I said once that my favourite t-shirt says "Beam me up, Scotty, there's no intelligent life down here". No kidding!!!
It's been a few weeks of rain (no surprises there), and goodbyes: I feel like I've been paroled. I've been discharged from all the physiotherapy, and the dietician, and a few other clinics, and I am finally well and truly on my own. Yay. Scary, but a good thing: now I have to continue to do all the exercises and all the other stuff, or I won't get any better. The buck stops here.
People ask me why I take the mickey out of the Brits. Are they really as dumb as I paint them? Aw, yes they are. Read on, blogees, read on and you will understand why my hair is so grey!!
I listen to a radio station that plays a good mixture of old and new, and I like the music, but (there is always a "but") they have competition after competition in the morning, so there seems to be more talk than music. But - for someone to win a radio station mug, for example, they have to answer various questions in 20 seconds.
These are absolutely true, as are all my stories-and I've got loads, I have lived in this country that long. First question: what is the number 66 divided by 2? Please don't screw this up, I will forever lose faith in you! The answer should be 33 (the answer, the DJ said, starts with a "t"). The answer given was --- 12. dim-witted or what??
On another morning-and another caller- the question was "starting with the letter "M". What is the fifth month of the year? The answer was: March. I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my coffee. What can anyone say to that caller-apart from the obvious?
I need to start writing these down, because they simply beggar belief. Is there anyone still breathing who is that stupid? Well--obviously.
And here is the prize I saved for last. It happened recently, and I did manage to write it down, as I was choking on my breakfast, I was laughing that hard. The question was: name the human rights activist and hero who just passed away recently-the name begins with an M. No prizes, guys, for guessing that one. You would have to live on a different planet to escape all the media coverage.
The caller's answer was- Hitler.
Any questions as to why I say the cumulative IQ in this country must be no more than 80?
I rest my case.
Friday, 31 January 2014
Thursday, 23 January 2014
Transformers: Rise of the Braindead
I decided that I wouldn't make any New Year's Resolutions-because I always break them, usually on January 2nd. So I thought of things I want to accomplish in 2014-and, because I didn't make a written list, I also decided that a list in my head doesn't count. So if I don't do it, I didn't break any resolutions. And that is so lame! But it is the only excuse I've got, and I'm sticking to it.
I decided that I will be nice to people this year. Of course, that doesn't mean all people. I exclude the rude, obnoxious, brain-dead (trust me, there are a lot of those!), the deranged. I also must exclude doctors called Bright, Grigoriadou, and Longhurst, known as the three cripplers. In fact, I was at the hospital last week, and one of the patients told me that Longhurst broke her wrist. Honestly, before I could stop myself, I replied "she should have broken her neck". Oops! So much for forgiveness...
I also exclude politicians, lawyers, policemen, accountants, and anyone else who deserves to be named and shamed. Oh, and I must add anyone who works for the tabloids: the Sun, Mirror, Daily Mail, Express, Star, and anyone else I've missed. Really, with such a high percentage of morons in this country, it isn't surprising to know that people really believe what they read. Example: my neighbour stopped me the other day and said that the Obamas were going to divorce. Apparently Obama is so mediocre and disliked, and such a total oaf, that Michelle has had enough. Who first printed the story? The National Enquirer-and the Mail reprinted it. Of course. Everything these rags print must be true, right? I just laughed. What else can you do?
I calculated that 99.9% of the population is, as I said before, rude, obnoxious, brain-dead, and/or deranged, as well as lazy. So I figured out that, with a population of approximately 63,705,000 (isn't Google the greatest), that leaves approximately 63,000 (plus or minus a few hundred) who actually have functioning grey matter. So-where are they hiding?
I need to tell you two stories to illustrate my point (I'm such an anorak).
The first concerns my Pilates and Yoga acquaintance, Julia. She wanted to meet and go to the movies. So I suggested The Wolf of Wall Street. Off we went last Friday. Now-Julia is a very religious Catholic. She is also very evangelical. We don't discuss religion, and I always move the conversation away from anything religious. So-when the cursing started, Julia sprinted to the Ladies Room, to return ten minutes later. Less than thirty minutes (Probably twenty minutes into the film, Julia announced that she couldn't stand the language-and she got up and left, never to be heard from again (I tried to phone and text-I'm definitely the devil, I think).
The Wolf of Wall Street contains more than 500 references to the F word. That isn't F as in fart, either. For the benefit of those of you with a delicate constitution, I'll just say "F**k"- not that everyone doesn't use the word (I say it under my breath when some dimwit crashes into me-but loudly when I'm alone and something happens.
It was a review in the Times that mentioned either 505 or 530 times the F word was used. What I want to know is: WHO counts these? What do they do when they run out of fingers? Do they sit in the cinema and use a counter? Who is so nuts-so OCD-to actually sit there and count? It's a film, stupid! I read the article and thought this must have been made up. How asinine is that? And, by the way, I thought DiCaprio deserves an Oscar for his performance. He was sensational. But that is just me, I'm not the academy of whoever they are, and they rarely get it right-at least, in my book.
Story two: reality television shows. Eeeek! People ask me why I make fun of the people from Essex, and I say that it is because their collective IQs don't move into single figures, let alone double ones.Case in point: there is a reality show about people who live in Essex-although I don't know why anyone would care-and the "stars" do-whatever it is they do, all for the camera. I've never seen it. I don't watch reality shows, and they are cheap television: cooking shows, dancing, all kinds of competitions, and, of course, the show I just mentioned. The "breakout star" of this debacle is called - what else but Joey Essex? Well, duh-that is probably the only word he can spell, so that's his stage name. By his own admission-and I do mean his OWN admission, he cannot tell the time. But he collects expensive watches (Rolex, Patek Philippe, etc), and someone else has to tell him the time. He also can't add-or spell-in fact, there is very little he can do. And Essex girls (according to Joey) think he's hot. Hot? Excuse me?
I clearly come from an era where intelligence is sexy. Imbeciles are not sexy.
And-I have to tell you this: in this country, everyone who has a television set has to pay the BBC for a television license. It costs nearly £150-which is more than $250-per year. Even though there is so much absolute drivel on the telly, everyone has to pay-unless you are over 75 or blind (or dead). And there are investigators whose sole job is to visit every property that isn't registered to make sure the people either pay or don't have a television. And-the investigators have the legal right to enter your home without any notice, any written warrant, anything. They are allowed by law to thoroughly search your home, and they can come in at any time, day or night. If you are caught with a telly in your property, the fine is over a thousand pounds. Huh. I used to call them the telly police-until I was told by a friend that the license investigators have more power than the police. Now I call them the Gestapo. That would never happen in my country-at least, I hope not! Perhaps I've been here too long.
No wonder I don't have a television-and a lot of people I know are getting rid of theirs, just because they find it offensive to pay so much for so little. Someone asked me the other day what I do when I don't have a television. I said: I read. You should try it some time.
One thing I do have is lots of stories from my many years in this country. Hey-how did they ever become an empire? And-no wonder they needed us to win the war.
I decided that I will be nice to people this year. Of course, that doesn't mean all people. I exclude the rude, obnoxious, brain-dead (trust me, there are a lot of those!), the deranged. I also must exclude doctors called Bright, Grigoriadou, and Longhurst, known as the three cripplers. In fact, I was at the hospital last week, and one of the patients told me that Longhurst broke her wrist. Honestly, before I could stop myself, I replied "she should have broken her neck". Oops! So much for forgiveness...
I also exclude politicians, lawyers, policemen, accountants, and anyone else who deserves to be named and shamed. Oh, and I must add anyone who works for the tabloids: the Sun, Mirror, Daily Mail, Express, Star, and anyone else I've missed. Really, with such a high percentage of morons in this country, it isn't surprising to know that people really believe what they read. Example: my neighbour stopped me the other day and said that the Obamas were going to divorce. Apparently Obama is so mediocre and disliked, and such a total oaf, that Michelle has had enough. Who first printed the story? The National Enquirer-and the Mail reprinted it. Of course. Everything these rags print must be true, right? I just laughed. What else can you do?
I calculated that 99.9% of the population is, as I said before, rude, obnoxious, brain-dead, and/or deranged, as well as lazy. So I figured out that, with a population of approximately 63,705,000 (isn't Google the greatest), that leaves approximately 63,000 (plus or minus a few hundred) who actually have functioning grey matter. So-where are they hiding?
I need to tell you two stories to illustrate my point (I'm such an anorak).
The first concerns my Pilates and Yoga acquaintance, Julia. She wanted to meet and go to the movies. So I suggested The Wolf of Wall Street. Off we went last Friday. Now-Julia is a very religious Catholic. She is also very evangelical. We don't discuss religion, and I always move the conversation away from anything religious. So-when the cursing started, Julia sprinted to the Ladies Room, to return ten minutes later. Less than thirty minutes (Probably twenty minutes into the film, Julia announced that she couldn't stand the language-and she got up and left, never to be heard from again (I tried to phone and text-I'm definitely the devil, I think).
The Wolf of Wall Street contains more than 500 references to the F word. That isn't F as in fart, either. For the benefit of those of you with a delicate constitution, I'll just say "F**k"- not that everyone doesn't use the word (I say it under my breath when some dimwit crashes into me-but loudly when I'm alone and something happens.
It was a review in the Times that mentioned either 505 or 530 times the F word was used. What I want to know is: WHO counts these? What do they do when they run out of fingers? Do they sit in the cinema and use a counter? Who is so nuts-so OCD-to actually sit there and count? It's a film, stupid! I read the article and thought this must have been made up. How asinine is that? And, by the way, I thought DiCaprio deserves an Oscar for his performance. He was sensational. But that is just me, I'm not the academy of whoever they are, and they rarely get it right-at least, in my book.
Story two: reality television shows. Eeeek! People ask me why I make fun of the people from Essex, and I say that it is because their collective IQs don't move into single figures, let alone double ones.Case in point: there is a reality show about people who live in Essex-although I don't know why anyone would care-and the "stars" do-whatever it is they do, all for the camera. I've never seen it. I don't watch reality shows, and they are cheap television: cooking shows, dancing, all kinds of competitions, and, of course, the show I just mentioned. The "breakout star" of this debacle is called - what else but Joey Essex? Well, duh-that is probably the only word he can spell, so that's his stage name. By his own admission-and I do mean his OWN admission, he cannot tell the time. But he collects expensive watches (Rolex, Patek Philippe, etc), and someone else has to tell him the time. He also can't add-or spell-in fact, there is very little he can do. And Essex girls (according to Joey) think he's hot. Hot? Excuse me?
I clearly come from an era where intelligence is sexy. Imbeciles are not sexy.
And-I have to tell you this: in this country, everyone who has a television set has to pay the BBC for a television license. It costs nearly £150-which is more than $250-per year. Even though there is so much absolute drivel on the telly, everyone has to pay-unless you are over 75 or blind (or dead). And there are investigators whose sole job is to visit every property that isn't registered to make sure the people either pay or don't have a television. And-the investigators have the legal right to enter your home without any notice, any written warrant, anything. They are allowed by law to thoroughly search your home, and they can come in at any time, day or night. If you are caught with a telly in your property, the fine is over a thousand pounds. Huh. I used to call them the telly police-until I was told by a friend that the license investigators have more power than the police. Now I call them the Gestapo. That would never happen in my country-at least, I hope not! Perhaps I've been here too long.
No wonder I don't have a television-and a lot of people I know are getting rid of theirs, just because they find it offensive to pay so much for so little. Someone asked me the other day what I do when I don't have a television. I said: I read. You should try it some time.
One thing I do have is lots of stories from my many years in this country. Hey-how did they ever become an empire? And-no wonder they needed us to win the war.
Sunday, 12 January 2014
Darwin was right
Nope-not dead yet. Just keeping my head down and trying to stay out of trouble. And failing, too.
All the sales started the day after Christmas (Boxing Day). What amazes me-even after so many years in this country-is the way people turn into savages as soon as there are sales on. Really-talk about the evolutionary process reversing itself! People fight over everything. People even kill each other-I remember one teenager fatally stabbing another over a pair of Nikes. I like Nikes, but I wouldn't kill anyone over them. How insane is that? And there are stories about women fighting over an outfit and tearing it to shreds just to make sure that nobody gets it. Welcome to Britain, I say. So I keep well away from the sales. Of course, who realizes that everything is marked up by 400% (or thereabouts) during the year, only to be marked down (end of season items) by, say, 50%-dumb, isn't it?
So that is my take on the insanity that runs rampant during sale time. I'm busy doing my exercises and walking-I even met my friend at the museum on Wednesday. I finally got there, and I'm glad I did. That is one of my assignments: to stop in the middle of the Millennium Bridge and watch people pass me, and try not to get knocked over. Hey, whatever it takes to get the brain working for me.
Since the police issued the maniac upstairs with a harassment order (just before New Year's Day), he has been relatively quiet. I still look around before I go out, but I also carry a noxious substance in my pocket (mace). I would rather take my chances with the courts than feel like I need to fight the wacko upstairs. On Friday I was summoned to the housing office and had to repeat everything I told the police. Was it a total waste of time? Of course it was-and I told them so. This is what happens when someone goes into accommodation that is owned by the local authority-the first time in all the years I've lived here that I haven't been in privately owned or rented accommodation. First-and last, I hope. I understand now why people in public housing are so unhappy. Really, this block of flats isn't bad-and it is for disabled people-but living here is soul-destroying. Everyone else is old, decrepit, and every day there is an ambulance taking someone away.
It has served a purpose, though. When I had the gentamicin disaster, I couldn't stand up without falling over, and I couldn't walk up or down stairs, or even walk anywhere without ending up face first on the ground. So this place was okay for me. Now I'm reaching the point of looking for somewhere more suitable, so I don't feel like I am waiting for someone to cart me off to the cemetery. There is life in this old girl yet! I'm far from quitting, even though I go through stages of wanting to give up.
I was coming back from seeing the gastro consultant at the hospital on Thursday, and I looked out of the window of the taxi and watched all the people rushing past. It suddenly hit me: I don't have to do that anymore. I suppose I'm unemployable, given that I have the very annoying wobbling eyes and the even more annoying lack of balance (so flying a plane is out of the question, sadly). But the whole point is that I am now out of the rat race. I can leave it to the rats and get on with working to get back something resembling a life.
What really hit me during that taxi ride is: I'm free. I don't have to worry about who is doing what, and if everyone in my life is okay. I don't need to exert any control over anyone else. If I want to watch something on television at three in the morning, and eat Kettle Chips, or pistachio ice cream (yum), there is nobody to tell me off. What can be bad about that? I'm free. Hallelujah.
All the sales started the day after Christmas (Boxing Day). What amazes me-even after so many years in this country-is the way people turn into savages as soon as there are sales on. Really-talk about the evolutionary process reversing itself! People fight over everything. People even kill each other-I remember one teenager fatally stabbing another over a pair of Nikes. I like Nikes, but I wouldn't kill anyone over them. How insane is that? And there are stories about women fighting over an outfit and tearing it to shreds just to make sure that nobody gets it. Welcome to Britain, I say. So I keep well away from the sales. Of course, who realizes that everything is marked up by 400% (or thereabouts) during the year, only to be marked down (end of season items) by, say, 50%-dumb, isn't it?
So that is my take on the insanity that runs rampant during sale time. I'm busy doing my exercises and walking-I even met my friend at the museum on Wednesday. I finally got there, and I'm glad I did. That is one of my assignments: to stop in the middle of the Millennium Bridge and watch people pass me, and try not to get knocked over. Hey, whatever it takes to get the brain working for me.
Since the police issued the maniac upstairs with a harassment order (just before New Year's Day), he has been relatively quiet. I still look around before I go out, but I also carry a noxious substance in my pocket (mace). I would rather take my chances with the courts than feel like I need to fight the wacko upstairs. On Friday I was summoned to the housing office and had to repeat everything I told the police. Was it a total waste of time? Of course it was-and I told them so. This is what happens when someone goes into accommodation that is owned by the local authority-the first time in all the years I've lived here that I haven't been in privately owned or rented accommodation. First-and last, I hope. I understand now why people in public housing are so unhappy. Really, this block of flats isn't bad-and it is for disabled people-but living here is soul-destroying. Everyone else is old, decrepit, and every day there is an ambulance taking someone away.
It has served a purpose, though. When I had the gentamicin disaster, I couldn't stand up without falling over, and I couldn't walk up or down stairs, or even walk anywhere without ending up face first on the ground. So this place was okay for me. Now I'm reaching the point of looking for somewhere more suitable, so I don't feel like I am waiting for someone to cart me off to the cemetery. There is life in this old girl yet! I'm far from quitting, even though I go through stages of wanting to give up.
I was coming back from seeing the gastro consultant at the hospital on Thursday, and I looked out of the window of the taxi and watched all the people rushing past. It suddenly hit me: I don't have to do that anymore. I suppose I'm unemployable, given that I have the very annoying wobbling eyes and the even more annoying lack of balance (so flying a plane is out of the question, sadly). But the whole point is that I am now out of the rat race. I can leave it to the rats and get on with working to get back something resembling a life.
What really hit me during that taxi ride is: I'm free. I don't have to worry about who is doing what, and if everyone in my life is okay. I don't need to exert any control over anyone else. If I want to watch something on television at three in the morning, and eat Kettle Chips, or pistachio ice cream (yum), there is nobody to tell me off. What can be bad about that? I'm free. Hallelujah.
Wednesday, 1 January 2014
Humpty Dumpty has a black eye
I know it's New Year's Day, and many of us are recovering from the excesses of the season (me included)- but yes, you are reading this correctly: I've got a really stunning shiner. And to add insult to injury, I've also go the flu. What a way to see out the old year
I wish I could say that the eye is from the deranged cretin who lives upstairs. At least that would be somewhat interesting. But no, the sad truth is that I did this to myself. It's self-inflicted!
On Wednesday, Christmas Day, I went out for a very nice Christmas dinner. That was fine-well, almost fine. I had some enlightenment that day-and I will tell you about it in a minute. First the eye!
By Friday I knew I was coming down with a virus: sore throat, sniffling, aches and pains, and so on. Honestly-too many people breathing!! And when I get sick, my voice goes very, very deep. I wish I could keep the deep voice without all the other nasty stuff, and I'm still trying to figure out how I can do that...
Well - my kitchen cabinets are at eye level, and I wasn't paying much attention to what I was doing; I was listening to music as I opened the cabinet door, a little too forcefully. I caught myself right in the eye. For a moment I was stunned; then I thought I'd lost my eye, there was so much pain. So I stumbled into the bathroom, swearing (I didn't know I knew so many swearwords). My eye was red and teary - but not missing!- and I was developing a huge lump under my eye-swollen, painful, red, turning to a shiner that made me look like someone had taken a swing at me.
On went an ice pack, on went the Arnica cream, and that was how I spent my weekend: nursing a flu and a black eye. Lovely. At least I kept out of trouble!!
But now it is 2014, and my eye is just a little bruised and painful, but nearly all the swelling has gone, although it does hurt when I blink (please don't tell me not to blink!). And the police were here-twice, once on the day before Christmas and again on the 31st. I have, at long last, with huge efforts and by perseverance and making a pain in the butt of myself, managed to get the police to issue a harassment order. This means that if he hurls abuse and threats again, he will be arrested and taken to the police station. And he will have to go to court. Will this do any good? I don't know, because the man is most definitely insane. Ever since my first noise complaint, he has been after me, and things have become so much worse that I wonder when-not if-he will snap, and what he will do when he does.
So it's a matter of wait and see, be very careful, stay out of his way, be prepared to seek a restraining order (from the court, and much better and more formal-and safer for me-than a harassment order).
And, of course, carry mace (illegal as hell, but who cares!!).
So that was my week. But at the Christmas dinner, I sat next to Jane, a woman from Trinidad originally. She was very nice, but very quiet. During the course of the meal (and after a couple of glasses of wine), Jane opened up and told me that she had been married to an abuser for nearly 30 years. He hadn't hit her, but he had shredded her self esteem until she had none left. He constantly threatened and belittled her, and mistreated her. And I could not help drawing a parallel between us; it was no coincidence that she sat next to me. I looked at her, face drawn and etched with sadness and misery, and also-defeat. She went on to tell me some of the things he'd done and said, and when I asked her when she was able to leave-she said that she had developed stomach cancer fifteen years ago, and he didn't seem to really care. He had no human feelings of caring and compassion at all. So she knew she had to leave in order to survive. And leave she did: with nothing, just as I did, only Jane left fifteen years ago! Yikes!! She has been on her own ever since. She had breast cancer a few years ago, and had to cope with that on her own, too. Amazing and brave woman, I told her.
But-and there is a "but"- she still feels anger and resentment, and bitterness at the ex and the way he treated her. He has remarried, too-and she can't understand why such a miserable, bullying bastard (her words) can have a good life, when she is so unhappy with her own.
It was as if someone had shot an arrow into my own heart, because I thought I had dealt with my feelings of anger and bitterness-and then I received that LinkedIn invitation (sent deliberately, just to piss me off, I'm sure: a classic Bob tactic. That worked). I said to Jane that for fifteen years she has been free of a very insecure and evil man, and that everything he did to her will come back to him one day. Don't wait, I said, don't wait to be happy. You will wait forever if you wait for justice. Screw him, let him be happy. Leopards don't change their spots. And I said that the best revenge she could take would be to be happy, healthy and successful. Don't waste another minute on him, I said. And I also told her that some parts of her story parallel my own. She asked me to tell her my story-and, to my surprise, I heard myself say that I'm not going back to that terrible time anymore. I'm not discussing it. I need to let it go, and so does she, if she wants to be happy.
When we were all leaving, I said goodbye and good luck, and wished her a happy Christmas and New Year, and said be happy in spite of him-and because she's rid of him. I hope that got through. It certainly got through to me!!
I usually don't make resolutions for the new year, because I break them almost immediately-like, within the first week. Or the first day...and they are the ones everyone seems to make: more exercise, lose weight, eat a good diet, sleep better, meditate, less stress, be nicer to people (okay, well that last one is one of mine..ha..).
This year I made one resolution, and it really covers all those listed above. It is to go into 2014 with a different mind-set, a different attitude, a different way of doing things and thinking about things, to go into 2014 with a clean slate, with a consciousness that is different from (and more evolved than) my consciousness in 2013, which I decided I want to leave with last year: in the past.
The past belongs just there: in the past. So that means I need to work on my forgiveness: not only do I need to forgive the ex, but also the three cripplers (I still call them that, clearly I've got some more work to do!). I don't forgive them for them, because what they all did was inexcusable and disgraceful. But not one of them cares what I think, or feels badly about what they did to ruin my life. So I am carrying all this negative stuff around for nothing-and it is all hurting me, not them, because I'm the one who is affected.
It sounds good, anyway. It may be difficult to forgive, to move forward, to dump the anger and resentment - but I don't want to end up like Jane, wasting fifteen years over someone who couldn't give a rat's patootie. Did she want him back after she left him? No, she said, absolutely not. And did I even entertain the thought myself? I think the words "hell", "freezing" and "over" spring immediately to mind. So let them - all of them - bugger off, I'm a lot stronger than I ever believed-and I never would have even suspected that if all this hadn't happened (I would still rather it hadn't happened!).
I'm still walking, exercising (boring, but necessary!), and I won't stop until I get that 80% back, no matter how long it takes. I may be a pain in the butt of certain people, but that will never stop me. I refuse to give up. I will not quit. I'm funny that way! Just watch me.
Happy New Year. Health is more important than anything else (ask me, I'm an expert on that), so I wish you all the best of health, and happiness, and peace, don't take prisoners, and always carry mace.
I wish I could say that the eye is from the deranged cretin who lives upstairs. At least that would be somewhat interesting. But no, the sad truth is that I did this to myself. It's self-inflicted!
On Wednesday, Christmas Day, I went out for a very nice Christmas dinner. That was fine-well, almost fine. I had some enlightenment that day-and I will tell you about it in a minute. First the eye!
By Friday I knew I was coming down with a virus: sore throat, sniffling, aches and pains, and so on. Honestly-too many people breathing!! And when I get sick, my voice goes very, very deep. I wish I could keep the deep voice without all the other nasty stuff, and I'm still trying to figure out how I can do that...
Well - my kitchen cabinets are at eye level, and I wasn't paying much attention to what I was doing; I was listening to music as I opened the cabinet door, a little too forcefully. I caught myself right in the eye. For a moment I was stunned; then I thought I'd lost my eye, there was so much pain. So I stumbled into the bathroom, swearing (I didn't know I knew so many swearwords). My eye was red and teary - but not missing!- and I was developing a huge lump under my eye-swollen, painful, red, turning to a shiner that made me look like someone had taken a swing at me.
On went an ice pack, on went the Arnica cream, and that was how I spent my weekend: nursing a flu and a black eye. Lovely. At least I kept out of trouble!!
But now it is 2014, and my eye is just a little bruised and painful, but nearly all the swelling has gone, although it does hurt when I blink (please don't tell me not to blink!). And the police were here-twice, once on the day before Christmas and again on the 31st. I have, at long last, with huge efforts and by perseverance and making a pain in the butt of myself, managed to get the police to issue a harassment order. This means that if he hurls abuse and threats again, he will be arrested and taken to the police station. And he will have to go to court. Will this do any good? I don't know, because the man is most definitely insane. Ever since my first noise complaint, he has been after me, and things have become so much worse that I wonder when-not if-he will snap, and what he will do when he does.
So it's a matter of wait and see, be very careful, stay out of his way, be prepared to seek a restraining order (from the court, and much better and more formal-and safer for me-than a harassment order).
And, of course, carry mace (illegal as hell, but who cares!!).
So that was my week. But at the Christmas dinner, I sat next to Jane, a woman from Trinidad originally. She was very nice, but very quiet. During the course of the meal (and after a couple of glasses of wine), Jane opened up and told me that she had been married to an abuser for nearly 30 years. He hadn't hit her, but he had shredded her self esteem until she had none left. He constantly threatened and belittled her, and mistreated her. And I could not help drawing a parallel between us; it was no coincidence that she sat next to me. I looked at her, face drawn and etched with sadness and misery, and also-defeat. She went on to tell me some of the things he'd done and said, and when I asked her when she was able to leave-she said that she had developed stomach cancer fifteen years ago, and he didn't seem to really care. He had no human feelings of caring and compassion at all. So she knew she had to leave in order to survive. And leave she did: with nothing, just as I did, only Jane left fifteen years ago! Yikes!! She has been on her own ever since. She had breast cancer a few years ago, and had to cope with that on her own, too. Amazing and brave woman, I told her.
But-and there is a "but"- she still feels anger and resentment, and bitterness at the ex and the way he treated her. He has remarried, too-and she can't understand why such a miserable, bullying bastard (her words) can have a good life, when she is so unhappy with her own.
It was as if someone had shot an arrow into my own heart, because I thought I had dealt with my feelings of anger and bitterness-and then I received that LinkedIn invitation (sent deliberately, just to piss me off, I'm sure: a classic Bob tactic. That worked). I said to Jane that for fifteen years she has been free of a very insecure and evil man, and that everything he did to her will come back to him one day. Don't wait, I said, don't wait to be happy. You will wait forever if you wait for justice. Screw him, let him be happy. Leopards don't change their spots. And I said that the best revenge she could take would be to be happy, healthy and successful. Don't waste another minute on him, I said. And I also told her that some parts of her story parallel my own. She asked me to tell her my story-and, to my surprise, I heard myself say that I'm not going back to that terrible time anymore. I'm not discussing it. I need to let it go, and so does she, if she wants to be happy.
When we were all leaving, I said goodbye and good luck, and wished her a happy Christmas and New Year, and said be happy in spite of him-and because she's rid of him. I hope that got through. It certainly got through to me!!
I usually don't make resolutions for the new year, because I break them almost immediately-like, within the first week. Or the first day...and they are the ones everyone seems to make: more exercise, lose weight, eat a good diet, sleep better, meditate, less stress, be nicer to people (okay, well that last one is one of mine..ha..).
This year I made one resolution, and it really covers all those listed above. It is to go into 2014 with a different mind-set, a different attitude, a different way of doing things and thinking about things, to go into 2014 with a clean slate, with a consciousness that is different from (and more evolved than) my consciousness in 2013, which I decided I want to leave with last year: in the past.
The past belongs just there: in the past. So that means I need to work on my forgiveness: not only do I need to forgive the ex, but also the three cripplers (I still call them that, clearly I've got some more work to do!). I don't forgive them for them, because what they all did was inexcusable and disgraceful. But not one of them cares what I think, or feels badly about what they did to ruin my life. So I am carrying all this negative stuff around for nothing-and it is all hurting me, not them, because I'm the one who is affected.
It sounds good, anyway. It may be difficult to forgive, to move forward, to dump the anger and resentment - but I don't want to end up like Jane, wasting fifteen years over someone who couldn't give a rat's patootie. Did she want him back after she left him? No, she said, absolutely not. And did I even entertain the thought myself? I think the words "hell", "freezing" and "over" spring immediately to mind. So let them - all of them - bugger off, I'm a lot stronger than I ever believed-and I never would have even suspected that if all this hadn't happened (I would still rather it hadn't happened!).
I'm still walking, exercising (boring, but necessary!), and I won't stop until I get that 80% back, no matter how long it takes. I may be a pain in the butt of certain people, but that will never stop me. I refuse to give up. I will not quit. I'm funny that way! Just watch me.
Happy New Year. Health is more important than anything else (ask me, I'm an expert on that), so I wish you all the best of health, and happiness, and peace, don't take prisoners, and always carry mace.
Tuesday, 24 December 2013
Thanks for not killing me-better luck next time!
We had a power outage last night. All the lights in the area went out. Very exciting. And we had another one today-no phone, no internet, no nothing. Bummer.
So-this is later than I wanted. Sorry! I did get a chance to have a look at the Google Doodle-I love those, I always click to see the graphics, and to read any useful information on people I didn't know existed. Google is great that way.
Naturally, the Guardian had something to say about the doodle: it isn't Happy Holidays, they said, it is Happy Christmas. They said that most Americans don't like the Christmas bit, so we make good holiday wishes very politically correct. This is coming from a lowly rag (I would never call it a newspaper-that's an insult to the real papers!!) filled with revisionist, xenophobic, racist bullcrap. And that is just the staff!
So-excuse ME!!!! Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Happy Chanukah (late). Happy Anything and Everything I missed. And, most of all, Happy New Year!!! I think we can all agree to that one.
I decided that, in the interests of Christian forgiveness and all that, I would send holiday greetings to the three cripplers: Sofia Grigoriadou, Phillip (not very) Bright, and Hilary Longhurst. I would even resist the urge - strong as it may be- to ask how many more patients they've crippled up to now. Forgiveness...hmmmm...
BUT- I couldn't find a card that said "Season's Greetings, thanks for not killing me. Better luck next time!!" Someone really should start making cards that say what people think, not just polite ones.
I really should start doing greeting cards myself. For instance, one could say "Merry Christmas, you rat bastard, I want a divorce!". Or, another one could say "Happy Easter, you lying, miserable cheat. I hope she gave you a hideously painful flesh-eating disease and it falls off into your soup". Then there is "You are a boring, tedious cretin, who would have you anyway?"
And there is my personal favorite: "Thanks for the one night stand. Until I met you, I never knew an adult male could be so very, very tiny." That fits a lot of people I used to know..( the tiny. Not the one night stand).
I'll bet there is a market somewhere for truth cards-especially the last one, which could be printed on an oversized postcard so everyone could see it.
Of course, I could always put these on YouTube. What do you think? I will have to sit down and think of more, of course. But that is a good start. All in the name of politically correct forgiveness, of course.
I had to call the police about my noisy, insane neighbour from Hell upstairs. He has been doing his business in my garden, and screaming threats at me. So two nice, young (they look so young these days. They don't even look old enough to shave, let alone arrest people). The baby police are going to look into it (meaning: do nothing until he attacks me, and then only do something if there are witnesses. Typical). So I said I am going to carry something noxious, just in case. One said, no, I would get into serious trouble. So I said I would carry a can of Raid bug spray. They were very clear about not doing anything like that. Of course, I did NOT tell them that the can of Raid would actually be a can of mace. I did ask if I could buy a taser and use that. After all, if it's good enough for the police, it's good enough for me.
The younger, baby-faced one said that if I have something in the house, naturally the police wouldn't want to see it-or know about it. What about a Stanley knife? I asked. I gave up after that-they were starting to become alarmed. I will keep my options open...
And-there is a glass of wine with my name on it. I've been waiting all day for a glass of wine. Yay. Merry Wednesday.
Oh-by the way-what do you get when you cross a Jack Russell terrier with a Shih Tzu?
A Jackshit, of course!
Now we all need some wine...
So-this is later than I wanted. Sorry! I did get a chance to have a look at the Google Doodle-I love those, I always click to see the graphics, and to read any useful information on people I didn't know existed. Google is great that way.
Naturally, the Guardian had something to say about the doodle: it isn't Happy Holidays, they said, it is Happy Christmas. They said that most Americans don't like the Christmas bit, so we make good holiday wishes very politically correct. This is coming from a lowly rag (I would never call it a newspaper-that's an insult to the real papers!!) filled with revisionist, xenophobic, racist bullcrap. And that is just the staff!
So-excuse ME!!!! Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Happy Chanukah (late). Happy Anything and Everything I missed. And, most of all, Happy New Year!!! I think we can all agree to that one.
I decided that, in the interests of Christian forgiveness and all that, I would send holiday greetings to the three cripplers: Sofia Grigoriadou, Phillip (not very) Bright, and Hilary Longhurst. I would even resist the urge - strong as it may be- to ask how many more patients they've crippled up to now. Forgiveness...hmmmm...
BUT- I couldn't find a card that said "Season's Greetings, thanks for not killing me. Better luck next time!!" Someone really should start making cards that say what people think, not just polite ones.
I really should start doing greeting cards myself. For instance, one could say "Merry Christmas, you rat bastard, I want a divorce!". Or, another one could say "Happy Easter, you lying, miserable cheat. I hope she gave you a hideously painful flesh-eating disease and it falls off into your soup". Then there is "You are a boring, tedious cretin, who would have you anyway?"
And there is my personal favorite: "Thanks for the one night stand. Until I met you, I never knew an adult male could be so very, very tiny." That fits a lot of people I used to know..( the tiny. Not the one night stand).
I'll bet there is a market somewhere for truth cards-especially the last one, which could be printed on an oversized postcard so everyone could see it.
Of course, I could always put these on YouTube. What do you think? I will have to sit down and think of more, of course. But that is a good start. All in the name of politically correct forgiveness, of course.
I had to call the police about my noisy, insane neighbour from Hell upstairs. He has been doing his business in my garden, and screaming threats at me. So two nice, young (they look so young these days. They don't even look old enough to shave, let alone arrest people). The baby police are going to look into it (meaning: do nothing until he attacks me, and then only do something if there are witnesses. Typical). So I said I am going to carry something noxious, just in case. One said, no, I would get into serious trouble. So I said I would carry a can of Raid bug spray. They were very clear about not doing anything like that. Of course, I did NOT tell them that the can of Raid would actually be a can of mace. I did ask if I could buy a taser and use that. After all, if it's good enough for the police, it's good enough for me.
The younger, baby-faced one said that if I have something in the house, naturally the police wouldn't want to see it-or know about it. What about a Stanley knife? I asked. I gave up after that-they were starting to become alarmed. I will keep my options open...
And-there is a glass of wine with my name on it. I've been waiting all day for a glass of wine. Yay. Merry Wednesday.
Oh-by the way-what do you get when you cross a Jack Russell terrier with a Shih Tzu?
A Jackshit, of course!
Now we all need some wine...
Sunday, 22 December 2013
Tits Away - Tis the Season to Be Grumpy
Have I got news for you? Yes, I have! But let me start at the beginning...
On Friday, December 13th (eek. Friday the 13th!) there was supposed to be a meteor shower. I set my alarm for four o'clock so I could have a look. I saw-nothing, and it was bloody cold, too. But I remembered the film Night of the Triffids, for some reason. I was just as glad I didn't see anything.
I love those old B-movie science fiction films, made before I was born. This was great, and I recommend renting the original, if you can find it. The remakes are crap. Why do they bother remaking classics, and then they wreck them? Might as well call them Attack of the Celluloid Turkeys and be done with it.
Well-I have been everywhere, I have seen everyone, been poked, prodded, blood-letted, sampled and examined within an inch of my life-just so I can be alive after New Year's Day, I suppose. And what was I told? I am in really good health-for my age. I had to reply that the least people could do is just leave it at the fact that I'm in good health, and forget the last bit-if they want to reach my age, that is!
So I went to see Heidi, the vestibular physiotherapist, and she gave me a list of things she wants me to do before she sees me in January. Heidi is going on maternity leave, so that will be the end of vestibular physio. What she told me was that I might-and she meant "might"-get 80% of the ability to do the things I used to do, not 80% of complete balance (as in, a normal person) back. And it will take time, given the year that I have had. She wants me to leave the eye exercises alone and start going out and doing all the things I would ordinarily do: go to the museum, go to the theatre, and so on. I am to walk uphill, downhill, in the daylight, dusk and dark. And I am to get on the underground, too. Heidi said that the only way my brain will make new neural pathways is if I challenge it relentlessly, by doing everything I have been unable (and unwilling) to do since the gentamicin thing happened.
On Sunday, I decided to delete LinkedIn. I thought about all this since the invitation arrived from the Spawn of Satan, aka Bob Dimmack, my miserable ex-husband. I've been wanting to unsubscribe from LinkedIn for months, since I see no point in having it. I don't even use Facebook, because I keep forgetting the password. And here is where the news comes in.
I got onto LinkedIn- and there it was, a photograph of a very nice looking sports car. Who was standing in front of it, but Bob himself. Not only that, but he shares the account with-his wife. I could have screamed, I was that upset and angry.
Now, I left him because I got sick of his manipulative bullying, his constant putting me down, his tendency to put me down, threaten me and call me the "c" word. Bob was an emotional terrorist-and, because I cared about him (and was clearly insecure, as he was), I stayed. After awhile I began to believe him. That was the way he controlled me, as he did (I believe) his previous wives. And when I finally had enough and filed for a divorce, he swore he would be penniless out on the street before he would give me a penny. By the way, we worked together throughout the marriage-so I was entitled to half of everything. I loathed him so much by that time, I told him to shove everything and I left. With nothing. So - I would never, ever back to him. So why was I so upset?
I had to think seriously about this. And-after a few days, I realized that he had only sent the LinkedIn invitation to rub in my face the fact that he has a sports car and a new life. Even eight years later, he still wants to upset me. He succeeded-but only briefly.
It isn't like I want him to get run over by a bus. Well, maybe if it runs over his legs. Four or five times.
What has happened to Christian forgiveness? It's Christmas, and all that-and who cares? Screw forgiveness. I finally felt nothing but pity-and then total indifference-but, really, the man treated me like something you step in, and-I certainly am not mystified as to why he wanted to get in touch. He wanted to gloat. Sad, really.
So do I wish him a happy life? No. Hell, no! I wish him years of the kind of misery he inflicted on me. I wish him Irritable Bowel. Acid reflux. Insomnia. Arthritis. Gout. Impotence. Hemorrhoids. Genital herpes, and shingles. And if there is such a condition as "old geezer's boils and acne", I wish him that, too.
Vindictive, me?? Now I feel better. And with the passing of a week and some serious thinking and regaining of perspective, I can see how pathetic he is to contact me at all. There is clearly a good reason I call him the Spawn of Satan!
I said "perspective"-and that is really true. I have better things to think about than a nasty, pathetic, pitiful bully. The time since I walked out on him might have been difficult (it was, very), and the last four years (gentamicin, etc.) were dire and horrific, but I realized how strong, powerful and resilient I really am. I got through it.
And this is the end of the year, and I am glad to see the back of it. Roll on, 2014. I can deal with anything now. I've dealt with worse than emails from a total asshole!!
On Friday, December 13th (eek. Friday the 13th!) there was supposed to be a meteor shower. I set my alarm for four o'clock so I could have a look. I saw-nothing, and it was bloody cold, too. But I remembered the film Night of the Triffids, for some reason. I was just as glad I didn't see anything.
I love those old B-movie science fiction films, made before I was born. This was great, and I recommend renting the original, if you can find it. The remakes are crap. Why do they bother remaking classics, and then they wreck them? Might as well call them Attack of the Celluloid Turkeys and be done with it.
Well-I have been everywhere, I have seen everyone, been poked, prodded, blood-letted, sampled and examined within an inch of my life-just so I can be alive after New Year's Day, I suppose. And what was I told? I am in really good health-for my age. I had to reply that the least people could do is just leave it at the fact that I'm in good health, and forget the last bit-if they want to reach my age, that is!
So I went to see Heidi, the vestibular physiotherapist, and she gave me a list of things she wants me to do before she sees me in January. Heidi is going on maternity leave, so that will be the end of vestibular physio. What she told me was that I might-and she meant "might"-get 80% of the ability to do the things I used to do, not 80% of complete balance (as in, a normal person) back. And it will take time, given the year that I have had. She wants me to leave the eye exercises alone and start going out and doing all the things I would ordinarily do: go to the museum, go to the theatre, and so on. I am to walk uphill, downhill, in the daylight, dusk and dark. And I am to get on the underground, too. Heidi said that the only way my brain will make new neural pathways is if I challenge it relentlessly, by doing everything I have been unable (and unwilling) to do since the gentamicin thing happened.
On Sunday, I decided to delete LinkedIn. I thought about all this since the invitation arrived from the Spawn of Satan, aka Bob Dimmack, my miserable ex-husband. I've been wanting to unsubscribe from LinkedIn for months, since I see no point in having it. I don't even use Facebook, because I keep forgetting the password. And here is where the news comes in.
I got onto LinkedIn- and there it was, a photograph of a very nice looking sports car. Who was standing in front of it, but Bob himself. Not only that, but he shares the account with-his wife. I could have screamed, I was that upset and angry.
Now, I left him because I got sick of his manipulative bullying, his constant putting me down, his tendency to put me down, threaten me and call me the "c" word. Bob was an emotional terrorist-and, because I cared about him (and was clearly insecure, as he was), I stayed. After awhile I began to believe him. That was the way he controlled me, as he did (I believe) his previous wives. And when I finally had enough and filed for a divorce, he swore he would be penniless out on the street before he would give me a penny. By the way, we worked together throughout the marriage-so I was entitled to half of everything. I loathed him so much by that time, I told him to shove everything and I left. With nothing. So - I would never, ever back to him. So why was I so upset?
I had to think seriously about this. And-after a few days, I realized that he had only sent the LinkedIn invitation to rub in my face the fact that he has a sports car and a new life. Even eight years later, he still wants to upset me. He succeeded-but only briefly.
It isn't like I want him to get run over by a bus. Well, maybe if it runs over his legs. Four or five times.
What has happened to Christian forgiveness? It's Christmas, and all that-and who cares? Screw forgiveness. I finally felt nothing but pity-and then total indifference-but, really, the man treated me like something you step in, and-I certainly am not mystified as to why he wanted to get in touch. He wanted to gloat. Sad, really.
So do I wish him a happy life? No. Hell, no! I wish him years of the kind of misery he inflicted on me. I wish him Irritable Bowel. Acid reflux. Insomnia. Arthritis. Gout. Impotence. Hemorrhoids. Genital herpes, and shingles. And if there is such a condition as "old geezer's boils and acne", I wish him that, too.
Vindictive, me?? Now I feel better. And with the passing of a week and some serious thinking and regaining of perspective, I can see how pathetic he is to contact me at all. There is clearly a good reason I call him the Spawn of Satan!
I said "perspective"-and that is really true. I have better things to think about than a nasty, pathetic, pitiful bully. The time since I walked out on him might have been difficult (it was, very), and the last four years (gentamicin, etc.) were dire and horrific, but I realized how strong, powerful and resilient I really am. I got through it.
And this is the end of the year, and I am glad to see the back of it. Roll on, 2014. I can deal with anything now. I've dealt with worse than emails from a total asshole!!
Thursday, 12 December 2013
'Tis the season not to be poultry
I've done my due diligence since the last time I posted. I went everywhere, saw everyone, got poked, prodded, blood letted, scrutinized like a bug under a microscope-and decided that I would take a bit of time and think about reasons to be grateful.
I'm grateful that I am not a turkey-or a guinea fowl, chicken, pig, goose, or anything that can be roasted, stuffed, sautéed, fried, boiled or microwaved. I'm grateful that I'm not an animal that can be sliced and diced and served on a platter with sprouts, sweet potatoes, beans, and whatever everyone has for Christmas dinner!
Oh, the way the poor animals are treated-it's almost enough to make me a vegetarian.
Years ago, there was an outbreak of foot in mouth disease, and the BBC showed graphic footage of cattle being slaughtered by the thousands. All over Britain cows and pigs were being killed. You could see piles and piles of dead animals. I wanted to cry. And then-this is a true story, by the way!- the government stated that it was okay to sell the slaughtered animals for human consumption as long as the diseased bits were cut out first.
I can truly say that I have not eaten red meat in this country since then-and that must be 20 years ago. What a way to take care of overpopulation: just poison everybody.
Having given you such cheerful news - especially if you are red meat lovers!!-I actually do have some good news. Fantastic news will be when I am no longer using crutches, canes, or anything resembling a walking stick. Fantastic news will be when I can jump up and down and tell you that I have at least 80% balance. But-not yet, although you bloggees know by now that I refuse to give up, no matter what happens or how many times I am tempted. No quitting for me!
The good news? It probably doesn't sound important to anyone else, although-I need to say at this point that I do not do any kind of needlework. No knitting, or crochet, or any of that stuff. I don't sew. Period. Especially now-there would be a great deal of swearing and blood loss, because I still have trouble focusing on where I want needles to go (out the window, usually).
That is why we have tailors, and cleaners with people who mend your clothes if that is what's needed.
But-I had a button that needed to be sewn back on, and I felt that I couldn't wear this shirt outside without the button, or I would look like a bag lady. I didn't want to bring it to my cleaners-it's only a button, not something earthshaking! So-I found my needle and thread, and decided to do it myself.
This needle was tiny. I do mean, tiny. I could barely see the eye, let alone thread it. And at home you could buy a needle threader, but no such things can be found in this country. Can't see it? Tough, is the mindset. So I sat and worked at it for about five minutes-and, sure enough, my perseverance paid off. I managed to thread the needle, sew the button on without stabbing myself anywhere, and, as the saying goes, Bob's your uncle (I don't know where that expression comes from, but it fits just about any situation, so there you go. Bob's your uncle.). Job done, although I managed to drop the needle and can't find it anywhere. No doubt I'll find it by stepping on it-then you'll be able to hear me swear in Minneapolis.
All in all, the last few weeks-and months-have been very tiring, and extremely traumatic. But I got through it all. I'm either very strong or completely crazy, because I just keep going. The alternative leaves a great deal to be desired.
I'm just about finished with all the doctors and physiotherapists for this year. Everything closes down over Christmas, I'm glad to say! I will have free time-what a very weird feeling, I can actually sit and think about what to do to amuse myself. I must admit I would like to shove an axe in the head of the deranged, obnoxious, psychopathic (and noisy as hell) cretin who lives upstairs. But-that is a nice fantasy. Everyone I know has shared that with me at some point or another. Noisy, rotten neighbours-is that an epidemic or what? I've heard horrible neighbor stories from other people-this nutter seems almost tame in comparison. So that is another reason to be grateful . Ish.
I don't have an IPad, or an IPod, or a Kindle, or a nice widescreen television, or any of that other stuff that so many people have and so many people covet. If you don't either, don't worry. It could be worse. You could be a turkey.
I'm grateful that I am not a turkey-or a guinea fowl, chicken, pig, goose, or anything that can be roasted, stuffed, sautéed, fried, boiled or microwaved. I'm grateful that I'm not an animal that can be sliced and diced and served on a platter with sprouts, sweet potatoes, beans, and whatever everyone has for Christmas dinner!
Oh, the way the poor animals are treated-it's almost enough to make me a vegetarian.
Years ago, there was an outbreak of foot in mouth disease, and the BBC showed graphic footage of cattle being slaughtered by the thousands. All over Britain cows and pigs were being killed. You could see piles and piles of dead animals. I wanted to cry. And then-this is a true story, by the way!- the government stated that it was okay to sell the slaughtered animals for human consumption as long as the diseased bits were cut out first.
I can truly say that I have not eaten red meat in this country since then-and that must be 20 years ago. What a way to take care of overpopulation: just poison everybody.
Having given you such cheerful news - especially if you are red meat lovers!!-I actually do have some good news. Fantastic news will be when I am no longer using crutches, canes, or anything resembling a walking stick. Fantastic news will be when I can jump up and down and tell you that I have at least 80% balance. But-not yet, although you bloggees know by now that I refuse to give up, no matter what happens or how many times I am tempted. No quitting for me!
The good news? It probably doesn't sound important to anyone else, although-I need to say at this point that I do not do any kind of needlework. No knitting, or crochet, or any of that stuff. I don't sew. Period. Especially now-there would be a great deal of swearing and blood loss, because I still have trouble focusing on where I want needles to go (out the window, usually).
That is why we have tailors, and cleaners with people who mend your clothes if that is what's needed.
But-I had a button that needed to be sewn back on, and I felt that I couldn't wear this shirt outside without the button, or I would look like a bag lady. I didn't want to bring it to my cleaners-it's only a button, not something earthshaking! So-I found my needle and thread, and decided to do it myself.
This needle was tiny. I do mean, tiny. I could barely see the eye, let alone thread it. And at home you could buy a needle threader, but no such things can be found in this country. Can't see it? Tough, is the mindset. So I sat and worked at it for about five minutes-and, sure enough, my perseverance paid off. I managed to thread the needle, sew the button on without stabbing myself anywhere, and, as the saying goes, Bob's your uncle (I don't know where that expression comes from, but it fits just about any situation, so there you go. Bob's your uncle.). Job done, although I managed to drop the needle and can't find it anywhere. No doubt I'll find it by stepping on it-then you'll be able to hear me swear in Minneapolis.
All in all, the last few weeks-and months-have been very tiring, and extremely traumatic. But I got through it all. I'm either very strong or completely crazy, because I just keep going. The alternative leaves a great deal to be desired.
I'm just about finished with all the doctors and physiotherapists for this year. Everything closes down over Christmas, I'm glad to say! I will have free time-what a very weird feeling, I can actually sit and think about what to do to amuse myself. I must admit I would like to shove an axe in the head of the deranged, obnoxious, psychopathic (and noisy as hell) cretin who lives upstairs. But-that is a nice fantasy. Everyone I know has shared that with me at some point or another. Noisy, rotten neighbours-is that an epidemic or what? I've heard horrible neighbor stories from other people-this nutter seems almost tame in comparison. So that is another reason to be grateful . Ish.
I don't have an IPad, or an IPod, or a Kindle, or a nice widescreen television, or any of that other stuff that so many people have and so many people covet. If you don't either, don't worry. It could be worse. You could be a turkey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)