Confessions of a long hauler - back in the saddle!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ode to the Vomit Comet

It seems like forever since I last posted. It was forever. I spent January with my head over the bowl, puking my guts up. It was so bad, my friend in Australia started calling me the Vomit Comet. Ouch. I couldn't really be annoyed, since most of Australia has been on fire for longer than I had food poisoning. Somewhere in London there's probably an alien, running around and biting people-and people will know when it's coming, because the thing stinks of rotten curry.

It took weeks to recover. My neighbor, Big Flo, heard me through the wall-the walls are that thin, I could hear her sneezing, she could hear me puking. At one point, Flo stopped me and said, oh, it must be karma. I asked her why she is still alive, given the amount of karma she has accrued over her lifetime. This is a woman who believes that if it's printed in The Sun (the UK's answer to the National Enquirer) it must be true. And Flo spells karma with a c. There's no hope for her.

So I'm back now, although it was so nasty that I wondered if I had a hernia-or cancer-or had just ripped my guts up after a severe case of food poisoning. Perhaps the hypochondria of my neighbors is contagious? I finally went to the doc, who told me that it could take until the end of March to feel back to normal. That's what I like: optimism.

First we had storm Ciara, which caused a huge amount of destruction; we then had Dennis (the Menace), which caused more destruction. Last weekend there was yet another one-so someone tell me there's no such thing as global warming??

And now: coronavirus. This one is scary, because the doctors keep telling me that I have to be careful-more careful than anyone, because those of us who were born without a functioning immune system are in a high risk category. Now you can imagine the reaction of Big Flo, who has to be one of the biggest hypochondriacs I have ever met.

Last week, just as I was getting back to normal, going to see the docs (only to be told that I'm in good shape for my age, and that I should come back in another year...thanks...some compliment), and able to zip up my jeans for the first time since the dreaded curry (so I know I'm back to normal), Flo came out and confronted several of us, who stop to have a quick chat when we see each other.

Now Flo always has symptoms of everything that is going. E-coli? Oh my! Ebola? She's certain she contracted that. And now-coronavirus. She was in her element. She was certain that she has all the symptoms of Covid-19. We just all looked at each other, and there was a great deal of eye-rolling. So I asked her if she's been away. Been abroad? Italy? China? I don't know if she knows where China is, but I asked anyway. She said that she has been away. I asked where. She replied: Essex. Oh, I said, as everyone started to laugh. Essex. To Flo, that's the same as being abroad (about ten miles abroad, if that).

So we all finally had enough. We backed away from her, and I said (with a perfectly straight face): you know, there is an epidemic in Essex. That was enough to have everyone else turn away, stifling laughter. I said: West Nile Fever. I thought that poor Flo was going to have a seizure. I told her to go to the doctor's and be tested. Immediately. And off she ran.

It was mean-but hilarious-and you can say anything to anyone, but if you say it in all seriousness and with a perfectly straight face, most people will believe you. West Nile Fever my little New York behind.

I got a call from one of the women I know who works at the doctor's office. She told me that Big Flo came in there screaming, demanding to be tested for West Nile Fever. Ann has known me for years-and she knew that I was behind it, and everyone at the surgery had a huge laugh. But Big Flo won't be moaning to all of us again in a hurry. 

Yep-it's karma. With a k.

I'm not back to Kettle Chips yet, but I am back to Starbucks. Am I wearing a mask (because of coronavirus)? No, but I am careful about washing my hands. I wash them so often, you would think I have OCD. Hand washing. Hand sanitizer. That's about it for prevention. And staying away from huge crowds - like in the London Underground, which is nasty anyway, since I'm short and always come up to someone's armpit (nasty!!).

People are getting really neurotic, buying toilet rolls and other staples "just in case". In case of what? Diarrhea? You have to live without fear. And that is the lesson that the first two and a half months of the new year-and the new decade-taught me. 

I did not have an auspicious start to the new year and new decade. I can look at it as a warning of more disasters to come-as an omen, if you will-or I can look at it as a learning experience, which hopefully I will never have to repeat. I choose to believe that things will be better from now on. 

I remember to stay away from curry. I also remember to never spell karma with a c.

How not to start a new year...and a new decade

The best way not to start either? Don't get food poisoning.

Everything went fine after my last blog, grumpy and testy as I was at the time. I wanted to accomplish things I'd left for dead before the start of 2020-and I figured that I would post on New Year's Day, when everyone who was hung over had recuperated. But Murphy's Law, as usual, came and bit me on the ass.

I was minding my own business when I heard someone calling my name. First name, no swearing. It turned out to be Tina, a workmate from years ago. And I do mean years ago. She was in town for the holidays, we had a very quick chat, and we decided to meet up on New Year's Day-since she realized why she avoided her family for most of the year. Like everyone, I suppose.

We met, and she suggested going for a curry-I usually only go to curry places I know-or, for that matter, any restaurants I know, where I've never been sick afterwards. But Tina said that this was a good place, local, we could both get back easily, so I said okay, fine. Eeek!! How did I know that we were going to end up with a listeria platter and a side of e-coli?

Everything went well, we said we'd keep in touch, next time she's in London she'd contact me, and we went our separate ways. Great way to start a new year, right? Huh...as if!

I started getting stomach pain about two hours after we'd eaten. My abdomen was so distended, I looked like I was going to give birth to a baby elephant-or maybe a full-sized elephant. I couldn't move, could hardly breathe, and it felt like someone was cutting their way out of my stomach. Really-it reminded me of the Alien film? Anyone remember that? When I finally went to see the GP on Friday-just to find out what she thought it was and how long I was going to continue to feel sick, she remembered (everyone at the doc's office loved the films. I knew there was a reason I kept going back there). So-remember the scene where the alien chews its way out of the man's stomach, and runs around, chomping at people? That is how I felt. And it was decidedly unpleasant.

Well-I made myself sick (the old fingers down the throat trick), and was doing that all night, not that it did much good. By Thursday afternoon the swelling had gone down. My system is so full of antibiotics anyway, I figured that any alien would have just keeled over and died of malnutrition.

And Tina was sick, too-so it was definitely food poisoning. We kept phoning each other all night long, just to check that neither of us had died.

I've been pretty much out for the count for the past week. So much for new year's resolutions, right? And so much for curry. And takeaways. And eating out...

I was so ready to wish everyone a happy 2020 and a happy and healthy new decade, too. So happy both to you, and so sorry that it's over a week later than I'd intended.

I decided not to start the new year the way I started the old year-and the old decade. I didn't want to carry all that negativity and anger with me; I used the hatred and injustice over the gentamicin to propel myself forward, refusing to let the incompetent bastards win. Was justice done? No, it was not. That does irk me-but I also know that there's nothing I can do about it. So I just have to leave it in the past and keep working to get as much balance back as I can-and to work on getting healthier post-cancer, and not to fear cancer's return. That is something that I will have to deal with if it happens, not before.

Of course, if anyone really feels like coming over to round up the cripplers-Hilary Longhurst is now killing/crippling her patients in Harley Street, of course-much more money than in the NHS- Phil Bright is working in North Bristol NHS, ferret-faced Grigoriadou and fucky bucky buckster Matt Buckland are both doing the same, bullying and crippling patients at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel-and kicking the living crap out of all of them so that all patients will be safe for at least a couple of years (when you are invited to come over, round them up, and kick the shit out of them again), please feel free. It's not aggression; it's compassion for all those unsuspecting patients who aren't free of the monsters' tentacles.

Let me know; I'll take you to lunch. Repeatedly. A good restaurant where you don't have to worry about practically dying from e coli-or from some alien trying to chew his way out of your stomach.
In Yank speak: upscale. In Brit speak: posh.

Meanwhile, I'm back (just a little thinner), I'll keep you updated, much more often. Life over here is getting much more lively...

Happy New Year, Happy New Decade, and lay off the curry.

'Tis the season to be grumpy; reach out and punch someone

Sometimes things go pear-shaped; life goes sideways. In fact, there are times in one's life when everything just turns to shit. And this two month period has been colossal crap of the first order.

I wrote on Halloween, and that was fine. Little kids came around, parents standing back to watch-so appropriate, given the state of the country at the moment-and they were adorable. I'm still so glad that I didn't ever want children; I had dogs instead. Much better! Dogs love you whether you look good or not; dogs are so loyal, which is more than anyone can say for people.

I then took a week off, went to the abbey outside London; they rent out rooms (five) for people who want to come on retreat, and there are no phones, no television, no noise. In fact, the only place you're allowed to talk is in the communal kitchen, and only during certain hours. So I had a week of peace and quiet. And was I ever bored! That experience taught me just how much stress and anxiety I've been under for a very long time.

I got back and discovered that everything truly had gone sideways. The landline phone decided to break, so I had to go out and buy a new one. This time I decided to get one that wasn't battery operated (okay, so the last one did last about ten years, so I couldn't complain), so I bought the only decent looking one I could find. It has buttons that are so big, you could press them with your fist. And the ringer is so loud, you could probably hear it in the next county. But hey, it works.

The kettle died. The boiler decided to spring a leak, giving me a soaking wet kitchen. It took the boiler people nearly a week to sort it out; this had happened on the Saturday, and nobody wanted to come out and have a look. By Wednesday, five guys showed up to fix the boiler. Five. And they stood outside and had a committee meeting, deciding that they didn't have the correct parts to fix the thing. So three went away to find the parts, and the other two stood in my kitchen, taking the boiler apart and making a mess. I offered them coffee-but I couldn't get to the wall sockets to heat the kettle. I was happy to find another place to heat the kettle, but they refused. They had brought a thermos, so that made things easier. They still went trooping through the kitchen, wet floor and all.

I thought-once they left-okay, that's three things that have gone wrong, so that should be the end of it. Oh, how wrong I was! The computer died. The broadband decided to break. My not-so-smartphone also decided to give up the ghost.

I did manage to cope with all of it, and everything that was broken was fixed or replaced; I ended up with the cleanest kitchen floor in North London. Or anywhere.

But-and there is always a "but"-I was minding my own business and taking out the trash very early on a Wednesday morning. I was up early, so I thought I would get that done. I didn't allow for the rain the night before, and the very soggy leaves and wet ground outside. No stick, no glasses-I could do this. And that is when the world turned to shit.

I slipped on the leaves, slammed into the edge of the building-hip first-and went down flat on my side, my knees, and my hands, which I used to keep my face from hitting the ground. Talk about pain.

I was really winded, and it took me awhile to get myself up and back inside, where I moved my legs and arms and decided that I probably hadn't broken anything, or I wouldn't be walking at all.

I waited a couple of days, with a huge lump on one side, bruises and big swellings everywhere, even though the first thing I reached for was the arnica. And then I went to A&E. I wasn't going to go to the emergency room at the Whittington, I wanted to come out of there with all my body parts intact- so I went back to the Royal Free, where I spent a tedious four and a half hours, two people mangled my veins in my arms trying to insert a cannula (idiots. They don't understand that people have very small veins. These guys couldn't tap a vein if it was the size of a six lane motorway).

Got the x-rays, and was congratulated on not breaking every bone in my body. The doc who came to see me told me that I have two hairlines on my pelvis, a huge amount of bruising and soft-tissue damage everywhere, and that I should rest and take painkillers.

So now you know where I've been for the past six weeks: doing only what was absolutely necessary and spending the rest of the time lying on my left side. Oh, joy.

Christmas has always been very difficult for me anyway. I did cook for myself for Thanksgiving, and sent a prayer of thanks to-well, whoever is out there-that I'm still alive, compos mentis, and in pretty good shape regardless. And the pain is finally beginning to subside, the bruising on my side is less than it was before, and everything seems to be working. So I'm grateful.

Christmas was when I finally decided that I was going to get a divorce. I didn't say anything to my husband because I didn't want to ruin his Christmas (what a wuss, eh?), so I ruined mine instead. So usually I solve the problem by hibernating. I read, watch old movies, go walking-and on Christmas morning I can usually walk without some imbecile heading straight for me, expecting me to jump out of the way.

Yes, Christmas is over for another year. The children are happy (I hope), the parents are dreading when the Christmas bills come out in January, and some of us (possibly many of us) just treat it as another day, and give thanks for finally doing what should have been done years before-and I personally give thanks for the lucky escape.

Things happen, and there are so many things over which we have no control whatsoever. But I hope that everyone reading this had a good time anyway, whatever you did-or didn't do. Eat lots, I decided that anything we eat or drink between Christmas and New Year's has no calories. Eat, drink, be happy - and find a person you really dislike, find the person who is odious and obnoxious-and get behind them and kick them down a flight of stairs.

Ho ho f+++in' ho.

Happy Halloween

I finally got one holiday right-on the day, too! Yes there is a God. And all the halloweenies will be out in force tonight. I don't mean the kids, I mean the adults (biologically, anyway). It's not even 9:15am and they're out getting rat-assed. This is the day when anything can happen-and does-because every villain is wearing a mask. Funny: the bigger the ego, the smaller the willy. Have you women noticed this? If you're just figuring this out now-what the hell! What took you so long?

I had a very underwhelming ten days since my last post. This was when I discovered that, the older I get, the shorter my fuse. I had a temper when I was growing up, but I thought that I had grown out of it. But now? Not so much.

Everything that could break-broke. One vacuum cleaner expired-very noisily-and I swore a few times, but then remembered that it was thirteen years old, and wasn't supposed to last more than around five years (the end of the extended warranty). I have a mini-stereo, sitting on a shelf, minding its own business, and it broke (fifteen years. Lucky me). The phone died, so I had to go out and buy another one. The final insult was when the broadband stopped working last week. That was it.

Everything that broke was really old, so I can be positive and say that at least they all lasted a long time. Add to that that nothing broke at Christmas, so I didn't have to brave the stampede of shoppers headed-well, everywhere. But the broadband? Grrrr....

This began a week-long fight with Virgin Media, the service provider of broadband, TV and phone-all of which decided to break down at once. I called it in. They didn't have a technician available until last Thursday. Okay, I said, give me a time. So I waited in, all afternoon, and nobody showed up, and nobody called, or texted to say that they had cancelled the appointment because a fault in the area had been fixed.

Did I go ballistic? Hell, yes. I had a go at the customer service people, who are located in Mumbai, and most of whom cannot speak English. I don't care where they are located. They could be on the moon, but at least hire people who can speak English. The last time I looked, I was in England. And before you start name calling, a huge number of customers are complaining to Virgin for that same reason: all services should be provided in this country, so that everyone can understand everyone else. And it got worse.

I had to fight all weekend to get a router sent so that I could change the defective one by myself. Easy: just unplug all the cables, plug in the new ones, call an activation number, and then restore the Virgin numbers onto my phone. Easy? Errr....no. Because Virgin, in their wisdom (of which they have none) sent the thing via a crappy service called Yodel. And Yodel is well known for never showing up, or showing up with broken packages. Did Yodel show up on Tuesday? I'll bet you know the answer to that.

To shorten a long story: I got through to Yodel and laid into them for 45 minutes, while they made incredibly feeble excuses. I laid into Virgin after that, and threatened to cancel my contract. I've been with them for ten years, I really was forceful (polite, no swearing, but very, very forceful).

Yesterday afternoon a Virgin technician arrived and changed the router. The whole thing took twenty minutes (he had to wait for everything to upload, then complete the installation). Then Virgin had the colossal nerve to email me and ask what I thought of the service. I told them. I hope that whoever read what I wrote still has a migraine.

I know that I said that I was going to retire from activism, quit fighting over things that I felt (and feel) are wrong. However...that doesn't seem to have worked out so well. When challenges present themselves, you cannot sit back and let people walk all over you. In the absence of having a weapon (forget that, I'd probably shoot myself by mistake), you just have to stand up, fight for your rights, and refuse to back down.

I told you about Toothless Terry the deranged tosser next door? A prime example of standing up for myself. Have I heard from the police? No. Have I heard from any of the senior managers? No. Am I carrying a can of mace with me wherever I go? Ummmm....I think I don't want to answer that, but I think that you already know the answer. Even if I got arrested for fighting back, I doubt that there would be a jury in the world that would convict me.

Maybe I would get a medal, or a lifetime supply of free flat whites at Starbucks.

It's Halloween. Maybe I'll just sit back and have a glass of wine.

Who said that life was never meant to be a struggle?

I'd like to go up to whoever said that and give him (or her) a good slap across the face. But-that has probably been said so many times in history-whoever said it first is probably dead. So-too late.

Life is a struggle-and, more than occasionally, a huge pain in the ass. But it's all we've got, so we might as well make the best of it. We're all going to die anyway.

Such a cynic! Absolutely. Things go well, and we're all hey, it's wonderful, life is great. Then a huge pile of shit falls on our heads, leaving us having to dig our way out of it, and once in awhile we even have the use of a shovel. Duh!

These two weeks have been like that: the boiler breaking, the vacuum cleaner dying (okay, it was twelve years old, so all good things come to a sad and sticky end.), the bin thief threatening to do me in (I'll have to practice harder with the elbow crutch-just in case I need to stick it in his eye and run. Too bad I can't run).

Remember the man who wrote the first line of his book: Life is difficult. Well, he wrote it, made gazillions, and then died young of -cancer? Heart failure? Whatever. He's dead. So that is the end of his life being difficult. And the guy who invented jogging? Dropped dead at 42. While jogging. Go figure.

I've been really thinking about life-especially the end of life. The first part of every year I get down because that was when I walked out, I had enough of bullying and abuse, so off I went. With nothing.
In May I feel down because that was the month I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and three weeks later I had the mastectomy-and then I had to wait to find out the results of the biopsy, so I would know how bad it was. It was bad. Call me lucky.

Then there is August-where the incompetents nearly killed me with gentamicin, destroying my life as I knew it (did they apologize? Hell, no). And the whole event began at the end of 2009, so it hasn't been a hellish nine years. It's been a hellish TEN years. Talk about a decade of a shitload...

Halloween (appropriate for the Brexit that will probably never happen), my birthday, Thanksgiving, and, of course, the dreaded Christmas-all approaching like the express train at the end of the tunnel. It's no wonder why I'm cranky, testy, impatient, and basically bad tempered. Me and probably most of the population.

The end of this year marks ten years; I truly feel that whatever I ever did to anyone in this lifetime I have paid for many, many times over. Enough already. Enough-but there is no surrender. None.

So now I'm remembering the old saying about how you define insanity: insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over again and expecting different results. It's time for some lateral thinking. Actually, it's time for some thinking. Period.

PTSD? Anger and hatred over injustice? Depression over what happened/what might happen/what could happen... all useless. The past is the past, and if I could change anything, I would. But wishing for things to be different will never make them any different. It'll just make me more depressed, more impatient, more bad-tempered, more cranky. And older. Who needs that?

My friend abroad beat cancer, but paid for the win with failing organs and seriously bad mobility. We talked about it when I phoned her the other night, and came to the conclusion that we both could be dead now. So maybe-just maybe- we might start thinking about how lucky we both are to have survived everything that was thrown at us. In ten years, I came very close-too close- to being a statistic. A dead statistic. And, after ten years, I'm finally discovering how lucky I am to just be alive. There are things that I am no longer to do-like racing cars, flying hot air balloons, riding a bike-and, of course, staying upright most of the time. But-maybe at some point I'll sit down and make a list of all the things I can do, and everything I could be grateful for-and, really, it's a long list.

I haven't gone soft-just the opposite. People still piss me off. I still get up in the morning and remember where I am, that 99% of 99% of people are complete brain-dead assholes who have no manners and less personality than a doorknob. But it's always been that way. I have met a few-very few-who are different. The rest all seem to be the products of inbreeding.

When you actually get this, and that nothing has ever changed, nothing will ever change, you find it easier to duck when they are coming at you. Usually. Hopefully. Why get upset (I'm still learning this lesson) by people who (collectively) have less intelligence than a termite?

That brings us up to date. I've got to go to Starbucks. And then I've got to buy a new vacuum cleaner. Who said that life has to be easy?

Fucky Bucky and the Cripplers: An Update

Now there's a novel name for a rock band-doesn't quite have the same ring as, say, Bob Marley and the Wailers, but it's the best I can do at the moment.

I discovered that Bucky (aka Fucky Bucky, or Matt Buckland, or Tombstone Teeth Goofy) has, after having been unceremoniously dumped by my hospital, returned (tail between his legs, no doubt) to-the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. What a hoot.

Hilary Longhurst, as you know, was the chief crippler in the gentamicin case, and has now bailed out and moved to a private hospital, where she can kill and/or cripple private patients for more money than she could get on the NHS. So who is in charge? The ferret-faced Sophia Grigoriadou, who was ignoring the entire gentamicin disaster for the two months I spent in the hospital. She was allegedly in charge-personally, I think that Grigoriadou, Longhurst and Phil not-so-Bright (now in Bristol, sharpening up his crippling skills) shouldn't be practicing medicine at all. Bucky and the cripplers should be doing something more suited to their abilities and personalities: cleaning public toilets comes to mind.

This means, of course, that with Longhurst gone and Grigoriadou in charge, Bucky was able to return to Barts Trust- aka Barts Never Trust-and hope that nobody will remember the fact that he was so humiliated that he had to leave in the first place.

My last words on the four incompetents until next August, when it will be ten years: what goes around comes around. Wait long enough and those who hurt you will get what they deserve. And I hope that the same people from the Royal London are still reading this blog. More humiliation for the cripplers is more than well deserved.

So that brings me to the latest news about my recovery-which is why I began to blog so many years ago-it almost feels like yesterday-although it doesn't.

I've made the usual rounds of consultants and their clinics-if it's Monday I'm here, if it's Tuesday I'm there, and so on. After nine horrible, depressing years-it seems like I'm good to go. What better news can there be-except maybe winning the lottery so I can get out of the area in which I've been stuck for the past nine years?

I told you about Toothless, Tattooed Terry, the nutcase who lives next door. And I'm sure I've told you about his friends: Sandra, who claims to have been married to a millionaire (who turned out to be a waiter in a pub. Not the owner. A waiter.), and Rob, who was a garbage collector for twenty years, and who is living with another nutcase called Tara, who keeps pointing to people and saying that she hates them and wishes they were dead (they have more class than to say the same thing about her, although it's probably crossed their mind).

So- a few weeks ago, we had a tenants' meeting, and I thought that I was going to see blood being spilled. It was like a geriatric fight club. In fact, it WAS a geriatric fight club. Rob-who is in his 60s- started picking a fight with Bob, who is 80, and another neighbour, who is nearly 90. Imagine the shouting and swearing (from Rob. Bob and the other tenant obviously were raised better), and Rob in Bob's face, pushing and shoving. Everyone else was shocked, but nobody made a move. Wise, I thought. Very wise decision, not to get caught up in a fight with people who are bigger than you are.
The housing manager had to separate them. Everyone else moved backwards.

In all the years I've lived in this country, I never lived in council accommodation-that is, property owned and run (usually badly) by the local authority. What an eye-opener. Our area is small, and looks so benign-unlike some of the tower blocks that wouldn't be out of place in worse areas. But there are vendettas left and right: this one hates that one, these people hate those people, and, of course, Tara, who just simply shouts that she hates so-and-so and wishes them dead.

When I first moved in here, I was only just out of the hospital, and I couldn't stand up, or see properly, or hear properly-I was so badly injured that I didn't have a choice but to move out of my lovely two story property, because a fall downstairs could mean a fracture of something important: like my skull, for instance. The hospital contacted the local authority, and they told me that this flat was the only one they had, but that everyone was disabled. They didn't say that there are people who are mentally disabled, or that they had to empty some of the mental hospitals and put people out into the community. What a challenge!

So now you are up to date, and I am going to Starbucks. Hooray for Starbucks. Hooray for some semblance of sanity. Next time I'll tell you about the rubbish bins and the Bin Thief. It's hilarious.