4 June 2001
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?
Blogging.
They just don't blog like they used to.
and how would you know mr i-don't-like-to-read-weblogs-because-that's-something-you-do, huh?
... 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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