Miracles Happen: I Survived Christmas-ho ho f***ing ho!

Ho ho f***ing ho indeed. Every Christmas is about as enjoyable as having root canal without any anesthetic. Am I being a grinch? No. It was just at Christmastime a few years ago that I decided to bail out of a miserable marriage-and marriage was a war zone, so I kept wishing I had sprinted for the exit years before. But I decided not to ruin his Christmas, and wait until the second of January to tell him it was over. Silly me-I didn't ruin his Christmas, but I did ruin mine, because I knew what was coming. And it wasn't Santa Claus.

Now every Christmas all the memories come flooding back. I've heard so many people say that I should just learn to let go of the past and live in the present. When I turn around and ask how they've managed to do that-and  they're so smug about it, too!- not a single person has given me a satisfactory answer. In fact, everyone has shrugged their shoulders and changed the subject. Maybe the answer is amnesia?

So I kept my head down this year-again-and did the Christmas card thing, and called everyone at home to wish everyone a good Christmas; my phone bill in January will probably give me enough palpitations to last until next Christmas...

I remember Christmases when I was a child, back in the Jurassic period. My house was filled with fights and cold silences-mostly fights, and, being the youngest (and smallest) I was the one who got the benefit of parental rage. I learned the hard way how to duck fast, and, when the situation arose (which was all the time), when to run and hide. Oh joy. And when I went to my friend's house for Christmas dinner one year, I discovered that not all families are the ones who put the capital "D" in dysfunction. I also learned that most families have an uncle like my friend's Uncle John: a drinker and a groper. The more he drank, the more people he groped. One year I was there and he groped his own daughter-and his wife, who was about the size of an airship, turned around and flattened him. All the kids cheered. The poor man could be seen for weeks afterwards with an eyepatch and dark glasses. What a world class shiner that was! She could have been a champion boxer.

The next Christmas, Uncle John had been to AA for some months; he was under threat of losing his family, so he decided to get help with his drinking problems. But he fell off the wagon during the year and tried to grope his dog, who promptly turned around and bit him. So he showed up for Christmas with a bandaged hand, having had seven stitches. That was one really pissed off dog. All the kids used to call Uncle John "Long John"-and we all bought him a stuffed parrot and another eye patch for Christmas. All he needed was a wooden leg. We didn't go that far, but we were tempted.

So now we are at the end of 2018, and I am so happy that I would be dancing-only my dancing days are over, since I wouldn't be dancing, I would be falling over. But I am struggling to "let go" of all the things that happened in the past year-and all the years before. It's a struggle, and I wonder how many other people are going through the same thing. I wonder. I suspect that a lot of people are facing the same dilemma on the brink of the new year.

Have I made any New Year's resolutions? Umm...why would I do that, when I end up breaking them almost immediately? But if I did bother to do that...

I was thinking about this last week, when I found myself on a bus, going through Hackney, which is one of the worst boroughs (crime-wise) in London. I noticed that the borough is redeveloping large parts of Hackney-personally I think they should just burn it down and start over. But no, they've decided to give it a facelift. What a waste of money. Hackney is a shit hole- once a shit hole, always a shit hole. There are people like that, too. We all know them.

I'm going to get moving and get out of my comfort zone, go to museums and the gym more often, keep up with the blog, and not be lazy about the fact that this is the only life I've got, and I've wasted enough of it.
No more stressing over things I can't control. And I'm only going to buy things I really need. So when one thing breaks down, I replace it, not before.

It's funny-I mean, funny as in odd, not as in humorous-that so many people go into hock at Christmas, buying things they don't need because they see a sale. I have to tell you: if someone broke into my flat with the intense desire to find anything of any value, they would be seriously disappointed. My television is a 21" tv that is about 15 years old. It's so old that it has a slot in the bottom which takes VHS tapes. Anyone reading this remember VHS tapes? Exactly. And the tape part doesn't work. If someone was stupid enough to try to carry it out, they'd get a hernia. Not only that, but all the wires to the television and the computer (newer at 12 years old, very temperamental, still on Windows XP), and the mini-stereo (ten years old and only the radio works. Sometimes.) are all jumbled together (I know. A fire hazard. Who gives a shit?), so they could start a fire, or fall and end up in hospital with a few fractures, and they'd have wasted their time taking a pile of junk. Like I said, nothing gets replaced until it breaks down and can't be fixed.

Hmmm...maybe I should advertise for someone to turn over my flat, now there's an idea. It does look like someone has already done that; in fact, it looks like a crime scene. Another resolution...they just keep coming,don't they?

Well, Happy New Year. That is something I will celebrate. 2018 was supposed to be a good year-after last year's surgery trauma-and it turned out to be one of the shittiest years of all time. But I survived it, and now I'm ready to do better in 2019.

I wish everyone a happy, healthy and prosperous 2019.  Having said that, I'm off to Starbucks. Where else would I be going:?

Hoist by One's Own Petard

I've lived here long enough to pick up a lot of the slang-God knows why, but I'm still here! And this means-basically-hung by one's own rope. Or, some vindictiveness backfires and smacks the person who planned it right in the face. Or-what goes around, comes around. Karma? What karma?

It hasn't escaped me that, since the things you think, say and do come back to bite you in the ass. I'll just take that for granted and say that I paid my dues for whatever it is I did to get to this point-and that's that. You can bet that if someone did the dirty on you, they'll pay dearly-unfortunately, payback seems to take a terribly long time...

I also love the advice that I got from my grandparents-you all know this one-always wear clean underwear, you never know when you're going to get hit by a car. And then there's: give people enough rope and they will hang themselves with it. And the best of all time-well, for the moment, anyway: set boundaries, let people know where the line is. Always. If they cross the line once, tell them off, and -only if you like them enough-let them screw it up a second time. Cross the line twice? They're idiots. A parting shot across the bow is called for. Cross the line a third time-then you're the idiot if you don't sprint for the exit.

I so wish I had taken all those pieces of advice to heart years ago, I could have saved myself so much grief. But no, I learned the hard way, repeating the mistakes over and over again. You know the definition of insanity: doing the same thing in the same way over and over again and expecting different results. Duh.

I told you the Florence (cleverly masquerading as Lil. What the hell, I'm using real names and if they find out they can sue me) story. I told you the Rob, Tara and Sandra story. And the Terry the Tosser story. So you're pretty much up to date on a few of the weirdos who live in my area. But now I've decided that my boundaries have been set-and crossed. So I say hello if I see the neighbors, but I pretty much keep to myself. That is the way of peace and quiet.

I'm changing the way I look at things, and changing the way I do things. It's been pouring over the last couple of days-so bad that (just for fun) I turned to Professor Google to see how many entries there are for building an ark. Holy crap! There are pages of ark building directions. Who knew? And I went out and walked anyway. Rain, darkness, dusk, cold weather, traffic, uneven roads-all these are warning signs for someone who has no balance system. So, of course, I decided this morning to treat this as a challenge. It was dark, pouring with rain, windy, headlights shining in my face, really uneven roads and pavements-and I just went out anyway. Either brave or stupid, whatever. But I walked for an hour and I was fine. Now I have to be not quite fine enough to be smug, because that's when I'll fall and damage something.

The bottom line is that, after more than eight and a half years, I'm still improving. There's nothing like a catastrophe to increase patience. And there's nothing like a catastrophe to show you just how strong you really are.

There's also Kettle Chips. And Starbucks. I'm starting to wish that I had bought stock in both companies years ago. Oops-missed the boat.

Now I need to start going back to the gym, and start back in Tai Chi class. And start living, because, after all, I'm not getting any younger. And-no more falling over, if that's possible.

In less than a week there will be a vote on Brexit. It still sounds like a disease, doesn't it? I'm avoiding hearing anything about it now, it's just boring, repetitive, and annoying as Hell. People ask my how I feel about it, and I'm reluctant to give an opinion (and you know by now that I have an opinion on just about everything)-because we've got a misogynist, racist, disgustingly orange halfwit in the White House, so what am I supposed to say?

I'm off to Starbucks. See you later.

And Then there was the Dressmaker's Dummy

I told you that I had to move into a disabled person's community after the gentamicin poisoning. It took me two years to be able to walk on my own without falling over every five seconds-or, maybe, every three seconds. When I was able to stand up and get out a bit, I met some of the other tenants. I coined the phrase "God's Waiting Room"-because most of the other people were in various stages of decrepitation (if that wasn't a proper word, it is now), and a few were really quite annoying. And, eight and a half years later...

I've changed the name of this little area to Purgatory. It fits. I'm always astonished at the way people who should know better spend their days sniping and bitching, moaning and whingeing, taking turns to be as nasty as they can to each other. And these guys are in their 60s, 70s and 80s. You would think they would be more mature. Really. Those of us who are a lot younger have the wisdom to hide out.

I might have told you this-in which case just blame it on a severe (and, hopefully, temporary) case of CRS (Can't Remember Shit). But I've got Terry the Tosser on one side of me, Ann-who has completely lost any marbles she might have had at one time- across the hall, and who keeps coming up to my face and telling me that her husband tried to kill her by shoving her onto a bed of nails (seriously. Nuts, or what?), and, of course, Zack the homicidal maniac right upstairs. Oh, joy. And you wonder why I get depressed? Or, rather, I wonder why I get depressed!

The person in the next building-whose property adjoins mine on one side- is called Flo. I know I called her Lil, for the sake of anonymity, but I do sometimes get confused with all this name changing stuff. Every third person in this country seems to be called Elizabeth, or Margaret, or whatever. So-correct names, it's easier. And they don't know about the blog. I have my doubts as to whether some of them are able to read.

Anyway, Flo has the hots for this carer who looked after a 94 year old man who lived next door to Flo. John went into hospital, and Kaz the carer kept going to visit Flo. I would go over there, mostly because she was very lonely on her own, so I kept her company as she reinvented herself and her past. Okay, well, Flo is delusional, too. Maybe I'm in a mental hospital but I don't know it yet.

So Flo cooks all Kaz's meals, does his laundry, buys his brandy, and lets him-get ready-sleep in her bed. I was horrified when I first heard this. After all, it is so inappropriate-plus he's got a family, and he is 20 years younger than she is. I had this awful feeling that she is being used-and she drools over him and stares at him every time he's over there. As far as I'm aware-she told me-there's no hanky panky, although she is really desperate for a shag.  It isn't the age difference, or the fact that he's married and has children, that really bothers me. It's the fact that he is so obvious about what he's doing, and when I tried to warn Flo, she snapped at me.

So what happened? Kaz went to see her one evening and told her that his company hasn't paid him, and owes him £200. She then turned around and said something about a younger man, and older woman and money entering the equation. And she told him that I said it. Nice, or what? She told me the next day, and I felt really a little sick to my stomach. I had a go at her, and she said that it wasn't a big deal. I stayed away from there for awhile, and a couple of weeks later she told me that she told him the truth. I said that if she really told him, she should tell him the truth again, but with me sitting there, so she could apologize to both of us. She asked me if I was calling her a liar, and I replied: isn't that what you are?

So that's the end of endless and mindless stories (that keep changing, because she always forgot what she told me), local gossip and occasionally really funny stories, because I knew what was real and what was obviously fantasy. That was also the end of being stabbed ruthlessly in the back and then having the perpetrator twisting the knife, just to be sure (figuratively speaking, of course).

I told my friend in Dublin, and she said that it's obvious that Flo was jealous of me, and felt threatened, even though I made it clear that Kaz isn't the kind of man I would be attracted to in a million years. When I thought about it, I realized that this is what's true. So, good luck to Flo and Kaz, I'm taking big steps-in the opposite direction.

The moral of the story? Be very careful about your associations. Be careful about meeting up with someone who clearly lives a fantasy life, and who feels threatened by anyone and everyone else. The signs were there: I chose to ignore them.

I saw my physiotherapist yesterday, and we sat and talked about how far I've come since the gentamicin nearly killed me. Cancer, and all the surgeries, the complications, the concussion, etc-I've come a tremendous way. She reminded me that I'm progressing well, even though it has taken me eight and a half years to get where I am now. And she also reminded me that I am far from finished; I've got more recovering to do, more balance I can get back. My physio lifted my spirits - I left Purgatory feeling down, but I left my physio feeling encouraged.

One day I'll be old and decrepit (well, old, anyway-hopefully), and I'll have to stop and say okay, this is enough. But that day isn't today. I've got plans-to live to 100, be completely sound in both mind and body, and be riding my Harley through Big Sur in California with my 80 year old toyboy sitting behind me. We stop to enjoy the scenery, and then I just pop my clogs.

Now that's my fantasy. And, back to reality: there's a flat white at Starbucks that's calling my name.

From Hibernation into the Fires of Hell

Okay, I know that sounds really melodramatic. I'm just being a drama queen.
And before I succumb to CRS (can't remember shit, if you are new to this blog), let me wish everyone a very Happy Thanksgiving!!

I'm celebrating, too. I have spent the last four months hiding. I usually journal every day-except when I don't, obviously. I have even left my blog for long periods at a time. And emails, texts, phone calls-I've avoided doing anything that wasn't absolutely necessary (like medical appointments).

I've called it hibernation, hiatus, sabbatical, holiday- everything but what it really was: depression. I missed holidays, birthdays (inclucing mine), Guy Fawkes Day ( what a shame that the poor guy failed when he tried to burn down Parliament. Too bad). I did only what I had to do, and then came back and just-sat. I sat. I wasn't low enough to self-harm, or even contemplate suicide, so don't anyone worry about that. I was just boringly gloomy. I didn't even clean  my kitchen-and everyone knows that, as soon as I'm pissed off, I'm cleaning. Ewww!

I thought a lot over the past couple of days, and enlisted the help of an old friend who has suffered from depression for years. And- now I understand what's been going on. For eight and a half years, it's been one thing after another, and then some.

Gentamicin nearly killed me; cancer came quickly after that; all the surgery, the treatment, three failed operations on the implants and all the complications-then this delightful year, with a severe concussion, the chest infection that left me in bed for nearly three months, and, of course, a few falls on my head.

Who wouldn't be depressed? I'm fighting my way through it, on my own, just as I've always done. I won't let it beat me. I've come this far, I won't give up now.

I have to say that I understand depression in a way that I never did before. In the past, things got me down- but not for this long. And there are so many people like my friend, who has been depressed for years.

I wish I had an answer. I'm thinking about it. Maybe I can help in some way. You all know how I love to ponder. Now I've got something important to ponder.

Meanwhile, there's turkey to ponder. Then there's Starbucks. When I start talking Starbucks, you know that I'm on the road to recovery. I just wish I had stock in the company...

Happy Thanksgiving. I can honestly say that I'll be back soon. I think I might have bored myself into recovery...

Monkey Pox

I seem to have recovered from my existential crisis-and I find myself going from the frying pan straight into the fire. When I moved into this property eight years ago (eight years. Oh my! Purgatory has lasted so long!), I was told that this was a small area for disabled people. Gentamicin disabled me; I naturally assumed that everyone else was physically disabled.

What? Hell, no!  More than a few of these people are completely bonkers. A few-okay, a lot- possibly never had marbles to lose. I sometimes feel like I'm qualified to be a special needs teacher. Or a psychologist. Or both.

My neighbor is called Lil. Her name is really Elizabeth, just like about 98% of the population (plus the guys, of course). And wherever I am, she sees me coming in, and going out. Just what I need: a geriatric female stalker. She always pounces to deliver bad news, most of which she gets by reading The Sun. It's a tabloid rag, read by most of the idiot population, and written (if you could call it that) by a bunch of functionally illiterate, pig ignorant, brain dead racist hacks. And the vast number of idiots who actually read it believe that everything printed in The Sun must be true. Think the UK's answer to the National Enquirer. Of course, Elvis, Michael Jackson and Marilyn Monroe are all really alive.

They're all together, line dancing in Venezuela (maybe I shouldn't say that. It might be tomorrow's headline).

Lil was shrieking recently over the Sun's article about-you guessed it:monkey pox. Highly contagious, it originated in Africa. Now wait for it:

Lil has the hots for two carers who work for one of her neighbors. They are half her age, m arried Iwith children, and both come from Africa. What if they've got it? What if they brought it with them? I tried so hard not to laugh. And failed. She was panicking so much, I've never seen her move so fast.

So I consulted the CNN news feed-yes, there is monkey pox in the UK, no, it's nothing to worry about, and I couldn't resist telling her to wear gloves and a mask when she's trying it on with them.

I told you: crazies! Monkey pox my little New York Presbyterian ass...

My new buzzword for bullshit: monkey pox.

Moaning Minnie and the Whingers

That would make a good name for a pop group-not as catchy as, say, Bob Marley and the Wailers, but the best I can come up with at the moment.

To explain to anyone who is new to this blog: moaning minnies, in this country, are people who complain a lot (moan). Whingeing (whinge rhymes with hinge, as in door hinge) means essentially the same thing. But, in the interests of being absolutely not politically correct, I decided to make some changes.

Moaning minnies are female. Think Minnie Mouse. Female. Exactly. Whingeing Willies are male. I've already told you about Wee Willies: I haven't done a poll to see the length and width of willies, but from all the women I know, British males are very small. Some are so small they're the size of peanuts. And less functional, too. And all they do is complain (if you had a tiny willy, you'd complain, too).

You can tell what I've been doing while I haven't been online: mostly moaning. I took this long to get back because-well, it is harder for me once I have taken time off. I decided to call it a "sabbatical". I took a lengthy sabbatical from blogging, journalling (which I did every night), emails, anything that didn't involve going to the docs for check-ups. The longer I stayed away, the more difficult it became to get back to normal life.

If I'm going to be honest about it: it wasn't a sabbatical. It was a huge bite in the ass from the black dog, and I've been really depressed since the last time I wrote. I wasn't suicidal (homicidal, maybe, but never suicidal). I didn't need any kind of medication. I had to get myself out of the really difficult downer I was on. I figured that I got myself into it, so I had to get myself out of it. And moaning didn't help-so I did my best to stay away from the moaners and the whingers. Easier said than done: it seems that just about everyone is either a moaner or a whinger. Or both.

What did I do? How do you get out of a depression once it takes hold? It was a really big bite-and the last time I was this depressed was when I got the cancer diagnosis five years ago. So - I mostly sat. Cried. Walked a lot. I need to walk every day anyway, because if I don't I will revert back to the worst of the balance problems I had before. So walking helped. I like to think that I got stronger. I certainly got more opinionated. Brexit this, Brexit that-oh, screw Brexit, I just can't be bothered any more! Do I get into political arguments like I did before? No, I don't. I've reached saturation point, where I see what's going on in the world (a scumbag in the White House! Earthquakes, tsunamis, terrorist attacks, weapons in this country like I've not seen in all the years I've lived here...a dirtbag voted into the Supreme Court...the racist anti-Semitic party ready to take over the country - that's the Labour Party for you!). The world hasn't just gone to hell in a handbasket. The world has turned to shit.

No wonder I got depressed. But I also realize that there is nothing I can do to change things; all I can do is try to keep a positive attitude, keep making jokes (as if I would ever stop), put one foot in front of the other (trying not to fall over), and keep my head down. Everything works its way out in the end. Hopefully.

Walking helps tremendously-and it's free. No gym bills, no young women in full make-up and the latest gym gear...did you ever notice how these women never sweat? They wear the latest and tightest workout gear, wear full make-up, have perfect hair-and they never sweat. Of course, they don't work out, either. They seem to spend a lot of time checking out the guys (most of whom are really, really ugly).

It must be a mid-life thing: we get to a certain age, and we go to the gym to work out and get stronger, we don't even really look (not for long, anyway. Too depressing) at anyone else, and the harder we work, the sweatier we become. I get home and think, whoa, what a workout, good for me-and then I usually can't move for two days, and then it starts all over again. At least I don't watch daytime tv instead. If you really want to get depressed, watch daytime television. It's gross.

Well, there we are, I'm back on track. I got out of my depression, although I can tell you one thing: middle age really sucks.

Grumpy and the other six dwarfs

I told you that I don't like weather that's so hot it makes my hair frizz. And I look like a very sweaty person with an afro (good look for some, but not necessarily for a white woman on an elbow crutch).

I've been very grumpy, bad tempered, pissed off...and I told you about the neighbors, and, trust me, some of them really want a punch in the face-not by me, I'm not a hitter. I do my hurling of abuse verbally, and they're too stupid to understand it anyway.

It's been that kind of situation since the beginning of June, when we suddenly got weather that could match Hell for heat. Oh, yeah-I forgot. I live in Hell. Oh, well...it is summertime, after all. Could be worse: I could be living in the middle east, and then be fighting heat and terrorists, bombs, guns, crazy people with weapons-so I consider myself lucky that I'm living here at the moment. Guns, bombs, knives, acid, all manner of weapons-come to visit London, we've got them all.

How fortunate that in eight years I've learned to duck.

The good thing-apart from the fact that we've finally had some badly needed rain, and some cooler weather (less that 80F- "cool" is relative), I had some good news on Tuesday. Actually, it was great news.

My neurologist gave my name to another radiologist-someone who is doing research on bilateral vestibular hypofunction (loss of the balance system, it took me awhile to be able to even say the technical term without tripping over it. Try to say "bilateral vestibular hypofunction" very fast-especially after a couple of glasses of wine. I dare you.)

So I got a call a couple of weeks ago from the testing neurologist (Ray), explaining that at another hospital there is research into BVH (so much easier to abbreviate!), looking at testing people who have had this condition for a long time (eight years. They're all very excited). I immediately said yes, and then on Tuesday I braved the London Underground to go to West London, walking through a cemetery to get there (easy peasy. Not a ghost in sight. And yes, I watch Supernatural).

I had enough time to cool down over a coffee before we met-a good thing, because the underground was so hot that everyone else was sweating, too. Imagine. I'm 5'3"- I come up to people's armpits. How very, very unpleasant.

Several hours later-and a lot of tests, including standing on a moving platform with a blindfold on me, I had an EEG to measure brain function. I said to Ray that I was glad that it shows that I really do have a brain. I did all kinds of things before then: standing in the dark, feet together, feet apart, same without the blindfold, looking everywhere,walking in the light then in the dark...it was tough, but I soldiered on. And the end result?

I did extremely well. I've done most of those exercises for less time, with worse results, and the moving platform did nothing to make me more secure. But Ray said that I did better than most of the other patients. They're looking for 20 so they can publish. I was number 11. And I did things that some of the other people couldn't do. I've definitely got vestibular destruction-but after eight years, I measure so much better than I did when they did the same tests six years ago. I did better than I did even when the tests were repeated three years ago. I could've hugged him (I didn't). My neurologist works there, too, not just in Queen Square; he came into the room to thank me for taking part, and said that he'll have a lot more data to provide when he sees me in October.

Even the journey back to North London in a stinky carriage that was like travelling in a sauna couldn't upset me (good thing I didn't eat anything until I got back, though. Yuck).

And I stayed away from as many neighbors as I could after that. I just did the mundane things, like cleaning and laundry. I also did my daily walk, which usually takes place very, very early (6am).

I'm being cautiously optimistic when it comes to recovery. It's been eight years; on Friday it was exactly eight years since those idiots nearly did me in. Eight very, very difficult years to reach this point. What a terrible journey! But I learned things.

I've learned how strong I am, how strong I've had to become. I get grumpy with the neighbors, all fighting among themselves and whining about how this one does this, this one doesn't do that...it's like being in a group of four year olds-only I think that four year olds probably behave better.

I go out my front door and if I turn left out of the building, someone corners me to complain about some trivia or another. Go out my door and turn left and leave the building by the other entrance, and someone else stops me with some other mindless drivel. I know that they're all much older, and some of them are even physically disabled, but hey-what do I do next, go out the window?

After Tuesday, I know that going out the window is a distinct possibility. I can probably do that now. I can even climb the fence if necessary.  But I've nailed the escape, and not by any means necessary: I put my earphones into my phone and I pretend to be having a conversation. I wave at the neighbors, talk into the phone, and just hope that nobody phones me until I get well out of the area!

So far, so good. Now I'm going to Starbucks-with earphones in, of course!

Postcards From Hell

I've gone from living in Hell to living in Hell plus. We've had a heat wave for weeks-since June-and, although we finally got some rain last week, it still wasn't enough to make a difference.The services: airlines, trains, just about anything you could name-have ground to a halt in some areas.

When the temperature rises above 20C (68F), I start to sweat. So you can imagine how delightful it's been, having more than 90 degrees for days. Actually, for weeks. I sweat. You can find me easily by just following a sweat trail. My hair frizzes to the point where I look like a white person with an afro. My friend Julie has an afro-but she's black, and, trust me, it looks much better on her.

I also get ratty-I'm really bad tempered in severe heat. So when some imbecile-and imbeciles are everywhere, this country has more imbeciles per square mile than it has rats (and there are ten rats to every person in this country, so statistics will tell you). They see someone with a stick and obvious mobility challenges, and they aim right for me. If I was quick enough, I'd give them some mobility challenges!

I told you a little about the area in which I've been living since a few months after the gentamicin poisoning. My friend Eileen (Irish, not English, so you know that she has functioning grey matter), has heard all the stories about the neighbors, and last week she said that I should put the latest ones in the blog, because nobody would really believe that it's all true. It's true. Sadly. And I'm going to use real names, because I confuse myself (and you) by forgetting who has been given which name. It's a sudden attack of what I call CRS (Can't Remember Shit). I'm cheered by the fact that I know several people who are in their 20s and 30s who suffer from the same malady. Of course, some of them are from Essex. No surprise there!!

I've been fighting the landlord since two neighbors, Rob and Ellen, approached me for help because there have been drug dealers and drug addicts doing their business right outside their windows. They went to everyone: police, antisocial behavior department, and found that everyone they approached was useless. They went to their good friend Toothless Tosser Terry (my neighbor next door, so that gives you an indication of their lack of taste and judgment). Any good? No.

I jumped in, fighting, and the results were almost immediate. Two senior directors and one policeman arrived a few days later, and looked closely at the area in question, made several promises (I'm old enough to trust nobody who makes promises-especially people who work for the government), left, and the shit hit the fan.

Apparently, Rob and Ellen-and their neighbor, Sandra, who was away when the meeting took place-told everyone how much I'd helped them, and Rob thanked me repeatedly. Terry the Tosser accused me of thinking that I did everything. I naturally told him that was true, since he did nothing for two and a half years.

To shorten a long story: Rob, Ellen and Sandra hate-and I do mean hate, as strong a word as it is-several of their neighbors down at their end of the little apartment complex. I'm at the other end, so all the fighting doesn't affect me. But did I stay out of it? Of course not. I sat for several afternoons, listening sympathetically while Rob said that he was going to kill Eamon, the noisiest neighbor from Hell. And then Rob and Sandra started to ask me to do things that they could easily do themselves: send an email to the housing people, send an email to the directors, find accommodation for Sandra's friend Caroline who has allegedly been abused by her partner for years, but has no evidence to support going to the council to be rehoused...

Next time I post I will give you a bit of background on all the little old darlings. The fact that they're all in one place and haven't killed each other is just mind boggling. It's like someone emptied the asylums and put the crazy people in with exceptionally nasty old people who have nothing better to do than spout vitriol at their neighbors while spying on them with-get this-binoculars. Yes, I did say binoculars. And I've been asking myself since May (actually since I moved in) why on earth I was put there. Of course, there was a vacancy (someone died) and the hospital was afraid that I would go flying downstairs and crack my head open (I do know how that feels.), so the borough had to find me something. It could all have been worse.

Rob and Ellen keep asking me to come over for tea. It's almost always to complain about this one, or that one, and I'm such a sucker for a sob story that I go and try to convince them to feel sorry for the other guys, since they have no other life of any consequence. No luck.

Now when I go over there, the tea comes with a request to email this one, or that one, and last week was the last straw. Would you please email the director about the fence that's going up? The man who's doing the work needs authorization. And what's wrong with him that he can't get the authorization himself? Well, you could get it more quickly.

Sometimes it takes crossing the line too many times to get me to put my foot down. I'd like to put it down on someone's head, but he's a lot bigger than I am. I can make my own tea, thanks, and when I see the new fence I just smile and say to myself that I did that. I did something for everyone who lives there. But I have done enough. As for Toothless Tosser Terry: we say hello, we're next door neighbors, but I never stop to talk. I don't talk to slime. And I truly believe that he's got testicles the size of chick peas. I'll bet they called him "needle dick" at school.

I'll tell you about everyone else next time, so you can have a good laugh. Meanwhile, I'm going to Starbucks. If I drank, I would be off to the pub. I've got a group of neighbors who are more than enough to drive anyone to drink!

Sometimes you just have to walk away...

You might be kicking and screaming-but when you've gotta go, you've just gotta go. Nobody said that life is going to be easy. Believe me. I know.

I've had a hellish time since I wrote last. For one thing, we've had a constant heatwave since the beginning of June: higher than 90F, which will amuse my friends in Florida and the east coast no end. That's probably like a cold snap in the middle of summer over there. But I am really terrible in the heat.

I like having the sun shine. I just don't like severe heat and humidity. When my hair starts to frizz (over 20C or 68F), I start to sweat. And I do mean sweat. I don't glow, I don't have a lovely sheen, I leave a sweat trail wherever I go. That isn't a nice look, trust me. And my balance pays the price, as does my vision. I also get very ratty. I've got a short fuse anyway; when I'm too hot and sticky, I've got no fuse at all. If there's any air conditioning, I will find it. But this is England, and they finally woke up to the importance of not having everyone dying of heat stroke, so the big stores have a/c. I can always tell someone who is inside wandering around, picking up stuff but not buying anything; they're the ones who are suffering from the heat and trying desperately not to keel. over. I'm one of them. Misery doesn't always love company.

Between the severe heat, the humidity, and the ugliest people you have ever seen practically walking around naked, it's been a very unpleasant few weeks. I'm looking forward to cooler weather (if I don't melt into a puddle on the ground first)-then I'll be moaning about it being too cold. I promise I won't. If I want to moan about cold weather, I'll remember this summer from hell and I'll keep my mouth shut-and be grateful.

I said that sometimes you have to just know when to walk away-and go, even if you're kicking and screaming, because there is no point in fighting a losing battle.This has been that kind of month.

I helped my neighbors, who were having a terrible problem with drug addicts and dealers doing their business right outside their windows. Terry Two Face, my obnoxious and revolting next door neighbor, kept strutting around (still does, too-like a demented peacock. Or, rather, cockroach), telling everyone that he is in charge, but doing nothing except expelling a lot of hot air. So when these neighbors (his friends, sadly) asked me for help, I couldn't say sod off and make Terry do something. I knew that he's completely incompetent, so I started emailing the people in charge, and less than a week later, those in charge paid us a visit.

Things are happening. A security light was put on the wall outside these neighbors' windows, and it switches on when someone walks by. Yay. Success. It's a beginning, but the beginning of some security that is needed in an area where the residents are disabled.  Am I proud of myself? Yes, and I worked hard for eight weeks (nearly nine) to make it happen. But...

I got a repeated thank you from Pete and his girlfriend, but not from anyone else. I didn't expect a thank you, I didn't do anything for thanks. But Pete and Teresa contact me every time they need something. When they ask me to come over for a cup of tea, there's always a motive. Always. Their neighbor is called Sandra, and the drug problem was happening outside her kitchen window. So you would think that she would say thanks-just as a matter of courtesy. No, she didn't acknowledge me at all. But she is good friends with Terry Two Face, and we don't speak at all, so there's no surprise at all. Only-last week I got a text from Pete. Come for a glass of wine (it was Friday evening). And I didn't feel like going over there, because I had a feeling that there was an agenda in place. How right I was.

Pete was very insistent. Please come for just one glass. So I went (if a sucker is born every minute, I must have been born twice). No sooner than I sat down, Teresa poured the last glass of wine from the fourth bottle that was out on the table. Sandra was there, so was her friend Carole, and everyone was pretty wasted. They'd been drinking for hours, they said. Teresa poured the wine and immediately told me that Sandra's friend is constantly battered; could I help get her a place nearby. They all started, singing my praises, saying that if anyone could help, it would be me.

To shorten a long story: Carole has no documentation, no police reports, photos, doctor's reports, or evidence of any kind. And I first met Carole two years ago, and it was the same story then, and hasn't changed in two years.

Well, I said that she needs proof: documentation, witnesses, GP's report, police reports...I said that she has to do things in the proper order, because she also said that if anyone put her in a hostel, she would kill herself. I listened to all this crap for over two hours, and then I made my excuses and left.

The point of the story? My neighbor Ellen, who is 85 and very wise (not wise enough to quit smoking when she has COPD), stopped me the next day and told me that I shouldn't let these people use me. Did I tell her the story? No, I did not. But she knows that several people have come to me, moaning about things that are broken, or don't work, or should be changed...Ellen said that it's the people who are trying to save the world (even a small part of it), who want to help everyone who needs it (if they can), who are used and then thrown away. She pointed out that people don't like the renegades of the world, even though the renegades are the ones who create change in the world. People who push, who forge ahead regardless of opposition, who make things happen-they're the ones people don't want as friends, or to socialize with because they're only useful when they can do something for someone else.

Ellen finished by saying that I'm looking very pale and stressed, and that I need to stop what I'm doing and start doing the things that I enjoy. Let the users take action themselves, she said. And that was that.

So, after nearly nine weeks of being up to my eyeballs in the neighbor situation, I am taking Ellen's good advice and I'm walking away. She is right. I've had quite enough of being used. All these people are old enough to do things themselves. If they're not willing to do that-well, don't come to me and expect me to stop living and help them. They can shove their flattery and platitudes up their asses-not that I didn't realize what was going on, because I can spot an agenda from a mile away. But be honest. Play nice. And fuck off.

So there you go. It's so hot outside, that you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. And if you're really either stupid or crazy, you could probably eat it, too.

I'll be back soon. I'm on my way to Starbucks. It's air conditioned.

The Nuns and Me

Yes, you read it right: the nuns and me. Me-and the nuns.

Last week I went to a Benedictine abbey in Kent. One of my yoga acquaintances-Mary-told me about this place a few weeks ago, and I had a free week (what? Wonders will never cease), so I decided to go along. What an experience!

I sang in the church choir (Presbyterian. Not a nun in sight) when I was growing up, and that was about all I wanted when it came to religion. As soon as I got my little backside out the door to go off to college, I stopped the whole Sunday church thing. What a relief that was! I couldn't justify all the things going on in the world with the church teachings-neither could any of my college friends, so everyone rejected Western religion and crossed over to Buddhism.

Then I decided that any kind of religion was just a means of someone trying to control everyone who bought into the dogma, and I rejected Buddhism, too. I decided that when I want to talk to God, I don't need some middle man. I dial direct.

With this in mind, I went to the abbey with Mary. And there they were: the nuns. And here I was: a heathen. It only got a little tricky when it came to going to all the services. There were a lot of services. I went to one, and that was enough. I don't know psalms, or hymns, or when to stand, when to bow, when to sit...so I followed everyone else. Oh, boy, it was really awful. We were in the guest chapel, and all the nuns were around the corner in the main chapel, so I did what the other guests did. And when I left the chapel, I felt like I'd been granted a parole.

The nuns I met were lovely. Honestly, we had tea together, and they wanted to find out a little about us-and I wanted to find out a little about them, too. Some things you just don't ask (like sex, for example), but I was very careful. And no swearing, obviously. I wonder if nuns ever swear? What do they do when they just don't like each other? Nobody likes-or is liked by-everyone. Perhaps next time. This was a missed opportunity for me to find out about a nun's life-if any of them would tell me. We all kept it impersonal.

So that was my week last week. And Mary, whom I now call "motor mouth", never stopped talking. Ever. Even in the guests' lounge, a place where you weren't supposed to talk, she talked non stop. About nothing. Verbal diarrhea-terminal, with her. It drove me around the bend. I had to walk into the little village to get away from her-and spent a lot of time in my room, just for some peace and quiet. The only time she shut up was during prayers; I looked forward to those because I knew I would get some peace.

Am I going back? Yes-in August, but by myself. I'm not telling Mary that I'm going. She did ask if I would be coming back-and I'd already booked, and the booking sister was sitting with us, but what a star: she said nothing when I said that perhaps I'd be back in the autumn.

Still, I recommend going on a retreat-by yourself!- to a place like an abbey, where nobody pushes you to go to prayers, where the grounds are beautiful, the buildings around 400 years old (the guest quarters were renovated around 2 years ago, so that was pretty great), and it's so quiet and peaceful that you can meditate, unwind, relax, and recover from the pace of the city.

And I still don't know one psalm from another. But I do know my Kettle Chips. I got back and knocked back a flat white from Starbucks, and scarfed an entire bag of salt and balsamic vinegar Kettles in one sitting. I'll probably be damned.

The Curious Case of the Organ Grinder's Monkey-the Dressmaker's Dummy

Ah, the organ grinder's monkey. In this case, I called him the dressmaker's dummy. Same thing, really.

I do remember advising you to always bypass the monkey and go straight to the organ grinder if you want to ever get anything done. Even the middle-aged malady I like to call CRS (Can't Remember Shit) hasn't touched that one- and last week was a prime example.

Some neighbors came up to me and asked for my help. Now, my ex used to call me "Muggins"-meaning that I was always a soft touch for anyone who wanted anything (until I divorced him. Then he called me a lot of names that I won't repeat here). It's possible that I have always been a softie-or, rather, a sucker-for a hard luck story.

I went around to my neighbor's place and heard the most unbelievable story about drug dealing and drug taking just outside their back window. There are two flats with windows facing a fence, and the area is very secluded. So local addicts and dealers jump a low fence and go out there and do their thing. My neighbor has been trying to get a better fence to stop this from happening. And I saw all the documented evidence that showed me how many times both neighbors have contacted the police, the landlord-anyone who would help. But nobody helped. And now comes the good part...

My next door neighbor is called Terry. I call him Two-faced Terry (or, two-faced tattooed Terry), because he kept pestering me to do all his computer work (no please. No thank you. No nothing. Just demands, as if he was entitled to all my work), and when I finally told him that he needed to learn how to do it all himself, he demanded to know why he should, since I would do it all for him. So I stopped. I said no. And then he stopped talking to me, and spent a lot of time saying a lot of very nasty things about me. Now, Terry has a personality disorder, which he tells everyone who will listen is caused by brain damage, which in turn is caused by someone putting an axe in his skull. Ummm...seriously? And he tried it on for years: let's go to the cafe for a cup of tea, or how about a walk in the park..whatever. Eww...he's got no teeth, he's ugly, not very bright, and just-yuck. You know what they say: shit happens. Sometimes it lives next door...

Terry, because he desperately wants attention, and wants everyone to suck up to him, took it upon himself to try to ingratiate himself to everyone in this little community. He decided to go to the housing manager-then to the local councillor-to get this fence for his friends. So he finally got the fence built: a horizontal wooden fence in the wrong place, making it easy for anyone to climb over the thing. Horizontal. Like a climbing frame with wood thick enough for the addicts to rest their drugs on while they shoot up.

Well-Ray and Tanya asked me if there is anything I can do to start the process going; they would carry on afterwards themselves. I said that I would see what I could do, but I would see the whole thing to the end, because I don't start things and not finish them. Activist for life, I guess...

I emailed the CEO of the local authority, and the Director of Properties, and I got a very nice email back. I had suggested that the management come down to the community to see exactly where the problems were. I got a return email several hours later, and we emailed each other a few times to set up a meeting. This was on Monday.

On Friday morning the management-and the police-arrived to see the problems I mentioned. All I had to say was "drugs"-plus "disabled people" and "lawsuit" and they all sprinted down on Friday to have a look. Unfortunately, Two-Face Brain Damage nearly hijacked the meeting, by trying to tell the managers how wonderful he is, and how he trained 30 gardeners (numbers raised exponentially from the two he told me about when I first met him. A baby boom, perhaps. Or delusions-more likely).

I had pre-warned the managers just before Terry burst out of his front door to take over, so they knew what was going on. Long, sad story that I'll just leave you to imagine.

The outcome? The fence will be torn down, the area will be secured by the kind of fence (metal, vertical, hard to climb over) that should have been put there in the first place, and there will be CCTV to ensure the safety of all the residents.

The managers thanked me. Ray (the neighbor) thanked me. Terry cursed at me-as if I care. Terry gets my nomination for dressmaker's dummy-monkeys are too cute and too intelligent for me to insult them, even though they aren't organ grinders.

So that brings you up to date. I was unwell, but I haven't been bone idle. And when the whole thing is settled and all the work has been done, I'm just going to walk away. I didn't do all the work for thanks (good thing, because I didn't get much), I did it to help everyone. I won't be feeling a sense of accomplishment until everything that has been promised has been delivered.

Sometimes you just have to get off your little ass and take a stand, and put up a fight for your rights-and your safety. But you also need to know when to walk away.

I think that this will be my last attack of jumping in and protecting people's rights (and safety). I'll just live my life, and reward myself with Kettle Chips and Starbucks. Speaking of which....

Scrounger Marries Parasite: Welcome to the Family Business

Eight weeks since the onset of this bloody chest infection-and I'm not dead yet. It only felt that way-especially after four weeks of whacking my system with very strong antibiotics.

I didn't get online since the last time I wrote-there wasn't anything to say, except how I felt like a sweaty bag of shit with a horrendous cough that sounded like I was about to cough up at least one lung. Nope-no luck there, I still have both. And, after some heavy duty lung function tests, I discovered that my lungs didn't suffer from the infection. See that? Miracles happen. There is a God.

Of course, I missed the scrounger marries parasite Windsor dog and pony show of the other weekend. Like many, many people I know (there are intelligent people in this country-and I thought I knew all of them!), we all felt dishonored by these greedy so called "royals". Why did the taxpayers have to cough up more than 32 million pounds to pay for this wedding, when the old girl (you know. Her maj. The queen who now is demanding an increase in the funds she gets from the taxpayers. Or-the suckers) could have (and should have) paid for it herself?

They had the effrontery to issue a statement thanking the public for their support. Yeah-they did stop short of thanking the suckers for paying all their bills, when they could have paid everything themselves. This is one thing (of many things) that brings up my blood pressure. People are dying. The NHS is imploding, it is in a right mess; very sick people are denied life saving drugs because there "isn't enough money". What a load of old bollocks (one more for the swear box). There's money. It's being wasted, and people do nothing (because they're stupid). Dump the greedy parasites who call themselves "royals". Stuff their attitudes of entitlement and use some of their ill gotten gains to save the lives of people who have lived and worked in this country, and now are being - well, betrayed. All these tossers are the products of hundreds of years of inbreeding anyway. Who needs them? People go to France, and the French don't have a royal family. They've got the best wine (outside California. Some loyalty here!), the best cheese, and as for the fashions-no, I'm not going to make any more enemies than I have already.

So I've now given the "royals" a lot more blog space than they deserve. No, I didn't watch the wedding, I didn't hear anything on the radio because I wasn't listening, ignored the tabloids sucking up to the tossers-except that I did hear on the news (accidentally, a few days after the ridiculously opulent event) that the badly aging George Clooney and his trophy wife were there. Of course they were; if they got paid enough money and got enough publicity, they would go to the opening of a public toilet. And the newscaster gushed about Clooney's wife wearing a mustard colored dress. Mustard looks great-on a hot dog.

So now I'm back. I did the whole "let's go to all the clinics and physio at the hospital" thing, and I just have to put one foot in front of the other and do my best not to fall on my head again. Believe me when I say that I am erring on the side of caution, whatever I do.

There is good news, though. I received my five year all-clear from the oncologist last week. That's five years since the double mastectomy-and with a few scares notwithstanding, I'm free of cancer. I can stop the tamoxifen. The side effects should all disappear: my hair should grow back, my skin return to normal, no more night sweats, moodiness, and, of course, the memory. I told you that the memory is one of the first three things to go. I forgot what the other two are.

~Tamoxifen has also affected my bone density. Personally, I think I would rather have thin and brittle bones than have cancer. I got the all clear, came back to the house, and cried. Then I went and celebrated: Kettle Chips. Starbucks. Even a little Lindt's chocolate truffles. And I called everyone who is important to me to tell them the news.

I haven't had a life for eight years: first, the gentamicin. Next, cancer. Now it's all changing.
Will I still take pot shots at the Brits? Oh, hell, yes. I had so many years of being on the receiving end-and being married to one of them, I had to watch everything I said. Not any more. Taking pot shots-well, it's become something of a hobby. Let's face it: it's so very well deserved!!

I'm back. I'm pretty healthy, all things considered. And-I'm off to Starbucks. I need the exercise...

Return of the less-than-exploding head-finally

After three months, the head is actually fine. The lungs, though, are another story. It turns out that the whacking big dose of antibiotics cured the problem, although they'll probably end up killing the host. I've been scanned, irradiated, poked, prodded, blood letted and magnetized up the wazoo. And I'm still here. Obviously only the good die young. If that's the case, I should live forever. Or it'll seem like forever. I want to be around for a very long time- years and years left so I can really piss people off.

I'm back on form-I hope. People are dropping like flies from a very nasty flu bug that's going around, so I've been avoiding everyone as much as possible. And now I can start living again.

Everyone here is geared up for the scrounger marries parasite in a couple of weeks time. We not only are getting the local elections and all the crap about Brexit rammed down our throats-plus the news that there are shootings in this country-shootings, stabbings, acid attacks, things that now (according to the government) place London in front of New York when it comes to crime-we are also getting the scrounger marries parasite wedding rammed down our throats, too. My friend has the right idea: she's going off to Budapest that weekend, so she gets to avoid the whole circus. Me, I'll be in hiding.

I'll cover all that in my next post. This one is to let people know that I'm not dead yet. I told you: only the good die young. Allegedly. So I'm off to Starbucks -where else?- and I'll see you next time. Next time will be tomorrow.

Hijacked! And who moved that wall,anyway?

Nope-not dead yet. Nearly, but not quite. I got hijacked, but not by people. Or aliens-although that would have been a more amusing story. I got hijacked by pneumonia. Sad, but true.

I was all set to wish everyone a happy Easter-but I got caught in freezing rain, got a nasty chill-and spent the past two weeks (nearly three) in bed, unable to get up, wheezing badly and coughing so hard you would think that the noise was someone revving up a tractor. Imagine how it sounded-imagine how it felt...

So on Easter Sunday I could already feel that I was ailing-but I chose to ignore it, thinking that it would just go away. Numpty. It never just goes away. And I decided to take myself to the movies, because that usually makes me feel better. I got up out of the seat after the film finished, had tremendous trouble walking, got to the screening room door, walked out-and walked straight into a wall. Nose first. Poor nose!

I didn't hurt myself-I was moving too slowly for that- but I confess that I staggered and stumbled all the way home. I call it "pinballing"-I move like I'm about to topple over, and have to hold onto anything that isn't moving. Pinballing. I got home, and - what a wuss! - I started to cry. It was terrible. I sounded like I would be coughing up at least one lung at any time. And I went to bed and couldn't get up for a week.

I did see my GP last week-finally. She told me that I should have called an ambulance, that I should be in hospital. Huh. I might as well have talked to a two by four. So I started on my back up antibiotics, which didn't help, and changed my infusion appointment.

The short (er) version: I went to see the immunology people on Monday, got checked out, had my infusions, bloods drawn (they did leave me with a teaspoon of blood, as a courtesy, I think), swabs, and they decided that I've got pneumonia. So I've got stronger antibiotics for the next two weeks, and that should kill anything-probably me, too.

The upside: once I start coughing, people get out of my way. Even the idiots who aim straight for me tend to move when I start coughing in their direction. Yippee.

Now I'm starting to get back to life. This is the first time I've been online since I got sick, and I haven't been walking, which doesn't help the balance (such as it is). It has let me know that I am still vulnerable. In fact, people who are born with CVID (dud immune systems) are more prone to lymphoma. Of course, they had to gleefully tell me this on Monday, and they've scheduled scans of the lymph nodes, because mine are swollen. I vote no to lymphoma. Enough is enough, after all.

I went to Starbucks earlier-first time since before I got sick. I'm obviously on the mend if I can go to Starbucks. It's even sunny out-and this is England. So miracles do happen, and there is a God! (maybe)

The joys of hanging upside down-if you're a bat. Or a monkey.

I'm actually able to see to blog. I'm actually able to see to walk. Miracles happen. I had the second journey on the upside down chair-which looks suspiciously like it came out of Men in Black 3. If you know the film, you'll know the chair-only this one is white. And the person who does the hanging has to do it manually.

I'm told that the thing is on loan from somewhere in France. They lend the hospital the chair, and all the data goes back to France. Fair deal. I suspect that whoever invented the chair is the same person who invented the speculum. And all women know what a joy that is!

This week has been relatively quiet-except for the news, which is filled with more terrorist attacks and more stabbings. Children as young as ten are being arrested for stabbing other people. Stabbings, shootings, acid attacks, and just plain, ordinary beating the crap out of other people. It's like the wild west-and they smugly tell us all that the US has more crime than Britain. Hmmm.....

I now have an MRI coming up next week-two, actually. I've bashed my knee (by falling) so many times since the gentamicin debacle that I've lost track. Now some genius thinks that it's so damaged, it needs replacing. As if. I asked what people used to do before the (very lucrative) advent of knee surgery. I was told that they suffered. And limped. I'll limp. I'll pass. When it comes to the medical profession in this country, I've learned a very hard and painful lesson: never trust anyone. They're like lawyers. I don't trust them, either.

I went to see my acupuncturist friend on Thursday. It's a long journey: about 3 hours each way, sometimes more if there's traffic. But it's been worth it. I've now been twice since my spectacular fall on my head, which was seven weeks ago (yeah, I'm counting. These are things you don't forget easily). And it's helped with the headaches and the extra dizziness. Even the chair helped with the extra dizziness-and the wobbling eyes. So, I'm on the mend, although two consultants told me this past week that it's going to be a long road back. There are a few consultants whose opinions I trust. I've now seen all three, and they all say the same thing: you did WHAT??? Yeah, I know. I could have made better choices. But I didn't. Boohoo.

Part of a major concussion (so I'm told by the neurologists) is the tendency to be depressed and fearful: fearful of it happening again without warning (like last time), and depression, because this has been a major setback. But also I've been noticing things again. I notice other people. I notice my surroundings. I begin to notice as much as I can, and then I get depressed-because I can feel my life whizzing by, and I don't feel like I've accomplished much. I've developed this underlying dissatisfaction with my life-and watching the news (or reading it, or hearing it) makes everything substantially worse.

Today the students who survived the most recent killings over in the States have mobilized-and there are around 500,000 demonstrators who are in Washington today, protesting against the incumbent moron and his pals in the NRA-and government-who pay lip service to being upset over needless killings but yet do nothing to change the laws to stop it.

And now we have shooting crimes here, too. And nobody does anything. It really hurts me to see what is happening in my own country, and it hurts even more to know that we could have elected a baboon and it would have done a better job. What is going on with this world, I ask.

Best to keep our heads down and just get on with the business of living, being cautious but not paranoid, and taking every day and living it to the best of our ability. Am I able to do that? I've never been able to do that! I'm still looking at the past and the future, and forgetting that the present is the only thing that matters.

Wasn't that deep...enough philosophizing, I'm off to Starbucks.

And I'm going to blame all this over-thinking on the concussion. What the hell, I'm going to milk that for all it's worth!

One Damned Thing After Another

Someone told me that Churchill said that. How right he was! I'd shake his hand and tell him so-but he's dead. One damned thing after another.


I was hoping to bring you up to date last week-but that was another week from hell. I'd been contacted by Colin, who's the one who hung me upside down in the now famous chair. I had an appointment to have it done a second time last Friday, seeing the physiotherapist first. That would have been a bit scary-it was a bit scary, since I had two weeks of severe dizziness after the first time.


But-on Monday, I got a call from one of the immunology nurses. I have to say that I wasn't really surprised, given the state of the NHS. The immunoglobulin that I have been taking every two weeks for the past-eight or nine years, it's been so long, I don't remember (I'll blame the forgetfulness on the concussion. Believe me when I say that I'm going to milk that for all it's worth), is being discontinued. Everywhere. Nobody can get it anywhere in this country. Why? Too expensive. So they're opting for one that is much cheaper.


As you can imagine, I was really upset. I was even more upset at the nonchalance of the nurses, who just said that I shouldn't worry, I'll be fine with it; if this one is problematic, they said, we'll try another one. Cheap is cheap. Ah, "you'll be fine". That's what they said about the gentamicin. And that didn't work out so well, did it? I said that-and I repeated it several times, until I went to the hospital to have my last ever Kiovig infusions. Next time I go onto the cheap stuff. Maybe I should take this opportunity  to make a will.


I even emailed my immunology consultant-who couldn't be bothered to reply. Doctors: so quick to charge, so quick to line their pockets-but so unwilling to even email a worried patient outside office hours. They don't get paid for it. Am I cynical? Hell, yes-but also truthful.


To add insult to injury, on Wednesday all my services went down. No wi-fi, No broadband, television, phone, nothing. I could only message people on whatsapp if I walked outside. I rang Virgin Media, and all their call centres are outside this country, in places where they don't speak English very well (if at all. Cheap labor). I finally got through to someone who did some diagnostics and told me that the router is no good. They'd send me another one, which I would get on Friday.


Thursday I had the frank and open discussion with the immunology team, and my infusions. Friday I went to the other hospital to see Emma, my physio. When I told her that I had a 2pm appointment with Colin, she said that she was going to find him to see if he could do the chair more quickly. Bless him, my appointment with Emma was for 8:30- and Colin did my test before his first patient, which meant that I was hung upside down just before 9am. It all scared the crap out of me-again-but the good thing was that it showed that the chair dangling really works. Everything that had shifted in the fall was moved back again. I could have hugged him, but he would have had a coronary.


Then I had to get back home, and that was no joy. I wasn't as dizzy as I was the first time, but I still had trouble getting back without falling over. That's twice now that I got in the door and congratulated myself on staying upright for the journey-which was very long, since I had to keep stopping until I felt that I could move ahead without cracking my head open again. But I did it. Not only that, but I wasn't sick everywhere. I did ask Colin if anyone had every been sick after being upside down. He said that only one person-out of 200-had been really sick. And he looked a little concerned. I said that I didn't feel sick either time, only dizzy. He was reassured-but still couldn't wait until I left. Just in case!


And the router-ah, the router! Virgin sent me a hub, with no instructions, but no white router. I had to ring them again, and I was told that I don't need a separate router, it's all in one hub now. Thanks for telling me, guys. Only the hub didn't work (I did say that this was the week from hell, and it was just one damned thing after another!!).


So I had to wait until yesterday for the Virgin technician to bring another hub and hook it up-and he waited, just to be sure that this one was working. I went from Wednesday to Monday with no services-and I was really irritated.


Isn't it odd that we were able to go for years without mobiles, internet, whatsapp, social media, Google (I still call it the Great God Google, because I use it so often), and now when the systems are down we don't know what to do with ourselves? Anyone else find that a little worrying?


What did we do when we didn't have all these conveniences? We used the telephone. We wrote letters. We had social contact with each other. It seems like it was a simpler (and cheaper) world.


And I still have this bloody concussion-induced headache, some pain where I hit the floor, and all the side effects that go with a serious head injury. Nothing was broken, but everything was severely shaken, and I'm back to having some of the problems I had years ago. That just tells me to be more cautious, not to do stupid things or take silly risks. I just blame the memory thing on the concussion-or on middle-aged CRS (can't remember shit). Whatever works.


Now it's Tuesday, seven weeks after my head banging episode, and I'm off to Starbucks. I've got wi-fi. I've got Google. Life goes on.

Buckle Up: the Art of Hanging Upside Down

I survived another week-and I managed to stay upright. Oh, joy. But-I received a call from the hospital on Thursday, telling me to come in next week for another session with the dreaded chair. Dangling upside down again should put everything that was shaken loose back into place. Hopefully. Then I'll be back to the usual balance problems, but they will-again, hopefully-improve with time. Hopefully. Maybe. Perhaps. We'll see.

I was told a few weeks ago that I should get as much rest as possible, to allow the head to heal. I still have a lump on the back of my head, but the headaches aren't nearly as bad as they were a month ago. And-it's been five weeks since my head-banging incident. I have been thrown out of the Tai Chi class, as you know-but really, that's a good thing. I felt very conspicuous when I made an attempt at a comeback two weeks after it all happened. I'm a bit infamous there, so at least I can wait awhile and then find another class somewhere else. Thanks to the Great God Google, I've been looking.

I know that I'm on something resembling the mend when I'm getting impatient to do things. If I get any more laid back, I might just ripen and rot. I'm not a sitting at home and learning to knit kind of person. I'd love to be able to knit, but-forget it, there would be a great deal of blood loss and swearing. So needlework isn't for me. I'm still trying to figure it out-especially since the concussion has caused me to really tire easily. My get up and go has got up and gone. But I'll figure it out. Eventually. I'm certainly mindful of the fact that I'm very, very lucky-this could have been so much worse. Someone is looking out for me.

Attack of the Beast From the East

Good name for a bad movie title. But no, the Beast from the East is what people were calling the horrendous weather coming over from Siberia. As much as I make fun of the way the Brits handle (or don't, as the case may be)a millimetre of snow on the ground, or a leaf on a railroad track-last week was something else.

Snow was just dumped everywhere in the country. Scotland got hit the worst-but everyone felt the cold, the wet, the ice. I was snowed in for a few days last week-but I risked life and limb by going out on two occasions, just to the supermarket, which looked like there had been a bomb dropped on it. Shelves were empty. I also walked down the middle of the road to get there, figuring that I wasn't going to take my chances on the icy pavements. I slid a few times-but didn't fall over. Miracles do happen.

The Beast from the East...I'm still amazed that people are paid to make up these titles. Huh.

Now it's a week later, and we have - rain. What a shock that isn't! But the aftereffects are noticeable everywhere, with people in places in London who have no water (broken pipes), What a mess.

Now it's been five weeks since my rather spectacular catapulting myself into unconsciousness. The week before last, I went to the neurology hospital to see my vestibular specialist. It was supposed to be a routine visit-but I told him what happened, and he examined me thoroughly, and told me that I am very lucky that I didn't have worse damage. Then he suggested ---the chair.

The chair is on loan from somewhere in France, I think, The object is to strap the patient in (seriously), wire the poor unsuspecting fool up to a computer-and then turn the patient upside down. Yes, I did say " upside down". All the data is passed to the computer, and this is supposed to help normalize a problem known as BPPV-which I never had before, but happens when you fall and scramble your brain. Think scrambled eggs, and you're pretty close.

So I got strapped in, wired up-and then blindfolded. I asked whether I was going to be electrocuted-honestly, the thing was scary. And the two techs kept telling me to keep my eyes open. In the dark. I heard clanking, and banging, and thumping-then over I went, first on the left side, then on the right.I spent a long time upside down. They did ask me how I felt. I said: I'm upside down, how do you think I feel?"

So it's two weeks since the dreaded chair, and a week since everyone fought the beast-and I have to go once more to get another visit with the chair. My head is better than it was five weeks ago, and thank goodness that it's five weeks later. But I still have extra vertigo, and another go with the chair should fix that. Allegedly. As long as they don't drop me on my head.

Okay, so I know that I had a very lucky escape, and that'll teach me that not everybody loves a smart ass. I shouldn't have done the class. And I have been kicked out of Tai Chi. I saved that for last.

Matt, the instructor, told me not to come back until he could speak to my consultant and discuss whether or not I can do the exercises. He has no medical training, what the hell!

I said no-he has no right to that information.So that was the end of Tai Chi. But I can find classes elsewhere, so that's what I'll be doing. For now, I'm just going to-Starbucks, where else??

The Art of Remaining Upright

I had a few close calls this last week-but I managed not to fall on my head, which was, for me, an amazing achievement. I kept telling friends that I should invest in a helmet and an American footballer's uniform-lots of padding, just in case. That didn't go down well with the Brits, who just didn't get it. No surprises there.

I managed to go to Tai Chi on Tuesday. I was nervous about it, and very nearly turned around and came back. But I decided that I was extra dizzy and worried because I was frightened, and not because of the concussion. So I forced myself to go. Embarrassed? Yes, I was: not everyone just stands there one moment and keels over backwards the next. And this was in a class of more than forty people, so I felt like an absolute prat. A prat with a bloody concussion.

I saw the instructor, said that I would do the warm up exercises, and then carry on in the beginners' class-and if I felt dizzy I would just sit down and watch. That, I think, made him feel a bit more secure. And that was what I did: the warm up exercises, but gently, and the beginners' class, and in the middle of the class I had to sit down. It's really amazing how much I have forgotten, too. In the intermediate class I was busy following other people-and the ones who knew the most were also the tallest, so that didn't work out so well. I would need stilts to be able to see what they were doing. Happily, I wasn't the only one who got confused.

At the end of the class, the instructor-who was visibly relieved at the fact that I hadn't fallen over and cracked my head on the floor-came over to me and asked how I felt. I told him that I nearly hadn't come to class, that I was actually frightened. He replied that he was frightened, too. A few more weeks of staying upright in class-and out of class, for that matter-and things will change for the better. Hopefully.

I did get some very, very upsetting news when I went along to the hospital for my infusions. Now, for those of you who are new, I get immunoglobulin (antibody) replacement every two weeks (intravenously). This has been going on since I discovered that I have a hereditary condition known as CVID (the Great God Google does a really good job here-as does Wikipedia, who got it spot on and surprised me no end). I don't have the genes that provide a functioning immune system. One out of every 50,000 people is born with this condition. It isn't contagious. I can only pass it on to my child-so I'm glad I prefer dogs to humans. No child to have to suffer.

Yes, the news...the Royal London (remember them, they're the people who crippled me-and very nearly killed me) immunology team (run by the two incompetent cripplers, Hilary Longhurst and Sofia Grigoriadou) decided that too many people were coming into the unit, and the doctors and nurses were overloaded with work. You'd think that the cripplers were loving it, since it meant a lot more money for them, and more people to try to kill-but no, they wanted a smaller workload. So what they decided to do was have specialist nurses come to treat patients at home. Since the NHS is in a state of disrepair (to put it extremely mildly!), this would save money: fewer staff in the ward, less of a traffic jam...

Now my hospital is preparing to do the same thing: specialist nurses who will come to patients' homes to administer medication. There are people in the immunology unit who have poorly functioning immune systems (or no immune systems) who had them destroyed by chemotherapy, all manner of drugs, all kinds of adult onset diseases- and they will soon be treated at home. I've been told that they want me to do the same.

My response? When Hell freezes over. I will not be doing intravenous anything to myself. Ever. There would be a lot of swearing and blood loss, I can tell you. Plus, this means that the nurse would either have to stay with me for four hours, or keep coming back to change bottles of medicine-and then finish up. No thank you.

I was very, very clear: if that is what they want to do, I will either change hospitals or stop having antibody replacement (not such a good idea, because that is the quickest way to kill me-the only quicker way to kill me is to put me in the care of Longhurst and Grigoriadou).

So, that brings us up to date. The marvelous NHS was a good idea in its' time-but now, it is just falling apart. There are drugs that will help people with all kinds of serious diseases, but they are too expensive. I wonder when the lives of people became less important than the amount of money in doctors' bank accounts.

Iceland is looking better and better every day...I wonder if they have Starbucks over there. And Kettle Chips. I would move tomorrow. Or, maybe, now...

Greetings from the exploding head

A week makes a huge difference when it comes to a head injury-well, it's made somewhat of a difference, anyway. Last week I was in excruciating, screaming, head-exploding pain-enough to make me sit and hold my head in my hands and sob uncontrollably. Anyone walking past my door probably thought I was being murdered.

Did I remember my homeopathic remedy of choice-arnica, which I've been using for bruising and any other injuries for years and years? No, I did not. I think that when you are suffering from any kind of injury, those things just disappear from your consciousness. Perhaps it's then okay to have a couple of days of dripping with self-pity. Drip, drip, drip-I did that, then got so bored, I got up and risked another fall by going outside and walking. Carefully.

One neighbour saw me clearly in distress-so I just said I fell and concussed myself. She went on to remind me that some actress had a bad fall while skiing, and died of a brain haemorrhage. Then she went on to say-as if that wasn't quite enough-that a couple of years ago, her neighbour fell and broke her hip, and that triggered Alzheimer's Disease, so she soon had to be carted off, never to be seen or heard from again.

That's what I really treasure: dynamic, positive thinking from neighbors who are determined to scare the living crap out of you. Wow-whatever floats their boat, I guess. Did I let it all scare me (which was clearly my neighbor's intention)? Of course not. I just rolled my eyes-which nearly made me fall over-and started walking along my usual route. You're doing too much with a head injury, she called after me. Thanks for the concern, I said, and just kept going.

I'm supposed to be laid back for a couple of weeks, checking that the symptoms don't get worse. If I get any more laid back, it's very possible that I will ripen and rot.

I'm like the Energizer bunny: I'll keep going until I run out of batteries. I've sat on my ass for over a week. That's enough. But I must be getting better, even though it's very slow going. I've been back to Starbucks today (I did miss my Starbucks), and I've hit the Kettle Chips really hard. Food? Who needs food when you've got Kettle Chips and Starbucks? I'm pretty sure that there will be one from several food groups in both. Or-I'll just make it up, and blame it all on the concussion.

I could be blaming anything and everything on the concussion for-years. What a great excuse...

The Curious Case of the Exploding Head

This week has been proof (again) that things can change in an instant. Example: a world-class, head-thumping concussion. I sound like a drama queen-but I'm feeling like one right now.

Last Monday I had my colonoscopy/gastroscopy with loads of tissues taken for biopsy (five, if you really want to know.). So they told me as I was leaving the hospital not to drive or sign contracts for twenty-four hours. But-did they say not to do any exercises? No, they did not. Duh-the patient is supposed to figure that out for herself, right? Not exactly.

Less than a day after the procedures (complete with sedation, I have to add, so I don't seem totally retarded), I decided - in my infinite wisdom, which deserted me completely last Tuesday - that I would go along to Tai Chi because a bit of gentle exercise would probably help me feel better. Double duh. Never let it be said that I don't do my share of dumb things, and this was really a classic.

I was just standing there, minding my own business, listening to the instructor, when -bang!! I keeled over backwards, out cold, and smacked my head (and everything else) on the hard floor. I don't remember any of it, except that I was carted off in an ambulance to the hospital, where I spent the next five and a half hours being poked, prodded, blood-letted, and scanned all over the place. Amazingly, I didn't break any bones, but I did end up with bruises on top of bruises: enough to cause me to be fairly unable to move, stand, walk, and so on. I was also informed that I was lucky that I didn't fracture my skull, but I have a concussion, so I have to be vigilant for the next few weeks, just to see if the side effects increase. Who knew that I have such a hard head?

So I've got the mother of all concussions. Last week I thought that my head was going to explode. If you've ever had a concussion, you know exactly how I felt. Now it's a week later, and I'm still being a drama queen- but only when I'm by myself. I feel more than a bit stupid for even considering doing anything the day after surgery. That'll teach me to think before I act.

So I actually did follow directions this week; I rested, I was careful, my balance paid a huge price for my silliness, and there was a great deal of swearing and gnashing of teeth as I tried not to fall over. It wasn't a very pleasant week. But-I was lucky that the blackout happened indoors, and not out in traffic. That would have been very messy, not to mention exceedingly painful. And possibly fatal.

So now I'm starting to walk as much as I can again, and force myself not to be afraid of another blackout. Last Friday I went to see my vestibular physiotherapist, having first emailed her about what happened. We spoke, I did some exercises, and she feels that the whole thing was a result of the surgery and sedation, nothing else would have caused it. I spoke with my team-and my GP-and they all agree. Apparently I'm in excellent shape-except for the concussion and all the bruising, of course.

Lesson learned. I felt well enough last night to demolish an entire bag of Kettle Chips (salt and balsamic vinegar-yum), and I felt disgusting afterwards (too much food. Way too much food at one sitting). That tells me that I must be on the mend. Either that, or all the bloody scans have given me brain cancer.

Really-they scan you, they x-ray you, they scan you again-if the fall doesn't kill you, the radiation will.

In A&E (the emergency room), the doctors are all junior doctors-like interns, with only limited experience and training. So they look at you, go back to their registrar who's in charge, and there's this big kerfuffle over what to do next. They kept telling me that they think it's a heart problem. I said that I had every test known to mankind last year, and my heart is perfectly normal. Then they said: lungs. No, I said, it isn't lungs. Vestibular? They asked. No, I said, it isn't vestibular. Well, how do you know all this information? The one little doctor asked, finally getting annoyed. I told him the truth: I was a professor of anatomy and physiology.

That was the end of that conversation. And here I am, a week later, on the mend. But I think I ruined the little doctor's day...

Attack of the Driller Killer

I must be the only person I know who loathes going to the dentist-the driller killer, I call her. But I actually don't mind the whole performance of the examination-which, because it's covered (so far) by the NHS, takes about ten minutes maximum. Who could be afraid of a ten minute exam by the dentist? Lots of people, apparently, judging from the sheer volume of people I see whose teeth are horribly rotten (those who actually have teeth, that is).

I like having my teeth cleaned-obviously I need to get out more! But I remember that my ex needed a shot of valium before he would let the dentist touch him. I used to laugh - how horrible was I? How many people are dentist-phobic?

That, would you believe, was the highlight of my week last week. Like I said, I need to get out more. The rest of last week was pretty dire, because we had heavy rain. And I do mean heavy-it came down so hard and there was so much of it that there were floods everywhere outside of London. Even the transport system was delayed-no surprise there, because if there's a leaf on the railroad tracks, trains are cancelled until someone can clean it up. Hilarious-unless it's my train, of course.

It was a week of really having to face my limitations. The rain, the weather changes-all those things that really affect my balance. And I was stumbling around everywhere. There was one late afternoon when the rain stopped long enough for me to take a chance and go out for an hour's walk. I nearly fell over-five times, I nearly fell over. I had trouble getting back, and I realized that when it is just getting dark, it's not a good time for me to go out and attempt to walk anywhere. That made me very depressed, because I'm making such an effort, and I feel like every time I take two steps forward, I then take about a dozen steps backward. Not very pleasant, but that doesn't mean I won't keep trying.

Tai Chi last week was problematic, too; I'm unable to stand on one leg, and part of the form requires that. Part of the form also requires turning around three times. You can imagine-I felt really stupid. There's nobody who really is interested in helping, either. But it's a large class, so I can't expect individual attention.

I grumbled a lot-and, since nothing exciting happened, I waited until there was something to report. Now there is.

I've got a room filled with boxes that have been there since I moved in. I wanted to clear everything out after the move, but I couldn't stand up without falling over (this was just after the gentamicin, so I was in a really bad state). Then, of course, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and, after the mastectomy and the aftermath, I was spending my time at the hospital, in one clinic or another. So ended the quest for some decent space and a really good clearout. At some point, the charity shops will bless me.

I had a colonoscopy and gastroscopy yesterday. I started preparing for them on Wednesday, by going on a very low fibre diet (following instructions, which is a first for me). No fruit, no vegetables, and no brown bread, only white bread. The preparation was as bad as the surgery. But I did it, took the noxious preparations, and was up all Sunday night. This stuff was supposed to work in about three hours. I knew that was a crock, so I took it early, around 2pm. Where was I even twelve hours later? In the loo, where else?

Yesterday I had to take the second sachet of liquid dynamite, and I was afraid that the surgeon wouldn't be able to get the old hosepipe up the backside and see anything. Apparently, he managed, although he did destroy two veins searching for a place to put the cannula so he could give me some sedation. I think that he might have worried that he would hurt me and that I would kick him. I was in the position on the table where I could have done some serious damage. But no, I restrained myself-after all, he was in charge of the hosepipe. He put another hosepipe down my throat (more sedation) and did a gastroscopy first (I asked him if they wash of f the hose and reuse it for the back end. Sad-he didn't think that was funny.)

I can tell you this: there was a lot of pain, sedation or no sedation, and swearing under my breath. And I wanted to see what was going on, since there was a big screen above me-but they positioned me so that I couldn't see anything-unless I was able to turn my head 180 degrees-and look up at the same time. All I know is that the doc took five samples to be biopsied, and that didn't make me happy at all. I asked him what he thought-but he said that he would see me after the results come back, and we would discuss the next move. He didn't look happy; now I'm not feeling very happy about the whole thing, but I will just have to wait and see.

With the pain I felt while he was shoving the old hosepipe up the rectum, I have to wonder how on earth anyone could be so crazy (or masochistic) to have anal sex. Maybe some people have no nerve endings. Well, I would never...

That brings you up to date. Today I have Tai Chi, and I think that I will join the beginners class, and place myself next to a chair in case I need to sit down quickly. I can watch. The sedation has made me very wobbly (more so than usual). But I've got the physiotherapist on Friday, so I will definitely keep working hard this week. I don't quit. I won't give up until the batteries run out.

Knowing one's limitations

Oh, well-if the year goes on the way it started (okay, just last week, to be fair), I'm going to have to hide under the bed until it's over.

Last week was totally underwhelming. It was raining. It was brutally cold. We had gale force winds on Wednesday night into Thursday, and a chimney stack collapsed right on my walking route. Good thing I was on the other side of the road, or things would have been very unpleasant. And painful. And bloody. And, probably, terminal. Really-fancy being hit by a falling chimney-that'd be my luck at the moment, I think.

I'm just really peeved because I couldn't do my usual hour's walk in the rain-or wind. I did try, though, and I fell over twice. Now, falling over wasn't fun, I can tell you. One time I was in the flat, reached for something, and over I went. That was a little scary, because I just missed the corner of a table that was right in front of me; I could easily have hit it, and there would have been nobody around to help me. I was bruised, and stunned, and then the thought occurred to me that I could be lying there for days-weeks, maybe. Oh, I'm so cynical.

The second time was really my own doing. I was outside talking to a neighbor who has a small dog. She asked me if I would come with her so she could post a letter-and walk the dog at the same time. It was five o'clock in the afternoon, it was dark, and I didn't have my elbow crutch. Duh, I hear you say; idiot, I  hear myself say. I had tremendous trouble staying upright, and, on the way back from the mailbox, I lost my balance and fell off the pavement into the road. I was able to right myself, but I thought that the poor woman was going to have a seizure. She was already on one of those tripod things with wheels, and I knew that she couldn't do anything if I fell over. I was okay, and reassured her that the problem was vertigo, and that next time I go for a walk I will need to go and get the stick.

It was okay in the end-but I went back inside and realized that, although I'm fighting my hardest to live a normal life, I need to accept that there are things I will never be able to do-or, at least, not in the near future.
Never say never.

Now you know-if you've been following this for awhile-that I've been up against the landlord to fix the gate and lock on the car park, which is private and for tenants only. And you also know that we've had problems with drug dealers coming in, parking, and dealing drugs out of their car. And you also know that I seem to be the only one in our little apartment complex with the balls to go up against the landlord. I don't give up easily-in fact, I don't give up at all. So I made a good pain in the butt of myself, and finally the tenancy manager told me that there would be a new lock on the gate-and it would be high security, with keys that couldn't be duplicated. Did I hold my breath? No, I did not: far too wise for that.

Well-some idiot damaged the gate just after New Year's, and I reported it, and was told that it would be fixed last Tuesday. When last Tuesday came and went, I rang the repairs department and was told that the first available date would be January 31st. I spoke to someone who was clearly uninterested. So what did I do? I sent an email to the Chief Executive Officer (CEO). I bypassed everyone, went straight to the top...remember, I'm the one who told you to skip the monkey and go straight to the organ grinder if you every want anything to be done.

I got an email back, telling me that the damaged gate would be fixed, and that the CEO would also be contacting the customer service manager to find out why such a small job took so long to fix. I got that email in less time than it takes to boil a kettle.

In less than twenty four hours, the damaged gate was fixed-and the security lock was installed. And the tenancy manager-who has all the keys-isn't speaking to me. So we've got a fixed gate, a security lock, and - no keys. It'll soon be time to email the CEO again...

And that's what happens when you ignore the monkey and go straight to the organ grinder. Well done, me. I'll probably get stabbed by someone in repairs...

The silliness of new year's resolutions

You can tell that the resolutions I decided not to formally make are the ones I broke anyway. Duh-why do we bother to make them for the new year, when we can make them (and break them) at any time of the year?

The hard and fast rule for me is to persevere, not to quit, walk away or give up. That's regarding the vestibular issue: I still feel that I'm not finished improving my balance, and, happily, my physiotherapist agrees with me. I feel encouraged to keep going. Eventually-thanks to neuroplasticity, which I've investigated since I was able to get back online and actually see what I was doing-I might hit a plateau. Well-I will hit a plateau-but until the day I can see that I'm finished, that I've gone as far as I can go, I'm not giving up. I need to do the exercises more often; I need to just hold the crutch off the ground (when there are no people around), and walk without it. If that means that I get up earlier and walk at 6am, then that's what I have to do.

I said that I've got the activist gene-a bit of gallows humor there (I'm known for that, it's been my coping mechanism all my life), but it's true: I see injustice and my blood pressure rises, and I feel like I have to do something. That tendency has gotten me into all kinds of trouble, because I do tend to speak and act first, and think later (when it's too late). One thing that the whole gentamicin event taught me: speak up, don't let people bully or manipulate you, fight back. But when the time comes that you know that you're fighting a losing battle, walk away. I had to do that with Barts Hospital (now Barts Trust), the people who very nearly killed me (and who also told me that I would never develop breast cancer-they were that condescending, and what do you know? A year later-a year later-I had breast cancer surgery. Idiots or what?).

I got a message from Rose last week; she read the blog and asked for my help. I posted a message to her, asking for her email address, and she sent it. Now I know to read messages that I get on the blog. So we've been in contact. And here is a woman who has been treated outrageously; that put my back up in a very big way. Activism gene, anyone?

I used to be a patient advocate-before I became a patient myself-so I emailed some suggestions. I asked her to keep me informed. I don't do demonstrations anymore-but I'm no stranger to the very biting (and sometimes nasty) email where it's needed. And-I've come to the conclusion (better late than never) that unscrupulous and dishonest people will seek out the most vulnerable, the weakest, the disabled-and prey on them. Easy pickings. Let's all prey on people who are unable to fight back.

That was me nearly eight years ago-but that isn't me now. I know when to stop fighting the insanity of bureaucracy: when I discover that I start beating my head against the wall (mine's got a nice dent in it from all that. The wall, not my head). When you know that the guilty become so entrenched that they will get their high priced lawyers to ensure that the longer you fight, the closer you get to bankrupting yourself (they've got more money than I have. They've got more money than God has), you know that you have done your best-and your best has to be good enough.

There are fights we can win, and there are fights we will never win, because we are outgunned (not outwitted. Outgunned.). We can say that we made the best effort we could have done, and that has to be good enough. I explained that to Rose, by the way. Bureaucrats are like lawyers (and immunologists at Barts Trust): they all stick together, no matter what. It's really hard to fight dishonest assholes, isn't it?

I remember a little t-shirt store in New York, where I went when I was in college, to have slogans put on t-shirts. I've got lawyers in the family (ambulance chasers), so I decided to get one made for a family reunion. It read (in big letters, right across the top): TAKE A LAWYER TO LUNCH. In small letters, just underneath, it read: and poison him.

It was great. It was white, with big red lettering, so nobody could possibly ignore it, and I wore it until it fell apart. But I did wear it to the reunion-and people didn't speak to me for years. Ah, I felt truly blessed.

I'm thinking about starting to get t-shirts printed. I know that it's big business, but-mostly the people who do it are politically minded. Perhaps I missed my true vocation: if you want to really put social injustice in people's faces, put it on a t-shirt.

I'll probably get a knock on the door for even suggesting that, but until I do, watch this space. I'm all in favor of being passive-aggressive...