I have discovered the bus, of late. It's much easier than the Tube and MUCH cheaper than a taxi. And, also, I can hop off and walk the remainder of the way to the office down Victoria Street, which is helping to keep my ankle on the road to recovery.
So, yeah, the ankle. I went to see the doctor about it a week ago, as it was still swollen and tender, much like an unpleasant fleshy grapefruit. Also, when I went downstairs first thing in the morning, stabbing pains assailed me, making me stop in my tracks and shout "Ow! Fuck it!"
Not a great start to the day.
So. back to the doctor I waddled. He was very nice, poked my foot, commented on how swollen it was compared to my non-mutant foot, and told me to get some physiotherapy. I had the choice of waiting for a referral to an NHS physio (free but probably several weeks wait) or paying for a private session that I could have very soon (ooo-er matron). I went private.
The phyiso told me that I have severely damaged two of the three main ankle ligaments, although not the one she was expecting to be damaged, also the ligaments that go across the front of my foot, out to the toes. That explains all the bruising and swelling of that bit of my foot, then. She's shown me some exercise to do that will help to break up the scar tissue on my ligaments (ugh), build up the "wasted" muscles on one bit of my calf (ewww) and improve bloodflow to the "inflamed joint" (ack).
Oh, and she rubbed gel on my foot and did ultrasound. That's like normal sound, but for SUPERHEROES. She has strapped me up with gaffer tape (or the medical equivalent) to encourage me to walk around more. I might post photos if I can work out how to take some at a non-terrifying angle.
Anyway, it's all mending and I am not limping any more. The physio showed me how not to, and I have told everyone at work that if they see me doing it, they are to tell me off.
So far, so good.
Other news: I've had a FANTASTIC idea for a film. It's about a group of people in transit in a confined space, unable to get out or away, with a terrifying, venomous creature (or creatures) in there with them. The working title is "Wasps on a Bus!", and I think Samuel L Jackson ought to be involved.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Sunday, 5 September 2010
Bags of style
Overheard on the train recently:
Elderly male hippy: I was looking at a magazine the other day. What was it called, now?
Elderly male non-hippy: (not entirely seriously) Tatler?
Elderly male hippy: No. Not that. LK? GK? PQ? Something like that?
Elderly male non-hippy: Don't know. (Interested now) What was it about?
Elderly male hippy: (After a deep-thinking pause) GQ! That was it! GQ. Fashion. But for MEN!
Elderly male non-hippy: (Appalled) For men? MEN? (shakes his head) Naaaah. Really? Fashion?
Thery stare at each other, aghast at the thought.
Elderly male hippy (some time later) They had bags. For men. Page after page after page. Of bags. For men. Just...bags.
I was tempted to stay on the train all the way to Exeter, just to eavesdrop.
Elderly male hippy: I was looking at a magazine the other day. What was it called, now?
Elderly male non-hippy: (not entirely seriously) Tatler?
Elderly male hippy: No. Not that. LK? GK? PQ? Something like that?
Elderly male non-hippy: Don't know. (Interested now) What was it about?
Elderly male hippy: (After a deep-thinking pause) GQ! That was it! GQ. Fashion. But for MEN!
Elderly male non-hippy: (Appalled) For men? MEN? (shakes his head) Naaaah. Really? Fashion?
Thery stare at each other, aghast at the thought.
Elderly male hippy (some time later) They had bags. For men. Page after page after page. Of bags. For men. Just...bags.
I was tempted to stay on the train all the way to Exeter, just to eavesdrop.
Friday, 3 September 2010
Jam jam jam
The theme of this week in the WithaY household (other than work, sleep, work, sleep, deal with domestic stuff, sleep, work) has been jam.
Plum jam, to be specific. We don't have a plum tree in the garden, although there are plans afoot to do some clever planting and espaliering (sp?) in the future. However, Father-in-law WithaY has a tree in his garden, so when we called round to the house at the weekend on the way home, we decided to pick a few plums.
I think we ended up with about 40 pounds of fruit. So, we ate some, we put some in a bowl to take to Father-in-law WithaY at the nursing home, and we looked at the remaining 38.5 pounds of plums. What to do, what to do?
Jam.
Obviously.
We got everything ready...sugar, plums, water, recipe book, jamjars....perfect.
Please note, that little bowl of plums is the one we took to Father-in-law WithaY, not the one we used for the jam.
We cut the plums in half, took the stones out and boiled the bejeezus out of them for a bit.
Then we added the sugar and boiled them a bit more. There was a degree of confusion about the correct amount of sugar. We had to multiply the recipe by 3. Or was it 4? Anyway, there was a rapid and irreversible escalation of confusion which ended with me being sent out of the kitchen in disgrace to think about what I'd done.
Mr WithaY continued with the jam making alone.
Anyhoo, some time later, we had jam.
Lots and lots and lots of jam. If I wasn't still on my weight loss regime (stone and a half so far, slow and steady, thanks for asking) I'd be scarfing down hot buttered toast with home-made plum jam like a machine. A MACHINE.
We still have quite a lot of plums left. Suggestions on a postcard.
Plum jam, to be specific. We don't have a plum tree in the garden, although there are plans afoot to do some clever planting and espaliering (sp?) in the future. However, Father-in-law WithaY has a tree in his garden, so when we called round to the house at the weekend on the way home, we decided to pick a few plums.
I think we ended up with about 40 pounds of fruit. So, we ate some, we put some in a bowl to take to Father-in-law WithaY at the nursing home, and we looked at the remaining 38.5 pounds of plums. What to do, what to do?
Jam.
Obviously.
We got everything ready...sugar, plums, water, recipe book, jamjars....perfect.
Please note, that little bowl of plums is the one we took to Father-in-law WithaY, not the one we used for the jam.
We cut the plums in half, took the stones out and boiled the bejeezus out of them for a bit.
Then we added the sugar and boiled them a bit more. There was a degree of confusion about the correct amount of sugar. We had to multiply the recipe by 3. Or was it 4? Anyway, there was a rapid and irreversible escalation of confusion which ended with me being sent out of the kitchen in disgrace to think about what I'd done.
Mr WithaY continued with the jam making alone.
Lots and lots and lots of jam. If I wasn't still on my weight loss regime (stone and a half so far, slow and steady, thanks for asking) I'd be scarfing down hot buttered toast with home-made plum jam like a machine. A MACHINE.
We still have quite a lot of plums left. Suggestions on a postcard.
Saturday, 28 August 2010
News of the week
I was reading the local paper this morning, over a refreshing breakfast* of bacon, eggs and baked beans. Always full of interesting things, the local paper.
If The Framley Examiner went bust, I reckon my local paper would be in the running to replace it.
Top headlines this week:
Town Hall Tidy Up. An in-depth expose about how the town hall needed to be tidied up. A start has been made by a group of volunteers who have already "removed rubbish from offices...and cleaned the carpets." Phew. I hope next week we hear about the windows being washed and the bins emptied.
Advice From Local Travel Expert. A local travel agent is giving people advice about, well, travel. I wonder if Deanna Troi is a reporter on this paper. "Captain, I am sensing the bleedin' obvious..."
Yes to Flats. Some flats will be built. I was wondering about that myself. This is in addition to the regular feature on planning decisions, where we all get to read about who had their planning application approved and who had theirs rejected. This usually leads to conversations with the neighbours along the lines of "Well, I thought they were pushing it, asking for a new conservatory...that's a listed building, isn't it?" and endless speculation about why they need a garage that size anyway**. Oh, and it's about bloody time those trees were cut down, they're dangerous.
Burglary Halts Broadcast is one of those stories that you have to read, just to understand the headline. Sadly, it wasn't about the local radio station DJ being stolen away mid-show, leaving a lot of dead air time until he was found dumped in a garden half a mile away. No, much more mundane. The transmitter was stolen. Much less exciting, but probably harder to replace than a DJ. And easier to sell for scrap.
Longleat Keeper Becomes Mum To Otter Pups led me down a line of thought that was rather unsavoury. Who's the father? Will she be breast feeding? Was it a water birth? Will her child support be paid in fish?
It turns out, on closer inspection of the story, that she is a foster mother. Aaaaah. That makes more sense. Too weird, otherwise, even for Wiltshire.
Talking of weird...
Warminster, The Final Frontier details the recent Weird Weekend, held in town, where people who are keen on UFOs, the paranormal, space aliens, the X Files, anal probing*** and ghosts all get together to discuss it. I imagine there are a lot of unresolved issues. Nobody can ever say definitively "Well, I KNOW this is true." Must make arguments go on forever. There are photographs of the convention goers, most of them clutching self-published books about their pet subjects and looking cheerful.
There are several pages of exam results, because, as we all know, names sell local papers. My favourite story this week is:
Cow Trapped In Ditch. Yes, it's a headline. Once I stopped laughing and actually read the whole article, I learned that the unfortunate animal "was stuck upside down in a ditch near the Co-Op store."
Upside down? Was someone reversing it, and got the back hoof stuck in the ditch, and overturned it? Why was it near the Co-Op? Had it nipped out for some milk? Unlikely, I'd suggest.
The story reports that several fire crews came to rescue it, using a sling to get it out. Not though, the kind of sling where they fling it into the next county. More like a hoist, I suppose. But the best part? It was trapped in a "four foot ditch". A two foot ditch could have trapped a chicken, maybe, or even a person, but a four foot ditch? That's for quadrupeds only.
I love living here.
*Well, lunch really, but I feel less slovenly if I pretend it was breakfast
**Unless it's our mate who is assembling an aircraft in his - we all know he needs a big garage for that.
***Aliens always seem to do that, apparently. Why?
If The Framley Examiner went bust, I reckon my local paper would be in the running to replace it.
Top headlines this week:
Town Hall Tidy Up. An in-depth expose about how the town hall needed to be tidied up. A start has been made by a group of volunteers who have already "removed rubbish from offices...and cleaned the carpets." Phew. I hope next week we hear about the windows being washed and the bins emptied.
Advice From Local Travel Expert. A local travel agent is giving people advice about, well, travel. I wonder if Deanna Troi is a reporter on this paper. "Captain, I am sensing the bleedin' obvious..."
Yes to Flats. Some flats will be built. I was wondering about that myself. This is in addition to the regular feature on planning decisions, where we all get to read about who had their planning application approved and who had theirs rejected. This usually leads to conversations with the neighbours along the lines of "Well, I thought they were pushing it, asking for a new conservatory...that's a listed building, isn't it?" and endless speculation about why they need a garage that size anyway**. Oh, and it's about bloody time those trees were cut down, they're dangerous.
Burglary Halts Broadcast is one of those stories that you have to read, just to understand the headline. Sadly, it wasn't about the local radio station DJ being stolen away mid-show, leaving a lot of dead air time until he was found dumped in a garden half a mile away. No, much more mundane. The transmitter was stolen. Much less exciting, but probably harder to replace than a DJ. And easier to sell for scrap.
Longleat Keeper Becomes Mum To Otter Pups led me down a line of thought that was rather unsavoury. Who's the father? Will she be breast feeding? Was it a water birth? Will her child support be paid in fish?
It turns out, on closer inspection of the story, that she is a foster mother. Aaaaah. That makes more sense. Too weird, otherwise, even for Wiltshire.
Talking of weird...
Warminster, The Final Frontier details the recent Weird Weekend, held in town, where people who are keen on UFOs, the paranormal, space aliens, the X Files, anal probing*** and ghosts all get together to discuss it. I imagine there are a lot of unresolved issues. Nobody can ever say definitively "Well, I KNOW this is true." Must make arguments go on forever. There are photographs of the convention goers, most of them clutching self-published books about their pet subjects and looking cheerful.
There are several pages of exam results, because, as we all know, names sell local papers. My favourite story this week is:
Cow Trapped In Ditch. Yes, it's a headline. Once I stopped laughing and actually read the whole article, I learned that the unfortunate animal "was stuck upside down in a ditch near the Co-Op store."
Upside down? Was someone reversing it, and got the back hoof stuck in the ditch, and overturned it? Why was it near the Co-Op? Had it nipped out for some milk? Unlikely, I'd suggest.
The story reports that several fire crews came to rescue it, using a sling to get it out. Not though, the kind of sling where they fling it into the next county. More like a hoist, I suppose. But the best part? It was trapped in a "four foot ditch". A two foot ditch could have trapped a chicken, maybe, or even a person, but a four foot ditch? That's for quadrupeds only.
I love living here.
*Well, lunch really, but I feel less slovenly if I pretend it was breakfast
**Unless it's our mate who is assembling an aircraft in his - we all know he needs a big garage for that.
***Aliens always seem to do that, apparently. Why?
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Observations on travel
1) London cabbies love to listen to talk radio. They love it. Football, politics, recipes, world news; it's all good, dawg.
Know why?
So they can then retail that information to their passengers over the course of the day. It's like instant conversation magic dust...sprinkle some into a cab and there will be some conversation. The cabbie I met yesterday, however, wins the award for Telling Me Something That Will Give Me Nightmares. Outright.
Cabbie: (as we pass some roadworks) Lots of building work going on in the City at the moment, love. Lots.
Me: (dicking about with my phone, not really listening) Oh yes?
Cabbie: Yeerrrrrs. They've been demolishing this big building. Right in the City. Right in the middle. Can't use dynamite on it though. Too many buildings around. Too crowded.
Me: No? Tsk tsk tsk.
Cabbie: (warming to his theme) Yeah...know what they used to demolish it? Instead of dynamite?
Me: Um. No. (expectant pause) What?
Cabbie: A giant machine that ATE it. Like a huge dinosaur, with HUGE jaws. Just ate all the way down the building till it was gone. (Makes "giant machine eating a building" gestures with both hands - luckily we are stopped at a traffic light for this.)
Me: (Listening properly now) What? A machine that eats buildings? That sounds terrifying!
Cabbie: Yeah, like a giant dinosaur. The pressure in those jaws must be immense. Immense. Can you imagine? Eating the whole building, concrete, steel, the lot.
Me: (imagining all too clearly) Christ, yes.
So thanks for that, Mr steel-jaw dinosaur man.
2) Many people are no respectors of an injured woman's slowness. I am trying to walk further now, but I am still struggling, particularly at the end of the day when my ankle has swollen up like a fleshy grapefruit, and I am limping like some sort of unconvincing ham actor auditioning for the Hunchback of Notre Dame. And, I have discovered, when you are limping along slowly, for example across the concourse at Waterloo Station, heading for your train, people are really rude.
Bastards!
So far this week I have been tutted at, jostled and asked to "step aside please" to allow a fat sweaty man with too many bags to waddle down the platform three steps ahead of me. I had the last laugh, however. Being a wily long-term commuter, I simply hopped onto the other end of the carriage he was aiming for and made my way quickly to the prime spot in the middle, leaving him to take the scabby seat by the door where everyone whacks you with their luggage as they come in and out. Ha.
3) People have no idea how to dress for the weather at the moment. Today, for example, I have seen people wearing the following:
flipflops
shorts
t shirts
overcoats
fleecy jackets
jeans
opaque woollen tights
scarves
summer dresses
formal suits
sarongs
Many of the people wearing those outfits were also carrying umbrellas. Either the weather or our fashion sense is playing cruel tricks on us.
Tomorrow is a work at home day for me. I intend to listen to Planet Rock, limp around the house as slowly as I please, and wear pyjamas all day.
Take that, society.
Know why?
So they can then retail that information to their passengers over the course of the day. It's like instant conversation magic dust...sprinkle some into a cab and there will be some conversation. The cabbie I met yesterday, however, wins the award for Telling Me Something That Will Give Me Nightmares. Outright.
Cabbie: (as we pass some roadworks) Lots of building work going on in the City at the moment, love. Lots.
Me: (dicking about with my phone, not really listening) Oh yes?
Cabbie: Yeerrrrrs. They've been demolishing this big building. Right in the City. Right in the middle. Can't use dynamite on it though. Too many buildings around. Too crowded.
Me: No? Tsk tsk tsk.
Cabbie: (warming to his theme) Yeah...know what they used to demolish it? Instead of dynamite?
Me: Um. No. (expectant pause) What?
Cabbie: A giant machine that ATE it. Like a huge dinosaur, with HUGE jaws. Just ate all the way down the building till it was gone. (Makes "giant machine eating a building" gestures with both hands - luckily we are stopped at a traffic light for this.)
Me: (Listening properly now) What? A machine that eats buildings? That sounds terrifying!
Cabbie: Yeah, like a giant dinosaur. The pressure in those jaws must be immense. Immense. Can you imagine? Eating the whole building, concrete, steel, the lot.
Me: (imagining all too clearly) Christ, yes.
So thanks for that, Mr steel-jaw dinosaur man.
2) Many people are no respectors of an injured woman's slowness. I am trying to walk further now, but I am still struggling, particularly at the end of the day when my ankle has swollen up like a fleshy grapefruit, and I am limping like some sort of unconvincing ham actor auditioning for the Hunchback of Notre Dame. And, I have discovered, when you are limping along slowly, for example across the concourse at Waterloo Station, heading for your train, people are really rude.
Bastards!
So far this week I have been tutted at, jostled and asked to "step aside please" to allow a fat sweaty man with too many bags to waddle down the platform three steps ahead of me. I had the last laugh, however. Being a wily long-term commuter, I simply hopped onto the other end of the carriage he was aiming for and made my way quickly to the prime spot in the middle, leaving him to take the scabby seat by the door where everyone whacks you with their luggage as they come in and out. Ha.
3) People have no idea how to dress for the weather at the moment. Today, for example, I have seen people wearing the following:
flipflops
shorts
t shirts
overcoats
fleecy jackets
jeans
opaque woollen tights
scarves
summer dresses
formal suits
sarongs
Many of the people wearing those outfits were also carrying umbrellas. Either the weather or our fashion sense is playing cruel tricks on us.
Tomorrow is a work at home day for me. I intend to listen to Planet Rock, limp around the house as slowly as I please, and wear pyjamas all day.
Take that, society.
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Smash and grab
Saturday already, eh? How the days fly by when you are at work, rather than sitting at home whining about having a (probably) fractured ankle, unable to drive anywhere.
The new job is going alright so far, but it's early days, of course. Plenty of time for monumental fuck-ups and general chaos. It's still a bit of a shock to the system doing the commute. I'd forgotten how exhausting it is, and how little time and energy I have for anything else. On the days when I am in London I am up before 6am, and don't get home much before 8pm, so once the mechanics of showering, eating and sleeping are out of the way, there's not much space for anything else.
I've been trying to wean myself off the Conan books this week, and have reverted to trashy science fiction short stories, downloaded onto my iPhone from Stanza for free. Some of them are excellent, some are less great, and some are just plain weird.
I was taken with the one called "After London" by Richard Jefferies. Who, it turns out, was from Wiltshire! Who knew?
It's set in the future, but as it was written in 1885, it is actually probably set in the past*, and depicts Britain as a fallen power, rural and wild, run by feudal barons who obey the law only as it suits them. It tails off a bit at the end, just at the point where I thought "Aha, now the story really gets going," but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
I think one of the things I love about old science fiction is that I understand most of the science. It's all about valves and electrodes and copper wire, which I can just about get my head round. And in this case, longbows and canoes. Nice and simple.
While we were on holiday, I read "The Book of Dave" by Will Self. I like Will Self's stuff, although he can be a bit tiresome and pretentious, and once I got over my initial "Gah, this is hard to read!" reaction, I liked the book very much. Mr WithaY was less charitable, and although he finished the book as well, decided it was a bit too weird for his tastes.
I also read Bill Bryson's "At Home" which was excellent, I thought. It was less folksy and twee than some of his other stuff I've read, and as a lot of the historical facts he talked about were relevant to the part of the US where we were staying, it felt immediate and interesting.
Other news: Guitar lessons have begun again, and I am trying to get over my "I'll never be a lead guitarist" phobia. I'll let you know how that goes. This week I am mostly murdering Tom Petty and Thin Lizzy.
Also, filthy thieving bastards, probably from Bristol, they're like that up there, robbed the garage in the village. Again. Two grand's worth of cigarettes were stolen this time, and the shop door has been covered in hardboard till the glass gets fixed. It's like living in inner-city Chicago**.
*Keep up. Think of Back to the Future if you're confused. Or not.
**No, it really isn't.
The new job is going alright so far, but it's early days, of course. Plenty of time for monumental fuck-ups and general chaos. It's still a bit of a shock to the system doing the commute. I'd forgotten how exhausting it is, and how little time and energy I have for anything else. On the days when I am in London I am up before 6am, and don't get home much before 8pm, so once the mechanics of showering, eating and sleeping are out of the way, there's not much space for anything else.
I've been trying to wean myself off the Conan books this week, and have reverted to trashy science fiction short stories, downloaded onto my iPhone from Stanza for free. Some of them are excellent, some are less great, and some are just plain weird.
I was taken with the one called "After London" by Richard Jefferies. Who, it turns out, was from Wiltshire! Who knew?
It's set in the future, but as it was written in 1885, it is actually probably set in the past*, and depicts Britain as a fallen power, rural and wild, run by feudal barons who obey the law only as it suits them. It tails off a bit at the end, just at the point where I thought "Aha, now the story really gets going," but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
I think one of the things I love about old science fiction is that I understand most of the science. It's all about valves and electrodes and copper wire, which I can just about get my head round. And in this case, longbows and canoes. Nice and simple.
While we were on holiday, I read "The Book of Dave" by Will Self. I like Will Self's stuff, although he can be a bit tiresome and pretentious, and once I got over my initial "Gah, this is hard to read!" reaction, I liked the book very much. Mr WithaY was less charitable, and although he finished the book as well, decided it was a bit too weird for his tastes.
I also read Bill Bryson's "At Home" which was excellent, I thought. It was less folksy and twee than some of his other stuff I've read, and as a lot of the historical facts he talked about were relevant to the part of the US where we were staying, it felt immediate and interesting.
Other news: Guitar lessons have begun again, and I am trying to get over my "I'll never be a lead guitarist" phobia. I'll let you know how that goes. This week I am mostly murdering Tom Petty and Thin Lizzy.
Also, filthy thieving bastards, probably from Bristol, they're like that up there, robbed the garage in the village. Again. Two grand's worth of cigarettes were stolen this time, and the shop door has been covered in hardboard till the glass gets fixed. It's like living in inner-city Chicago**.
*Keep up. Think of Back to the Future if you're confused. Or not.
**No, it really isn't.
Monday, 16 August 2010
Disappointment
ConanWatch. Day 8.
So far, no sign of a huge, thickly-muscled, black-haired bronzed barbarian hero padding up behind me on silent sandalled feet. Damn it.
Maybe I should try wearing flimsier clothing. And more ornate jewels.
Maybe I should try becoming some sort of undead goddess. Or an eternally-beautiful queen of a remote tribe. Or a rebellious yet vulnerable dancing girl with flashing eyes and a passionate heart.
I'm not sure Conan would even be on the Waterloo to Yeovil train on a Monday night, and if he was, that he would have understood the booking system, so he would have to slay the guard and all the other passengers in a bloodlust frenzy when asked to produce his ticket.
It's never going to work, really.
Maybe I can persuade Mr WithaY to wear a leather loincloth and headband and shout "Crom!" from time to time.
So far, no sign of a huge, thickly-muscled, black-haired bronzed barbarian hero padding up behind me on silent sandalled feet. Damn it.
Maybe I should try wearing flimsier clothing. And more ornate jewels.
Maybe I should try becoming some sort of undead goddess. Or an eternally-beautiful queen of a remote tribe. Or a rebellious yet vulnerable dancing girl with flashing eyes and a passionate heart.
I'm not sure Conan would even be on the Waterloo to Yeovil train on a Monday night, and if he was, that he would have understood the booking system, so he would have to slay the guard and all the other passengers in a bloodlust frenzy when asked to produce his ticket.
It's never going to work, really.
Maybe I can persuade Mr WithaY to wear a leather loincloth and headband and shout "Crom!" from time to time.
Saturday, 14 August 2010
Spam spam spam
Quick note for those of you who comment. And for anyone else who might feel like leaving a comment at some point in the future, I suppose.
Due to the sudden proliferation of shite comments being submitted on very old posts, ranging from links to other "blogs" which in fact are no such thing, to adverts for all manner of dodgy crappy stuff, I have now made some changes to the comments regime on this blog.
If you want to comment on a post that is more than 14 days old, it will get moderated, as it does now. If you leave a comment on a post that I have made within the last 14 days, you'll get the word verification thingy to fill in, rather than the moderation that I used to do.
Ha. Take that, robot spammers. Like an old-style Dalek confronted with a steep flight of stairs, your reign of terror* is over. OVER.
And on the plus side, people can publish their comments whenever they like, no longer having to wait for me to get round to it. Life is good.
Other news: First week back at work in London was ok. I still can't walk very far, but I am trying to walk further each day, and to limp less. Worryingly, my ankle now hurts quite a lot on the other side of my foot - the bone on the inner side, rather than on the outer side. If it hurts as much by the middle of the week I am going back to the doctor. It's still swollen as well, and looks like more bruising is coming to the surface. Ugh.
Also, had my first guitar lesson last night, after a 3 month hiatus. It was great. GREAT. My gorgeous guitar teacher is also recovering from an ankle injury, although his was much more scary and dramatic. He told me all about it last night. Apparently the snap of his ankle breaking could be heard all the way across the cricket pitch. Gah. I tried to listen but it was so awful that my ears closed up at certain points, so what I actuall heard was:
"Blah blah lucky there was a paramedic in the cricket crowd blah blah blah intravenous morphine blah blah dislocated AND broken blah blah sedated while they put it back in place blah blah delayed the surgery blah blah a week in hospital blah blah blah."
Brrrrrrrrrrr.
*Well, ok. Your increasingly-irritating spam emails.
Due to the sudden proliferation of shite comments being submitted on very old posts, ranging from links to other "blogs" which in fact are no such thing, to adverts for all manner of dodgy crappy stuff, I have now made some changes to the comments regime on this blog.
If you want to comment on a post that is more than 14 days old, it will get moderated, as it does now. If you leave a comment on a post that I have made within the last 14 days, you'll get the word verification thingy to fill in, rather than the moderation that I used to do.
Ha. Take that, robot spammers. Like an old-style Dalek confronted with a steep flight of stairs, your reign of terror* is over. OVER.
And on the plus side, people can publish their comments whenever they like, no longer having to wait for me to get round to it. Life is good.
Other news: First week back at work in London was ok. I still can't walk very far, but I am trying to walk further each day, and to limp less. Worryingly, my ankle now hurts quite a lot on the other side of my foot - the bone on the inner side, rather than on the outer side. If it hurts as much by the middle of the week I am going back to the doctor. It's still swollen as well, and looks like more bruising is coming to the surface. Ugh.
Also, had my first guitar lesson last night, after a 3 month hiatus. It was great. GREAT. My gorgeous guitar teacher is also recovering from an ankle injury, although his was much more scary and dramatic. He told me all about it last night. Apparently the snap of his ankle breaking could be heard all the way across the cricket pitch. Gah. I tried to listen but it was so awful that my ears closed up at certain points, so what I actuall heard was:
"Blah blah lucky there was a paramedic in the cricket crowd blah blah blah intravenous morphine blah blah dislocated AND broken blah blah sedated while they put it back in place blah blah delayed the surgery blah blah a week in hospital blah blah blah."
Brrrrrrrrrrr.
*Well, ok. Your increasingly-irritating spam emails.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Exits
If I was going to make a dramatic exit from my job, how would I do it, I wonder?
This guy seems to have already taken the best option. I think as dramatic resignations go, swearing at people who were being abusive, then leaping out of an aircraft using the emergency slide has got to be up on the top five. Oh, and grabbing some beer on the way out. He was channelling the spirit of John Belushi for that one.
So. Assuming not all of us have access to an emergency aircraft slide, how could we leave a job in a similarly stylish manner?
Office drone: Deliberately misplace the decimal points in a long term costs projection to cause maximum disruption in the future, hoik the muffins from the hospitality basket and slide down the corridor on your laptop like a luge sled, smashing through the lift doors to freedom.
Farmer: Mow the word "Arse" into the wheat, steal all the baler twine to sell on the black market, then crash your combine harvester through the hedge and head for the bright lights and the big city. At 7 miles an hour.
Surgeon: Get to the end of a tricky triple bypass operation, then throw your scalpel at the wall so it sticks, juddering loudly, stuff all the cotton wool balls into your pockets and roar off into the distance in your Ferrari.
Zookeeper: Release the bonobo monkeys into the King penguin enclosure, then roar off into the distance on a stolen lion.
Yeah, that's not as easy as I thought it would be. I'll stop there.
Other news: The bathroom is finished, and once it has a new coat of paint it will be lovely once again. I am particularly pleased with the grab rail over the bath. I no longer feel as though I am taking my life in my hands when I get in and out.
Also, properly started (finally!) my new job, and have been up in London this week. I'd forgotten what an absurdly long journey it is. I must be mental. MENTAL. I've not risked the Tube yet, so I have been taking taxis to and from the office and Waterloo Station. It's expensive but at least I feel safe, and not likely to topple down an escalator due to my ongoing ankle instability.
This week I have mostly been reading Conan the Barbarian ebooks on my phone on the train. I wish I was a barbarian. I really do. I'd be great at it. I could shout "Crom!" and have iron thews. I just need a bit of training. Maybe a barbarian mentor.
He could wear a leather 3-piece suit and carry his sword under his arm like a rolled up umbrella.
This guy seems to have already taken the best option. I think as dramatic resignations go, swearing at people who were being abusive, then leaping out of an aircraft using the emergency slide has got to be up on the top five. Oh, and grabbing some beer on the way out. He was channelling the spirit of John Belushi for that one.
So. Assuming not all of us have access to an emergency aircraft slide, how could we leave a job in a similarly stylish manner?
Office drone: Deliberately misplace the decimal points in a long term costs projection to cause maximum disruption in the future, hoik the muffins from the hospitality basket and slide down the corridor on your laptop like a luge sled, smashing through the lift doors to freedom.
Farmer: Mow the word "Arse" into the wheat, steal all the baler twine to sell on the black market, then crash your combine harvester through the hedge and head for the bright lights and the big city. At 7 miles an hour.
Surgeon: Get to the end of a tricky triple bypass operation, then throw your scalpel at the wall so it sticks, juddering loudly, stuff all the cotton wool balls into your pockets and roar off into the distance in your Ferrari.
Zookeeper: Release the bonobo monkeys into the King penguin enclosure, then roar off into the distance on a stolen lion.
Yeah, that's not as easy as I thought it would be. I'll stop there.
Other news: The bathroom is finished, and once it has a new coat of paint it will be lovely once again. I am particularly pleased with the grab rail over the bath. I no longer feel as though I am taking my life in my hands when I get in and out.
Also, properly started (finally!) my new job, and have been up in London this week. I'd forgotten what an absurdly long journey it is. I must be mental. MENTAL. I've not risked the Tube yet, so I have been taking taxis to and from the office and Waterloo Station. It's expensive but at least I feel safe, and not likely to topple down an escalator due to my ongoing ankle instability.
This week I have mostly been reading Conan the Barbarian ebooks on my phone on the train. I wish I was a barbarian. I really do. I'd be great at it. I could shout "Crom!" and have iron thews. I just need a bit of training. Maybe a barbarian mentor.
He could wear a leather 3-piece suit and carry his sword under his arm like a rolled up umbrella.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Plumb crazy
We've had the plumber round.
The WithaY bathroomis was a thing of beauty. Spacious, well-lit, an excellent shower, a large, deep bathtub. We even have a view of the woods, and the meadow, and the river. Lovely.
It's worked well for about 6 years or so, give or take the odd slight leak. Right up until earlier this year, in fact, when the door to the shower cubicle started to stick as it was slid shut. Of course, you have to close it all the way or when you turn the shower on, water will piss all over the floor and eventually bring down the kitchen ceiling in a rain of dirty water, limestone floortiles, plasterboard and dodgy crud crammed between the joists. So, something to be rectified.
Before we went on holiday I rang the plumber to see if he could come over and take a look. He's very good, our plumber. Thorough. Yes, that's the word.
One way and another we didn't manage to find a mutually-convenient date for the new shower cubicle to be fitted until after we came home. Oh, and while he was here, I thought I'd get the bath taps repaired, as one of them has been a bit dodgy for ages. Kill two birds with one stone, that kind of thing.
The plumber came. He looked at the shower and told me it was a standard size, but an unusual shape. He looked at the bath taps and told me that they were an unusual size and an unusual shape. He looked at the tiles on the walls and told me they were an unusual shape.
I have a freakily unusual bathroom, it seems.
The nice, thorough, plumber told me that he could order in all the parts (taps, shower cubicle, fittings etc) and get the job done over a couple of days. As I am still off work* as I still can't drive**, this week seemed the ideal opportunity.
It all started in earnest yesterday. At 0800. Eight AM. In the morning. I was already up and showered and hair-washed as I guessed that the shower would probably be out of action overnight, and I greeted him with a cup of tea and a cheery smile. He scampered upstairs, strewing dustsheets in his wake and got right down to business.
There was a good deal of crashing.
After a while I stuck my head round the door, and almost screamed in horror. My beautifully-tiled shower had several tiles missing from one corner. Not part of the original plan. The plumber said "Don't look at it!" and ushered me out. I asked why the tiles were missing. He said that they'd come off the wall when he took the shower cubicle off, because they hadn't been stuck on properly.
Now, we had already had long complicated discussions about the tiles. I love those tiles. They are one of the things I really like about the bathroom. We don't have any spare ones, and I had resigned myself to the fact that the tiles around the bath would have to be replaced, probably with something different. The original tiles were too hard to track down, what with their freaky shape*** and all.
So the fact that four of them had been removed from one corner of the shower was a bit of a fucking problem, really.
*Starting back on Monday in London, working at home tomorrow and Friday, hurrah!
**The ankle. Remember? Yeah you do. Possibly fractured, possibly not, still swollen and revolting to look at., thanks for asking.
***Rectangular. I know! Crazy!
The WithaY bathroom
It's worked well for about 6 years or so, give or take the odd slight leak. Right up until earlier this year, in fact, when the door to the shower cubicle started to stick as it was slid shut. Of course, you have to close it all the way or when you turn the shower on, water will piss all over the floor and eventually bring down the kitchen ceiling in a rain of dirty water, limestone floortiles, plasterboard and dodgy crud crammed between the joists. So, something to be rectified.
Before we went on holiday I rang the plumber to see if he could come over and take a look. He's very good, our plumber. Thorough. Yes, that's the word.
One way and another we didn't manage to find a mutually-convenient date for the new shower cubicle to be fitted until after we came home. Oh, and while he was here, I thought I'd get the bath taps repaired, as one of them has been a bit dodgy for ages. Kill two birds with one stone, that kind of thing.
The plumber came. He looked at the shower and told me it was a standard size, but an unusual shape. He looked at the bath taps and told me that they were an unusual size and an unusual shape. He looked at the tiles on the walls and told me they were an unusual shape.
I have a freakily unusual bathroom, it seems.
The nice, thorough, plumber told me that he could order in all the parts (taps, shower cubicle, fittings etc) and get the job done over a couple of days. As I am still off work* as I still can't drive**, this week seemed the ideal opportunity.
It all started in earnest yesterday. At 0800. Eight AM. In the morning. I was already up and showered and hair-washed as I guessed that the shower would probably be out of action overnight, and I greeted him with a cup of tea and a cheery smile. He scampered upstairs, strewing dustsheets in his wake and got right down to business.
There was a good deal of crashing.
After a while I stuck my head round the door, and almost screamed in horror. My beautifully-tiled shower had several tiles missing from one corner. Not part of the original plan. The plumber said "Don't look at it!" and ushered me out. I asked why the tiles were missing. He said that they'd come off the wall when he took the shower cubicle off, because they hadn't been stuck on properly.
Now, we had already had long complicated discussions about the tiles. I love those tiles. They are one of the things I really like about the bathroom. We don't have any spare ones, and I had resigned myself to the fact that the tiles around the bath would have to be replaced, probably with something different. The original tiles were too hard to track down, what with their freaky shape*** and all.
So the fact that four of them had been removed from one corner of the shower was a bit of a fucking problem, really.
I went and made a cup of tea, genuinely upset by this turn of events. Yes, I know, I'm a contender for one of Belgian Waffle's First World Problems posts.
The plumber said he would carefully chisel off the tiles around the bath and we'd be able to use some of those for the shower. He was careful, but I think using a chisel is not always the best idea on a plasterboard wall.
Even if it's got tiles on it.
Additional ventilation? Extra storage for bath necessities? Somewhere to post a letter from the bank you don't want to read? Suggestions appreciated.
Things got really interesting after that. As he removed the bath taps, artfully positioned and a work of glorious modern gleaming chrome, he announced that they had originally been plumbed right into the wall, then cemented over. He was going to have to change that, in case we ever had a problem.
So.
We can't use the shower. We can't use the bath. I may have to wash my hair in the toilet.
On the bright side, he went to a specialist tile shop, showed them one of the now-useless tiles from the shower and they told him they could order some in, even though they are a freaky shape, a non-standard size and have been discontinued. We had high hopes for this afternoon, but nothing had arrived by 6pm. Fingers crossed for tomorrow, eh?
If anyone wants me, I shall be in the garden, washing my feet in the birdbath.
*Starting back on Monday in London, working at home tomorrow and Friday, hurrah!
**The ankle. Remember? Yeah you do. Possibly fractured, possibly not, still swollen and revolting to look at., thanks for asking.
***Rectangular. I know! Crazy!
Monday, 2 August 2010
Reportage
It comes a a bit of a shock to a Telegraph and BBC news website reader like me when you find a link that leads you to a story like this.
It's not so much the story, I suppose, it's the style of writing. As I read it (and believe me, I read it right to the end) I couldn't help but admire the skill with which the journalist had picked their words. Short words, granted, but all of them doing exactly what was intended. To make the reader feel both repelled, outraged and sorry for the woman and her family.
Well, maybe not sympathy for the woman in question; the article is pretty strongly taking the "she was scoffing pie and chips and screaming for cake while the nurses begged her not to kill herself with lard" line of approach.
However much I dislike this style of journalism, it really does get the job done. Now I feel like I need to boil my eyes in bleach.
Anyway, on a less depressing note, I have picked this up from Fweng at I Hate The Earth. When he's not whingeing he's rather amusing, especially when writing about people shoving things up his arse*.
A wishlist. Seven Things I'd Change About Myself:
1) Dexterity and grace. Maybe then I'd fall over a bit less often, slice a few less lumps off myself and not have so many "walking into lamp-post" moments.
2) Non-bloodshot eyes. I've always had eyes that look like they've got maps of the Central Line tattooed on my eyeballs, which, according to my optician, indicates healthy bloodflow, but I'd rather have pure sparkly whites. Maybe I can get them bleached, like teeth.
3) A longer attention span. I blame the Internet...hey...a Polo!
4) More intelligence. I know I'm not stupid, but I am woefully ignorant in oh so many areas, and the stuff I do know only makes me aware of my lack of knowledge.
5) Perfectionism. I am not a perfectionist. Well, not in any way that matters. I get arsey if napkins aren't folded up nicely, or, to pick a random example from the ether, if someone leaves his tie rolled up on the coffee table when he gets in from work, but in general I am too relaxed about stuff. Some stuff. I could do with a bit of completer-finisher perfectionism.
6) A better sense of the appropriate. I am too often the only person laughing when something untoward happens. That's not good.
7) The ability to turn a three-line great idea into a 600 page bestseller. And then two more. And then a second trilogy, cashing in on all the die-hard fans. It'd be great.
*I think it's a perfectly natural human reaction to find that funny. And if it's not, well, I don't want to know about it.
It's not so much the story, I suppose, it's the style of writing. As I read it (and believe me, I read it right to the end) I couldn't help but admire the skill with which the journalist had picked their words. Short words, granted, but all of them doing exactly what was intended. To make the reader feel both repelled, outraged and sorry for the woman and her family.
Well, maybe not sympathy for the woman in question; the article is pretty strongly taking the "she was scoffing pie and chips and screaming for cake while the nurses begged her not to kill herself with lard" line of approach.
However much I dislike this style of journalism, it really does get the job done. Now I feel like I need to boil my eyes in bleach.
Anyway, on a less depressing note, I have picked this up from Fweng at I Hate The Earth. When he's not whingeing he's rather amusing, especially when writing about people shoving things up his arse*.
A wishlist. Seven Things I'd Change About Myself:
1) Dexterity and grace. Maybe then I'd fall over a bit less often, slice a few less lumps off myself and not have so many "walking into lamp-post" moments.
2) Non-bloodshot eyes. I've always had eyes that look like they've got maps of the Central Line tattooed on my eyeballs, which, according to my optician, indicates healthy bloodflow, but I'd rather have pure sparkly whites. Maybe I can get them bleached, like teeth.
3) A longer attention span. I blame the Internet...hey...a Polo!
4) More intelligence. I know I'm not stupid, but I am woefully ignorant in oh so many areas, and the stuff I do know only makes me aware of my lack of knowledge.
5) Perfectionism. I am not a perfectionist. Well, not in any way that matters. I get arsey if napkins aren't folded up nicely, or, to pick a random example from the ether, if someone leaves his tie rolled up on the coffee table when he gets in from work, but in general I am too relaxed about stuff. Some stuff. I could do with a bit of completer-finisher perfectionism.
6) A better sense of the appropriate. I am too often the only person laughing when something untoward happens. That's not good.
7) The ability to turn a three-line great idea into a 600 page bestseller. And then two more. And then a second trilogy, cashing in on all the die-hard fans. It'd be great.
*I think it's a perfectly natural human reaction to find that funny. And if it's not, well, I don't want to know about it.
Friday, 30 July 2010
Eating out
You'd think that going out for lunch would be a straightforward exercise, wouldn't you? Leave the house at about lunchtime, travel somewhere that serves food, have some food, come home? Easy.
Even when you factor in the relative immobility of one of the people involved, how hard is it to go out and eat? Not very, would be the answer.
Well, that answer would be WRONG, my friend, wrong. West Wiltshire on a Tuesday lunchtime is a desert. A food desert.
Admittedly, Bestest Mate and I have previous form in this area. It has been known for us to go out for dinner, drive miles, sit and wait for hours fruitlessly*, and then end up eating a home-delivered pizza at 11pm because things went terribly, bizarrely, wrong in an entirely unpredictable manner.
So. We hopped (in my case literally) into the car and drove out to a local farm shop where they serve nice lunches. But wait! What's this? It's closed on Monday and Tuesday? Arse! Not to be daunted by such a minor setback, we continued on our way.
Every so often there would be a conversation as follows:
Me: Ooh, I've never been down this road before...I think it might lead to FUCK SLOW DOWN a nice pub HORSE! HORSE! yes, there it is...shall we stop there?
Bestest mate: Looks shut. Let's take a closer look.
Me: Mind that bloke...THAT BLOKE THERE...yeah it's shut. Arse. Keep going on this road...there'll be another pub in a HORSE! minute.
And so the long day wore on. He's not a really terrible unsafe driver or anything, I was just a bit jumpy, what with not being able to drive at the moment, and my ankle hurting like hell every time we went over a bump or round a corner.
We drove the entire length of the Wylye Valley, only finding pubs which were shut, occasionally glimpsing a pretty church or row of thatched cottages which we ignored in our feeding frenzy. Eventually we turned onto the main road back towards the village, and decided to stop at the rather splendid Indian for lunch. It was just closing.
Nothing for it but to head back to the house, and go over to the local pub for a sandwich then. But no...they'd stopped serving food. Admittedly by the time we got there it was after half past two, but we still felt disgruntled.
We ended up having a sandwich back at the house, and watching a DVD** while I sat with my foot up and whined how much my ankle hurt.
On that subject, I went and had an X-ray earlier this week, and got the result over the phone from a nurse this morning. Apparently there is no "obvious bone damage" but there is "significant soft tissue damage". And, helpfully, because I had the accident 3 weeks ago if it was a slight fracture it would be healing by now and might not show up on an X-ray. So. Probably not broken, but possibly broken. Yeah, that helps.
I can hop around a bit more easily, but I still can't drive as I can't hold my foot in any other position apart from "flat on the ground" without a good deal of discomfort, and stabs of pain in my anklebone. So I am wiggling it about in short busrts, and taking painkillers when it starts to really play up.
God, I'm old. Nothing works properly these days.
*also meatlessly, fishlessly, chiplessly and puddinglessly
**Tropic Thunder. He hadn't seen it, and I still find it amusing.
Even when you factor in the relative immobility of one of the people involved, how hard is it to go out and eat? Not very, would be the answer.
Well, that answer would be WRONG, my friend, wrong. West Wiltshire on a Tuesday lunchtime is a desert. A food desert.
Admittedly, Bestest Mate and I have previous form in this area. It has been known for us to go out for dinner, drive miles, sit and wait for hours fruitlessly*, and then end up eating a home-delivered pizza at 11pm because things went terribly, bizarrely, wrong in an entirely unpredictable manner.
So. We hopped (in my case literally) into the car and drove out to a local farm shop where they serve nice lunches. But wait! What's this? It's closed on Monday and Tuesday? Arse! Not to be daunted by such a minor setback, we continued on our way.
Every so often there would be a conversation as follows:
Me: Ooh, I've never been down this road before...I think it might lead to FUCK SLOW DOWN a nice pub HORSE! HORSE! yes, there it is...shall we stop there?
Bestest mate: Looks shut. Let's take a closer look.
Me: Mind that bloke...THAT BLOKE THERE...yeah it's shut. Arse. Keep going on this road...there'll be another pub in a HORSE! minute.
And so the long day wore on. He's not a really terrible unsafe driver or anything, I was just a bit jumpy, what with not being able to drive at the moment, and my ankle hurting like hell every time we went over a bump or round a corner.
We drove the entire length of the Wylye Valley, only finding pubs which were shut, occasionally glimpsing a pretty church or row of thatched cottages which we ignored in our feeding frenzy. Eventually we turned onto the main road back towards the village, and decided to stop at the rather splendid Indian for lunch. It was just closing.
Nothing for it but to head back to the house, and go over to the local pub for a sandwich then. But no...they'd stopped serving food. Admittedly by the time we got there it was after half past two, but we still felt disgruntled.
We ended up having a sandwich back at the house, and watching a DVD** while I sat with my foot up and whined how much my ankle hurt.
On that subject, I went and had an X-ray earlier this week, and got the result over the phone from a nurse this morning. Apparently there is no "obvious bone damage" but there is "significant soft tissue damage". And, helpfully, because I had the accident 3 weeks ago if it was a slight fracture it would be healing by now and might not show up on an X-ray. So. Probably not broken, but possibly broken. Yeah, that helps.
I can hop around a bit more easily, but I still can't drive as I can't hold my foot in any other position apart from "flat on the ground" without a good deal of discomfort, and stabs of pain in my anklebone. So I am wiggling it about in short busrts, and taking painkillers when it starts to really play up.
God, I'm old. Nothing works properly these days.
*also meatlessly, fishlessly, chiplessly and puddinglessly
**Tropic Thunder. He hadn't seen it, and I still find it amusing.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Stale custom
Gah I'm bored. Bored bored bored.
Being unable to drive or move around much is really dull. Who'd have imagined it, eh?
Even my longstanding love affair with the Internet has worn thin...custom has staled its infinite variety, and laughing at cats with things on their heads no longer seems to be enough. I never thought this day would come.
It's like the end of something beautiful, it really is. Well, till tomorrow when I will find it all hilarious again.
The highlight of my day today? Making some redcurrant jelly, using the entire crop from our garden. Mr WithaY harvested the berries yesterday, I boiled them for about 20 minutes in water till they were all squishy, then we set up a complex arrangement of upturned chairs, elastic bands, muslin cloths and a huge bowl, and left them to drip overnight.
I did my cooking bit whilst standing on one leg, leaning on the cooker or the kitchen counters, in case you were wondering.
Today I carefully measured the amount of juice (half a pint), added the appropriate amount of sugar (half a pound) and boiled it till I got bored (about 12 minutes).
Hey presto, a really small amount of redcurrant jelly.
Other news: Bugger all. My ankle really hurts, I can't stand on it for any length of time, and getting up and down the stairs is a trial.
We dog sat yesterday for some friends, well for their dog, really, who was charming and well behaved. Other than the whole "stealing a shoe and running up the garden with it" incident, that is. But, it was an isolated outbreak and we made him sit in the garden afterwards and think about what he'd done. That'll learn him.
Bestest Mate is coming to visit tomorrow; he is threatening to take me to Casualty in Salisbury and make a scene until I get crutches and/or an X-ray. I will distract him with tea and chit-chat.
We have decided that we are officially old now. We had a chat about the best places to buy walking sticks last time we spoke on the phone. Maybe we'll go shopping tomorrow. I can sit in the car while he checks out the best stick bargains.
I can't wait.
Being unable to drive or move around much is really dull. Who'd have imagined it, eh?
Even my longstanding love affair with the Internet has worn thin...custom has staled its infinite variety, and laughing at cats with things on their heads no longer seems to be enough. I never thought this day would come.
It's like the end of something beautiful, it really is. Well, till tomorrow when I will find it all hilarious again.
The highlight of my day today? Making some redcurrant jelly, using the entire crop from our garden. Mr WithaY harvested the berries yesterday, I boiled them for about 20 minutes in water till they were all squishy, then we set up a complex arrangement of upturned chairs, elastic bands, muslin cloths and a huge bowl, and left them to drip overnight.
I did my cooking bit whilst standing on one leg, leaning on the cooker or the kitchen counters, in case you were wondering.
Today I carefully measured the amount of juice (half a pint), added the appropriate amount of sugar (half a pound) and boiled it till I got bored (about 12 minutes).
Hey presto, a really small amount of redcurrant jelly.
Other news: Bugger all. My ankle really hurts, I can't stand on it for any length of time, and getting up and down the stairs is a trial.
We dog sat yesterday for some friends, well for their dog, really, who was charming and well behaved. Other than the whole "stealing a shoe and running up the garden with it" incident, that is. But, it was an isolated outbreak and we made him sit in the garden afterwards and think about what he'd done. That'll learn him.
Bestest Mate is coming to visit tomorrow; he is threatening to take me to Casualty in Salisbury and make a scene until I get crutches and/or an X-ray. I will distract him with tea and chit-chat.
We have decided that we are officially old now. We had a chat about the best places to buy walking sticks last time we spoke on the phone. Maybe we'll go shopping tomorrow. I can sit in the car while he checks out the best stick bargains.
I can't wait.
Saturday, 24 July 2010
Nantucket - The Fracturing
Soooo you know this sprained ankle I got on holiday? When I fell over like a fool in Nantucket?
*Apart from the occasional violent bout of norovirus, which is frankly gross and terrifying
**Oo-er missus
***Playing cricket. Honestly.
Yeah, you remember.
Anyway, it's been two weeks since the whole pothole of DOOOOOOM incident, and although the swelling has gone down a bit and the bruising has faded, it still hurts like billy-oh. I rang the doctor's surgery on Monday to ask advice from the nurse there, who gave me some good advice (don't walk on it) and made me a conditional appointment to see the doctor on Friday if it was no better.
It was no better.
Mr WithaY came home from work early and drove me to the doctor, and dropped me off in the carpark outside, so I only had to hobble a few yards. Once the traditional "awkward wait whilst chatting to people who might be horribly contagious" was over, I limped into the doctor's office. Usually when I go to see my doctor it's because I have a chest infection, I am fortunate that very little else seems to go wrong with me*.
He asked me what seemed to be the trouble, having watched me limp in slowly and painfully. I was tempted to say "My nose really hurts," but thought better of it. I explained what had happened and unstrapped my ankle from the amazing neoprene and velcro techno-bandage I bought in America to show him the hideous offender.
He said "Hm, probably some nasty ligament damage. I'll have a feel about.**" A few moments of poking the soft tissue around my anklebone, asking "Does this hurt? How about now?" and me going "Nu-uh, nope, nothing," followed.
He looked at me. I looked at him. He poked my anke bone. I yelped and went through the roof.
"Ah," he said. "That's probably a fracture, or a bone chip. You need an X-ray so we can see how bad it is. I'll refer you."
Well, to be honest, he first offered me the option of a "walk-in" at the big hospital in Bath, but as my gorgeous guitar teacher recently had 5 days of hell on toast in there with a broken AND dislocated ankle***, I declined. I'll wait for an appointment at the local fracture clinic, which should come up in the next few days.
So. Still all strapped up. Still not started my new job. Still can't walk anywhere. Still can't drive. Unable to do much around the house, so even domestic drudgery displacement activity is out, I am getting bored.
Suggestions for entertainment, please.
*Apart from the occasional violent bout of norovirus, which is frankly gross and terrifying
**Oo-er missus
***Playing cricket. Honestly.
Friday, 23 July 2010
Holiday snaps part 3 - Cape Cod
Finally! The last leg of the mega-holiday, including such highlights as "Boiling in Provincetown", "Lobster II" and "Nantucket - The Spraining." Bet you're glad you looked in, aren't you?
We drove back from New Hampshire, past Boston, taking in some of the famous Afternoon Traffic Queue On The Way To The Cape, which was a nice ambition realised. Our friend was delighted to see us, which, considering we were going to be eating her out of house and home for a fortnight, was remarkably nice of her.
The weather took a turn for the unfeasibly hot while we were on the Cape, temperatures of 30-plus degrees day after day, which meant that we lived in shorts and t-shirts, and all the clothes we'd packed for "cool evenings" were left mouldering sadly in our cases. I had packed a selection of shawls, pashminas, scarves and even a cardigan. None of them were used once.
My joy at being back on the Cape was slightly tempered by the headlines in the local paper, all about how Great White Sharks were back, swimming around just off Nauset Beach chasing seals into the shallow water. The sharks were spreading joy and excitement among the marine biologists, but also buggering up my plans to swim off Nauset Beach, and possibly get up close to the seals.
Oh, and to end, this was the sign outside Harwich library, where I borrowed their pcs a couple of times. I think they just thought of random words that children would like and slapped them on a noticeboard. I hope it worked.
*Never. But in my head, one day.
We drove back from New Hampshire, past Boston, taking in some of the famous Afternoon Traffic Queue On The Way To The Cape, which was a nice ambition realised. Our friend was delighted to see us, which, considering we were going to be eating her out of house and home for a fortnight, was remarkably nice of her.
The weather took a turn for the unfeasibly hot while we were on the Cape, temperatures of 30-plus degrees day after day, which meant that we lived in shorts and t-shirts, and all the clothes we'd packed for "cool evenings" were left mouldering sadly in our cases. I had packed a selection of shawls, pashminas, scarves and even a cardigan. None of them were used once.
My joy at being back on the Cape was slightly tempered by the headlines in the local paper, all about how Great White Sharks were back, swimming around just off Nauset Beach chasing seals into the shallow water. The sharks were spreading joy and excitement among the marine biologists, but also buggering up my plans to swim off Nauset Beach, and possibly get up close to the seals.
To compensate for this mighty blow, we went out for another lobster dinner.
There was some sort of salty old sea-dog band entertaining the diners with sea shanties and accordian music, and later in the evening, a solitary guitarist who wandered between the tables, playing mournful songs. What made it even sadder was his tips bag, strapped to his waist. If you wanted to tip him, you had to get up really close and drop the money in, a horribly intimate thing; he had the bag strapped to his belt, so you'd have been groping about in his trouser area. Brrrrrrrrr.
We champed through our lobsters and sweetcorn, trying not to notice the minstrel and his trouser bag of woe.
Also paid a visit to my arch enemy Dr Gravity's Kite Shop.
He sells kites. Including a kite shaped like a horse. Can you imagine how terrifying it would be, seeing that bearing down on you from the sky?
He sells kites. Including a kite shaped like a horse. Can you imagine how terrifying it would be, seeing that bearing down on you from the sky?
Plenty of other, less fearsome, kites too, though, as well as whirly things you hang in the garden. We bought one with a lighthouse on it, and will adorn one of the many, many WithaY sheds with it.
There's a lot of Nature on the Cape. We went and looked at some of it up close. There are several families of Osprey living in nest boxes in the marshes, and you can walk close enough to them to take a really blurry picture with a zoom lens. Well, I was happy just to see them, to be honest. One day when we were at the beach (not Nauset though, not with the fucking sharks, oh no matey, no thank you) we saw one flying along, looking for fish. They're surprisingly large, and the big hooked beak looks like it could eviscerate you no trouble at all. So don't piss off an Osprey, is my advice.
We also went to a beach with the most amazing boardwalk. This was the latter part of the holiday after I'd sprained my ankle so I gimpily hopped along the first few yards, then gave up and sat on a bench while the others went all the way to the end.
To infinity and beyond! Our friend had very resourcefully found me an old broom handle to lean on as I walked, so I amused myself by waving it at them and saying "Fly, you fools! Fly!" as they went off to explore the far-away end of the boardwalk. They, probably wisely, ignored me.
The view from the invalid's bench was pretty nice too.
Look, here's me and Mr WithaY on the boardwalk. You can't see my Staff of Leaning.
And of course, there was the ill-fated, disaster-laden trip to Nantucket. What a day. On the high speed ferry out from Hyannis, my eye was caught by this advert in the free newspaper.
I had no idea that Lung in Vomit was a Nantucket speciality. Things went, quite literally, downhill from there, thanks to this...the Pothole of DOOM. Yes, DOOM. Possibly even DOOOOOOOOOOM.
See that pedestrian crossing on the right? I was walking across it, minding my own business, looking at the traffic (safety first!) when I must have put my foot in the hole, turned my ankle over and went down like a 5'10" sack of shite, not to put too fine a point on it. I hit the tarmac, and once the initial "What the FUCK?" moment passed, realised I was:
(a) on the ground
(b) in the middle of the road
(c) the centre of an alarmed crowd
(d) injured and bleeding. Maimed, in fact.
A kind lady was fussing over me, I was muttering "fucking hell" under my breath, the traffic was held up as there was a body in the road (mine), and the local police/community support/Scouts were mobilising into action. It was like a scene from a disaster movie, but without the volcano.
My day in Nantucket, therefore, consisted of hopping painfully between places, then sitting with my foot up, taking ibuprofin and whining loudly. Here's me in a coffee shop that had free WiFi access, drinking an iced latte.
It's a rubbish quality picture because I took it on my phone and have no idea how to embiggen it without making it blurry. You get the idea, though.
But, the main reason for the trip was the Whaling Museum. And it was absolutely marvellous. Here it is from the bench I sat on outside.
They have about a million exhibits, most of them made of bits of whale, some of them just wonderful.
I liked the huge Mobile Of Many Whales they have hanging in the front of the building.
They also have, in case you somehow manage to miss the whole whale-related theme, a skeleton of a whale that was washed up on the shores a few years ago. It's HUGE and looks like a dinosaur.
The day in Provincetown was HOT, baby, damn hot. I think it may have been the hottest day of the entire holiday, and we were out at sea, whalewatching for a chunk of it, thankfully. My whale pictures are rubbish, but take my word for it, it was thrilling.
Here we are on the whaewatch boat.
And here's a whale, chilling out.
Once off the boat, we found a place to eat and sat panting in their airconditioned room, surrounded by very loud, very gay men, all having a fine old time. I saw this as we walked through the town.
We did a sunset dune buggy tour, ending at a beach where we watched the sun go down (there was a clue on the name of the tour, really). The dunes are unearthly, I liked them very much.
Parts of them look like how I imagine the Veldt looks.
Parts of them don't.
That teeny black speck on the upper right? That's a seal. Honest.
Ok, I can sense that people are probably losing the will to live now with all the "what I did on my holidays" stuff, but to be fair, that's all that this blog has ever been about. I reserve the right to post more photos as and when I feel like it though, I took loads. LOADS.
So, a picture I took out of the window of the plane as we flew home. I might use it as an album cover when I get my arse in gear and become a successful professional musician*.
Hello sky, hello clouds.
I saw a crop circle from the air too, which was lovely, somewhere between Cardiff and Bath I think, but I was too slow and the clouds were too numerous to get a picture of it.
Other news: I am off to the doctor to get my ankle checked out as it is still BLOODY painful and I can't walk any kind of distance, which is tiresome and slightly worrying. I don't think it's fractured, but it's hard to tell, so I will feel better once it's been poked by a professional. Ooh matron.
Also, went to Fat Club this week, and despite the lobster, butter, ice cream, fried clams, Reeses' peanut butter cups, nachos, cocktails and eggs benedict diet I followed, have lost 2 pounds while I was away. So yay me.
*Never. But in my head, one day.
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