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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you next week...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

confessions of a Crispy Critter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The triumph of the human spirit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calling Professor Google

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Spy With My Little Eye...

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

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

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

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

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

That's my cue: Starbucks! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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