You might remember my recent father's day post, where I talked about my fears for my dad's health.
Well, last night one shoe dropped.
I don't quote know how, but I'd manage to not think about it for a couple of days, so when my mum was pestering me to bring my dinner plate down right now and wash it I'll admit I was a bit annoyed. I was busy. I had just got my printer back after being repaired and I was printing out a test picture. So I yelled back that I was busy and I went down when I'd finished the print.
I took the print with me, tipped my plate into the basin and showed my dad, because I knew he hadn't seen it and I wanted to know what he thought of it, while he was looking at it, my mum came in, and reminded me once more to "wash the dishes, don't just leave them there". So I showed her the print too.
Then she cleared her throat, and said "your dad was back at the hospital today and, well, the news isn't good", and in that second, I felt sick. I felt sick, and I felt selfish for forgetting, and I felt scared of what I was going to be told, even though I kind of knew already.
I stepped back, glad that the sink was behind me, and I held on to the first thing I touched. The fake drawer-front in front of the sink. I held on for dear life. I held on so I wouldn't fall. I held on so tight that my fingers hurt. I held on so tight, and I bit my lip so that I didn't cry when my dad said "it's cancer".
I don't know why, but the first thing that ran though my head was that stupid soundbite from the Celine Dion "Behind the Music" on VH1.
"Cancer. It's never part of your vocabulary."
I think I mumbled a bit. I might have said "oh". Mostly I was concentrating on not falling over and/or bawling my eyes out.
Then they told me the details. There is a tumour the size of an apricot. It's not in his lungs but behind. Next to one of his lymph nodes. They're taking him into hospital either next week or the week after and they'll remove the lymph node and from that they'll be able to tell whether or not it's crossed over into the other node (or anywhere else), and what sort of cancer it is.
If it hasn't crossed over, they'll remove the tumour and probably go for some form of chemotherapy and radiotherapy. If it has crossed over, they won't be able to remove the tumour, and will probably attempt a different course of therapy, and hope that it shrinks the tumour and kills the cells enough that it will become operable.
So now we wait. Wait for a phone call from the surgeon's secretary to find out when he'll be admitted. Then we'll wait 2 or 3 days for the operation and the tests to be completed, and then he might get out of hospital. If his diabetes remains stable. If not, he'll be kept in a bit longer until they stabilize him.
So now we wait.
Right. That's it.
You're getting cut off.
You've had too much blog for today. Give me your keyboard and go home.
You can come and collect your keyboard in the morning.
:)
I meant to say... I'll be using the scanner I bought from Tom Coates a little while back to build my own blog.
He was very normal. I was a tiny bit disappointed.
I nearly didn't get away from here with any of my cash or credit cards intact.
The words "DVD" and "Sale" bring out the uber-movie-geek in me. I'm a sucker for commentaries and deleted scenes and outakes and... no, musn't go back there!
Usually when you see something like "Biggest Summer Sale Ever" you're reminded of the ridiculousness of it all. Who measures one sale against another? Was someone standing at the door last year tallying how much more stock they need to shift to make this year bigger than last? Does "Biggest Summer Sale Ever" have more of an impact that "Big Summer Sale"?
I tend to reason that very few items become unavailable in the long term. I panic bought a copy of Neil Gaiman's Angels & Visitations when I heard it would go out of print, but the stories have reappeared in other compilations. I fought a tough auction for the Vertigo Tarot a few years back and had it shipped over from Australia. This year sees it back in print.
I just know that if I order a copy of the Superman DVD, the legal reasons for it being deleted from catalogues will evaporate. So I'm not going to.
Another thing, "Biggest Summer Sale Ever" doesn't sit well with me. It reminds me of those compilation CD albums "Greatest Hits of the 60's Ever! Volume 6"... now, wouldn't the greatest hits have been trimmed down into album one? One and two at the outside, as its not likely that there are ever going to be any more 60's hits than there are already. Surely by the time you get to "Greatest Rock Anthems Ever! Volume 12" you're stuck with Bon Jovi B-sides, Berlin and the Beatles "Get Back" (which is *not* a real Beatles song. What *are* those lyrics going on about? Paul, shut up and write something decent)
Don't even get me started on Ibiza Anthems or Chill-Out Sessions albums.
Yes, all right damnit. I'll work on my own blog tonight! Promise. But... I just got Assault On Precinct 13, Farscape and Return of The King at HMV today! Wah!
Okay, if you work in the vicinity of Bond Street Tube you may have had your mandatory fire drill this morning. Some of the people in this area deserve to burn slowly to death in a pool of lighter fluid... but that just might be my opinion.
Sauntering through Cavandish Square I became aware that massive hordes of people in business suits were just standing there talking amongst themselves. You could even work out the social cliques. The young guys in the white shirts with no jackets... marketing. The middle-aged men in black double-breasteds... sales. The very few women in black pencil skirts beside men in blue pinstripe suits... admin and management. And the lone teenager having a cigarette on their own. Temp.
A little further on was the John Lewis muster point. Cunningly placed beneath a very tall tree that would probably catch fire quickly, dousing them in flaming leaves of death (hmm, sounds like that would make a good movie title). I hate John Lewis. I wouldn't hate him if his slogan wasn't "Never Knowingly Undersold", because that's the biggest printed lie in the world aside from "I did not have sexual relations with that woman".
John Lewis probably gets away with it because the people that shop there never need to go anywhere else. So they are blissfully unaware that in the real world DVD's that have been around for a year don't still cost £25. That PC games tend to retail for £30 on day of release instead of £40 six months down the line and that the Sony Trinitron KV-32 series is generally available anywhere else for £500 less than John Lewis claim it costs.
Call me picky, call me a cheapskate, or call me a shabby intellectual and proud of it.
I wouldn't be surprised if the same people who run John Lewis own shares in a company I won't name... but lets call them Bixons.
They could do with burning down to the ground too.
In a little tangent, I went to school in what was the former Iraqi embassy in Paris, just off the Champs-Elysees. The school was an international bilingual school where rich parents sent their kids to learn french while they did things like... be the ambassador to the US, manage the opening of a Disney park, be one of the Israeli peace process team... regular dull stuff. I was the second poorest kid there, which by no means meant we were poor, however the poorest kid was Floridian White Trash and he knew it.
"Chip", because nobody called him Charles, saw the irony of an International school where Israeli, Arab, American and European kids intermingled in a building that had been the former Iraqi embassy best, during the Gulf War. Every Friday he would phone in a bomb scare just after lunch on his mobile phone (which at the time was of equal size to a brick) and we'd all file out of the school, mess around for a bit and then disolve into the masses of people on the Champs Elysees, knowing full well that the Bomb Squad wouldn't take it seriously again and not turn up.
We were sad to see the Iraqi's lose.
Okay, lots to blog today, and no help from Pixie, but first... what the hell?
Its hot in London at the moment, has been for a while now and we haven't peaked yet. People are being assaulted in the streets for their cold drinks, getting yourself an ice lolly will have your friends ostracising you, and I suspect that the large double-doored american fridge is having affairs with most of the rest of the office, I caught one girl trying to climb inside it yesterday.
Between the nearest tube station and where I live there are six convenience stores. Six. Less than a three minute walk takes me past them all, so last night I figured at least one of them would satisfy a craving.
If you've seen the commercial for "Solero Shots", where the guy is wandering through a party, arrives at a fridge, opens it and this girl in a transparent luminous green two-piece comes out and disolves into these little green balls of Solero ice cream instantly revitalizing him, you'd be forgiven for originally thinking it was for frozen peas in a can. Which is pretty much what I expected when I finally, in the last shop I tried, found a packet.
It was their last one. This small squat green proto-dalek-embryo. Perfectly preserved in a freezer cabinet, beside Walt Disney's head. I reached in and grabbed it quickly, the palm of my hand sticking to it. I had to pay with my left hand.
This, I had convinced myself, was going to be a brand new experience. Unlike any dessert sensation I had ever tasted before. Better than Tiramisu in Tuscany. Fruitier than Key Lime pie in Key West. Sweeter than Profiteroles in Paris... if I could just... get the top... open...
I couldn't understand it. I did Industrial Design for five years in secondary school, this couldn't possibly be more complicated than the cross sections, tolerances and pressure calculations I could do in my sleep. And yet...
Pausing for a moment it occured to me that I was thinking about it too much. I pulled hard on the only tab there was and the plastic top half of the packet came off. Oops. Then the instructions became visible, my hand having previously been stuck over them. Push first to break seal, then pull back. Gotcha.
Tipping my head back akin to the man in the commercial I expected a torrent of new flavours and chilled sensations to flow through me. I was also secretly hoping the girl in the glow in the dark bikini would make an appearance. Nada.
Still with the packet angled down, ready to pour I peered inside, all the little bits were frozen together inside the pack. It had puzzled me how they could ensure that the contents would pour instead of solidify together and here was my answer. In defiance, a lone green pellet rolled out and stuck to my eye.
I spent the rest of the walk home trying to defrost the contents with one hand and rubbing my burning eye with the other. Eventually I gave up and waited for it to turn into cold lime juice in a packet. Marketing strategy, ten out of ten. Product, nil points.
"If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat."
This has been a public service announcement. You will not be returned to your regular programming. Do not adjust your set.
She'll take my login away from me eventually and I'll be forced to make my own blog...
Until she does though...
Last time I was complaining about those women who have that "do-what-I-say" smile, but there's another type of person that I know a lot of people hate. The effortless over-achievers. Those people who watch while others struggle to do something new and then make it look so easy when they attempt it for the first time having noticed all the pitfalls and possible mistakes.
That's a round-about way of saying that I actually cooked for pretty much the first time last night,(Barring student food of course, omlettes, beans on toast, frozen pizzas, etc) and had to fight off house-mates all attracted by the smell of real cooking. The strangest thing about it is that it wasn't really what I've thought of as "cooking", more a case of heating and assembling different ingredients.
I was half-watching some cooking program, and I tend to loathe cooking programs, but this one was Rick Stein in Goa where it appears every dish prepared requires red onions, masala paste, tiger prawns garlic and ginger. Are those the main exports of Goa? Anyway, he showed a fast and refreshing salad comprised of skined and sliced cucumber soaked in fresh lime juice and coated in sea salt.
Easy.
Add four slender chicken breasts cooked in lemon and lime juice and I had my dinner on the hottest day so far this year in London.
Between the kitchen and my room a quarter of the salad and one chicken breast had been eaten when word got out how tasty and refreshing it was. I was assailed on all sides by house-mates whom I knew weren't eating because they were hungry as they'd eaten one of my frozen pizzas not long before but rather because it really was tasty. I didn't know yet because I had yet to taste it and had my hands full of plate and cutlery.
A word to the wise. If you're good at something, hide it well, only do it to your fullest abilities when there's no chance of being seen or caught. Otherwise you end being asked to make a Goan salad and chicken dinner for seven. Maybe I'll add cayenne and masala paste this time though...
D is currently enjoying Startopia, Wheatus and air conditioning.
Okay, I'm torn here between telling you about how much I hate those smiley, bubbly, perky women who have that aura of "I'm cute and I know it. All I have to do is smile and bat my eyelids and you'll do as I say". But because in the latest instance I encountered this she smiled, batted her eyelids and I did exactly what she said... which was move out of her way and let her go before me in the queue, rather than have some witty, biting, scathing comment that would have had her redefining her position in the world and doubting her cuteness... here's option two, a funny story.
I never got sports as a kid. And by that I mean I never understood it not that I was never forced against my will to do it. I was the kind of kid who would be told to run to the finish line, get there and turn and say "And now?". Egg and Spoon races would leave me wondering why the egg couldn't just go in my pocket. Swimming was a case of "Will I ever need to swim faster than everyone else? No. Can I swim long enough to avoid drowning in a pool? Yes."
So, as a child, I wasn't very competitive, physically. However somehow, at an outdoor barbeque garden party thing my family was invited to, I found myself at the head of a team of tug-o-war. The property was so big that a stream ran through their back garden and this was the chosen site for the tug-o-war. I swear it was a case of everyone else took two steps back leaving me the closest to the water.
We all start heaving and pulling on the rope and it turns out I'm on the weaker team and lo and behold, I end up in the stream. Ha ha. Everybody laugh, yes, look at D. Soaking wet because his team was crap. Ha, ha.
So I head off up the hill which is still part of their property, away from laughing kids and that pitying look in my mother's eyes when she knew exactly what would happen but wanted me to find out for myself. I get to the top of the hill and there's a good breeze drying my soaked clothes off and I flap about a bit like a scarecrow in the wind beside the barbed-wire fence before looking off into the distance... from up here you can see quite far... you almost want to...
I get called back down to the gathering of parents and kids all doing their own things, stuffing their faces and gossiping and drip on the patio for a while before my mother asks what I was doing up there.
"I was going to climb the fence and go for a walk to dry off." drip, drip.
Then the host chimes in;
"Probably not a good idea. That's an electric fence."
To whomever ram-raided Oxford St House of Fraser last night by going through the back doors in Henrietta Place.
You missed a bit.
Look, don't blame me that she hardly ever posts here and I have too much free time. Just relax and don't fight it.
Why did nobody tell me that there was good music from before the late eighties? Not that I consider the late eighties to have been any good. I'm embarrased to know all the words to the Prince Greatest hits albums, and the dance moves to Madonna pre everybody-loves-me-I'll-make-a-book-with-some-friends mode. (92 was it?) Bands like Jesus Jones, DeMob, Depeche Mode... oh, I shudder to think about some of them. (One word America, Tiffany! Followed by New Kids On... don't make me go any further)
There is some stuff I'm proud of... the KLF/Jams/Timelords, early Prodigy stuff before they let Keith sing, U2's Joshua Tree, and one song by Prefab Sprout (whom I always confuse with Toad The Wet Sprocket). Am I even in the right decade anymore? It all seems so long ago.
Anyway, how did the awful eighties ever come about after so much good stuff? Hendrix and Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, The Ramones, Wilson Picket, Spencer Davis... and best of all The Who... with foundations like this you'd have expected rock to have thrived... Van Halen, Aerosmith and Queen would have led the charge. The kids would have been alright, instead of being over-powered by electronica and mod rock and lulled into a synthetic pacification.
Take for example, the "Summer Anthem" contest. Every year there has to be a pre-Ibiza anthem, a during Ibiza anthem everyone thinks will be remembered and the true underground hit that becomes the post-Ibiza anthem. (Don't know what, where, or who Ibiza is? Count yourself lucky)
The summer starts with your Venga Boys "Going to Ibiza" and your Alice Deejays, works through the summer carpet-bombing us with Jakatta "American Dream" and Who Cares Who Let The Dogs Out?!!
Eventually however we get to the end of the summer and Paul Oakenfold's done a decent remix of Delerium's Silence, or we get the remix everyone wants to bring close to their lips... Tori Amos' Professional Widow. But then everything gets stale as the autumn drags in... nobody wants to hear Faithless' Insomnia anymore, everybody has had enough of William Orbit and nobody can remember what the difference between the various Ministry albums is...
I hope to god we hit a good patch again. Rock was great, then got dilluted with video in the eighties, Underground was the scene in the Nineties but has been reprocessed with 50% extra remixing in the later stages of the decade, and hopefully there's something good on the horizon now that we're firmly into the next decade.
At least I'll never have to listen to Vanilla Ice again.
I have spent the past week wearing jeans that are just a bit snug for comfort. In the kind of way where the denim takes a good grip on your particulars and says "If you squirm, this is going to hurt". The reason for this is that I discovered a hole in the right pocket of my baggy blue jeans. No big deal, you'd think, only I'm a creature of habit and always even unconsciously, put spare change into my right pocket. However, the hole wasn't so big that change would fall out until this one incident...
I was running late for a plane I was supposed to catch to spend the weekend with Pixel, I had managed to get bumped from the plane I missed to the next one and was told I would have to run for the plane. Thanking the lady profusely I ran to the x-ray machine bit, and noted that a pair of the well-armed airport security guards were nearby, their mp5 machine guns slung over their shoulders, pistols in holsters.
Should that make any difference? No, none at all, nor should the fact my pocket was bulging with coins of all denominations. I had been running up until the x-ray machine and when I arrived I was hot and out of breath. I stopped and every coin in my pocket leapt through the hole, rolled down my trouser leg and into my shoe. I yelped at the cold metal rolling over my skin and hopped back a pace as the coins rearranged themselves in my shoe.
click
I'd never heard the safety catch being taken off an mp5 in real life before.
My eyes probably lit up and I bent down behind the baggage x-ray machine and started grabbing at my shoe. I had moved out of the view of the two armed guards and they quickly moved to flanking positions either side of me.
click
That made both machine guns ready to fire.
I pulled off my shoe and stood up again. The man who helps put your bags onto the conveyor belt watched me pour the coins out of my shoe into my hand and he and the two guards relaxed again before the guy said to me;
"Coins won't set this off, mate. Just keys."
Achievements for this weekend:
8 shots of tequila in half an hour and no vomit or silliness, which is good. Also no lack of consciousness, which is bad.
18 hours of restless and ultimately unrestful sleep.
1 box of Mr Kipling's Mini Selection.
1 Sainsbury's "Be Good to Yourself" Penne Arrabiata microwave meal (and no, the irony is not lost).
1 chicken sandwich.
6 packets of Golden Wonder Rather Hot Chilli Crisps.
3 litres of diet coke.
13 episodes of Buffy.
1 episode of Dawson's Creek (Episode 21 of this season, despite having not watched since Episode 3).
5 telephone conversations with D.
5 text messages exchanged with D.
4 pages read of "Girl, Interrupted".
2 telephone conversations with my mother.
That's right folks. This weekend has been a weekend of avoidance. Bridget would be proud.
"Just don't want to deal right now.
Taking a little holiday from dealing.
Happily vacationing in the land of not coping."
Which is actually complete bullshit. I'm not happily vacationing anywhere. I'm procrastinating. I'm avoiding. I'm running away from the things I haven't achieved this weekend, namely:
Being able to go more than 4 hours (except when sort of sleeping) without crying.
Being able to phone my dad and wish him a happy Father's Day.
Those last two items are inextricably linked. I can't phone my dad because I don't know what to say to him. Because every time I try and figure out what to say to him I wind up with wet dribble marks down my top and yet another snotty hankie in the bin.
I've tried, and I can't even get the words "Happy Father's Day" out without my voice cracking.
It's not a happy day. It's a grey and miserable day, which is fine with me. It's sort of fitting, almost.
I want it to be a happy day. I really wish it was. Instead it's overshadowed by worry, and fear, and the inability to express these feelings.
A while ago I wrote about my dad being rushed to hospital because of a diabetic hypo. That wasn't the first time this year he had gone to the hospital in an emergency. The first time was a few weeks prior to that. My dad had come home from work and gone to his room to get changed as he usually does. Next thing I knew I heard thumping along the hall, and I got to the door of my room in time to see my dad kneeling in front of the toilet being sick.
Not such a huge deal in the grand scheme of things, except that my dad is practically never sick. I think I can count on one hand the amount of times in my lifetime that my dad has thrown up. It's a standing family joke that my dad has a cast iron stomach fitted with a non-return valve on it.
Except there he was, throwing up violently.
It didn't stop either. Four hours later he was still throwing up and my mum and I were starting to get a bit worried (insulin dependent diabetics and violent vomiting are usually not things that go well together), and after an hour of persuasion, we managed to get him to agree to go.
I can remember remarking on the irony of it being my dad who got to see the inside of the new Accident and Emergency rooms at the new hospital complex first. An hour later, leave the hospital, with them having proclaimed my dad as having a mild chest infection and possible food poisoning and my mum with a flea in her ear from the senior nurse for not having phoned our GP first.
Long story short: went to doc, got sick line for 2 weeks and antibiotics and went back to work. Until the morning of the hypo, where we found ourselves at the hospital once again.
Back to the doctor again and signed off for two weeks more and given another course of antibiotics to try and shake the chest infection which they reckon is still present and slowing him down.
Fast forward a couple of weeks more and dad is once more at the hospital. This time for a chest x-ray to check the progress (or lack of) this chest infection.
More weeks off work. Another appointment for a chest x-ray, and an appointment to see the doctor at the chest clinic at the hospital.
That was Thursday afternoon.
Thursday afternoon when they told my dad that the x-rays showed a shadow(shadows?) on his lungs that they could not identify, and that they wanted to do a bronchoscopy as soon as possible, and would Wednesday be suitable.
They left the hospital, came by to collect me from work and head to the supermarket so we could get something for dinner.
When we got back from the supermarket, my gran was waiting by the door, to tell my dad that the hospital had phoned and wanted him to come in before the bronchoscopy for a CT Scan. Exactly when wasn't entirely clear, she thought it might have been the next day, she wasn't sure, but she knew they wanted it to be soon.
At this point, I should probably point out that the usual waiting list for a CT scan can be anything between 8-24 weeks. So being asked to come in at such short notice is generally cause for concern, if not alarm.
The problem was that my dad was supposed to be going on the annual Able-bodied/Disabled club trip to Blackpool with my mum, leaving at 9:30 the next day, and everyone at the hospital seemed to have gone home for the night.
Later on, when my mum was packing (just in case) I went through to talk to her.
She knew as well as I did what being moved up the waiting list at that hospital meant, and I could see in her eyes she was just as scared as I was.
My mum and I, we're used to it by now. Even my gran. We have this sort of triangle thing going on where one or more of us is ill at any point. It becomes something that you deal with after a while. We each have our bad days, and our not so good days, and our days where we feel almost human, thanks. It's become one of life's constants.
Like the constant that was my dad. Even tempered. Quiet. Unchanging. 64 but looking 44. Jet black hair only just greying at the temples and hardly receding at all on top. Neither up nor down. Mostly minding his own business and moving along the middle of the road of life. Other than the odd cold or sniffle, never seriously ill. While the three generations of women in the house with him fell apart piece by piece, he was the steadying force. The one pushing the wheelchairs. The one carrying the shopping. The one doing the driving to the hospital.
The one who could always be relied upon to do what needed to be done. Whether it was driving us where we needed to go, or driving around to pick up food, or medication.
I know that it can't have been easy for him. Life hasn't exactly smiled on him, but through it all he's kept going. Big and strong, a gentle giant.
There has always been a special connection between my dad and I. I take after him much more than I take after my mum. My early childhood is filled with memories of the times my dad and I would spend together. From him reading Dr. Seuss to me, or Saturday afternoons spent hiding behind the sofa watching Dr Who, or our precious days out, where we'd go to museums and just wander.
So many happy times. Times where I could say "I love you daddy" when I kissed him goodnight.
Then came puberty, and well, my breasts began to come between us.
Gradually, I stopped kissing him goodnight, and stopped telling him I loved him, and our relationship changed. We could still talk for hours - about football, or computers, or any one of a million and one conversation topics. So long as it didn't include personal feelings.
In fact, the last time I remember him hugging me was the night that my parents told my sister and I that they were getting a divorce, and that was nearly 7 years ago now. 7 years where they separated, and divorced, and nothing changed, except the rooms they slept in.
And so, my mum and dad are away in Blackpool, in separate hotel rooms, the best of friends, and I am here, at home, with the conversation I had with my mother on Thursday night echoing in my head.
Words like "tuberculosis", "pleurisy", "emphysema" and "cancer" ringing through my head, along with the caution to behave normally and not to show how worried we are, because it won't change anything, and it won't help.
And so I sit here, scared to death, trying to find the inner actress my mum says I was aged 2, trying to find a normal way to phone my dad and say "Happy Father's Day" and not burst into tears, becuase that wouldn't be a normal thing.
I just don't know what to do now.
I don't want to make a fuss. I don't want to make a scene, or to upset him any.
I watch the clock tick away the minutes where I could get myself together and go to the shops and buy him a father's day card to give him when he comes back, but just the thought of it makes me feel kind of icky. I can't face the shops.
Maybe because I know deep down that there is nothing that money can buy that will tell him how much I love him and how much I wish I could tell him that. Nor can it buy a cure for whatever is ailing him, no matter how much I wish it could.
I've watched my gran go from being an active woman with a great love for her garden, to a frail shadow of herself, her daily goal the measure of gin she's given every night. I've watched my mother go from the carer to the cared-for. Both of them, fading before my eyes with every passing year, and that's been hard enough.
I just don't think I can stand to watch my dad fade away now too.
I knew when I stepped into the sandwich shop that things were not quite right. It is usually populated by three jovial characters behind the counter, one of them is a Joan Collins with wrinkles and a blue rinse, another is about seven foot tall and has a face like old leather and the third is like the muppet that always had the slicked back black hair and the big bushy mustache... I think he was in Dr Teeth's band. Maybe not. They're all italian.
Anyway, they were not the usual jovial trio I have encountered before. They were arguing about everything they possibly could. I always "uh" when answering questions by the way.
"Yessir?"
"Uh, hi, I'd like a roast beef salad sandwich on white baguette with a touch of mustard."
"He don't want da mustard, give him da horseradish instead."
"Mama, you crazy, you can't put horseradish on roast beef."
"We gotta no roast beef left, howsabout da salted beef?"
"Uh... salted beef is fine."
"You wanta salt or pepper on that sir?"
"He don't need salt on it, itsa already salted."
"Mama, you be quiet please. Salt, pepper?"
"Uh... yeah, sure. No salt, just a twist of pepper."
(large amounts of black pepper are ground onto the beef like carpet bombing a treeline)
"You wanta da english mustard or french, sir?"
(Trick question! Trick question!)
"I tella you, you put da horseradish on salted beef."
"Uh, I'd rather have mustard thanks... what do you suggest?"
"English"
"French"
"Horseradish"
"Uh, okay... how about some english mustard?"
"Hesa crazy, he wanta da english mustard on da salted beef sandwich with black pepper."
"Uh, you forgot the salad."
(all three shake their heads)
"Mama, you give me da horseradish, he wantsa da english mustard."
"Oh, sorry."
"Thatsa better."
(copious amounts of english mustard are spread onto the baguette over the butter I hadn't asked for)
"You wanta anything else with dat sir?"
"Uh, you forgot the salad."
(three slices of cucumber and four slices of tomato are added)
"Uh, and a can of Pepsi?"
"We gotta no Pepsi, sir."
"You wanta Diet Coke instead?"
"We gotta da Pepsi right here in da fridge."
"Dats Pepsi Max"
"Uh, Pepsi Max is fine."
"Itsa not da Pepsi though."
"Uh, really, Pepsi Max is good enough."
"Okay sir, your da one who wantsa da salted beef salad sandwich wit da english mustard and black pepper"
(again, all three shake their heads)
"Uh, right, so how much is that?"
"Four pounds, sir"
And that is why I don't understand why they even gave me the choice. Instead they could have just thrown some leftovers in a bag poured some flat coke over it all, told me it was the best thing for me and taken my money.
Upon returning from a lunch break I hadn't eaten anything during I discovered a platter of sandwiches on a colleague's desk. The company frequently gets catering platters in cause they're that kind of company.
Upon biting into a crab and mayonnaise sandwich I discovered why almost half the platter was uneaten. The exposed slices of bread had gone hard and a bit crunchy.
With as much haste as I could muster I deconstructed the four white crab sandwiches and four smoked salmon sandwiches and combined them into four white crab and smoked salmon with mayonnaise sandwiches and eight crunchy bits of bread which I filled with the straggly bits of lettuce that surrounded the nice display (brown bits to the middle) leaving four, apparently salad, sandwiches behind.
Yum. Hunger could well be the mother of sneaky creations...
To the gentleman who felt the need to sing "You are my fire, my one desire" at the top of his voice while in the Gents:
I'd like to introduce you to the concept of too much information. I'm sure the person who sits next to the wall in the office on the other side of the Gents would too.
Pixie wanted ideas for babydoll t-shirt slogans. These might fit...
"My other bra is tighter"
"Puppy1 Puppy2"
"If you can see these you need a girlfriend"
"In case of fire, save these first"
" (*) press here if you feel lucky... punk"
"My other t-shirt has a celebrity name on it"
"The witty comment came off in the wash"
"Warning, t-shirt may be obscuring important details"
"Things beneath this t-shirt may appear smaller than they actually are"
"See above for personality... when you've got a minute"
"Hey, the head makes all the decisions, we just look good."
"Bust sold seperately."
"Requires two AA batteries."
"Wine, dine, 69 to remove."
Maybe not those last two, but the one I'd pay her to wear...
"In case of emergency, place head here"
Yes, alright, I'll get my own blog...
To the man in the Armani suit who decided to turn around near the top of the "up" escalator in Oxford Circus and make his way back down through rush-hour traffic.
Shaking your head and muttering to yourself does not excuse the fact that you are obviously over-paid for your minimal intelligence as you shove past people locked solid on a one-way escalator. You caused inconvenience to over a hundred people on your way back down to the Victoria line and next time, the elbow in the back you paused and gave me a dirty look for will be accompanied by a swift kick to the back of the head to speed you on your way.
If you were expecting an apology I'll repeat it again for you; "One way, man"
The offices I work in are spread out over three floors. We own the building but hog the top floors to ourselves. In an effort to tighten the proverbial belt the spacious sixth floor is being merged with the equally spacious seventh floor to simulate a tighter knit team. This means some of the perks of the sixth floor are being sold off.
This is a long way of explaining just why I was caught in the kitchen hugging the massive stainless steel double-doored american-style refrigerator.
Sunday afternoon, three hours until Grand Prix and I realise I really have to get my shopping done so I have food for the week and munchies for the race. Having previously discounted the idea of having shopping delivered and ridiculed Pixeldiva for being so apparently lazy I set off to Camden, more exactly Mega City Comics and Sainsburys.
Told by man in comic store he can't take plastic for less than £10 so throw in a copy of Wizard for the hell of it and the gloating factor of going through the listings and seeing how much parts of my collection are worth.
Head to Sainsburys passing animal rights protestors with laminated blown up photos of lab animals. Toy with the idea of walking over and asking how much for the monkey lobotomy poster. Avoid goths and punks handing out fliers for the strangest things and circumvent queue for the HSBC, sneering at all the stupid people waiting in line for cash with my bag of comics that cost me a fiver more than I intended to pay.
Once inside Sainsburys look around for Jamie Oliver, cause I'd really, really like to one day give him a sound belting but looks like he doesn't shop here mid-afternoon on a Sunday. The rest of London's population does though and I swerve and skid around the aisles avoiding more people than a Cecil B deMille casting call. Grab fresh fruit salad and feel healthy. Think about all the whipped cream I'll squirt onto it and realise there's probably a status quo going on there best left untampered.
Now, Pixeldiva lists cheddar cheese as one of her must haves. I on the other hand don't necessarilly need the cheese. I like it to be available for when I do get that cheesy craving though, so in the interests of avoiding a processed dairy product free-household I ram a few children out of the way, side-swipe a pensionner and cut in front of a single mother.
Oh, damn, two women have set up a roadblock against the refrigeration unit. I wonder if I'd get away with ramming them aside A Team-style... They're busy debating which brand of cheese is healthier for them as I lean over one of their trolleys, reaching down to the cheddar. The box of Kellogg's Special K I had stupidly ignored sitting innocuously in the baby-seat of the trolley acts as a pivot and supports my weight, see-sawing my head downwards, my feet flailing helplessly behind me as they leave the floor. Beside me the woman asks if I'm alright as I right myself again and stare incredulously at the strength of Mr Kellogg's cardboard.
Its at times like these that blatantly obvious and quite stupid comments force themselves past my lips in total disregard for all common sense or pride I may have for myself.
"Uh, your Special K thwarted my attempts to get at that piece of cheese there. Could you move your trolley out of the way please?"
One of them giggled the other gave me the "you eat bugs, don't you" look (don't pretend! All men know the look and all women know how to do the look!) so I grabbed the cheese, tossed it onto the fresh fruit salad crushing the plastic container slightly and charged away as quickly as possible.
Ha! That showed them.
Maybe I should get the stuff delivered, if not only to save face but to protect the innocent people of London.
Thursday saw the UK go to the polls for a General Election. Voter turnout was extremely low and there was much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth about the apparent apathy amongst the "young" voters.
I'd like to say that I was motivated by the issues to make my way back to a place which holds many painful memories for me and cast my vote like the fine, upstanding young citizen I am, but the truth is that I went because my mother made me. Just like she's made me vote in every other election that has been held since I became eligible to vote.
So when the time came I got in the back of our shiny new car with my mother, father and grandmother and we headed along to my primary school. As we pulled into the car park and I looked at the squat building, the memories came flooding back. The only visible changes to the exterior of the building being a wheelchair ramp and a further set of wraught iron railings outside the front entrance.
It struck me as funny how small and claustrophobic the place felt once I got in through the doors. The office on my left, where I would go every day to collect my meal and milk tickets. The medical room on my right where I received two innoculations and countless plasters. The waiting area outside the office now home to an expanded collection of owls (the school mascot). Short pause to look at the boards to find out which polling place to go to. Turn left into the assembly hall. How small it seems now - how large it seemed then. Give my name to the returning officer and collect my ballot slip. Make my way into a booth. Snort with derision at the 6" difference between the ordinary and disabled booths. Look at ballot paper choices:
Immediately discount Conservative Party. Look at Labour candidate. Same guy who has won every election since 1987. Realise that my vote means absolutely nothing as the result is foregone conclusion. Discount Liberal Democratic party because I know nothing about them or their issues. Look between SNP and SSP.
Question: should I vote SNP purely because that's who I've voted for ever since I got my vote or should I vote SSP even though they have even less chance of challenging the Labour vote than the SNP have because of their position on the legalisation of cannabis for medical and personal use?
A short note for those who worry about such things:
I was brought up to obey the laws of our society. I was brought up to believe that taking illegal drugs was a bad thing. I've seen my fair share of junkies. I know several people who have dabbled with drugs and suffered no ill effects.
I just want to make something clear. In my 24 years I have never tried any type of illegal substance. Partly because of internal guilt, partly because I am allergic to so many prescription medications that I fear what would happen if I was to take something.
All that aside, in the last two years, I have found myself more and more looking for an alternative method of pain relief than that available on the NHS. Last year, while I was off work, I began to grow herbs for use in herbal remedies. I've tried (and continue to try) various aromatherapy treatments. I've tried homeopathic remedies. Nothing has been hugely successful. With the increased press that the various campaigns for legalisation of cannabis for medical use have been receiving, my thoughts have naturally turned to this.
I have mixed feelings about it. I'm in enough daily pain that I'd pretty much try anything to get rid of it, and from that point of view I'd have no qualms about trying it, and if it works, using it on a regular basis. I'm not out to get stoned out of my brain. I just want the goddamned pain to stop so that I can get back to being the fun and energetic person I once was.
The problem with this tho', is line of supply. When I was at school I knew of two or three people who were known to supply it to those who were interested. Now I've been out of school for nearly 9 years, I'm not in that position any more, and the stigma attached to it because of it's illegal status means that it's not exactly the sort of thing you drop into polite conversation.
So fear not, I have no intention of becoming a stoner or a junkie, I would just like to be able to try something which has recognised pain relieving properties without breaking the law to do so.
Realise that now isn't the time for internal debate because people are waiting to cast their vote and get home again and mark my cross in the SNP box.
Fold up paper and drop it in ballot box, have short conversation with father on how little place has changed, while trying to repress the bitter memories that come flooding back even now, more than 13 years after leaving.
Leave the building after examining the notice board containing photos of the school staff to see which faces I remember.
Wait outside while mother takes some official looking woman to task for the disabled door being locked and no-one being outside to open it. Wait some more while she speaks to the SNP candidate about the same issue, having had the official woman snot that "the door must be open because we've had people in wheelchairs in already today".
Leave school car park for what I hope will be the last time ever. I don't plan on still being here when the next election rolls around.
They say your entire life flashes in front of your eyes when you die.
It's not really your entire life...
It's just the moments that stood out...
And they're not the ones you'd expect, either...
The moments you remember are tiny ones, some you haven't thought of in years...
If you've thought of them at all...
But in the last second of your life, you remember them with astonishing clarity...
Because they're just so... beautiful...
...that they must have been imprinted, on like a cellular level...
For me it was, lying on my back at Boy Scout camp, watching falling stars...
And yellow leaves from the ginkgo trees that lined our street...
Or my grandmother's hands, and the way her skin seemed like paper...
And the first time I saw my cousin Tony's brand new GTO...
And the way I felt when Angela first smiled at me...
I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me...
but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst...
And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life...
You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure... but don't worry...
You will someday.
This is a roundabout way of saying I am consciously chosing not to vote again. Not because I don't agree with either side, I know which side I'm on, and its my side. More because, life at the moment is good and I don't feel the need to do anything heavy.
Oh, and also because I'm not registered to vote, but enjoy the Alan Ball tribute, its beautiful.
*Guest post warning*Guest post warning*Guest post warning*
This isn't a post about how "funny some people's parents are" because Pixeldiva wins hands down. My parents are really normal. All four of them. Two are unambitious, down to earth, nice enough. Work a nine to five, five days a week, come home, eat dinner, watch cable television. Y'know, normal.
And the other two are normal also... but on a slightly higher scale.
One works freelance now as a programmer, the other works for one of the biggest entertainment companies on the planet. And they just informed me by e-mail this morning that it is a shame I haven't gone and taken the driving lessons they tried pushing on me at eighteen and then again at twenty one, what do I need driving lessons for? I live in London, we have the Tube for all local transport and anything further afield can be reached by plane from any of the numerous airports around the city.
Why was it a shame?
Well, because they've bought a 1967 Ford Mustang Coupé similar to this one. To begin with I thought my mother was having a joke. She knows I love Bullitt, she saw the 3D animation I did to get into College based on a chase between a 67 Fastback and a Dodge Challenger (and considering some of the other people who got onto that course, I'd have gotten away with a flip-book version drawn on a napkin with a crayon)
So I didn't believe her at first. But just in case, I replied, CC'ing in my sister that when they die, the car is mine. No matter what state of disrepair it might be in, the car... *will*... be... mine.
Then, the full extent of the horror was revealed to me when my mother revealed that it is in fact a "butterscotch" color, with a *white* vinyl roof.
There are certain cars that should only exist in certain color-schemes. Yellow Beatles, silver Porsches, black BMWs, red Ferraris, black Pontiac Firebirds with the flames across the hood. And everyone knows if you get a Cobra it is white with two brilliant blue stripes from hood to trunk. If you get a Shelby it is either dark emerald green or black with silver trim. If you get a '67 it is either candyapple red or simple black, but it should *not*, under *any* circumstances be butterscotch! Or white!
This is known as a muscle car because it needs to be kept under a firm grasp. It accelerates like a wild horse (hence the name) and brakes only after you've felt your knee cap start to protest that you cannot apply any more pressure to your foot. This is the car we watched tear up the asphalt in Bullitt (okay, that was a 68 GT, but close enough). The engine is a 290 with 4-barrel carburetor, it has power-steering but no power-brakes (again, the 68, the safer model, does).
My mother's only complaints were that the eight-track had been removed and it handled like a whale. My complaint is that its butterscotch and white!
One day, one day, they will be too old to drive it, they will want an automatic with airbags and ABS and cruise control. And then, on that day, the car will be mine. And the next day the car will say hello to Mr black spraycan and silver detailer.
Well, to be fair I've yet to see the car, and I've yet to get a license, and who knows, my sister might steal it out from under me unless she wants one of the other two cars instead (but she won't because she knows I've always loved Mustangs too).
How do you convincingly plead "justifiable homicide"?
It strikes me that I'm part of a transition generation. With one foot in the past and the other in the future.
The other day when I went to get the aforementioned force-feedback joystick from my local branch of Game, several valient attempts were made to fit said joystick box into the largest of the carrier bags in the shop and all failed. It became obvious that no amount of fiddling or hoping was going to get this box into the bag. The next idea was to put it in a bin bag. This idea was quickly rejected due to the flimsiness of said bin bags, especially when the sharp corners of the box were taken into account. Obviously quite embarrassed, and by now desperate, the manager then turned round to the girl who was shuffling papers behind the cash desk and said "Are you any good with string?".
The girl of course replied "yes", and then proceeded to demonstrate how good she wasn't with string. Not wanting to embarrass the girl, I said nothing, and hoped that the string would hold at least as far as the taxi rank so that I could get it back to the office and fix it myself.
No such luck. I got the length of two shopfronts before the string gave way and the box clattered to the ground, leaving me standing in the middle of the concourse, a length of string in one hand, and my ever-present crutch, a WH Smiths bag and a bag containing a new pair of shoes in the other. A quick wish for another pair of hands came up dud once more, and I bent down to try and grab the box with one hand, at which point I promptly dropped it again... and again... and I was about ready to just kick the blasted thing the 100 yards to the taxi rank when I heard a voice ask if I needed any help.
Before I could reply two pairs of hands had lifted the box and as I straightened, I realised that it was highly unlikely that a retired couple would sprint off with my new toy and relaxed a bit.
In short order the woman had pressed her husband into service as box holder, and proceeded to tie the string round the box the way it should have been done, so that within a couple of minutes, I was once more on my way, carrying the box via a neat handle fashioned from another carrier bag.
It occurred to during this whole encounter that string tying is a dying art. I mean, who ties parcels up with string any more? The fact that I knew how it should be done is purely down to being taught by my mum and gran as a child.
I know it's not exactly an essential life skill any more, but it seems kind of sad that it's dying out as a skill, usually replaced by just plastering on another half roll of packing tape and hoping for the best.
... and while I'm on the subject of dying arts, I'd like to take a moment to talk about compresses. Hot compresses specifically. I had to go and ask my mum how to make one tonight, and that felt kind of strange too.
Why?
Long story kinda short: Last december I was admitted to hospital for an ulnar nerve decompression on my left elbow. For the morbid, or curious, or both - an ulnar nerve decompression means that the nerve is moved from the position where it's being compressed to a new position where it's not. Sometimes that means just pulling it out of where it's trapped, other times that means moving it entirely to run along a different path. That's the one I got. Decompression and transposition. What I also got was a delightful six inch gash on the underside of my arm and a whole barrelful of fun neurological weirdness. Basically, the nerves were upset and were going to take their own sweet time to settle into their new home, damnit. Which was mostly okay. I got used to not leaning on the elbow, or wearing short sleeves as much as I could (and in situations where the sight of the scar wouldn't entirely gross out those around me). It was a small price to pay for not having the incredibly intense and painful pins & needles in my arm and third and fourth fingers 24 hours a day.
Until three weeks ago when I started to have get mild pins and needles in my fingers again, and the scar started to feel a bit tight. Then on the morning of the 14th, I woke up to a burning pain in my arm, and the pins and needles back the way they were before the Op. Every time I moved my arm, it felt like something was tearing under the scar. Not fun, and absolutely not what I needed right now. So, a week off work, a trip back to the orthopeadic surgeon and two physio appointments later, the arm is still hurting like hell, the painkillers still don't actually kill the pain, just put me in a coma for 12 - 18 hours and leave me with a hangover that leaves me fuzzy-headed for the best part of two days. Not a good thing when I have to work.
So as usual, I've ditched the painkillers in favour of not getting sacked and have been growing increasingly more desperate for some relief... which led me to digging out my aromatherapy book in the vain hope of finding something that will ease this feeling. To my surprise, I found an entry for "neuralgia", which is where the hot compress comes in.
The recommended way of dealing with neuralgia is a hot compress with any single oil/blend of camomile, clary sage, lavender, marjoram or rosemary oils, which are all known for their analgesic properties, and it was then that I realised I had no clue how to go about making a hot compress. I mean, it would seem to be fairly obvious, but I just wasn't sure, so I had to go and ask my mum.
Of course, I could have just looked it up on Google, but for some reason, I didn't want to - it felt like I'd be missing out on some important inter-generational knowledge transfer, like the family cheese scone recipe or somesuch.
For those of you who are now curious, instructions on how to make a hot compress can be found here.
So in the interests of nostalgia, what do you think is a dying art?
... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
... passionate about many things, most of which will turn up on this site at some time or other.
... contactable via email.
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