Wednesday night about three weeks ago and I’m working on a painting. It’s a very, very, very late present for a friend’s birthday and, with dutiful thanks to the members of the Art Group, is starting to finally look like what it is supposed to.
Most of the group are standing around their tables nattering: this is the dual purpose of the group – to paint in watercolours and to talk about your latest bunion treatment. Having no history with watercolours and no bunions I often find myself with nothing to say, or else making nice noises about each person’s paintings by way of introduction.
The Club Membership Secretary (at least I assume that’s what her role is) announces grumpily that membership is due for renewal at a rate of £10 for Full members and £5 for Associates. She makes this announcement with the kind of ill humour only mastered by guitar technicians pursuing a day job in a music shop, who take your money as if it is covered in arsenic and whose copy of the dictionary only includes one word: condescending (Unless you go in and start talking in technical terms about the A-grade multiplex tune assimilator, when their condescension turns to sneering and they assert “I think you mean the D-grade”).
I meander over to her and explain that I am not yet a member, nor am I yet at the stage where I could realistically submit three paintings for assessment: so I would like to pay Associate membership. I proffer a £10 note and she looks at me like I’ve just quoted an infamous line from the last fifteen minutes (give or take) of “The Exorcist”
Money, her whole demeanour says, why should I accept your money? As it turns out she has no change, so I am unable to pay on this occasion.
The next week comes around and I am fully armed and loaded with my £5 note. This time there can be no escape for her and she is forced to agree that I can, indeed, have one of her Much Prized Membership Cards, but demands that I provide her with a piece of paper containing my home address and my works mobile number (because I seldom give my home number to anyone). The card itself is suitably disappointing for the Herculean Endeavours I have apparently had to endure to be considered worthy.
I’m actually beginning to wonder if I really should be continuing to come to the group: I find them terribly unwilling to consider new ideas and there are several aspects of the groups membership policy that trouble me. My Inner Moral Compass tells me I should probably walk away, but the Voice Of Reason tells me that, despite everything I actually like a few of them and besides at £1.50 per session it’s far cheaper than going to class.
I sit down at my painting and try not to think about the Doddery Old Man (or DOM) to my right. The Membership Secretary I can forgive; there is something about the British Psyche that seems to attract grumpy teenagers to public service roles and make enthusiasts running a shop in something they love disapprove of anyone buying their produce: to the point where I feel quite wrong-footed if I go into a shop and am NOT served by someone with a scowl.
DOM is another matter. DOM is still on my list of Bloody Idiots I’d Like To Slap.
The reason being that after I had been going to the group for about three or four weeks DOM turned up for the first time and gave me the Curious Stare which is reserved for Young Interlopers before setting up his easel. He was thin in the way that normally only a pencil is thin and had wispy grey hair that looked like it had spent too many years being used as a floor mop. He was the owner of one of those faces that is best described as drawn, along with a pair of eyes that clearly announced to all who might be enquiring that Mr Brain was not at home to visitors.
I was pretty much engrossed in some project I had taken on just to give me something to do, so thought no more about him until the tea break.
All of a sudden the sun seemed to have fallen out of the sky in DOM’s world, as he was cluttering around his easel like a deranged chicken. A few of the other members, apparently more familiar with his ways, asked gently what the problem was.
After a few prompts along these lines DOM announced that someone had stolen the magazine he had been working from.
“Stolen? Are you sure?” The regulars were unwilling to believe such a thing was possible, “perhaps you’ve put it away?”
“No: it’s gone” more burrowing through bags “It must have been stolen”
Over the next five to ten minutes there was much rifling of bags and noise from my right, before DOM started a sedate round of the room, looking for the culprit. Finally he stopped in front of me.
He stood over me, glaring for a minute or so: clearly assuming that if anyone had stolen something then it must be the new boy. Part of me wanted to ask him why the fuck I would want to steal his magazine, but instead I looked him in the eye and asked “Are you OK?”
DOM seemed taken aback by this, and muttered something to himself before backing away to his stand. One of the other members finally seemed to lose patience with the game and came over to help, pulling a couple of magazines out of DOMs bag and saying “Are these the ones DOM?”
DOM grunted, seeming flustered as he realised that his magazines had been there the whole time, “Huh” he said, flummoxed by events, “Someone must be playing games with me”
And that was when he pissed me off.
The absent mindedness I could associate with, the confusion I could understand: even the suggestion that he thought I might be to blame I could live with – after all I was the new boy…but it was the refusal to accept the facts and back down that made me mad.
There’s a book in the UK called “Who Moved The Cheese” that I’ve been thinking about quite a lot recently. The basic premise being that if you run things in exactly the same way everyday in your life and refuse to move on then eventually you must expect the tide to turn and your audience to leave you high and dry.
I mention it now because despite the brilliance of some of the members, and (despite the niggles against some of the “characters”) the general nice and friendly atmosphere, it is a group that firmly has its head in the sand. Give them ten years and, unless they stand up and looking for new cheese soon, there will be nothing left but crumbs.
Sad but true.
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Put A Tick In The Appropriate Box
For some months now, and as part of my Plans for 2009, I have been considering training as a Celebrant.
I’m sure most of you will know this already, but a Celebrant is someone who officiates at non-religious weddings, funerals, namings and other civil ceremonies.
Why have I been considering this? Well many reasons: Firstly I have a background in communications and events which is currently going to waste, secondly I need a second income that can fit around my current work and thirdly because I think that I will a) be good at it and b) enjoy it.
Mostly though I feel that it’s important that people like myself, who have no particular religious or political beliefs, are able to have a ceremony that represents something about their personality without having to have the usual half-hour of speeches, readings from 1920s etiquette books, performances of the Macarena dance or sudden burstings into song about what a nice bloke Jesus is. So if they want a Hawaiian style funeral, a Tony Blair impersonator to officiate at their wedding or want to name their child 4Real then they can hire someone who is willing and able to make their day complete.
Having looked around at the organisations out there I have found two: the British Humanist Society and the Association Of Independent Celebrants.
Whilst the BHS (not to be confused with the chain store) is clearly the bigger and more organised group I have decided, for a number of reasons, not to join them.
True: their training is much more in depth – they offer ongoing support whilst you get up to speed, insist on an interview prior to signing up to a course and even send a trained celebrant to your first few bookings, but there are several drawbacks.
Firstly they want you to join the BHS and to take a 10% cut of your takings. Secondly their courses are more expensive.
Primarily though my caution over joining is that I am always reluctant to join any organisation that has any political agenda. I tried explaining my concerns to one of their staff – but couldn’t quite get them to understand.
One of their current agendas is to campaign for a change to the entrance requirements for religious schools. This is not a subject that I have ever thought about in any depth previously, nor that I can admit to having any strong beliefs either way about.
But by becoming a member I would be saying to the world that I also support these causes.
For the same reason I would be unable to get married in church with a vicar – for me it would be a lie, done for the sake of ceremony and tradition.
For the same reason I have never joined Amnesty International or Save The Whale: because whilst in general I agree that people should live free from repression and that sea bound mammals should be protected from hunting and extinction I cannot, in actuality, support the violent or high-profile means used by members of either organisation to effect these ends. By signing up and giving my hard earned money to someone like Animal Rights, whose members feel free to terrorise the families of people who work in the animal industry, I would be saying that I feel those means are justified – something that would not be true.
And ok – yes I did vote in the last election. I voted for a bunch of people that I have no particular faith in and whose policies I mostly don’t know or believe will make the blindest bit of difference: and I am not pleased with myself for doing so. My justification in this instance is that my vote, wasted or otherwise, is a vote that helps to stop the British National Party gaining ground and is a vote that is spent on the party that I feel most likely to be honest about telling me what they’re going to do whether I will like it or not. My only excuse is that if I don’t vote for someone then I really don’t have the right to complain about the shower of bastards that get into power.
BTW – whilst on the subject of following organisations or otherwise I would like to apologise to everyone who reads this blog that I have never elected to “follow” any of your blogs. This has nothing to do with any political or personal agenda – whilst I enjoy reading all of your thoughts and contributions I know myself well enough to know that I would get seriously annoyed with the constant emails reminding me that you have updated.
I’d rather take the time to take the pleasure in reading you and responding when my brain is at its most responsive
Any thoughts, organised or otherwise, would be appreciated as usual xxx
I’m sure most of you will know this already, but a Celebrant is someone who officiates at non-religious weddings, funerals, namings and other civil ceremonies.
Why have I been considering this? Well many reasons: Firstly I have a background in communications and events which is currently going to waste, secondly I need a second income that can fit around my current work and thirdly because I think that I will a) be good at it and b) enjoy it.
Mostly though I feel that it’s important that people like myself, who have no particular religious or political beliefs, are able to have a ceremony that represents something about their personality without having to have the usual half-hour of speeches, readings from 1920s etiquette books, performances of the Macarena dance or sudden burstings into song about what a nice bloke Jesus is. So if they want a Hawaiian style funeral, a Tony Blair impersonator to officiate at their wedding or want to name their child 4Real then they can hire someone who is willing and able to make their day complete.
Having looked around at the organisations out there I have found two: the British Humanist Society and the Association Of Independent Celebrants.
Whilst the BHS (not to be confused with the chain store) is clearly the bigger and more organised group I have decided, for a number of reasons, not to join them.
True: their training is much more in depth – they offer ongoing support whilst you get up to speed, insist on an interview prior to signing up to a course and even send a trained celebrant to your first few bookings, but there are several drawbacks.
Firstly they want you to join the BHS and to take a 10% cut of your takings. Secondly their courses are more expensive.
Primarily though my caution over joining is that I am always reluctant to join any organisation that has any political agenda. I tried explaining my concerns to one of their staff – but couldn’t quite get them to understand.
One of their current agendas is to campaign for a change to the entrance requirements for religious schools. This is not a subject that I have ever thought about in any depth previously, nor that I can admit to having any strong beliefs either way about.
But by becoming a member I would be saying to the world that I also support these causes.
For the same reason I would be unable to get married in church with a vicar – for me it would be a lie, done for the sake of ceremony and tradition.
For the same reason I have never joined Amnesty International or Save The Whale: because whilst in general I agree that people should live free from repression and that sea bound mammals should be protected from hunting and extinction I cannot, in actuality, support the violent or high-profile means used by members of either organisation to effect these ends. By signing up and giving my hard earned money to someone like Animal Rights, whose members feel free to terrorise the families of people who work in the animal industry, I would be saying that I feel those means are justified – something that would not be true.
And ok – yes I did vote in the last election. I voted for a bunch of people that I have no particular faith in and whose policies I mostly don’t know or believe will make the blindest bit of difference: and I am not pleased with myself for doing so. My justification in this instance is that my vote, wasted or otherwise, is a vote that helps to stop the British National Party gaining ground and is a vote that is spent on the party that I feel most likely to be honest about telling me what they’re going to do whether I will like it or not. My only excuse is that if I don’t vote for someone then I really don’t have the right to complain about the shower of bastards that get into power.
BTW – whilst on the subject of following organisations or otherwise I would like to apologise to everyone who reads this blog that I have never elected to “follow” any of your blogs. This has nothing to do with any political or personal agenda – whilst I enjoy reading all of your thoughts and contributions I know myself well enough to know that I would get seriously annoyed with the constant emails reminding me that you have updated.
I’d rather take the time to take the pleasure in reading you and responding when my brain is at its most responsive
Any thoughts, organised or otherwise, would be appreciated as usual xxx
Friday, 6 March 2009
Last Night
And then there are nights like last night.
When nothing you do goes the way you want it to.
Where every kind, supportive word from the teacher feels like a leadweight on your heart
Where the crowd never goes wild
Where the guitarist never reaches that bit in the song where the hairs stand up on your arms.
Where you get so fucked off with yourself that you just want to walk out and never touch a pencil again
Where the Depression Cloud settles in and obscures your vision.
Where everyone else seems to be getting it, producing masterpieces, but you are not.
And it takes every inch of what makes you to keep on trying.
Still - fairplay to the model, who must have spent ten years studying the Tantric Karma-Sutra (Yoga Edition) to be that bendy!
I really aught to give my Depression Cloud a name. Trevor is the current forerunner, but suggestions would be welcome (on a postcard please)
When nothing you do goes the way you want it to.
Where every kind, supportive word from the teacher feels like a leadweight on your heart
Where the crowd never goes wild
Where the guitarist never reaches that bit in the song where the hairs stand up on your arms.
Where you get so fucked off with yourself that you just want to walk out and never touch a pencil again
Where the Depression Cloud settles in and obscures your vision.
Where everyone else seems to be getting it, producing masterpieces, but you are not.
And it takes every inch of what makes you to keep on trying.
Still - fairplay to the model, who must have spent ten years studying the Tantric Karma-Sutra (Yoga Edition) to be that bendy!
I really aught to give my Depression Cloud a name. Trevor is the current forerunner, but suggestions would be welcome (on a postcard please)
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Chasing Rainbows
The day after my procedure and I’m awake early.
It’s Sunday morning, about 7am and any trace of sleep is gone – so I decide I might as well get up, get something to eat and go out.
The cats follow me downstairs and following me around asking for food. As usual Furry dives straight in, whilst Tiny sits politely waiting for anything that’s left when he’s finished. They both like to spend time during the night clambering onto my head or snuggling down by my feet – meaning that both have been kicked by accident on more than one occasion.
I fish out my cycling gear and pull my bike out of the kitchen and into the entry by the side of the house, checking the tyres and the brakes: it has been two months since I’ve ridden it. Before I start seriously riding it I will get it serviced properly, but the bike is in good enough condition for today.
Most days I just follow my nose unless I have somewhere specific to go: heading towards country roads, taking a left that I have never taken before just to find out where it goes. On this occasion I’m heading out with a Purpose (note capital letter).
From November 2009 our offices move to a new location. I had hoped (somewhere in the tiny corner of my brain that still believes in miracles) that we would move to a more central location, but it is now looking increasingly likely that we will be even further away from my home: and so I need to find a new cycle route. I decide to follow a route I’ve had mapped out in my head for a few weeks: one that goes as close to the crow’s flight as possible by cutting off corners, taking routes that run alongside country parks and over footbridges before arriving at my destination. In order to fully check the validity of this route I decide I will come home via a second route through a more built up area.
I clamber onto my bike and set off – surprised at how easy I find it: I’ve been on the bus to work since September (earlier than usual because of a leg injury) so am out of shape, but the bike carries me through the worst of it and its barely a few seconds before I’m at the end of the road and cycling down into the subway. The road nearby is quite a major one and there’s no cycle path on either route, so I stick to the pavement and watch for pedestrians as I climb the slow hill towards the local war memorial. There’s a road to one side of it that I follow, crossing another major road and wondering how realistic this journey will be at rush hour.
All around me the landscape is changing from the way I have known it: an old pub has been flattened by developers, new businesses stand where familiar names once were.
Down the hill and across the footbridge I see the local recycling plant and take what I believe to be the right route – only to find myself on a wooded path. I crouch down as I whizz through low tunnel after low tunnel, each barely enough to give me space to pass. The world is in darkness as I can’t stop to take off my sunglasses and I know I can’t follow this part of the route everyday. Nevertheless it brings me out somewhere I didn’t expect – somewhere very close to the new offices and I’m surprised that the journey is actually shorter than my current one.
I cycle back a different route, enjoying the thrill of the exercise and the complications of following the wrong route for a mile or so. It’s hard to describe the feeling that cycling on a quiet morning like this gives me: it’s like the moment when I’m sitting in front of a computer and my fingers are typing as fast as they can to keep up with my imagination, or the moment that I get so involved in a painting that everything else just swims away.
In that moment the world slips away and I’m free of the doubts and the insecurities. In that moment I can be the person that I want to be.
Many people I know talk about hills when they talk about cycling – how much of a pain they are to conquer – I actually quite like them. I like that feeling of accomplishment you get when you get to the top of a hill and are rewarded with the view – you can take your time and find your own path: something that we are sadly allowed to do so infrequently in our lives.
Now, with spring rapidly approaching, my cycling begins again in earnest. I’m hoping to build up my distances again to the point where I can easily do 40-50 miles in a journey. Maybe when I do I will take you with me.
On a separate subject, but in the vein of taking you with me – I have several ideas for novels at present: two of which I want to keep off line, but I have been thinking of sharing the third one on a separate blog linked in to this one.
However, before I start I would appreciate some (honest) levels of interest. The idea is based around a fading rock band who are trying to ride the wave of their one-hit-wonder for a comeback tour, but are forced to face their insecurities along the way. Each post would be between 3-5,000 words - which you may feel is a bit much to cope with
I guess I would post about once or twice a month.
If there’s sufficient interest I will go ahead – but please be honest with feedback on this.
Thanks
Monday, 23 February 2009
The Colony Of Slippermen (PG Rated)
White walls; clinical.
The sound of muted conversation echoes down the corridor: the only evidence that life outside is still ongoing. The smell of disinfectant hangs in the air like a gentle mist.
Four plain walls, no decoration: just a clock on the wall, a TV and two plastic jugs of water that I’m not allowed to touch. There are about ten of us present, all politely waiting for our turn. In the front left corner is the door to freedom, in the front right the TV, unloved and unwanted, shows endless athletics. The emergency exit sits in the back right of the room, shrouded by blinds and making the sense of isolation complete.
The clock sits dead still at 10:45am. I’ve already handed my watch and keys to my partner and feel very lost in this timeless environment. I put my head back on the white wall and try to sleep. My partner is busy making friends with the old lady next to her: she’s good at this human interaction stuff – I’m really not. I listen to her voice and let it comfort me, glad that she is there.
I ask for the time: it’s already 2pm. I haven’t eaten or drank since 5am and I’ve been here, along with everyone else, since 12:30pm. Hardly anyone has been seen yet.
As a defence mechanism I start making stupid jokes: I talk about the athletics on the TV: how did the triple jump evolve, I wonder – I mean a hop YES, a skip, MAYBE, a jump DEFINITELY, but all three? What happens if you forget to skip? Do they knock off points or is it disqualification? I talk about my suggestion for the 2012 Olympics – that we should suggest Olympic Musical Chairs as an additional event. A part of me really wants to see the teams walk into the half-finished arena waving the flags whilst a presenter says “And here comes the British Olympic Musical Chairs team in the middle of the pack: they’ve had a lot of problems with funding over the past two years, most of them have been practicing with a bucket: so I wonder how quickly they’ll adapt to the Olympic Standard Chair” and suggest that, in keeping with childhood parties, the songs should all be by The Muppets or “Remember You’re A Womble”
I shut up, aware that I’m babbling. A gaunt man with scraggly stubble and a blue overall calls my name and I walk through. He tells me the same things I’ve already been told five times, asks me the same questions. Do I have any loose fillings? No, Do I have any history of heart disease, Diabetes or any other Non-Fun Diseases (NFDs)? Again – No.
He explains that they are going to perform an Endoscopy – send a tube down my throat and have a good nose to see what’s going on in my stomach. He also says they’re going to do a biopsy whilst they’re in there: take some samples from my stomach lining to check on my food allergy. He seems to be the first person I’ve spoken to today who knows that this is why I’m here – but I don’t mind too much as he’s the one doing it.
You see: ever since I was very, very young I’ve had a food allergy: I’m on a special diet so most of the time I don’t have a problem, but just recently the Doctor’s keep saying that I really should have another check for the NFDs that I’m apparently more prone to than the average person. Amongst the NFDs they say I could look forward to are such fun illnesses as Stomach Cancer, brittle bones, Diabetes and an increased likelihood to get Flu. Eventually I got sick and tired of hearing it and, foolishly, agreed to let them have a look – if only to shut them up for a while.
Personally I just think they have a quota each year and if they don’t ram something inside you from time to time they lose their funding. This conclusion has been reached because no one will tell me exactly how much more likely I am to get these NFDs. Is it one percent? Five? Fifty-five? How can I decide if not being probed every five to ten years is an acceptable risk if no one will tell me?
Eventually the man in the blue coat finishes his spiel and sends me packing. It’s not until much later that I think how funny it would have been to ask him if I will be able to sing after the procedure, so that when he says “yes” I can respond “Well that will be a bloody miracle, because I can’t sing now!”
They call my name again and this time there’s no escape – I go through to a small cubicle and undress, struggling to do up the gown at the back and the sides, placing my belongings into a hand basket that looks suspiciously like it’s been stolen from Tesco. As I don’t have any slippers they tell me to leave my trainers on: the last thing they need is me slipping over and breaking my neck! After a while a Chinese nurse comes to collect me, asks me to confirm who I am. I look at the tab of white around my wrist and wonder what the point of this is when I could read the information from here.
I go through to the procedure room and again I’m making stupid jokes. I do this when I’m nervous or bored or…well, almost any time really, but especially when nervous or bored. I ask one of the nurses if she ever wakes up and thinks “oh no, not another stomach: let’s shove it up his nose and look at his brains for a change?” but she doesn’t look amused. She looks like she’s spent too much time riding horses on Daddy’s vineyard and replies in a nice tone of voice that nonetheless tells me I am little more than a sack of meat as far as she is concerned.
The Endoscopist shows me the spray they will use on my throat and warns me that it will taste awful: a bit like rancid bananas. I suggest that they should produce a range of foul tastes for variety: peach melba perhaps, but open my mouth nonetheless. It is exactly like rancid bananas: only it stings as well.
They lie me down on one side, having to undo the gown around the neck because it is choking, and put a stopper between my teeth to keep my mouth open. The Endoscopist explains that this is the worst part, as when the scope goes over the back of the throat it can cause gagging. A convoluted discussion ensues as to whether I will need oxygen or not: the Endoscopist laughs off the suggestion of my air passages being partially blocked, but the nurse seems to win the argument as a small tube is pressed into my nose.
He asks me to swallow: and I realise in an instant that he is totally wrong – over the throat is easy: the feeling as the instrument descends down my neck, pressing against my windpipe, and into my gut is far worse: like swallowing a sword or a snake. I feel his thin tube pushing down through my mouth, down my throat, penetrating my body. I want it gone, now: but lie still. The pulse-monitor on my finger slips and I wonder if it is possible to find a comfortable position where I will not dislodge it.
My whole world now consists entirely of the sight of his hands adjusting the controls, the blue of the nurse’s uniforms and the steady ping-ping-ping of the monitors reminding me of the control panels on Star Trek. I try to breathe steadily and not think too much about what he is doing, but I can still feel the pressure in my throat and silently urge him to stop telling me what he is doing and just get the hell on with it.
He pushes a thin metal wire into a section of the tube and I feel a tug as he pulls out a section of my stomach wall: once, twice: four or five times in total – each time it’s like being pinched inside and then pulled quite hard. I try not to swallow too often, aware of the tube pressing against me from inside.
Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, he announces that he is pleased and begins to remove the scope and I feel it wriggling worm-like; slouching towards bethelehem so to speak...
Someone raises the sides of the bed and asks me to turn on my back. They ask me to sit and immediately my head starts to spin. Every time I swallow my throat complains.
I tell them that I can’t stand just yet and the Chinese nurse that led me through piles my Tesco shopping basket on the bed and pushes me through to a recovery room where she takes my blood pressure and my pulse. I feel bad for being such a pain and such a wuss: silently confirming to myself that the old lady before me probably got straight back up, did a little dance and swung her handbag at the Endoscopist in revenge. I apologise to the Chinese nurse for wasting her time and thank her for being a lovely audience.
Finally they allow me to stand and get dressed, before offering to let me look at the notes to see that everything is fine. I walk over, expecting to see a scan of my stomach, but there is only a drawing of a stomach with nothing much written on it. I wonder what this is supposed to prove: that the nurses are better artists than I am?
I thank them for their help and for looking after me and walk back to where my partner is waiting for me. I’m almost pathetically glad to see her, to know that she has been waiting for me, thinking about me whilst I was in there: thinking that words will never express how much that means to me.
As we leave the building I find myself thinking that modern medicine may well be wonderful, but that I’ve had just about enough of it for now thank you very much.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EP7CDvQULXw
The sound of muted conversation echoes down the corridor: the only evidence that life outside is still ongoing. The smell of disinfectant hangs in the air like a gentle mist.
Four plain walls, no decoration: just a clock on the wall, a TV and two plastic jugs of water that I’m not allowed to touch. There are about ten of us present, all politely waiting for our turn. In the front left corner is the door to freedom, in the front right the TV, unloved and unwanted, shows endless athletics. The emergency exit sits in the back right of the room, shrouded by blinds and making the sense of isolation complete.
The clock sits dead still at 10:45am. I’ve already handed my watch and keys to my partner and feel very lost in this timeless environment. I put my head back on the white wall and try to sleep. My partner is busy making friends with the old lady next to her: she’s good at this human interaction stuff – I’m really not. I listen to her voice and let it comfort me, glad that she is there.
I ask for the time: it’s already 2pm. I haven’t eaten or drank since 5am and I’ve been here, along with everyone else, since 12:30pm. Hardly anyone has been seen yet.
As a defence mechanism I start making stupid jokes: I talk about the athletics on the TV: how did the triple jump evolve, I wonder – I mean a hop YES, a skip, MAYBE, a jump DEFINITELY, but all three? What happens if you forget to skip? Do they knock off points or is it disqualification? I talk about my suggestion for the 2012 Olympics – that we should suggest Olympic Musical Chairs as an additional event. A part of me really wants to see the teams walk into the half-finished arena waving the flags whilst a presenter says “And here comes the British Olympic Musical Chairs team in the middle of the pack: they’ve had a lot of problems with funding over the past two years, most of them have been practicing with a bucket: so I wonder how quickly they’ll adapt to the Olympic Standard Chair” and suggest that, in keeping with childhood parties, the songs should all be by The Muppets or “Remember You’re A Womble”
I shut up, aware that I’m babbling. A gaunt man with scraggly stubble and a blue overall calls my name and I walk through. He tells me the same things I’ve already been told five times, asks me the same questions. Do I have any loose fillings? No, Do I have any history of heart disease, Diabetes or any other Non-Fun Diseases (NFDs)? Again – No.
He explains that they are going to perform an Endoscopy – send a tube down my throat and have a good nose to see what’s going on in my stomach. He also says they’re going to do a biopsy whilst they’re in there: take some samples from my stomach lining to check on my food allergy. He seems to be the first person I’ve spoken to today who knows that this is why I’m here – but I don’t mind too much as he’s the one doing it.
You see: ever since I was very, very young I’ve had a food allergy: I’m on a special diet so most of the time I don’t have a problem, but just recently the Doctor’s keep saying that I really should have another check for the NFDs that I’m apparently more prone to than the average person. Amongst the NFDs they say I could look forward to are such fun illnesses as Stomach Cancer, brittle bones, Diabetes and an increased likelihood to get Flu. Eventually I got sick and tired of hearing it and, foolishly, agreed to let them have a look – if only to shut them up for a while.
Personally I just think they have a quota each year and if they don’t ram something inside you from time to time they lose their funding. This conclusion has been reached because no one will tell me exactly how much more likely I am to get these NFDs. Is it one percent? Five? Fifty-five? How can I decide if not being probed every five to ten years is an acceptable risk if no one will tell me?
Eventually the man in the blue coat finishes his spiel and sends me packing. It’s not until much later that I think how funny it would have been to ask him if I will be able to sing after the procedure, so that when he says “yes” I can respond “Well that will be a bloody miracle, because I can’t sing now!”
They call my name again and this time there’s no escape – I go through to a small cubicle and undress, struggling to do up the gown at the back and the sides, placing my belongings into a hand basket that looks suspiciously like it’s been stolen from Tesco. As I don’t have any slippers they tell me to leave my trainers on: the last thing they need is me slipping over and breaking my neck! After a while a Chinese nurse comes to collect me, asks me to confirm who I am. I look at the tab of white around my wrist and wonder what the point of this is when I could read the information from here.
I go through to the procedure room and again I’m making stupid jokes. I do this when I’m nervous or bored or…well, almost any time really, but especially when nervous or bored. I ask one of the nurses if she ever wakes up and thinks “oh no, not another stomach: let’s shove it up his nose and look at his brains for a change?” but she doesn’t look amused. She looks like she’s spent too much time riding horses on Daddy’s vineyard and replies in a nice tone of voice that nonetheless tells me I am little more than a sack of meat as far as she is concerned.
The Endoscopist shows me the spray they will use on my throat and warns me that it will taste awful: a bit like rancid bananas. I suggest that they should produce a range of foul tastes for variety: peach melba perhaps, but open my mouth nonetheless. It is exactly like rancid bananas: only it stings as well.
They lie me down on one side, having to undo the gown around the neck because it is choking, and put a stopper between my teeth to keep my mouth open. The Endoscopist explains that this is the worst part, as when the scope goes over the back of the throat it can cause gagging. A convoluted discussion ensues as to whether I will need oxygen or not: the Endoscopist laughs off the suggestion of my air passages being partially blocked, but the nurse seems to win the argument as a small tube is pressed into my nose.
He asks me to swallow: and I realise in an instant that he is totally wrong – over the throat is easy: the feeling as the instrument descends down my neck, pressing against my windpipe, and into my gut is far worse: like swallowing a sword or a snake. I feel his thin tube pushing down through my mouth, down my throat, penetrating my body. I want it gone, now: but lie still. The pulse-monitor on my finger slips and I wonder if it is possible to find a comfortable position where I will not dislodge it.
My whole world now consists entirely of the sight of his hands adjusting the controls, the blue of the nurse’s uniforms and the steady ping-ping-ping of the monitors reminding me of the control panels on Star Trek. I try to breathe steadily and not think too much about what he is doing, but I can still feel the pressure in my throat and silently urge him to stop telling me what he is doing and just get the hell on with it.
He pushes a thin metal wire into a section of the tube and I feel a tug as he pulls out a section of my stomach wall: once, twice: four or five times in total – each time it’s like being pinched inside and then pulled quite hard. I try not to swallow too often, aware of the tube pressing against me from inside.
Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, he announces that he is pleased and begins to remove the scope and I feel it wriggling worm-like; slouching towards bethelehem so to speak...
Someone raises the sides of the bed and asks me to turn on my back. They ask me to sit and immediately my head starts to spin. Every time I swallow my throat complains.
I tell them that I can’t stand just yet and the Chinese nurse that led me through piles my Tesco shopping basket on the bed and pushes me through to a recovery room where she takes my blood pressure and my pulse. I feel bad for being such a pain and such a wuss: silently confirming to myself that the old lady before me probably got straight back up, did a little dance and swung her handbag at the Endoscopist in revenge. I apologise to the Chinese nurse for wasting her time and thank her for being a lovely audience.
Finally they allow me to stand and get dressed, before offering to let me look at the notes to see that everything is fine. I walk over, expecting to see a scan of my stomach, but there is only a drawing of a stomach with nothing much written on it. I wonder what this is supposed to prove: that the nurses are better artists than I am?
I thank them for their help and for looking after me and walk back to where my partner is waiting for me. I’m almost pathetically glad to see her, to know that she has been waiting for me, thinking about me whilst I was in there: thinking that words will never express how much that means to me.
As we leave the building I find myself thinking that modern medicine may well be wonderful, but that I’ve had just about enough of it for now thank you very much.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EP7CDvQULXw
Thursday, 19 February 2009
The World Won’t Listen
So today I’m on the bus (as is often the way) and I pick up the Ever Inadvertently Amusing “Metro” and flick through what is laughingly described as news. Sometimes there are some nice pictures in this publication, some of which I have used as the basis for paintings. Mostly it’s celebrity gossip and headlines from around the world.
Today the item that hits my attention the most is about a school where the teacher asked his very young kids to write down a list of the swearwords they knew, what they thought they meant and how they would feel if that word was used as an insult or to bully them.
The article was basically saying that a bunch of parents had got together and complained that their kids had come home with a list of swearwords in their books with a “well done” tick from the teacher.
Whilst I agree that this was probably not the best response I think that, personally speaking, I would be a little more worried that my five-year-old knew words like c**ksucker and had a good idea what they meant. I might even go so far as to applaud the teacher for making the kids think twice before using such words. As it is the teacher has been reprimanded and the pages removed from the books.
As I have mentioned before it is the common practice around my way to use a swearword as a thinking gap in a conversation. A recent survey that said that the average person swears 15 times a day missed the mark entirely down my street and needed to replace the word “day” with “second”
And of course, there is always the temptation to look back at one’s own childhood and imagine it to be a “Just William” style time of Swallows And Amazons and lashings of Ginger Beer, when the Police were to be Respected (with capital “R”) and everything was so much more innocent – when of course no such thing was true. I can’t deny knowing and using swearwords from a very young age, but I do worry that the frequency of use denotes a deterioration of literacy.
Some of the people I know are surprised when I use an unfamiliar word (I recently described something that had been said as a bit “Jingoistic” and then had to explain what that meant, as well as putting out an email that advertised “Sugar based comestibles” to general confusion) – but I guess it just comes from the fact that I love to read and am genuinely interested in language.
We are the only species on the planet that has developed such a complicated manner of communications; most others have only managed grunts, squeals and exchanging smells (admittedly this mirrors the behaviour of the average British Teenager on holiday in Greece) and I think that we should delight in the freedom of expression that this brings.
Quite recently there was a complaint that many public signs are now spelled incorrectly – for instance a road sign that stated “City Center” (US spelling) instead of “City Centre”. Meanwhile I can't name a single senior Manager that can get through an email without a spelling mistake and our Communications Department recently put out an email advertising Casual Dress Day as an opportunity to "where red". Even I, incredibly well-versed as I am, would struggle to cope without my ever-ready Spell-check.
And the question that many people have asked is “well, does it really matter?”
Well – in a way Yes, and in a way No. If linguists controlled the world (instead of the cats/traffic cone manufacturers conspiracy we’ve previously agreed on) then language would never change and would be written in stone. Rules would always apply and there’d be none of this nonsense where the word “Phonetic” was not even spelt phonetically.
But the truth is that language is forever changing and evolving to match our means of communications. If you were to travel back even 100 years the chances are that you wouldn’t be able to communicate with someone you met there because the language and the terms of reference have changed so much.
English is, alongside Japanese, described as the most difficult language to learn for a foreigner because of its inconsistencies (try explaining why “Stationery” (things you find in the office) and “Stationary” (not moving) are spelt so similar, but mean totally different things to a non-English language user and see what I mean) – but it is equally one of the most beautiful.
For a good example of what I mean, and in honour of the memory of my Gran and Grandad (father’s side), please find below a poem written in the local dialect of Sheffield:
Where's tha bin tha mucky tyke
Laykin t'all afternoon
Inter't sink oil yorll be fun
Look at tha britches showin
Muck an splat reet up t'neck
Black as soot thee clothes
No more laykin for thee tonait
Intert 'outhouse tha guz begone
And a rough translation (by myself, so apologies for mistakes)
Where have you been, you mucky kid?
Playing all afternoon (NB: I’m not sure exactly what “Laykin” means)
In the sink (wash yourself) or you’ll be in trouble
Look at your underwear showing
Muck splattered right up to your neck
Your clothes are black as soot
No more playing for you tonight
Get in the outhouse now – begone!
In its way this poem is as beautiful as any Shakespeare poem, with its own unique way of showing the world that says a lot about the times and the society it was written in.
One of the main themes of George Orwell's classic "Nineteen Eighty-Four" is the way that Big Brother controls language through the use of Newspeak - the theory being that if you deny the public the ability to put their revolutionary thoughts and doubts about the system into words then you equally deny them the ability to think those thoughts in the first place.
There is the possiblity that by chosing to limit our language ourselves in this way we have done away with the need for a despot and are heading full throttle into simplicity all by ourselves.
Whether this is true or not it pains me to think that future generations may know little better than to punctuate their every thought with a rude word because they have lost the ability to put their heads in the clouds and dream.
Friday, 13 February 2009
Nine Million Bicycles
The great thing about urban myths is how easy they are to start as opposed to how difficult they are to stop.
Even today thanks to an over-excited journalist and a weather balloon thousands of Sci-fi buffs across the planet suffer premature ejaculation at the mere mention of the word “Roswell”, meanwhile despite all the evidence that the deaths of Kennedy, Monroe and Diana were down to simple assassination, suicide and accident respectively people continue to gather in dark corners and mutter “conspiracy”
One of my favourite bits of un-provable bunkum is the so-called fact that if everyone in China was to jump at the same time it would cause a tidal wave.
Exactly how do we know this? Have their been experiments? Have there been actual recorded historical events where the “free world” has said “Oi, China: free Tibet now” only to be told, “Try and make us: we’re ready to jump at a moment’s notice”?
Are thousands of Chinese children being trained right at this very moment to jump in synchrony? Do we have evidence? Of course not. Mind you: as far as threats go it beats the nuclear deterrent hands down. We probably need orders signed in triplicate before we can even consider pointing a weapon at an enemy – all China needs to do is raise an angry foot.
This threat had been particularly relevant to me over the last two weeks, because I have spent an increasing amount of my time jumping up and down with frustration at my local bus companies and could well have done with the weight of nine million Chinese poised and ready to jump with me.
The problem is that the times of my local bus has changed so that instead of running a fifteen minute service at peak times it only runs every half-hour. This problem has been made worse by the fact that they are still advertising and promoting the fifteen minute service.
The Bus Company tell me that the information at the stations is nothing to do with them and is provided by the Station Company. They tell me that they are unable to pass back complaints or do anything about the displays. In general their whole attitude is “We just don’t care”
The Station Company tell me that the information they display is given to them by the Bus Company – so if it is wrong then it is not their fault.
The Travel Information company (whose website is not displaying a timetable for my route) say that there IS a fifteen minute service according to them and further tell me that the Bus Company are useless and not interested in helping before going on to start complaining to me about their own bus service
After two weeks and a dozen complaints I’m starting to think that they should enter me for a prize draw for a holiday in the Seychelles.
So what we have here is two different companies running two halves of the same service – with neither company having any easy means of clear dialogue with the other.
I wonder where the Bus Company thinks its main source of income comes from: is it a) Migrating Penguins travelling south to give birth, b) Hoards of aliens hell-bent on mankind’s destruction or c) paying customers boarding and alighting from their busses
And where do people (in general) do this from?
The change in times and the inability to get a clear answer from anyone has resulted in me having to leave my house much earlier in the mornings and take pot luck with services in the evening. I can barely wait until it is light enough in the evenings to cycle to work and all of this nonsense is behind me – no wonder people prefer to use their cars than rely on unreliable public transport.
Things moved forward slightly last night, because I was able to pick up a new copy of the new timetable for my service – what resemblance this timetable has to reality remains to be seen…
Even today thanks to an over-excited journalist and a weather balloon thousands of Sci-fi buffs across the planet suffer premature ejaculation at the mere mention of the word “Roswell”, meanwhile despite all the evidence that the deaths of Kennedy, Monroe and Diana were down to simple assassination, suicide and accident respectively people continue to gather in dark corners and mutter “conspiracy”
One of my favourite bits of un-provable bunkum is the so-called fact that if everyone in China was to jump at the same time it would cause a tidal wave.
Exactly how do we know this? Have their been experiments? Have there been actual recorded historical events where the “free world” has said “Oi, China: free Tibet now” only to be told, “Try and make us: we’re ready to jump at a moment’s notice”?
Are thousands of Chinese children being trained right at this very moment to jump in synchrony? Do we have evidence? Of course not. Mind you: as far as threats go it beats the nuclear deterrent hands down. We probably need orders signed in triplicate before we can even consider pointing a weapon at an enemy – all China needs to do is raise an angry foot.
This threat had been particularly relevant to me over the last two weeks, because I have spent an increasing amount of my time jumping up and down with frustration at my local bus companies and could well have done with the weight of nine million Chinese poised and ready to jump with me.
The problem is that the times of my local bus has changed so that instead of running a fifteen minute service at peak times it only runs every half-hour. This problem has been made worse by the fact that they are still advertising and promoting the fifteen minute service.
The Bus Company tell me that the information at the stations is nothing to do with them and is provided by the Station Company. They tell me that they are unable to pass back complaints or do anything about the displays. In general their whole attitude is “We just don’t care”
The Station Company tell me that the information they display is given to them by the Bus Company – so if it is wrong then it is not their fault.
The Travel Information company (whose website is not displaying a timetable for my route) say that there IS a fifteen minute service according to them and further tell me that the Bus Company are useless and not interested in helping before going on to start complaining to me about their own bus service
After two weeks and a dozen complaints I’m starting to think that they should enter me for a prize draw for a holiday in the Seychelles.
So what we have here is two different companies running two halves of the same service – with neither company having any easy means of clear dialogue with the other.
I wonder where the Bus Company thinks its main source of income comes from: is it a) Migrating Penguins travelling south to give birth, b) Hoards of aliens hell-bent on mankind’s destruction or c) paying customers boarding and alighting from their busses
And where do people (in general) do this from?
The change in times and the inability to get a clear answer from anyone has resulted in me having to leave my house much earlier in the mornings and take pot luck with services in the evening. I can barely wait until it is light enough in the evenings to cycle to work and all of this nonsense is behind me – no wonder people prefer to use their cars than rely on unreliable public transport.
Things moved forward slightly last night, because I was able to pick up a new copy of the new timetable for my service – what resemblance this timetable has to reality remains to be seen…
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