Perseverance is a superpower...

 We made it through Christmas. We made it through three difficult years. The first two-for me, anyway, were a little complicated by Covid, a flooded property, having lung problems, and, mainly, dealing with the landlord, who clearly couldn't care less if I died. 

Imagine their surprise-and obvious disappointment-when they discovered that I'm not so easy to kill. And there's the lesson: perseverance is a superpower. Perseverance. Persistence. Obstinacy. The refusal to give up if there is even a remote chance of winning (and survival).

Every time I hit an obstacle, I get up and keep going, no matter how ready I am to quit. I will never quit-unless, of course, I have done everything I could, explored all alternatives, and realize that I have to stop somewhere.

I look back at the cripplers-Hilary Longhurst, Sophia Grigoriadou, Phil (not so) Bright, and the son of Satan Matthew Buckland-and I realize that the anger and hatred I felt because they were (and probably still are) incompetent and negligent, nearly killing me-I realize that my feelings propelled me forward. I had the choice of being crippled for the rest of my life, in a wheelchair, having to have someone wash me and wipe my backside, unable to walk or do anything of any value-or fighting back. I decided to fight back. They wouldn't win. And they haven't won. I'm the one who's won.

Everyone knows how terrible the past six or seven months have been; my massive mistake was getting involved with tenants who are incapable of doing anything on their own. I did everything, and, in the end, they screwed me over and left me holding a bag of shit (the landlord again). It was certainly a learning experience-never to be repeated.

The biggest catastrophes-gentamicin, breast cancer, lung and heart difficulties, and, of course, dealing with people who have the intelligence of a door handle and the maturity of a two year old-all carry within them some value, something to examine and learn from, something that  will teach us if we only stop long enough to stop being afraid, or angry, or filled with hatred, stop panicking, stop giving up...

I'll be taking these thoughts with me into the new year. I've said every December for the past-I don't even remember how many years-that I refuse to take the previous year's stress. anxieties, fears, angers and basic bullshit into the next year. No more carryovers! I've said that; now let's see if I do it.

I'll keep you updated on my progress. I'm the procrastination queen, remember, so that will be something huge to tackle. But-I've tacked worse, so that's another item for my to do list.

Have you made any new year's resolutions? I always do-and then I break them within the first week-sometimes within the first day (or three). No resolutions, only the desire (and intention) to live life differently in 2023. Use what I've learned. Apply what I've learned. Perseverance and determination.  

I might not always win-but I will never lose.

Happy New Year. Live. Laugh. Love. Be happy. And never, ever give up.

About that turkey

 Whoever thought that I would be blogging on the morning of Christmas Eve? Actually-I did. I went to Marks & Spencer to get a turkey. It was only a few days ago, so I didn't get caught in the crush of people waiting until the last minute to decide that they really should go and buy food for Christmas. 

That was yesterday. There were so many people, you'd think that there was a famine. Everyone was crushing everyone else, tempers were flaring, one woman was shouting that there wasn't a single chicken in the supermarket-and there was nearly a fist fight. So I left, obviously. I couldn't help but wonder what they were going to start throwing at each other.

When I looked the other day, I saw that a small turkey-and I mean "small": a little over 1kg (about two pounds) cost £50. That's £50!! So I decided that the chicken I have in the freezer will do very nicely. I'll do what I did at Thanksgiving: wave my hand over it and pronounce it a turkey.

The reason I actually risked my life and limb yesterday to go to the supermarket was to buy batteries for my clock. My clock will have to wait until Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Easter.

I didn't get near enough yesterday to see anything I would have wanted. But the other day, it was early morning and I saw a lot of frozen turkeys. Hmmm...

Now frozen turkeys: how long have they been frozen? Since before the onset of the avian flu? I hope? Are they old enough to cause freezer burn? 

It occurred to me that a frozen turkey would make the perfect weapon. Anyone upsets you or winds you up, just turn around and whack them in the head. And when they go down (come on, it's a frozen turkey. Do keep up. Then when they're down, hit them again and tell them to stay down. A few smacks in the head with a frozen turkey, and someone will decide to behave. Or call an ambulance. Whatever.

Imagine having to go to court because you hit some deserving person with a frozen turkey. And the judge asks you to explain. You say that it was an accident, because the turkey was frozen and, therefore, slippery. How many times was it slippery? Three? No, the last time you aimed, you missed.

The judge asks what you did with the turkey. You reply that you cooked it and ate it?

You ate the turkey? asks the judge. And you turn and look at the judge very sternly and reply: Of course we ate it. Have you seen the price of turkeys?

So, on that note, let me wish everyone a very Merry Christmas. Like I said last time, calories don't count (yeah, right!). Enjoy, don't let anyone upset you (like  I do the other 364 days of the year), and, if in doubt, go out and buy a frozen turkey. 

Nearly down to the wire...

 Anyone else look back look back at nearly three years when our lives changed and the pandemic became more than just a word-but a thing? And a lethal thing, at that?

People suddenly became nicer, and helpful-and, of course, we all knew that wouldn't last. Now we're allegedly out of the woods, everyone is back to being as ratty as they were before lockdown. My friend in Dublin wrote and reminded me that people really suck. She's a nurse, so she has seen just about everything. 

All the turkeys that haven't been killed by the outbreak of avian flu are in the shops now. I went to my favorite (Marks & Spencer) and saw a small one - only £50!! What?? So I'm reconsidering-chicken, maybe, or even something vegetarian. When I see footage of abattoirs, I feel really sick. This is a good time to start eating my veggies...

I heard from a couple of people who have been viciously verbally attacked by those people I told you about... and that's another good reason for moving. There's nothing I can do about it. And I still don't know any more about twitter than I did the last time I wrote. I'll figure it out. 

We had enough rain to wash away all the snow and ice of last week. It's now around 9C, so I'm happy. I keep walking, and I just had my tenth acupuncture treatment yesterday. We might be able to stretch it to fifteen-but then we'll have to stop. Any physio treatments have a final date. And I have to say that acupuncture has helped the balance. I did say that I won't stop fighting the devastating diagnosis- so I'll see what the new year brings. I'm just happy that I'm still here and that I'm as healthy as I am.

Have a happy Christmas, everyone, and if I get drunk and disorderly (that really would be a miracle. And a first) and forget to write next week, a happy and healthy new year. Pandemic free.

Remember that over the Christmas period, calories don't count. What the heck-we can all pay for the excesses in January...

Counting down the days to peace and quiet

 Excuse me-do what?? What is peace? And quiet? It's the week before Christmas, we had snow last weekend...that's what I said: snow. Lots of it. In London. Thanks, global warming. And with snow came the inevitable: ice. Lots of that, too.

I did manage to move just before the big snowstorm, so that was great. The side roads and pavements were sheets of ice-and even the main roads weren't cleared immediately. Side roads and pavements are still sheets of ice nearly a week later. The Brits aren't used to the winters we get in New York. Gritters and snow ploughs are mobilized at the first drops of snow. 

Not here, though. And with the NHS on its knees and thousands of nurses on strike, this is not a good time to fall on the ice (or anywhere) and break something. 

Nurses on strike. Postmen on perpetual strike (I haven't had a daily-or weekly-or monthly delivery of mail since the beginning of November). Trains and train drivers and employees are on strike. There are strikes at the airports. Did I leave anyone out? Isn't this a striking country!

I saw a group of postmen standing by one of the post offices-so I naturally had to go over to talk to them. Am I just nosy? Or is it natural curiosity and interest that motivates me to go and find out information-because the media is so full of misinformation that I usually ignore what I read and what I hear. So I walked over, having already stopped one of the local postmen I'd known for years and who was moved to another area.

I've now heard a lot of similar stories from the people who do all the heavy lifting: the front line postmen (and women) themselves. As much as I would like to start receiving mail-some of which is important- I had to say that I support them 100%. Everyone who is striking has a point: they're treated like crap, overworked and underpaid, and they do have a right to a pay rise that is in line with inflation. And inflation is astronomical-14% or more? I stopped listening at 14%. But government ministers are demanding pay raises-for doing nothing.

Go figure. You really couldn't make this up.

I tweeted about those odious people I told you about-at @limerabbit44 ... I must admit that I was expecting some kind of response from somewhere. Well-nothing. Very discouraging. And I was planning on moving anyway, so that was a plus. But now I think I need to do some research to find out how I can get the word out about them before they do more damage next week. I still keep in touch with some of the older people, so I get a clear view of what's going on. But it's frustrating when I know that there's nothing more I can do.

It should be getting warmer today: up to 0C (32F). An absolute heat wave. So it'll be unpacking, cleaning, staying out of trouble (seriously), and doing more tweeting when I can figure out my next move.

I'm pretty sure that I will be posting again before Christmas. But, in the unlikely event that we have another blizzard, it might be a bit later. In any case, happy holidays to everyone.

Eat lots, drink lots, stay out of trouble if you can (I know, this is me talking!), and remember that between now and New Year's calories don't count. 

Festive greetings from @Limerabbit44

 I dipped my toe into the Twitter water-after years of staying away. But hey, If Musk is allowing anyone and everyone to be a card-carrying Twit-might as well join the party.

Whether I did the right thing is a matter of debate. But I posted twice, and nobody seems to have noticed. So I wonder if I'm supposed to let everyone I know that I'm now on Twitter? I did tell you that I'm brand new at this. I can say that I've got a friend who works for the council, and when I told her that I wrote Terry Baster's address-Lorna Shannon's too- my friend nearly fainted. She's afraid for me. So now I'm afraid for me. And I'm so fed up with the idiots and crazies that I've decided to move back up the hill to the area I lived in before. Much nicer and more stable people, too. I know it's London, but nevertheless...

I'm keeping track of the psycho Baster and his equally psycho group of bottom feeders, though. I know some of the tenants for years, I've seen what these cowardly bullies have done to them, so I told them to keep me informed. As they keep me informed, I'll keep you informed. My hope for the really decent people I met who just want to live out the rest of their lives in peace and quiet is that someone will pay the bottom feeding low lifes a visit and tell them to leave everyone else alone. I'm not advocating violence, but...how would you feel if it was your granny or granddad being threatened (especially if they're in their 90s)? Hmmm. You see my dilemma. 

I did find that on Twitter there are people who post just anything. So I'm navigating to see if there's anything interesting. Like I said: at the moment I'm just a toe-dipper.

I hope that everyone had a terrific Thanksgiving. I did an epic eight mile route march on Wednesday, searching in vain for a turkey. They don't come out until December (Thanksgiving is our holiday, after all). I found a chicken that looked like it had died of old age-so I decided to have a deli chicken from Marks & Spencer. I waved my hand over it and pronounced it a turkey (of course I'm only joking. Maybe). A trad Thanksgiving (but with chicken), and it was quiet but very lovely. I contacted all my friends and family and spent most of the day on the phone-and Zoom- and eating. 

The run-up to Christmas is something I've always found difficult. My friends echo this sentiment. My one friend would have had a big anniversary on Christmas Day, and I decided to file for a divorce just before Christmas-but wait to drop the bombshell until after it was over. Ewww-I should have just done it at the time.

I'm trying very hard to focus on all the things I've got, not the mistakes I've made or the time I've wasted. There will be more about that later-we've got three weeks until Christmas Day, so there's time to ruminate, be very pissed off, and get over it. 

So, until next time (which hopefully will be sooner rather than later), I'm going to nose around and find what I can buy as a Christmas present. For myself. 

A neophyte twit

I decided some time ago that I was going to put the names of the bullies who are wrecking people's lives on Twitter. Did I do that? Well...no, I didn't. And now I hope that it isn't too late. 

I've got a Twitter account (miracles do happen!). As of this morning, I'm @Limerabbit44

Will this work? I've got no idea-but Thursday is Thanksgiving, so let me wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving. It's a busy week for me, so I'm doing this early.

I'll be checking out Twitter later. Right now, I just wanted to join. Who knew?

I've also decided to put the really evil, malevolent, vicious gossips in my area and relegate them to the dustbin (garbage can). It's where they belong, after all.

Here's something that is profoundly interesting (to me, anyway). I could easily waste more of my time by going to the next useless committee meeting and telling them what I think of them. That wouldn't take long, but just because I can (I'd have to speak very slowly and use very small words), it doesn't mean that I should. 

I struggled with all this-payback, if you will-but it would be unnecessary and unhelpful. Because Baster is violent anyway, I'd be risking my neck telling these useless, malevolent cretins off. So I decided that it would be going in one ear and out the other-because there's nothing in between to stop it.

Another reason to be thankful - and I've got many, when I actually think about it - is that, when I stop and think rather than just reacting - wisdom takes over.

Like I said: just because I could easily annihilate them all with words, it doesn't mean that I have to. Blank them. Block their phone numbers (already done). Imagine that they don't exist.

Now here's an idea that comes from a friend of mine (too bad I didn't think of it years ago):

If you've ever been close to a camel - real life, not virtually - you will have been treated to the huge piles of camel dung and the accompanying horrendous, vomit-inducing stench. It' bad enough to make your eyes water and make you heave.

Camel dung is the food choice of maggots and blowflies. It doesn't really serve any other purpose, as far as I know. So I've told some of the older residents who have been offended or abused or threatened by Terry Baster (and his son) and Lorna Shannon-and their enabler, Sandy Pavlov, who encourages them - to do the following:

When they pass their flats, or see them, or hear them (hearing is the easy part. Baster and Shannon are so loud that they could wake the dead in Highgate Cemetery), just imagine that you're passing huge, stinking piles of camel dung. And hold your breath and keep moving.

Maybe that sounds gross, but I've been told by the older targets (older meaning in their 80s and 90s) that it really does work. It also makes them laugh.

So there you go. If people plague you, try the camel dung exercise. You'll not only have a really good laugh-you'll be doing breathing exercises, too.

Happy Thanksgiving, if I don't get back here before Thursday.

Trumpty Dumpty sat on a wall...

 I wish  I'd thought that one up. I think that it is hilarious. But no-my friend in New York emailed me to say that one of the newspapers had this as its headline. Only the Trumpty Dumpty part. I added the rest. Didn't he fall flat on his posterior!! Not far enough, sadly. 

It has been that kind of a week-or two. First, Election Day, when everyone here (and home) was terribly worried that the media would be right, in gleefully predicting that the Democrats would be annihilated in the midterm elections. So much for their powers of clairvoyance. And a big sigh for me, because we at least won the Senate. So people here who deride Americans (mainly because of Trump) can eat their words. Their credibility went down the crapper (a good, descriptive British colloquial term) with Liz Truss, who managed to severely mangle the UK economy in just 49 days. That must be a record. 

We've had a huge amount of rain since I last wrote-and the resulting vertigo made me realize just how much I have to go before I can regain some sense of a balance system. I say that I can; the neurologists say that I've come as far as I possibly can, and that I've done really well to get this far. Sure; it's only taken me 12 1/2 years. Maybe I'm completely bonkers to even contemplate any further recovery-but perhaps I'm either a pessimistic optimist or an optimistic pessimist. I truly believe that I can do more. I'll let you know, that's for sure.

Somehow-somewhere-lurks a suspicion (even if it could be wishful thinking) that scientists don't know enough about the human brain to be able to definitively say that there's no way back from vestibular destruction. Okay, the entire mechanism was destroyed (thanks, Barts) but who is to say that other parts of the brain aren't able to take over and deliver something resembling a healthy vestibular system? All the specialists are telling me that it's impossible. And I won't have it. Very few things are impossible.

I saw my immunologist on Wednesday. If you've been following this for awhile, you'll know that I've got hereditary CVID. So I was born without a functioning immune system. And if someone somewhere hadn't done the research to discover that regular infusions of antibodies (antibody replacement) will provide a baseline immune system (baseline. Not fully functional) and that patients can live longer. 

My point? My doc told me that I'm somewhat of a walking miracle, considering all the physical things that have gone wrong in my life. I said that I'm too obstinate to just roll over and expire. Not my time yet. And if I can successfully beat the odds and still keep going, so can anyone else. 

Next Thursday is Thanksgiving. I'll be celebrating. Once I stop moaning and groaning about things that I can't change (like the climate, and Ukraine, and the cost of living crisis that we're all in the middle of experiencing), I'm mentally making a list of the things about which I can be very, very grateful. Who knew that this list would be far longer than the other one?

When your get up and go has got up and gone

 Okay, I know that it's not grammatically correct-but I live over here, and nobody will ever know the difference...

Have I been busy since I last wrote? Yes, I certainly have-I don't give up without a fight. And I knew that a fight was necessary. I sat and read the caution letter several times, and I highlighted all the ridiculous accusations that made no sense. I then photographed all six pages on my phone and sent them to the Ombudsman. Then I called the Ombudsman. And waited. And waited. A lot of other people must have been complaining.

I'm waiting for notification that a case handler has been assigned. Apparently, the law changed on October 1, and anyone can complain without waiting the eight week cooling off period. And Haringey has so many black marks against them that nobody was surprised to read my complaint. But-and there is a "but"-the Ombudsman service is only there to mediate, not to make anything other than suggestions to the landlord. But-again-when the landlord comes back and refuses to make the changes that are strongly suggested by the Ombudsman, the landlord gets a black mark against them-and it's made public. As if Haringey cares.

I then rang our local councillor and told him what was going on. I emailed him the six page letter. I've been busy emailing-and calling-and threatening a lawsuit. And then I complained to the Haringey complaints department. This is another useless exercise, because complaints never get either answered or handled. They're usually ignored.

I did say that I've been busy. If I don't get any answers from anyone, I will contact the press for help. It'll be the local newspapers, since the big national ones are busy dealing with the fallout from the useless Liz Truss's resignation. 

I went into my local Waitrose to do my shopping; I was met with some very long faces. All the prices have gone up astronomically, just as the utilities (gas and electricity) have shot up. Every borough now has places where people can go to get warm, and to get a free cup of tea, and to meet and commiserate. It's so sad that this is happening in a so-called civilized country. 

I had printed out a small sign which I taped on the shelf over the vegetables-over the lettuce, actually. It read "Guaranteed to last longer than Liz Truss". I stuck it on, having looked first to make sure that nobody saw me. Then I slowly walked away.

Well! People kept coming over to read the sign, and there was a lot of laughter as shoppers looked around to see who put it there. When I chuckled over it and went to the self-service till to pay my bill, I found that the manager was standing right behind me. Uh-oh?

I've been shopping there for more than ten years, and many of the people who work there see a friendly face-and know their customers. I looked at him, he looked at me-and he said "That is so funny that I told the staff to keep it there and not take it down". 

How about that? There are Brits who have a sense of humor. In this current economic freefall, humor isn't so easy to come by. 

Every country seems to be affected-not just by Ukraine, but by everything from climate change to the Supreme Court deciding that women have no say over our own bodies. Next thing they'll do is target same sex marriages. Then it's women's right to vote. Trump won't be happy until he changes the country from a democracy to an autocracy, and takes us back 200 years, 

The man should be in prison.

It'll be very interesting to see what happens over the next few months. That's assuming that we all live that long, and that Putin doesn't start a nuclear war. Meanwhile, I'll sit here and consider what to do to right the injustices of the past few months-in my own territory. 

Never let it be said that punitive behavior doesn't exist; I've now been threatened with eviction

 And here I had a week away from all the stresses, aggravation, threats, moaning, whingeing... I thought that I was doing the right thing by constantly emailing (and occasionally threatening) the council about the lack of response to everything that Baster (aka Monkey Pox. Forever) was doing to everyone. I stuck my head above the parapet-and now I'm in danger of losing my head after all. Nobody would ever make this up.

I went off to Kent for a week of peace and quiet. No television, no radio, virtually no internet access-it was so quiet and peaceful, I wasn't happy about returning yesterday afternoon. Even when it rained (every day) I found a time to do some walking. Small village. A lot of hairdressers (!), but no greengrocers or fruit shops of any description. They had a large Tesco, so that was where I bought a few things. And that was it. Pubs-yes. Distractions? Not really. And three churches-three! go figure...

I returned to find a letter from some halfwit who calls herself a "resident liaison officer"- another council halfwit who couldn't liaise her way around a public toilet. That ended peace and really infuriated me.

This moron is called Hyacinth Simms-I keep calling her Hyacinth Bucket, after a pretentious character in a sitcom that was popular long before I came to this country. I never saw it-only the name made me laugh. Bucket doesn't make me laugh.

So Bucket sent me a six page diatribe filled with scurrilous lies, inaccuracies, misinformation, and basic bullshit. She formally threatened me with eviction-subject to statements from-if you immediately said Monkey Pox, you're right. And Shannon, his pal who lives downstairs and who-I've got absolutely no doubt-was responsible (with  Pox) for the oil on the stair and the cleanup afterwards. No proof-no witnesses-no chance of doing anything about it. Now is when I wish I knew some thugs to do it for me. And the third cretin who complained is Sandra Pavlou, who lives next to Robert, the person with whom I am collaborating on attenpts to get Baster moved elsewhere. Anywhere. 

I never had an issue with Pavlou. I haven't spoken with her, or seen her, or interacted with her in any way. We live at opposite ends of the estate, so we just never seemed to see each other. But she's hooked up with Baster-and he calls her his only family. The two of them are conjoined. Add Shannon, who is just as close (what a scary, revolting idea), and Baster's son, who is from Sweden and now lives with daddy-and you've got people who will say anything to discredit someone who has consistently reported them. Formally.

So, the question: am I going to do anything about this? Ahhhh-you know the answer. I reported the council for incompetence to the housing ombudsman and the local councillor before I left. And now I'm going to report Hyacinth Simms to the corporate complaints department. This will, of course, do nothing, as all complaints are probably thrown in a bin somewhere. But I'll be contacting the Ombudsman to offer the latest development, since Simms never contacted me and is clearly getting even for my calling her incompetent. 

Robert, who is the person I've been trying to help and support in all this-since June this year, when I stupidly agreed to help-is making noises about continuing in his quest to get Monkey Pox sanctioned- but now is backing off since I told him about the eviction threat. And that's what I get for trying to help someone who also can't be trusted.

I'm sensing a pattern? They can't evict me, by the way, because the "evidence" is spurious, and would never hold up in court. And they won't want me to take them to court.

I rang a tenancy manager yesterday afternoon-she actually answered the phone-bet she wished she hadn't- and she said that she knew nothing about this. She's Bucket's boss, by the way. I said that they'd better be ready for legal action-because I'll get them for libel, slander, defamation of character, and a whole list of other things that will make really interesting reading for the newspapers.

They do not want to mess with me. They're messing with the wrong person. Because now I won't stop until they put the situation right. I mean: I'll go public. And I will get even.

The monster known as Monkey pox (Terry Baster) - 1 ...everyone else - hmmm....

 And what's the latest on my attacker, Terry Baster (aka Monkey Pox, the scourge of Hornsey)?

It's now been four weeks since the less than graceful fall into the steel railings that left me with a severe concussion and very nasty facial injuries. Most of the bruises and swelling on my face have cleared; I don't look like I've been punched repeatedly in the face by whoever is the world boxing champion. Or a bus. But there's enough bruising left on one side of my face-and my eye-that people I know have asked me who hit me. So I've got a way to go until full healing takes place-and possibly another two months or so until the headaches have gone. Oh joy.

As for Baster (as my friend in Dublin calls him: Bastard), the council has done absolutely nothing. I sent them the horrific photos of my injuries and, true to form. Haringey never acknowledged. Nobody even bothered to phone me to ask if I was okay. That's Haringey for you: they couldn't care less about the tenants, even those of us who pay rent and are quiet and no bother to anyone.

I've been mostly using Arnica (homeopathic remedy for bruising), taking painkillers. and keeping to myself wherever possible. When I leave the house, I double check the entrances and exits, and examine every step before I go up or down. I'm hyper vigilant. Nobody should have to live like that. But I do. Now I know what it feels like to have a severe concussion. It's no fun.

Has anything changed (apart from my face)? Well- I thought you'd never ask...

I went to the police (finally) and made a police complaint; I was then told that I waited too long, there were no witnesses (everyone loves their bloody witnesses!), so the police won't pursue it. No wonder people hate the police.

On Monday there was a meeting of the residents' association-a joke if there ever was one. Some nitwit at Haringey decided that all the tenants would be better off working together. Such a stupid idea! Monkey pox doesn't work well with others.

During this meeting, Pox (monkey pox, pox, whatever-same thing) stood up and started cursing at me, threatening me, and then turned his attention to the tenants' advocate, Rob. He and Rob despise each other, so what else did Monkey Pox do? He threatened to come around the table and punch Rob in the face. In front of six witnesses, one of whom works for-Haringey Council. Witnesses. One works for the council, so he can't lie.

I remember the wise words of my grandfather: give someone enough rope and they will hang themselves with it. Don't ever (he went on to say) forget that. It will come in handy one day. Wise words which I dismissed (teenagers rarely listen anyway. I didn't.

Rob asked me to help him file a police report-and I did. I also helped him email the very people who dismissed all of us as big children who just don't like each other (antisocial behavior. Waste of time, like the rest of the council).

The police are -allegedly-going to follow up Rob's claim. When they do, Monkey Pox should get a backlash from the council, who should also get a backlash from our local councillor (politicians sometimes can help. We got a good one).

I will let you know the outcome of the statement taking tomorrow. We'll finally see if something will be done about this psychopath before he hurts anyone else-or kills me, as he has threatened more than once. Has he been hoist by his own petard (hung with his own rope)?

I hope so. Living with this kind of threat is very wearing. Anyone out there who has had this experience: I absolutely know how you feel.

Fingers crossed. This is one of those times when I wish I was related to someone like the Sopranos. LOL anyone remember the Sopranos? Only television, of course-but the real thing would be so very useful right about now. 

The Continuing Saga of Monkeypox

 I sent photos of my smashed face to-well, everyone. The landlord said nothing-clearly couldn't care less. But my friends were fuming. My friend in Dublin calls him Terry Bastard (very appropriate); I just call him monkey pox. Even more appropriate. And now Terry Baster has a new ally: Lorna Shannon, the most evil, obnoxious, malicious, malignant gossip in the entire area. Shannon is known to the police for making nuisance calls, accusing innocent people of doing things they haven't done. She's also known to the council-and to her previous neighbors-for spreading the most terrible-and untrue-gossip anyone could possibly imagine. 

And Shannon is in my building-adjacent to the stairs that were deliberately oiled nearly three weeks ago. Coincidence? Hardly. 

Baster seems to be channeling his inner Charles Manson-but with no teeth. Well-a few teeth, all rotten, and tattoos everywhere you can see (probably also places you can't see-but who would want to? What a nauseating idea). Who else would have a huge tattoo up one arm-that says "bollocks" in capital letters? 

When Baster snaps his fingers, his wannabes jump. It's astonishing how stupid people can be, and how easily led by a psychopath they can be. 

Am I safe? No. Does anyone who can do anything care? Also no. 

There aren't any more things I can do-or at least, think of doing. The police won't do anything unless he attacks me (typical police in this country). The council? They couldn't give a rat's ass as long as I pay my rent. Typical of Haringey, one of the worst boroughs in the country. The media? They've got Dizzy Lizzy, the new prime minister, who is currently doing her best to destroy the economy-and Kwarteng, the chancellor, who is-a moron. 

Plus, the crime rate has shot up astronomically since the end of lockdown, so they've got more important news. I guess. Murder would get their attention-but I'm not keen on that one.

The positive news is that most of the swelling has gone down, and the horrific bruises are turning interesting shades of yellow. A few more days and I'll look normal, rather than someone who got the crap beaten out of me. 

That's the update-so far, so good. But if you're anywhere around Haringey, Baster and Shannon are (I believe) on Facebook. And they only go for people who are disabled -or otherwise physically vulnerable. They like people who can't fight back. They like people who won't fight back.

They chose badly.

The anti-Royalist police

 No, the anti-royalist police didn't come and arrest me. If hey had, I'd probably still be in jail.

The Brits gave the queen a good sendoff. Just wait until the taxpayers get the bill..

What I find interesting is that the British are obsessed with the royal family-and everyone who is famous (or would like to be). Royal family first-then the weather (ever meet a Brit who can't help but discuss the weather? Me. neither). Then drinking (as in, alcohol. Beer. Spirits. Anything that they can stuff down.). To them, getting pissed is grand. Then being as obnoxious, rude, stupid, horrible to everyone else (especially dogs and cats, who can't protect themselves). 

At the very bottom of the list of obsessions is: moaning. They whinge about everything. It's too hot (it's summer, you moron). It's too cold (autumn. Ditto.) 

In all fairness, I do my share of whingeing-but to you, since you know how much I love to put them down, wind them up, and generally make fun of them. That isn't an obsession. It's a hobby.

And nearly two weeks ago, the lunatic neighbor who has been threatening to kill me for more than three years nearly succeeded. Nothing to do with making fun of him, because I stay as far away from him as I can. A word of advice: stay away from mentally deranged people-even if you have to cross the street to do so.

Well... I've learned to keep my opinions to myself; I thought that if I avoided Terry Baster at all costs, I'd be okay. And I was wrong; I've got the black eye, bruised head, bruises everywhere, and a nasty concussion to prove it. Still got the black eye and all the bruises after ten days. CT scan at the hospital shows no evidence of a subdural hematoma, but I'm told that I have a bad concussion-and it could clear in a few more weeks, or could take up to three months. 

The embarrassing fact is that the police won't do anything about it because there are no witnesses. Even worse, the landlord (London Borough of Haringey, rated one of the worst in London-no surprise there!) refuses to take action. No witnesses, no evidence. Apparently my smashed face doesn't count as evidence! You couldn't make this up...

In case you're wondering how and why this happened: Baster "liked me" three and a half years ago. I wasn't impressed (if you looked at him you'd know why), but I was polite. I was only polite. Early on, I had to tell him that I was in a relationship and didn't go out with anyone else. Then he started to ask why the man didn't come around to the flat. I said that he won't come around because everyone is so nosy. And I had to tell him (politely) to back off, that I wasn't interested.

From then on, he stalked me and made my life hell. No matter how many times I reported him-Haringey turned a blind eye. They protect their mentally deranged tenants, I was told last week. 

So that brings us to the present. Unfortunately, if I carry so much as a nail file, I could be arrested if I wave it in self-defense. It's considered a weapon. Personally, I'd rather use it and still be alive-even if I'm arrested for assault. With a nail file. 

You couldn't make this up, could you? 

I'm going to go back, look everywhere before (and after) I go into my building, and make myself a good, strong coffee. And double-lock the door.

Just whem you thought it was safe...the fertilizer hits the fan

 I must be getting old. I'm getting polite. First, the ghastly replacement for the even more ghastly Bozo, the ever so crooked prime minister, gets appointed: an officious oaf called Liz Truss. She's bullish-but incompetent. Aren't they all?

Well...Liz got thrown off the deep end. Too bad it wasn't the cliff that her promises of "delivery" are leading us over. At least, if we survive without food, utilities, decent-well, everything (unless you're a millionaire, because everyone else is being taxed to death. Literally). 

On Thursday, I was coming back from infusions, and I had to lie down-after eating something and taking two headache pills. I was okay-just had a thumping head. I turned on the radio and discovered that the queen died. Oh, my! I'm sad for all the millions of people who adored her, but I have to say that I was never one of them.

So we've been subjected to the most nauseating, simpering, sentimentality- we've been bombarded with people weeping and wailing, you'd think the world just ended. I got very ticked off after a day of hearing all the messages from everywhere-the radio stations played crap music that sounded more like a dirge than music. The television stations stopped all the decent shows and all they would show was anything having to do with the queen. And Phil. And Charlie. Ad nauseum. 

There was so much crawling that I could feel my blood sugar rising just by listening to all the crap that the listening and viewing public got rammed down our throats.

Okay, the old girl was on the throne for 70 years (that must have been painful). And this is a monarchy, after all. And people are indoctrinated to think that the queen and all the sycophants, parasites and hangers-on are special, they have a sense of entitlement that the rest of us don't deserve. WHAT?? My egalitarian background and my feminist ideas are just making me jump up and down in disgust.

Sorry if you're a monarchist. Sorry if you're a hopeless romantic and believe in the prince/princess/man on a white horse coming to rescue you-and all that crap. 

I'm a realist and a pragmatist. When the pervert prince (Andy, what a creep) ran home to mummy and mummy didn't force him to go to New York and go on trial-the creep was-and is-guilty as sin. And the queen gave him a free pass. She should have given him a free ticket: to New York, to face the music like a man (that he isn't). All victims of child abuse and child molestation are probably still weeping at the injustice.

Then there's that vicious, low-life, parasite Harry. He lived off his old man for 30-odd years, so now he complains. It didn't stop him from taking money from the bank of Dad, did it? As for Meghan-she was crap in Suits, and the only performance (still not believable) was her weeping to Oprah (America's biggest gossip, with no credibility whatsoever) that she faced racism at the palace. According to people who worked there, she's a liar. There was never any racism, and she was never suicidal. She's now offended all black people everywhere, and insulted people who really were/are suicidal. 

Meghan's a disgusting and disgraceful liar. The pair deserve each other. They're so pathologically jealous of his brother and sister in law that they'll say anything. Oh, please, enough slander and libel. Why are those two still carrying their titles, which they don't deserve? Why are they still living off the very people they profess to hate? Someone tell the king to strip them of all their titles-permanently and forever-and their kids, too-take back the cottage and ban them from every royal residence everywhere.

Now you see why I have no respect for the royal family. Charlie has spent years giving to charities-the Princes Trust has done miracles for millions of people-but the rest of them? People in this country are going without enough food, without utilities (gas and electricity) because they can't afford to feed their families and heat their homes at the same time. The country is in a mess, Truss the moron won't tax the high earners and the rich companies because (she says) they should be putting more money into the country. What's left of it. 

So-the queen was 96. That's a good age (unless you happen to be 95. Then it's something to think about). And the rest of them go on living the good life while their "subjects" are starving. 

Does that seem right to you? It doesn't seem right to me at all; it seems criminal. 

Well-we're stuck with all this garbage until after the funeral. Thank goodness for Neflix.

I may be a wimp-but I'm a happy wimp

 I said last time that I was due to go for the fifth Covid jab on Friday. I've put it off since I was "invited" (that means ordered) to have it in June. I remembered how I felt after the last three; I'll remember that for life, probably.

Oh, well. I don't believe in coincidence. I believe in synchronicity, but not coincidence. And I kept wondering if I should cancel it for the sixth time, since I didn't think I could take another five days of agony. So I wandered around all week, and came to the conclusion that I was well and truly indoctrinated when it came to doctors believing that they know best. I knew that was a total lie twelve years ago.

On Thursday I went for my infusions. While I was waiting for my taxi outside the hospital, my phone rang. It was the testing centre-and my decision was made for me. They were doing polio vaccinations for the next few months until all the 1-10 year olds had the polio jab. So every Covid booster was cancelled. Talk about good luck!

I was so happy that I had to restrain myself from punching the air in triumph. If that wasn't a sign of refusing the fifth booster, I don't know what was. And that taught me a lesson: if I get a bad feeling about something, don't do it. Ever.

So that was my day of reprieve. I walked around all afternoon whispering thank you-quietly, of course. Is there a god/spirit/higher power/ super consciousness/bacon sandwich-who knows, and who cares? Someone or something was definitely looking after me. 

It's been a week, however. I live in a small community which was earmarked for disabled people; I didn't know when I moved in that some of the people were mentally disabled. If you have been following me for awhile, you'll know the story of the reptile who has been making everyone's lives a misery. And you'll also know that I got involved at the beginning of June. Now that I think about it, I think that my ego was involved, rather than my good sense. I should have said no. And the stress of dealing with 60+ year old people who behave like four year olds has taken its toll. On Wednesday I was walking back from the shops and I burst into tears. Truly not my finest moment. I had a meltdown. I managed to cry myself all the way back, locked the door, made myself a strong coffee, and sat and wept for a little while. Then I decided that I needed that to show me that the stress of dealing with idiots was too much stress. I'm done.

I'm stuck in the old quandary of getting myself as gracefully as possible out of the cesspit-or having to deal with the stress of dealing with people who are brainless and ungrateful. Truly. They seem to believe that they are entitled to everything without actually doing any work. And now I'm venting...First I cried uncontrollably for about an hour, now I'm venting. I rarely do either, so we know that I need to go and let them all fight it out by themselves.

I think that we come to a point in our lives when we need to examine our priorities and decide what is important. I was always an activist-and now I just want to enjoy middle age before I turn around and croak. So I'm going to do the things I promised to do, attend the meetings I said I would attend, and stop sending emails to the landlord, because as long as they get their pay every week, they don't care about the wellbeing of their tenants. Isn't that typical?

I'm actually setting boundaries. It took long enough. And, since utilities (gas and electricity) prices are rising at least 400% next month (yes, that's what I said: 400%), I'm using my cafetiere to make my own coffee. A fiver at Starbucks for a cappuccino is ridiculous.

Next week we'll know which of the untrustworthy and incompetent morons will be our next untrustworthy and incompetent prime minister. Oh joy. All this while people are afraid to turn on their heating in the winter because they can't afford it. 

What do I think of the candidates for the thankless job that was left by the useless and incompetent Boris Johnson? About the same as I thought of him. So I'll let you know the verdict next week. No doubt we will get the government we deserve (and God help us).

From the frying pan into the fire: here comes another Covid booster...

 OMG, another booster! I must be a glutton for punishment. This one isn't actually a "booster". It's a full-sized, tortuous Covid shot. That's another five days of staying in bed, feeling like I'm dying of some dreaded disease that has no name (actually, the name is Pfizer), shaking myself into pieces, and wondering if I'm going to survive this one, this time. Lucky? Maybe.

This will be vaccine number 5. That's what I said: 5. I've been putting it off since June, and I got severely told off by the immunology team for delaying something that is very, very vital. So they tell me. This is what happens when you're born with a defective immune system: everyone seems to be coming at you from every different direction.

Well...if this one on Friday is as bad as the four previous ones, you won't hear from me until next week. I'll spend a few days crying, throwing up, and generally being very cranky.

I thought that I was the only person who had a severe reaction. I call five days of being totally incapacitated a "severe reaction". But-not so. I made it my business to talk to as many Covid vaccination veterans as I could, and discovered that, although some lucky souls only had a headache for a day, others had as terrible a reaction as I had. Not very much comfort, I have to add; misery doesn't always love company.

Just for the record-from what I've been told and from what I discovered by investigating thoroughly-the Astra Zeneca vaccine is the worst for nasty aftereffects. People got really, really sick-for days-and the vaccine, while okay, was never the best and most effective anyway. The best and most effective is the Pfizer-but it also kept me bedbound for five days each time, so I'm a bit disgruntled. Still-it's better than risk dying of Covid. And people are still dying. 

One of my neighbors-called Lorna-is this horrible, nasty gossip who also pretends to be a very religious woman. All the hail marys in the world won't stop her from going to hell, that's for sure. She's been going around the area telling anyone who will listen (that's basically nobody) That this is biblical. Covid, long Covid, monkeypox, the state of the economy, the state of the world-we're all going to Hell, she says.

I said-yesterday, when she cornered me-that she'll be the first one to go. As for me, I said:

You go to Hell, Lorna. Me, I'm going to Starbucks.

See you next week...

London Broil: Baked, fried, microwaved, roasted or sautéed?

 I used to say that it's hard to hit a moving target. Well-hard, difficult, but not impossible. Try 104F and see how easy it is when your target is fried to a crisp. Since the ghastly, miserable heatwave of a couple of weeks ago hit us without warning, it's been difficult to do anything except sit in front of the fan and sweat. 

It's been a month like that-hot, sweaty, uncomfortable, and I've been feeling like a salmon swimming upstream. You swim, swim, swim-like your life depends on it-and, exhausted, you finally get there, throw yourself over the top, thinking that you are safe at last-and someone eats you for lunch. What a sad end to an illustrious career.

There's no point in rehashing the stories about the disgusting, crooked,  incompetent Boris Johnson - aka Bozo - because everyone has already heard them (in ad nauseum, I might add). And Trump-well, the two of them should be gelded.

There is a point in telling you that when you give someone enough rope and they hang themselves with it, you should do the most intelligent thing-and walk away. I don't even want to think about all the times I didn't do that, and suffered as a result. That's a neat way of saying that I did it again. Arghhh!!!

I've always been a sucker for a sob story. I've also been a sucker for the underdog, even when that dog is an egregious liar who deserves putting down. Well-here goes, slap me later.

If you've been with me for awhile, you know the story of Terry the psycho bin thief. Terry steals things that don't belong to him: recycling bins (no, I don't know why, either. Maybe he sleeps with them. God knows that he's so ugly, no woman who isn't blind would even pay him the slightest bit of attention). Well-Terry has been on the rampage for a few months. And Rob, someone who offended me three years ago and whom I've ignored ever since, came to me (yet again, like he did three years ago) to ask for my help. So, activist (and occasional idiot) that I am, I jumped right in to sort things out and put things right. Ohhhh, dear-I hear you say-and how did that work out for you? You can guess.

Terry has been threatening people who are in their 80s and 90s-old people who are very frail, and can't stand up for themselves (can barely stand up at all), so I went to war.

It's a good idea to hide all access to emails when I get going. I politely emailed the senior managers at Haringey to let them know what was going on. I got no response. I emailed again. Same thing: nothing. I then stopped being so polite, asking them if they can remember that they are responsible for the health, safety and well-being of all tenants in the borough. Nothing. Then they got the required (to me) number of threatening emails (threatening to go to the police and to the media). Nothing. So I went to both.

It was like lighting a fire under their asses-because they suddenly sent someone to talk to Baster-which they did several times, and which they ignored.

Long story a bit shorter: is there a satisfactory ending to this? Well-yes and no. Next week a  senior manager is coming to talk to all of us, and bringing the antisocial behavior person who spoke to Baster without any luck. And I went to the Housing Ombudsman, who have written to Haringey asking what they are going to do about this hideously longstanding problem.

I will, of course, let you know at the end of next week what-if anything-has happened. I'm not finished yet. There's always Twitter.

So that brings us up to date. My friend back home calls me "London Broil"- more heat to come, but cooler, only in the middle 90s. Still horrible. If I don't keep moving, someone (probably Baster) will stick a skewer in me, baste me, and let me get well done enough to have a nice dinner.

I'll keep you informed. Meanwhile, remember that if someone asks for volunteers-keep your head and your hands down. Never volunteer for anything. Always give people enough rope to hang themselves first. Then decide...

confessions of a Crispy Critter

 Not quite crispy. Borderline crispy. Give it a couple of days...

We are in a heatwave. And anyone who lives in a hot climate-like Florida, for example-will laugh at me. 80F to me is boiling; we're above that, and it's due to be in the high 90s, getting up to over 100 by Tuesday. Air conditioning? Seriously? We're lucky to have indoor toilets, so let's not push our luck.

I do not love the heat. I'm looking at people who are walking up the road, wearing very little, and getting very, very red. Well done, everyone, wait a few years until you develop skin cancer. Tanning? No thanks. 

I do laugh, because I'm so fair skinned that I look like I'm ready for embalming. Put me in the sun without being covered up-I turn the color of beetroot, and there's peeling, pain and a lot of swearing and crying. I just look at the brown ones (and the painfully red ones), and say that I'm happy to be pale and interesting.

Funny-I've been in this country for so many years that I'm beginning to only be able to discuss the weather. It's probably safer that way. 

My mother told me when I was growing up that one should never discus four things when in public (or even in private, actually): politics, religion, money-and sex. All those discussions, she said, lead to arguments-some of them vicious arguments. I can understand that-but where's the fun in discussing only the weather? Or what anyone watched on television last night? 

But then, I've got a very dark sense of humor-and it doesn't match the British sense of humor at all. Dave Allen-the Irish comedian (who sadly died several years ago)- was very dry, very clever, and very funny. If you find any of his work on YouTube, you might like it.

Meanwhile, before the keyboard melts (or I do, whichever comes first), I'm going to have a long, cold drink (fizzy mineral water, whoever said that I'm boring?).

I'll be back soon, and give you a proper update...

The triumph of the human spirit

 Nope-I'm not talking about myself. I'm still a hopeless cynic, really making an effort to avoid being soppy and sentimental (an effort that seems to fail unexpectedly. But I will always make the effort). For me, it would read as the battle of the human spirit.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a local lecture which featured the daughter of a Holocaust survivor. This woman was interesting in that she brought photos of her mother and her mother's family-most of whom were slaughtered by the Nazis. What interested me was the fact that her mother and a friend and the few family members who were left alive were able to cross Europe and reach England-and not have their boat turned back, which happened to more than a few boats filled with Nazi victims. Her mother went on to become a sculptor and live until the ripe old age of 96. Good genes, that's for sure.

There were about 100 people in the room-and only two of us wore masks, which caused me some concern-but I wanted to hear her mother's story. It's different when you watch Schindler's List-or see archive footage of the atrocities - atrocities for which there are many perpetrators still left who never paid for their war crimes. And when I left, several other people were also very moved and fighting back tears.

I had to go to hear what she had to say-and it made me think about Ukraine. Obviously. I still can't get my head around the fact that the useless wanker (oops-there goes another pound into the swear box) Boris Johnson is busy making promises to Zelensky-promises that he has no intention of keeping-while the Ukrainians are fighting and dying. This government is such a disgrace. Why is Putin still alive?

So that was me a couple of weeks ago. At the same time, I was supposed to have another booster-which the NHS is jokingly calling the "spring booster". I cancelled the appointment, remembering vividly the horrendous ordeal I had to go through with all the other vaccines. Some things you just never forget.

While I was doing my walking and staying out of other people's way as much as possible, I had another attack of BPPV. This is courtesy of the gentamicin, the word and the situation that I said I would never mention again (unless it was relevant. This was relevant). I suffered hugely from vertigo. The room, the world, everything spun around so badly that I couldn't stand up because everything was constantly spinning. Imagine how it feels to be really drunk-but not get any better. Only without any alcohol. Such a bummer...

So I finally got an appointment with Harry, the technician who runs the testing centre. I went along yesterday to face the rotating chair.

Imagine a chair that looks like it could be the electric chair. There are computers in a bank behind the chair, and some in front as well. The chair itself has straps everywhere (so you can't get up and run away). The patient sits and gets strapped in. I couldn't move;, I was then blindfolded, and  a headpiece containing various electrodes was placed firmly on my head. Then  I was turned upside down, where I spent a couple of minutes so Harry could take his readings. Back up, and then turned upside down the other way. That happened twice. Very entertaining. Harry did keep checking to see if I was okay. I said: I'm upside down, how okay can I be?

The thing about BPPV (Benign Paroxismal Positional Vertigo, for any anoraks like me) is that the crystals in the inner ear which are needed for balance get bored; they decide to go exploring, so while they're doing walkies, I'm feeling like I'm whizzing around uncontrollably. The movement in the chair brings the errant crystals back home. Allegedly. For awhile. Until it happens again. And now I've been told that it could recur at any time. So I've got another appointment at the end of August, and I hopefully won't need it. At least I was smart enough not to have breakfast...

That brings you up to date, so I will now do things that I couldn't do while I was suffering from seasickness: laundry. How exciting...but at least I can stand up straight without the world spinning around me.

Calling Professor Google

 Resurfacing certainly isn't what it used to be. The past few days have been especially difficult. The reason? Rain. I actually like rain-but now I'm unable to walk with the slightest degree of balance. So-I try, but I stop before I fall over. Lovely way to spend a life, isn't it?

Everyone knows the news-everyone who lives on this planet and has the internet, that is. And that seems to be a large part of the problem. With all the shootings in the US, and the stabbings here in the UK, it seems like there will never be any kind of peace in my lifetime-or yours. So I'm going to go on a news fast before I throw something. I'll let you know how long that lasts (probably not very long. I seem to need to know what's going on in the world, no matter how utterly shitty it is).

I didn't write before-I got some disastrous news that really disabled me for awhile. I was devastated to go to see Dr N, the neurologist, who told me that all the tests that were done in February showed conclusively that the vestibular damage wasn't just vestibular damage. The vestibular system is completely gone; there is no reaction to stimuli whatsoever. And, to make matters (and my life) even worse, all the tests showed that there is irreversible and incurable damage to the cerebellum (which is why I seem to have hit the wall when it comes to making any kind of progress). And-worse-it's progressive. And that was devastating.

The point is that any kind of recovery isn't possible. I asked whether I would end up in a wheelchair. The doc said that the progression seems to be moderate, so he doesn't think so. All we can do is monitor the progress (or, rather, regress) once a year and see how  quickly I'm deteriorating. I wanted to vomit.

Well, no, I didn't vomit. And I had a severe episode of BPPV, which made things worse, so I went along to the hospital (without falling over. Miracles do happen), and I was put into "the chair". The chair looks like a medieval torture device. You get strapped into a large chair, and I do mean strapped, so you can't move. Then a helmet is put on your head; it has electrodes that connect to a series of machines and monitors so the technician can see what is happening in your head-as you get turned upside down. By the way, you're blindfolded. An eyepiece keeps you from seeing anything. You need to keep your eyes wide open (in the dark), and you're turned upside down in one direction-and kept there for a couple of minutes-then turned upside down in the other direction. Good thing I had nothing to eat or drink before the test.

The object of the treatment is to get all the crystals in the inner ears back where they belong. The migration is what causes the BPPV-and I was told that it would keep returning. Kind of like acid reflux. It doesn't ever go away permanently. Reflux, or flu, or whatever gets you very p***ed off because it just doesn't want to go away and stay away...

So that's why I couldn't bring myself to write-until I was able to get some kind of perspective. And-I've got my vestibular exercises, which I'm doing a lot more often now, as well as my anatomical pictures that have pride of place on my wall. It really does look like a doctor's office! 

To me, this means that I just have to work harder, and accept that it might take longer for me to have some kind of progress in the right direction. 

It's taken me twelve years to get to this point-longer than I thought was possible, which is why I've had periods of depression, wondering if I will ever get better. But I always pick myself up again, use Arnica on the bruises, and keep going. Twelve years ago I couldn't walk, so I'm really lucky. Even Dr N says that it's due to the refusal to give up, the absolute refusal to quit, and the stubborn determination not ever to end up completely incapacitated. 

Even Professor Google is rather less than optimistic-the sites I've gone onto basically say that I'm lucky to have gotten this far. But Google doesn't know everything. Google doesn't know me.

If anyone you know is suffering from anything I've talked about, please tell them that there is always something they can do-just don't ever give up, don't  quit, don't walk (or hobble) away. 

I Spy With My Little Eye...

 I spy with my little eye...something beginning with P. Hmmm...Polling Station? No, that is so last Thursday. Everyone who could be bothered to vote went out to vote. What's the saying? People get the kind of government they deserve. How very true: we're not just led by a buffoon, a cheating, lying, pretentious ***ker (fill in the blanks: rhymes with banker). He's a total Prat. And there's the P I had in mind. The fact is: they're all as dishonest, all as crooked, all as pretentious, all as incompetent as each other. There's nobody worth voting for: they all suck.

So that's my rant of the day. In the nearly six weeks since I last wrote, I've only done what was absolutely necessary. I spent most of the time lying on the heating pad, taking painkillers and feeling very sorry for myself. But-the fractured coccyx seems to have used that time to heal (pretty much). So it's back to resuming life as I knew it before. And that was pretty dull, considering the two years we've all had to endure. 

I realize that my personality has done a total flip in these two years-and that's an understatement. I've become both depressed and angry-even more so than before. It seems like I'm not the only person who has undergone a personality change. Go outside and see how brutally people treat each other. Were they this bad before the lockdown? Are people just stupid, nasty, rude, basically brain-dead? It does seem that is the case. Add ignorant, obnoxious, obtuse, manipulative, and a few other descriptive words that I won't even bother to write down. Now, after all these years of calling the Brits (and 99.9% of the rest of the people who make this dump their home) all of the above, I have to (sadly) admit that I was right. I'm not one of them; I'm here because some incompetent idiots nearly killed me, and I can't now go home because I'm unemployable. Who wants to hire someone who falls over a lot? 

So there you are. I need to pull myself together, and work out how I'm going to thrive. I've survived, but I haven't thrived. It's been twelve years, and to get to this point, to not only survive, but to fight my way back, well-that's been a miracle. I refuse to roll over and quit. The fat lady hasn't sung yet. 

I've resisted going on Twitter and naming names. Boy, have I got some names! But I'm not sure. And the best thing to do when I'm depressed and angry-is nothing. Wait. Go have a coffee. Wait some more. 

That's my cue: Starbucks! 

Life is like a sewer: What you get out of it depends on what you put into it...

 I'd love to take the credit for those very true words-cynic that I am-but the person who first coined that expression was Tom Lehrer, one of the foremost satirists of the 70s (1970s, not 1870s). He was popular in the 60s, too, I believe...I wasn't around then, but if you want to hear his hilarious satirical songs, you can find him on YouTube. You can probably find just about anything on YouTube. Just look him up and have a good listen. I especially like National Brotherhood Week. Very un-PC. Nobody would have the guts to write and sing that now. They'd be shot.

It hasn't been a terribly exciting month. We had Easter, of course-and I had to buy my chocolate Easter egg, something I do every year. I put chocolate in my mouth and immediately I can feel my waist expand.

My not so great news came from the cardiologist. It seems that I've had a large number of tachycardia attacks, and now the cardio team is recommending another ablation, since the first one wasn't really successful. And here's the weird thing (oh, bless the NHS for total incompetence): the surgeon who performed the ablation last year has left the Royal Free (very wise decision, in my view) and has jumped ship and gone to Barts Heart Centre. Hmmm...so the cardiology team at the Royal Free (whose job it is to monitor the device in my chest that monitors my heartbeats) don't want to contact Barts, because it isn't part of the Royal Free. Duh. You would think that they would all talk to each other-but they don't...Am I going to be proactive and start fighting? No, I think that I've done enough fighting. I'll just wait for someone to call me next week and offer a solution that isn't more surgery. I'm surgeried out.

Of course, this wouldn't be right if I didn't mention the Will Smith attack on Chris Rock-only in front of millions of witnesses. And then cursing at the poor man afterwards. Smith is such a thug. And it seems that people loved it. The Oscars must have been really boring-or a lot of people are vicious and have very boring lives. I never watch that stuff. It's all self-congratulatory BS and who needs that? 

I ran into a neighbor a few days ago (figuratively, not literally!) who was on his way to the pub, where he buys his daily pint of beer. His wife watches tv and sends him out to the pub so he can leave her alone, After 65 years of marriage (65, he told me!! Wow, I reached 20 and I was ready to commit homicide), who can blame him for a few hours a day propping up the bar at the boozer? He was carrying a large bag, and he showed me a pair of boxing gloves. Boxing gloves? Yes, he said: in case Will Smith shows up.

My neighbor is 92. I couldn't help but laugh. Awww, come on, it is really funny. Personally, I'd carry a can of mace, but that's me...

I finally got my anatomical charts. They were being reprinted when I ordered them, so that took awhile. And now my hallway closely resembles a doctor's office. It's great... I decided that the worst thing I can do is allow myself to wallow in self pity about the cerebellar damage. It's done, it can't be undone-or so the specialists say. It might take months to achieve something, but hey, I've got time. I hope.

I will keep you posted; right now, it's coffee time.

And sometimes life doesn't suck...it's Thursday

 I can almost retract that statement. Life sucks if you're in the Ukraine, and dodging bombs sent by some homicidal maniac. Then life really sucks. When you're sitting in London and you're pretty safe-life just may be a bit difficult. Difficult, but not impossible.

I'm still recovering from the nasty fall I had nearly six weeks ago. My fault entirely; I never should have gone out in what felt like gale force winds. So all the pain-and boy, was it severe-was self inflicted. Did I learn a lesson? Oh, yes, I did-and was it ever painful.

Life has been very tricky. It hasn't only just started being tricky, it's been difficult since the lockdown. We've all been in deep doodoo for two years, and it's not over yet. I'm still wearing a mask-I'm told that I should, that it's in my best interests to do so. Actually, it's in everybody's best interests to do so, since we all know that Covid isn't finished with us yet. We also know that the mask protects the wearer almost as much as it protects everyone else. 

I just pretend that I'm incognito. And you all know how I feel about the braindeads-who have no manners, and are everywhere-and at least if I'm swearing at them behind the mask, they can't see or hear me-unless I accompany the swearing with a smack of my crutch. That is something they understand.

These two weeks have been tough; I've been a bit depressed, and when I get depressed, I become immobilized for a couple of days. One friend back home has been diagnosed with multiple myeloma, and she said that she has the worst one (apparently there are eight different types). This is someone who seemed to have everything: nice house, husband who makes a lot of money, two teenagers (one has ADHD, so that's been difficult for her)-seemingly no huge worries, And now: myeloma. I was shocked, and there isn't anything I can say. I start thinking about everything I've been through-and I'm still here, and I'm really in pretty good shape (so the consultants say) for my age. I'd be happier if they'd lay off the age!

Everything around me seems to be shifting. I've been ghosted-or is it correct to say "ignored" by a couple of people I've known for thirty years. I messaged my oldest friend in this country on WhatsApp, and she never replied. I did this twice-just to be sure-and nope, I'm history, apparently. And I understand from other friends that this is a trend that took off since lockdown. People are deciding where they want to live, what they want to do with their lives, and which people they choose to have in their lives. Huh-go figure.

I've actually been thinking along the same lines. Who stays? Who goes? Do I really want a moaner and whinger in my life-someone who only uses me as a dumping ground for their gripes? Excuse me! I'm enough of a moaner-but I usually either do it in an empty hours (what those walls could say if they could talk!) or here. And I have a sneaking suspicion that a lot of people who are reading this can relate.

So I'm going to try to walk off my depression-and try to remember all the things for which I should really be grateful. I'm also going to have a very large coffee..

Sometimes Life Just Sucks

 Years ago, someone wrote a book-which he started with "Life is difficult". Is that the understatement of the year, or what? His book was all about the benefits of psychotherapy, as I recall, and was quite boring, because that's all he had to say. He sold millions, then croaked. So his life was no longer difficult. And his next of kin, whoever inherited his millions-well, their lives weren't difficult, either.

I know. I'm such a cynic. I prefer to call myself a realist-and a pragmatist. Some people just call me a prat.

But there are times when everything you see, or touch, or involve yourself in-just turn to shit. So life then really does suck. It's been that sort of month for me. Storm Eunice (what a name, no wonder she was in such a bad mood), and I went out anyway, fell, and very nearly broke my back. I've spent the past four weeks lying on a heating pad; seems that I've cracked my sacrum, and done a lot of soft tissue damage, and (to add insult to injury) damaged my coccyx. No massive fractures, though. I'm really very, very lucky. So maybe I'm not such a prat and life doesn't suck after all...

Anyone who is awake will know that all our utilities are going to be much more expensive from the first of April. This is due to a shortage of fuel, and the fact that gas and oil are primarily supplied by Russia. And we all know about Russia. Why someone doesn't go over there and take out Putin-that psychopath, and war criminal, and general piece of crap, is a mystery.

I just received notification that my gas and electricity are going to double from the first of April. Double. I can't imagine what people with families, and houses, are going to go through. All over the country, people are asking the government how they are going to survive. Do they feed their families or do they have heating and electricity? Many can't do both. I've got a one bedroom apartment that's so small you couldn't swing a cat (if you seriously wanted to swing a cat. Or anything. It's just a saying, duh!). 

Now add to the utility prices doubling for everyone, the price of petrol is going sky high. So if you want to fill your gas tank, you just about have to take out a second mortgage. The prices of public transport (trains, buses, London Underground) are-you guessed it-going sky high, too. What does the government say? Walk. And what does the government do? Give all the MPs and local counsellors huge pay raises. Why? Have they earned them? Hell, no-they're just greedy. It's a disgrace. 

And, in case you're living in another country and reading this - feel absolutely grateful that you aren't living in this country. It's in a terrible state. And food prices are rising dramatically, too. This isn't because of Russia, it's because the demand is high, supplies are expensive, and everything went kaput for the past two years. Pay more and get less, is the saying now.

So there's the dismal state of affairs over here. Braindead Boris must be happy as can be because of the Ukrainian war; it takes people's minds off the fact that he is a crook, a despicable excuse for a human being, and should be kicked out of Downing Street at the earliest opportunity.

There isn't much to say about the Ukrainian war-except that Putin and all his allies should be arrested and tried for war crimes. Everyone did too little-and too late. Innocent people are dying, and Nato is doing nothing. In fact-sanctions are bull. They don't work against a homicidal maniac who fancies himself as the tsar. 

If Hillary had been elected, she wouldn't have stood for this. She would have been in front of Putin and would have stood on his head. That is something I would like to have seen.

Now you're pretty much up to date. And, since it's a bright, sunny day (for once), I'm going out and going to Starbucks. In April, it might be a different story altogether.

Grumpy Pants Rides Again (just not as fast)

 Did I say that I was going to stop being a moaning minnie-because it's boring? I did. I will. Just not today.

I'm by far not an anti-vaxxer. I think that everyone should have the Covid vaccine-at least, those people who want to stay alive and not kill all their nearest and dearest (assuming they've got nearest and dearest).

However! I had the booster two days after I last blogged-and I'm telling you, I thought I was going to die. I had the most horrific reaction-and I was so sick that I couldn't get out of bed for nearly a week. When I finally got out of bed, I fell over-and was just plain lucky that I didn't break any bones. It was horrible.

Now it's four weeks later-and it took most of the first three weeks to get back to normal. Then we had a storm called Eunice. Eunice! Whoever thought of that name must really hate women. Eunice. Blech!! If someone had named me Eunice, I would be in a very crap mood, too. 

The winds blew down trees, the roof of the O2 arena-used for concerts and special events-was destroyed, and Eunice left her mark everywhere. Electricity went out, areas were decimated-and dummy here actually went out to the shop in the early morning. Of course. Sooner or later I had to eat something, so off I went, being blown down the road. The return journey-usually only a ten minute walk-was the problem. I stepped off the kerb and was knocked over. I fell flat on my ass, frankly-I went down so hard that I could not get up again. Embarrassing, or what? A lovely young Japanese couple came over and helped me stand up again, and walked me to a near (ish) bench, where I sat for about twenty minutes and got my wind back. I moved my relevant body parts (arms, legs, everything), and I could move, so I figured that I hadn't broken anything. Again. Another fall. I obviously live a charmed life. Except that I finally went to see the doc, and I was told that I probably cracked my coccyx, my pelvis-I could go to have an x-ray-but I wasn't going to go anywhere near the hospital if I didn't have to.

Bottom line? I had the worst bruises on my backside, and I was so sore and swollen that I couldn't sit down  Excuse me. People have anal sex? They must be either insane or have no nerve endings. I fell on my ass and I was too sore to move for two weeks. Imagine if something went in where it's designed to only go out...

So there you are, and that's where I've been: on a heating pad for the past three weeks. Oh, joy. I couldn't even walk to get to Starbucks. That tells you a lot.

So that's my moan for the day-or month. We've had the two years-soon the "anniversary" of the lockdown will be upon us-as if we want to celebrate? Have you found that you dropped people out of your life in the time it took for you to really think about what you want, and who you want to keep in your life?

I have, too. People I've known for decades have been suddenly unavailable-or, they've been moaning even more that I do! One friend I've known for thirty years emailed me in the middle of the night to tell me how unhappy she is, and what crap her life has turned out to be. Now-I've always been everyone's repository for their moaning-and I've been my own repository for my own moaning, because I've always believed that if things are really bad, you either fix it, walk away-or shut up.

So I emailed her back (at 6am, but she was still sleeping. thank goodness), and I really had a go at her. I've heard this long winded dumping several times before, and I realized after I got a short reply, thanking me for caring about her, and saying that things look better in the light of day, that this will keep happening until I put a stop to it. She's becoming a Stepford Wife. that's her choice.

The whole point of sharing this story with you is that I can no longer waste my time being someone else's dumping ground-no matter how much I like them. And I'm willing to bet that those of you who read this, who share this with others, who either agree or agree to disagree-you've been there, too. So what do you do to let them know that you hear them, that you care about them? Unless you want to have one less friend (or more) - you stop responding. Just stop.

Eventually I'll get yet another self-indulgent, self-pitying load of cobblers, as my friend offloads her lifetime of grievances. Do I say: "you chose it. So live with it". Errr-even I'm not that cruel. Honest, but not cruel. No, I just don't comment at all. I'll be saying that I'm very sad that she feels that way. And that will be it. Then I'll change the subject... I'm heaving a big sigh. Don't let anyone give you a shit sandwich. Don't acknowledge, don't reciprocate, don't engage any more than you really have to.

Now, of course, if I could only take my own advice!!

I don't know about you-but it's most definitely time for a very strong coffee. And no more falling over.

Procrastination and Depression: the heavy hitters

 Procrastination may be the thief of time-but depression is the thief of life. Add a nasty case of Covid to the mix, and you've got one doozy of a trifecta. How to give yourself a triple whammy...

In truth, that's what the past two years have been like for me-and probably for most people, too. I'm coming clean with all this because so many people think they've been alone and abandoned. I felt exactly like that-but I've been feeling like that for the past 12 years.

My friend back home suggested - after the gentamicin debacle - that I could help a lot of people if I blogged about my experiences and my recovery. Somehow it all morphed into my feelings about this country, living here, the people, the government (still sucks) - but less about how I was able to cope with the devastating loss of my balance system, my ability to see clearly, some hearing loss, and the refusal of the incompetent morons who let this happen to even apologize. That was exceedingly painful. So I named them all. Several times. And, although some of the heat (hatred) is gone, I still want people to know who they are. Other patients shouldn't have to suffer at the hands of Hilary Longhurst, Sophia Grigoriadou, Philip (not very) Bright-and, of course, the newest addition to the evil trio: Matt (fucky Bucky) Buckland, the spawn of Satan. I said once that Buckland probably beats his wife, shouts at his children (and worse), and kicks the dog. I stand by that assessment. 

It has been a very long and arduous road-made worse by the recent tests that show that gentamicin didn't only destroy my vestibular (balance) system, leaving me dizzy and sick 100% of the time. It also affected my hearing and my eyesight. For someone who loves to read (and enjoys going online) that is a tragedy in itself. Gentamicin caused damage to the cerebellum, the part of the brain that governs balance (among other things). Neuroplasticity-according to the neurologist, who should (and does) know, won't help. The damage is irreversible and permanent. You can imagine how huge the blow was.

I said that I was going to order some anatomical wall charts. I've scoured a resource of laminated charts that I can tape onto the walls. Why make it look like a hospital room? Well-my theory is that I can stop and look at the charts several times a day, and visualize my body healed completely. Visualization works on a lot of things-so why shouldn't visualization work on healing the body parts that have been damaged?

Medical science knows a lot of things about a lot of things-but science doesn't know everything about everything. 

I should be receiving the charts in a couple of week ( they're coming from the U.S.), and I will be posting them and getting to work. 

I'll let you know-if this works for me, it will work for anyone who is motivated to heal. I trust the body's ability to heal most things. Why not this one?

I've spent my whole life hearing "you can't do this, you  can't do that, this will never work, you will fail."

Watch me.

Hedgehoggin' It: The Christmas Wobble

  Isn't it amazing: January is nearly half over and no catastrophe has happened (no personal ones, anyway).

Every year I pretend to be a hedgehog. I hibernate. Now, hedgehogs are very cute anyway-but they roll themselves  into a ball, interlocking their spines and creating a wall of protection. And they hibernate until April. Really, if I could roll myself into a tiny ball and stick my spines out and protect myself for five or six months, wouldn't I do it? Yes, is the short answer. And fat chance is the equally short answer. But it would be quite entertaining, though.

Christmas has been dire for me for many years. I've had some very bad Christmases-enough to try to ignore the second half of December and the first week of January. At the risk of sounding like a grinch, Christmas is my least favorite holiday, and I try to ignore it as much as I possibly can. This year was no different.

Now, however, we're well into the new year, and hopefully-hopefully!-life will begin to be something resembling normal-or a new normal. I can remember where I was and what I was doing two years ago at this time, and I would be surprised if you couldn't remember (or prefer not to remember) where you were then. Unless you were living on another planet, these past two years have been pretty hellish. 

Have I made resolutions for 2022? Seriously? I never make new year's resolutions, because I end up breaking them before the first week is over (sometimes before the first three days are over!). But I had the annual wobble, staying away from everyone as much as possible; I did the hedgehog impression (I was in hiding as much as possible, as were most of the people I know), and I got through it all with relative sanity. Sanity, as everyone knows, is relative...

My bad news arrived last week. I've been having more dizzy spells, even though I increased my walking. So I went along to the vestibular neurologist (whom I haven't seen since before lockdown), and he put me through several tests. It seems that the gentamicin didn't only destroy my vestibular (balance) system, and affect my eyes and a few other things. It also caused severe damage to my cerebellum. That is the part of the brain that governs balance-and other things-and that seems to be the reason why I haven't progressed more than I thought I would in nearly twelve years. 

I was so devastated that I came back after the tests and sat. And sat. I didn't cry (unusual for me in a case like this). I just sat, depressed as hell, and the anger against the four cripplers came flooding back. Hilary Longhurst-Sofia Grigoriadou-Philip Bright-Buckland-they haven't suffered for twelve years. And it took me more than ten years to accept the things I couldn't do anything about; that took some of the heat off. I had to stop myself from wanting all of them to die horrible deaths-soon, so I would know, and at least get some joy out of what their incompetence caused.

Okay, so I sat and worked through it all weekend. I forced myself to get dressed and get out and walk, even though I only walked for less than an hour each day. I decided that I would not continue to allow these loathesome incompetents to run-and ruin-my life any more than they have done already.

I know a bit about neuroplasticity. I also know that medical science doesn't know everything about everything; when someone recovers from a terminal diagnosis, everyone seems surprised. So...

I'm ordering several anatomical wall charts; the brain, the heart, the inner ears and balance mechanism. When I receive them, I will put them up on the wall in a place where I have to walk by them, can't avoid seeing them-and I will concentrate on all those areas completely recovering. So we will see-and I will do that for as long as it takes to achieve results. 

I'll know whether visualizing perfect health in those areas that have been damaged. I'll know-and then you will know, too. It's a test of the body's ability to heal itself. Actually, it's a test of my ability to heal myself.

Nearly twelve years ago, I could easily have just given up. I was determined not to allow the people who nearly killed me to win. I can't tell you how many times I came close to giving up, or how many tears I shed, or how many times I fell down and had to fight not to stay down. I've lost count. But I can tell you that I refuse to give up. And if you know anyone who is even remotely in the same (or similar) position: they shouldn't give up either.

Let's see if I'm right.