Pass the Condiments-foot in mouth (again)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just never tell me that I "can't". 

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

Fanny Fruitcake Strikes Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WTF The things that people believe

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

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

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

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

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

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

I rest my case.

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

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

Confessions of a long hauler - back in the saddle!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.