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.