I have been looking forward to using the tome from Spike Milligan's headstone. Does anyone know if it does actually say that on it or is it an urban myth. I'm not going all the way across London to find out because as I said, I am ill.
I was thinking of putting in the title " Author struck down with Pneumonia " but that is probably a bit too dramatic for my blog. Truth is a have a lung infection, which is the P word, but I only have it in a certain section of my rt lung. I have to say that I am mightily relieved because I had it down for something a lot worse that it turned out. I was going for the 'that's it, no point in planning for Christmas' option. It never works out how I think it is going to, and I have dropped the moniker of "Lucky" from my name. I don't suppose all the recent outside events has done me much good, but you only live once and I did enjoy them.
So how did it go, I hear you ask. Well it was nothing like I had planned, and took six and a half hours. I wasn't able to help anyone with my chatty positive conversation, and could only look on as a young lad, probably only 11yrs, was wheeled into the area by his dad. He had an obvious growth in his throat and his dad looked like he was being pushed into the ground by a huge weight. The boy was visibly tired and just wanted to get through the scan. Let's hope he gets through what's ahead. Be nice to see him running around a rugby pitch in a few years time.
My cannula went in well, and they managed to distract me long enough for me not to faint. Bridget wasn't there and I didn't get scared. The TV was put on early after we arrived and a group of friends of a patient decided to compete for volume with Jeremy Kyle show. They were from somewhere exotic like Romania, but I was trying hard to find out why an ugly bloke had had a child by his mother. As the TV show got louder, so did the Romanians who were only sitting across from each other. I reached for my baton and my CS gas, but remembered they were out of reach in my office and so I had to put up with the Romanians drowning out the full detailed explanation.
When they left I found out it was because he couldn't get a girlfriend and wanted to have his own baby. Rev Will might well cover this aspect of sex in his sermon on Sunday morning. Webbed fingers is usually a dead giveaway. Let's just hope nobody gets upset and walks out of the hall this Sunday. Which reminds me, my Rosanna has a Sunday afternoon job in Clarke's shoe shop, and didn't leave church early last Sunday because of anything Will said. Glad to have cleared that one up. I have her name down for the Sister's of Mercy Convent in Streatham anyway, so no need to worry about how she turns out.
My blog has been changed because a critic suggested I make it more feline and easy on the eye.
I won't know what it is like until I publish it, but hope it more visually pleasing.
I'm off to lie down now and finish my Dan Brown book..which has been spoilt a little by my blog reviewers......lets just hope it is exciting and that I find out what the symbol was that was lost in such a dramatic way.
Thursday 12 November 2009
Wednesday 11 November 2009
Schoolboy rugby in the rain
What a day today was. Got very wet, but ended the day happy.
Picked up Rob, who invited me to a match between his son's team Whitgift, and the local catholic opposition, John Fisher. They were playing in a grudge match for the Daily Mail U18 cup, and there was a very good turn out. I haven't seen schoolboy rugby being played for over 29 years, and it has changed I can tell you. I wanted to stay and watch the netball match at Reigate College last week, but Gabriella and her friend Bryony pulled me away a bit too forcefully I thought at the time. It doesn't count if they aren't your daughters, I told them, but they didn't listen to me. It is amazing how the youth of today have all grown, they must all be on steroids, especially the girls in the netball teams. Tall, long legged athletes gliding around a court. None of them looked out of breath. Not natural. Then today there were young lads who looked in their mid 20's playing. They were out there warming up an hour before the match started, and that would never have happened in my day. We would have been worn out come kick off if we had done that. And they had all the gear the professionals seem to have, tackle pads and other expensive equipment. They don't spare the horses at Whitgift School. One or two of them could run about a bit too, and it wasn't a surprise that there were a sprinkling of internationals on both teams. It started to rain but it was ok as I was booked to attend a council meeting, and I managed to get out of it to watch the game. Lets hope the citadel of Croydon doesn't collapse as a result of my not being at the council meeting.
On arriving home I quickly learnt all the days gossip. A woman had phoned twice asking for me, and refusing to speak to Mel. Sounds intriguing I thought, perhaps they want me to coach the girls netball team. So, after a bit of argument between my wife, and a woman I don't know, refusing to divulge what the matter was other than it was a personal matter, they agreed to a truce, and the woman was to call back at 4pm. This would give Mel enough time to question me as to what it was all about. " I know nothing about this whatsoever " just doesn't cut the mustard with my wife. I have had instances in the past of women I hadn't married declaring amorous intent towards me, and have passed them all on to Mel to deal with. I can't really be bothered to let them down gently, particularly as I don't feel that I have encouraged them and they have misread my signals. If I was being nice to them, it was probably because they had a donut left on their plate that they weren't going to eat, and I was still hungry from being on the latest diet Mel had put me on. That was how they usually misread my look of longing. It's always been very simple for me. I married my wife because I love her and want to spend the rest of my life with her. I haven't changed my mind. I am the result of an all boys boarding school, which means I don't always send out the right signals to girls. For goodness sake boys don't misread my signals, so is it to much to ask for girls to pay attention. I think that for some girls just smiling at them is enough, and being nice is tantamount to declaring undying love. So, having learnt my lesson over the years I hardly ever talked to women at work. And guess what. I was seen as a male chauvinist, not to my face you understand, more when I wasn't there. How do I know? I had a camcorder in the girls locker room.
So here is this woman insisting on talking personally to me. Here we go again, thinks I. More trouble. And guess what, she wants my blood tomorrow morning at 9am. A surprise attack with a needle. I hate cannula's being done to me. They are great big long needles put up into your veins to enable them to pump loads of chemicals into you over a few hours. Being a big strong man, I usually faint. It's the thought of the needle going in that gets me going. On one occasion the apprentice nurse just over from Ireland couldn't do it properly. Apparently I had hidden all my veins in my arms, which is a ridiculous thing to say. Where would I hide them? Of course I hadn't but she made such a fuss trying to find them that on the fifth try I fell forward in my seat. That was fun then. Some great doctor decided I must be having a heart attack and quick as you like had me wired up ready for my heart to be jumped. If my nurse hadn't come in to the room and explained my pulse is always slow I might not be here now. It did frighten me and now I always have a quiet word to make sure they know not to keep on putting long needles in my arm. If I get an experienced nurse, who is used to cannula's rather than Bridget from Sligo, then I am usually confident it will go well. Nothing against Bridget, but she was probably trained in Galway and is misguidedly trying to pay me back for the potato famine. Me, a genetically superior man from Cork. Not that superior then, as I'm probably related to Bridget.
Blood and scans in the morning, what a way to start the day eh!
Sometimes when you are waiting for a CT scan you are joined by much younger, and for some reason almost always, women, who are often upset and crying about having to go through with a CT scan and probably because they have to go through with dealing with cancer ( note small case-don't ever give it any prominence as a word) at a comparatively young age. It's not a nice place for anyone, but sometimes you meet people who are very positive and it makes the time go by a little more pleasantly. I always aim to be first in the queue of a Thursday morning, and then I can set the stage for those coming after me by being chirpy and positive. I did meet an eleven year old boy one time and he was brilliantly positive. We compared length of scars and lengths of operations as his Mum and Mel chatted nearby. I wasn't going to show him my shark bite at first, but he showed me the chest scar so I thought it ok to. Do you have to have a CRB check to display your scar to a minor? He was there for a last check up as his cancer was in remission, and I couldn't have been more pleased. There are a lot of people who deal with it very well.
Then if a young girl comes in with her mum, which is something that Mel and I have had a lot, it might not be so bad for them.
You know who I mean.
Picked up Rob, who invited me to a match between his son's team Whitgift, and the local catholic opposition, John Fisher. They were playing in a grudge match for the Daily Mail U18 cup, and there was a very good turn out. I haven't seen schoolboy rugby being played for over 29 years, and it has changed I can tell you. I wanted to stay and watch the netball match at Reigate College last week, but Gabriella and her friend Bryony pulled me away a bit too forcefully I thought at the time. It doesn't count if they aren't your daughters, I told them, but they didn't listen to me. It is amazing how the youth of today have all grown, they must all be on steroids, especially the girls in the netball teams. Tall, long legged athletes gliding around a court. None of them looked out of breath. Not natural. Then today there were young lads who looked in their mid 20's playing. They were out there warming up an hour before the match started, and that would never have happened in my day. We would have been worn out come kick off if we had done that. And they had all the gear the professionals seem to have, tackle pads and other expensive equipment. They don't spare the horses at Whitgift School. One or two of them could run about a bit too, and it wasn't a surprise that there were a sprinkling of internationals on both teams. It started to rain but it was ok as I was booked to attend a council meeting, and I managed to get out of it to watch the game. Lets hope the citadel of Croydon doesn't collapse as a result of my not being at the council meeting.
On arriving home I quickly learnt all the days gossip. A woman had phoned twice asking for me, and refusing to speak to Mel. Sounds intriguing I thought, perhaps they want me to coach the girls netball team. So, after a bit of argument between my wife, and a woman I don't know, refusing to divulge what the matter was other than it was a personal matter, they agreed to a truce, and the woman was to call back at 4pm. This would give Mel enough time to question me as to what it was all about. " I know nothing about this whatsoever " just doesn't cut the mustard with my wife. I have had instances in the past of women I hadn't married declaring amorous intent towards me, and have passed them all on to Mel to deal with. I can't really be bothered to let them down gently, particularly as I don't feel that I have encouraged them and they have misread my signals. If I was being nice to them, it was probably because they had a donut left on their plate that they weren't going to eat, and I was still hungry from being on the latest diet Mel had put me on. That was how they usually misread my look of longing. It's always been very simple for me. I married my wife because I love her and want to spend the rest of my life with her. I haven't changed my mind. I am the result of an all boys boarding school, which means I don't always send out the right signals to girls. For goodness sake boys don't misread my signals, so is it to much to ask for girls to pay attention. I think that for some girls just smiling at them is enough, and being nice is tantamount to declaring undying love. So, having learnt my lesson over the years I hardly ever talked to women at work. And guess what. I was seen as a male chauvinist, not to my face you understand, more when I wasn't there. How do I know? I had a camcorder in the girls locker room.
So here is this woman insisting on talking personally to me. Here we go again, thinks I. More trouble. And guess what, she wants my blood tomorrow morning at 9am. A surprise attack with a needle. I hate cannula's being done to me. They are great big long needles put up into your veins to enable them to pump loads of chemicals into you over a few hours. Being a big strong man, I usually faint. It's the thought of the needle going in that gets me going. On one occasion the apprentice nurse just over from Ireland couldn't do it properly. Apparently I had hidden all my veins in my arms, which is a ridiculous thing to say. Where would I hide them? Of course I hadn't but she made such a fuss trying to find them that on the fifth try I fell forward in my seat. That was fun then. Some great doctor decided I must be having a heart attack and quick as you like had me wired up ready for my heart to be jumped. If my nurse hadn't come in to the room and explained my pulse is always slow I might not be here now. It did frighten me and now I always have a quiet word to make sure they know not to keep on putting long needles in my arm. If I get an experienced nurse, who is used to cannula's rather than Bridget from Sligo, then I am usually confident it will go well. Nothing against Bridget, but she was probably trained in Galway and is misguidedly trying to pay me back for the potato famine. Me, a genetically superior man from Cork. Not that superior then, as I'm probably related to Bridget.
Blood and scans in the morning, what a way to start the day eh!
Sometimes when you are waiting for a CT scan you are joined by much younger, and for some reason almost always, women, who are often upset and crying about having to go through with a CT scan and probably because they have to go through with dealing with cancer ( note small case-don't ever give it any prominence as a word) at a comparatively young age. It's not a nice place for anyone, but sometimes you meet people who are very positive and it makes the time go by a little more pleasantly. I always aim to be first in the queue of a Thursday morning, and then I can set the stage for those coming after me by being chirpy and positive. I did meet an eleven year old boy one time and he was brilliantly positive. We compared length of scars and lengths of operations as his Mum and Mel chatted nearby. I wasn't going to show him my shark bite at first, but he showed me the chest scar so I thought it ok to. Do you have to have a CRB check to display your scar to a minor? He was there for a last check up as his cancer was in remission, and I couldn't have been more pleased. There are a lot of people who deal with it very well.
Then if a young girl comes in with her mum, which is something that Mel and I have had a lot, it might not be so bad for them.
You know who I mean.
Tuesday 10 November 2009
It was a bit hectic today, and I have had to have a lie down again.
I drove to work dropping off my Rosanna at her Uni in Wimbledon. I like having her in the car because she is trapped and has to listen to my view on whatever the great issue of the day is. We put on the radio and listen to the 'Shock Jock' and the topical debate concerning London but decided our topic was better. This morning it was the business of passing her driving test, and how it is stressing her out. Grandad, himself a very brilliant driver, is paying for the lessons, and having bought 20 feels that Rosie should be ready to take her test by now. I have told her that she should ignore these ill informed opinions and only listen to me, her father, who after all is the worlds finest exponent of the art of driving. I big myself up so that she listens to me and not my father, who's finest hour came behind the wheel of a nuclear submarine and who thinks having electrically operated windows is an unnecessary expense with a built in fault waiting to pounce on the unwary. I'll admit that pointing HMS Renown, a Resolution Class nuclear powered submarine, is probably a far more challenging thing to do than parking a 14ft long car in a car park. But lets face it when you come out of the store with your trolley you don't get those irritating little dinks on the bodywork from a mum throwing open her car doors to fit her screaming infant into the child seat in the back. Not if your your choice of craft for the day is a submarine. And what if someone cuts you up in traffic whilst you are struggling through Brixton or Peckham on your way home from work. You wouldn't really worry if after digit signals are exchanged the other driver gets out with a machete and walks towards you. You have a Polarus Missile you can wave at him. Either that or you can depth charge his BMW. So, no I don't really think my dad should be handing out advice to his granddaughter on driving. He did have an important role to fill in the Falklands and was responsible for a few missiles getting away from certain ships to land on other navy's ships, but he very rarely gets behind the wheel of anything these days and is most often seen cycling along the sea front with a bag of vegetables from the allotment. And very nice they are too.
London is a hard place to drive and Rosanna has a challenge to drive safely here.The biggest physical challenge is that her glasses don't allow her to see very well. No, I don't know why either. I went with her to get her eyes tested years ago and when we were in the darkened room she got to the third from bottom line before she couldn't see any more. That was with new glasses on. I thought it was rubbish and told the lady in the white coat so. She looked at me as if I were slightly retarded, and told me this was normal, at which I said it wasn't as I could see the entire board and the name of the company who made it. I continued my protest and was asked to leave. So is it really any surprise that anyone with glasses can't see approaching cars and children in the road.I think they are a fashion accessory, and as long as they are by Armani then they are good enough. Poor girl, she needs me around to pick her up and drop her off. I'm not allowed into Opticians with her these days apart from to pay when the bill arrives.
So after that it was into an office that i am allowed to use in times of petrol shortages. I enjoyed myself for a while sending out emails to colleagues who thought I had died, until I was about to go home and Richard turned up. He had spent all morning tracking down a London Bus driver, who having committed some heinous offence had then committed the more serious offence of lying to Richard. Richard is the largest person I know. He is probably the largest policeman in London today. Not only is he tall, but he is big. I think I saw him on the TV at the weekend, boxing against David Haye. I certainly wouldn't lie to him, but I'm not an idiot with a death wish. Anyway, a certain bus driver is soon to be called into a surprise discipline hearing where he will get the chance to see how large Richard is. I thought it funny anyway. Then I met another Richard as I was about to get in my car. This Richard recently came into a very large sum of money, and only mixes with people like us because he would be bored if he stayed at home in his mansion. I think he likes the work. There are some sad people in my life but I think they are great. We need people who are unusual don't we?
So I popped into my local cafe and spoke to Carol, who has a proper coffee machine imported from Italy. I can't taste coffee very well at the moment so I didn't have any, but had a couple of nice rolls instead. Then it was off home and that's about it really. My right lung is in poor condition, and I have a CT scan on Thursday in which they might be able to see what is going on. I sat down and fell asleep after a couple of strong pain killers. Just taken two more and right now I am away with the fairies so will stop now before I waffle on. This must be how Tolkein got the ideas for his stories wot he wort.
I drove to work dropping off my Rosanna at her Uni in Wimbledon. I like having her in the car because she is trapped and has to listen to my view on whatever the great issue of the day is. We put on the radio and listen to the 'Shock Jock' and the topical debate concerning London but decided our topic was better. This morning it was the business of passing her driving test, and how it is stressing her out. Grandad, himself a very brilliant driver, is paying for the lessons, and having bought 20 feels that Rosie should be ready to take her test by now. I have told her that she should ignore these ill informed opinions and only listen to me, her father, who after all is the worlds finest exponent of the art of driving. I big myself up so that she listens to me and not my father, who's finest hour came behind the wheel of a nuclear submarine and who thinks having electrically operated windows is an unnecessary expense with a built in fault waiting to pounce on the unwary. I'll admit that pointing HMS Renown, a Resolution Class nuclear powered submarine, is probably a far more challenging thing to do than parking a 14ft long car in a car park. But lets face it when you come out of the store with your trolley you don't get those irritating little dinks on the bodywork from a mum throwing open her car doors to fit her screaming infant into the child seat in the back. Not if your your choice of craft for the day is a submarine. And what if someone cuts you up in traffic whilst you are struggling through Brixton or Peckham on your way home from work. You wouldn't really worry if after digit signals are exchanged the other driver gets out with a machete and walks towards you. You have a Polarus Missile you can wave at him. Either that or you can depth charge his BMW. So, no I don't really think my dad should be handing out advice to his granddaughter on driving. He did have an important role to fill in the Falklands and was responsible for a few missiles getting away from certain ships to land on other navy's ships, but he very rarely gets behind the wheel of anything these days and is most often seen cycling along the sea front with a bag of vegetables from the allotment. And very nice they are too.
London is a hard place to drive and Rosanna has a challenge to drive safely here.The biggest physical challenge is that her glasses don't allow her to see very well. No, I don't know why either. I went with her to get her eyes tested years ago and when we were in the darkened room she got to the third from bottom line before she couldn't see any more. That was with new glasses on. I thought it was rubbish and told the lady in the white coat so. She looked at me as if I were slightly retarded, and told me this was normal, at which I said it wasn't as I could see the entire board and the name of the company who made it. I continued my protest and was asked to leave. So is it really any surprise that anyone with glasses can't see approaching cars and children in the road.I think they are a fashion accessory, and as long as they are by Armani then they are good enough. Poor girl, she needs me around to pick her up and drop her off. I'm not allowed into Opticians with her these days apart from to pay when the bill arrives.
So after that it was into an office that i am allowed to use in times of petrol shortages. I enjoyed myself for a while sending out emails to colleagues who thought I had died, until I was about to go home and Richard turned up. He had spent all morning tracking down a London Bus driver, who having committed some heinous offence had then committed the more serious offence of lying to Richard. Richard is the largest person I know. He is probably the largest policeman in London today. Not only is he tall, but he is big. I think I saw him on the TV at the weekend, boxing against David Haye. I certainly wouldn't lie to him, but I'm not an idiot with a death wish. Anyway, a certain bus driver is soon to be called into a surprise discipline hearing where he will get the chance to see how large Richard is. I thought it funny anyway. Then I met another Richard as I was about to get in my car. This Richard recently came into a very large sum of money, and only mixes with people like us because he would be bored if he stayed at home in his mansion. I think he likes the work. There are some sad people in my life but I think they are great. We need people who are unusual don't we?
So I popped into my local cafe and spoke to Carol, who has a proper coffee machine imported from Italy. I can't taste coffee very well at the moment so I didn't have any, but had a couple of nice rolls instead. Then it was off home and that's about it really. My right lung is in poor condition, and I have a CT scan on Thursday in which they might be able to see what is going on. I sat down and fell asleep after a couple of strong pain killers. Just taken two more and right now I am away with the fairies so will stop now before I waffle on. This must be how Tolkein got the ideas for his stories wot he wort.
Sunday 8 November 2009
Tired and drunk
The weekend went pretty much as I hoped it would.
I couldn't eat any more jelly beans, for some reason I only had a couple and then I found them too much. I left them on the coffee table and unbeknown to me Gabriella's friends ate them all. She told me she was going to berate them with a comment such as " Why have you eaten all my dad's Jelly Beans that are the only source of pleasure left in his otherwise miserable life?" but thought it might make her sound a bit mean. And it would be the sort of thing I might say just for a bit of fun. She doesn't want to be like me, but I think it too late. She told her mum she learnt a valuable lesson when wheeling me about amongst the crowds for the Eng v Australia rugby match. We had been given parking by the stadium but it was a long way away from our seats and she had a Damascus experience pushing me through the crowds of merry, drunk, mostly large, men who didn't see me at all. I asked her not to force me into the legs of these adult men, and to try to aim at the good looking women, but she didn't have the control of the wheelchair that a strong man might. It was a disturbing experience for her, because it was like I , a large 16 stone man, had suddenly and inextricably become invisible. She also got quite angry at a couple of able bodied men who insisted on climbing into the wheelchair access only area to facilitate their going to the toilet at half time, but they used the body of a severely disabled man sat next to me, who's carer had gone off to get him a cup of coffee, to haul themselves up onto our level. I haven't seen her so annoyed for a long time, and in a strange way I was pleased that this incident had aroused a strong sense of outrage in one so young. I must have done something right when raising her after all, although I think she is naturally anti-bullies and it has nothing to do with me. She came out with a profound comment to her mum about this whole experience that made me realise that it was a brilliant day out for me and her together, and that's what it's about folks.
So she came back and her friends came to the house and set off for the firework display together, and following that she brought them back and cooked hot dogs for them all. I noticed the kitchen was clean and tidy on our return and queried if the event had taken place, but she smiled and told me that she had made sure there was no mess. I think all the worries about how she might turn out were pointless. We had her down for a job as a government torturer or debt collector, but my work is done gentlemen, she is becoming a responsible mature and caring adult. I still have a lot to teach both my daughters, my font of wisdom has a few more tricks to pass on to them, so I'm not going anywhere for a long time. I say that because I have been preparing mentally for the possibility of bad news next week.
So how did it go at Nigel and Lynda's I hear you ask. Well I tried a spectacular single malt, and I could taste it as it sat on my tongue, which I was really pleased about as my tongue is a mess these days. Then it was on to a fine bottle of white Grande Vin De Bordeaux, followed by a red that tasted great, and ended with a mature bottle of Port that I had trouble seeing properly. The food was excellent, and as the conversation heated up with N & L as brilliant hosts, it was one of the best evenings I have had at friends ever. Nigel has a photo in his toilet of when he was the base player in a well known band, and he looked like a pretty boy back in the day. He has matured a lot since and like us all has become less obviously pretty and more debonair.
Will had a go at the sermon I mentioned in my last blog. He concentrated more on the taking of a life I thought, and in particular the area of abortion. He started with a health warning, and ended with an apology as there were a few tears in the congregation and a few people clearly found it difficult. I did get a mention, but it was veiled so only I knew it, which I was pleased about because he's not usually that subtle. But as far as the wood on my driveway is concerned, I didn't get round to a heckle. I think it might have been inappropriate and totally insensitive to the feelings of people effected by the sermon. Next week he is talking about sex, so I'll be there and you should be too. I will be selling tickets for this talk if you want to attend. And then the week after that it will be about race, which is very topical, and could cause a few more people to get upset, or at least that's how Will is selling it, although I don't know why. People have different skin because their ancestors have had to deal with different climates. Even today, if I were to live in a hot and sunny climate, I would struggle without sun lotion, and may well develop a fatal skin condition. God has enabled our bodies to develop and deal with this eventuality by adjusting our pigmentation. It doesn't mean that anyone is better than anyone else, just they are different to some up here in the North of the World where it is always cold and get two days of sunshine a year. Eventually people of colour's descendants will be pale and Lilly skinned like me, although I must confess that I feel I am genetically blessed having been born as one of God's chosen people from Cork.
Rosanna had a great night in Brighton and came home safely. She decided not to go to a club because everyone seemed too drunk and rowdy, and she didn't feel safe. Instead she sat on the beach with her friend and ate chips. Now that's what I call a good night out.
I am going for a lie down now as the weekend has tired me out. What with all that thinking I don't feel too good, hope not to be sick. Got friends round for dinner, but not sure I will be able to join in as can't see the screen anymore. Good job I can touch type.
I couldn't eat any more jelly beans, for some reason I only had a couple and then I found them too much. I left them on the coffee table and unbeknown to me Gabriella's friends ate them all. She told me she was going to berate them with a comment such as " Why have you eaten all my dad's Jelly Beans that are the only source of pleasure left in his otherwise miserable life?" but thought it might make her sound a bit mean. And it would be the sort of thing I might say just for a bit of fun. She doesn't want to be like me, but I think it too late. She told her mum she learnt a valuable lesson when wheeling me about amongst the crowds for the Eng v Australia rugby match. We had been given parking by the stadium but it was a long way away from our seats and she had a Damascus experience pushing me through the crowds of merry, drunk, mostly large, men who didn't see me at all. I asked her not to force me into the legs of these adult men, and to try to aim at the good looking women, but she didn't have the control of the wheelchair that a strong man might. It was a disturbing experience for her, because it was like I , a large 16 stone man, had suddenly and inextricably become invisible. She also got quite angry at a couple of able bodied men who insisted on climbing into the wheelchair access only area to facilitate their going to the toilet at half time, but they used the body of a severely disabled man sat next to me, who's carer had gone off to get him a cup of coffee, to haul themselves up onto our level. I haven't seen her so annoyed for a long time, and in a strange way I was pleased that this incident had aroused a strong sense of outrage in one so young. I must have done something right when raising her after all, although I think she is naturally anti-bullies and it has nothing to do with me. She came out with a profound comment to her mum about this whole experience that made me realise that it was a brilliant day out for me and her together, and that's what it's about folks.
So she came back and her friends came to the house and set off for the firework display together, and following that she brought them back and cooked hot dogs for them all. I noticed the kitchen was clean and tidy on our return and queried if the event had taken place, but she smiled and told me that she had made sure there was no mess. I think all the worries about how she might turn out were pointless. We had her down for a job as a government torturer or debt collector, but my work is done gentlemen, she is becoming a responsible mature and caring adult. I still have a lot to teach both my daughters, my font of wisdom has a few more tricks to pass on to them, so I'm not going anywhere for a long time. I say that because I have been preparing mentally for the possibility of bad news next week.
So how did it go at Nigel and Lynda's I hear you ask. Well I tried a spectacular single malt, and I could taste it as it sat on my tongue, which I was really pleased about as my tongue is a mess these days. Then it was on to a fine bottle of white Grande Vin De Bordeaux, followed by a red that tasted great, and ended with a mature bottle of Port that I had trouble seeing properly. The food was excellent, and as the conversation heated up with N & L as brilliant hosts, it was one of the best evenings I have had at friends ever. Nigel has a photo in his toilet of when he was the base player in a well known band, and he looked like a pretty boy back in the day. He has matured a lot since and like us all has become less obviously pretty and more debonair.
Will had a go at the sermon I mentioned in my last blog. He concentrated more on the taking of a life I thought, and in particular the area of abortion. He started with a health warning, and ended with an apology as there were a few tears in the congregation and a few people clearly found it difficult. I did get a mention, but it was veiled so only I knew it, which I was pleased about because he's not usually that subtle. But as far as the wood on my driveway is concerned, I didn't get round to a heckle. I think it might have been inappropriate and totally insensitive to the feelings of people effected by the sermon. Next week he is talking about sex, so I'll be there and you should be too. I will be selling tickets for this talk if you want to attend. And then the week after that it will be about race, which is very topical, and could cause a few more people to get upset, or at least that's how Will is selling it, although I don't know why. People have different skin because their ancestors have had to deal with different climates. Even today, if I were to live in a hot and sunny climate, I would struggle without sun lotion, and may well develop a fatal skin condition. God has enabled our bodies to develop and deal with this eventuality by adjusting our pigmentation. It doesn't mean that anyone is better than anyone else, just they are different to some up here in the North of the World where it is always cold and get two days of sunshine a year. Eventually people of colour's descendants will be pale and Lilly skinned like me, although I must confess that I feel I am genetically blessed having been born as one of God's chosen people from Cork.
Rosanna had a great night in Brighton and came home safely. She decided not to go to a club because everyone seemed too drunk and rowdy, and she didn't feel safe. Instead she sat on the beach with her friend and ate chips. Now that's what I call a good night out.
I am going for a lie down now as the weekend has tired me out. What with all that thinking I don't feel too good, hope not to be sick. Got friends round for dinner, but not sure I will be able to join in as can't see the screen anymore. Good job I can touch type.
Friday 6 November 2009
Shopping with Melanie
We started the day well.
The piles of logs that my friend John and I prepared for William were stacked and Will called to say he was on his way up to collect them. He thought a single trip would do it. I told him that we were now getting gentlemen callers asking to take away the wood free of charge to heat their 5 bed mansions for the winter months. It's true, but I wanted to put a bit of pressure on Will to come and take the two trees away. We were going out, and I said I wasn't able to help load the trailer, but that wasn't a problem for super Will, although the last thing he said was "my back is playing up a little." It's probably all that sunbathing in Israel last week.
Mel and I dropped Rosanna off at East Croydon Station for her weekend sleepover staying with a Uni friend in Brighton. As she exited the car she said "I can't wait dad, I have never been clubbing it in Brighton before." I didn't know about this plan and advise all daughters not to tell their dad their real plans when going away for the weekend, not until they are at least 34 years old. So I now have to try to get to sleep without worrying about her. When you look at it sensibly there isn't much to worry about though because doesn't Brighton have a boy-boy culture. I hope so anyway, I am banking on this to get me through the night. I have a full day on Saturday so need my sleep, breakfast at my friend Nick's house, then off to Rugby with Gabriella at Twickenham to watch England lose to Australia while eating jelly beans, then back home to light a fire for Gabriella and her friends who need feeding with hot dogs before they all walk round to Carshalton Park to the Fireworks display, and then Melanie and I are off round to Nigel and Linda's for dinner. I expect to be tasting various single malts there before winding our way back home and into bed. Melanie will want to watch X Factor, and I will probably be drunk by then, yes it happens once a year, and fall into a stupor.
Then on Sunday morning I shall be up early, and off to Springfield Church to watch Will very carefully as he preaches his sermon on Dignitas and the church's stance on taking your own life. Apart from me, does anyone else find his sermons make them want to go to Switzerland to end it all? So if you are bereft of something else to do come along and listen to the philisophical debate. I suspect he might bring me into it as I have discussed this 'option' with him before, and it is an option for some after all.
I am someone who doesn't want to die at all, ever, not until I have completed everything on my very long list of to do's, so I will not be taking that path, I do expect to be given large amounts of controlled drugs if the pain becomes unbearable, but that's not the same thing so I am told. I have lived enough to know that whatever you think will happen, won't, and you get caught out by a completely unexpected result if you try to plan for an eventuality. If Will looks like he has a bad back, then fair enough, but if he bounces around as he usually does, like he has just swam a few laps of The Sea of Galilee, then I might well heckle him. He doesn't reckon much on Dan Brown's writing either and like so many believes the De Vinci Code was worthy of philosophical public debate rather than being viewed as a jolly good read with a cliffhanger at the end of every single chapter...what more could you ask for?
So back to today. We went slowly around the shops in Croydon, together. My right lung has been playing up so I have to take it easy, not enough oxygen gets to my muscles and they feel weak when you compare them to how I used to be a few short years ago. I was once able to jog and years ago run around a bit. Now Gabriella tells me she could beat me up. I live in fear of her. Melanie must have found my blog about shopping because she was ever so nice. We had to have Sushi in the basement of the new shopping centre called Centrale. Sushi apparently has no calories whatsoever, so she can eat it. I took the opportunity to eat a few bits of raw Tuna before it gets banned by Gordon Brown. If you have never tried it then I would urge you not to as the world stock of Bluefin Tuna is diminished, and anyway it doesn't taste of anything. I have mine with slices of something pink, which might be a Japanese ginger root. Then I was allowed to look at the boys toys and even at the Single Malt Whiskies before she grew tired and gently pulled me away. I did manage to buy two bags of the proper Jelly Beans though. You know, the ones with all the nice flavours they don't fill the preboxed packages with. I absentmindedly had a handful as I was being led through the stationary and gift wrapping. It isn't theft if it is an automotive thing, like swerving when a swarm of bees flies into your car window. I paid for what was left before leaving the store. They were ever so cheap, must be a sale on. On arriving home the wood piles were still on the driveway, but I don't care because it all adds fuel to my heckling on Sunday morning. Have a good weekend yourself and try to stay warm.
The piles of logs that my friend John and I prepared for William were stacked and Will called to say he was on his way up to collect them. He thought a single trip would do it. I told him that we were now getting gentlemen callers asking to take away the wood free of charge to heat their 5 bed mansions for the winter months. It's true, but I wanted to put a bit of pressure on Will to come and take the two trees away. We were going out, and I said I wasn't able to help load the trailer, but that wasn't a problem for super Will, although the last thing he said was "my back is playing up a little." It's probably all that sunbathing in Israel last week.
Mel and I dropped Rosanna off at East Croydon Station for her weekend sleepover staying with a Uni friend in Brighton. As she exited the car she said "I can't wait dad, I have never been clubbing it in Brighton before." I didn't know about this plan and advise all daughters not to tell their dad their real plans when going away for the weekend, not until they are at least 34 years old. So I now have to try to get to sleep without worrying about her. When you look at it sensibly there isn't much to worry about though because doesn't Brighton have a boy-boy culture. I hope so anyway, I am banking on this to get me through the night. I have a full day on Saturday so need my sleep, breakfast at my friend Nick's house, then off to Rugby with Gabriella at Twickenham to watch England lose to Australia while eating jelly beans, then back home to light a fire for Gabriella and her friends who need feeding with hot dogs before they all walk round to Carshalton Park to the Fireworks display, and then Melanie and I are off round to Nigel and Linda's for dinner. I expect to be tasting various single malts there before winding our way back home and into bed. Melanie will want to watch X Factor, and I will probably be drunk by then, yes it happens once a year, and fall into a stupor.
Then on Sunday morning I shall be up early, and off to Springfield Church to watch Will very carefully as he preaches his sermon on Dignitas and the church's stance on taking your own life. Apart from me, does anyone else find his sermons make them want to go to Switzerland to end it all? So if you are bereft of something else to do come along and listen to the philisophical debate. I suspect he might bring me into it as I have discussed this 'option' with him before, and it is an option for some after all.
I am someone who doesn't want to die at all, ever, not until I have completed everything on my very long list of to do's, so I will not be taking that path, I do expect to be given large amounts of controlled drugs if the pain becomes unbearable, but that's not the same thing so I am told. I have lived enough to know that whatever you think will happen, won't, and you get caught out by a completely unexpected result if you try to plan for an eventuality. If Will looks like he has a bad back, then fair enough, but if he bounces around as he usually does, like he has just swam a few laps of The Sea of Galilee, then I might well heckle him. He doesn't reckon much on Dan Brown's writing either and like so many believes the De Vinci Code was worthy of philosophical public debate rather than being viewed as a jolly good read with a cliffhanger at the end of every single chapter...what more could you ask for?
So back to today. We went slowly around the shops in Croydon, together. My right lung has been playing up so I have to take it easy, not enough oxygen gets to my muscles and they feel weak when you compare them to how I used to be a few short years ago. I was once able to jog and years ago run around a bit. Now Gabriella tells me she could beat me up. I live in fear of her. Melanie must have found my blog about shopping because she was ever so nice. We had to have Sushi in the basement of the new shopping centre called Centrale. Sushi apparently has no calories whatsoever, so she can eat it. I took the opportunity to eat a few bits of raw Tuna before it gets banned by Gordon Brown. If you have never tried it then I would urge you not to as the world stock of Bluefin Tuna is diminished, and anyway it doesn't taste of anything. I have mine with slices of something pink, which might be a Japanese ginger root. Then I was allowed to look at the boys toys and even at the Single Malt Whiskies before she grew tired and gently pulled me away. I did manage to buy two bags of the proper Jelly Beans though. You know, the ones with all the nice flavours they don't fill the preboxed packages with. I absentmindedly had a handful as I was being led through the stationary and gift wrapping. It isn't theft if it is an automotive thing, like swerving when a swarm of bees flies into your car window. I paid for what was left before leaving the store. They were ever so cheap, must be a sale on. On arriving home the wood piles were still on the driveway, but I don't care because it all adds fuel to my heckling on Sunday morning. Have a good weekend yourself and try to stay warm.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Harley v R1
Well, the car got through its MOT without any problems. This was pleasing as there are certain feelings involved that remind me of leaving a child at school for an entrance exam. You walk away from the garage without the keys, having handed them over to the key custodian otherwise known as Chris, who will take your baby round for Phil to put a tube into its exhaust pipe. It's enough to bring tears to your eyes. I don't stay to watch, too painful. Just in case they criticise my baby. I'm like that with my children too. I am sure that over the years teachers have discussed my daughters amongst themselves, possibly critically, but I don't want to know what they said or are still saying, because it might be negative, and I don't think of them in a negative way. That said if I lost my car to theft or damage ( it would not be because of bad driving on my part-obviously ) I would get over it, but not if it were my daughters. They used to say that I loved my motorbike more than I loved them, and although I did like the bike very much, it wasn't true. My bike was washed and polished frequently, it was rarely taken out and never in the rain. I had a special suit I wore when getting on it, with special boots, helmet and gloves. I wore earplugs and had a special neck scarf, it was great fun going out on it. Actually if I thought about it, I was scared before I went out on it. All that power, all that speed, just a little bit of rubber between me and the road. Speed that was just there at the turn of a wrist, super car acceleration. Probably quicker than a super car. I had to not think about it and just do it, rely on my training and experience to get me past the next car, lorry or coach before the oncoming vehicle got close. Never had a problem, it was so fast it could do it all easily.
Why am I writing about that? Nostalgia really. Chris has a Harley Davidson Fat Boy stored in the MOT garage, and I had a while looking at it before handing over my car keys. He even offered me a ride if I wanted to. How nice is that? I know it is his baby so I declined. I'm not sure my legs would be strong enough to get it off its side stand to hold it upright. It's a different type of bike to mine, slow and heavy with a poor turning circle. He has a lot of extra chrome on it though, and I would be frightened if I scratched it.
Nice of him to let me dream a little though.
It's not about the bike, I prefer to dream about my kids.
Why am I writing about that? Nostalgia really. Chris has a Harley Davidson Fat Boy stored in the MOT garage, and I had a while looking at it before handing over my car keys. He even offered me a ride if I wanted to. How nice is that? I know it is his baby so I declined. I'm not sure my legs would be strong enough to get it off its side stand to hold it upright. It's a different type of bike to mine, slow and heavy with a poor turning circle. He has a lot of extra chrome on it though, and I would be frightened if I scratched it.
Nice of him to let me dream a little though.
It's not about the bike, I prefer to dream about my kids.
Monday 2 November 2009
No MOT
Well, I made a pretty poor patient myself, after going on about being a great, no historic, nurse I fell over with a bang. Melanie phoned the Royal Marsden and they were going to admit me, but didn't have a spare quarantine room, so home I stayed while retching and other nasty things going on. Anyway I make a great patient, I don't eat at all, so no cooking for the carer. I try to drink a lot of fluids and have a large carton of Lidl's apple drink by my bed, and I sleep long and hard. So what is there to do for the nurse? I never moan, and hardly make any noise about feeling sorry for myself, or how much more can a body take. No, I think I must be a joy to look after. All I need is a good book, which Melanie tells me I can't buy as we haven't got any spare money with Christmas coming up fast. I don't like watching TV when I am feeling unwell and i can't be the only one like that. I am picky in what I watch anyway, I don't just sit with the box on all day, I have to have something that I can learn something from or else I don't bother. Apart from X factor. This is the only prog that my whole family sit and watch together, so I will admit to sitting in the same room as them when it is on. This week I guessed who would be knocked out, and I think it is because she is black, and picked the wrong song to sing. Can't be because she is a bad singer because she is very good. I don't like it much when they say things like ' if I don't make it my life will end' or 'It means everything to me' because you and I know this is tosh. Wait until something bad comes along then it puts it into perspective, and it is just singing after all, not an illness.
So I popped out with Rosanna and bought the new Dan Brown book just to cheer me up. She sat in the car because she didn't have any makeup on and didn't want anyone seeing her. I was just getting a paper but saw the opportunity and took it. I have been reading books by Simon Scarrow and other adventure type writers, but really they are not very good wordsmiths. Brown's book has already captivated my attention and the others just don't in the same way. Wilbur Smith used to be my favourite for his epics, but he has lost his touch by co-writing with lesser authors, and I have struggled to find someone else as good. It has cheered me up too, because I can't wait to finish this blog and get back to it, even if I did get told off for wasting our money on a book I could have had for Christmas. Can I be the only man who when he sees a new CD or book or tie or anything really that he fancies, gets told in January that I can have it for Christmas with the proviso that I am good. I always argue that it will be out of my list of wants by the time Christmas comes along, but usually lose and do without. Then come Christmas I get a different CD by a band of strangled screaming Irish Monks who repeat their words monotonously over and over again, with my wife saying 'There you go, you may never have heard of them but I think they are great'. This is why I sneak out and buy the CD I want when she isn't looking. And yes i do get caught out. Always & immediately I return home with the contraband. How does she do it? I don't know. If I manage to get out to the shops 'on my own', I am usually accompanied by a gaoler, Gabriella, who is under strict instructions not to let me enter the HMV shop, or Maplins. The boss knows I am not interested in clothes or fripperies ( lovely word that) and can't go into Anne Summers with a 16 year old daughter. I have a time limit put on my shopping and a call is made if I manage to escape my gaoler and pull her into a music shop. It's even worse if I am out with the boss. I can't look at stuff I might be interested in in case I want to buy it, thereby depriving the family of more Christmas gifts. I like to pop into Cash Converters to see what the burglars are taking from homes in Croydon but as you don't get a good class of shopper in their I have to leave and go to M & S for a cup of tea and a slice of cake. I liked to drop into Richer Sounds, but they have moved to South Croydon, and I can't park there easily so i don't bother going anymore. Mind you, I was so unwell last week I forgot to go and have the car MOT'd and so I can't go anywhere until tomorrow afternoon when it is now booked in. If I had got a Motability car I wouldn't have all this trouble, but then I would be driving round in a Euro box and that wouldn't do at all. Not with my wife's image to think of. I did remember to compliment her on her hair being done for £80 on Saturday. My hair costs £7 to get cut and that is too much. But when her hair needs doing, well it is worth it isn't it. I usually forget to say how good it looks when she gets home after having it done, probably because she leaves the house in daylight and comes home in the dark and a lot of time has passed in between. I might have watched a good film, or good rugby match, or read a book in the time it takes. And yes in the past I may have forgotten that the process of sitting in a chair whilst someone talks to you for 4 hours was going on. I am sometimes busy, and might be doing some work.
Anyway, I am sorry & it won't happen again. Honest
The Professor has popped round with Gabriella's laptop computer. He has fixed it again, all virus cured, and replaced the internal fan. It would seem that sitting with your laptop on your bed with it on the duvet doesn't allow the air to flow around it properly. That and long hair getting into the fan and stopping it working altogether are the problem. So, do I tell her when she gets home from college or will that be dad keeping on about boring stuff again. What do they do when they leave for Uni? Do they run anti-virus software there or can't they be bothered either. I guess because a laptop is only usually kept on for a short time, when you set up the times for the programmes to run to keep it fresh, it is switched off. As you know, I had a virus and I know that life is better without them. I might say that without getting moaned at.
So I popped out with Rosanna and bought the new Dan Brown book just to cheer me up. She sat in the car because she didn't have any makeup on and didn't want anyone seeing her. I was just getting a paper but saw the opportunity and took it. I have been reading books by Simon Scarrow and other adventure type writers, but really they are not very good wordsmiths. Brown's book has already captivated my attention and the others just don't in the same way. Wilbur Smith used to be my favourite for his epics, but he has lost his touch by co-writing with lesser authors, and I have struggled to find someone else as good. It has cheered me up too, because I can't wait to finish this blog and get back to it, even if I did get told off for wasting our money on a book I could have had for Christmas. Can I be the only man who when he sees a new CD or book or tie or anything really that he fancies, gets told in January that I can have it for Christmas with the proviso that I am good. I always argue that it will be out of my list of wants by the time Christmas comes along, but usually lose and do without. Then come Christmas I get a different CD by a band of strangled screaming Irish Monks who repeat their words monotonously over and over again, with my wife saying 'There you go, you may never have heard of them but I think they are great'. This is why I sneak out and buy the CD I want when she isn't looking. And yes i do get caught out. Always & immediately I return home with the contraband. How does she do it? I don't know. If I manage to get out to the shops 'on my own', I am usually accompanied by a gaoler, Gabriella, who is under strict instructions not to let me enter the HMV shop, or Maplins. The boss knows I am not interested in clothes or fripperies ( lovely word that) and can't go into Anne Summers with a 16 year old daughter. I have a time limit put on my shopping and a call is made if I manage to escape my gaoler and pull her into a music shop. It's even worse if I am out with the boss. I can't look at stuff I might be interested in in case I want to buy it, thereby depriving the family of more Christmas gifts. I like to pop into Cash Converters to see what the burglars are taking from homes in Croydon but as you don't get a good class of shopper in their I have to leave and go to M & S for a cup of tea and a slice of cake. I liked to drop into Richer Sounds, but they have moved to South Croydon, and I can't park there easily so i don't bother going anymore. Mind you, I was so unwell last week I forgot to go and have the car MOT'd and so I can't go anywhere until tomorrow afternoon when it is now booked in. If I had got a Motability car I wouldn't have all this trouble, but then I would be driving round in a Euro box and that wouldn't do at all. Not with my wife's image to think of. I did remember to compliment her on her hair being done for £80 on Saturday. My hair costs £7 to get cut and that is too much. But when her hair needs doing, well it is worth it isn't it. I usually forget to say how good it looks when she gets home after having it done, probably because she leaves the house in daylight and comes home in the dark and a lot of time has passed in between. I might have watched a good film, or good rugby match, or read a book in the time it takes. And yes in the past I may have forgotten that the process of sitting in a chair whilst someone talks to you for 4 hours was going on. I am sometimes busy, and might be doing some work.
Anyway, I am sorry & it won't happen again. Honest
The Professor has popped round with Gabriella's laptop computer. He has fixed it again, all virus cured, and replaced the internal fan. It would seem that sitting with your laptop on your bed with it on the duvet doesn't allow the air to flow around it properly. That and long hair getting into the fan and stopping it working altogether are the problem. So, do I tell her when she gets home from college or will that be dad keeping on about boring stuff again. What do they do when they leave for Uni? Do they run anti-virus software there or can't they be bothered either. I guess because a laptop is only usually kept on for a short time, when you set up the times for the programmes to run to keep it fresh, it is switched off. As you know, I had a virus and I know that life is better without them. I might say that without getting moaned at.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)