Red Squirrel Day

Photo by Siegfried Poepperl on Pexels.com

The main grist of this blog, I am ashamed to admit, has always been me: how I respond to a changing world and the ever multiplying challenges of age. This year has increasingly allowed itself to become entangled in all things medical: doctors, nurses, consultants and obscure medical terminologies have all begun to dominate my existence. Understanding the minute differences between the specialist practitioners of varying ‘ologisms’ is a required skill in itself.

My most recent sojourn in a hospital ward has added a further two unsuccessful procedures to my back catalogue as once again we await a decision on where we should go next. In the UK we do not have groundhogs so, I suppose, it is not possible for me to have a Groundhog Day. Google tells me that the closest thing we have is a red squirrel, so that is where my life is at this moment: Red Squirrel Day – operate, fail, repeat.

Disappointingly I have found a greater portion of my attention is daily being drawn into me. It is frustrating and embarrassing. Age was meant to make me more outward-looking, but illness has sucked me so far into myself that I can actually view the inside of my own trousers without taking them off. Obviously, sleep is what I need, but I have never been a great sleeper and recent nights spent in a hospital ward were far from restful. Lights stayed on, nurses chattered, patients snored and beds were trundled in and out with all the intrusive regularity of newly-throned British Prime Ministers. At 2am you would find greater peace in the middle of Piccadilly Circus which would, without doubt, itself feature far fewer people attempting to extract a phial of blood from you. It is surprising how many people talk in their sleep. In my little ward of eight poorly souls, three of them talked loudly through the mid-night hours – snatches of one-sided conversations, often set on random repeat – and one of them actually sang quite loudly (a selection from Les Miserables if I’m not mistaken, or The Jungle Book if I am).

Morning light is the most welcome of sights through ward windows as it usually means that all efforts to find sleep can be shamelessly sidelined. 6am sees the morning ob’s, 6.30 morning tea and 7am the breakfast trolley. By the time the slow snake of elderly men on the way to morning ablutions has dissipated, half of the ward is asleep again and the other half is talking loudly on the phone. Only those awaiting a change of catheter sit in pallid, contemplative silence whilst everyone else waits for the exquisite agony of Ward Round, when a giant phalanx of clinicians casts shade around the beds: senior consultant, consultant, junior doctors, nurses, clipboards, ipads and an unidentified uniformed person pushing a surgical trolley descend upon the beds one by one, curtains remaining open if the news is good, but closed when it is not. The consultant uses your Christian name (which is written above the bed) but all too clearly has no idea of who you are or why you’re there. Massed bickering erupts when it becomes clear that you (an elderly male) are not called Gladys and are not recovering from a hysterectomy, and the woman with the trolley is sent off to retrieve the correct notes, returning ten minutes later with the news that they’ve amputated the wrong leg.

I came home this morning and my wife has gone to the hairdressers this afternoon – a trip that will swallow up most of the day, a good slice of disposable income and end in inevitable disappointment – so I’ve pottered around, emptying the dishwasher, the washing machine and the biscuit barrel. I have drunk far more coffee than is good for me because… well, because the machine is just sitting there quite frankly and all it requires from me is the push of a button. I’d have tea but all that pouring the boiling water and stirring the teabag is so irksome. I have become some kind of inverse superhero capable of doing almost anything extremely slowly and deliberately. It has just taken me I-dread-to-think-how-long to hang out a batch of laundry one peg at a time. The transition between normal, fit and healthy to doddering old twat has been swift and merciless.

Now I don’t want you to misunderstand me here. I believe that the plan is still for me to return to something approaching full strength in the foreseeable future, as soon as all remedial works have been completed (including tidying site and making good). When the scaffolding has gone and all plumbing and drainage is back in place, I should be good to go. Unless the roof blows off in the meantime.

So, I’m home now, sitting at the kitchen table and the whole point of this little post is to inform you that as my life has settled into what I hope is a temporary slough of despond in which the same old rubbish just keeps coming on round again, my intention is to stop writing about myself week in week out for a while, and instead to write about others now and then. As I have so very few real friends – and as those that I do have will almost certainly not want me writing about them – this will inevitably involve me making some up. I will revisit some old pals – Muriel and Harry, Frankie and Benny, Dinah and Shaw, maybe even spend a little time with the Bearded Man if I can find him a path – and perhaps I will try to make some new ones who might just have something different to say. None of it, I hope, about Red Squirrels…

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Emergency to Eyesore)

EMERGENCY A sudden, urgent and unexpected occurrence requiring immediate action. Usually the result of a late-night kebab from a take-away that you wouldn’t have gone within thirty feet of without a flame-thrower and an economy-sized spray of industrial-strength DDT when sober.

ENCUMBER To load with debt, to impede, to embarrass. Obviously it is the embarrass bit that is relevant here – particularly if you thought this was a green, phallic salad fruit.

EQUIPMENT Anything kept or provided for a specific purpose. Machine guns, ground-to-air missiles, fast cars, Swiss Army knives etc. may all prove to be beyond your means. Don’t Panic! Equipment does not need to be expensive to be effective. A loaded pea-shooter in the ear can be very disconcerting, particularly in the dark. A tumbler applied to a joining wall can be just as effective as expensive electronic bugs – and you can’t drink out of a bug when you get bored of waiting for something to happen. A certain amount of creativity will be required when gleaning information in this manner, as the conversation you hear will unfailingly be muffled, repetitive and exceedingly boring to all but Alan Bennett. The juice of an onion (readily available at Waitrose I believe) makes perfect invisible ink (although it does make all your correspondence smell of onion) and a house brick is the ideal substitute for expensive skeleton keys.

ESCAPE To get away from confinement or restraint. Technical word for what we practiced subversives call ‘running away’. Escape is the only logical response to all types of danger. Much is made of the Fight or Flight effect of adrenaline, produced by the body’s adrenal glands in response to danger. I suggest you strive to develop a Flight or Fight effect. Learn to respond instantly to your initial instinct and run. Run every time. That way, if for some unfathomable reason you should decide that you do not want to be seen as a pathetic little coward and you take the decision to fight, you will already be too far away to do anything about it.

ESPERANTO A language invented by Dr Zamenhof (c. 1887) to enable people of all nations to converse together. – Also known as ‘shouting’ in English.

EXCREMENT Ordure, dung. Try not to be around when this stuff flies, sticks or hits the fan. Can be used in a number of subversive ways – none of them terribly pleasant – and none of them I can list here on grounds of taste, decency and the fact that if you subsequently go out and try to execute such an action, I may find myself hauled up before the beak for ‘Putting ideas into the heads of the mentally challenged’ or similar. Remember, if you get caught in the act of using ordure in the course of subversive activities¹, you may well find yourself right up to the neck in it.

Being caught in somebody else’s garden, whilst in possession of poo is something that you are unlikely to be able to pass off as a harmless hobby.

EXPLOSIVE Anything likely to explode eg gunpowder. Let’s face it, as an amateur, you are extremely unlikely to come up against anything more explosive than a prawn vindaloo – actually, I’m not certain that there is anything more explosive than a prawn vindaloo. You could try to feed it to your enemies, but honestly, it’s not the sort of thing you can slip into their muesli without them noticing. A bit like an atomic bomb – it’s the fall-out that causes the real trouble.

EYESORE Something ugly to look at. The world is full of such things, every single one of them man-made. Turning beautiful things into eyesores is an inexpensive and effective subversive ploy: try sticking an imitation wart onto the face of the Mona Lisa¹; build a dirty-great coal-fired power station in the middle of our green and pleasant land; attend an EDL meeting. Please remember that an ‘eyesore’ is not the same as a ‘sore eye’, which is what you will get if you forget yourself at the EDL meeting and reprimand the speaker for using racist language.

I say ‘try’ as the French security guards are unlikely to take kindly to it and you might find yourself nose-down on the floor with a knee in the back of your neck quicker than you can say ‘Zut alors!’ Ultimately, you may wind up in a French prison where you will be forced to share a cell with a large number of blue-chinned men wearing striped pullovers and neckerchiefs, all of them missing wives and girlfriends (plurals are intentional – they are French after all.)

EXERCISE.

Translate your subversive Manifesto into Esperanto and see whether anybody either notices or cares.

Moderately OK on a More Consistent Basis

Aware that we will be moving soon, I have been overproducing posts like some kind of hyperactive fence manufacturer. When we get to the new house it will take me some days to set up the office, sort out the internet and install the coffeemaker, so I will need posts in reserve. I no longer
Moderately OK on a More Consistent Basis

Really hoping to be able to return to writing new stuff soon, so probably the last of the ‘On This Day’ posts for a while, before I get back to the old routine. This was from a couple of years ago, just before we moved house and the rot set in..,

A Little Fiction – New Book (Title Unknown) – Introduction (Conversations with a Bearded Man part one)

I was going through some old files on my computer when I found this. It is just titled ‘New Book – Title Unknown’. I thought you might like it… i. The first time I saw him he was peering under the bonnet of a car, pulling at wires and whistling “Blowin’ Free”. “Wishbone Ash,” I
A Little Fiction – New Book (Title Unknown) – Introduction (Conversations with a Bearded Man part one)

For today’s archive trawl I give you this first appearance (in September 2019) of a character that became a firm (for me) favourite character who returned many times over the years.

Frankie & Benny #4 – The Birthday

“It’s your birthday Frankie my friend, so you choose. What should we do today?”“Well now Benjamin, that’s a tricky one. I mean the world is so full of opportunities, isn’t it? We could take a cruise on our private yacht. We could have lunch in our favourite restaurant in Paris, dip our toes in the
Frankie & Benny #4 – The Birthday

Still unable to add anything new from my hospital bed, this little episode popped up on my ‘On This Day’ notice from 2022. Among my favourite characters this episode contains one of my favourite ever lines from them. You know me by now, I think you’ll spot it.

The Middle of Nowhere

This is not a unique situation for me. I have no idea what I am going to write about, but, whatever it is, I feel that I ought to get started, so, well, you know… I normally scrawl notes on various scraps of paper during the course of the day, but today I haven’t had
The Middle of Nowhere

Another hospital bed republication of ‘Classic Material’. Never thought I’d write that sentence…

A Dog by Any Other Name

Back in what we must now call ‘my day’ (and was, until quite recently called ‘my father’s day’), whenever your thoroughbred bitch found its way through the wire netting that surrounded the back garden and managed to fashion a tryst with a similarly footloose and collar-free dog, the resulting offspring were known as ‘Mongrels. Free
A Dog by Any Other Name

I’m residing (again) in a hospital bed. I’m fine, but while it is difficult for me to write anything new, I thought I might as well republish the best of my ‘On This Day’ reminders of the past while I’m here. They often remind me that I used to be better at this. Hey ho! PS if you should read it, it is probably important to note that, my grammar being what it is, it was the dog that did the ball licking and not the vet!

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Emasculate)

EMASCULATE a) To castrate b) to deprive of strength or vigour; weaken. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? Emasculation is of limited use as a weapon for the DIY subversive, particularly the males, who are unlikely to have the stomach for it, although I am sure that most of us could make up a very long list of those who should have been emasculated – fathers mostly – before the damage was done. If you truly believe that the man next door is about to spawn the devil’s child (although exactly how that might be possible, I’m not entirely certain) or a future politician, you may consider this a justifiable course of action. I would urge you to consider the following: is defeating the anti-Christ really the role of a subversive? Wouldn’t it be better left to someone with religious convictions¹? Why not contact the local vicar and inform them of your suspicions? It will certainly provide relief from the usual diet of ox-coveting or extra-marital contrition, and offer a subject for a sermon that almost certainly has not been covered by ‘that other lot up the road’. If you are fortunate enough to have one of the keener vicars, they may even consider blessing the Stanley knife for you, although it is most unlikely that they will carry out the act themselves.

You may be able to ‘accidentally’ disclose your suspicions to members of the WI in an ‘unguarded moment’, adding that the person you suspect is also single, has six children by six separate married women and almost certainly votes Labour – that should do it. Never leave your address.

Remember the victim is almost certain to put up significant resistance² unless heavily sedated. Are you yourself strong enough to control a violent victim³? Even those rendered insensible by alcohol or drugs are likely to kick up a bit of a fuss when they realise what you are about to do with the knife, the bowl and the Marigolds. Do you have sufficient equipment to restrain a desperate man? Gaffer tape does not come cheap, and you can’t really trust the stuff you usually buy from Poundland when it’s not even strong enough to hold the broken zip together on your trousers – at least that’s what you intend to tell the judge.

It is important to prepare: are you planning a single-hack emasculation or are you aiming for a total removal? If you envisage a full castration, you will probably need a really big box of plasters⁴. What will you do with the victim once the appendage has been removed? You’ve watched a great many films – alone, of course – and you know all about staunching bleeding with the application of hot tar or by setting fire to gunpowder, but you can’t expect your victim just to shake your hand afterwards and wander off to pursue his hormone-lite life without a by-your-leave. You could perhaps leave him in the care of an isolated order of Dominican monks – the kind that would kill him if he tried to escape – or, failing that, you could remove his tongue⁵. He may even prefer that to the emasculation itself. You are nothing if not compassionate – why not give him the choice?

What will you do with the appendage once removed? Do you have a cat? Is it a fussy eater? If your cat is likely to turn its nose up at this additional source of protein, try next door’s dog – anything that will eat three week-old fox poop is almost certain to relish a freshly severed member. If you have gone for a total castration, you could leave it to dry for a few days before selling it to the hippy couple down the street as some kind of traditional African maraca. The full set may make an unusual novelty door knocker, paperweight or garden ‘dibber’. Alternatively you may choose to pop it into a sealed plastic bag and hand it back to your victim with a note for his doctor.

Not, incidentally, convictions for holding religious convictions, which are all too easy to get in some of the world’s most ‘enlightened’ nations and may, indeed, lead to emasculation – probably with something blunt and rusty.
It may be wise to reconsider if he does not.
This is a rhetorical question and, as such, does not require an answer. If you are the kind of pedant who, none-the-less, requires one, it is ‘No’.
Band Aid in America. The really big ones with the 360˚sticky bit.
I have seen an ox’s tongue in the butcher’s and if human tongues are anything like them you will need a very long-handled pair of scissors indeed. A mouthful of superglue may serve as a less gory and noisy alternative.

The Greater Scheme of Things

I just wanted to thank you all for your comments and good wishes following Wednesday’s post. I feel though that I probably need to clarify what it was really all about.

I wrote the post simply because it was all that I had to write about when I first sat back down at the computer after a week away. It wasn’t intended as a major whinge, nor as a plea for sympathy, it was simply intended to be about the week just gone and an explanation for my absence the previous week. The whole ethos of this blog is that I don’t take myself too seriously and I tried to make it funny. Sometimes I fail, so I apologise if it all sounded a bit maudlin.

I think there may be more medical updates over the following few weeks, but only because I try to report what is happening around me in my own disjointed little way and for the time being it is likely to feature doctors. If I start to sound sorry for myself, please feel free to send me a metaphorical kick up the arse and I will do all I can to buck myself up.

As always, I am more than grateful for your continued readership and support.

The Great Scheme of Things

I have been in and out (and in and out) of hospital. I have been admitted as an emergency as a result of a scan that I had weeks ago for an operation which, after an overnight stay, did not happen as it transpired that I did not actually fulfil the ‘Emergency’ criteria but was, in fact, ‘Red List Urgent’, which boiled down to being sent home with instructions to turn up again a few days later having had nil by mouth from 3am (meaning that I set my alarm for 2.30 in order to fill up on chocolate). I did as instructed, was re-admitted three days later and, this time, operated upon. The operation was, unfortunately, unsuccessful and I was ‘kept in’ overnight before being discharged with the promise that an alternative procedure would be carried out ‘within a few days’. It goes without saying that, to date, it has not, nor will it according to my latest telephone conversation. They wish, I am informed, to assess me after an MRI scan, despite the fact that I have had two previous MRI and three various CT scans in the months since I became ill. My internal organs have been photographed so often that my innards are considering getting an agent. I’m not sure how much more assessment I can take. (This does, I hope, explain my reasons for missing my regular post last week. It’s not much in the Great Scheme of Things, but does have, at least, more timbre than ‘the dog ate my homework’.)

It is a strange thing that every single medical professional I have encountered over this little journey has been top class: caring, efficient and keen to do their very best for me. It is very clearly the organisation itself that has problems. My own issues, I think, stem from the fact that I have two specialists in two different hospital ‘departments’ and they clearly do not wish to talk to one another (let us call them Abbott & Costello), and neither of them with my GP with whom I have just managed to get a ‘non-urgent’ appointment a mere six weeks after I asked for it.

Now, other than an initial spell (December and January) during which I was unusually unwell, I am and have been – despite the evidence of more blood tests and scans than those accorded to a blue-tongued sheep – well… well. I remain fitter than most of my contemporaries; I am (otherwise) healthy and active and – whisper it in case it is held against me – happy most of the time, although I must admit that, unusually for me, my mental welfare has required a little husbanding through the last few months. I have drunk more tea and eaten more biscuits than Tiger Woods has had car crashes.

Earlier today my wife prompted me to write down what I wanted to know from a scheduled ‘telephone consultation’ with a consultant – Lord only knows which one – set for tomorrow and, having considered it for a little while, it transpires that the answer is everything. I want to know why – other than assessment – nothing was done, during which time my body endeavoured to ensure that when arses finally did shift into gear, nothing could be done. It will almost certainly be some time before I find out whether or not it has succeeded. I want to know what went wrong with what they tried to do, what stopped them doing what they then planned to do and most of all, what the heck they intend to do now. I’m pretty certain that the answer will be that they are “awaiting scan results in order to assess the situation, thank you for your time, we’ll be in touch…”

I’m a couple of months short of 68 years old and I realise that the concept of any general improvement in my physical well-being is an aspiration on a par with world peace, a quiet half-hour in a hot bath with a cool whisky, or correctly locating the exact mille-second that lies between raw and overcooked scrambled egg, but I find it very difficult to accept that after so many medical professionals have viewed my internal workings in 3D – one or two of them actually having had a good old rummage around in there too – nobody is able to tell me “This is where we are, and this is where we’re going.” Good news/bad news – any news would be good. I am in the perfectly happy place of eating well, drinking sensibly, exercising regularly and staying healthy that I would have been in without any of this medical intervention and worry – a worry that, like a despot’s democratic majority, continues onward and upward with new uncertainties at every turn. Nothing can turn back this particular clock, but it would be great to know what time it is now, and what time it will be in an hour.

Anyway, enough of the moaning – you clearly do not need to listen to that! – I just felt that I should explain last week’s absence and warn that there may be more ahead – or not, obviously.

Today I’ve played football with my old-fogey team-mates, loaded a skip with the contents of the old bathroom, mixed sand and cement and patched up the floor, mixed plaster and patched up the ceiling. I’ve just had a bottle of beer and I’m about to put my feet up in the certain knowledge that every muscle, bone and joint in my body will ache like buggery in the morning and that, of course, is exactly as it should be. In the great scheme of things I am in excellent shape: I am old, growing older and, fortunately – for me, if not for you – perfectly capable of writing at least one blog a week as long as I am not in hospital while my laptop remains at home…