Euro 2020 and the dubious power of voodoo

 All hell has broken loose in this country, and a lot of politicians have jumped on the bandwagon-as they do, when it's good for votes-and have declared that this country is very racist. We all knew that-even the media has been calling out people for racism. Of course, the media has to sensationalize everything. That's how they sell newspapers-if you can call the tabloids "newspapers". They're useful only for dog and cat training, nothing more.

The reason for all the hysteria is that England lost the match to Italy. Boohoo! England hasn't won since 1966-Italy hasn't won since 1968. Do I care? Of course not. It's football, not major surgery. It's a game, not a cure for cancer. Or Covid.

I joined a Whatsapp group of humanists, mainly to see other people's perspective on all the things that are going on in this country and around the world. Humanists UK are working diligently toward climate change-which will happen before we all annihilate ourselves. You can see from the weather how badly things have changed-and how much they need to change. 

Oh, did I ever make a mistake! I expected a local group of people who are committed to social change-by social, I mean climate, and other things, too. Instead, I got some weirdos who think that losing the match is the end of the world. The funniest person declared in a post that she was doing a dance, using voodoo to ensure that England won. She was praying to someone or other. Nutter, or what? Oh, she said, if England loses, her life is over. Nutter twice. I so wanted to post that she should have prayed harder-and maybe she should have shaken some bones and done a different dance. Oh, good grief, Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the wee donkey! Like I said: a total weirdo.

That was the funniest part of the week. I've been going to the gym, walking, and eating twice my body weight just out of boredom. On Saturday I'm due to return to the Tate to see the Rodin exhibition for the second time. Everything he did was done in plaster first; I couldn't help wondering how on earth the sculptures lasted over a hundred years. Rodin's sculptures in plaster outlasted most people!

The not-so-funny part of the week was the day we had such severe rain that the corridor outside my flat flooded. Is this karmic, or what? I've moved and taken flooding with me? Really, it was bad. Water was coming down from the ceiling and flooding everywhere, making it unsafe to walk unless you fancy sliding everyplace. So I photographed it, emailed the head of the repair department (in a panic), and the next thing I knew, two men appeared yesterday morning to take photos and inform me that they would fix the problem before we have more rain. Haringey built these apartment buildings in the 60s (19, not 18, incredibly), and built them as cheaply as possible, making the roofs flat. So when it rains, somewhere there will be a flood. Genius, don't you think?

More genius: all restrictions will end next Monday, the 19th. Bozo (Boris Johnson, the incompetent prime minister), has declared it "freedom day", and said that he expects people to act intelligently. That just about makes me choke on my muesli. Practically nobody in this country acts intelligently.

I don't know about you, but I'm going to continue to wear a mask. I will probably be one of about ten in London who will be masking-apart from the muggers, of course- but I'm doing it-not to protect anyone else, but because there's evidence that masks protect the wearer. Of course, not 100%-but some protection is better than no protection at all. 

One of my friends in New York emailed me to tell me that the news over there is that women are being attacked in London-particularly women who can't fight back (like me, muscles like a sparrow's kneecaps). So, she said, please be careful. And if you've been reading this for awhile, you know that I'm not shy when it comes to telling people off. So I really will have to watch my temper and keep my mouth shut-I keep saying that I will, but then something happens. Sometimes I wish I had a gun. But-I would probably end up shooting myself in the foot. Literally!

The Wizard of Oz and other fairy tales

 I noticed when Boris Johnson was doing his usual BS newscast that his hair-clearly done that way for the media-was probably stolen from the Scarecrow out of  The Wizard of Oz. No normal person has hair like that. He's a ringer. Probably walks around Downing Street singing "If I only had a brain".

You can tell that the pandemic and 14 months of lockdowns had a really serious effect on me. And there's more, too. I missed July 4th, the 245th birthday of the USA, because-well, I didn't have any fireworks to set off. Everyone I know was depressed. It wasn't really a day for celebration. Oh, boo hoo hoo!

We're supposed to be restriction-free on July 19th-even though there's an upsurge in Covid cases. BoJo -the media's name for Boris-is telling us that the great British public will naturally be cautious, and act intelligently. BoJo-I just call him Bozo, because he's a clown (and an idiot). The British public acting correctly, intelligently, respectfully-that's a fairy tale, all right. That's a delusion. It's like people being really pompous and patronizing, and telling everyone that, after all, something or other was made in Britain. Excuse me-so was the Titanic.

All our lives have changed since the beginning of the pandemic. We're stuck with living with Covid-probably permanently-and we just need to err on the side of caution. Too many people are too selfish and stupid to accept that. This is Britain, after all! The more people I have to encounter, the more mystified I become that they actually lived past puberty. 

I don't know about anyone else, but I have become very short-tempered. My fuse was never very long, but I always tried to keep it in check. Now I just get so angry...The worst part is that I get angry over the little things, things that are unimportant. Do you find that you are going through that? Losing your temper at really silly things that would only be a minor annoyance-if that-that you could just shrug off?

I'm on an elbow crutch, courtesy of the Four Cripplers. And stupid people just walk down the street, looking at their phones, oblivious to the fact that there is someone right in front of them who just can't -and shouldn't have to-jump out of the way. I want to push them in front of a moving bus-then laugh. That's what I mean about getting angry and overreacting. I wouldn't hurt anyone, obviously. So I just call them imbeciles. Usually preceded by the f-word. Considering that the level of crime has gone sky high, and that disabled people are being targeted (easy targets), maybe I'll have to watch my temper.

If you've had Covid and have been smacked with long Covid (yes, twice), you'll know how long the after-effects linger, and how terrible they are for a lot of people. I'm talking about people of all ages. Covid doesn't give a shit about your age, sex, religion, socioeconomic background, it'll wipe you out whoever you are. People in their teens, in their 20s and 30s and older-now are unable to live the way they lived before contracting the virus.

Example: brain fog. You aren't going senile, it's a Covid thing. And pain. Lots and lots of pain. I had a few days where I felt excruciating pain in my hands, then my legs, then all over. I felt as if I'd been hit head on by a train-that then reversed back over me. Nothing helped. My doctor certainly didn't help, she was useless. Her attitude was - so what? And you're always tired-an exhaustion that won't go away with rest. 

I'm not mentioning all this to moan about it, because Long Covid lasts as long as it lasts, and there doesn't seem to be anything that anyone can do about it except wait it out. I'm mentioning all this because you might be suffering from Long Covid and wonder what on earth is happening to you. Just so you know that you're not alone. We can all suffer together, tell really bad jokes (to be fair, they haven't all been that bad), drink lots of coffee, and have a pass when it comes to being pissed off.

My ex used to say that it's better to be pissed off than pissed on. Then I divorced him. 

Rocking Rats

 Rats become irascible when thwarted. I remember having a neighbor whose husband loved rats. Go figure. Rats. And before the pandemic, there were more than 150 million rats in the UK. Most of them were-and are-in London. I can just imagine how many there are now. Many of them even have four legs.

My neighbor's husband used to love telling stories about rats (he must have been so much fun to live with. Not great at dinner parties, however). 

It seems that when rats are cornered, they start to rock from side to side. They are looking for a way to escape. Clever rats? But if there doesn't appear to be any escape, they stop rocking and attack. Teeth first. I know a lot of people like that, actually. You probably do, too. I was married to one of the two legged ones. I'm the one who started rocking. Divorce was obviously preferable to murder-but only just...

Anyone ever have to suffer through a day from Hell? Where everything that could possibly go wrong-goes wrong? And in a big way? That was yesterday. It was the day from Hell in a week that was from Hell. I think I know how rats irascible rats feel when thwarted. It took a long time for me to calm down. Stress, anyone? My blood pressure went so high, it was probably normal. The fact that I didn't work myself up into a heart attack was a miracle (especially since my heart is top of my list of favorite organs).

For starters, I dropped my nebulizer on Monday night. I hit it with my elbow and it went flying off the table, hit the floor, and was I ever cursing! Goodbye, nebulizer. First time ever that I broke a nebulizer, and I've been using it since the gentamicin disaster, so I guess that's a pretty good run. Trying to get a replacement, however, was another thing.

I fought all week to get UPS to deliver the replacement. Now, what happens when you hire the cheapest company on the tender? You get UPS, people who make you wait nine hours for a delivery, don't show up, then lie about trying to deliver. It's bad enough that they are a bunch of useless liars-it's worse when they try to lie to your face. And that doesn't work for me at all. That's when I become irascible. Don't lie -I won't accept it. Huh. We get lied to all the time. It's called the government.

I finally got the delivery - but to a local access point-the people were incredibly nasty, and I had regrets afterwards about being terribly polite. What happens when you get the cheapest possible contract with UPS? They don't provide tracking numbers, only names and addresses. And some of these UPS delivery points hire people who are illiterate. Try to argue with someone who can't read or write. Frustrating, or what?

I finally sorted the whole thing out, left the shop, started to walk back-and some total asshole (I know: money for the swear box, which is overflowing) driving a large van didn't look while he was turning and very nearly drove into me. So, apart from the stress and aggravation of sorting out the nebulizer, and having to fight with idiots all week, I nearly got hit by a moron in a van who clearly didn't have a drivers license.

Some days you just can't win. And when people tell you to let it go, don't let things aggravate you-you want to smack them. Hey. Whack. Let this bloody go!

I had an email from a friend I've known for a long time. She bought two dogs-puppies-and she was telling me that they're losing their baby teeth. So she's keeping the teeth and - are you ready for this?-she's putting them in her jewelry box. Then she said that she didn't even do that with her three sons (who don't speak with her. No surprises there, either). She asked if that is weird. Uhhh...yeah, that is very weird. Imagine if someone went into her jewelry box and found a lot of teeth...ewwwww!

I'm going to sign off and hope that I will have a good weekend and a better week next week. I went to the gym and murdered the treadmill, so now I'm going to Starbucks. And let's see if I can get through an entire weekend-and maybe even an entire week-without fighting (verbally, of course) with anyone. I'm reaching the point where I'm going to need a suit or armor...

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...