Warm fridges, grass and bodies

It would appear that this week is ‘everyone’s a doctor’ week. I apologise if my responses have not been what was expected but nobody informed me that this event was taking place. In case you have missed this event as well let me enlighten you, this is a week when everybody can tell you what’s wrong with you apparently.

So according to passers-by I look alternately tired, ill or drawn. Whilst it is marvelous to share your various diagnoses I must point out that these are not medical conditions. I am indeed tired but that is a perfectly predictable and expected result of my work pattern, there is nothing wrong with that. I may be somewhat more tired at the moment simply because of the additional effort that Ms Nature is putting into her fight but this is a cyclical thing and she will tire before me.

I am not pale, I may not be as bronzed or red as those of you who have been enjoying the recent hot weather but that, again, is an expected result of me working indoors. I would also say that I am not ‘drawn’ and since I have no idea what this actually means I am not sure of an appropriate defence other than that. This has happened over a few days hence my presumption that this is a week-long thing I certainly hope that it doesn’t persist any longer!

In other news I can tell you that one advantage of not having anything in your fridge is that when you accidentally leave it open all day there is nothing to spoil. I would strongly urge everyone to remove food from the fridge and place it in the garbage thus countering any accidental risk of spoiling, one cannot be too safe after all.

As the weather improves it is, unfortunately, time to show off my gardening prowess. There are two tools in my gardening armoury, and I have no intention of adding any others, a strimmer and some weed killer. This is another front at which Ms Nature and I clash, why does grass grow so prolifically? You would think that my strict gardening regime of ‘cut it or kill it’ would deter growth but if anything it seems to encourage it! Cutting the garden is like writing lines at school, first I cut the grass down to a level where the garden can be used, then I don’t use the garden, then repeat.

The pub garden will be a wonderful space in the future but there are other priorities right now and there is significant work to do on the garden itself. So for now I have to continue this process of cutting the grass, looking and thinking ‘it would be nice to lie out here in the sun for a few hours’ and then realising its time to open up and heading back in.

After somebody sadly passed away in one of the properties in the street on Tuesday I had probably the best comment from a customer yesterday “Have they brought any more bodies out?” Really? I wanted to explain that they take them out once a week to let the aroma develop or that the house was under siege and the police thought it best to leave him alone for a bit.

 

Gypsies and memories

I think we know each other now, hey it’s been a while and we have shared some stuff. So take a stroll with me and lets explore a word that has shadowed my life, in good, bad and indifferent ways.

As a nipper in London I was not the most popular kid in school (shit happens) and the lack of household funds and generally old school* living gained me the tag of ‘gypsy’. This was not a day of modern enlightenment  and it was not a popular tag. It was a tag that hurt  both me and those who chose to use it and it had no good associations. I carry, and always will, a scar that came from those who were more commonly associated with my ‘nickname’ it was gained as a child but is still remembered as an adult.

Back in the day that it was common to have gypsies on, what were then, open fields, parks and playgrounds it was not a name that any person would wear with pride. To wear the wound and still suffer the name calling was not a good place for a nipper, no complaints, just saying.

My mother, rest her soul, chose to escape what home was becoming and moved us to the coast. I will never question a move that was one of the best in my life and has helped me make the grand old age that I am today. My mother was never blessed with funds though and we moved to a caravan, again remember this was some time ago.

Guess what became my high school nickname? yep the gypsy was back and it was as unpleasant a nickname as it had been 200 hundred miles south. As an insult its tough, it has so many connotations and so much disrespect built into it that you can’t overcome. Even adults sneer at the nickname for some sort of innate fear that their garden will become overrun. Today it is perfectly normal to spend 52 weeks a year in a caravan but when I was a nipper it made you a wrong’un and to be fair it hurt.

Hard, very hard, graft pushed me into my first mortgage by twenty (hope that moron still enjoys it). I was so determined to be a homeowner, it was another decade, not for me anything temporary. Home, of course, was nothing other than a myth and I was soon working away. I worked away so much that at one point I had managed 15 years with never more than 3 nights at home.

So what happens? your colleagues call you ‘pikey’ after all you are never in one place long. It becomes a badge of honour, a label that you hold proudly after all I am the only pikey that you ship business class to Japan for one meeting aren’t I? I have been introduced internationally as ‘the pikey’ and dealt with the confusion that this brings about. Senior meetings, conference calls and crisis summits for years (15 at BT) were interspersed with sensible adults saying “listen to the pikey”.

A name that was the torment of my younger life became a happy badge and in biker days there was a switch between ‘pikey’ and ‘gypo’. Two names that I detested as a child became synonymous with me. To this day I am the pikey, it is what you call me but you no longer mean it as an insult and I have found a compliment in it. The very term that threatened to take my childhood and could have prevented my adulthood is not only a delight but something that I revel in.

You may be pondering the random post, after all you didn’t really need to know this (apologies for the absence of humour) so let me explain. I have closed and secured my pub, the bricks and mortar result of my life so far and let’s be fair I have had some years. So I hit the pc and somehow (god bless google) caught Cher singing ‘gypsies tramps and thieves’. I remember belting this song out (obviously drunk) with a girlfriend and it wasn’t the words, wasn’t the song. If one set of lyrics sums this old life up it is them and, until now, few of you knew, who would have guessed?

So welcome to the pikey but beware I don’t move around so much nowadays, not to say I don’t fiercely protect my name. As for Cher well she did some good stuff including summarising this old pikey’s life in a daft old song.

Just to add some normality to this odd post let me tell you that I am in agony, my wrists hurt so much that I  can barely type but hey tomorrow is another day

*In this case old school can be easily exchanged for skint (but happy)

Proper snacks and the FBI

I knew that the enforced curfew of Christmas had got too much this morning when I found myself idly checking that I wasn’t on the FBI’s most wanted list*. Backache meant a run was out of the question so I opted for a walk along the seafront on a chilly December morning. This is a stroll that I do quite regularly and I will rarely see more than half a dozen people, today was busier than an August bank holiday, well almost. There were people everywhere but these were no ordinary people they were festive ones, is one day not enough?

When I say that they were festive I don’t mean that they were wearing red hats and tinsel, oh no they were in disguise. They couldn’t hide from me though I spotted their strange groupings, like adults ever voluntarily go for walks with parents. And again the over formality, it was like somebody waved a wand that converted all the hoodies into formal coats! The strangest thing happened when passing these groups, they tried some form of communication! I know, in England and in a public place way to blend in losers. Luckily I had deployed my standard defence against such tactics, an MP3 player and a slightly psychotic expression** that few would try to engage with.

Having overcome my shock at the masses I happened upon one of those things that brilliantly captures the special breed that is coastal residents. Sitting in plastic chairs against the sea wall were a family indulging in the perfect seaside treat for a freezing December day, ice cream. This was no mere supermarket purchase though, at the coast we plan this stuff out way better than that. The family was eating Mr Whippy from the local kiosk which was not only open but had its obligatory 4 ft high plastic cone out to let people know. We breed em tough round here.

I can share an interesting development from the continues battle with Ms Nature. I seem to have some nerve conflict going on which is making my hands go ice-cold and numb from time to time. There seems to be no logic for this it just happens and then eventually goes away again, go figure. The entertaining thing about this latest assault is the futility of it, my wrists hurt so making them numb is a relief. That’s the great thing about Ms Nature, she’s determined but dumb and that is why I will win.

 

 

*Google is supposed to surround me with relevant advertisements and amongst all the plumbing supplies was a link to the FBI most wanted list, I figured Google may have known something that I didn’t…..

**The former is available from all good stores but the latter takes a special blend of parents I am afraid

Hello everybody it’s Dr Gav

Despite donning a wrist brace yesterday lefty continued to misbehave. Cooking an evening meal resulted in a burn on my right arm when lefty decided to reject the plan of holding a saucepan. Using my medical expertise* I studied lefty and the movements that caused more pain. I had a eureka moment when I discovered a lump between the base of my thumb and my wrist. Checking the other wrist revealed no such projection but what did that mean? One of the problems with smashing both wrists is that there is no known ‘good’ one to compare with, had lefty grown a lump or had righty lost one?

Given that lefty was causing the pain and the more painful movements caused a grinding against the lump I concluded it was not desirable. The next question was what to do with the lump? It didn’t hurt to press it but equally it didn’t seem to want to move. Now the engineer in me knows that middle carpal row is held in compression by the other two so perhaps it was just a case of getting the correct angle of attack. Rotating the wrist whilst pressing the lump brought some movement and after a couple of goes I was rewarded with a loud crack.
No more lump, well at least it was smaller. A quick check through the range of rotation revealed that it now hurt more, with the grinding feeling deeper in the joints. This all seemed rather unfair, I had solved the issue after all so why had the pain not stopped? More worryingly how would I get the bone back out if indeed that was the problem?

I did some exercise to work out all of the mechanical noises and then retired for the night. Lefty most definitely disapproved, no matter how I laid I couldn’t stop the pain. In the end I hit a compromise, a very tight bandage and wrist under the pillow numbed it for a while. The problem with this arrangement was that after a short while the pins and needles became more annoying so I had to release the bandage. Whilst this arrangement is not conducive to sleep it does give plenty of opportunity to listen to the ocean.

The pain has eased off a little this morning, obviously this is because my intervention was the right thing to do. Or perhaps it just that my shoulder is aching so much, in protest at sleeping on it, that the wrist doesn’t seem so bad.

I wrote this post mainly for anyone who should catch me sneaking glances at them. It’s ok it’s nothing weird I’m just trying to understand what a wrist should look like!

*or should that be stupidise?

Its a world, whose is irrelevant

I live in a world that is not where you live. I know that you think we are friends or mates or that you know me but honestly, I’m kinda unique. So to those that see me in their office, not for me. Those that see me as an enforcer, not for me. Those that think I am security, not for me. Can I do these jobs? Yes, Have I done these jobs? Yes.

I may sound like you but I’m not you, in truth I’m not sure who I am but that doesn’t matter I’m not you. You want me to be you, want me to help you, sympathise and empathise with you, no problem but I’m not you. Do I have tattoos? Yes, have I lost my kids? Yes, Have I done bad things? Choose a side, am I a good guy? There aren’t any that’s just fantasy.So I am who I am will be who I will be and will be dammed by my choices they call that life.

This evening I went to the pub, a pint or maybe two. No intention to stay out was quickly replaced by a late night, that is the joy of pubs, don’t forget them guys! I met up with a crowd that didn’t colour coordinate with me, my t shirt said ” I beat cancer, by cancer I mean my wife” one of them had cancer. There are two ways of dealing with this, for you. For me it’s just life hell,for some of its a shitter. For my mate Mick an opportunity to use lines such as “shut up I’m talking to baldy” and “did you lose all hair” before killing it with ” you are all drinking on her sympathy”. Cancer is a powerful and indiscriminate disease but hey if you can’t laugh at it then it all becomes serious and tedious.

Think thats odd? Maybe you’re right but happiest cancer survivor in Essex left the pub. Some of us are not born to be nice, eloquent or clever but there’s a humanity in our lives that you couldn’t understand. You may not know me, may not need to befriend me but one day you will be happy to meet me, it’s just how it is. So do I know how to hurt you? Can I make a living out of chaos? That is irrelevant lets live for the day……

DIY, balls and long lost tummies

There are a couple of things that I would like to share with you from the world of recuperation, remember I do this so you don’t have to. The first is the experience of a DVLA medical, which was not at all what I expected. They had warned me that the medical would involve some nakedness but they hadn’t warned me that it would take place in a modern doctor’s surgery which is clearly something that I have not experienced before. The first thing that struck me was that there was nobody there, well not actually nobody but only two or three people in the waiting room. If you are lucky enough to win the telephone lotto and get an appointment at my local surgery then you will find the waiting room packed with various sickly people. Next up on the list was the ubiquitous electronic displays for calling patients, it displayed your name and your date of birth which I imagine makes for some very upset women.

Having taken my seat I was called back to the window with the request “could you please take your blood pressure and write it down” I must have looked suitably lost because they directed me to a machine. Am I crazy in assuming that the medical staff are supposed to carry out this task? What’s more this is a driving medical so should they not make some effort to secure the information? I wrote the numbers down but and was hit with an overwhelming desire to make them better, luckily I didn’t know which way was better so gave in the original numbers. Max kindly told me later that I should have knocked them all down which makes sense as I apparently have clinician syndrome which means when you measure my BP it acts up and looks high. The next stage was the nurse for blood tests, normally a very sensible arrangement. The nurse commented “when you got all those tattoos did you think about blood tests” to which the only reasonable response is “surely that many tattoos is an indication that I don’t think”. She kindly informed that it was OK it was good experience to ‘do it blind’ which went some way to not putting me at ease. Blood taken the nurse then took the odd step of squirting the blood into the test tube, normally they snap the ends off the syringe which leaves the cartridge. The problem with the squirting technique is that the blood tries to escape at every opportunity hence I left her cleaning the mouse mat, her pen and keyboard. I record this here in case there is a break in at the surgery over the weekend, it wasn’t me DNA or no DNA.

I was dispatched to the waiting room with the paperwork and my blood, again I am no security expert but this seems weak to say the least. Finally to the doctor for what was mostly a series of questions, the obvious drink and drug ones were followed by “do you have tattoos and if so how many?” I suggested that once they all join up they should count as one but this was not met with humour. After a quick inspection the doc hit on “multiple”, when we got to piercings he was very glad of that word and wrote it before I had finished telling him. I didn’t think that one had to notify the DVLA when you got a tattoo or a piercing, does it affect your driving ability? The question that I really struggled with was “has alcohol affected your relationships?” How does one answer that, is it appropriate to say that it was the cause of most of them? as I ran through a series of scary drunken memories the doctor reread the question “sorry I mean has an alcohol problem affected your relationships” oh that’s easy, no problem so answer is no. Next was T-shirt off and on the couch, obviously a standard driving position, for reflex, heart and lung checks. Interestingly the doc told me that if you have no reflexes on both sides then that is OK, go figure. Then there was belly pressing along with the question “any tummy pain” why do doctors insist on using the word ‘tummy’ I haven’ had a tummy since I was 5 it is my stomach, as a doctor surely you know that! We finished the nudity with a testicle question “any lumps” oh no I assured him, no lumps and certainly not big enough to get in the way of a steering wheel. When you’re semi-naked on a couch and a doctor asks “do you check regularly” then I challenge any man to answer anything other than “oh yes, why just this morning”.

Medical all done I was given the blood sample to take back to reception with the comment “don’t forget and it take it home”. I would have thought a more appropriate comment would have been “don’t swap that sample with a clean living friend” but hey what do I know?

For the second story I turn to the wonderful Debs my physioterrorist. Today we discovered some new and interesting issues and I have been given another set of hideous exercises to stretch long tendons that have shrunk when I wasn’t looking. It was the first time that I have seen Ben in ages and he was astounded by the scars, that is another convert to the power of the seemingly unexplainable properties of Dermatix. I remain astounded that you can sell a product at such an insane price when you can’t explain how it works but any parent of teenagers should keep it in the house for that messed up piercing. Apparently I can now be trusted with a powerball, although they were a bit of a fad they are apparently excellent for recuperation because they don’t stress the articulating surfaces in the wrist unlike my grip training. The grip training was frowned upon mostly because I don’t tend to be gentle and I do tend to lie about pain when challenged, we agreed that I would do both. Now if Debs suggests it then it is a good idea, simple as that there is no question about it.

On the way back to the station I stopped at a large outdoors type store that Debs informed me stocked the object in question. I looked up at the hanging boards telling me the sections, camping, shoes, climbing and accessories to name but a few but there wasn’t a toys or exercise section. Due to shortness of time I found a lady to ask and she told me that they had moved to somewhere else and led me there, still no sign “Pete” she called and a fella looked over “powerballs?” laughing he directed her to another fella. By the time that we had located the product there were three men laughing every time that the word powerballs was uttered and a completely clueless woman. In the end she asked why we were laughing and I offered the answer “it’s a boy thing” which almost satisfied her until I added “we get it from our mums”. Just goes to show that we never really grow up. I am now resplendent with a power ball and can see that it really will be an irritatingly addictive addition and a constant soundtrack.

Mechanical pain and roller-coasters

For those that seem ever curious about my healing let me share an experience. I finished up on the laptop this evening and put it away. As I walked across the room lefty decided to remind me things aren’t perfect. The wrist spasmed and locked, followed by a sharp pain along the metalwork. It is a difficult thing for an Engineer because it clearly indicates a mechanical failing. It feels as if there is some mechanical failure that prevents movement, but I know that isn’t be the case.

I couldn’t move my hand on its own so I called on righty. The hand was mechanically tight and forcing it was like moving my forearm through broken glass. It is a very strange set of sensations, all quite unpleasant really. Of course, like most things it is transient. Because it’s lefty I can place the palm on the bed and push hard. Guess what? No snap, no fracture just a short nasty pain and freedom of movement returns. I will get this sort of misbehaviour from one or the other wrist once or twice a week. I have a theory on this, I think it’s nerves moving around and like all my theories the answer is brute force and ignorance. Hey works for me.

In happier news I saw an advert this evening that involved a roller-coaster. It’s amazing how silly things bring such great memories back to you. It is also quite astounding how many great memories you can have in one place. The roller-coaster reminded me of the daft little coaster at Black Gang Chine. The thing took years to build and is probably one of the smallest roller-coasters in the country! But my children were of the age that the most important thing in the world was to be able to fit those little GRP models that dictate minimum heights.

To small children these little plastic characters sit like stazi preventing entry to rides. Being able to reach the gremlin’s hand is an indication of maturity, almost a rite of passage. Having entertained each other on the teacups they passed the height limit for the coaster, ok my daughter may have been on tip toes. Luckily my girlfriend at the time took the kids on the ride, roller-coasters are not for me. That one image on the television placed me back there. I could feel the sun on my shoulders, hear the delighted shrieks of my babies and the sounds of the crowds.

It is odd, no matter what happens in life the happy bits are sealed forever in pockets of memory. Things change, people hurt you but the feeling that you had at that moment is locked forever. It is a perpetual regret that I don’t have enough of these memories with my gorgeous children but those that I have can illuminate the darkest of days.