he has more than a few screws loose), but no verbal abuse. He sees me and he looks at the ground, and keeps going. Success at last. I saw Joe's daughter yesterday, and thanked her-she thanked me for starting the war against the maniac.
And-I've had a birthday. Every day I wake up, open my eyes, open and close my mouth, move my head, arms, legs and say: another day without a stroke. Thank God...
Seriously, though, I have been through so much over the last six and a half years that I am endlessly amazed that I am here at all. Another birthday, another year older, and I've been told by nearly every consultant that I am in amazing health for my age (I do wish they'd leave out the "for your age" bit, though). I celebrated by going back to the Tate (I do like the Tate), having both breakfast and lunch out (I can diet tomorrow. Or just decide to be fat and happy), my friend called me from the US and I was so happy-and so homesick!
I figure that I can be a bit silly (and juvenile), since this is a birthday I wasn't sure I would ever have. So I sang a silly song to myself yesterday. Allow me to share, so you can say-oh, God, how could you!!! It goes like this:
Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday, I'm 103 (but I don't look a day over 85), Happy Birthday to me. Don't say I didn't warn you.
All Hail Kettle Chips.
Sunday 16 October 2016
Tits up and nipples to you, too
Everything went tits up just after I last posted. I did say that the expression means "sideways" or "pear-shaped"- but tits up just about says it all.
The day after I last posted I went for my flu shot. That's what I said: my flu shot. Everyone I know has been down with the flu, so I thought that it might be a good idea to get the jab. Errr...no, it wasn't. Last year I escaped the dreaded lurgy, but this year it hit me two days after I got the shot. Two days! And that was that, I was out for the count. Even worse, this flu was a repeater: just when you thought it was safe to go out, and you were on the mend, bang-the thing came back. And again. I thought I was doomed to be flu-ridden forever.
So, I haven't been online for three weeks (and a bit). I only went out when I had to go, and I managed to change appointments-well, a few- so that I could just stay in bed and be miserable. I finally bored myself stupid and I got up anyway.
Last Wednesday was Nipple Day. That was the day I was due to go to the day surgery unit at the Royal Free, and I was a little apprehensive, but I decided that if I have breasts I should have nipples to go with them. So off I went, and what a day it was.
I got to the hospital just before 7:30 am, and there were at least 50 other patients already there. Seems like everyone was having surgery of one type or another, so I just had to join the queue and wait.After about an hour, a nurse came out, took me into a room and took my blood pressure, and did all that pre-op stuff. Then I got the old plastic ID bracelet-not just one, but two, one on one wrist and one around the ankle. I asked whether they needed the ankle one just in case they removed my arm by mistake. The nurse just looked at me-so I knew that I was in a place where nobody had a sense of humor (feeble or not).
Steve came out at around 8:30 and told me that I was in pole position: first up for surgery. I asked whether that meant that I was in pole position for getting my clothes back on and sprinting out the door. Now, Steve laughs at my jokes (and makes a few of his own), so we get on really well. He said that I would be taken to theatre (operating room) in a few minutes, and would be given a local, rather than be put out completely. It won't hurt much, he said (what a liar).
So I am being wheeled down this corridor, and the place is massive-I really had to go into an operating room, not some little treatment room-and from there things got very interesting really quickly.The room was filled with people, the registrar came over with this massive needle, and he asked if I remembered why I was there. Stupid question, or what? So I said I'm here for Steve's finishing touches: a new set of nipples. Then I told him that if he was there for a poker game,he was in the wrong place.
There was a bit of banter, with me cracking a few jokes and the rest of them laughing-or some reasonable facsimile of laughter, either that or severe stomach pain- and they covered me with a drape. They also covered my face, which worried me a bit. What? I asked whether they were preparing me for embalming or if they were planning on just shoving me into the coffin. And I had this bloody drape over my face for about 40 minutes while they were all having a conversation. Excuse me,but I am the patient, I said. Steve then said that they'd forgotten all about me.
Did they hurt me? Oh, yeah, and the registrar was a real cutie or I would have been tempted to kick him. I couldn't hit (I'm not a hitter anyway) because I was draped everywhere. And anyway, he had a bloody big needle; hitting or kicking someone who's holding both needle and scalpel is not a good idea. I decided to skip the hitting, kicking, biting, swearing (you know I'm joking about this,right?), and just let them get on with it and try not to cough, or I might end up with a nipple next to my ear.
They wheeled me out into the corridor when they were finished, and I heard someone say to bring in the next patient. I said to the nurse who was getting ready to take me back to get dressed that this was like an assembly line. He replied that I had no idea. It really was like an assembly line. Assembly line medicine, NHS ops are us, just cut, sew, bandage one patient, wheel them out, and bring in the next one. A little scary, if you want to think about it. The ancient film "Soylent Green" came to mind- I don't know why, it just jumped into my consciousness when I thought about conveyor belt surgery.
I asked the nurse what they did when something went wrong-he just shrugged and said that I'm fine and can get dressed, have a cup of tea (like that is supposed to fix everything that ails you-even death?), and then hospital transport would take me home. They did that, but the typically inept transport people took more than two hours to get it right (less than three miles,if you want to know how far it was. Or wasn't.).
So that just about catches us up. I had to avoid washing for over a week, and then go back to have the dressings changed. Ah, strip washing, so much fun sitting next to a bowl of water, using a washcloth to wash everything else, managing to wash the bathroom while I was at it-well, at least my bathroom floor is spotless.
Now I am flu-free, finally (I probably am tempting fate by even saying that), the dressings have been removed and replaced by other ones that I can take off to shower (hooray!!! A shower! And I can wash my hair before it gets up and runs away!), and in November I will see Steve again. He reconstructed the right nipple, and the cutie did the left. I did say thanks to them both, and that I will remember who to yell at if one goes wrong.
I am very nearly re-boobed. All that happens next will be the tattooing, and then I will look somewhat normal-although Steve was a little sneaky and made me one size larger than I was before. Never mind: new lingerie, can't be bad.
I've had a really tough time over the last few years-but I have toughened up a lot. And this week all the appointments that I had to change are due, so I'll be spending more time at the hospital than at my little shoebox. I went for my infusions on Thursday, and I told them that I should just move in. Make a flat for me, I said, nothing fancy, just all the mod cons, kitchen (modern and fully stocked, of course), nicely furnished, cable and wifi (definitely), I wouldn't even ask for a year's supply of Kettle Chips.
They just looked at me-that's all, just looked. Some people have no sense of humor. But then, I keep forgetting that I'm living in Dipshit Central. If (God forbid) Mr. Combover gets into the White House in November, everyone I know will be making a quick exit out of the States. Come here. There is still plenty of room in Iceland.
The day after I last posted I went for my flu shot. That's what I said: my flu shot. Everyone I know has been down with the flu, so I thought that it might be a good idea to get the jab. Errr...no, it wasn't. Last year I escaped the dreaded lurgy, but this year it hit me two days after I got the shot. Two days! And that was that, I was out for the count. Even worse, this flu was a repeater: just when you thought it was safe to go out, and you were on the mend, bang-the thing came back. And again. I thought I was doomed to be flu-ridden forever.
So, I haven't been online for three weeks (and a bit). I only went out when I had to go, and I managed to change appointments-well, a few- so that I could just stay in bed and be miserable. I finally bored myself stupid and I got up anyway.
Last Wednesday was Nipple Day. That was the day I was due to go to the day surgery unit at the Royal Free, and I was a little apprehensive, but I decided that if I have breasts I should have nipples to go with them. So off I went, and what a day it was.
I got to the hospital just before 7:30 am, and there were at least 50 other patients already there. Seems like everyone was having surgery of one type or another, so I just had to join the queue and wait.After about an hour, a nurse came out, took me into a room and took my blood pressure, and did all that pre-op stuff. Then I got the old plastic ID bracelet-not just one, but two, one on one wrist and one around the ankle. I asked whether they needed the ankle one just in case they removed my arm by mistake. The nurse just looked at me-so I knew that I was in a place where nobody had a sense of humor (feeble or not).
Steve came out at around 8:30 and told me that I was in pole position: first up for surgery. I asked whether that meant that I was in pole position for getting my clothes back on and sprinting out the door. Now, Steve laughs at my jokes (and makes a few of his own), so we get on really well. He said that I would be taken to theatre (operating room) in a few minutes, and would be given a local, rather than be put out completely. It won't hurt much, he said (what a liar).
So I am being wheeled down this corridor, and the place is massive-I really had to go into an operating room, not some little treatment room-and from there things got very interesting really quickly.The room was filled with people, the registrar came over with this massive needle, and he asked if I remembered why I was there. Stupid question, or what? So I said I'm here for Steve's finishing touches: a new set of nipples. Then I told him that if he was there for a poker game,he was in the wrong place.
There was a bit of banter, with me cracking a few jokes and the rest of them laughing-or some reasonable facsimile of laughter, either that or severe stomach pain- and they covered me with a drape. They also covered my face, which worried me a bit. What? I asked whether they were preparing me for embalming or if they were planning on just shoving me into the coffin. And I had this bloody drape over my face for about 40 minutes while they were all having a conversation. Excuse me,but I am the patient, I said. Steve then said that they'd forgotten all about me.
Did they hurt me? Oh, yeah, and the registrar was a real cutie or I would have been tempted to kick him. I couldn't hit (I'm not a hitter anyway) because I was draped everywhere. And anyway, he had a bloody big needle; hitting or kicking someone who's holding both needle and scalpel is not a good idea. I decided to skip the hitting, kicking, biting, swearing (you know I'm joking about this,right?), and just let them get on with it and try not to cough, or I might end up with a nipple next to my ear.
They wheeled me out into the corridor when they were finished, and I heard someone say to bring in the next patient. I said to the nurse who was getting ready to take me back to get dressed that this was like an assembly line. He replied that I had no idea. It really was like an assembly line. Assembly line medicine, NHS ops are us, just cut, sew, bandage one patient, wheel them out, and bring in the next one. A little scary, if you want to think about it. The ancient film "Soylent Green" came to mind- I don't know why, it just jumped into my consciousness when I thought about conveyor belt surgery.
I asked the nurse what they did when something went wrong-he just shrugged and said that I'm fine and can get dressed, have a cup of tea (like that is supposed to fix everything that ails you-even death?), and then hospital transport would take me home. They did that, but the typically inept transport people took more than two hours to get it right (less than three miles,if you want to know how far it was. Or wasn't.).
So that just about catches us up. I had to avoid washing for over a week, and then go back to have the dressings changed. Ah, strip washing, so much fun sitting next to a bowl of water, using a washcloth to wash everything else, managing to wash the bathroom while I was at it-well, at least my bathroom floor is spotless.
Now I am flu-free, finally (I probably am tempting fate by even saying that), the dressings have been removed and replaced by other ones that I can take off to shower (hooray!!! A shower! And I can wash my hair before it gets up and runs away!), and in November I will see Steve again. He reconstructed the right nipple, and the cutie did the left. I did say thanks to them both, and that I will remember who to yell at if one goes wrong.
I am very nearly re-boobed. All that happens next will be the tattooing, and then I will look somewhat normal-although Steve was a little sneaky and made me one size larger than I was before. Never mind: new lingerie, can't be bad.
I've had a really tough time over the last few years-but I have toughened up a lot. And this week all the appointments that I had to change are due, so I'll be spending more time at the hospital than at my little shoebox. I went for my infusions on Thursday, and I told them that I should just move in. Make a flat for me, I said, nothing fancy, just all the mod cons, kitchen (modern and fully stocked, of course), nicely furnished, cable and wifi (definitely), I wouldn't even ask for a year's supply of Kettle Chips.
They just looked at me-that's all, just looked. Some people have no sense of humor. But then, I keep forgetting that I'm living in Dipshit Central. If (God forbid) Mr. Combover gets into the White House in November, everyone I know will be making a quick exit out of the States. Come here. There is still plenty of room in Iceland.
Tuesday 20 September 2016
Osama Bin Dickhead rides again
I haven't died (happily) or been kidnapped by aliens (sadly. At least it might be somewhat entertaining). I've had to deal with the deranged, fake Muslim, filthy (the words soap and water clearly don't appear in his dictionary), foul-mouthed, obnoxious, threatening, total asshole neighbor from Hell. Either he is off his meds or he has worked out that the restraining order I took out against him has now lapsed. He's at it again.
For a couple of weeks, he has been screaming obscenities at me from outside the building-and from outside his front door, upstairs where I can't reach him-not that I would want to, because I don't know how far his bugs can jump, and I'm not planning on finding out, ever. Add this to the constant drilling and hammering at all hours of the day and night (perhaps he's been building an extension. For six years).
Now, we have had a horrendous heatwave; the temperature hovered between an unbearable 85F and 100F-closer to 100. And this country is so backward that the only places with air conditioning are large supermarkets, banks, and (hopefully-for the tourists) the big hotels. I've kept the windows open, but there hasn't been much wind, either. So I have been one big bag of sweat, and I don't like the heat to begin with. So you can imagine how grumpy I was anyway. I showered a lot. I also swore a lot, although it was summer (ish), so there wasn't anything I could do about it, except look forward to October.
Add this to the fact that I didn't just mangle my arm, or have a hairline fracture-but I also fell hard enough to (as subsequent xrays showed) fracture a small bone in my wrist. When I mangle myself, I really, really mangle myself. And for the past seven weeks I have been pretty immobile, arm-wise. Actually, I have been using my arm, since I'm right-handed, and a total klutz with my left arm-but I haven't told anyone. Much.
So Osama has been calling me "Walking Dead" and a lot of other things which are really too disgusting to mention. I finally called him the "walking Brain-dead", told him that he is an asshole and a lunatic, and told him that if he had any balls at all he would come downstairs and face me and call me names while I'm standing in front of him. Silly me: one smack and I would be on the floor. But I said that anyway. Then, on Saturday the 10th I called him Osama Bin Dickhead. Osama, I said, you are not a Muslim. You are a fake, a fraud, a deranged lunatic, an insult to Muslims everywhere. Come on, dickhead, face me or be a coward forever. I called him a shithead and a gutless coward.
Did he come downstairs? No, of course not. He kept screaming at me from upstairs, just outside his front door, and then started screaming in his native language (is there a language known as asshole? I'll have to google it). I kept hoping that he would have a heart attack, or an aneurysm-or, even better, spontaneously combust. Then at least I might have the chance of someone normal moving in. But no, he went inside and slammed his door.
That was on the 10th. I was already distressed, partly from the extreme heat, partly from the pain in my arm, and partly because the next day was the fifteenth anniversary of 9/11. That got to me, as it does every year. I remembered back 15 years; I recalled exactly where I was, and how long it took to be able to call home to see if everyone was okay. I knew that my very closest friend worked in the next building to Tower 2- and I finally reached her the next day, at 4AM New York time. I woke her up. When she realized how hard it had been to actually get through, she stopped being annoyed. And everyone I was worried about was all right.
It's back to being cool and damp, and I'm glad for the change in the weather, because every change affects my balance. I had to force myself to walk in extreme heat, and you can understand why summer is my least favorite season. I personally would like to abolish summer altogether. If I could find a place with temperature hovering around 20C (68F), sunny but with low humidity, and rain only at night when I'm sleeping, I would move there tomorrow. And so would everyone else!
The 9/11 disaster, the memorial service (I got to see part of it-on US television, because the Brits didn't cover it), I didn't expect the black dog (depression) to come out of nowhere and bite me. But-it bit me so hard I thought it would rip my face off. I sat and watched the horrors unfold, and my husband turned around and said that the US deserved it. He actually said that. We deserved a massive terrorist attack on our soil, so we would know how it felt, and because we were so arrogant that we never thought anyone would go after us. I was in tears, and he was-just plain evil. Cold and evil.
9/11 was the day that I finally decided that I'd had enough of this unfeeling bastard, and that I was going to walk, even if I had to walk with only the clothes on my back. That was the final nail in the coffin of my miserable marriage. So I won't forget that day-probably ever.
I finally have been able to beat the crap out of the black dog and send it packing-but it took nearly three weeks to do it, which is something of a record for me. I walked, I wept, I walked some more, I hibernated and would only get out of bed to go for hospital appointments-and I went to the hairdresser and got my hair cut. I figured out what was bugging me, and that some things I can't change, so I need to learn to let them go.
Letting go has never been something I've been able to do. I can hold a grudge forever. I might eventually learn to forgive, since I know that those of us who don't forgive are the ones who suffer the most. But I never, ever forget.
I decided that watching something funny would probably put me in a better frame of mind. Humor always seems to help, so I took myself to see the new Bridget Jones film yesterday. I recommend it highly; I laughed so much in parts that I forgot that I was depressed.
I recommend humor. Funny movies. Walking off depression (without falling over, obviously). Daydreaming about killing your enemies. And, of course, I highly recommend Kettle Chips. I should buy stock in that company...
For a couple of weeks, he has been screaming obscenities at me from outside the building-and from outside his front door, upstairs where I can't reach him-not that I would want to, because I don't know how far his bugs can jump, and I'm not planning on finding out, ever. Add this to the constant drilling and hammering at all hours of the day and night (perhaps he's been building an extension. For six years).
Now, we have had a horrendous heatwave; the temperature hovered between an unbearable 85F and 100F-closer to 100. And this country is so backward that the only places with air conditioning are large supermarkets, banks, and (hopefully-for the tourists) the big hotels. I've kept the windows open, but there hasn't been much wind, either. So I have been one big bag of sweat, and I don't like the heat to begin with. So you can imagine how grumpy I was anyway. I showered a lot. I also swore a lot, although it was summer (ish), so there wasn't anything I could do about it, except look forward to October.
Add this to the fact that I didn't just mangle my arm, or have a hairline fracture-but I also fell hard enough to (as subsequent xrays showed) fracture a small bone in my wrist. When I mangle myself, I really, really mangle myself. And for the past seven weeks I have been pretty immobile, arm-wise. Actually, I have been using my arm, since I'm right-handed, and a total klutz with my left arm-but I haven't told anyone. Much.
So Osama has been calling me "Walking Dead" and a lot of other things which are really too disgusting to mention. I finally called him the "walking Brain-dead", told him that he is an asshole and a lunatic, and told him that if he had any balls at all he would come downstairs and face me and call me names while I'm standing in front of him. Silly me: one smack and I would be on the floor. But I said that anyway. Then, on Saturday the 10th I called him Osama Bin Dickhead. Osama, I said, you are not a Muslim. You are a fake, a fraud, a deranged lunatic, an insult to Muslims everywhere. Come on, dickhead, face me or be a coward forever. I called him a shithead and a gutless coward.
Did he come downstairs? No, of course not. He kept screaming at me from upstairs, just outside his front door, and then started screaming in his native language (is there a language known as asshole? I'll have to google it). I kept hoping that he would have a heart attack, or an aneurysm-or, even better, spontaneously combust. Then at least I might have the chance of someone normal moving in. But no, he went inside and slammed his door.
That was on the 10th. I was already distressed, partly from the extreme heat, partly from the pain in my arm, and partly because the next day was the fifteenth anniversary of 9/11. That got to me, as it does every year. I remembered back 15 years; I recalled exactly where I was, and how long it took to be able to call home to see if everyone was okay. I knew that my very closest friend worked in the next building to Tower 2- and I finally reached her the next day, at 4AM New York time. I woke her up. When she realized how hard it had been to actually get through, she stopped being annoyed. And everyone I was worried about was all right.
It's back to being cool and damp, and I'm glad for the change in the weather, because every change affects my balance. I had to force myself to walk in extreme heat, and you can understand why summer is my least favorite season. I personally would like to abolish summer altogether. If I could find a place with temperature hovering around 20C (68F), sunny but with low humidity, and rain only at night when I'm sleeping, I would move there tomorrow. And so would everyone else!
The 9/11 disaster, the memorial service (I got to see part of it-on US television, because the Brits didn't cover it), I didn't expect the black dog (depression) to come out of nowhere and bite me. But-it bit me so hard I thought it would rip my face off. I sat and watched the horrors unfold, and my husband turned around and said that the US deserved it. He actually said that. We deserved a massive terrorist attack on our soil, so we would know how it felt, and because we were so arrogant that we never thought anyone would go after us. I was in tears, and he was-just plain evil. Cold and evil.
9/11 was the day that I finally decided that I'd had enough of this unfeeling bastard, and that I was going to walk, even if I had to walk with only the clothes on my back. That was the final nail in the coffin of my miserable marriage. So I won't forget that day-probably ever.
I finally have been able to beat the crap out of the black dog and send it packing-but it took nearly three weeks to do it, which is something of a record for me. I walked, I wept, I walked some more, I hibernated and would only get out of bed to go for hospital appointments-and I went to the hairdresser and got my hair cut. I figured out what was bugging me, and that some things I can't change, so I need to learn to let them go.
Letting go has never been something I've been able to do. I can hold a grudge forever. I might eventually learn to forgive, since I know that those of us who don't forgive are the ones who suffer the most. But I never, ever forget.
I decided that watching something funny would probably put me in a better frame of mind. Humor always seems to help, so I took myself to see the new Bridget Jones film yesterday. I recommend it highly; I laughed so much in parts that I forgot that I was depressed.
I recommend humor. Funny movies. Walking off depression (without falling over, obviously). Daydreaming about killing your enemies. And, of course, I highly recommend Kettle Chips. I should buy stock in that company...
Friday 2 September 2016
Penis Envy
It's now five weeks since my fall - and I'm so happy that it's five weeks down the road. No kidding, it was that serious. In fact, I was in so much pain that I followed directions : no moving my arm unless I had to, no lifting, no sleeping. You get the idea.
I was very careful, although I did need to use my right hand hand for just about everything. This was usually accompanied by swearing that was so loud that it was probably heard in Paris.
I have spent a great deal of time trying very hard to stay out of the way of the local obnoxious dimwits - with varying degrees of success, as you know. But these five weeks have provided the unassailable proof that the dimwits are in the majority, not the minority. I know this from painful experience: very painful.
I've listened to the babbling of many, many braindeads - and for some reason it doesn't matter so much any more. I've had a lot of time to consider the evidence, and the evidence tells me that the Brits (and just about everyone else) have a deep seated problem: Penis Envy.
That's what I said: penis envy. They want what we've got: drive, determination, the will to work hard instead of expecting everyone else to do everything for us. Ambition, intelligence, talent. And, of course, we've got balls. They don't.
I'm living in a balls - free zone. I have more balls than anyone around here. I'm surprised that the population is so large. How do they do it? Test tubes?
No wonder I fell over and didn't stop myself this time. My body may be in Dipshit Central, but my head and heart are in New York.
Sunday 14 August 2016
Tears on my Pillow
Good song title, that. And that's what my week was like: yucky.
I had the stitches removed on Monday- and that wasn't the lowest point of the week. It was painful, my arm looked horrible (and felt worse)- but the worst day of the week was Wednesday.
Wednesday was the sixth anniversary of the gentamicin. It was six years ago that someone else's incompetence destroyed my life. Trust me when I tell you that I haven't forgotten - and I'm struggling with forgiveness six years later. I'm getting there-but it's slow going.
Wednesday was also the day that a DexaScan showed that I've got osteoporosis. Tamoxifen, cancer, both of these are contributing factors. So now I've got something else to fight. Oh joy.
What if my life was easy? Hmm...would it be less complicated? Of course-but I wouldn't have so much to write about. I'd probably be bored rigid. I'm okay with that.
I did join the human race yesterday: I now have a tablet, so I can stop swearing at my ancient computer and swear at the IPad instead. If you want to find me, just follow the swearing.
But this is so cool . I just need to get used to it. And not drop it. Or get frustrated and throw it out the window. I wasn't going to buy anything new-just in case I didn't live long enough to use it.
Oh me of little faith.
I had the stitches removed on Monday- and that wasn't the lowest point of the week. It was painful, my arm looked horrible (and felt worse)- but the worst day of the week was Wednesday.
Wednesday was the sixth anniversary of the gentamicin. It was six years ago that someone else's incompetence destroyed my life. Trust me when I tell you that I haven't forgotten - and I'm struggling with forgiveness six years later. I'm getting there-but it's slow going.
Wednesday was also the day that a DexaScan showed that I've got osteoporosis. Tamoxifen, cancer, both of these are contributing factors. So now I've got something else to fight. Oh joy.
What if my life was easy? Hmm...would it be less complicated? Of course-but I wouldn't have so much to write about. I'd probably be bored rigid. I'm okay with that.
I did join the human race yesterday: I now have a tablet, so I can stop swearing at my ancient computer and swear at the IPad instead. If you want to find me, just follow the swearing.
But this is so cool . I just need to get used to it. And not drop it. Or get frustrated and throw it out the window. I wasn't going to buy anything new-just in case I didn't live long enough to use it.
Oh me of little faith.
Tuesday 9 August 2016
Karma's A Bitch
If it's the laws of Karma that are reaching up and biting me on the face, I must have been an axe murderer-or worse-in a previous life. Personally, I prefer to think that I had a few moments of absolute clumsiness-hopefully, temporary clumsiness. That is why you haven't heard from me in two weeks.
I went to see Ghostbusters (two weeks ago today), and enjoyed the references to the original. I felt like reminiscing for a day or two-and did get a few good laughs out of the reboot. When you are one of the few bright lights in a land that seems filled with the Walking (Brain)Dead, you really need some laughs. So that was pretty good, and I did my due diligence the next day (a couple of tests, and now I am done for another year). Thursday I went to see my friend Dani, and that was good, too. I was on a roll, wasn't I? Err...no, I wasn't. Friday happened.
I didn't get much sleep on Thursday night-insomniac that I am and have been all my life-so I was really knackered when I got a text from my friend Georgina. She is worse than I am when it comes to not sleeping. She asked me to come around for coffee. It was 6:30 am, I'd already had my first cup of the day. So I went next door, and that was my biggest mistake: I wasn't looking at the ground, I was joking with her-and she has a step in front of her house that is loose. I hit the damned thing-no elbow crutch, and it would not have done any good anyway, because I went (as they say over here) ass over tit, put my right arm out, and hit a rusty metal strip that is right outside her glass door. To add insult to injury, the metal was filled with ant powder, because we have ants coming in from the garden.
I was too stunned to swear. My arm was cut from wrist to elbow, the inside of my arm was on the outside, and believe me when I say that the pain was excruciating-and so was the blood. I thought that my friend was going to faint. I thought that I was going to faint. It was horrible. So she called for the paramedics, and what followed was a nightmare. The ambulance arrived, the two men took me to the nearest hospital-which wasn't the Royal Free, but was the Whittington. I was there for nearly five hours. Then I finally got sewn up: seven stitches in my arm, four steri-strips beneath (we used to call them butterflies when I was a child. Whatever. All those things were holding my arm together). And-I've got a hairline fracture which they left, because I needed the stitches. This was the Whittington. I'm lucky that I still had my arm when I left; it was the Whittington. I'm surprised they didn't try to amputate.
So that was my week and a half: taking pain killers, not using my arm (using a sling), and feeling very sorry for myself. I kept swearing because I should have been looking down at the ground, not up at my friend, and cracking jokes. Even though the hospital doctor reminded me that I was lucky I didn't go through the glass door, and lucky that I didn't break anything (anything important, that is), I still felt like a total klutz. I had to go to my GP to get pain killers, too-but everyone there knows me, and the nurses kept telling me that everyone has moments of clumsiness, I'm not alone in falling over. I'm lucky, it's just a huge scar that I will have up my arm to remind me to be more vigilant in future. Etc. Etc. But I still felt pretty awful. I realize how controlling I am!
That was what I got from this awful experience: I am controlling. I need to be perfect. Well-so much for that!
I had to keep going back to see the nurse, to have the wound checked and cleaned, and have the dressing changed. In the middle of this-last week-I also had to go to the Royal Free for my immunoglobulin infusions. I thought there would be jokes-but no, everyone was sympathetic. Thank goodness for that.
I've done only what I had to do since this whole thing happened. Yesterday I had to go back to the doc's to have the stitches removed. I've got a huge - about 4 inches - gash down my arm, and it looks pretty nasty. So, I will be wearing long sleeves for the foreseeable future. I won't make the same mistake twice (at least, I hope I won't!); I'll remember to be more careful, especially when I see my arm in all its glory.
So now it's back to business as usual. I've got more appointments scattered around, and I've been hibernating in distress for the last eleven days. Now I'm figuring that I'm not doing myself any favors by staying in and wallowing in self-pity. It could happen to anyone. What have I learned? Well-when you fall down, just get up again. That is it: no feeling gloomy, just get back up again. I've been doing that for the last six years. Actually-tomorrow will be exactly six years since the gentamicin disaster.
Another lesson for me: let it go and don't dwell on it. My first cornerstone of life: life isn't fair. Amen, and tough shit to that.
The doctor in A&E who sewed up my arm told me that it will take six months to heal fully. So what am I going to do in six months?
I'm getting a tattoo.
I went to see Ghostbusters (two weeks ago today), and enjoyed the references to the original. I felt like reminiscing for a day or two-and did get a few good laughs out of the reboot. When you are one of the few bright lights in a land that seems filled with the Walking (Brain)Dead, you really need some laughs. So that was pretty good, and I did my due diligence the next day (a couple of tests, and now I am done for another year). Thursday I went to see my friend Dani, and that was good, too. I was on a roll, wasn't I? Err...no, I wasn't. Friday happened.
I didn't get much sleep on Thursday night-insomniac that I am and have been all my life-so I was really knackered when I got a text from my friend Georgina. She is worse than I am when it comes to not sleeping. She asked me to come around for coffee. It was 6:30 am, I'd already had my first cup of the day. So I went next door, and that was my biggest mistake: I wasn't looking at the ground, I was joking with her-and she has a step in front of her house that is loose. I hit the damned thing-no elbow crutch, and it would not have done any good anyway, because I went (as they say over here) ass over tit, put my right arm out, and hit a rusty metal strip that is right outside her glass door. To add insult to injury, the metal was filled with ant powder, because we have ants coming in from the garden.
I was too stunned to swear. My arm was cut from wrist to elbow, the inside of my arm was on the outside, and believe me when I say that the pain was excruciating-and so was the blood. I thought that my friend was going to faint. I thought that I was going to faint. It was horrible. So she called for the paramedics, and what followed was a nightmare. The ambulance arrived, the two men took me to the nearest hospital-which wasn't the Royal Free, but was the Whittington. I was there for nearly five hours. Then I finally got sewn up: seven stitches in my arm, four steri-strips beneath (we used to call them butterflies when I was a child. Whatever. All those things were holding my arm together). And-I've got a hairline fracture which they left, because I needed the stitches. This was the Whittington. I'm lucky that I still had my arm when I left; it was the Whittington. I'm surprised they didn't try to amputate.
So that was my week and a half: taking pain killers, not using my arm (using a sling), and feeling very sorry for myself. I kept swearing because I should have been looking down at the ground, not up at my friend, and cracking jokes. Even though the hospital doctor reminded me that I was lucky I didn't go through the glass door, and lucky that I didn't break anything (anything important, that is), I still felt like a total klutz. I had to go to my GP to get pain killers, too-but everyone there knows me, and the nurses kept telling me that everyone has moments of clumsiness, I'm not alone in falling over. I'm lucky, it's just a huge scar that I will have up my arm to remind me to be more vigilant in future. Etc. Etc. But I still felt pretty awful. I realize how controlling I am!
That was what I got from this awful experience: I am controlling. I need to be perfect. Well-so much for that!
I had to keep going back to see the nurse, to have the wound checked and cleaned, and have the dressing changed. In the middle of this-last week-I also had to go to the Royal Free for my immunoglobulin infusions. I thought there would be jokes-but no, everyone was sympathetic. Thank goodness for that.
I've done only what I had to do since this whole thing happened. Yesterday I had to go back to the doc's to have the stitches removed. I've got a huge - about 4 inches - gash down my arm, and it looks pretty nasty. So, I will be wearing long sleeves for the foreseeable future. I won't make the same mistake twice (at least, I hope I won't!); I'll remember to be more careful, especially when I see my arm in all its glory.
So now it's back to business as usual. I've got more appointments scattered around, and I've been hibernating in distress for the last eleven days. Now I'm figuring that I'm not doing myself any favors by staying in and wallowing in self-pity. It could happen to anyone. What have I learned? Well-when you fall down, just get up again. That is it: no feeling gloomy, just get back up again. I've been doing that for the last six years. Actually-tomorrow will be exactly six years since the gentamicin disaster.
Another lesson for me: let it go and don't dwell on it. My first cornerstone of life: life isn't fair. Amen, and tough shit to that.
The doctor in A&E who sewed up my arm told me that it will take six months to heal fully. So what am I going to do in six months?
I'm getting a tattoo.
Tuesday 26 July 2016
Hot,wet-and very pissed off
We've been having a heat wave: up to nearly 100F last week. People were dropping like flies. The hospital emergency rooms were filled with the deep-fried, suffering from burns and dehydration. I haven't had broadband, phone-all services were off. It was so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. And what a disgusting idea that is! And how to spoil a perfectly good egg...
When the temperature rises past the 20C-68F- mark, I start to sweat, and my hair frizzes. I look like I have an afro- and, if you want to find me, all you need to do is follow the sweat trail. I leave droplets. I also get very short-tempered, and I'm like a snapping turtle-and just as slow. Now you know why I like winter so much. I can layer. In weather like this, there is only so much you can take off before you get arrested.
So I only went out to do the hospital things, the doctor things, my walking (very early in the morning, and it was still hot even then. Grrrr....). If I had a large enough refrigerator, I would have climbed in and stayed there until September. Iceland begins to look really, really good right now...
I made a new friend last weekend. I broke my cardinal rule of keeping neighbors at arm's length, and waved at the new person next door as I passed by. But-she is really nice. Georgina is from Belfast originally, and she had some incredible stories to tell about growing up in Northern Ireland. Since it was too bloody hot to go anywhere, I ended up spending my free time sitting out in the shade (not that the shade made a lot of difference. It was still like sitting in a microwave and putting it on high) and swapping stories and jokes. And sweating. And swearing. She could fill my swear box several times over. In an hour.
I still have no broadband, or phone, or television-or wifi on my mobile. Virgin Media. They suck. So I decided to go to an internet café. Now I am taking myself to see Ghostbusters, the re-boot. It will be interesting to see if the cinema has air conditioning. I hope.
That is the update for now. And, by the way, the internet café doesn't even have a fan. So, before I leave a sweat puddle all over the floor, I'm going to the movies.
Yesterday I went to Queen Square to see my physiotherapist. I was told to walk without my stick for two days a week, carefully, at times when there aren't many people around. So in the afternoon, Georgina and I went a couple of blocks to a café for coffee. She is on one of those frames that has a seat, so we must have made a vision of-what,disability?
I got there, I got back, there were a lot of people around, but I did it anyway. And I did fine. After six years, I might be able to soon be off the crutch. I will be celebrating...
When the temperature rises past the 20C-68F- mark, I start to sweat, and my hair frizzes. I look like I have an afro- and, if you want to find me, all you need to do is follow the sweat trail. I leave droplets. I also get very short-tempered, and I'm like a snapping turtle-and just as slow. Now you know why I like winter so much. I can layer. In weather like this, there is only so much you can take off before you get arrested.
So I only went out to do the hospital things, the doctor things, my walking (very early in the morning, and it was still hot even then. Grrrr....). If I had a large enough refrigerator, I would have climbed in and stayed there until September. Iceland begins to look really, really good right now...
I made a new friend last weekend. I broke my cardinal rule of keeping neighbors at arm's length, and waved at the new person next door as I passed by. But-she is really nice. Georgina is from Belfast originally, and she had some incredible stories to tell about growing up in Northern Ireland. Since it was too bloody hot to go anywhere, I ended up spending my free time sitting out in the shade (not that the shade made a lot of difference. It was still like sitting in a microwave and putting it on high) and swapping stories and jokes. And sweating. And swearing. She could fill my swear box several times over. In an hour.
I still have no broadband, or phone, or television-or wifi on my mobile. Virgin Media. They suck. So I decided to go to an internet café. Now I am taking myself to see Ghostbusters, the re-boot. It will be interesting to see if the cinema has air conditioning. I hope.
That is the update for now. And, by the way, the internet café doesn't even have a fan. So, before I leave a sweat puddle all over the floor, I'm going to the movies.
Yesterday I went to Queen Square to see my physiotherapist. I was told to walk without my stick for two days a week, carefully, at times when there aren't many people around. So in the afternoon, Georgina and I went a couple of blocks to a café for coffee. She is on one of those frames that has a seat, so we must have made a vision of-what,disability?
I got there, I got back, there were a lot of people around, but I did it anyway. And I did fine. After six years, I might be able to soon be off the crutch. I will be celebrating...
Thursday 14 July 2016
Weapons of Mass Destruction
Hold the apocalypse. It's been three weeks since the referendum, and there still is no sign of Armageddon. There's been no great depression (except, perhaps, among the leavers), no people throwing themselves in front of moving vehicles...Cameron is out on his behind and we have a new Prime Minister: Theresa May (or may not), the former Home Secretary. There isn't even a plague. How very boring.
We do, of course, have weapons of mass destruction: politicians. And the media, of course, hacks who are unable (and unwilling) to provide anything that even has a whiff of real, objective news. So who knows exactly what is going on? Good question.
Everything happened really quickly. Cameron is out, May is in, and the big shock is that Boris Johnson is now Foreign Secretary. He will be the butt of all the comedians for some time to come-and the thing is, Boris is no fool. I wouldn't be surprised if he turns out to be really good at his job (I hope). People are saying that he owes Obama an apology-but I think it's Obama who owes everyone an apology. After all, he took a taxpayer-paid holiday over to Britain and threatened us to make sure we all voted to remain in the EU. Obama. What a tool. So glad he is also on his way out the door; now someone else will be left to repair the damage. Hopefully.
And how am I in all this? Well...after awhile all the backbiting and nastiness gets a bit old. With the pound rallying, and the economy being restored (ish), people from both camps are still cursing each other (the remainers are doing most of the cursing. Idiots). Brain-deads are still brain-dead. And obnoxious. And rude. And pig-ignorant (sorry for the insult to pigs. Oink.). Those things never seem to change-except that there seem to be a lot more of them than I thought. The referendum seems to have brought all the brain-deads out from under their rock. Whatever. Pathetic, really.
Oh, yes-me. I'm actually feeling better since I went off Tamoxifen. I am a little apprehensive: I should have less brain fog. I should have fewer episodes of depression and anxiety. And I should have no leg cramps, especially at night. I should find that my hair grows back and my skin texture is better (it's as thin as a Kleenex at the moment). I should sleep better, too. I "should" start feeling normal. But-I have a greater chance of cancer returning. That makes me a little nervous. Well-that makes me very nervous.
It's only been a week since I stopped Tamoxifen. I did speak with Mr. Tan (oncologist) first; he said that I can stop, since I've been on it for three years. But-I've been searching online for answers to this dilemma. I consulted-as I always do-the Great God Google, and found masses of information, both for and against stopping. Now I will be checking with Cancer Care to see what they say. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that stuff. But as far as I can tell at the moment, the difference between staying on the drug and coming off-the re-occurrence of cancer against no cancer-is about 4%. That's okay, as long as I'm not one of the 4%! I'm going to give this a lot more thought. A lot more thought.
Meanwhile, I am going back to the gym. It's been a very long time-so I will start slowly. I will behave myself, too-no smacking idiots with my crutch. Perhaps I'll hit them with a hand weight instead?It works for me...
We do, of course, have weapons of mass destruction: politicians. And the media, of course, hacks who are unable (and unwilling) to provide anything that even has a whiff of real, objective news. So who knows exactly what is going on? Good question.
Everything happened really quickly. Cameron is out, May is in, and the big shock is that Boris Johnson is now Foreign Secretary. He will be the butt of all the comedians for some time to come-and the thing is, Boris is no fool. I wouldn't be surprised if he turns out to be really good at his job (I hope). People are saying that he owes Obama an apology-but I think it's Obama who owes everyone an apology. After all, he took a taxpayer-paid holiday over to Britain and threatened us to make sure we all voted to remain in the EU. Obama. What a tool. So glad he is also on his way out the door; now someone else will be left to repair the damage. Hopefully.
And how am I in all this? Well...after awhile all the backbiting and nastiness gets a bit old. With the pound rallying, and the economy being restored (ish), people from both camps are still cursing each other (the remainers are doing most of the cursing. Idiots). Brain-deads are still brain-dead. And obnoxious. And rude. And pig-ignorant (sorry for the insult to pigs. Oink.). Those things never seem to change-except that there seem to be a lot more of them than I thought. The referendum seems to have brought all the brain-deads out from under their rock. Whatever. Pathetic, really.
Oh, yes-me. I'm actually feeling better since I went off Tamoxifen. I am a little apprehensive: I should have less brain fog. I should have fewer episodes of depression and anxiety. And I should have no leg cramps, especially at night. I should find that my hair grows back and my skin texture is better (it's as thin as a Kleenex at the moment). I should sleep better, too. I "should" start feeling normal. But-I have a greater chance of cancer returning. That makes me a little nervous. Well-that makes me very nervous.
It's only been a week since I stopped Tamoxifen. I did speak with Mr. Tan (oncologist) first; he said that I can stop, since I've been on it for three years. But-I've been searching online for answers to this dilemma. I consulted-as I always do-the Great God Google, and found masses of information, both for and against stopping. Now I will be checking with Cancer Care to see what they say. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that stuff. But as far as I can tell at the moment, the difference between staying on the drug and coming off-the re-occurrence of cancer against no cancer-is about 4%. That's okay, as long as I'm not one of the 4%! I'm going to give this a lot more thought. A lot more thought.
Meanwhile, I am going back to the gym. It's been a very long time-so I will start slowly. I will behave myself, too-no smacking idiots with my crutch. Perhaps I'll hit them with a hand weight instead?It works for me...
Wednesday 6 July 2016
Beam Me Up, Scotty-there's no intelligent life down here!
I didn't make that up-sadly-but I had it on a t-shirt, my all-time favorite, that I wore until it fell apart (I did wash it, I promise).
Did I sneak into the park on Monday night, when it was nice and dark, to set off fireworks? Hmmm...is the Pope Catholic? Of course I did. And I grabbed a friend to act as lookout. It was very dark-so we used really tiny flashlights. Nearly fell over and broke our necks-but it was an absolute hoot, and needed after the dramas of the government and country falling apart. The next thing would have been to get arrested-fireworks in July are illegal. I think the punishment is death, but I'm not sure. Probably-I'm a foreigner-worse, I'm American. I'll be shot.
The more I see and hear, the more entertaining life is here in Dipshit Central. Everyone is shouting at everyone else.Cameron was pontificating in Parliament this morning-I just caught it on the news, but I thought I would switch off before I threw up.
You look at Parliament, the government ministers, the cabinet-and you know for a fact that there is life after death.
I've taken myself off Tamoxifen-as of July 1st. Did I tell you? If I did, that is one reason why I told you twice: brain fog. It's a symptom of the medicine, not the beginning of dementia. Well, I certainly hope that is the case! There are so many things I don't have, that is one I certainly don't need. And I should know in around six weeks if all the tamoxifen symptoms clear up: brain fog, insomnia, leg cramps, and, of course, everybody's favorite: hair loss. Ugh-I'm so vain! But I was talking with Mr. Tan (oncologist) and he said that after three years on the medication I should be all right. If, God forbid, cancer returns-I'll deal with it, the same way I've dealt with everything else that has gone wrong in my life: with grace, courage, and a lot of swearing and kicking and screaming.
So that is your update for today. No doubt in my mind that someone else will jump ship from the government by tomorrow. By the end of the week, there will be nobody left. Brexit. Sounds like a cereal.
Did I sneak into the park on Monday night, when it was nice and dark, to set off fireworks? Hmmm...is the Pope Catholic? Of course I did. And I grabbed a friend to act as lookout. It was very dark-so we used really tiny flashlights. Nearly fell over and broke our necks-but it was an absolute hoot, and needed after the dramas of the government and country falling apart. The next thing would have been to get arrested-fireworks in July are illegal. I think the punishment is death, but I'm not sure. Probably-I'm a foreigner-worse, I'm American. I'll be shot.
The more I see and hear, the more entertaining life is here in Dipshit Central. Everyone is shouting at everyone else.Cameron was pontificating in Parliament this morning-I just caught it on the news, but I thought I would switch off before I threw up.
You look at Parliament, the government ministers, the cabinet-and you know for a fact that there is life after death.
I've taken myself off Tamoxifen-as of July 1st. Did I tell you? If I did, that is one reason why I told you twice: brain fog. It's a symptom of the medicine, not the beginning of dementia. Well, I certainly hope that is the case! There are so many things I don't have, that is one I certainly don't need. And I should know in around six weeks if all the tamoxifen symptoms clear up: brain fog, insomnia, leg cramps, and, of course, everybody's favorite: hair loss. Ugh-I'm so vain! But I was talking with Mr. Tan (oncologist) and he said that after three years on the medication I should be all right. If, God forbid, cancer returns-I'll deal with it, the same way I've dealt with everything else that has gone wrong in my life: with grace, courage, and a lot of swearing and kicking and screaming.
So that is your update for today. No doubt in my mind that someone else will jump ship from the government by tomorrow. By the end of the week, there will be nobody left. Brexit. Sounds like a cereal.
Monday 4 July 2016
HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY-from your mole at Dipshit Central
Ah, yes, Happy Independence Day. This is the one day of the year when I go and wish everyone greetings, and finish up by telling everyone to have a nice day. I get my own back for months of hearing "have a nice day, love (or dear)", so now I get to retaliate. When I do it first, it makes the Brits nuts. My contribution to life in Dipshit Central.
So what has happened since I last wrote? In fact, what has happened since the referendum? Has the world ended? Have we had the apocalypse, or was it cancelled? Another financial depression of seismic proportions? Plague? Pestilence? Nah-getting a little biblical here, aren't I?
Well-none of the above. The pound is on its way to recovery, the world goes on...and as for the brain-dead, ill-mannered, obnoxious (and noxious) dipshits-there's no change there, except that there seem to be more of them than I ever expected. They really are everywhere-like cockroaches (same mentality, I think).
The uber-right wing leader of UKIP, Nigel Farage, has stepped down. He says he will remain an MP in Europe because he thinks that UK politicians (many of whom voted to remain, since they are in bed with European politicians-sometimes literally) will back off and betray the majority, who voted to leave. That wouldn't surprise me in the least. They are, after all, politicians: they lie when they're awake, and if they could lie while asleep they would do that, too. Trusting a politician to tell the truth is like standing across from a hungry tiger and trusting it not to eat you.
Now we have all the "celebrities" coming out and voicing their opinion. The richer they are, the more they want to remain in the EU. Does it really affect them? Of course not, but they love to hear themselves talk. There's David Beckham-rather less than affectionally known as Captain Peckerhead-and his wife, the idiot known as Po-face (and most of the time, Poo-face). There's nothing posh about Vicky the poser. And these two gormless idiots are claiming that their children will suffer without the EU. Their children will suffer because they are their children. Yuck.
And Bob Geldof, who still hasn't told us where all the missing millions are from Live Aid. All these years later, Geldof still looks like he needs a good wash and a delousing. Where's the dosh, Bob??
Then there's Bono, from U2. Now there is a total prat who just loves to stand up and pontificate about -well, everything-mostly about governments not taking care of the people. But, of course, Bono doesn't pay his taxes-and hasn't paid taxes in years. Hardly the one to talk, is he?
So many rich, self-important people lecturing about the NHS (they all have private medicine), the state of the school system (their children are privately educated), and blah blah blah. Please-I wish they'd all go stick their heads in an oven somewhere. Nobody (except them) is interested in anything they have to say.
And newspeople have interviewed so many people who voted to leave, and discovered that the issues are NOT immigration (so there goes their condescending opinion about people being racist-right down the toilet) or safety, or trade-but the desire to have their country make their own rules. Outside London people feel left out, marginalized, and they're right: they are.
The incidents of racist attacks, racist slurs, have risen dramatically since the vote-but I think that this would have happened no matter what the vote, because it has to do with racists, not with stay or leave. Racists will use any excuse, because that is what they do. It's all rather sickening, really. This country seems to be falling apart-and that is, in part, because people refuse to work together. They want what they want, even when the vote didn't go their way. Come on, you dipshits, get over it and behave like grownups!
As for me, I am keeping my head down, and refraining from making any comments either way-because emotions are running so high that I could say something (you know how opinionated I am), and get stabbed in the face. I like my face the way it is, and I intend to keep it that way.
Someone on the news this morning said that London is a place of diversity, peace and love. Oh, please, someone pass the sick bag! Diversity, yes-but peace and love? I can say-because I have lived here for a very, very, very long time-that London is a place of diversity, as well as greed, nastiness, and people beating the living shit out of each other. Peace and love, my bony New York ass.
If people truly want "peace and love" (ick) they have to learn to work together, and to respect each other's differences-and that goes for ideologies, too. They are all too wrapped up in making themselves right-and making everyone else wrong. Peace and love? Not a hope in hell of that happening..
I'm not only keeping my head down (until I get bored, that is), but I've gone off tamoxifen. I did this with Mr. Tan's blessing, because he said (last week) that I can stop, as it's been three years and I've had some nasty side effects. Can the cancer return? It can...and that worries me, but I also realize that I haven't had any quality of life in three years. Actually, I haven't had any quality of life in six years, since the gentamicin. For me, quality is far more important than quantity. What is the point of living until you're 100 but living like a vegetable? That is, of course, a worst case scenario for anyone, but you get the idea. It's all been about hospitals, doctors, surgery, tests and more tests-and there has to be more to an actual life than that. So I am going to find it.
George Bernard Shaw wrote that no diet will remove all the fat from your body because the brain is entirely fat. Without a brain, you might look good but all you could do is run for public office.
He's probably looking down on us and smiling because he knows he was right.
So what has happened since I last wrote? In fact, what has happened since the referendum? Has the world ended? Have we had the apocalypse, or was it cancelled? Another financial depression of seismic proportions? Plague? Pestilence? Nah-getting a little biblical here, aren't I?
Well-none of the above. The pound is on its way to recovery, the world goes on...and as for the brain-dead, ill-mannered, obnoxious (and noxious) dipshits-there's no change there, except that there seem to be more of them than I ever expected. They really are everywhere-like cockroaches (same mentality, I think).
The uber-right wing leader of UKIP, Nigel Farage, has stepped down. He says he will remain an MP in Europe because he thinks that UK politicians (many of whom voted to remain, since they are in bed with European politicians-sometimes literally) will back off and betray the majority, who voted to leave. That wouldn't surprise me in the least. They are, after all, politicians: they lie when they're awake, and if they could lie while asleep they would do that, too. Trusting a politician to tell the truth is like standing across from a hungry tiger and trusting it not to eat you.
Now we have all the "celebrities" coming out and voicing their opinion. The richer they are, the more they want to remain in the EU. Does it really affect them? Of course not, but they love to hear themselves talk. There's David Beckham-rather less than affectionally known as Captain Peckerhead-and his wife, the idiot known as Po-face (and most of the time, Poo-face). There's nothing posh about Vicky the poser. And these two gormless idiots are claiming that their children will suffer without the EU. Their children will suffer because they are their children. Yuck.
And Bob Geldof, who still hasn't told us where all the missing millions are from Live Aid. All these years later, Geldof still looks like he needs a good wash and a delousing. Where's the dosh, Bob??
Then there's Bono, from U2. Now there is a total prat who just loves to stand up and pontificate about -well, everything-mostly about governments not taking care of the people. But, of course, Bono doesn't pay his taxes-and hasn't paid taxes in years. Hardly the one to talk, is he?
So many rich, self-important people lecturing about the NHS (they all have private medicine), the state of the school system (their children are privately educated), and blah blah blah. Please-I wish they'd all go stick their heads in an oven somewhere. Nobody (except them) is interested in anything they have to say.
And newspeople have interviewed so many people who voted to leave, and discovered that the issues are NOT immigration (so there goes their condescending opinion about people being racist-right down the toilet) or safety, or trade-but the desire to have their country make their own rules. Outside London people feel left out, marginalized, and they're right: they are.
The incidents of racist attacks, racist slurs, have risen dramatically since the vote-but I think that this would have happened no matter what the vote, because it has to do with racists, not with stay or leave. Racists will use any excuse, because that is what they do. It's all rather sickening, really. This country seems to be falling apart-and that is, in part, because people refuse to work together. They want what they want, even when the vote didn't go their way. Come on, you dipshits, get over it and behave like grownups!
As for me, I am keeping my head down, and refraining from making any comments either way-because emotions are running so high that I could say something (you know how opinionated I am), and get stabbed in the face. I like my face the way it is, and I intend to keep it that way.
Someone on the news this morning said that London is a place of diversity, peace and love. Oh, please, someone pass the sick bag! Diversity, yes-but peace and love? I can say-because I have lived here for a very, very, very long time-that London is a place of diversity, as well as greed, nastiness, and people beating the living shit out of each other. Peace and love, my bony New York ass.
If people truly want "peace and love" (ick) they have to learn to work together, and to respect each other's differences-and that goes for ideologies, too. They are all too wrapped up in making themselves right-and making everyone else wrong. Peace and love? Not a hope in hell of that happening..
I'm not only keeping my head down (until I get bored, that is), but I've gone off tamoxifen. I did this with Mr. Tan's blessing, because he said (last week) that I can stop, as it's been three years and I've had some nasty side effects. Can the cancer return? It can...and that worries me, but I also realize that I haven't had any quality of life in three years. Actually, I haven't had any quality of life in six years, since the gentamicin. For me, quality is far more important than quantity. What is the point of living until you're 100 but living like a vegetable? That is, of course, a worst case scenario for anyone, but you get the idea. It's all been about hospitals, doctors, surgery, tests and more tests-and there has to be more to an actual life than that. So I am going to find it.
George Bernard Shaw wrote that no diet will remove all the fat from your body because the brain is entirely fat. Without a brain, you might look good but all you could do is run for public office.
He's probably looking down on us and smiling because he knows he was right.
Thursday 30 June 2016
Get the shovels-we're up to the eyes in the brown stuff
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).
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).
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.
Friday 27 May 2016
Revenge by Drive-in
I've been talking a lot about the annoyance of not having a working computer-and having to go outside to find one until I can buy another one.
There are no internet cafes (now only places that offer internet access-for a fee-but no coffee, but we still call them internet cafes. Or caffs, if you live in the East End).
Well-there was one just about a mile down the hill from my house. Jamal, who owns it, has a very bad reputation for charging extortionate amounts to fix a computer, for ineptitude, and for having absolutely no training in working with computers. But-one day recently he got his well deserved comeuppance. I saw the scene just after it happened, and I laughed all the way up the hill (I didn't even notice how steep the hill is; I was laughing too hard to care).
Jamal obviously irritated the wrong person. One morning - early, so nobody was in the office yet-someone revved up his old (or someone's old. I hope it wasn't his, or he's in trouble) car, backed up to the opposite curb ( so he was perpendicular to the road), revved it-and drove right into the front of Jamal's shop. He took out the entire front of the building, as well as the solicitors' office next door (solicitors. Hmm..probably deserved it).
There was total chaos for half a day-mostly because people were outside, laughing hysterically. I told you: Jamal isn't exactly popular with the locals. And that was the end of a few months of Jamal.
I actually had a pretty decent week. I had my three-year post-hysterectomy (and, therefore, three year breast cancer free-so far) on Monday. Some friends cooked dinner and opened the champagne. So that was pretty good. Celebrate with champagne. I know several people who would celebrate if they hadn't left it too late.
Tuesday it was the West End, and Jersey Boys, which I have seen three times-still love it, though. West End shows are dreadfully expensive-but, hey, who needs to eat when you can be entertained?
Plus I walked all over town to view computers. By "all over", I mean that my little pedometer app on my phone told me that I'd walked over 14,000 steps that day. No wonder I was knackered!
I saw HP laptops-Toshibas-I saw so many different computers and styles that I ended up with a headache. But I saw the one I really want: Apple. Oh, Apple- I would need to buy a larger keyboard, because the one they supply is puny (and no numeric section). I would need to buy a separate DVD drive-none supplied. But the all-in-one looks like a work of art.
Of course, it is Apple-and has so many other features (plus it is gorgeous) that buying a keyboard and a separate DVD drive aren't that much of a problem. I was all excited.
Then I saw the price, and my little computer love affair was over. It would cost me the equivalent of over $3,000. Eeeek!! That was painful....
Yesterday I had my infusions, and today I'm going with a friend to see Captain America. I love the stunts and the CGI-and right now all I want is a bang-wallop action film.
So far I am doing okay. Next week I will have a new car to give me a little more stress-but in a good way, as long as I don't take it out, put my foot down (there's a good reason why people used to nickname me leadfoot), and wrap the thing around a tree.
But I'm older and wiser now. Well-I'm older....
There are no internet cafes (now only places that offer internet access-for a fee-but no coffee, but we still call them internet cafes. Or caffs, if you live in the East End).
Well-there was one just about a mile down the hill from my house. Jamal, who owns it, has a very bad reputation for charging extortionate amounts to fix a computer, for ineptitude, and for having absolutely no training in working with computers. But-one day recently he got his well deserved comeuppance. I saw the scene just after it happened, and I laughed all the way up the hill (I didn't even notice how steep the hill is; I was laughing too hard to care).
Jamal obviously irritated the wrong person. One morning - early, so nobody was in the office yet-someone revved up his old (or someone's old. I hope it wasn't his, or he's in trouble) car, backed up to the opposite curb ( so he was perpendicular to the road), revved it-and drove right into the front of Jamal's shop. He took out the entire front of the building, as well as the solicitors' office next door (solicitors. Hmm..probably deserved it).
There was total chaos for half a day-mostly because people were outside, laughing hysterically. I told you: Jamal isn't exactly popular with the locals. And that was the end of a few months of Jamal.
I actually had a pretty decent week. I had my three-year post-hysterectomy (and, therefore, three year breast cancer free-so far) on Monday. Some friends cooked dinner and opened the champagne. So that was pretty good. Celebrate with champagne. I know several people who would celebrate if they hadn't left it too late.
Tuesday it was the West End, and Jersey Boys, which I have seen three times-still love it, though. West End shows are dreadfully expensive-but, hey, who needs to eat when you can be entertained?
Plus I walked all over town to view computers. By "all over", I mean that my little pedometer app on my phone told me that I'd walked over 14,000 steps that day. No wonder I was knackered!
I saw HP laptops-Toshibas-I saw so many different computers and styles that I ended up with a headache. But I saw the one I really want: Apple. Oh, Apple- I would need to buy a larger keyboard, because the one they supply is puny (and no numeric section). I would need to buy a separate DVD drive-none supplied. But the all-in-one looks like a work of art.
Of course, it is Apple-and has so many other features (plus it is gorgeous) that buying a keyboard and a separate DVD drive aren't that much of a problem. I was all excited.
Then I saw the price, and my little computer love affair was over. It would cost me the equivalent of over $3,000. Eeeek!! That was painful....
Yesterday I had my infusions, and today I'm going with a friend to see Captain America. I love the stunts and the CGI-and right now all I want is a bang-wallop action film.
So far I am doing okay. Next week I will have a new car to give me a little more stress-but in a good way, as long as I don't take it out, put my foot down (there's a good reason why people used to nickname me leadfoot), and wrap the thing around a tree.
But I'm older and wiser now. Well-I'm older....
Sunday 22 May 2016
Back in the saddle - and what a pain in the butt it's been, too...
I wish I could say that I haven't been online for three weeks because I was whisked away for a dirty weekend-or three weeks-by some fabulous, brilliant, stable, sane, single man - who also has all his own hair and teeth, and is still breathing (always helpful). Alas, no. The ones I find myself meeting don't have their own hair, have rotten teeth (if any teeth at all), are about 90 years old, and have beer guts so big they look like they're giving birth to a T-Rex.
And by the way, all the married ones are simply bloody ugly. Someone clearly wants them-but yuck!!
No, my computer finally expired. Of course, I've got three, and all are dead as the proverbial dodo. My PC is about 14 years old, one laptop is 13 years old, the other laptop is five years old-all dead. If anyone was stupid enough to actually break into this property, they would find three dead computers, a television that is so old that it has a VHS slot on the bottom of the front panel (but it hasn't played a tape since Clinton was President. And it didn't work well then, either). My little mini-stereo is falling apart, and in grave danger of starting an electrical fire-but I've had it since 2005. So I've been lucky. Up until now.
I had three weeks of hospital visits-not every day, but most days-only to be discharged from two clinics because I've been pronounced well ("for my age"-harrumph!). Apart from my antibody replacement every two weeks, I don't need to actually go near anything remotely resembling a hospital until September, when I see whoever is remaining, only to be told-guess what? I'm fine.
AND-I'm not complaining, because it took me "only" six years to reach this point. I thought that I would probably be dead by now-but it looks like I will be around to irritate the hell out of everyone for a very long time to come.
Not bad for any "old girl", am I?
On Wednesday it was eight weeks since the reconstruction, and Steve was very pleased - he told me I can go back to the gym this week. Hooray for that-before my bingo wings grow so huge that I will lift my arm and fracture some innocent passerby's skull. Oops...I've got wings.
This is a time of anniversaries. Wednesday marked eight weeks (so glad it is now and not then!). Tomorrow marks three years since the double mastectomy-so, technically, tomorrow night I will be three years breast cancer free. I kinda feel like I've won the lottery. So I am celebrating by taking myself to the West End to see Jersey Boys again. It's an English cast (again)-and the accents will be nauseating, but the music...it's the music I'm after. I listen to a radio station that plays a lot of the Four Seasons, and their music just lifts my spirits. After the gentamicin, when Dr. Dimples told me that they nearly killed me, and that I would never regain my balance system (destroyed for good, he said), he also told me that one other side effect was permanent deafness. So once again-I'm lucky, because I have my hearing-and my music. Music really helped save me when I was too sick to do anything.
Next month it will be six years since gentamicin-not exactly a happy anniversary-but I have to look back and see just how far determination, willfulness, bloody-mindedness, and just pure anger have gotten me. I'm nowhere near the 90% balance I'm after, but I won't stop until I get there. In September I will undergo all the tests again, so we will see how far I have come after all the hard work.
I think it's time to do something for myself-apart from Jersey Boys. So, I bought another mini-stereo, and I'm awaiting delivery. I would love something that is a decent size, but then I would set it up and have to sleep in the garden. So, a mini-stereo it is. And I will do a pilgrimage to the West End to search for another laptop. I can't continue to go to the library to email and blog. It's awful. The keyboards are always sticky with some mystery (biological? Eww) matter, I could make a four course meal before the things power up (and then they are always crashing). Of course, I could wear gloves and take antiseptic wipes, but I would feel silly (and that is where I am now, and that is what I did, silly or not. Who knows what is on those keyboards? Probably something horrible and contagious).
Even my car is fourteen years old. I kept it after 2010 because it represents freedom to me, and I can now drive short distances; eventually I will be able to take longer journeys, although motorways are (and will remain) out of the question-as will driving under certain conditions (like, at night. I can't even walk at night, let alone drive. I don't want to kill anyone. Well--maybe a few people!!).
So on Monday I went along to my local Volkswagen dealer, test drove a beautiful Polo, and that was it: a brand spanking new VW Polo. Yes, I bought a new car.
And here is the thing: I'm worth it.
And by the way, all the married ones are simply bloody ugly. Someone clearly wants them-but yuck!!
No, my computer finally expired. Of course, I've got three, and all are dead as the proverbial dodo. My PC is about 14 years old, one laptop is 13 years old, the other laptop is five years old-all dead. If anyone was stupid enough to actually break into this property, they would find three dead computers, a television that is so old that it has a VHS slot on the bottom of the front panel (but it hasn't played a tape since Clinton was President. And it didn't work well then, either). My little mini-stereo is falling apart, and in grave danger of starting an electrical fire-but I've had it since 2005. So I've been lucky. Up until now.
I had three weeks of hospital visits-not every day, but most days-only to be discharged from two clinics because I've been pronounced well ("for my age"-harrumph!). Apart from my antibody replacement every two weeks, I don't need to actually go near anything remotely resembling a hospital until September, when I see whoever is remaining, only to be told-guess what? I'm fine.
AND-I'm not complaining, because it took me "only" six years to reach this point. I thought that I would probably be dead by now-but it looks like I will be around to irritate the hell out of everyone for a very long time to come.
Not bad for any "old girl", am I?
On Wednesday it was eight weeks since the reconstruction, and Steve was very pleased - he told me I can go back to the gym this week. Hooray for that-before my bingo wings grow so huge that I will lift my arm and fracture some innocent passerby's skull. Oops...I've got wings.
This is a time of anniversaries. Wednesday marked eight weeks (so glad it is now and not then!). Tomorrow marks three years since the double mastectomy-so, technically, tomorrow night I will be three years breast cancer free. I kinda feel like I've won the lottery. So I am celebrating by taking myself to the West End to see Jersey Boys again. It's an English cast (again)-and the accents will be nauseating, but the music...it's the music I'm after. I listen to a radio station that plays a lot of the Four Seasons, and their music just lifts my spirits. After the gentamicin, when Dr. Dimples told me that they nearly killed me, and that I would never regain my balance system (destroyed for good, he said), he also told me that one other side effect was permanent deafness. So once again-I'm lucky, because I have my hearing-and my music. Music really helped save me when I was too sick to do anything.
Next month it will be six years since gentamicin-not exactly a happy anniversary-but I have to look back and see just how far determination, willfulness, bloody-mindedness, and just pure anger have gotten me. I'm nowhere near the 90% balance I'm after, but I won't stop until I get there. In September I will undergo all the tests again, so we will see how far I have come after all the hard work.
I think it's time to do something for myself-apart from Jersey Boys. So, I bought another mini-stereo, and I'm awaiting delivery. I would love something that is a decent size, but then I would set it up and have to sleep in the garden. So, a mini-stereo it is. And I will do a pilgrimage to the West End to search for another laptop. I can't continue to go to the library to email and blog. It's awful. The keyboards are always sticky with some mystery (biological? Eww) matter, I could make a four course meal before the things power up (and then they are always crashing). Of course, I could wear gloves and take antiseptic wipes, but I would feel silly (and that is where I am now, and that is what I did, silly or not. Who knows what is on those keyboards? Probably something horrible and contagious).
Even my car is fourteen years old. I kept it after 2010 because it represents freedom to me, and I can now drive short distances; eventually I will be able to take longer journeys, although motorways are (and will remain) out of the question-as will driving under certain conditions (like, at night. I can't even walk at night, let alone drive. I don't want to kill anyone. Well--maybe a few people!!).
So on Monday I went along to my local Volkswagen dealer, test drove a beautiful Polo, and that was it: a brand spanking new VW Polo. Yes, I bought a new car.
And here is the thing: I'm worth it.
Saturday 30 April 2016
Crashed-but not burned (a little crispy around the edges, though)
Crispy is right. After I posted last time, I had to do some more hospital stuff-and I was knackered. Pooped. Ready for the knackers' yard. I just basically collapsed in a heap. I dragged myself out of bed early in the morning, got dressed, did my usual morning business, and forced myself to walk at least thirty minutes every day. I only did that because I was afraid not to; my balance and eyesight have suffered greatly from the little hospital excursion. I didn't want anything to get worse by sitting around and doing nothing.
So I haven't touched the computer since the last time I wrote. And on Wednesday night it marked five weeks since the surgery. So that was enough; I will have plenty of time to rest after I'm dead (I wonder who said that first? Weird-but clever-don't you think?
I have had more than enough time to rest- and it seems that rest was what I needed. I felt unable to do anything else. Was it depression? Hmmm...no, I don't think so. I didn't see any evidence of the black dog taking a huge bite out of my ass. I think it was just exhaustion. The entire event-a week in the hospital, the toxic waste the people tried to pass off as food, anesthesia, surgery, and pain-plenty of pain-no surprise that my body just decided to stop functioning. So I rested. Until today, when I washed the kitchen floor, cleaned out the refrigerator, and started to tackle the dust bunnies. Well-they told me six weeks post-op, and it has now been five, so I'm close enough to start living like a human being and stop feeling like an invalid. As for whether or not all the pain was worth it: I'll let you know in October, when the last little bits will be finished, and I will be done with the plastic surgeon.
I think I'm giving up on even the remote idea of any more plastic surgery. Love me, love my wrinkles.
I started meeting friends I haven't seen in awhile. My one ex-neighbor, Clara, met up with me on Wednesday, and was telling me that she is doing huge amounts of overtime. Does she get paid for it? No, she does not. She squeezes five days' work into four days. And no time off. Scandalous. On top of that, my old friend Peter (who got married last year) sent me a very mournful text telling me that he was in the office at his desk at 7am, and didn't leave until after 8pm. Plus he had to do Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays. Overtime? Hell, no. And he works for the government. So I was pretty upset on his behalf. I suggested that he just get up and leave at a reasonable hour, and that the more he did the more he would be expected to do-and without being paid for it.
It isn't just the NHS that is treating their employees like serfs. Just witness the recent junior doctor strikes- and I back those a hundred percent. People can't be expected to work fourteen, fifteen, twenty hours a day for seven days a week and not suffer the effects. With doctors, they aren't the only ones who pay the price: it's the patients who are put at risk. Disgusting, really. What country is this again?
So I texted Peter and told him to tell his boss that he needs to leave at four o'clock because he has to go to the dentist. I said: give an academy award winning performance, hold your jaw and look anxious. Well-the anxious part should have been easy. Did he do that? No. Why? He's afraid he will be replaced, and other areas of the government are worse to work in. So I texted him a list of great excuses to either call in sick or need to leave early. Honestly, I wrote, if they are going to treat their employees like crap, they deserve to be lied to, don't you think?
So here we go:
The dentist: you have a toothache that is so bad your head feels like it is going to explode (don't overdo it. Just work yourself up into the pain by thinking about how you are being financially abused). You are having root canal: hold the side of your jaw and think about how bloody painful it would be if you had to have root canal. Ouch.
The vet: you need to take your dog/cat to the vet. Look anxious. Don't kill the poor thing off, just say you aren't sure what is wrong. This works well (but usually only once) with a dog, cat, pot bellied pig, anything bigger than a hamster (although I do know someone who tried it with a hamster. That was very, very tricky).
Whatever you do, don't use a goldfish. That should be obvious, but I remember a workmate years ago who wanted time off and used her sick goldfish as an excuse. Nobody in the office stopped laughing for a week. Did she get time off? Heh-she's lucky she didn't get fired. Goldfish? Really?? The boss asked-before ordering her back to work. And where did she come from? Essex, of course. Where else?
Kill off someone in your family-but make sure they're already dead, because it would be rather rude otherwise (especially if they then up and die for real. You'll feel like a killer).
So: grandparents work really well (if, as I said, they are already dead-and the boss doesn't know). Of course, this will only work four times-unless you change jobs, of course.
I killed off my grandparents several times (it was okay, because they'd been dead since I was a child). I also killed off seven uncles, four godparents, four brothers, three sisters, and a few cousins. I didn't have any of those, of course-but if I had, they would have been dead. Several times over. I killed off my father, too-but he deserved it.
Always make sure you remember who died, or things could get very complicated. I remember one boss telling me that I must be the kiss of death for my family. Oh, well, I said, you'd be surprised. I left there before anybody figured it out. Really, I should have been an actress. Or a serial killer.
So that is it for now. This is Bank Holiday weekend, so if it is a holiday for you, enjoy. I'm not hitting the Kettle Chips. I'm five weeks post-op, still alive and kicking; I'm hitting the wine.
Cheers!
So I haven't touched the computer since the last time I wrote. And on Wednesday night it marked five weeks since the surgery. So that was enough; I will have plenty of time to rest after I'm dead (I wonder who said that first? Weird-but clever-don't you think?
I have had more than enough time to rest- and it seems that rest was what I needed. I felt unable to do anything else. Was it depression? Hmmm...no, I don't think so. I didn't see any evidence of the black dog taking a huge bite out of my ass. I think it was just exhaustion. The entire event-a week in the hospital, the toxic waste the people tried to pass off as food, anesthesia, surgery, and pain-plenty of pain-no surprise that my body just decided to stop functioning. So I rested. Until today, when I washed the kitchen floor, cleaned out the refrigerator, and started to tackle the dust bunnies. Well-they told me six weeks post-op, and it has now been five, so I'm close enough to start living like a human being and stop feeling like an invalid. As for whether or not all the pain was worth it: I'll let you know in October, when the last little bits will be finished, and I will be done with the plastic surgeon.
I think I'm giving up on even the remote idea of any more plastic surgery. Love me, love my wrinkles.
I started meeting friends I haven't seen in awhile. My one ex-neighbor, Clara, met up with me on Wednesday, and was telling me that she is doing huge amounts of overtime. Does she get paid for it? No, she does not. She squeezes five days' work into four days. And no time off. Scandalous. On top of that, my old friend Peter (who got married last year) sent me a very mournful text telling me that he was in the office at his desk at 7am, and didn't leave until after 8pm. Plus he had to do Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays. Overtime? Hell, no. And he works for the government. So I was pretty upset on his behalf. I suggested that he just get up and leave at a reasonable hour, and that the more he did the more he would be expected to do-and without being paid for it.
It isn't just the NHS that is treating their employees like serfs. Just witness the recent junior doctor strikes- and I back those a hundred percent. People can't be expected to work fourteen, fifteen, twenty hours a day for seven days a week and not suffer the effects. With doctors, they aren't the only ones who pay the price: it's the patients who are put at risk. Disgusting, really. What country is this again?
So I texted Peter and told him to tell his boss that he needs to leave at four o'clock because he has to go to the dentist. I said: give an academy award winning performance, hold your jaw and look anxious. Well-the anxious part should have been easy. Did he do that? No. Why? He's afraid he will be replaced, and other areas of the government are worse to work in. So I texted him a list of great excuses to either call in sick or need to leave early. Honestly, I wrote, if they are going to treat their employees like crap, they deserve to be lied to, don't you think?
So here we go:
The dentist: you have a toothache that is so bad your head feels like it is going to explode (don't overdo it. Just work yourself up into the pain by thinking about how you are being financially abused). You are having root canal: hold the side of your jaw and think about how bloody painful it would be if you had to have root canal. Ouch.
The vet: you need to take your dog/cat to the vet. Look anxious. Don't kill the poor thing off, just say you aren't sure what is wrong. This works well (but usually only once) with a dog, cat, pot bellied pig, anything bigger than a hamster (although I do know someone who tried it with a hamster. That was very, very tricky).
Whatever you do, don't use a goldfish. That should be obvious, but I remember a workmate years ago who wanted time off and used her sick goldfish as an excuse. Nobody in the office stopped laughing for a week. Did she get time off? Heh-she's lucky she didn't get fired. Goldfish? Really?? The boss asked-before ordering her back to work. And where did she come from? Essex, of course. Where else?
Kill off someone in your family-but make sure they're already dead, because it would be rather rude otherwise (especially if they then up and die for real. You'll feel like a killer).
So: grandparents work really well (if, as I said, they are already dead-and the boss doesn't know). Of course, this will only work four times-unless you change jobs, of course.
I killed off my grandparents several times (it was okay, because they'd been dead since I was a child). I also killed off seven uncles, four godparents, four brothers, three sisters, and a few cousins. I didn't have any of those, of course-but if I had, they would have been dead. Several times over. I killed off my father, too-but he deserved it.
Always make sure you remember who died, or things could get very complicated. I remember one boss telling me that I must be the kiss of death for my family. Oh, well, I said, you'd be surprised. I left there before anybody figured it out. Really, I should have been an actress. Or a serial killer.
So that is it for now. This is Bank Holiday weekend, so if it is a holiday for you, enjoy. I'm not hitting the Kettle Chips. I'm five weeks post-op, still alive and kicking; I'm hitting the wine.
Cheers!
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