Time to roll it out-and give it a good kicking and send it on its way

 I mean that for the year-but if you want to roll out someone who really, really deserves it: give them a good, swift kick in the behind as you shove them out the door along with 2021. Maybe kick them a few times just to be sure...

HAPPY, HEALTHY NEW YEAR TO YOU ALL!

So here we are, the end of another totally crappy year, and-I don't know about you, but I've learned a lot in the two years just about gone. I've learned so much about human nature-sadly- and I've lost faith in most of humanity. For all the good people who have made-and continue to make-sacrifices for others, even at the cost of their own lives, there are exponential numbers of people who are nasty, evil, moronic-and really couldn't give a toss about anyone but themselves. What a sad world...

Have I made any resolutions for 2022? I finally learned to avoid making any resolutions, because I end up breaking them within three days. Sometimes I break them the same day I made them!

I've made one resolution that I plan to keep as much as possible-and not only for the new year. It isn't diet-or exercise (god forbid!!). It's to live life differently, make allowances for people's faults and frailties (including my own), and to begin to live life on my terms, nobody else's. Nobody should ever tell you what to do, or how to live. We do have to do things like: pay our taxes, obey laws, etc. But nobody is entitled to anything. Tell people where to shove their sense of entitlement. 

I forgot: I resolve to write more often in 2022. Things happen; there will be a lot to say. So-it's the new year. Eat lots, drink lots, stay safe, keep others safe, resolve (like me) to live your best life. As far as I can tell, this is the your only life. And once time has passed, you can never, ever get it back. Whoosh! It's gone. So shift your bottoms and get living.

Oh, and never be afraid to tell people off, or tell people how you feel. I do it all the time. I wish I had learned that years ago! Who cares what other people think? Care what you think.

For All the Grumpies Out There

 For everyone who has bad memories of past Christmases:

CRAPPY HISTMAS--AND A NAPPY HEW                                     NEAR!!!

So there you are: my wishes for everyone at Christmastime. If you celebrate, then have a wonderful Christmas, eat twice your weight in goodies, drink yourself under the table (and everyone else, too).

Remember: this is the season when you can eat and drink as much as you want, because calories don't count. Believe me, I am going to do what porcupines do: hibernate. With plenty of food. And drink.

By New Year's I will probably be very fat-but happy-unless, of course, calories really DON'T count. They don't. We've had two years that we would all like to forget. So-eat and drink your way into a better year.

Time to pull out and dust off that nice bottle of Jack Daniel's!!!

Storming the Citadel (or, maybe, Just Call Me Toothless)

 Storming the Citadel sounds more entertaining. Unfortunately, it was far from entertaining at the time.

Two weeks ago-and it's taken a good few days for my ears to stop ringing. There was a police action in my building. I've seen these things on television, and occasionally in the news, but never up close and personal- very personal.

At 5:30 in the morning, there was an almighty banging on the front door of the building. I was already up (I get up at 5AM, always have done), so I was making coffee when all hell seemed to break loose. Bang, bang, bang-this went on for about ten minutes, and I wanted to go out to see what on earth was happening-but I thought better of it. Good thing, too. 

The door was forced open, and police in riot gear came storming up the stairs. Riot gear: helmets, visors, Kevlar, shields, batons-you name it, they had it-up to my floor, turned to go right past my neighbor's door to the next apartment, and proceeded to use their battering ram to smash through my other neighbor's door. They went inside, there was a huge kerfuffle, and then I heard the ram smash through one of the internal doors. By this time, there must have been at least thirty police, some in uniform, some in plain clothes, all making plenty of racket. And police officers began carrying things out of the flat, almost past my door, down the stairs-and more officers were standing outside everyone else's door. I was looking through the peephole in my door-usually used to see who is coming to see me, but this time to see -?- what, exactly?

It was frightening. And loud, lots of loud talking, shouting-I had to walk away after a few minutes, and went to have my coffee. After about forty five minutes, it all started to die down. I went to look through the peephole and counted six officers in riot gear going down the stairs. I just had to open the door, and a big, burly policeman turned around and said that it's all okay, we're all safe. I asked what was going on, and he said that they were executing a warrant. So many of them? And so loud? Is that it? He couldn't tell me anything, because it was an ongoing investigation-but he did say that someone had been taken away...

At 7:30 it was all over, and the police were gone. I kept thinking: all the crime that's happening in the borough, and all the police are here, in my building, scaring the shit out of all of us who live here. It turned out that my neighbor next door didn't hear anything. She's profoundly deaf, and slept through it all (she is 90-so it's a good thing that she was oblivious). Before the copper who was stationed outside my door, he asked if I was okay. Sure, I said. I'm fine. I'm now also deaf. He then laughed, told me to have a nice day-and I really wanted to kick him down the stairs, but I thought better of it.

I've made many calls-and I've emailed-the landlord, but nobody has had the courtesy to reply. No surprises there-and we still don't know what caused the cops to raid the building. We think that it must have been drugs. Who knows?

To add insult to injury, I then had to go to the dentist after the whole palaver was finished. A back molar that has been trouble for years finally had to come out. Didn't need it, so out it came. I couldn't help wishing that the police would come and arrest me, just so I wouldn't have to go through it. Bad enough to loose a back tooth, but then you're numb on one side for the next four or five hours. Ever tried to drink water, coffee, tea-with a numb jaw? You dribble everywhere. I should have been prepared enough to buy some straws. But no-I drooled and dribbled. Very sexy, no? Ummm-no.

And I'm early enough to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas! Eat lots, drink lots, don't get arrested. And a very happy and healthy New Year. We've had two crap years, so let's hope that 2022 will be so great that it will make up for the last two.

Happy Christmas. Happy and healthy New Year. Don't get arrested (watching the police action unfold made me never want to leave the house. It was that disturbing). If you see the police coming-run! 

/

Nope - Still not dead

 This is going to be a running joke. Every time I'm really, really late in posting, I have to say that I'm not dead. Yet. But with the new variant and people being idiots, who knows how long that's going to last?

I'm reminded of an old saying-old, and trite, but true, that says that procrastination is the thief of time. It's nearly Christmas-again, another one, and we've still got Covid hanging around-and I'm still negligent in doing all the things that I have wanted to do in the last two years since the abomination began. Like I said about a hundred posts ago, I seem to be the procrastination queen of North London (and, perhaps, the rest of the world). I'm working on it. Very slowly.

There's another saying that I like a lot: the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. My intention has always been to say "happy whatever the holiday is" before it actually happens. You see what I mean: Thanksgiving was last week. But I hope that you had a great one. I ate more than usual, walked a few miles to walk off all the calories, and had chocolate mousse for dessert. Home made-by Marks and Spencer. I don't do that too often, or I would have to have all the doors widened.

My intentions have usually been good ones: usually. But, in many years (hopefully I'll outlive just about everyone-especially the four cripplers), when I finally croak, it'll be a matter of opinion whether I go north or south. I hope to go north. Better weather. I don't like heat.

I've been saying that 99.9% of the population are bottom-feeding, useless scumbags with the brains of a cowpat and the manners of a cockroach. I stand by that. For me, that has been proven in the last two years (actually, many years before the virus caught us). Truly, I've never seen such abominable behavior from anyone, certainly not a "civilized" society. Britain claims to  be just that, but the evidence against their attempts to tell the world how wonderful and brilliant they are is overwhelming. Would I be home, now that Trump is finally gone (hopefully forever)? I would-but I would have a very hard time surviving. I've been fighting the effects of vestibular loss for too long, and there are problems that are permanent; it's been very difficult for me to accept that, but after twelve years it's time to acknowledge that there are some things that I'll never be able to do (at least, not  the way I did before).

A very good friend of mine back home reminded me that I need to stop hating the cripplers, the people who did this to me out of stupidity, negligence and incompetence-and never even had the courage to face me and apologize. Personally, I would tell them to take their apology and shove it up their asses-but I'm like that. I hold grudges. Do I ever!

I spent a lot of last Thursday - when I wasn't eating, which was most of the time - looking for reasons to be thankful. I even made a list. I can tell you that writing things down really does help. And I thought a lot about the things that I can't change, because there isn't any way to go back in time to correct things that went terribly wrong. So I'm working on accepting the things that I can't change, and avoiding wishing that someone would push the cripplers under a moving bus. Old habits, you know? But if anyone wants to find Grigoriadou (at the Royal London), Matt (fucky Bucky, the spawn of Satan) Buckland, also at the Royal London, Phil (not so) Bright, hiding out in Bristol, and Hilary Longhurst, making fortunes killing patients while in private practice, I wouldn't grieve. I would take you to lunch...

Christmas Day is only three weeks away-so let me wish you a Merry Christmas now-plus a happy Hanukkah, and a very happy and healthy 2022. Just in case-the intention is to get there early, but the history...hmmm...

I'm talking about old, worn sayings, and I now have to tell you two of my favorite old ones (I don't have to, but I will anyway). The first comes from my grandfather: 

Never talk to the monkey. Always avoid the monkey and go straight to the organ grinder. For years I went to the monkey and up the chain of  command. It doesn't work. Go straight to the top and dig your heels in and harass everyone until you get what you want. Someone will do something, even just to get rid of you.

Then there's the one from my mother-and probably your mother, too-and everyone's mother:

Always wear clean underwear. You never know when you're going to be hit by a car.

That's the advice for the day. And on that note, I'm going out into the bright sunshine (we do get bright sunshine, just not often), take a good long walk, and try to avoid the bottom feeding scumbags. I really need to find a crutch that's filled with lead. Then I can hit back...

There's Nothing Like Booster Power

 Nope-still not dead. What a surprise that is!

I was looking for some good news to cheer everyone up-but we all know about Murphy's Law, and Murphy struck again. 

I had a call on a Thursday evening, inviting me to have the third Covid vaccine. Inviting. Hmmm... so I said yes, of course. We know that it isn't over, so I figured that I should go, since everyone and his Aunt Nellie (if anyone has or had an aunt Nellie) kept writing to tell me that I'm in the clinically extremely vulnerable group and would probably die if I wasn't careful. That's the kind of letter that gets a bit demoralizing, I can tell you. So I was born without a functioning immune system-so you don't think that I know how to take precautions? Of course, with Covid there don't seem to be precautions. Nobody seems to be wearing a mask, or practicing social distancing...people are such morons.

Of course they're morons. Where am I living again?

So I went along to the medical center that was closest to me, figuring that if I had a reaction, I wouldn't have to travel too far. I got there-early-and the queue outside was huge. So much for appointments on the NHS-but everyone who uses the system knows that it's a case of hurry up and wait. Over an hour later, I had the jab, and I decided to take the bus back to the flat-just in case.

Good grief! I had absolutely no reaction at all, so I emailed my friends and told them that I was fine.Only I wasn't fine. The reaction started at about 7pm, and it was vicious. Incredibly vicious: thumping headache, worse than any headache I've ever had-and excruciating pain throughout my body. I couldn't get out of bed for the next four days. I couldn't raise my arms to call for help. I was completely incapacitated. I wondered if I was dying. If I was, it occurred to me that nobody would know until the body started to smell.

So, nearly four weeks later, I'm starting to get back to normal. I did tell the team over at the hospital-and they said: so? You're okay now? That much have been difficult. I wanted to punch someone. That would have been difficult. For them...

It's been an interesting four weeks, but I survived. I then had to email my friends and tell them what happened. Not only were they horrified, but each one of them stated categorically that there would be absolutely no booster. Two shots, they said, were more than enough. 

The worst thing about the entire situation is that the nurse practitioner (the one who said: so?) informed me that the shot that I received was the third shot, and that the booster would be given in six months. Wow. Look what I have to look forward to! Maybe I'll leave town. The country. The continent...

So we're now up to date, although I'm still keeping my head down. There is so much fighting, killing, anger, bitterness-I almost long for another lockdown, so everyone has to stay inside and they can all beat themselves senseless. Almost. It was so quiet! And so boring!

I'll try to keep you up to date more often-when something interesting happens. We've all had enough stress over the past 22 months, who wants to hear about people beating the crap out of each other?

Not dead yet-but learning how to move very, very fast...

To Tweet-or Not to Tweet--are people who use Twitter called Twits?

Now there's a question for you. I've been calling people twits for years (more polite than calling them idiots, but there you are...). I'm clearly very late to the party, which began-how many years ago? I've stayed away from Facebook, even though I've got an account (I check it once a year, if that. I don't trust it.)

So the big news-apart from the punch-ups and violence over petrol shortages (seriously. People will fight over anything!) is that I'm thinking about opening a Twitter account. No Instagram, or any of the others-I'm going to become a Twit. And there's a good reason for that: Twitter seems to find more Twits to follow other Twits. Or whatever.

Anyone who has followed this for awhile knows the story of the four cripplers (Hilary Longhurst. Sophia Grigoriadou, Phil (not very) Bright, and the Spawn of Satan himself: Matt (fucky bucky buckster) Buckland). Two of them are still at the Royal London immunology department, trying to see how many notches they can put on their belts for killing or crippling (or both, in reverse order) their poor, unsuspecting patients. I told the story, but I think that I should go more public about it. After all, I complained to the British Medical Council and was informed that nothing would be done unless I died from my injuries. Huh. Doctors protecting each other-much like lawyers, and politicians. Revolting.

So I decided to go to the court of public opinion; that's really the only court (in this country, at least) that counts. Word of mouth works.

Last year I wasn't blogging. I was too sick to do much of anything (anyone remember Covid?), and I returned from the hospital one morning in early September (having had my infusions) to find that my flat was badly flooded. By "badly" I mean that the bathroom and kitchen ceilings were flooding so badly that they were in danger of collapsing. Who wants to walk into a room and have the ceiling fall on your head? And trying to get someone from the landlord's office to fix it was the start of a year-long nightmare. I will, at some point (it isn't finished yet.), tell you  the whole story. Anyone with a landlord who is a total a***hole will know what I mean. 

The entire situation was a year-long complete nightmare. I reported to the Ombudsman, who is supposed to be an impartial adjudicator; I reported to my MP (the Parliamentarian for my area). I reported to everyone except the media. So now that I'm nearing the end of the saga (with absolutely no luck so far), I've decided to tell you the story (if you're interested. I'll warn you first), and to sign up for a Twitter account and blast it all over the internet. I think I'll call it "Whistleblower" with a few numbers, or dates, or whatever-to differentiate between my account and the other (probable) thousand or so Whistleblower accounts.

I will let you know when and what it's called, and let's see if we can get some form of justice for others who have been through the similar torture.

With that news, I'm off to Starbucks for a flat while. I'll be walking. The local gas stations are still shut due to-no gas! And people are fighting. Beating and stabbing each other. Over gasoline. So much for everyone trying to help anyone else. Lockdown is surely well and truly ancient history.

Space Junk - from Disgruntled in London

 Marcus Aurelius wrote: "When you wake up in the morning, tell yourself: The people I deal with today will be meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, dishonest, jealous, and surly. They are like this because they can't tell good from evil". I add to this: brain-dead, obnoxious, rude, badly-mannered-and yes, they can tell good from evil. They just couldn't care less, because they're that selfish. And incompetent. 

I obviously have had the experience for a lot longer than you would think-but I'm still here because the bloody NHS nearly killed me, so I am now unemployable. I'm stuck in Brain-dead Britain, the land of the savages. <sigh> I do make fun of them as often as I can. Which is daily, as you would expect. How these people ever made it past puberty is a mystery.

It's been two weeks of Murphy's Law in action since I wrote last time-two weeks with the 20th anniversary of 9/11 in the middle. Twenty years-how incredible it is that it's been 20 years, and we still haven't learned anything. Everyone is still hating everyone else. I couldn't even watch the CNN coverage of the ceremonies back home. I remember exactly where I was on the day. It isn't something that I will ever forget. But I do wish that they would stop making all the innocent people who died into heroes. They weren't heroes. They were ordinary people who went to work, expecting to do other things afterwards, never expecting to be the victims of mindless terrorists. Ordinary people seem to be the ones who are targeted by the insane. Why? I suppose because they are easier to kill. 

So many things have been rumbling around in my head-usually in the middle of the night, when I'm supposed to be sleeping. We have- how many thoughts in a day? And most of them are dismissed as useless (because they are). I call them "space junk". I would love to be able to selectively eliminate the useless from the useful; it seems to be perfectly normal for thoughts to go in and out. Now I joke that I'm living in a place where the people have nothing in between to stop them. 

Well, that's my duty of slagging off the Brits done for today. I'm going to Starbucks.

To Shag or Not To Shag: That is the Question

 Did I get a lot of flak by saying that everyone should get shagging? Seriously-has everyone lost their sense of humor since the pandemic began? 

The story about Betty is absolutely true, by the way. And, to quote the late, great Joan Rivers: It's been so long since I've had sex that I forget who gets tied up.

The interesting article I read just a couple of days ago-in one of the trashy, daily, free papers (that is part of one of the tabloids, so obviously everything they write-if you can call it writing-is a load of bull), is that there seems to be a growing movement called "femcels": women who have decided to claim celibacy. And here I was extolling shagging...what an oops! Foot lodged firmly in mouth-again.

I'm thinking about all the terrific women I know who have decided to be a lot more discriminating when it comes to having sex with just anyone. Femcels. Great name and even greater idea. It isn't just a question of self-esteem, self-confidence, self-worth; it's also an issue of personal safety. Don't go anywhere with anyone you don't know. That should be obvious, but for some reason, it isn't. Why go with some stranger-or relative stranger-only to have him use your body as a toilet? 

There's a huge problem over here with date rape-and a massive alcohol problem, where women are picked up by private taxis (think Uber) and end up in a ditch somewhere, with no memory of how they got there. And, according to the "femcels", guys will just take any port in a storm (as it were. Awful expression, but so true) when the woman they fancy is clearly out of their league. Before men start howling, it's probably the other way around, too. But my concern is women who are too drunk, or on drugs, or otherwise incapacitated-or just have no self-esteem, so they find themselves fair game for predators. 

At the moment, that's pretty much the latest. I've been part of a nationwide study of people with CVID- hereditary CVID- to find out whether the vaccines work on us. Because we're born without functioning immune systems and have to have regular antibody replacement, the efficacy of all the vaccines has been in question. And a few days ago, I received the definitive answer: two shots have a negligible effect. Even the booster, which I'll probably receive anyway, will be close to useless. 

I'm one of very few people who insists on wearing a mask, who tries very hard to maintain social distancing, who still continues to wash my hands and keep strict hygiene methods-but I seem to be one of very, very few. I'm a bit shocked - and very disappointed - that so many people think that everything is back to normal. It isn't. I have always maintained that the Brits are total idiots, with no manners, brains, or consideration for anyone but themselves. These eighteen months have been absolute proof that I'm right. But the fact that I now know that I have no immunity makes life very interesting indeed.

Zombie Apocalypse 2.0 - and senile body parts

 Nope-not dead yet.

Only six weeks have passed since the last time I wrote. It has been an eventful six weeks, I can tell you. 

I had a colonoscopy and gastroscopy; the surgeon wanted to remove and biopsy some polyps. Really, I think that he just wanted to shove a garden hose in both ends. You haven't really lived until you've had a bloody big hosepipe shoved up and down. First, they take a hose that looks like it's big enough to water their garden. Then they spray your throat-and they cover you so you can't kick them, even though you really want to do so. Down goes the hosepipe, they push it around (maybe they like pain-as long as it's someone else's), find the polyps, and chop. Lovely-when they yank the hosepipe out, you can't talk for two days (which makes some people incredibly happy), and it feels like a brick is stuck in your throat.

Then they take another hosepipe (at least, I hope that it's another hosepipe. The NHS is so broke, maybe they rinse them off and reuse them. Or worse-they don't bother rinsing them off). Then they give you something to relax you. It still hurts like hell, and it takes about a week to feel less dazed and confused-but they shove the thing up the backside and push it up as far as it'll go. Imagine how happy they are to see a polyp-and then chop it out, close the area, and finally pull the hose out. 

Now, really-all that pain, even with sedation-I will never understand why on earth anyone would be so crazy-or masochistic-to even entertain the possibility of having anal sex. Seriously, Anal sex??? The bloody garden hose was so painful that I would have started kicking if I could have moved. No way would I ever let anyone get near enough to shove anything up my ass. A scope every three years is enough. Ewww....

That was the excitement (if you call that exciting) of the past few weeks. People are still avoiding wearing masks, the idiot conspiracy theorists are bleating about the governments putting tracking devices in the vaccines, morons are dying-other morons are taking the relaxed (non-existent) cautions as excuses to go and kill each other (and a lot of innocent people, too), and it's back to business as usual. I've finally learned to keep my head down (especially since dog owners don't clean up after their pets. Nothing like having to dodge big-and I do mean, big!- piles of dog shit if you want to walk up the road), avoid looking at anyone in the eye (that's an invitation to have the crap beaten out of you, according to the NHS), and generally keep my mouth shut. 

The funniest thing is what I saved for last-mostly because I like to crack a joke every once in awhile. After the past eighteen months, we need all the humor we can get.

I was walking up the road last week, heard my name called, and turned around to see an old neighbor-called Betty-walking toward me. I still keep in touch with some people, but Betty and I has lost touch. We went for a coffee, and caught up. It seems that her husband left her for a younger model (typical of him, he was a prat), so she started shagging his son. His son, to clear things up, is her stepson, so that was probably okay-and it drove her ex to distraction, so it was definitely okay.

Betty had been to her gynecologist a few weeks before the ex dumped her for a thirty year old (same age as his son), and during her examination, the consultant pronounced her problem: she had a senile vagina. Yes, I did say a senile vagina. I couldn't stop laughing-and her remedy for her senile vagina was to have as much sex as she possibly could. Seems to have worked. She was with her stepson for nearly five years. 

There you have it, everyone. If you don't have sex for a few years, you will end up with a senile vagina - so the moral is: get shagging.

Now, if I could find someone with his own hair and teeth, and who could speak English, and who is in his 50s- hmmm....

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water...

 Here we are, in the middle of government induced paranoia...is there any other kind?

It's bad enough that it's 90 plus outside, has been since the weekend, and promises to be as hot as hell for the next week. I know: it's summer! But it's only good for people who like being deep fried, and who just can't wait to develop melanoma. For those of us who have skin the color of milk bottles, it's torture. I spend ten minutes in bright sunlight, turn the color of beetroot, suffer acute pain, and then peel-so it's all been for nothing. I look like I should be ready for embalming-only white, not pasty gray or the color of walkers out of The Walking Dead. If I could find an island, with temperatures around 68F (20C), I would move tomorrow. Maybe today...

You undoubtedly know that Monday was the day when all restrictions were lifted. From midnight on, it was pandemonium. Strange, because a lot of these people have ignored the restrictions for months. But now-every day is like a stampede of angry cattle. No masks, no social distancing, the appalling behavior that has always been part of being British has now returned in force. Will people have the courtesy to step aside when they see a disabled person? Hell, no-they expect us to move, even when there's no place to go.

Now this will make you smile, in the midst of all this chaos. I braved the crowds-wearing a mask, of course, even though I was just about the only one with the sense to do so-and there, in the middle of the street, was this huge woman, a terribly painful-looking shade of red, waving her arms around everywhere. She was fighting with someone, and the more the other person backed down, the more aggressive (and loud) she became. I'm not fat shaming, I promise-but her bingo wings were flapping in the wind, and some poor person who was trying to get past her nearly got one in the face. I had to laugh. Okay, I'm cruel, but can you imagine having to call the paramedics and explain how you ended up with a fractured skull? 

Oh, sorry, I got smacked in the face by someone's bingo wing that was so large, it could have been made into another whole person. And that was just the bingo wing; she wasn't wearing a bra, and her boobs swung around like a cow's udders. 

I think that you get the picture: bingo wings the size of a Mini, boobs like a cow's udders, and tattoos everywhere (yes, I forgot to mention the tattoos, I was distracted by other parts of the body flapping in the wind). A voice that could shatter glass (if the bingo wings didn't do it first), and a face that wouldn't be out of place as an extra in the Walking Dead. Oh, joy. Good thing I hadn't eaten breakfast.

This has been my week: hiding out and trying to stay out of trouble. My team at the hospital has the same opinion: we are in for a huge increase in infections, and a massive increase in deaths. We're all cringing, but telling everyone to wear masks, keep away from people as much as possible, keep hand washing. 

Eventually, we'll see if we're right. Eventually, we'll see if we're still alive! Whatever. I'm still planning on riding down the Pacific Coast Highway (if California hasn't dropped into the Pacific by then), celebrating my 100th birthday, on my Harley (I'll be driving, of course), with my 80 year old toyboy riding right behind me. Stop on the side of the road, have a picnic, and just keel over. I told this to my friend, who immediately rolled her eyes, said "yeah, dream on", and asked me what would my toyboy do? Well-why would he be worried? He'd get the Harley.

Some people have no sense of adventure...

Euro 2020 and the dubious power of voodoo

 All hell has broken loose in this country, and a lot of politicians have jumped on the bandwagon-as they do, when it's good for votes-and have declared that this country is very racist. We all knew that-even the media has been calling out people for racism. Of course, the media has to sensationalize everything. That's how they sell newspapers-if you can call the tabloids "newspapers". They're useful only for dog and cat training, nothing more.

The reason for all the hysteria is that England lost the match to Italy. Boohoo! England hasn't won since 1966-Italy hasn't won since 1968. Do I care? Of course not. It's football, not major surgery. It's a game, not a cure for cancer. Or Covid.

I joined a Whatsapp group of humanists, mainly to see other people's perspective on all the things that are going on in this country and around the world. Humanists UK are working diligently toward climate change-which will happen before we all annihilate ourselves. You can see from the weather how badly things have changed-and how much they need to change. 

Oh, did I ever make a mistake! I expected a local group of people who are committed to social change-by social, I mean climate, and other things, too. Instead, I got some weirdos who think that losing the match is the end of the world. The funniest person declared in a post that she was doing a dance, using voodoo to ensure that England won. She was praying to someone or other. Nutter, or what? Oh, she said, if England loses, her life is over. Nutter twice. I so wanted to post that she should have prayed harder-and maybe she should have shaken some bones and done a different dance. Oh, good grief, Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the wee donkey! Like I said: a total weirdo.

That was the funniest part of the week. I've been going to the gym, walking, and eating twice my body weight just out of boredom. On Saturday I'm due to return to the Tate to see the Rodin exhibition for the second time. Everything he did was done in plaster first; I couldn't help wondering how on earth the sculptures lasted over a hundred years. Rodin's sculptures in plaster outlasted most people!

The not-so-funny part of the week was the day we had such severe rain that the corridor outside my flat flooded. Is this karmic, or what? I've moved and taken flooding with me? Really, it was bad. Water was coming down from the ceiling and flooding everywhere, making it unsafe to walk unless you fancy sliding everyplace. So I photographed it, emailed the head of the repair department (in a panic), and the next thing I knew, two men appeared yesterday morning to take photos and inform me that they would fix the problem before we have more rain. Haringey built these apartment buildings in the 60s (19, not 18, incredibly), and built them as cheaply as possible, making the roofs flat. So when it rains, somewhere there will be a flood. Genius, don't you think?

More genius: all restrictions will end next Monday, the 19th. Bozo (Boris Johnson, the incompetent prime minister), has declared it "freedom day", and said that he expects people to act intelligently. That just about makes me choke on my muesli. Practically nobody in this country acts intelligently.

I don't know about you, but I'm going to continue to wear a mask. I will probably be one of about ten in London who will be masking-apart from the muggers, of course- but I'm doing it-not to protect anyone else, but because there's evidence that masks protect the wearer. Of course, not 100%-but some protection is better than no protection at all. 

One of my friends in New York emailed me to tell me that the news over there is that women are being attacked in London-particularly women who can't fight back (like me, muscles like a sparrow's kneecaps). So, she said, please be careful. And if you've been reading this for awhile, you know that I'm not shy when it comes to telling people off. So I really will have to watch my temper and keep my mouth shut-I keep saying that I will, but then something happens. Sometimes I wish I had a gun. But-I would probably end up shooting myself in the foot. Literally!

The Wizard of Oz and other fairy tales

 I noticed when Boris Johnson was doing his usual BS newscast that his hair-clearly done that way for the media-was probably stolen from the Scarecrow out of  The Wizard of Oz. No normal person has hair like that. He's a ringer. Probably walks around Downing Street singing "If I only had a brain".

You can tell that the pandemic and 14 months of lockdowns had a really serious effect on me. And there's more, too. I missed July 4th, the 245th birthday of the USA, because-well, I didn't have any fireworks to set off. Everyone I know was depressed. It wasn't really a day for celebration. Oh, boo hoo hoo!

We're supposed to be restriction-free on July 19th-even though there's an upsurge in Covid cases. BoJo -the media's name for Boris-is telling us that the great British public will naturally be cautious, and act intelligently. BoJo-I just call him Bozo, because he's a clown (and an idiot). The British public acting correctly, intelligently, respectfully-that's a fairy tale, all right. That's a delusion. It's like people being really pompous and patronizing, and telling everyone that, after all, something or other was made in Britain. Excuse me-so was the Titanic.

All our lives have changed since the beginning of the pandemic. We're stuck with living with Covid-probably permanently-and we just need to err on the side of caution. Too many people are too selfish and stupid to accept that. This is Britain, after all! The more people I have to encounter, the more mystified I become that they actually lived past puberty. 

I don't know about anyone else, but I have become very short-tempered. My fuse was never very long, but I always tried to keep it in check. Now I just get so angry...The worst part is that I get angry over the little things, things that are unimportant. Do you find that you are going through that? Losing your temper at really silly things that would only be a minor annoyance-if that-that you could just shrug off?

I'm on an elbow crutch, courtesy of the Four Cripplers. And stupid people just walk down the street, looking at their phones, oblivious to the fact that there is someone right in front of them who just can't -and shouldn't have to-jump out of the way. I want to push them in front of a moving bus-then laugh. That's what I mean about getting angry and overreacting. I wouldn't hurt anyone, obviously. So I just call them imbeciles. Usually preceded by the f-word. Considering that the level of crime has gone sky high, and that disabled people are being targeted (easy targets), maybe I'll have to watch my temper.

If you've had Covid and have been smacked with long Covid (yes, twice), you'll know how long the after-effects linger, and how terrible they are for a lot of people. I'm talking about people of all ages. Covid doesn't give a shit about your age, sex, religion, socioeconomic background, it'll wipe you out whoever you are. People in their teens, in their 20s and 30s and older-now are unable to live the way they lived before contracting the virus.

Example: brain fog. You aren't going senile, it's a Covid thing. And pain. Lots and lots of pain. I had a few days where I felt excruciating pain in my hands, then my legs, then all over. I felt as if I'd been hit head on by a train-that then reversed back over me. Nothing helped. My doctor certainly didn't help, she was useless. Her attitude was - so what? And you're always tired-an exhaustion that won't go away with rest. 

I'm not mentioning all this to moan about it, because Long Covid lasts as long as it lasts, and there doesn't seem to be anything that anyone can do about it except wait it out. I'm mentioning all this because you might be suffering from Long Covid and wonder what on earth is happening to you. Just so you know that you're not alone. We can all suffer together, tell really bad jokes (to be fair, they haven't all been that bad), drink lots of coffee, and have a pass when it comes to being pissed off.

My ex used to say that it's better to be pissed off than pissed on. Then I divorced him. 

Rocking Rats

 Rats become irascible when thwarted. I remember having a neighbor whose husband loved rats. Go figure. Rats. And before the pandemic, there were more than 150 million rats in the UK. Most of them were-and are-in London. I can just imagine how many there are now. Many of them even have four legs.

My neighbor's husband used to love telling stories about rats (he must have been so much fun to live with. Not great at dinner parties, however). 

It seems that when rats are cornered, they start to rock from side to side. They are looking for a way to escape. Clever rats? But if there doesn't appear to be any escape, they stop rocking and attack. Teeth first. I know a lot of people like that, actually. You probably do, too. I was married to one of the two legged ones. I'm the one who started rocking. Divorce was obviously preferable to murder-but only just...

Anyone ever have to suffer through a day from Hell? Where everything that could possibly go wrong-goes wrong? And in a big way? That was yesterday. It was the day from Hell in a week that was from Hell. I think I know how rats irascible rats feel when thwarted. It took a long time for me to calm down. Stress, anyone? My blood pressure went so high, it was probably normal. The fact that I didn't work myself up into a heart attack was a miracle (especially since my heart is top of my list of favorite organs).

For starters, I dropped my nebulizer on Monday night. I hit it with my elbow and it went flying off the table, hit the floor, and was I ever cursing! Goodbye, nebulizer. First time ever that I broke a nebulizer, and I've been using it since the gentamicin disaster, so I guess that's a pretty good run. Trying to get a replacement, however, was another thing.

I fought all week to get UPS to deliver the replacement. Now, what happens when you hire the cheapest company on the tender? You get UPS, people who make you wait nine hours for a delivery, don't show up, then lie about trying to deliver. It's bad enough that they are a bunch of useless liars-it's worse when they try to lie to your face. And that doesn't work for me at all. That's when I become irascible. Don't lie -I won't accept it. Huh. We get lied to all the time. It's called the government.

I finally got the delivery - but to a local access point-the people were incredibly nasty, and I had regrets afterwards about being terribly polite. What happens when you get the cheapest possible contract with UPS? They don't provide tracking numbers, only names and addresses. And some of these UPS delivery points hire people who are illiterate. Try to argue with someone who can't read or write. Frustrating, or what?

I finally sorted the whole thing out, left the shop, started to walk back-and some total asshole (I know: money for the swear box, which is overflowing) driving a large van didn't look while he was turning and very nearly drove into me. So, apart from the stress and aggravation of sorting out the nebulizer, and having to fight with idiots all week, I nearly got hit by a moron in a van who clearly didn't have a drivers license.

Some days you just can't win. And when people tell you to let it go, don't let things aggravate you-you want to smack them. Hey. Whack. Let this bloody go!

I had an email from a friend I've known for a long time. She bought two dogs-puppies-and she was telling me that they're losing their baby teeth. So she's keeping the teeth and - are you ready for this?-she's putting them in her jewelry box. Then she said that she didn't even do that with her three sons (who don't speak with her. No surprises there, either). She asked if that is weird. Uhhh...yeah, that is very weird. Imagine if someone went into her jewelry box and found a lot of teeth...ewwwww!

I'm going to sign off and hope that I will have a good weekend and a better week next week. I went to the gym and murdered the treadmill, so now I'm going to Starbucks. And let's see if I can get through an entire weekend-and maybe even an entire week-without fighting (verbally, of course) with anyone. I'm reaching the point where I'm going to need a suit or armor...

Pass the Condiments-foot in mouth (again)

 When I put my foot in my mouth, I usually put it in up to the femur. No surprises this week!

Apparently I upset some members of the LGBT community because I slagged off Fanny Fruitcake last week. Oh, pardon me! Bile green, urine yellow (neon, at that!), and puce walls? That, plus being very heavy handed about the fact that I should give her a try-I'm not criticizing anyone, let alone an entire community. What I am saying is that anyone of any sexual preference (except maybe, for animals and children), should back off when politely told "no". 

If you've been following this for any amount of time (goody!), you'll know that I slag everyone off-especially the Brits, who, let's face it, deserve it. It's entertaining. It's fun-and it does make me wonder how most of these people (perhaps any of these people) ever made it past puberty. 

Lessons learned: anyone who is too physically weak to defend themselves should never go to anyone's house unless they know the person and trust them not to jump them-except if you're armed. I personally feel that the government should provide all physically disabled people with mace-but, of course, that's just my opinion, for what it's worth (to the government, it's worth nothing).

Here's another bit of injustice that you might not know if you are following this outside the UK: if you are attacked and try to defend yourself, you will be arrested and charged with assault. And that is the absolute truth. The offender could -and would-probably claim that he (or she) wasn't properly toilet trained (oh, boo f-ing hoo), and will be let off with a warning and a slap on the hand. I know this from personal experience.

So if anyone from the LGBT is offended, this is a sort of half-assed apology. I'm not slagging you off, only Fanny Fruitcake, who would have had a bunch of fives if she hadn't let me leave when I did. I was, after all, polite. Ish.

My week was marred by the fact that I was summarily discharged from vestibular physiotherapy-having been told that there is nothing else that can be done for me. Some of you know by now that being told that I have basically reached the end of the line is the equivalent of waving a red flag at a bull. Like someone said: nobody puts baby in the corner-even if baby is a bit too long in the tooth to be called "baby". Whatever. This is where I roll up my sleeves and fight back-just as I've done since the cripplers nearly killed me eleven years ago. I won't be running any marathons, but there are a lot of other things I can do.

Just never tell me that I "can't". 

It's about 90F at the moment, and I'm sweating all over the keyboard. I wonder if anyone ever got electrocuted by sweating all over their computer...So it's time to go to Starbucks and sweat all over their floor (at least they enforce social distancing, so everyone else can sweat with impunity).

Fanny Fruitcake Strikes Again

 My life seems to revolve around BG (Before Gentamicin) and AG (After Gentamicin). It's easier for me to compartmentalize by doing this (marginally). And if you've been with me for awhile-or are returning-or find anything interesting (there's a lot to read!), you'll know that after the Royal London Hospital nearly killed me, but destroyed my vestibular system in the attempt, I had no choice but to leave my lovely upstairs property and move into a council flat a mile and a half away. Boy, do I miss that property!

In this area of council flats, Haringey Council placed several people who had been in psychiatric hospitals and had to be rehoused in the community. Their hospitals and wards were closed, so they were dispersed-well, everywhere. Why we had to get several is a very good question.

Fanny Fruitcake's real name is Carol. And Carol was the first person I met when I moved here. She seemed friendly, and relatively sane. Or so I thought! She kept inviting me around for coffee, liked to chat about the other tenants, and then-she hit on me. Seriously! One day she offered to give me some extra paint she had left over from painting her flat, invited me for a coffee, and showed me all the paintwork. It was migraine-inducing.

The kitchen was an interesting shade of bile green. The living room was painted an eye-shattering shade of puce. When she showed me the bedroom (I stood in the doorway. Muggins here finally got the drift of what was going on), I saw walls that could only be described as urine yellow-neon urine yellow, the shade you find when you have a really serious kidney infection. How she didn't throw herself out of a window is a mystery to this day. And then, over coffee, she asked me if I liked women. Oh, brother! She said that she likes women, and that we would make a good couple. I started to laugh-not the best way forward, but I was so shocked that I couldn't help myself. I explained that I'm completely heterosexual, and she said that I shouldn't knock it until I've tried it. Needless to say, I made my escape, and that was the last time I ever went over there for coffee. I decided that I didn't want to wade through the crazies, the fantasists, and the weirdos to find friends. The ones I had were pretty normal. Since then, I've discovered from talking to the neighbors (outside, where it's safer) who is batshit crazy and who isn't. What a revelation.

On Monday, two of the tenants called a tenancy meeting. It was-allegedly-urgent. Apparently they pushed the landlord to send representatives, so two showed up. If you wanted to view a lunatic's free for all, this was it. One guy, crazy Terry, my former neighbor who is dangerously psychotic, ran around screaming at everyone, making no sense at all. Other people were talking at the same time, everyone was shouting to try to be heard, and out came Fanny Fruitcake, wearing her favorite Australian outback-busting hat, complete-wait for it-with corks hanging from the brim. I laughed so hard that if I'd been sitting down I would have fallen off the chair (She told me once-before we stopped speaking-that she didn't know where Australia was, but they all wear corks and she wanted to go there).

Well. To add to the amusement, she came charging over like an angry rhino and started shouting that she couldn't sleep at night and had nightmares (seriously? If I had a flat with urine-yellow, bile green and puce walls, I wouldn't be able to sleep either). Apparently one of the buildings is so dangerous, it has to be evacuated so that someone could fix the damage. The thing is falling down. And she's now afraid that her building at the other end of the road is going to fall down, too. She was shouting. When questioned, she said that she was shouting because she's very deaf in both ears. One of the landlord's people asked whether she wore hearing aids. Yes, she said-but they're in her apartment. Good place for them...

All in a day's entertainment. In all the months of lockdown, I didn't see any of the neighbors, crazy or sane. In that respect, lockdown was a bonus. All the nutters were sequestered. On Monday, I couldn't help but think-oh for another lockdown!

I wish I could report that people aren't as nasty, aggressive, rude, obnoxious, ignorant, dishonest, and just plain braindead as they were before the pandemic hit last year. Unfortunately, the result is true. They are so much worse. That tells you a great deal about people, doesn't it? 

No wonder I prefer animals. Give me a dog any day.

WTF The things that people believe

I'm back after a very long hiatus. If you're back too-hooray! We both-or all-made it through the pandemic. Aren't we heroic? (or just survivalists, refusing to give in). 

We just had our first day of zero deaths for about a year. People are jumping up and down, mask free, stripping off because we've got a heatwave, and taking no notice of anyone but themselves. Some things just never change. And when I see what people look like when they've stripped off, the sight is worse than anything the pandemic can provide. I was walking down the road, minding my own business, and nearly got hit by someone who was waving her arms around, making a point, bingo wings flying in the wind. If I hadn't moved quickly, I would have been hit in the head by a bingo wing the size of a double decker bus. Try explaining that to paramedics!

I'm not fat-shaming, honestly I'm not-but it was a very scary sight. The woman was English (could tell by the accent), and about the size of Jabba the Hutt (if you haven't seen the first Star Wars-why not??).

Someone I know asked me why I'm still wearing a mask (duh. We've got the Indian variant decimating parts of this country, what a stupid question!). So I asked why they weren't wearing theirs. Before they could provide the usual smart-assed Covidiot answer, I said: maybe I know something you don't know. And I walked away. Quickly. Just in case...

The interesting question that arose long before the pandemic hit last year-and I've had so much time to consider it (while I was trying not to die), was (and is): why do people believe everything that everyone tells them? The government- well, what the hell, all politicians lie. They probably even lie in their sleep. As long as they're breathing, they lie. Doctors lie (remember Gentamin? I sure as hell do). Lawyers-they're the worst. I know. I've got lawyers in the family. I remember going to a family reunion years ago, and I had a t-shirt specially printed for the occasion. It said: Take a lawyer to lunch. Underneath, it said: and poison him. To this day, my cousins are still not speaking to me. For some strange reason...

My all-time favorite t-shirt that I had printed some years ago said: How do you stop a lawyer from drowning? Answer: Take your foot off his head.

I rest my case.

Of course, you and I believe everything the government tells us. Equally of course, we also then must believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. And don't forget the family favorite: the Easter Bunny.

So what am I going to do with all this newly found and incredible insight? Actually-nothing. My grandfather had some of the best advice I've ever heard. He said: keep your head down and your trap shut. Yes, well-if only. 

Confessions of a long hauler - back in the saddle!

 Amazing that it's been over a year since the pandemic began. I could have had a baby (God forbid!). You could have had a baby. We could have had twins...

Last March, when I finally posted after starting the year with a nasty case of food poisoning, I was hoping that things would get better. I was laughing at all the covidiots who were stripping the stores of everything from flour to toilet rolls. My faith in humanity disappeared very quickly. Then it disappeared completely.

I thought that I had something simple-like flu. I had all the signs of COVID-including loss of taste and smell-long before they were formally identified as symptoms. Of course, in my part of London, having no sense of smell is more than a blessing. It's a bloody miracle. So-I had COVID before the NHS even had enough tests to test everyone. And from there, things got much, much worse.

I kept receiving letters-one a week, like I'm doddery and can't remember anything? Seriously (everyone I know from the immunology clinic had the same weekly warnings, so I wasn't alone). I was told to stay at home, that I'm in an extremely clinically vulnerable group, that if I got sick and had to go to hospital I would die. I heard that from the government, from the NHS, and from my GP. Everyone.

To make matters worse, I got so fed up with all these dire warnings that I asked  my team the next time I had to appear for my infusions. I also rang my GP, whose assistant told me that she had too many other patients to talk to me, but that I had to stay home for the next three months or I could die if I got sick. What is the point of telling me to go to the hospital if I get sick, I had to ask. Hospitals are full of sick people... 

The short version: I was informed in a letter from the government, and one from the NHS, AND one from the GP that I would not be ventilated if ended up in hospital. If I contracted Covid I would die, because the doctors now had to choose which patients were "worth saving". So I was disposable. Unnecessary. A burden, even though I'd worked for most of my life. People think the NHS is brilliant, life-saving, heroic- and I know differently. To be told that you're superfluous, you'd be better off dying because it was actually the negligence of the NHS that disabled me in 2010-as if they cared. No points and nothing good to say about the NHS at all. When I said something to both my team and my GP, I was asked what I expected? I said that I expected them to try to save my life, that was what I expected. The unanimous answer: why? You are disposable. You've got a hereditary condition that requires constant vigilance. Why would they think of saving you? It's easier - and cheaper - to let you die. 

I should have put that in quotes-but you get the idea...

So that was my year. Did I call an ambulance? Hell, no, not if I'm disposable, I would rather die at home. Let them find out when the body starts to smell.

So that was my year, and it was a pretty tough one. For most of the year I was horribly sick, I really thought that I was going to die, and there was nobody to help me. We were in lockdown. Then we were in lockdown again. And again. No wonder so many people became horribly ratty-although, watching and listening to people, I decided that most people were ratty before the pandemic.

Now it's nearly the end of May, and most of the past fourteen months were spent trying very hard not to die. If I was a cat, I'd probably be on my eighth life by now. But I survived, and I can tell you that Covid (I'm too lazy to use all capitals) is deadly. The after-effects last for months. But after-effects or not, I survived, and a lot of people didn't. I might even get to the point where I start making jokes again.

They might be bad jokes-but at least they're jokes. And, by the way, this is not the way I recommend for weight loss...