Just whem you thought it was safe...the fertilizer hits the fan

 I must be getting old. I'm getting polite. First, the ghastly replacement for the even more ghastly Bozo, the ever so crooked prime minister, gets appointed: an officious oaf called Liz Truss. She's bullish-but incompetent. Aren't they all?

Well...Liz got thrown off the deep end. Too bad it wasn't the cliff that her promises of "delivery" are leading us over. At least, if we survive without food, utilities, decent-well, everything (unless you're a millionaire, because everyone else is being taxed to death. Literally). 

On Thursday, I was coming back from infusions, and I had to lie down-after eating something and taking two headache pills. I was okay-just had a thumping head. I turned on the radio and discovered that the queen died. Oh, my! I'm sad for all the millions of people who adored her, but I have to say that I was never one of them.

So we've been subjected to the most nauseating, simpering, sentimentality- we've been bombarded with people weeping and wailing, you'd think the world just ended. I got very ticked off after a day of hearing all the messages from everywhere-the radio stations played crap music that sounded more like a dirge than music. The television stations stopped all the decent shows and all they would show was anything having to do with the queen. And Phil. And Charlie. Ad nauseum. 

There was so much crawling that I could feel my blood sugar rising just by listening to all the crap that the listening and viewing public got rammed down our throats.

Okay, the old girl was on the throne for 70 years (that must have been painful). And this is a monarchy, after all. And people are indoctrinated to think that the queen and all the sycophants, parasites and hangers-on are special, they have a sense of entitlement that the rest of us don't deserve. WHAT?? My egalitarian background and my feminist ideas are just making me jump up and down in disgust.

Sorry if you're a monarchist. Sorry if you're a hopeless romantic and believe in the prince/princess/man on a white horse coming to rescue you-and all that crap. 

I'm a realist and a pragmatist. When the pervert prince (Andy, what a creep) ran home to mummy and mummy didn't force him to go to New York and go on trial-the creep was-and is-guilty as sin. And the queen gave him a free pass. She should have given him a free ticket: to New York, to face the music like a man (that he isn't). All victims of child abuse and child molestation are probably still weeping at the injustice.

Then there's that vicious, low-life, parasite Harry. He lived off his old man for 30-odd years, so now he complains. It didn't stop him from taking money from the bank of Dad, did it? As for Meghan-she was crap in Suits, and the only performance (still not believable) was her weeping to Oprah (America's biggest gossip, with no credibility whatsoever) that she faced racism at the palace. According to people who worked there, she's a liar. There was never any racism, and she was never suicidal. She's now offended all black people everywhere, and insulted people who really were/are suicidal. 

Meghan's a disgusting and disgraceful liar. The pair deserve each other. They're so pathologically jealous of his brother and sister in law that they'll say anything. Oh, please, enough slander and libel. Why are those two still carrying their titles, which they don't deserve? Why are they still living off the very people they profess to hate? Someone tell the king to strip them of all their titles-permanently and forever-and their kids, too-take back the cottage and ban them from every royal residence everywhere.

Now you see why I have no respect for the royal family. Charlie has spent years giving to charities-the Princes Trust has done miracles for millions of people-but the rest of them? People in this country are going without enough food, without utilities (gas and electricity) because they can't afford to feed their families and heat their homes at the same time. The country is in a mess, Truss the moron won't tax the high earners and the rich companies because (she says) they should be putting more money into the country. What's left of it. 

So-the queen was 96. That's a good age (unless you happen to be 95. Then it's something to think about). And the rest of them go on living the good life while their "subjects" are starving. 

Does that seem right to you? It doesn't seem right to me at all; it seems criminal. 

Well-we're stuck with all this garbage until after the funeral. Thank goodness for Neflix.

I may be a wimp-but I'm a happy wimp

 I said last time that I was due to go for the fifth Covid jab on Friday. I've put it off since I was "invited" (that means ordered) to have it in June. I remembered how I felt after the last three; I'll remember that for life, probably.

Oh, well. I don't believe in coincidence. I believe in synchronicity, but not coincidence. And I kept wondering if I should cancel it for the sixth time, since I didn't think I could take another five days of agony. So I wandered around all week, and came to the conclusion that I was well and truly indoctrinated when it came to doctors believing that they know best. I knew that was a total lie twelve years ago.

On Thursday I went for my infusions. While I was waiting for my taxi outside the hospital, my phone rang. It was the testing centre-and my decision was made for me. They were doing polio vaccinations for the next few months until all the 1-10 year olds had the polio jab. So every Covid booster was cancelled. Talk about good luck!

I was so happy that I had to restrain myself from punching the air in triumph. If that wasn't a sign of refusing the fifth booster, I don't know what was. And that taught me a lesson: if I get a bad feeling about something, don't do it. Ever.

So that was my day of reprieve. I walked around all afternoon whispering thank you-quietly, of course. Is there a god/spirit/higher power/ super consciousness/bacon sandwich-who knows, and who cares? Someone or something was definitely looking after me. 

It's been a week, however. I live in a small community which was earmarked for disabled people; I didn't know when I moved in that some of the people were mentally disabled. If you have been following me for awhile, you'll know the story of the reptile who has been making everyone's lives a misery. And you'll also know that I got involved at the beginning of June. Now that I think about it, I think that my ego was involved, rather than my good sense. I should have said no. And the stress of dealing with 60+ year old people who behave like four year olds has taken its toll. On Wednesday I was walking back from the shops and I burst into tears. Truly not my finest moment. I had a meltdown. I managed to cry myself all the way back, locked the door, made myself a strong coffee, and sat and wept for a little while. Then I decided that I needed that to show me that the stress of dealing with idiots was too much stress. I'm done.

I'm stuck in the old quandary of getting myself as gracefully as possible out of the cesspit-or having to deal with the stress of dealing with people who are brainless and ungrateful. Truly. They seem to believe that they are entitled to everything without actually doing any work. And now I'm venting...First I cried uncontrollably for about an hour, now I'm venting. I rarely do either, so we know that I need to go and let them all fight it out by themselves.

I think that we come to a point in our lives when we need to examine our priorities and decide what is important. I was always an activist-and now I just want to enjoy middle age before I turn around and croak. So I'm going to do the things I promised to do, attend the meetings I said I would attend, and stop sending emails to the landlord, because as long as they get their pay every week, they don't care about the wellbeing of their tenants. Isn't that typical?

I'm actually setting boundaries. It took long enough. And, since utilities (gas and electricity) prices are rising at least 400% next month (yes, that's what I said: 400%), I'm using my cafetiere to make my own coffee. A fiver at Starbucks for a cappuccino is ridiculous.

Next week we'll know which of the untrustworthy and incompetent morons will be our next untrustworthy and incompetent prime minister. Oh joy. All this while people are afraid to turn on their heating in the winter because they can't afford it. 

What do I think of the candidates for the thankless job that was left by the useless and incompetent Boris Johnson? About the same as I thought of him. So I'll let you know the verdict next week. No doubt we will get the government we deserve (and God help us).

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.