Well, this is a post I really hoped I wouldn't have to write for many years. My beloved, lovely, Mum died last month. It was very sudden, and unexpected and a huge shock to us all. She was only 70, which is (as people keep telling me) no age at all, but her health had become very poor in recent years. As you may remember, we all caught the flu when she was here at Christmas, and I don't think she recovered from that fully.
I'd been down to spend the day in Sussex with her, and we had a pleasant relaxing time together, I ferried her to a few medical appointments, we had tea, watched all the various afternoon TV shows she liked, then treated ourselves to an Indian takeaway for supper, before I headed home again in the late evening.
That night she became ill, called an ambulance and was admitted to the superb St Richard's hospital where they tried to find out what the problem was. I was worried she might have had a heart attack, but after a day or two of tests they said she had "an infection" later specified as cellulitis. Mum had cellulitis several times, a complication of a longstanding diabetic ulcer on her foot, and despite it being a nasty thing, I was relieved as she'd been treated for it successfully before.
To cut a long and sad story short, despite getting the best possible care, she passed away a few days later, with her family around her. It was peaceful, dignified, gentle, and she was in no distress, which is about as much as any of us can hope for I think.
We held the funeral on a gloriously sunny day in August, and many friends, family and members of her church attended to pay their respects. I will miss her more than I can say.
I take comfort from the thought that she is reunited with my Dad, who died so many years ago, and who she loved all her life.
Grief is a strange thing. I have hours, and now even half-days, where I feel fine, almost as if I have forgotten what has happened, and then a wave crashes over me and I am inconsolable. I know it will get easier, but my God, it's hard at the moment.
I was supposed to be down in Sussex this week to help my sisters sort out some of the paperwork, but as if by magic, I went down with a chest infection at the weekend, and have spent the last 48 hours in bed, coughing wretchedly.
I don't think it's a coincidence that I have avoided the Black Lung since I stopped working in London, and now it reappears. Thankfully, it seems to be receding again within a week, unlike the 3-month visitations of yore, but it scared me badly.
Two positive things:
1) Our holiday in Japan, which was booked a while ago, is now a shining beacon of "something to look forward to" even more than it already was.
2) I joined a local spa/gym at a country hotel nearby a few days after I went down to visit my Mum and going swimming there has been very helpful. I recently sold my Rickenbacker 12-string, so had some "extra" money in the bank, and used it to pay for a year's membership and I am so glad I did, as it means I have somewhere to go that has no associations with anything else in my life. It helps.
Showing posts with label stressed out. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stressed out. Show all posts
Tuesday, 25 August 2015
Friday, 16 August 2013
In which I am self-indulgently reminiscent. Again.
It's A-level results week. I still find it hard to think back to the day I got my A-level results (first attempt) with anything other than a chilly twinge of embarrassment.
I also find it hard to come to terms with the fact that I took my A-levels almost 30 years ago. Lord above, how did I get to be this old, eh? In my head I'm still a sprightly youngster, not a grouchy middle-aged woman with a knackered back and bifocals.
But results.
Back when I was a youngster, you had to go into the school to collect them. The headmistress sat in her office, and handed them to you to read whilst she sat and watched your reaction. She, of course, had already seen them.
I imagine it was a satisfying and cheering job for her, at least when she was dealing with the girlie swots who had got their predicted brilliant results and thus secured a place at the top University of their choice.
My school was not one of the ones which regularly sent girls to Oxbridge, but they did have a small group who were expected to get places at Exeter and Durham and Cardiff and other such second tier universities. They were the girls who took Latin and Italian as additional subjects while the rest of us were sent to the art class to learn to weave terrible pictures out of bits of string and nails hammered into fibreboard.
I remember that coterie of girls as being very short (but to be fair, most of the other girls at school seemed very short, as I was - and still am - significantly taller than the average female) with pale, earnest faces, neatly-pressed school uniforms, glasses and overly expensive shoes. One of them wore a pair of boots which, it was whispered in class, her mother had paid £150 for. Bear in mind this was back in 1983, and the majority of her peers were wearing Clarks desert boots or sandals to school.
Also, they all used to sit at the front in class. Every lesson. Every classroom. We kept the same configuration of who sat where almost without modification for the entire 7 years I was at that school. Multiple changes of classroom, teacher, classmates, subject, and we still all retained the same positions relative to one another.
There were several girls in my class - for all those years - that I don't think I ever spoke to. I didn't sit near them in lessons, we didn't spend time together at lunch or break-time, and as I was appalling at all manner of sports and games I was hardly ever on a sports team with them. I can't imagine that now. Spending so many hours a day with the same group of people in a small room, yet failing to interact with an entire chunk of the group.
Were all schools like that?
Looking back now, if I had spent more time sitting at the front in class, paying attention, and less time sitting at the left hand side at the back, idly staring out of the window, I might have passed more exams.
Some classes were allowed to put posters on the walls. I used to hate sitting in certain lessons with dozens of tatty pictures of The Police and Adam and the Ants, torn from Smash Hits and Jackie magazine, plastered all over the walls around the blackboard.
I know it's probably wrong of me to try and shift some of the blame for my own idleness, but I also feel that if some of the teachers had been less keen on fostering up the nascent talent of the "good" girls at the front, the rest of us might have done a bit better.
Maths, for example. I can't remember how many times my maths teacher shook her head sadly at me, saying "But you're top of the class in English. Why are you doing so badly in MY class?" When I shrugged in embarrassment and annoyance, she'd hand back my maths book, covered in reproachful comments in red pen, and return to the front of the class to continue encouraging her little gaggle of star pupils, leaving the rest of us to carry on staring out of the windows, drawing pictures on our rough books and exchanging hilarious notes with one another.
God, we must have been tiresome.
Anyhoo. Getting back to the results. I can still remember the exasperated tone with which the headmistress said "No-one else in the ENTIRE SCHOOL has had results like you, Lucy." She did not mean it as a compliment.
Turns out you can't just walk into an exam room, pick a selection of questions more or less at random, write for three hours about whatever occurs to you based on a few key words, and get a decent grade. Who knew?
I passed two exams with flying colours, well, with A grades - we didn't have the fancy A* thing they have nowadays, pah, kids, they don't know they're born etc etc etc - and failed the other two horribly. I mean really horribly. One grade up from the "didn't bother to turn up to sit the exam" horribly.
It was a bit of a shock. I had genuinely imagined that it would all be alright in the end, and that my native wit, charm, delightful smile and good teeth would ensure I passed with the grades I needed to get a place at any University I fancied, and that a few short weeks after being given my exam results (and possibly some sort of medal) I'd be on my way to a new life as a Student.
Finding out that not only was I NOT going to University like all my friends, but that I was also going to have to go and resit those two subjects after an extra year at the local technology college was like the proverbial cold shower.
Not that it taught me much except that getting a nasty shock is, well, nasty.
So, a year or so of attending the local college, along with working at a local tea shop as a waitress, as I wasn't doing enough hours at college to be eligible for any kind of Government benefits, and THEN I got good enough results to get a place in tertiary education.
Mind you, having taken two attempts to pass my A levels meant that once again I received a slew of rejection letters from all the Universities I had applied to, and was left to the future horrors of Clearing. Lord, that was stressful enough the first time round. I think the only offer I got was from the University of Ulster, to study politics. I declined, having already enrolled to resit the A levels.
This time, however, I decided to take matters into my own hands, and went to talk to the Citizens Advice Bureau. The young lady in there was attentive and kind, and when I had finished my (probably) rambling and anxious explanation - I was too lazy and careless to pass my exams first time round! I've passed them now, but I'm no longer a good bet for a University! What do I do? - she said:
"Ok. Well, I went to King Alfred's College in Winchester. They were great, I'll give them a ring and see if they have any places left."
And she did.
And they did.
And two days later, a kind mate took me to Winchester on the back of his motorbike for my interview, where I was offered a place on one of their non-teacher training degree courses. And three days after that I left home to go to college.
Talk about cutting it fine.
I'd like to say the whole experience made me a better person, but I don't think it did. It did make me take deadlines rather more seriously though, and I never assumed I'd automatically pass anything, or qualify for anything, or be selected for anything again.
Is there a moral to the story? No. But I am comforted by the thought that there is always something else that can be done; there is no need to consider one set of dodgy exam results as the End of Everything. I mean, just look at me.
Actually, maybe best not.
I also find it hard to come to terms with the fact that I took my A-levels almost 30 years ago. Lord above, how did I get to be this old, eh? In my head I'm still a sprightly youngster, not a grouchy middle-aged woman with a knackered back and bifocals.
But results.
Back when I was a youngster, you had to go into the school to collect them. The headmistress sat in her office, and handed them to you to read whilst she sat and watched your reaction. She, of course, had already seen them.
I imagine it was a satisfying and cheering job for her, at least when she was dealing with the girlie swots who had got their predicted brilliant results and thus secured a place at the top University of their choice.
My school was not one of the ones which regularly sent girls to Oxbridge, but they did have a small group who were expected to get places at Exeter and Durham and Cardiff and other such second tier universities. They were the girls who took Latin and Italian as additional subjects while the rest of us were sent to the art class to learn to weave terrible pictures out of bits of string and nails hammered into fibreboard.
I remember that coterie of girls as being very short (but to be fair, most of the other girls at school seemed very short, as I was - and still am - significantly taller than the average female) with pale, earnest faces, neatly-pressed school uniforms, glasses and overly expensive shoes. One of them wore a pair of boots which, it was whispered in class, her mother had paid £150 for. Bear in mind this was back in 1983, and the majority of her peers were wearing Clarks desert boots or sandals to school.
Also, they all used to sit at the front in class. Every lesson. Every classroom. We kept the same configuration of who sat where almost without modification for the entire 7 years I was at that school. Multiple changes of classroom, teacher, classmates, subject, and we still all retained the same positions relative to one another.
There were several girls in my class - for all those years - that I don't think I ever spoke to. I didn't sit near them in lessons, we didn't spend time together at lunch or break-time, and as I was appalling at all manner of sports and games I was hardly ever on a sports team with them. I can't imagine that now. Spending so many hours a day with the same group of people in a small room, yet failing to interact with an entire chunk of the group.
Were all schools like that?
Looking back now, if I had spent more time sitting at the front in class, paying attention, and less time sitting at the left hand side at the back, idly staring out of the window, I might have passed more exams.
Some classes were allowed to put posters on the walls. I used to hate sitting in certain lessons with dozens of tatty pictures of The Police and Adam and the Ants, torn from Smash Hits and Jackie magazine, plastered all over the walls around the blackboard.
I know it's probably wrong of me to try and shift some of the blame for my own idleness, but I also feel that if some of the teachers had been less keen on fostering up the nascent talent of the "good" girls at the front, the rest of us might have done a bit better.
Maths, for example. I can't remember how many times my maths teacher shook her head sadly at me, saying "But you're top of the class in English. Why are you doing so badly in MY class?" When I shrugged in embarrassment and annoyance, she'd hand back my maths book, covered in reproachful comments in red pen, and return to the front of the class to continue encouraging her little gaggle of star pupils, leaving the rest of us to carry on staring out of the windows, drawing pictures on our rough books and exchanging hilarious notes with one another.
God, we must have been tiresome.
Anyhoo. Getting back to the results. I can still remember the exasperated tone with which the headmistress said "No-one else in the ENTIRE SCHOOL has had results like you, Lucy." She did not mean it as a compliment.
Turns out you can't just walk into an exam room, pick a selection of questions more or less at random, write for three hours about whatever occurs to you based on a few key words, and get a decent grade. Who knew?
I passed two exams with flying colours, well, with A grades - we didn't have the fancy A* thing they have nowadays, pah, kids, they don't know they're born etc etc etc - and failed the other two horribly. I mean really horribly. One grade up from the "didn't bother to turn up to sit the exam" horribly.
It was a bit of a shock. I had genuinely imagined that it would all be alright in the end, and that my native wit, charm, delightful smile and good teeth would ensure I passed with the grades I needed to get a place at any University I fancied, and that a few short weeks after being given my exam results (and possibly some sort of medal) I'd be on my way to a new life as a Student.
Finding out that not only was I NOT going to University like all my friends, but that I was also going to have to go and resit those two subjects after an extra year at the local technology college was like the proverbial cold shower.
Not that it taught me much except that getting a nasty shock is, well, nasty.
So, a year or so of attending the local college, along with working at a local tea shop as a waitress, as I wasn't doing enough hours at college to be eligible for any kind of Government benefits, and THEN I got good enough results to get a place in tertiary education.
Mind you, having taken two attempts to pass my A levels meant that once again I received a slew of rejection letters from all the Universities I had applied to, and was left to the future horrors of Clearing. Lord, that was stressful enough the first time round. I think the only offer I got was from the University of Ulster, to study politics. I declined, having already enrolled to resit the A levels.
This time, however, I decided to take matters into my own hands, and went to talk to the Citizens Advice Bureau. The young lady in there was attentive and kind, and when I had finished my (probably) rambling and anxious explanation - I was too lazy and careless to pass my exams first time round! I've passed them now, but I'm no longer a good bet for a University! What do I do? - she said:
"Ok. Well, I went to King Alfred's College in Winchester. They were great, I'll give them a ring and see if they have any places left."
And she did.
And they did.
And two days later, a kind mate took me to Winchester on the back of his motorbike for my interview, where I was offered a place on one of their non-teacher training degree courses. And three days after that I left home to go to college.
Talk about cutting it fine.
I'd like to say the whole experience made me a better person, but I don't think it did. It did make me take deadlines rather more seriously though, and I never assumed I'd automatically pass anything, or qualify for anything, or be selected for anything again.
Is there a moral to the story? No. But I am comforted by the thought that there is always something else that can be done; there is no need to consider one set of dodgy exam results as the End of Everything. I mean, just look at me.
Actually, maybe best not.
Thursday, 27 October 2011
Powerage
I was planning on writing a post yesterday to whine about how hung over I was after a hen party, but then all the power went off - and stayed off for 9 hours - so I didn't.
It was a very odd day. Having no electricity makes life uncomfortable and awkward when you're utterly used to it. I kept thinking of things to do:
"I'll do some laundry...oh, no power."
"I'll just put the hoover round...oh, wait...."
"I'll do the ironing this morning....oh, no I won't."
"I'll make some cushion covers...gah, no sewing machine..."
"Cake! I'll bake something...oh...can't light the oven without the power*. Bugger."
So it went on. In the end I cleaned the windows (inside). By mid afternoon I was stressed and grumpy, so tried to chill out and read a book, but it was really very strange.
And of course my fallback "thing to do" - dick about on the Internet - was completely unavailable. I'd failed to charge my iPhone overnight, so couldn't even play Angry Birds on that, a favourite time-wasting activity. Oh, the horror.
The reason for this all-day trip back to the Dark Ages was the upgrading of the local power supply, which mostly seemed to involve men in high visibility coats standing in our front garden, pondering where to put the new power lines.
We were given prior notice, to be fair. A man came to the door a few weeks ago, handed me a letter telling me that the electricity was going to be turned off, and asked me to sign a sheet pf paper to confirm that I had received the letter. All very organised.
It would have been even better if I had remembered that yesterday was the Big Day. As it was, Mr WithaY and I were enjoying a lie-in - his first morning of "Not Being At Work Any More" - when there was a knock on the front door, and there stood a cheery man in a high visibility coat and sunglasses, grinning at my dishevelled appearance.
"Sorry, love," he said. "Did I wake you up?"
I thought about saying "No, we were engaging in wild, uninhibited, unimaginably hot monkey sex, it being Wednesday and all," but decided not to.
"Not at all, I was just about to get in the shower," I said with what dignity I could muster.
"Ah, well, we're turning the power off now, love." His grin broadened. Bastard.
I went back upstairs and dressed - no shower, no hair wash - and reflected that I would be spending the day festering in my own filth. Not for the first time, dear readers.
Mr WithaY carefully wrapped the fishtank in towels to try and keep it warm once the power was off, and scampered away to find the camping kettle in the garage, checking the mousetraps while he was there**.
When we had our kitchen renovated we decided to have a gas cooker installed, as we tend to get power cuts in the winter. Top tip. It means you can make tea, or even cook a meal when there's no electricity. We have to remember to replace the gas cylinders, but apart from the occasional panic (There's no gas! It's 6.30pm on New Year's Eve! Crap!) it's a very efficient and useful system.
Our long term plan for the sitting room involves replacing the open fire with a log burning stove for much the same reasons; it'll be more fuel efficient, and we can cook soup on top of it.
Anyhoo. The workmen set up a series of huge crane type machines all around the village, and started taking down all the power cables, which was quite interesting to watch.
I was disconcerted when I went into the bathroom later in the day, and was waved at by a workman up the power pole in next door's garden. Usually we don't have anyone overlooking the bathroom, so our curtains are the sort that only cover half the window. The lower half. He was waving at me over the top of them.
The pwer was restored at about 4pm, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. The kettle was put on, the lights came back on, I put washing in the machine, and all was well with the world again.
Today I have been catching up with the domestic drudgery that a combination of hangover and lack of power had prevented me from doing earlier in the week.
Thank goodness I have an acoustic guitar, that's all I can say. I made my own entertainment.
*I think it is possible to light the oven with matches, but anything that involves me sticking my head into a gas oven with a lit match in my sweaty paw is classed as "too bloody dangerous, matey."
**7 mice caught so far. They had set up a nest in his bushcraft supplies, and are therefore being terminated with extreme prejudice. And peanut butter.
It was a very odd day. Having no electricity makes life uncomfortable and awkward when you're utterly used to it. I kept thinking of things to do:
"I'll do some laundry...oh, no power."
"I'll just put the hoover round...oh, wait...."
"I'll do the ironing this morning....oh, no I won't."
"I'll make some cushion covers...gah, no sewing machine..."
"Cake! I'll bake something...oh...can't light the oven without the power*. Bugger."
So it went on. In the end I cleaned the windows (inside). By mid afternoon I was stressed and grumpy, so tried to chill out and read a book, but it was really very strange.
And of course my fallback "thing to do" - dick about on the Internet - was completely unavailable. I'd failed to charge my iPhone overnight, so couldn't even play Angry Birds on that, a favourite time-wasting activity. Oh, the horror.
The reason for this all-day trip back to the Dark Ages was the upgrading of the local power supply, which mostly seemed to involve men in high visibility coats standing in our front garden, pondering where to put the new power lines.
We were given prior notice, to be fair. A man came to the door a few weeks ago, handed me a letter telling me that the electricity was going to be turned off, and asked me to sign a sheet pf paper to confirm that I had received the letter. All very organised.
It would have been even better if I had remembered that yesterday was the Big Day. As it was, Mr WithaY and I were enjoying a lie-in - his first morning of "Not Being At Work Any More" - when there was a knock on the front door, and there stood a cheery man in a high visibility coat and sunglasses, grinning at my dishevelled appearance.
"Sorry, love," he said. "Did I wake you up?"
I thought about saying "No, we were engaging in wild, uninhibited, unimaginably hot monkey sex, it being Wednesday and all," but decided not to.
"Not at all, I was just about to get in the shower," I said with what dignity I could muster.
"Ah, well, we're turning the power off now, love." His grin broadened. Bastard.
I went back upstairs and dressed - no shower, no hair wash - and reflected that I would be spending the day festering in my own filth. Not for the first time, dear readers.
Mr WithaY carefully wrapped the fishtank in towels to try and keep it warm once the power was off, and scampered away to find the camping kettle in the garage, checking the mousetraps while he was there**.
When we had our kitchen renovated we decided to have a gas cooker installed, as we tend to get power cuts in the winter. Top tip. It means you can make tea, or even cook a meal when there's no electricity. We have to remember to replace the gas cylinders, but apart from the occasional panic (There's no gas! It's 6.30pm on New Year's Eve! Crap!) it's a very efficient and useful system.
Our long term plan for the sitting room involves replacing the open fire with a log burning stove for much the same reasons; it'll be more fuel efficient, and we can cook soup on top of it.
Anyhoo. The workmen set up a series of huge crane type machines all around the village, and started taking down all the power cables, which was quite interesting to watch.
I was disconcerted when I went into the bathroom later in the day, and was waved at by a workman up the power pole in next door's garden. Usually we don't have anyone overlooking the bathroom, so our curtains are the sort that only cover half the window. The lower half. He was waving at me over the top of them.
The pwer was restored at about 4pm, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. The kettle was put on, the lights came back on, I put washing in the machine, and all was well with the world again.
Today I have been catching up with the domestic drudgery that a combination of hangover and lack of power had prevented me from doing earlier in the week.
Thank goodness I have an acoustic guitar, that's all I can say. I made my own entertainment.
*I think it is possible to light the oven with matches, but anything that involves me sticking my head into a gas oven with a lit match in my sweaty paw is classed as "too bloody dangerous, matey."
**7 mice caught so far. They had set up a nest in his bushcraft supplies, and are therefore being terminated with extreme prejudice. And peanut butter.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
Basket case
It's amazing what can cause stress, isn't it? For me, it used to be the whole getting up for work and travelling halfway across the country for work thing. Not now.
Now it's all about bookcases.
Bookcases.
Thousands* of them.
In my house.
It's all part of the final push to get Father in Law WithaY's house sold - the contracts are exchanged this Friday - so we have been clearing the last things out. Our friend with a van** came over last night and he and Mr WithaY went back and forth to Dorset a couple of times to bring everything back. The last time we were down there, I thought we'd pretty much cleared everything out, but it seems I was wrong. Oh, how very wrong.
![]()
It took two trips, one with a van AND a LandRover, the other with just the van, and now my house looks like Steptoe and Son live here.
In the style of Hello Magazine, allow me to show you around my gracious home.
As you enter the house, you are met by an original arrangement of furniture in the hallway.
![]()
Bookcases. Here, let us walk around them and admire them more fully.
![]()
They certainly add to the overall cosy feel of the place, I think.
Step into the sitting room and admire our library. In a trailblazing and somewhat daring move, we aren't using the bookcases to store the books. No, we prefer to use boxes. On the floor.
![]()
Why yes, that IS a book about King Tutankhamun on the top there. Every home should have one. In fact, I will sell you this one if you want it. Hell, you can have it for free.
Back into the hall, squeeze past the bookcases and step into the kitchen. I'd offer you a seat at the dining table, but as you see, we are currently hosting a modern art installation. It's called Too Much Bleach and Four Tea Services. I'm not certain what the artist is trying to say with it.
![]()
Can you see what is lurking on the bottom left corner of the table? It's a rather teasing shot there, but I won't keep you in suspense longer than I have to.
![]()
It's a Wurzels album! On vinyl! In Mono!
And it has sleeve notes. Forgive the terrible photograph, my hands were shaking.
![]()
I can't decide whether to bury it at dead of night under a rowan tree, put it on eBay or have it framed forever.
Turning away from the art installation, we see the eclectic mix of kitchenware across every work surface.
![]()
![]()
Handy.
And of course, big jugs are always nice to look at***.
Back into the hallway - another glimpse of those bookcases - and let's peek into Mr WithaY's study. Mmmm. The perfect relaxing little corner to sit and study, or listen to music****.
![]()
*Not thousands. But more than I am comfortable with.
**Hello Ed!
***Apologies, big boob porn seekers
****Or play Portal 2 or Call of Duty.
Now it's all about bookcases.
Bookcases.
Thousands* of them.
In my house.
It's all part of the final push to get Father in Law WithaY's house sold - the contracts are exchanged this Friday - so we have been clearing the last things out. Our friend with a van** came over last night and he and Mr WithaY went back and forth to Dorset a couple of times to bring everything back. The last time we were down there, I thought we'd pretty much cleared everything out, but it seems I was wrong. Oh, how very wrong.
It took two trips, one with a van AND a LandRover, the other with just the van, and now my house looks like Steptoe and Son live here.
In the style of Hello Magazine, allow me to show you around my gracious home.
As you enter the house, you are met by an original arrangement of furniture in the hallway.
Bookcases. Here, let us walk around them and admire them more fully.
They certainly add to the overall cosy feel of the place, I think.
Step into the sitting room and admire our library. In a trailblazing and somewhat daring move, we aren't using the bookcases to store the books. No, we prefer to use boxes. On the floor.
Why yes, that IS a book about King Tutankhamun on the top there. Every home should have one. In fact, I will sell you this one if you want it. Hell, you can have it for free.
Back into the hall, squeeze past the bookcases and step into the kitchen. I'd offer you a seat at the dining table, but as you see, we are currently hosting a modern art installation. It's called Too Much Bleach and Four Tea Services. I'm not certain what the artist is trying to say with it.
Can you see what is lurking on the bottom left corner of the table? It's a rather teasing shot there, but I won't keep you in suspense longer than I have to.
It's a Wurzels album! On vinyl! In Mono!
And it has sleeve notes. Forgive the terrible photograph, my hands were shaking.
I can't decide whether to bury it at dead of night under a rowan tree, put it on eBay or have it framed forever.
Turning away from the art installation, we see the eclectic mix of kitchenware across every work surface.
Handy.
And of course, big jugs are always nice to look at***.
Back into the hallway - another glimpse of those bookcases - and let's peek into Mr WithaY's study. Mmmm. The perfect relaxing little corner to sit and study, or listen to music****.
I have spent much of today hiding upstairs, ineffectually tidying up my own study, which I am turning into a sewing room. So far all I have managed to do is shove my sewing table into the corner, with a nasty CRACK as one of the legs got stuck on the carpet (the table's, not mine) and slide my new computer desk into place.
I keep telling myself it's all temporary. This too will pass. And all that stuff.
Until then, I will be in here, where there aren't dozens of bookcases, bizarre records and boxes of frankly mental belongings in every corner. Well, there are, but at least they are all mine, and I know why they're there.
*Not thousands. But more than I am comfortable with.
**Hello Ed!
***Apologies, big boob porn seekers
****Or play Portal 2 or Call of Duty.
Monday, 3 May 2010
Medical notes. Again.
Old friends are always welcome, aren't they? You open the door, plump up the cushions, make them a nice cup of tea. Then you sit together, catching up on all the small changes since you last met, and maybe a few bigger ones, until it's time to either make more tea or open a bottle of wine.
We ought to cherish these long-standing links with our younger selves. Make more time to spend with the acquaintances who helped to turn us into the people we are today.
So, rather than railing and whining at the re-appearance of my old mate Black Lung, I am simply nodding casually at it, wrapping myself in many warm scarves and drinking a lot of water. In between coughing till my eyes dry up and weeping uncontrollably.
Frankly, among the shite events of the last few days, a recurring chest infection feels somehow comforting and familiar.
I was at home on Wednesday, working away in my little study upstairs, a loaf of bread baking in the bread machine. I planned to pop over to the nursing home that evening to see Father-in-Law WithaY, what with Mr WithaY being away and all, and he does like nice home-made bread for his breakfast toast.
Anyhoo, the phone rang and I let it click over to the answerphone as I was in the middle of some work stuff. It was the matron of the nursing home, ringing to tell me that F-in-L WithaY had "had a bit of a fall" and wasn't feeling too great. A bit of a fall? He can only move one arm, very slightly. How the flaming bojangles did he manage to "fall"?
Her message went on to say that the "fall" had in fact been as a result of her lifting his legs up to put them on a footstool, as he sat in his wheelchair. Fuck's sake. I'm no engineer but I understand the concept of leverage. Fulcrums. Wheels. Lift one end, the other will go down. Look at a seesaw.
I got in the car and went straight over there in a panic, to find F-in-L in bed, in a lot of pain, shocked and distressed. Well, you would be if you'd been tipped over backwards onto your head, wouldn't you? I spoke to the nursing sister on duty, who was helpful and reassuring, asking what the doctor had said. Turned out that the doctor hadn't actually been out - they'd spoken on the phone. I queried that, and hey presto, ten minutes later the doctor arrived. The doctor was charming, careful and thorough, and said she would call an ambulance as F-in-Law needed to be x-rayed.
So, poor old F-in-Law was taken to Accident and Emergency at Salisbury, apparently was seen several hours later, and was sent back to the nursing home at 1am. No bones broken, thankfully.
However, each time I went to see him over the next few days he was still in a lot of pain. This culminated at 2.30am on Saturday morning when the nursing home called us at home to tell us that he had been taken back to the hospital. The nursing sister (a different one) apparently sounded a bit panicky when she rang us, despite F-in-Law having expressly asked her to leave it till the morning to call us. After a phone call like that in the wee small hours, you don't get back to sleep, do you? So we lay awake, wondering what the new emergency was, and Mr WithaY rang the hospital an hour or so later.
Without going into too much intimate detail, it was nothing too terrible, but we didn't find this out for a day and a half, in which time he'd had a CT scan and been poked and prodded about by pretty much everyone in the hospital, it seems.
The Bank Holiday weekend has been a merry-go-round of rain, cold, trips to the nursing home, then the hospital, interspersed with me coughing alarmingly.
Tomorrow I am going to make an emergency appointment with the doctor, because I am buggered if I am going to have another 8-week bout of bronchitis. I don't think I ever really shifted it properly from the last time. I've been coughing on and off since February, although not as badly as I was over the Christmas holiday. No blood-speckled lace hankies as yet.
I'd say it was a pain in the arse, but so far my arse is unharmed.
So far.
We ought to cherish these long-standing links with our younger selves. Make more time to spend with the acquaintances who helped to turn us into the people we are today.
So, rather than railing and whining at the re-appearance of my old mate Black Lung, I am simply nodding casually at it, wrapping myself in many warm scarves and drinking a lot of water. In between coughing till my eyes dry up and weeping uncontrollably.
Frankly, among the shite events of the last few days, a recurring chest infection feels somehow comforting and familiar.
I was at home on Wednesday, working away in my little study upstairs, a loaf of bread baking in the bread machine. I planned to pop over to the nursing home that evening to see Father-in-Law WithaY, what with Mr WithaY being away and all, and he does like nice home-made bread for his breakfast toast.
Anyhoo, the phone rang and I let it click over to the answerphone as I was in the middle of some work stuff. It was the matron of the nursing home, ringing to tell me that F-in-L WithaY had "had a bit of a fall" and wasn't feeling too great. A bit of a fall? He can only move one arm, very slightly. How the flaming bojangles did he manage to "fall"?
Her message went on to say that the "fall" had in fact been as a result of her lifting his legs up to put them on a footstool, as he sat in his wheelchair. Fuck's sake. I'm no engineer but I understand the concept of leverage. Fulcrums. Wheels. Lift one end, the other will go down. Look at a seesaw.
I got in the car and went straight over there in a panic, to find F-in-L in bed, in a lot of pain, shocked and distressed. Well, you would be if you'd been tipped over backwards onto your head, wouldn't you? I spoke to the nursing sister on duty, who was helpful and reassuring, asking what the doctor had said. Turned out that the doctor hadn't actually been out - they'd spoken on the phone. I queried that, and hey presto, ten minutes later the doctor arrived. The doctor was charming, careful and thorough, and said she would call an ambulance as F-in-Law needed to be x-rayed.
So, poor old F-in-Law was taken to Accident and Emergency at Salisbury, apparently was seen several hours later, and was sent back to the nursing home at 1am. No bones broken, thankfully.
However, each time I went to see him over the next few days he was still in a lot of pain. This culminated at 2.30am on Saturday morning when the nursing home called us at home to tell us that he had been taken back to the hospital. The nursing sister (a different one) apparently sounded a bit panicky when she rang us, despite F-in-Law having expressly asked her to leave it till the morning to call us. After a phone call like that in the wee small hours, you don't get back to sleep, do you? So we lay awake, wondering what the new emergency was, and Mr WithaY rang the hospital an hour or so later.
Without going into too much intimate detail, it was nothing too terrible, but we didn't find this out for a day and a half, in which time he'd had a CT scan and been poked and prodded about by pretty much everyone in the hospital, it seems.
The Bank Holiday weekend has been a merry-go-round of rain, cold, trips to the nursing home, then the hospital, interspersed with me coughing alarmingly.
Tomorrow I am going to make an emergency appointment with the doctor, because I am buggered if I am going to have another 8-week bout of bronchitis. I don't think I ever really shifted it properly from the last time. I've been coughing on and off since February, although not as badly as I was over the Christmas holiday. No blood-speckled lace hankies as yet.
I'd say it was a pain in the arse, but so far my arse is unharmed.
So far.
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Losses
Remember I said I was starting a weight loss regime? Yeah you do.
I am happy to report that to date I have lost nine and a half pounds. Doesn't sound much, but it's 19 packets of butter. Or nine and a half bags of sugar. Or a shedload* of satsumas.
It doesn't really show yet, as proportionally it is a mere drop in the ocean, but it's an achievement and I am pleased.
Other news: Visa application saga continues, and is stressful, depressing and expensive. I ended up having to take the afternoon off work as I was weeping uncontrollably after having to rummage through all the paperwork relating the the SSFH** to find the bits that the Embassy need. So that was nice.
Tonight, by way of light relief, Mr WithaY and I are off out to see some mates for dinner and to participate in a mass Folding. The parish magazine doesn't just staple itself, you know.
*The research team are still working on the details of this one.
**Shit Storm From Hades
I am happy to report that to date I have lost nine and a half pounds. Doesn't sound much, but it's 19 packets of butter. Or nine and a half bags of sugar. Or a shedload* of satsumas.
It doesn't really show yet, as proportionally it is a mere drop in the ocean, but it's an achievement and I am pleased.
Other news: Visa application saga continues, and is stressful, depressing and expensive. I ended up having to take the afternoon off work as I was weeping uncontrollably after having to rummage through all the paperwork relating the the SSFH** to find the bits that the Embassy need. So that was nice.
Tonight, by way of light relief, Mr WithaY and I are off out to see some mates for dinner and to participate in a mass Folding. The parish magazine doesn't just staple itself, you know.
*The research team are still working on the details of this one.
**Shit Storm From Hades
Friday, 9 October 2009
Appointment
Today is the day I go back to the doctor and ask for a referral to a shrink. I've seen one before, although last time I had to be more or less ordered to do it, believing as I did then that depression was something that weak-willed people allowed to happen to themselves.
Ha. How very interesting it is to learn about these things first hand.
Anyway, I'm not depressed again. I know how that feels and that is not what is going on. The doctor talked about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder when I saw him last, but having no previous experience of that I have no frame of reference. What I do know is that I am still hugely unbalanced* and that it takes very little to set me off on an uncontrolled, prolonged weeping fit. Which is nice.
I am also struggling to get back into my normal work routine. The long, long, oh so long commute now feels like a hideous obstacle whereas before it was an inconvenience that I was dealing with successfully. I have lost a lot of my ability to focus, which is a bit of a shame given the job I am doing, and I am completely exhausted after a day working, to the point where I come in, collapse on the sofa and am usually asleep by 9.30. That is not how I usually am.
Right. Time to go and tell all that to the doctor.
*More than usual, I mean.
Ha. How very interesting it is to learn about these things first hand.
Anyway, I'm not depressed again. I know how that feels and that is not what is going on. The doctor talked about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder when I saw him last, but having no previous experience of that I have no frame of reference. What I do know is that I am still hugely unbalanced* and that it takes very little to set me off on an uncontrolled, prolonged weeping fit. Which is nice.
I am also struggling to get back into my normal work routine. The long, long, oh so long commute now feels like a hideous obstacle whereas before it was an inconvenience that I was dealing with successfully. I have lost a lot of my ability to focus, which is a bit of a shame given the job I am doing, and I am completely exhausted after a day working, to the point where I come in, collapse on the sofa and am usually asleep by 9.30. That is not how I usually am.
Right. Time to go and tell all that to the doctor.
*More than usual, I mean.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Rolling rocks
Clearly this is going to be a difficult week. It's only Monday (well, for another 15 minutes) and it already feels as though the days have been dragging on endlessly, running into each other like headless chickens on a windy day*.
I spent much of the weekend weeping and swearing, the aftermath of a trying day on Friday, related to the recent SSFH** stuff. Things are slowly being resolved but boy is it hard to deal with while it all happens. And, of course, with Mr WithaY away and unreachable on his luxury dive boat*** in the Red Sea, it's all felt far harder than I expected it to.
So. How am I dealing with all this, you ask? I managed to get through to the doctor's surgery on the phone eventually this afternoon and made an appointment. A week on Friday. I couldn't bring myself to lie and say I was an emergency, but having to wait 10 days to see the doctor is pretty poor I think.
Anyhoo, I am going to ask him to refer me to a psychiatrist/counsellor again. It helped the last time I went bonkers, so hopefully it will help get me through this particular episode of stress and horror. I have hardly slept since Thursday last week, so I decided not to go into London today, as originally planned.
Instead, I had a long and embarrassingly tearful telephone conversation with my colleague (who is an absolute star), then went through my email with the laptop, and then went off for a restorative cup of tea and sandwich at lunchtime. I came back to a message telling my that my password had expired and I need to login to a different machine to set a new one. Fucking great. So I need to try and call the system administrator tomorrow and ask them to sort it out remotely for me.
But their phone number is on the computer. Which I can't login to. But I need to login to get the number to call the help desk to tell them I can't login.
There's a hole in my bucket.
Actually no. I feel like that bloke who had to roll the giant rock up the mountain every day, then watch it roll back to the bottom every night. Who was that? Except my particular rock at the moment is made of cat shit and broken glass****.
*I know it doesn't make much sense but it's a great image.
**Shit Storm From Hades.
***It has a hot tub. In my book that equates to luxury.
****Worst combination ever.
I spent much of the weekend weeping and swearing, the aftermath of a trying day on Friday, related to the recent SSFH** stuff. Things are slowly being resolved but boy is it hard to deal with while it all happens. And, of course, with Mr WithaY away and unreachable on his luxury dive boat*** in the Red Sea, it's all felt far harder than I expected it to.
So. How am I dealing with all this, you ask? I managed to get through to the doctor's surgery on the phone eventually this afternoon and made an appointment. A week on Friday. I couldn't bring myself to lie and say I was an emergency, but having to wait 10 days to see the doctor is pretty poor I think.
Anyhoo, I am going to ask him to refer me to a psychiatrist/counsellor again. It helped the last time I went bonkers, so hopefully it will help get me through this particular episode of stress and horror. I have hardly slept since Thursday last week, so I decided not to go into London today, as originally planned.
Instead, I had a long and embarrassingly tearful telephone conversation with my colleague (who is an absolute star), then went through my email with the laptop, and then went off for a restorative cup of tea and sandwich at lunchtime. I came back to a message telling my that my password had expired and I need to login to a different machine to set a new one. Fucking great. So I need to try and call the system administrator tomorrow and ask them to sort it out remotely for me.
But their phone number is on the computer. Which I can't login to. But I need to login to get the number to call the help desk to tell them I can't login.
There's a hole in my bucket.
Actually no. I feel like that bloke who had to roll the giant rock up the mountain every day, then watch it roll back to the bottom every night. Who was that? Except my particular rock at the moment is made of cat shit and broken glass****.
*I know it doesn't make much sense but it's a great image.
**Shit Storm From Hades.
***It has a hot tub. In my book that equates to luxury.
****Worst combination ever.
Friday, 31 July 2009
Black like a raven's wing
It's been a rather odd day today, one way and another.
The shitstorm from Hades aftermath continues to make life more stressful than it ought to be, despite people being very helpful.
I did some ironing in the late afternoon, trying to use displacement activity as a means to stop myself fretting. It worked up to a point, but while I was doing it, I ended up watching "How Clean Is Your House" again. Gah. There were two episodes, back to back, including an update on the idiots who lived in ankle-deep shit that I saw the other week.
A year on from the first programme, they live in slightly less shit, but are still idiots.
Had a fab guitar lesson tonight, which lifted my spirits considerably. We played a very nice version of "Paranoid" which was great fun, I learnt the riff for "Communication Breakdown" and we played (and I sang) "Son of a Preacher Man" a few times, and it sounded lovely.
So yay for music being a soul reviving joy in a dark bleak world.
I'm hoping the weather tomorrow is dry as we need to get the hedge out the back tided up. It's encroaching wildly into the garden and makes the place look dreadful. It'll only take an hour with the hedge cutter* but we haven't had a dry enough window of opportunity for about 3 weeks now.
And, of course, we have a Village Fete competition entry to start thinking about.
*assuming we have no trips to Casualty, of course
The shitstorm from Hades aftermath continues to make life more stressful than it ought to be, despite people being very helpful.
I did some ironing in the late afternoon, trying to use displacement activity as a means to stop myself fretting. It worked up to a point, but while I was doing it, I ended up watching "How Clean Is Your House" again. Gah. There were two episodes, back to back, including an update on the idiots who lived in ankle-deep shit that I saw the other week.
A year on from the first programme, they live in slightly less shit, but are still idiots.
Had a fab guitar lesson tonight, which lifted my spirits considerably. We played a very nice version of "Paranoid" which was great fun, I learnt the riff for "Communication Breakdown" and we played (and I sang) "Son of a Preacher Man" a few times, and it sounded lovely.
So yay for music being a soul reviving joy in a dark bleak world.
I'm hoping the weather tomorrow is dry as we need to get the hedge out the back tided up. It's encroaching wildly into the garden and makes the place look dreadful. It'll only take an hour with the hedge cutter* but we haven't had a dry enough window of opportunity for about 3 weeks now.
And, of course, we have a Village Fete competition entry to start thinking about.
*assuming we have no trips to Casualty, of course
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Restoration
This week I have been back at work. I have been out for just over 4 weeks, and it felt very odd going back up to London. The journey was ok though, I listened to the excellent Chris and Thomas on my iPhone on the way up, and slept, and looked out of the window and played solitaire.
I started walking from Waterloo, but by the time I got to Westminster I had lost my enthusiasm and hopped on the Tube the rest of the way.
In the time I've been away, we have moved back down to the first floor (Second Floor, American readers...the one up the stairs from the Ground floor. There's a clue in the name.) The new accommodation is cramped, noisy, hot and lacking in storage space. Just like the place I left last year then. Fan-tas-tic.
Everyone hates it, there is nowhere to put anything (paperless office my arse) and the coffee machine is nowhere to be found.
I don't actually drink coffee very much but it is still distressing to see colleagues wandering around the floorplate forlornly, mugs in hand, whimpering sadly as they go through caffeine withdrawal.
On my boss' advice I phoned up the departmental counsellor, who kindly agreed to see me that afternoon. That was tough. She was very kind though, and helpful, and gave me leaflets on Coping With Shite* and I am going back to see her next week. If it helps, I'm all for it.
I fell asleep on the train and slept all the way home, waking up in a panic in Salisbury wondering if I'd missed my stop and was halfway to Exeter.
I have worked at home today and yesterday and am back into London tomorrow. Work have been marvellous, but my God they must be tired of me by now. I feel like every week has provided a new, freakishly horrible, drama to disrupt life and add to the huge hot bale of stress I am now carrying around on the back of my neck. Which is nice.
Other news: The cleaning team came on Friday and did a good job. They were apologising as they left that they hadn't got round to doing the ironing, but to be fair they had slaved over the vile filth in the kitchen and bathroom, both of which were left spotless.
One of them said to me "Once we get on top of the place we'll have time to do some extra jobs." This got me thinking of stuff to ask them to do**. Excellent. I have come up with a few ideas, but more would be nice. Suggestions welcomed, obviously.
In fact, I felt so guilty at the thought of them having to tackle the appalling mountain of WithaY ironing that I spent an hour and a half yesterday evening doing a load of it, whilst watching reruns of "How Clean Is Your House". Some people really do live like pigs.
There was a couple who were repeatedly described as "former London high-fliers" who now run a farm in Kent. They both looked like leftover hippies, and their house was ankle deep in shit. Literally. The floors (and they were carpeted floors at that) were encrusted with mud, hair and dung. Lovely. Even their bedroom floor. And these were allegedly intelligent people. Fuckwits.
I was outraged, which is a good state of mind to be ironing in.
The weather today has taken a turn for the Apocalyptic. High winds, driving rain and the constant sound of squealing tyres and blaring car horns all combine for a relaxing background ambiance as I try to read the 450 emails in my work inbox.
Ah well. Could be worse. And when it is, I will let you know.
*I think. I'd need to look at it again to confirm the title
**Top of the list is repainting the dog shed, followed by chopping kindling, then clearing out the garage. I'm not sure our contract covers that, I'll need to check.
I started walking from Waterloo, but by the time I got to Westminster I had lost my enthusiasm and hopped on the Tube the rest of the way.
In the time I've been away, we have moved back down to the first floor (Second Floor, American readers...the one up the stairs from the Ground floor. There's a clue in the name.) The new accommodation is cramped, noisy, hot and lacking in storage space. Just like the place I left last year then. Fan-tas-tic.
Everyone hates it, there is nowhere to put anything (paperless office my arse) and the coffee machine is nowhere to be found.
I don't actually drink coffee very much but it is still distressing to see colleagues wandering around the floorplate forlornly, mugs in hand, whimpering sadly as they go through caffeine withdrawal.
On my boss' advice I phoned up the departmental counsellor, who kindly agreed to see me that afternoon. That was tough. She was very kind though, and helpful, and gave me leaflets on Coping With Shite* and I am going back to see her next week. If it helps, I'm all for it.
I fell asleep on the train and slept all the way home, waking up in a panic in Salisbury wondering if I'd missed my stop and was halfway to Exeter.
I have worked at home today and yesterday and am back into London tomorrow. Work have been marvellous, but my God they must be tired of me by now. I feel like every week has provided a new, freakishly horrible, drama to disrupt life and add to the huge hot bale of stress I am now carrying around on the back of my neck. Which is nice.
Other news: The cleaning team came on Friday and did a good job. They were apologising as they left that they hadn't got round to doing the ironing, but to be fair they had slaved over the vile filth in the kitchen and bathroom, both of which were left spotless.
One of them said to me "Once we get on top of the place we'll have time to do some extra jobs." This got me thinking of stuff to ask them to do**. Excellent. I have come up with a few ideas, but more would be nice. Suggestions welcomed, obviously.
In fact, I felt so guilty at the thought of them having to tackle the appalling mountain of WithaY ironing that I spent an hour and a half yesterday evening doing a load of it, whilst watching reruns of "How Clean Is Your House". Some people really do live like pigs.
There was a couple who were repeatedly described as "former London high-fliers" who now run a farm in Kent. They both looked like leftover hippies, and their house was ankle deep in shit. Literally. The floors (and they were carpeted floors at that) were encrusted with mud, hair and dung. Lovely. Even their bedroom floor. And these were allegedly intelligent people. Fuckwits.
I was outraged, which is a good state of mind to be ironing in.
The weather today has taken a turn for the Apocalyptic. High winds, driving rain and the constant sound of squealing tyres and blaring car horns all combine for a relaxing background ambiance as I try to read the 450 emails in my work inbox.
Ah well. Could be worse. And when it is, I will let you know.
*I think. I'd need to look at it again to confirm the title
**Top of the list is repainting the dog shed, followed by chopping kindling, then clearing out the garage. I'm not sure our contract covers that, I'll need to check.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
Boldly going
I was quite taken aback when I looked at the blog and realised that I only posted twice last week. That's a poor average for me, and even worse when you consider how little I actually had to say that wasn't all about yet more medical emergencies*.
Let me explain.
I have had a very busy week. Not with fun stuff like going to country shows, or shopping for gifts with a huge unexpected legacy, or learning to drive a monster truck, or anything like that.
No.
It's been All About Work this week. I'd bore you with the details but I think I'd probably get the sack, so best not, really. Suffice to say it's been very busy and as a result I am waking up at 4am with a rising sense of panic most days.
It's not big and it's not clever, and it certainly isn't doing much for my appearance. I have developed huge dark rings under my eyes, an interesting pallor and lumpy flaky skin. Mmmmm-mmm.
When it hasn't been All About Work, it's been All About Fretting About Mr WithaY. Fretting is my own particular specialism in the field of domestic nursing. I am rubbish at the practical stuff, but boy can I fret myself into a tizz whilst not actually helping anyone.
So, well done me for that.
To be fair to myself, I am pretty handy in an emergency. I don't faint at the sight of blood, I can keep calm and sort stuff out, I can plan contingency stuff to mitigate the situation (sorry, this sounds like work again), I can even deal with hospital staff without clinging to their lapels and shrieking. But once things start to settle down and I am back home, I am frankly a bit crap.
The good news is that Mr WithaY is much better. His hand is slowly losing the swelling, and with a bit of luck when we go and see the plastic surgery people at the hospital tomorrow they will be able to tell him how soon he can go back to work, drive, play the bongos etcetera.
Fingers crossed. Heh.
Other news: Whilst on the train home on Thursday, I sat next to an elderly lady. She was very sweet, and we exchanged a few pleasantries as we got settled for the journey. It was a sunny-ish evening, and the carriage was a little warm, but one of the windows at the far end was open so now and again a gentle breeze could be felt. The sweet old lady was reading a book, or looking out of the window. I was listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and playing solitaire on my lovely, lovely iPhone. Not too bad at all.
All that was to change.
The guard, a large, cheerful chap, came stumping through, checking our tickets. He got to the group of people sitting around a table a couple of rows in front of me, and leaned across to open their window with his special key, announcing "You'll be wanting this open! It's very warm in here!" They didn't argue, probably because it was all done in a flash, and after all, having the window open is a bit of a change on the train.
The window fell wide open with a thud, and he clumped on his merry way, obviously feeling that he had done us all a favour.
The second the window opened fully, a howling gale whipped through the carriage, making my hair fly about wildly, and flicking the pages of the old lady's book over as she tried to read. She looked up at me sadly, and I smiled back in my "Ah well, mustn't grumble" way.
I put my hair up in a clip and tried to ignore the strong draught now wrapping itself around my neck. I looked along the carriage. People were putting coats on, huddling down in their seats, closing their books as they gave up trying to read. It was also incredibly noisy; now and again the stench of diesel fumes rolled in. Very nice.
When the guard came back, 20 minutes or so later, the sun had gone in and everyone I could see was wrapped in coats, red-eyed, shivering, clearly miserable.
Me: Excuse me....can you please close the window there again? It's very cold and draughty now. We're getting blown to bits here.
Cheerful Guard: It is a bit breezy, but if I close the window there's no ventilation. How far are you going?
Me: Past Salisbury. (we were approaching Basingstoke at this point, still well over an hour to go.)
Cheerful Guard: (patting my arm chummily) Well, you can go and sit in the front carriage. That has air conditioning.
Ah of course. Good plan. I will leave my seat and walk through the train to the front carriage, where I imagine there are also no empty seats, and people are sitting in the luggage racks. Just like in this carriage, in fact. And all the other carriages that other people have been trying before they gave up and came and squatted in the wind tunnel of despair here.
The old lady looked up at the guard, her hair whipped into a birds nest, her eyes red from the dust and wind, her book abandoned.
Old lady: (tremulously) It is very cold in here.
Cheerful Guard: (now stroking my arm in a rather offputting manner) Well, I am sorry, but there's nothing I can do.
Exit guard, still smiling with the sense of a job well done.
What? WHAT? Of course there is something you can do, you stompy, grinning, shiny-faced galoot. You can go and shut the bloody window again.
The people sitting at the table where the window had been opened had tried to close it a couple of times, but it kept falling open. Clearly it could only be closed by someone with a key to lock it back in place.
Other, other news: Mr WithaY and I went to Salisbury yesterday to go and see the new Star Trek film.
Loved it. I now have a deeply inappropriate crush on Mr Spock, and want to join Starfleet. It's just like being 12 again.
*I could write scripts for Casualty now.
Let me explain.
I have had a very busy week. Not with fun stuff like going to country shows, or shopping for gifts with a huge unexpected legacy, or learning to drive a monster truck, or anything like that.
No.
It's been All About Work this week. I'd bore you with the details but I think I'd probably get the sack, so best not, really. Suffice to say it's been very busy and as a result I am waking up at 4am with a rising sense of panic most days.
It's not big and it's not clever, and it certainly isn't doing much for my appearance. I have developed huge dark rings under my eyes, an interesting pallor and lumpy flaky skin. Mmmmm-mmm.
When it hasn't been All About Work, it's been All About Fretting About Mr WithaY. Fretting is my own particular specialism in the field of domestic nursing. I am rubbish at the practical stuff, but boy can I fret myself into a tizz whilst not actually helping anyone.
So, well done me for that.
To be fair to myself, I am pretty handy in an emergency. I don't faint at the sight of blood, I can keep calm and sort stuff out, I can plan contingency stuff to mitigate the situation (sorry, this sounds like work again), I can even deal with hospital staff without clinging to their lapels and shrieking. But once things start to settle down and I am back home, I am frankly a bit crap.
The good news is that Mr WithaY is much better. His hand is slowly losing the swelling, and with a bit of luck when we go and see the plastic surgery people at the hospital tomorrow they will be able to tell him how soon he can go back to work, drive, play the bongos etcetera.
Fingers crossed. Heh.
Other news: Whilst on the train home on Thursday, I sat next to an elderly lady. She was very sweet, and we exchanged a few pleasantries as we got settled for the journey. It was a sunny-ish evening, and the carriage was a little warm, but one of the windows at the far end was open so now and again a gentle breeze could be felt. The sweet old lady was reading a book, or looking out of the window. I was listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and playing solitaire on my lovely, lovely iPhone. Not too bad at all.
All that was to change.
The guard, a large, cheerful chap, came stumping through, checking our tickets. He got to the group of people sitting around a table a couple of rows in front of me, and leaned across to open their window with his special key, announcing "You'll be wanting this open! It's very warm in here!" They didn't argue, probably because it was all done in a flash, and after all, having the window open is a bit of a change on the train.
The window fell wide open with a thud, and he clumped on his merry way, obviously feeling that he had done us all a favour.
The second the window opened fully, a howling gale whipped through the carriage, making my hair fly about wildly, and flicking the pages of the old lady's book over as she tried to read. She looked up at me sadly, and I smiled back in my "Ah well, mustn't grumble" way.
I put my hair up in a clip and tried to ignore the strong draught now wrapping itself around my neck. I looked along the carriage. People were putting coats on, huddling down in their seats, closing their books as they gave up trying to read. It was also incredibly noisy; now and again the stench of diesel fumes rolled in. Very nice.
When the guard came back, 20 minutes or so later, the sun had gone in and everyone I could see was wrapped in coats, red-eyed, shivering, clearly miserable.
Me: Excuse me....can you please close the window there again? It's very cold and draughty now. We're getting blown to bits here.
Cheerful Guard: It is a bit breezy, but if I close the window there's no ventilation. How far are you going?
Me: Past Salisbury. (we were approaching Basingstoke at this point, still well over an hour to go.)
Cheerful Guard: (patting my arm chummily) Well, you can go and sit in the front carriage. That has air conditioning.
Ah of course. Good plan. I will leave my seat and walk through the train to the front carriage, where I imagine there are also no empty seats, and people are sitting in the luggage racks. Just like in this carriage, in fact. And all the other carriages that other people have been trying before they gave up and came and squatted in the wind tunnel of despair here.
The old lady looked up at the guard, her hair whipped into a birds nest, her eyes red from the dust and wind, her book abandoned.
Old lady: (tremulously) It is very cold in here.
Cheerful Guard: (now stroking my arm in a rather offputting manner) Well, I am sorry, but there's nothing I can do.
Exit guard, still smiling with the sense of a job well done.
What? WHAT? Of course there is something you can do, you stompy, grinning, shiny-faced galoot. You can go and shut the bloody window again.
The people sitting at the table where the window had been opened had tried to close it a couple of times, but it kept falling open. Clearly it could only be closed by someone with a key to lock it back in place.
Other, other news: Mr WithaY and I went to Salisbury yesterday to go and see the new Star Trek film.
Loved it. I now have a deeply inappropriate crush on Mr Spock, and want to join Starfleet. It's just like being 12 again.
*I could write scripts for Casualty now.
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Not like The Waltons
Things have been a bit fraught this week in the WithaY household.
Father-in-Law WithaY was finally sent home from hospital after 20 weeks inside (poor old bugger) and it has become very clear very quickly that he is in no shape to cope at home on his own. Indeed, he now needs 24 hour care, and so Bro-in-Law WithaY has come down to spend a few days to help try to arrange either a full time care assistant at home, or a place in a nursing home.
So. It's all rather sad and stressful.
It's nice spending some time with Bro-in-law though, as we don't see much of him usually.
Other news: Made an ace sausage casserole yesterday, with pork and apple sausages, onion, tomato and big slices of apple. Was really really tasty.
Apart from that, very little.
Father-in-Law WithaY was finally sent home from hospital after 20 weeks inside (poor old bugger) and it has become very clear very quickly that he is in no shape to cope at home on his own. Indeed, he now needs 24 hour care, and so Bro-in-Law WithaY has come down to spend a few days to help try to arrange either a full time care assistant at home, or a place in a nursing home.
So. It's all rather sad and stressful.
It's nice spending some time with Bro-in-law though, as we don't see much of him usually.
Other news: Made an ace sausage casserole yesterday, with pork and apple sausages, onion, tomato and big slices of apple. Was really really tasty.
Apart from that, very little.
Thursday, 3 July 2008
Time
Well, another week is winging by. Although it was enlivened by me throwing up for 2 days earlier on. I am assuming it's stress related as Mr WithaY is fine and I have no other unpleasant manifestations of food poisoning/stomach bug*.
Also did my party trick of waking up screaming in the wee small hours. How Mr WithaY loves that. Nothing like having a large bird jumping out of bed in a not-quite-awake panic in the middle of the night to help you relax.
I went into the office yesterday still feeling as though I had butterflies the whole time, which was freaky. Still, managed a decent night's sleep last night and feel more like my old self** today.
I realised that in the last month I have put in about 6 days extra worth of hours, so I need to keep track of that properly. I am not able to claim for overtime but if I have some decent records of times and so on I can at least negotiate for some time off instead. And I'm away to Belfast (just for the day) next week so that will be another stupidly long day.
Ah, my jetset lifestyle.
Other news: Am practicing The Police's "Can't Stand Losing You" on my geeeeeetar. Not only is it a great song to sing but it's almost all barre chords so fab practice for a lazy slacker like me. The big gig draws closer. I need to ask my lovely guitar teacher when I can come over to a band practice. Will do that tonight, as I think he's coming over.
I have decided to invest in a solar powered iPod/mobile phone charger. Anyone have any advice as to which are any good?
Come the revolution, total breakdown of society, 3 day a week power cuts etc I think it will be handy not relying on the National Grid to be able to listen to Iron Butterfly at my desk and text my mates.
*You know what I mean, don't make me spell it out.
**Tall, dark and grouchy.
Also did my party trick of waking up screaming in the wee small hours. How Mr WithaY loves that. Nothing like having a large bird jumping out of bed in a not-quite-awake panic in the middle of the night to help you relax.
I went into the office yesterday still feeling as though I had butterflies the whole time, which was freaky. Still, managed a decent night's sleep last night and feel more like my old self** today.
I realised that in the last month I have put in about 6 days extra worth of hours, so I need to keep track of that properly. I am not able to claim for overtime but if I have some decent records of times and so on I can at least negotiate for some time off instead. And I'm away to Belfast (just for the day) next week so that will be another stupidly long day.
Ah, my jetset lifestyle.
Other news: Am practicing The Police's "Can't Stand Losing You" on my geeeeeetar. Not only is it a great song to sing but it's almost all barre chords so fab practice for a lazy slacker like me. The big gig draws closer. I need to ask my lovely guitar teacher when I can come over to a band practice. Will do that tonight, as I think he's coming over.
I have decided to invest in a solar powered iPod/mobile phone charger. Anyone have any advice as to which are any good?
Come the revolution, total breakdown of society, 3 day a week power cuts etc I think it will be handy not relying on the National Grid to be able to listen to Iron Butterfly at my desk and text my mates.
*You know what I mean, don't make me spell it out.
**Tall, dark and grouchy.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)