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.
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