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.

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.