There's Nothing Like Booster Power

 Nope-still not dead. What a surprise that is!

I was looking for some good news to cheer everyone up-but we all know about Murphy's Law, and Murphy struck again. 

I had a call on a Thursday evening, inviting me to have the third Covid vaccine. Inviting. Hmmm... so I said yes, of course. We know that it isn't over, so I figured that I should go, since everyone and his Aunt Nellie (if anyone has or had an aunt Nellie) kept writing to tell me that I'm in the clinically extremely vulnerable group and would probably die if I wasn't careful. That's the kind of letter that gets a bit demoralizing, I can tell you. So I was born without a functioning immune system-so you don't think that I know how to take precautions? Of course, with Covid there don't seem to be precautions. Nobody seems to be wearing a mask, or practicing social distancing...people are such morons.

Of course they're morons. Where am I living again?

So I went along to the medical center that was closest to me, figuring that if I had a reaction, I wouldn't have to travel too far. I got there-early-and the queue outside was huge. So much for appointments on the NHS-but everyone who uses the system knows that it's a case of hurry up and wait. Over an hour later, I had the jab, and I decided to take the bus back to the flat-just in case.

Good grief! I had absolutely no reaction at all, so I emailed my friends and told them that I was fine.Only I wasn't fine. The reaction started at about 7pm, and it was vicious. Incredibly vicious: thumping headache, worse than any headache I've ever had-and excruciating pain throughout my body. I couldn't get out of bed for the next four days. I couldn't raise my arms to call for help. I was completely incapacitated. I wondered if I was dying. If I was, it occurred to me that nobody would know until the body started to smell.

So, nearly four weeks later, I'm starting to get back to normal. I did tell the team over at the hospital-and they said: so? You're okay now? That much have been difficult. I wanted to punch someone. That would have been difficult. For them...

It's been an interesting four weeks, but I survived. I then had to email my friends and tell them what happened. Not only were they horrified, but each one of them stated categorically that there would be absolutely no booster. Two shots, they said, were more than enough. 

The worst thing about the entire situation is that the nurse practitioner (the one who said: so?) informed me that the shot that I received was the third shot, and that the booster would be given in six months. Wow. Look what I have to look forward to! Maybe I'll leave town. The country. The continent...

So we're now up to date, although I'm still keeping my head down. There is so much fighting, killing, anger, bitterness-I almost long for another lockdown, so everyone has to stay inside and they can all beat themselves senseless. Almost. It was so quiet! And so boring!

I'll try to keep you up to date more often-when something interesting happens. We've all had enough stress over the past 22 months, who wants to hear about people beating the crap out of each other?

Not dead yet-but learning how to move very, very fast...

To Tweet-or Not to Tweet--are people who use Twitter called Twits?

Now there's a question for you. I've been calling people twits for years (more polite than calling them idiots, but there you are...). I'm clearly very late to the party, which began-how many years ago? I've stayed away from Facebook, even though I've got an account (I check it once a year, if that. I don't trust it.)

So the big news-apart from the punch-ups and violence over petrol shortages (seriously. People will fight over anything!) is that I'm thinking about opening a Twitter account. No Instagram, or any of the others-I'm going to become a Twit. And there's a good reason for that: Twitter seems to find more Twits to follow other Twits. Or whatever.

Anyone who has followed this for awhile knows the story of the four cripplers (Hilary Longhurst. Sophia Grigoriadou, Phil (not very) Bright, and the Spawn of Satan himself: Matt (fucky bucky buckster) Buckland). Two of them are still at the Royal London immunology department, trying to see how many notches they can put on their belts for killing or crippling (or both, in reverse order) their poor, unsuspecting patients. I told the story, but I think that I should go more public about it. After all, I complained to the British Medical Council and was informed that nothing would be done unless I died from my injuries. Huh. Doctors protecting each other-much like lawyers, and politicians. Revolting.

So I decided to go to the court of public opinion; that's really the only court (in this country, at least) that counts. Word of mouth works.

Last year I wasn't blogging. I was too sick to do much of anything (anyone remember Covid?), and I returned from the hospital one morning in early September (having had my infusions) to find that my flat was badly flooded. By "badly" I mean that the bathroom and kitchen ceilings were flooding so badly that they were in danger of collapsing. Who wants to walk into a room and have the ceiling fall on your head? And trying to get someone from the landlord's office to fix it was the start of a year-long nightmare. I will, at some point (it isn't finished yet.), tell you  the whole story. Anyone with a landlord who is a total a***hole will know what I mean. 

The entire situation was a year-long complete nightmare. I reported to the Ombudsman, who is supposed to be an impartial adjudicator; I reported to my MP (the Parliamentarian for my area). I reported to everyone except the media. So now that I'm nearing the end of the saga (with absolutely no luck so far), I've decided to tell you the story (if you're interested. I'll warn you first), and to sign up for a Twitter account and blast it all over the internet. I think I'll call it "Whistleblower" with a few numbers, or dates, or whatever-to differentiate between my account and the other (probable) thousand or so Whistleblower accounts.

I will let you know when and what it's called, and let's see if we can get some form of justice for others who have been through the similar torture.

With that news, I'm off to Starbucks for a flat while. I'll be walking. The local gas stations are still shut due to-no gas! And people are fighting. Beating and stabbing each other. Over gasoline. So much for everyone trying to help anyone else. Lockdown is surely well and truly ancient history.

Space Junk - from Disgruntled in London

 Marcus Aurelius wrote: "When you wake up in the morning, tell yourself: The people I deal with today will be meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, dishonest, jealous, and surly. They are like this because they can't tell good from evil". I add to this: brain-dead, obnoxious, rude, badly-mannered-and yes, they can tell good from evil. They just couldn't care less, because they're that selfish. And incompetent. 

I obviously have had the experience for a lot longer than you would think-but I'm still here because the bloody NHS nearly killed me, so I am now unemployable. I'm stuck in Brain-dead Britain, the land of the savages. <sigh> I do make fun of them as often as I can. Which is daily, as you would expect. How these people ever made it past puberty is a mystery.

It's been two weeks of Murphy's Law in action since I wrote last time-two weeks with the 20th anniversary of 9/11 in the middle. Twenty years-how incredible it is that it's been 20 years, and we still haven't learned anything. Everyone is still hating everyone else. I couldn't even watch the CNN coverage of the ceremonies back home. I remember exactly where I was on the day. It isn't something that I will ever forget. But I do wish that they would stop making all the innocent people who died into heroes. They weren't heroes. They were ordinary people who went to work, expecting to do other things afterwards, never expecting to be the victims of mindless terrorists. Ordinary people seem to be the ones who are targeted by the insane. Why? I suppose because they are easier to kill. 

So many things have been rumbling around in my head-usually in the middle of the night, when I'm supposed to be sleeping. We have- how many thoughts in a day? And most of them are dismissed as useless (because they are). I call them "space junk". I would love to be able to selectively eliminate the useless from the useful; it seems to be perfectly normal for thoughts to go in and out. Now I joke that I'm living in a place where the people have nothing in between to stop them. 

Well, that's my duty of slagging off the Brits done for today. I'm going to Starbucks.

To Shag or Not To Shag: That is the Question

 Did I get a lot of flak by saying that everyone should get shagging? Seriously-has everyone lost their sense of humor since the pandemic began? 

The story about Betty is absolutely true, by the way. And, to quote the late, great Joan Rivers: It's been so long since I've had sex that I forget who gets tied up.

The interesting article I read just a couple of days ago-in one of the trashy, daily, free papers (that is part of one of the tabloids, so obviously everything they write-if you can call it writing-is a load of bull), is that there seems to be a growing movement called "femcels": women who have decided to claim celibacy. And here I was extolling shagging...what an oops! Foot lodged firmly in mouth-again.

I'm thinking about all the terrific women I know who have decided to be a lot more discriminating when it comes to having sex with just anyone. Femcels. Great name and even greater idea. It isn't just a question of self-esteem, self-confidence, self-worth; it's also an issue of personal safety. Don't go anywhere with anyone you don't know. That should be obvious, but for some reason, it isn't. Why go with some stranger-or relative stranger-only to have him use your body as a toilet? 

There's a huge problem over here with date rape-and a massive alcohol problem, where women are picked up by private taxis (think Uber) and end up in a ditch somewhere, with no memory of how they got there. And, according to the "femcels", guys will just take any port in a storm (as it were. Awful expression, but so true) when the woman they fancy is clearly out of their league. Before men start howling, it's probably the other way around, too. But my concern is women who are too drunk, or on drugs, or otherwise incapacitated-or just have no self-esteem, so they find themselves fair game for predators. 

At the moment, that's pretty much the latest. I've been part of a nationwide study of people with CVID- hereditary CVID- to find out whether the vaccines work on us. Because we're born without functioning immune systems and have to have regular antibody replacement, the efficacy of all the vaccines has been in question. And a few days ago, I received the definitive answer: two shots have a negligible effect. Even the booster, which I'll probably receive anyway, will be close to useless. 

I'm one of very few people who insists on wearing a mask, who tries very hard to maintain social distancing, who still continues to wash my hands and keep strict hygiene methods-but I seem to be one of very, very few. I'm a bit shocked - and very disappointed - that so many people think that everything is back to normal. It isn't. I have always maintained that the Brits are total idiots, with no manners, brains, or consideration for anyone but themselves. These eighteen months have been absolute proof that I'm right. But the fact that I now know that I have no immunity makes life very interesting indeed.

Zombie Apocalypse 2.0 - and senile body parts

 Nope-not dead yet.

Only six weeks have passed since the last time I wrote. It has been an eventful six weeks, I can tell you. 

I had a colonoscopy and gastroscopy; the surgeon wanted to remove and biopsy some polyps. Really, I think that he just wanted to shove a garden hose in both ends. You haven't really lived until you've had a bloody big hosepipe shoved up and down. First, they take a hose that looks like it's big enough to water their garden. Then they spray your throat-and they cover you so you can't kick them, even though you really want to do so. Down goes the hosepipe, they push it around (maybe they like pain-as long as it's someone else's), find the polyps, and chop. Lovely-when they yank the hosepipe out, you can't talk for two days (which makes some people incredibly happy), and it feels like a brick is stuck in your throat.

Then they take another hosepipe (at least, I hope that it's another hosepipe. The NHS is so broke, maybe they rinse them off and reuse them. Or worse-they don't bother rinsing them off). Then they give you something to relax you. It still hurts like hell, and it takes about a week to feel less dazed and confused-but they shove the thing up the backside and push it up as far as it'll go. Imagine how happy they are to see a polyp-and then chop it out, close the area, and finally pull the hose out. 

Now, really-all that pain, even with sedation-I will never understand why on earth anyone would be so crazy-or masochistic-to even entertain the possibility of having anal sex. Seriously, Anal sex??? The bloody garden hose was so painful that I would have started kicking if I could have moved. No way would I ever let anyone get near enough to shove anything up my ass. A scope every three years is enough. Ewww....

That was the excitement (if you call that exciting) of the past few weeks. People are still avoiding wearing masks, the idiot conspiracy theorists are bleating about the governments putting tracking devices in the vaccines, morons are dying-other morons are taking the relaxed (non-existent) cautions as excuses to go and kill each other (and a lot of innocent people, too), and it's back to business as usual. I've finally learned to keep my head down (especially since dog owners don't clean up after their pets. Nothing like having to dodge big-and I do mean, big!- piles of dog shit if you want to walk up the road), avoid looking at anyone in the eye (that's an invitation to have the crap beaten out of you, according to the NHS), and generally keep my mouth shut. 

The funniest thing is what I saved for last-mostly because I like to crack a joke every once in awhile. After the past eighteen months, we need all the humor we can get.

I was walking up the road last week, heard my name called, and turned around to see an old neighbor-called Betty-walking toward me. I still keep in touch with some people, but Betty and I has lost touch. We went for a coffee, and caught up. It seems that her husband left her for a younger model (typical of him, he was a prat), so she started shagging his son. His son, to clear things up, is her stepson, so that was probably okay-and it drove her ex to distraction, so it was definitely okay.

Betty had been to her gynecologist a few weeks before the ex dumped her for a thirty year old (same age as his son), and during her examination, the consultant pronounced her problem: she had a senile vagina. Yes, I did say a senile vagina. I couldn't stop laughing-and her remedy for her senile vagina was to have as much sex as she possibly could. Seems to have worked. She was with her stepson for nearly five years. 

There you have it, everyone. If you don't have sex for a few years, you will end up with a senile vagina - so the moral is: get shagging.

Now, if I could find someone with his own hair and teeth, and who could speak English, and who is in his 50s- hmmm....

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water...

 Here we are, in the middle of government induced paranoia...is there any other kind?

It's bad enough that it's 90 plus outside, has been since the weekend, and promises to be as hot as hell for the next week. I know: it's summer! But it's only good for people who like being deep fried, and who just can't wait to develop melanoma. For those of us who have skin the color of milk bottles, it's torture. I spend ten minutes in bright sunlight, turn the color of beetroot, suffer acute pain, and then peel-so it's all been for nothing. I look like I should be ready for embalming-only white, not pasty gray or the color of walkers out of The Walking Dead. If I could find an island, with temperatures around 68F (20C), I would move tomorrow. Maybe today...

You undoubtedly know that Monday was the day when all restrictions were lifted. From midnight on, it was pandemonium. Strange, because a lot of these people have ignored the restrictions for months. But now-every day is like a stampede of angry cattle. No masks, no social distancing, the appalling behavior that has always been part of being British has now returned in force. Will people have the courtesy to step aside when they see a disabled person? Hell, no-they expect us to move, even when there's no place to go.

Now this will make you smile, in the midst of all this chaos. I braved the crowds-wearing a mask, of course, even though I was just about the only one with the sense to do so-and there, in the middle of the street, was this huge woman, a terribly painful-looking shade of red, waving her arms around everywhere. She was fighting with someone, and the more the other person backed down, the more aggressive (and loud) she became. I'm not fat shaming, I promise-but her bingo wings were flapping in the wind, and some poor person who was trying to get past her nearly got one in the face. I had to laugh. Okay, I'm cruel, but can you imagine having to call the paramedics and explain how you ended up with a fractured skull? 

Oh, sorry, I got smacked in the face by someone's bingo wing that was so large, it could have been made into another whole person. And that was just the bingo wing; she wasn't wearing a bra, and her boobs swung around like a cow's udders. 

I think that you get the picture: bingo wings the size of a Mini, boobs like a cow's udders, and tattoos everywhere (yes, I forgot to mention the tattoos, I was distracted by other parts of the body flapping in the wind). A voice that could shatter glass (if the bingo wings didn't do it first), and a face that wouldn't be out of place as an extra in the Walking Dead. Oh, joy. Good thing I hadn't eaten breakfast.

This has been my week: hiding out and trying to stay out of trouble. My team at the hospital has the same opinion: we are in for a huge increase in infections, and a massive increase in deaths. We're all cringing, but telling everyone to wear masks, keep away from people as much as possible, keep hand washing. 

Eventually, we'll see if we're right. Eventually, we'll see if we're still alive! Whatever. I'm still planning on riding down the Pacific Coast Highway (if California hasn't dropped into the Pacific by then), celebrating my 100th birthday, on my Harley (I'll be driving, of course), with my 80 year old toyboy riding right behind me. Stop on the side of the road, have a picnic, and just keel over. I told this to my friend, who immediately rolled her eyes, said "yeah, dream on", and asked me what would my toyboy do? Well-why would he be worried? He'd get the Harley.

Some people have no sense of adventure...

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!