One of the big questions that face the world today is ‘Who the hell actually buys anything from those insane catalogues that come through the door, fall out of every magazine, arrive by matter transport on the kitchen table, and omisisify by the loo?’
You know the ones. They have handy items like electric ear cleaners, amazing widgets to clean parts of your house you didn’t know you had and over 1000 different cunning devices of removing hair you hope you will never have.
Well now I know. It’s people who have broken their feet.
‘My God yes!!!’ I found myself exclaiming. ‘That is exactly what I need!!!’ You can see how exclaiming I felt from the masses of exclamation marks.
Soothing stockings, shower stools, deluxe toilet safety supports, infra red joint supports, folding walking sticks, matter-transport devices and small models of Captain Picard. To name but a few of the more obvious items that I merrily jotted on the order form.
These things will really make my life so much more enjoyable. But I didn’t stop there. Once I got the hang of it I discovered that actually I needed more.
A cat repellent. Why did I never think of buying that before? I could repel snotty cat and thus through his disgust he could begin to empathise with my disgust of his snottyness.
A sheet suspender. No more sleeping on a lumpy mattress once my sheets were suspended. Fantastic. I could deploy my small Captain Picard here too.
A companion table. Who needs men when one can have a meaningful relationship with a piece of furniture? And truly it looked very sexy. Well, compared to some men.
No rinse dog shampoo. Ok, I don’t have a dog, but really, now I wouldn’t have to rinse one either. Stunning.
Then and now music centre. Don’t know what that means but the picture looked like it was a wooden bus. What could be more useful?
I’m now awaiting the postman with more than eager anticipation of a better life.
Not only that, but by the time I have finished paying for my better life my foot will be better and I will be able to do something more useful than browse catalogues and play with small figurines of Captain Picard. No, actually sorry, that is useful.
Tuesday 26 June 2007
Thursday 21 June 2007
How to Tell if a Man fancies You Using Scientific Thought Experiments
I have a thingy. You know, one of those things that tell me how people find my blog. Mostly they find it by a miracle. It just drops onto their screens from the heavens. I bit like bird shit but less corrosive. But sometimes people google a question and it leads them here to this well know font of erroneous knowledge.
I have to mention, because it seemed impossible when I found out, that some poor demented soul googled ‘Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and yellow poo’ and were lead to this blog. I deny all knowledge of having written on such a subject.
The most searched for term that drops unknowing and unknowledgeable folk onto these pages is ‘How can I tell if a man fancies me?’ This, I consider a very important topic. One of life’s great questions like ‘Why are we here?’ ‘What is the meaning of life?’ and ‘Do Crunchy Nut Cornflakes make your poo go yellow?’ I will therefore attempt to elucidate further on the topic.
Previously I wrote about how to use philosophical reasoning - http://ceciliamorreau.blogspot.com/2007/04/classical-proofs-or-how-to-tell-if-man.html . And don’t doubt that that method still holds true. However I have discovered a new way of finding out the answer to this question using a scientific method much favoured by famous scientists: the thought experiment.
The beauty of the thought experiment is that it needs no equipment aside from a brain. There are no messy test tubes, custard or costly particle accelerators. And you don’t even have to remove your brain and dissect it. You can use it in situ. Without harming it. Or not very much anyway.
Galileo used this the thought experiment to discover what happened when his balls dropped. Schrödinger used it to prevent his cat from shitting on the carpets. Einstein used it to discover special relativity. And that’s exactly my point. Everyone can use it to discover special relativity. Or, in other words, whether a man fancies you.
Note: there is of course also just plain everyday ordinary relativity, which is whether you fancy a man. But of course you already know that.
So, how does it work? Well, according to Wikipedia –
1. assume to be true what you think is false,
2. find a contradiction,
3. logically deduce that it is therefore in fact false.
Don’t Panic. All will become clear. We will now apply this to the real life situation:
1. assume to be true what you think is false: he fancies me.
2. find a contradiction: he never calls/emails/texts/writes/speaks/shags me.
3. logically deduce that it is therefore in fact false: what? Sorry? You think I’m Einstein or something?
Sorry try that last bit again –
3. logically deduce that it is therefore in fact false: he fancies me.
Ta da. Scientific proof. He does fancy you. Yay. Or perhaps not. If you don’t fancy him. Or he’s some sort of wierdo. Or stalker. Or scientist who uses thought experiments to find out stuff about real life.
NB for the sake of political correctness I would like to add that if you yourself are a man and hetrosexual none of the above holds true at all. Just fucking ask her.
I have to mention, because it seemed impossible when I found out, that some poor demented soul googled ‘Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and yellow poo’ and were lead to this blog. I deny all knowledge of having written on such a subject.
The most searched for term that drops unknowing and unknowledgeable folk onto these pages is ‘How can I tell if a man fancies me?’ This, I consider a very important topic. One of life’s great questions like ‘Why are we here?’ ‘What is the meaning of life?’ and ‘Do Crunchy Nut Cornflakes make your poo go yellow?’ I will therefore attempt to elucidate further on the topic.
Previously I wrote about how to use philosophical reasoning - http://ceciliamorreau.blogspot.com/2007/04/classical-proofs-or-how-to-tell-if-man.html . And don’t doubt that that method still holds true. However I have discovered a new way of finding out the answer to this question using a scientific method much favoured by famous scientists: the thought experiment.
The beauty of the thought experiment is that it needs no equipment aside from a brain. There are no messy test tubes, custard or costly particle accelerators. And you don’t even have to remove your brain and dissect it. You can use it in situ. Without harming it. Or not very much anyway.
Galileo used this the thought experiment to discover what happened when his balls dropped. Schrödinger used it to prevent his cat from shitting on the carpets. Einstein used it to discover special relativity. And that’s exactly my point. Everyone can use it to discover special relativity. Or, in other words, whether a man fancies you.
Note: there is of course also just plain everyday ordinary relativity, which is whether you fancy a man. But of course you already know that.
So, how does it work? Well, according to Wikipedia –
1. assume to be true what you think is false,
2. find a contradiction,
3. logically deduce that it is therefore in fact false.
Don’t Panic. All will become clear. We will now apply this to the real life situation:
1. assume to be true what you think is false: he fancies me.
2. find a contradiction: he never calls/emails/texts/writes/speaks/shags me.
3. logically deduce that it is therefore in fact false: what? Sorry? You think I’m Einstein or something?
Sorry try that last bit again –
3. logically deduce that it is therefore in fact false: he fancies me.
Ta da. Scientific proof. He does fancy you. Yay. Or perhaps not. If you don’t fancy him. Or he’s some sort of wierdo. Or stalker. Or scientist who uses thought experiments to find out stuff about real life.
NB for the sake of political correctness I would like to add that if you yourself are a man and hetrosexual none of the above holds true at all. Just fucking ask her.
Wednesday 20 June 2007
How to Use Fiction and not Science to Fix the Freezer (or Not)
Something happened. I’m not sure how. But it could have been carelessness. Or it could have been the power cut. Many things, but mostly pregnancies, have been blamed on these two culprits. This was a case of ice trying to rule the world.
I noticed it first last night. The freezer door would not shut. Upon further examination it transpired that instead of the usual freezer contents: pizzas that are so thin on cheese that no one will eat them, blackcurrants from the bumper crop six years ago, the year before lasts’ chocolate mousse left over from a party, ice packs for purple feet, ice cream that is all sort of frosty on top, you know, the general collection of totally inedible stuff, there was ice. And only ice. Big white and slightly scary ice. Ice so large that it was creeping out and trying to reach the tumble dryer for some sort of ice/heat party.
This, I thought, was a problem. For two good reasons. One, how was I going to cook those blackcurrants that I had been meaning to turn into a delicious blackcurrant cake for the last six years? Two, how was I going to close the door? And three (ok three good reasons) since the door was open then the freezer motor was going completely mad thinking that it was its sole and crucial responsibility to bring the rest of the house down to freezer temperature.
Reason three won. Mostly because the beloved has a bit of a thing about how much electricity freezers use. Luckily the beloved is flying to Canada (to speak at conference about sustainability) using aviation fuel instead of electricity. But he’s coming back. On Thursday. And will not be happy to find the whole house turned into a freezer using about a million times more electricity than a normal freezer fiasco.
So, a plan was needed. The obvious sprung to mind. Turn off the freezer. Not so simple as it seemed. The freezer is attached to the fridge. To be precise the fridge is on top of the freezer and attached. Turn one off and the other one goes off. (It’s a metaphor for marriage; every house should have one.) The fridge is full of food we actually want to eat. That needs to be cold.
A rethink needed. I racked my brains for a solution. Being a bit of a traditionalist I looked on the bookshelves for a solution. You know, a book called ‘Freezer Monsters and How to Win’ or ‘Is Your House Being Taken Over By the Freezer?’ or ‘Come to Terms With Your Ice In Twelve Easy Steps’. Nothing. How odd. But my eye finally alighted on a helpful guide book. It advocated the use of a towel in any given emergency. Or even better, it transpired, as I read on, 42 towels. I have only 12 towels so decided to settle for just one for the moment. I left the other ones together to breed in the hope that in the morning I would discover 42 or more.
I held my towel. I approached the freezer. Quickly I cunningly shoved the towel between the fridge and freezer doors. It draped in a satisfying manner over the ajarness of the freezer door. The writer of that guide knew a thing or two, I thought. This was definitely going to stop my house from reaching sub-zero temperatures and using all the electricity available to the western half of Cardiff.
Everything was fine. The problem was solved. Until the physicist tried to open the fridge door. The towel fell off.
‘What’s this towel doing here Mum?’
I explained all of the above re my advice from the book.
‘Why don’t you just get a knife and cut away the ice?’
I explained all of the above again.
She took a knife. Attacked the ice monster with the ferocity only a victim of A level mania can muster.
Why is it that children never believe a word one says?
‘It’s not working.’
I explained all of the above again.
‘I know, I’ll heat the knife.’
Physicists, honestly. She boiled a kettle. She poured boiling water into a jug. She heated the knife.
‘It’s not working.’
I explained all of the above again. She spilled the jug of water. Grabbed my towel and used it to mop up.
She turned to me in despair.
‘Have you got another towel?’ I redeemed a towel from the pile of fornicating towels and handed it to her. She shoved the towel between the fridge and freezer doors. It draped in a satisfying manner over the ajarness of the freezer door.
‘There,’ she said, quite pleased at this solution.
‘Well done dear.’
A triumph of fiction over science I think.
I noticed it first last night. The freezer door would not shut. Upon further examination it transpired that instead of the usual freezer contents: pizzas that are so thin on cheese that no one will eat them, blackcurrants from the bumper crop six years ago, the year before lasts’ chocolate mousse left over from a party, ice packs for purple feet, ice cream that is all sort of frosty on top, you know, the general collection of totally inedible stuff, there was ice. And only ice. Big white and slightly scary ice. Ice so large that it was creeping out and trying to reach the tumble dryer for some sort of ice/heat party.
This, I thought, was a problem. For two good reasons. One, how was I going to cook those blackcurrants that I had been meaning to turn into a delicious blackcurrant cake for the last six years? Two, how was I going to close the door? And three (ok three good reasons) since the door was open then the freezer motor was going completely mad thinking that it was its sole and crucial responsibility to bring the rest of the house down to freezer temperature.
Reason three won. Mostly because the beloved has a bit of a thing about how much electricity freezers use. Luckily the beloved is flying to Canada (to speak at conference about sustainability) using aviation fuel instead of electricity. But he’s coming back. On Thursday. And will not be happy to find the whole house turned into a freezer using about a million times more electricity than a normal freezer fiasco.
So, a plan was needed. The obvious sprung to mind. Turn off the freezer. Not so simple as it seemed. The freezer is attached to the fridge. To be precise the fridge is on top of the freezer and attached. Turn one off and the other one goes off. (It’s a metaphor for marriage; every house should have one.) The fridge is full of food we actually want to eat. That needs to be cold.
A rethink needed. I racked my brains for a solution. Being a bit of a traditionalist I looked on the bookshelves for a solution. You know, a book called ‘Freezer Monsters and How to Win’ or ‘Is Your House Being Taken Over By the Freezer?’ or ‘Come to Terms With Your Ice In Twelve Easy Steps’. Nothing. How odd. But my eye finally alighted on a helpful guide book. It advocated the use of a towel in any given emergency. Or even better, it transpired, as I read on, 42 towels. I have only 12 towels so decided to settle for just one for the moment. I left the other ones together to breed in the hope that in the morning I would discover 42 or more.
I held my towel. I approached the freezer. Quickly I cunningly shoved the towel between the fridge and freezer doors. It draped in a satisfying manner over the ajarness of the freezer door. The writer of that guide knew a thing or two, I thought. This was definitely going to stop my house from reaching sub-zero temperatures and using all the electricity available to the western half of Cardiff.
Everything was fine. The problem was solved. Until the physicist tried to open the fridge door. The towel fell off.
‘What’s this towel doing here Mum?’
I explained all of the above re my advice from the book.
‘Why don’t you just get a knife and cut away the ice?’
I explained all of the above again.
She took a knife. Attacked the ice monster with the ferocity only a victim of A level mania can muster.
Why is it that children never believe a word one says?
‘It’s not working.’
I explained all of the above again.
‘I know, I’ll heat the knife.’
Physicists, honestly. She boiled a kettle. She poured boiling water into a jug. She heated the knife.
‘It’s not working.’
I explained all of the above again. She spilled the jug of water. Grabbed my towel and used it to mop up.
She turned to me in despair.
‘Have you got another towel?’ I redeemed a towel from the pile of fornicating towels and handed it to her. She shoved the towel between the fridge and freezer doors. It draped in a satisfying manner over the ajarness of the freezer door.
‘There,’ she said, quite pleased at this solution.
‘Well done dear.’
A triumph of fiction over science I think.
Sunday 17 June 2007
How to Understand Entropy and Its Effects on Everyday Life
We have been trying to understand entropy, the physicist and I. Also known as the second law of thermodynamics. Not the physicist, entropy.
She couldn’t care less about the first law of thermodynamics because, in case you didn’t know, it states that ‘if you heat bodies up they get hotter’. Physicists are not as interested in bodies as I am. So we steer clear of that sort of thing. You know, things to do with actual real people.
Or the third law for that matter – ‘If it gets very cold everything freezes’. State the obvious or what?
Although the fact that there is a zeroth law of thermodynamics is quite interesting. Even the law itself: ‘if two bodies cuddle up to a third then they will all end up the same temperature.’ I find that rather fascinating and would be interested in further research if anyone knows anyone who would care to fund this sort of scientific endeavour please get them to contact me. Preferably when the weather gets a bit cooler. Volunteers for the project also welcome.
So, entropy, the second law. Essentially it states ‘things fall apart’. That everything goes from a sort of together state to a sort of untogether state. Life is crammed to the gunwales (wherever they are) with examples of this sort of thing. Here are just a few things that simply fall apart over time –
brains
relationships
houses
shoes
bodies
umbrellas
doorknobs
expensive headphones
inexpensive headphones
all headphones
catflaps
lists
Although all this is well within the realms of human understanding the physicist posed a tricky question –
‘Well, if all things comply with the laws of entropy why is it that it is possible for me to tidy my room? Surely thus I am defying the laws of physics?’
We didn’t go into the laws of statistics at this point and discuss the probability of her tidying her room. Although that may have been a conversation high on the mother/daughter probability stakes.
I saw her point. How was it possible? On her physics paper there was some discussion as to how timelines were inexorable and irreversible. There was even and example of how if you break a vase it remained broken.
‘But I could glue it back together,’ the physicist stated.
I understand now why her teachers describe her as ‘challenging’. What they mean is she asks questions whose only answer can be ‘how the fuck should I know?’
But not to be defeated we did a great deal of thinking. And research. And philosophical discussion. And thinking.
And lo, we discovered a little known fact about entropy. Which goes thus: ‘If you expend some energy you can reverse entropy.’
After this significant discovery I was compelled to ask the question. Re the room tidying. It turns out she only does theoretical physics.
P.S. If you are wondering about the broken foot saga, I was going to put up a post about how I had defied the laws of medicine and gone to see a band last night and done one-legged dancing. But then everyone would know what a complete fool I am. So I’m not mentioning that and pretending I have spent the whole weekend discussing physics with my foot resting gently on a pile of cushions.
The band was great though http://www.myspace.com/spasmbanduk
And neither of these enthusiastic dancers is me. Especially not the one in the expensive M&S skirt. Which unfortunately isn’t very in the picture. But it isn’t me anyway so how could you hope to see my skirt?
She couldn’t care less about the first law of thermodynamics because, in case you didn’t know, it states that ‘if you heat bodies up they get hotter’. Physicists are not as interested in bodies as I am. So we steer clear of that sort of thing. You know, things to do with actual real people.
Or the third law for that matter – ‘If it gets very cold everything freezes’. State the obvious or what?
Although the fact that there is a zeroth law of thermodynamics is quite interesting. Even the law itself: ‘if two bodies cuddle up to a third then they will all end up the same temperature.’ I find that rather fascinating and would be interested in further research if anyone knows anyone who would care to fund this sort of scientific endeavour please get them to contact me. Preferably when the weather gets a bit cooler. Volunteers for the project also welcome.
So, entropy, the second law. Essentially it states ‘things fall apart’. That everything goes from a sort of together state to a sort of untogether state. Life is crammed to the gunwales (wherever they are) with examples of this sort of thing. Here are just a few things that simply fall apart over time –
brains
relationships
houses
shoes
bodies
umbrellas
doorknobs
expensive headphones
inexpensive headphones
all headphones
catflaps
lists
Although all this is well within the realms of human understanding the physicist posed a tricky question –
‘Well, if all things comply with the laws of entropy why is it that it is possible for me to tidy my room? Surely thus I am defying the laws of physics?’
We didn’t go into the laws of statistics at this point and discuss the probability of her tidying her room. Although that may have been a conversation high on the mother/daughter probability stakes.
I saw her point. How was it possible? On her physics paper there was some discussion as to how timelines were inexorable and irreversible. There was even and example of how if you break a vase it remained broken.
‘But I could glue it back together,’ the physicist stated.
I understand now why her teachers describe her as ‘challenging’. What they mean is she asks questions whose only answer can be ‘how the fuck should I know?’
But not to be defeated we did a great deal of thinking. And research. And philosophical discussion. And thinking.
And lo, we discovered a little known fact about entropy. Which goes thus: ‘If you expend some energy you can reverse entropy.’
After this significant discovery I was compelled to ask the question. Re the room tidying. It turns out she only does theoretical physics.
P.S. If you are wondering about the broken foot saga, I was going to put up a post about how I had defied the laws of medicine and gone to see a band last night and done one-legged dancing. But then everyone would know what a complete fool I am. So I’m not mentioning that and pretending I have spent the whole weekend discussing physics with my foot resting gently on a pile of cushions.
The band was great though http://www.myspace.com/spasmbanduk
And neither of these enthusiastic dancers is me. Especially not the one in the expensive M&S skirt. Which unfortunately isn’t very in the picture. But it isn’t me anyway so how could you hope to see my skirt?
Friday 15 June 2007
How I Was So Right About the Sexiness of Metatarsal Slippers
What did I say? The lingerie of the cast world? I think so. Well, probably anyway.
In a not too distantly past conversation with a close and equally desperate friend the topic of just how to pick up men came up. Not just men you understand. Desirable men. Very desirable men who were interested in equally desirable but slightly desperate women. Ok we didn’t mind if the men were not quite so desirable and very desperate.
Well now I know the answer. Disablement. Metatarsal slippers. Crutches. Who would have dreamed that these simple solutions were the simple solution to a question women and men have been asking for years, decades, millennia? Fuck all that putting on a posh frock, smearing ones lips with stuff that had previously been smeared onto unwitting animals, forcing ones broken feet into very tall red stilettos. No, just break a metatarsal and you have it made. This is what happened:
Having been released into the wild wearing my aforementioned slipper I was officially allowed to go swimming. The aforementioned friend and general hero person took me.
I crutched up the steps into the foyer of the health club. A man instantly approached me. And sympathised. And told me the story of how many sexy sporting injuries he had accrued over the years. And how we were bonded by a common theme – metatarsal injuries. I told him my story. Of my career as a footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales. He escorted me to the lift, gave me his number and invited me for a drink.
I got in the lift. A man was in the lift. He sympathised. He told me the story of all the sexy injuries he had acquired in his life as a rock god. Of how we were bonded by a common theme – crutches. I told him my story. Of my career as a professional footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales but how heroically I scored the winning goal before falling down in agony. We travelled to the top floor and back down again. He gave me his number and invited me for a meal.
I got in the pool (with a lot of hobbling). There was a man in the pool. He sympathised. He told me of all the sexy injuries he had endured in his career as a screen idol. Of how we were bonded by a common theme – disablement. I told him my story. Of my career as a professional and highly-paid footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales but how heroically I scored three winning goals before falling down in agony. We travelled to end of the pool and back again. He gave me his number and asked me to marry him. Bingo.
What more can I say really? The proof is in the pudding. Or the wedding cake. Metatarsal slippers – sex on a plate (or foot).
In a not too distantly past conversation with a close and equally desperate friend the topic of just how to pick up men came up. Not just men you understand. Desirable men. Very desirable men who were interested in equally desirable but slightly desperate women. Ok we didn’t mind if the men were not quite so desirable and very desperate.
Well now I know the answer. Disablement. Metatarsal slippers. Crutches. Who would have dreamed that these simple solutions were the simple solution to a question women and men have been asking for years, decades, millennia? Fuck all that putting on a posh frock, smearing ones lips with stuff that had previously been smeared onto unwitting animals, forcing ones broken feet into very tall red stilettos. No, just break a metatarsal and you have it made. This is what happened:
Having been released into the wild wearing my aforementioned slipper I was officially allowed to go swimming. The aforementioned friend and general hero person took me.
I crutched up the steps into the foyer of the health club. A man instantly approached me. And sympathised. And told me the story of how many sexy sporting injuries he had accrued over the years. And how we were bonded by a common theme – metatarsal injuries. I told him my story. Of my career as a footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales. He escorted me to the lift, gave me his number and invited me for a drink.
I got in the lift. A man was in the lift. He sympathised. He told me the story of all the sexy injuries he had acquired in his life as a rock god. Of how we were bonded by a common theme – crutches. I told him my story. Of my career as a professional footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales but how heroically I scored the winning goal before falling down in agony. We travelled to the top floor and back down again. He gave me his number and invited me for a meal.
I got in the pool (with a lot of hobbling). There was a man in the pool. He sympathised. He told me of all the sexy injuries he had endured in his career as a screen idol. Of how we were bonded by a common theme – disablement. I told him my story. Of my career as a professional and highly-paid footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales but how heroically I scored three winning goals before falling down in agony. We travelled to end of the pool and back again. He gave me his number and asked me to marry him. Bingo.
What more can I say really? The proof is in the pudding. Or the wedding cake. Metatarsal slippers – sex on a plate (or foot).
Tuesday 12 June 2007
How Miracles Can Happen Even in Trauma Clinic
The plaster cast is gone. HOORAY.
Despite the fact that I finally understood what it was for. It was a punishment. For being reckless. Without the appropriate Extreme Sport Insurance. Or Extreme Leisure Insurance. What I had failed to take into account was that even lying naked in a hot chicken shed/outhouse was inherent with many dangers. No one should contemplate inactive leisure pursuits without the appropriate precautions. Like being very heavily insured. So the NHS doesn’t have an excuse to take out some of its anger on you. In the form of attaching large white devils to you leg. Like having one’s home constantly disability ready. So that at any moment a crutch-bound person can manoeuvre jauntily around the building smiling and humming a merry tune.
But I must have done my stint in purgatory because today I was released.
This is what happened:
The physicist drove me to the hospital at the allotted time allotted on the appointment card. The appointment was for Trauma Clinic.
And I know why they call it that. The four-hour wait was traumatic. Luckily they don’t charge for that handy service. Not like you would pay for a fairground ride in order to traumatise yourself, or a very bad movie, or even a holiday with one’s family. No, believe it or not, the promised trauma (complete with crying babies, drunken men, gabbling old ladies and an odd smell of wee), was completely and utterly free. If we don’t take into account the parking fees, the sending the physicist to the café/shop/little trolley thing for yet more food to keep us amused. And the sending the physicist to the cashpoint for more money to buy more food to keep us amused.
But it was all totally and utterly worth it. Because the first thing that happened (after the four hours and the mountain of food and the trauma) was that a nice lady with a pair of strange scissors cut the plaster off.
It was bliss. I sighed much in the manner of someone who was not at all traumatised but had just undergone a very different sort of experience.
The doctor poked my foot.
The doctor asked for a detailed explanation of how the hell I came to break the forth metatarsal and none of the others.
I explained that I was a professional football player and simply following current fashion but putting a new and interesting twist on it by breaking a hitherto-unclaimed by-other-celeb-footballers bone. He seemed to accept that in good faith.
Then he said the dreaded word. ‘Plaster’. My heart sunk. My bliss faded. My football career was on the rocks when I had only invented it moments before.
‘No!!!’ I cried in horror.
‘A walking plaster, it will be smaller,’ he assured me, scribbling on his slip of paper.
I contemplated that for a brief interlude. A walking plaster. Handy, seeing as I couldn’t. I wondered if it could also drive and dance tango. If that were to case then I was going to accept this man’s offer. But then I hesitated. In the previous four hours I had observed many a traumatised soul emerge from the hidden depths of the clinic with plasters on. Some of the plasters were a nice shade of blue. Some of then were not adhering to legs but clutching on to people’s arms. Some people actually appeared to emerge plaster-less. But definitely none of the plasters were walking. None. I’d have noticed that. And the physicist would have commented on the unlikely physics of it.
I realised that, in his naivety this doctor was trying to make plasters sound a lot more exciting than they actually are.
‘I hated that other plaster!’ I exclaimed. Hoping he would change his mind in a way that doctors never do. That he would throw up his hands in surprised delight and declare that my foot was not broken. It was all a dream. That x-ray on the screen was simply from an archive of interesting x-rays they had scrounged off youtube and should I care to click the mouse it would dance a fandango.
He peered at the x-ray, peered at my foot, peered at the ceiling, peered at his small piece of paper. And then eureka!!! The impossible happened.
‘You could probably have a metatarsal slipper, since it is the fourth and therefore not too vulnerable.’
I had no idea what a metatarsal slipper was. But it sounded good. It sounded like something small. Unlike a plaster. Which is something big. I didn’t hesitate, or wait for any further explanation just in case it was all a dream,
‘Yes!’ I shouted much in the manner of someone who was not at all traumatised but had just undergone a very different sort of experience.
And that is just what I have. A metatarsal slipper. It is the lingerie of the bone-support world. It is small, discrete, slips on and off like a wisp of silk demonstrating how well-shaven a leg is. It looks like this:
And HA to all you harbingers of doom that predicted I would be in plaster for 6 weeks.
And sorry all the men who were developing plaster fetishes just to please me. But really, metatarsal slippers, you have to admit, fucking sexy eh?
Despite the fact that I finally understood what it was for. It was a punishment. For being reckless. Without the appropriate Extreme Sport Insurance. Or Extreme Leisure Insurance. What I had failed to take into account was that even lying naked in a hot chicken shed/outhouse was inherent with many dangers. No one should contemplate inactive leisure pursuits without the appropriate precautions. Like being very heavily insured. So the NHS doesn’t have an excuse to take out some of its anger on you. In the form of attaching large white devils to you leg. Like having one’s home constantly disability ready. So that at any moment a crutch-bound person can manoeuvre jauntily around the building smiling and humming a merry tune.
But I must have done my stint in purgatory because today I was released.
This is what happened:
The physicist drove me to the hospital at the allotted time allotted on the appointment card. The appointment was for Trauma Clinic.
And I know why they call it that. The four-hour wait was traumatic. Luckily they don’t charge for that handy service. Not like you would pay for a fairground ride in order to traumatise yourself, or a very bad movie, or even a holiday with one’s family. No, believe it or not, the promised trauma (complete with crying babies, drunken men, gabbling old ladies and an odd smell of wee), was completely and utterly free. If we don’t take into account the parking fees, the sending the physicist to the café/shop/little trolley thing for yet more food to keep us amused. And the sending the physicist to the cashpoint for more money to buy more food to keep us amused.
But it was all totally and utterly worth it. Because the first thing that happened (after the four hours and the mountain of food and the trauma) was that a nice lady with a pair of strange scissors cut the plaster off.
It was bliss. I sighed much in the manner of someone who was not at all traumatised but had just undergone a very different sort of experience.
The doctor poked my foot.
The doctor asked for a detailed explanation of how the hell I came to break the forth metatarsal and none of the others.
I explained that I was a professional football player and simply following current fashion but putting a new and interesting twist on it by breaking a hitherto-unclaimed by-other-celeb-footballers bone. He seemed to accept that in good faith.
Then he said the dreaded word. ‘Plaster’. My heart sunk. My bliss faded. My football career was on the rocks when I had only invented it moments before.
‘No!!!’ I cried in horror.
‘A walking plaster, it will be smaller,’ he assured me, scribbling on his slip of paper.
I contemplated that for a brief interlude. A walking plaster. Handy, seeing as I couldn’t. I wondered if it could also drive and dance tango. If that were to case then I was going to accept this man’s offer. But then I hesitated. In the previous four hours I had observed many a traumatised soul emerge from the hidden depths of the clinic with plasters on. Some of the plasters were a nice shade of blue. Some of then were not adhering to legs but clutching on to people’s arms. Some people actually appeared to emerge plaster-less. But definitely none of the plasters were walking. None. I’d have noticed that. And the physicist would have commented on the unlikely physics of it.
I realised that, in his naivety this doctor was trying to make plasters sound a lot more exciting than they actually are.
‘I hated that other plaster!’ I exclaimed. Hoping he would change his mind in a way that doctors never do. That he would throw up his hands in surprised delight and declare that my foot was not broken. It was all a dream. That x-ray on the screen was simply from an archive of interesting x-rays they had scrounged off youtube and should I care to click the mouse it would dance a fandango.
He peered at the x-ray, peered at my foot, peered at the ceiling, peered at his small piece of paper. And then eureka!!! The impossible happened.
‘You could probably have a metatarsal slipper, since it is the fourth and therefore not too vulnerable.’
I had no idea what a metatarsal slipper was. But it sounded good. It sounded like something small. Unlike a plaster. Which is something big. I didn’t hesitate, or wait for any further explanation just in case it was all a dream,
‘Yes!’ I shouted much in the manner of someone who was not at all traumatised but had just undergone a very different sort of experience.
And that is just what I have. A metatarsal slipper. It is the lingerie of the bone-support world. It is small, discrete, slips on and off like a wisp of silk demonstrating how well-shaven a leg is. It looks like this:
And HA to all you harbingers of doom that predicted I would be in plaster for 6 weeks.
And sorry all the men who were developing plaster fetishes just to please me. But really, metatarsal slippers, you have to admit, fucking sexy eh?
Sunday 10 June 2007
How to Turn Disablement to Your Advantage and the Mysteries of Casts
I think I’m getting the hang of this disablement thing now. It is simply a question of role reversal. The trick is to use everyday ordinary phrases that usually come out of others’ mouths and make them come out of mine. And substitute the word ‘Mum’ for ‘daughter’ or ‘daughter’s boyfriend’. Here are a few successful examples that occurred today:
Daughter, can I have a bagel please, and some orange juice and can you bring it to my room?
Daughter, we have run out of milk, can you go to the coop, and whilst you’re there get some bread and croissants and smoothies and biscuits and cake and a weeks shopping and a small kitchen sink?
Daughter’s boyfriend, my computer is broken can you come and fix it and install some programs and bring me a cup of coffee, and wash the car too?
Daughter, where are my favourite jeans and my blue t-shirt? If they are in the wash can you get them clean by an hour ago?
See, easy. Just a matter of mindset. Why didn’t I think of breaking my foot years ago? The house is running like a well oiled machine, without the mess of the oil or the noise of a machine. And I am sitting in bed. Doing fuck all. It is my intention never to have this cast removed. Ever.
The cast is still a bit of a mystery to me though. On one level it is familiar as an old, hot, heavy and stupidly large sock. On another level I can’t help but think - why? Is this not severe overkill? I have broken a bone in my foot. I saw the x-ray: 4th metatarsal. I have a cast that covers most of the western hemisphere. And weighs as much as the eastern hemisphere. And is as hot as the upper hemisphere. And as itchy as the lower hemisphere. By my calculations now this cast covers two earths.
And here’s another mysterious thing. (look away now if you are a bit squeamish). The two ends of the bones had managed to separate themselves rather in the fashion of Tower Bridge. Without the towers and the tourists. Well there might have been tourists but they are invisible to NHS x-ray. Probably Japanese and therefore quite nano and compact. So how is it supposed to work that by encasing most of my body in plaster of Paris these bones magically realign themselves? Out of protest? Because they have read the reports of famous footballers’ injuries and are followers of celeb fashion? Because they empathise with the plight of Japanese tourists unable to cross bridges?
Meanwhile, due to the highly technologically advanced nature of this thing adhering to my leg I am leaving white smudges all around the house. I’m like snotty-cat on a very bad shedding day. Visitors proffering chocolates have been able to discover my location by following the trail of plaster debris. Scientists looking for the answer to the missing matter in the universe have been crowding the house taking samples. NHS managers have been out in force with dustpans and brushes collecting the stuff in order to recycle it for the next unfortunate sauna accidentee.
And I have a confession, but please don’t tell anyone at the hospital, or my family, or anyone really – I’ve broken the world’s largest cast already. The bit that is under my foot, probably the crucial bit that is actually attempting to do something for the divorced metatarsal. Oops.
Daughter, can I have a bagel please, and some orange juice and can you bring it to my room?
Daughter, we have run out of milk, can you go to the coop, and whilst you’re there get some bread and croissants and smoothies and biscuits and cake and a weeks shopping and a small kitchen sink?
Daughter’s boyfriend, my computer is broken can you come and fix it and install some programs and bring me a cup of coffee, and wash the car too?
Daughter, where are my favourite jeans and my blue t-shirt? If they are in the wash can you get them clean by an hour ago?
See, easy. Just a matter of mindset. Why didn’t I think of breaking my foot years ago? The house is running like a well oiled machine, without the mess of the oil or the noise of a machine. And I am sitting in bed. Doing fuck all. It is my intention never to have this cast removed. Ever.
The cast is still a bit of a mystery to me though. On one level it is familiar as an old, hot, heavy and stupidly large sock. On another level I can’t help but think - why? Is this not severe overkill? I have broken a bone in my foot. I saw the x-ray: 4th metatarsal. I have a cast that covers most of the western hemisphere. And weighs as much as the eastern hemisphere. And is as hot as the upper hemisphere. And as itchy as the lower hemisphere. By my calculations now this cast covers two earths.
And here’s another mysterious thing. (look away now if you are a bit squeamish). The two ends of the bones had managed to separate themselves rather in the fashion of Tower Bridge. Without the towers and the tourists. Well there might have been tourists but they are invisible to NHS x-ray. Probably Japanese and therefore quite nano and compact. So how is it supposed to work that by encasing most of my body in plaster of Paris these bones magically realign themselves? Out of protest? Because they have read the reports of famous footballers’ injuries and are followers of celeb fashion? Because they empathise with the plight of Japanese tourists unable to cross bridges?
Meanwhile, due to the highly technologically advanced nature of this thing adhering to my leg I am leaving white smudges all around the house. I’m like snotty-cat on a very bad shedding day. Visitors proffering chocolates have been able to discover my location by following the trail of plaster debris. Scientists looking for the answer to the missing matter in the universe have been crowding the house taking samples. NHS managers have been out in force with dustpans and brushes collecting the stuff in order to recycle it for the next unfortunate sauna accidentee.
And I have a confession, but please don’t tell anyone at the hospital, or my family, or anyone really – I’ve broken the world’s largest cast already. The bit that is under my foot, probably the crucial bit that is actually attempting to do something for the divorced metatarsal. Oops.
Why Disabled People Deserve a Refund On Life and More of the Purple Foot
The purple foot saga still continues. Am I becoming obsessed? Probably.
Firstly though I would like to put in an important word for all disabled people, whether of a temporary nature or not. Because this is what I’ve discovered:
When lacking the use of the usual number of limbs, things take longer. Ordinary things take very much longer. Things I used to take for granted, like having a wee, or making a cup of tea (obviously important not to get those to confused no matter how limb-challenged one is) take very very much longer. Here is a simple but illustrative example –
Doing the Laundry Whilst on Crutches
Clothes on the floor cannot be picked up by the usual method. Therefore any stray knicker must be lifted chopstick-style with the crutches. This leads to a balancing-on-one-leg-bending-over-at-the-same-time situation. Dangerous. And I’m a yoga teacher, trained for years in the art of balancing-on-one-leg-bending-over-at-the-same-time situations. Nevertheless I fall. Risking further purple appendages.
Having put clothes in basket it turns out that it is impossible to carry aforementioned wicker receptacle. It must be pushed curling style (that Scottish ice game not the hair fashion) along the floors until it reaches the machine. This is especially fun down the stairs. Again risking further purple appendage situations.
Having reached the washing machine it is best to sit on the floor in order to load the device. That’s ok. It’s getting back up that proves impossible.
Hence one is stuck for half an hour watching clothes spin their merry way around a small glass window. I used to park Daughter the Younger in front of the machine for just this purpose. I feel deeply guilty about that now.
On the up side one is in the right place to unload the machine. On the down side one is still on the floor turning one’s head from basket of wet clothes to window depicting washing line, back and forth in a bemused manner. One still cannot get up, or carry a washing basket so the only alternative is to crawl, pushing the laundry in front or towing it behind using one of the Beloved’s ties as a towrope.
Once in the garden it is actually possible to hoist oneself to standing using the pole of the washing line. And using a spare bit of line (should one have such a thing to hand) one can lash oneself to the pole and thus have a stable base from which to hang the laundry. Except it is now impossible to reach as one is lashed to pole and basket is on ground.
In a final exciting twist of ingenuity one kicks over the basket with good foot, sending clothes flying across the grass and thus allowing them to dry. Sadly one is now lashed to a pole being scraped down in a purple-back situation as good foot has disappeared from under one.
Laundry 1 – Disabled Person 0
And this is what I’m saying. Disabled people deserve a refund. If it takes them five times the amount of time to perform an ordinary task then I think they are entitled to a refund of 4 minutes for every one minute everyone else gets.
_________________________________________________________________
So, I know you are all curious, how is the purple foot? Broken. Yes well and truly broken. I finally took the advice of a wise and noble friend.
She came to visit, took one look at the offending purpleness, shoved me into her car and shoved me out again at the hospital.
After only 3 hours I emerge with the most ridiculous plaster on my leg for one very broken metatarsal. I feel like someone from a 1950s hospital comedy. Look:
Firstly though I would like to put in an important word for all disabled people, whether of a temporary nature or not. Because this is what I’ve discovered:
When lacking the use of the usual number of limbs, things take longer. Ordinary things take very much longer. Things I used to take for granted, like having a wee, or making a cup of tea (obviously important not to get those to confused no matter how limb-challenged one is) take very very much longer. Here is a simple but illustrative example –
Doing the Laundry Whilst on Crutches
Clothes on the floor cannot be picked up by the usual method. Therefore any stray knicker must be lifted chopstick-style with the crutches. This leads to a balancing-on-one-leg-bending-over-at-the-same-time situation. Dangerous. And I’m a yoga teacher, trained for years in the art of balancing-on-one-leg-bending-over-at-the-same-time situations. Nevertheless I fall. Risking further purple appendages.
Having put clothes in basket it turns out that it is impossible to carry aforementioned wicker receptacle. It must be pushed curling style (that Scottish ice game not the hair fashion) along the floors until it reaches the machine. This is especially fun down the stairs. Again risking further purple appendage situations.
Having reached the washing machine it is best to sit on the floor in order to load the device. That’s ok. It’s getting back up that proves impossible.
Hence one is stuck for half an hour watching clothes spin their merry way around a small glass window. I used to park Daughter the Younger in front of the machine for just this purpose. I feel deeply guilty about that now.
On the up side one is in the right place to unload the machine. On the down side one is still on the floor turning one’s head from basket of wet clothes to window depicting washing line, back and forth in a bemused manner. One still cannot get up, or carry a washing basket so the only alternative is to crawl, pushing the laundry in front or towing it behind using one of the Beloved’s ties as a towrope.
Once in the garden it is actually possible to hoist oneself to standing using the pole of the washing line. And using a spare bit of line (should one have such a thing to hand) one can lash oneself to the pole and thus have a stable base from which to hang the laundry. Except it is now impossible to reach as one is lashed to pole and basket is on ground.
In a final exciting twist of ingenuity one kicks over the basket with good foot, sending clothes flying across the grass and thus allowing them to dry. Sadly one is now lashed to a pole being scraped down in a purple-back situation as good foot has disappeared from under one.
Laundry 1 – Disabled Person 0
And this is what I’m saying. Disabled people deserve a refund. If it takes them five times the amount of time to perform an ordinary task then I think they are entitled to a refund of 4 minutes for every one minute everyone else gets.
_________________________________________________________________
So, I know you are all curious, how is the purple foot? Broken. Yes well and truly broken. I finally took the advice of a wise and noble friend.
She came to visit, took one look at the offending purpleness, shoved me into her car and shoved me out again at the hospital.
After only 3 hours I emerge with the most ridiculous plaster on my leg for one very broken metatarsal. I feel like someone from a 1950s hospital comedy. Look:
Friday 8 June 2007
What Advice Not to Take If You Have a Purple Foot
The purple foot saga continues. After assuring myself that it would be better in the morning I awake to find that it is still getting worse. The swelling is more swelled. The purpling is more purple. The pain is more paining. This was not my plan.
I decide to seek advice.
Physicist says not to bother with 6 hours in casualty as they will only X-ray it, tell me whether it is broken and send me away with a pretty white tubigrip regardless of the style of injury. I know she is right because many many a time I have accompanied her on just such a journey of futility.
Beloved is very grumpy. He doesn’t like it if I don’t function properly. He tells me that it is broken and it will take six weeks to mend and that its tough shit but don’t worry he is off to Sweden in the morning to avoid the worst excesses of my non-functionality. Also he will use the car so it doesn’t get out of practice driving places as soon as he gets back.
Daughter the Younger tells me that it will get better sooner if I go to the hospital and succumb to plastering. I will however not be able to swim or wash for 6 weeks so I may prefer to wear a stylish tubigrip (she has several in her drawer as does the physicist). She emphasises however that really I should go and get a plaster as she doesn’t trust me to be sensible. True. Yesterday I crutched through the woods for an hour in order to cure a nasty case of stir-craziness. And today I risked life and foot by going swimming.
Dance partner, who kindly rung last night to ask me to dance and was hit with the bad news, (but it’s ok because he has lots of people to dance with. Boo Hoo) advised ice, rest and elevation. And no dancing. Oh oh oh.
Ex-casualty nurse and sauna builder advised that it would be all right in the end.
Cat had no comment. Except to emphasise that he was still hungry.
If anyone more qualified than the above contributors would care to just reassure me that I will be back tangoing on Thursday please do so asap. If you are less qualified please do the same.
I have taken a picture of the offending article to aid amateur diagnosis so if you are of a squeamish nature look away now.
I decide to seek advice.
Physicist says not to bother with 6 hours in casualty as they will only X-ray it, tell me whether it is broken and send me away with a pretty white tubigrip regardless of the style of injury. I know she is right because many many a time I have accompanied her on just such a journey of futility.
Beloved is very grumpy. He doesn’t like it if I don’t function properly. He tells me that it is broken and it will take six weeks to mend and that its tough shit but don’t worry he is off to Sweden in the morning to avoid the worst excesses of my non-functionality. Also he will use the car so it doesn’t get out of practice driving places as soon as he gets back.
Daughter the Younger tells me that it will get better sooner if I go to the hospital and succumb to plastering. I will however not be able to swim or wash for 6 weeks so I may prefer to wear a stylish tubigrip (she has several in her drawer as does the physicist). She emphasises however that really I should go and get a plaster as she doesn’t trust me to be sensible. True. Yesterday I crutched through the woods for an hour in order to cure a nasty case of stir-craziness. And today I risked life and foot by going swimming.
Dance partner, who kindly rung last night to ask me to dance and was hit with the bad news, (but it’s ok because he has lots of people to dance with. Boo Hoo) advised ice, rest and elevation. And no dancing. Oh oh oh.
Ex-casualty nurse and sauna builder advised that it would be all right in the end.
Cat had no comment. Except to emphasise that he was still hungry.
If anyone more qualified than the above contributors would care to just reassure me that I will be back tangoing on Thursday please do so asap. If you are less qualified please do the same.
I have taken a picture of the offending article to aid amateur diagnosis so if you are of a squeamish nature look away now.
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Thursday 7 June 2007
How to Survive of Disablement with a Modicum of Sanity
So that’s it. I’m officially, albeit temporarily, disabled. Why did no one warn me that this might happen? Why didn’t my horoscope yesterday tell me to beware of small saunas containing naked people? I would have taken heed. Honestly. Why didn’t my horoscope last month warn me to install such handy features in my house as a Stannah Stairlift, those big rails around the toilet, a bungalow, a nurse, a stasis chamber?
All I can be grateful for is that my horoscope of about six months ago warned me against returning the NHS crutches to the relevant NHS establishment after Daughter the Younger put pitch fork through her foot. So, I have crutches. And beer. Perhaps not a good combination. But since I haven’t been warned I shall continue to mix the two.
Adaptation, as Darwin put it so well, is the name of the game. Life as a temporarily disabled person simply requires a modicum of adjustment. Should your find yourself in this position (possibly also due to lack of correct astral readings) here are some handy tips:
Crutches can be used for more than just crutching. You can use them –
As giant chopsticks to pick up sundry items from the floor
As mops by simply putting a damp rag underneath
As removers of cobwebs from unlikely places
As weapons of mass destruction in the case of severe anger. Which may happen. Life with crutches tends to develop those tendencies.
If you are on crutches you cannot –
Carry things upstairs
Carry things downstairs
Go upstairs
Go downstairs
Dance tango
If you are on crutches allow that little bit of extra time for –
Moving from one location to another
Going to the toilet (remember, disentangle before sitting)
Washing of any part of the body
Everything
You may discover that being temporarily disabled alters your relationship with people. This can be telling and perhaps it is worth making a note of. This is my personal experience –
Physicist comes over very helpful and drives to coop for emergency croissants
Daughter the Younger finds situation most amusing and demonstrates tricks to do on crutches that she perfected after the pitch-fork incident
Friends send cyber-hugs via email and MSN (thank you)
Sauna builders come round to apologise
Sauna builder’s dog comes round to apologise and eat anything she finds on the floor
Beloved becomes extremely grumpy and offers no hugs at all
Cat doesn’t notice and remains as hungry as ever
A final word of advice – beware false horoscopes, small saunas and remember, we are all just a slip away from purple feet that look like balloons.
What Not to do in the Sauna
My friends have a sauna in their garden. Which turns out to be very dangerous. Not usually. Just tonight. Usually it’s just hot. But tonight it was out to get me.
It is an usual sauna, as saunas go. Because it used to be the outside toilet. Then it was a chicken shed. Then my friend thought ‘now what could be handier than an outside toilet or a chicken shed? I know - a sauna.’ So he dedicated himself to sauna building. All summer he toiled, avoiding irate chickens and indignant cisterns. Until, lo and behold the small brick edifice located half way up their steep and unlikely garden was a haven for naked people getting hot and sweaty.
There was a problem though. As saunas go it is small. Very small. Well, the original designers of the Welsh outhouse had failed to understand that in days to come people might require such a building to fulfil a function that only lesser known Swedes had heard of. Hard to believe I know. But there you go.
And, for reasons unfathomable to mortals of a lesser intellect and lesser clothing the bench is very high up. So the aforementioned naked folk have to do a certain amount of technical climbing in order to perch themselves.
Now my foot is mostly broken. This is what happened:
There were four of us. That’s a lot for an ex-shithouse. I was the last one in. There was a small space. I went for it. I failed to take the usual safety precautions of ropes, hardhats and those little round clampy things. I fell. I attempted to grab onto naked form of friend. She tried to save me. I wasn’t saved.
So now I have a dramatic sauna injury consisting of a very swollen foot and very hurt pride and very cursing myself as this could put pay to my tango career that was looking so very promising.
Luckily one of the naked bodies (and the very person responsible for high bench design fault) was a casualty nurse in another lifetime (prior to becoming sauna builder). I showed him my foot. He said I would live and offered me a beer. NHS training is a wonderful thing.
It is an usual sauna, as saunas go. Because it used to be the outside toilet. Then it was a chicken shed. Then my friend thought ‘now what could be handier than an outside toilet or a chicken shed? I know - a sauna.’ So he dedicated himself to sauna building. All summer he toiled, avoiding irate chickens and indignant cisterns. Until, lo and behold the small brick edifice located half way up their steep and unlikely garden was a haven for naked people getting hot and sweaty.
There was a problem though. As saunas go it is small. Very small. Well, the original designers of the Welsh outhouse had failed to understand that in days to come people might require such a building to fulfil a function that only lesser known Swedes had heard of. Hard to believe I know. But there you go.
And, for reasons unfathomable to mortals of a lesser intellect and lesser clothing the bench is very high up. So the aforementioned naked folk have to do a certain amount of technical climbing in order to perch themselves.
Now my foot is mostly broken. This is what happened:
There were four of us. That’s a lot for an ex-shithouse. I was the last one in. There was a small space. I went for it. I failed to take the usual safety precautions of ropes, hardhats and those little round clampy things. I fell. I attempted to grab onto naked form of friend. She tried to save me. I wasn’t saved.
So now I have a dramatic sauna injury consisting of a very swollen foot and very hurt pride and very cursing myself as this could put pay to my tango career that was looking so very promising.
Luckily one of the naked bodies (and the very person responsible for high bench design fault) was a casualty nurse in another lifetime (prior to becoming sauna builder). I showed him my foot. He said I would live and offered me a beer. NHS training is a wonderful thing.
Monday 4 June 2007
Red Letter Day – or How I Won for the First Time Ever
Yesterday was a red-letter day.
I just Googled that to find out why it was thus called:
"We wryte yet in oure kalenders the hyghe festes wyth rede lettres of coloure of purpre."
Which is a tad confusing. So perhaps it was a purple letter day. But a day of festival and celebration none the less. And June 3 will be forever thus write in the scriptures and kalenders of Aardarkism (which I have yet to write), (but at least there is now a hyghe feste)
And why such cause for celebration and hyghe feste? I won my first ever argument with the Beloved. This is what happened:
We were awarded M&S vouchers for the great good deed of renewing our car insurance. £25 each. A haul if there ever was one in these days of financial pecuniary and lack of decent attire with which to attire ourselves.
Beloved: ‘I’m off to M&S to spend this voucher which is burning a hole in my holey pocket.’ He was attired in a spectacularly holey pair of jeans.
Me: ‘They don’t have anything nice in M&S for men.’ The subtext here being fairly obvious to one as used to reading between lines as the Beloved.
Beloved: ‘I need new jeans.’ Indicating the aforementioned garment, or rather the large expanse of hairy leg that was revealed by the aforementioned garment.
Me: ‘You waste your time and voucher buying jeans from M&S. They have nice skirts though, but they cost more than £25.’ Subtext galore.
Beloved: ‘I need new jeans.’
Me: ‘Try ASDA’
Beloved: ‘Ok then, let’s spend all the M&S vouchers on something for you.’
Essentially, then, the bottom dropped out of my world. I felt very like one of those cartoon characters who has just run off the side of a cliff only to look down and discover that there is no longer anything of a substantial nature under their feet/paws/whatever passes for their lower limbs.
This had never happened to me before. I barely understood the phrase ‘Ok then,’ when arriving out of the lips of the Beloved. I searched his countenance for the usual signs of sarcasm. I poked him to ensure that he was actually real. I asked him a few tricky questions to ensure he hadn’t been replaced by an alien.
So, we went to the great emporium and bought an expensive and particularly gorgeous skirt. Which I will now wear on all hyghe festes that come my way.
I think he is probably ill. But I don’t like to mention it. Because he might agree. And that would be proof of serious illness, if not something fatal.
I am still in shock.
I just Googled that to find out why it was thus called:
"We wryte yet in oure kalenders the hyghe festes wyth rede lettres of coloure of purpre."
Which is a tad confusing. So perhaps it was a purple letter day. But a day of festival and celebration none the less. And June 3 will be forever thus write in the scriptures and kalenders of Aardarkism (which I have yet to write), (but at least there is now a hyghe feste)
And why such cause for celebration and hyghe feste? I won my first ever argument with the Beloved. This is what happened:
We were awarded M&S vouchers for the great good deed of renewing our car insurance. £25 each. A haul if there ever was one in these days of financial pecuniary and lack of decent attire with which to attire ourselves.
Beloved: ‘I’m off to M&S to spend this voucher which is burning a hole in my holey pocket.’ He was attired in a spectacularly holey pair of jeans.
Me: ‘They don’t have anything nice in M&S for men.’ The subtext here being fairly obvious to one as used to reading between lines as the Beloved.
Beloved: ‘I need new jeans.’ Indicating the aforementioned garment, or rather the large expanse of hairy leg that was revealed by the aforementioned garment.
Me: ‘You waste your time and voucher buying jeans from M&S. They have nice skirts though, but they cost more than £25.’ Subtext galore.
Beloved: ‘I need new jeans.’
Me: ‘Try ASDA’
Beloved: ‘Ok then, let’s spend all the M&S vouchers on something for you.’
Essentially, then, the bottom dropped out of my world. I felt very like one of those cartoon characters who has just run off the side of a cliff only to look down and discover that there is no longer anything of a substantial nature under their feet/paws/whatever passes for their lower limbs.
This had never happened to me before. I barely understood the phrase ‘Ok then,’ when arriving out of the lips of the Beloved. I searched his countenance for the usual signs of sarcasm. I poked him to ensure that he was actually real. I asked him a few tricky questions to ensure he hadn’t been replaced by an alien.
So, we went to the great emporium and bought an expensive and particularly gorgeous skirt. Which I will now wear on all hyghe festes that come my way.
I think he is probably ill. But I don’t like to mention it. Because he might agree. And that would be proof of serious illness, if not something fatal.
I am still in shock.
Sunday 3 June 2007
My Birthday Night Out
It was my birthday. It happens to me. Every year. Without fail. Come rain or shine. And it’s usually rain.
It can be a bit depressing, getting older. But I was saved from feeling old by spending the evening with people a lot older than me. This is what happened:
I was going to have a party. But then didn’t invite anyone. So that didn’t work. At all.
The physicist came to my rescue.
‘There’s a Beach Boys tribute band on in the golf club.’ She works as a waitress at the aforementioned establishment. Physicists have to get their money from somewhere as experiments with custard don’t pay as well as they used to.
‘I’ll smuggle you in. You can dance.’
‘Hoooray!’ (that was me that said that)
The beloved and I arrive at the back door covered in an invisibility cloak borrowed from the local Potter fan club. We are duly smuggled in. The entire audience was made up of people over the age that I have now reached.
‘Hoooray!’ (that was me again)
The band is APPAULING. Hilariously so. I dance and try not to laugh at the terrible singing and the attempts at harmony. I find myself grinning inanely at the lead singer. Or should I say the person fronting the band who is making some noises into the microphone.
He grins back.
I grin back.
He thinks I fancy him.
I don’t. I’m still trying not to laugh.
He fancies me because I’m dancing Reggaeton to old Beach Boy songs. It is very sexy.
We both thoroughly enjoy ourselves.
All the other people are dancing proper old-fashioned dancing.
The band, although supposed to be a Beach Boys tribute band, have run out of Beach Boys songs to play and revert to the Bay City Rollers. Or perhaps they have come to the realisation that they are incapable of Beach Boys harmonies and have sunk to the lowest common denominator of the pop world. They are still APPAULING.
I’m still grinning and dancing Reggaeton. It is very sexy.
The beloved has failed to notice how sexy I am.
The band finishes and, Cinderella-like, so as not to blow the physicists’ cover, we disappear into the night.
The lead singer is very sad and misses me and gives up being in the Beach Boys tribute band in favour of a job as a lighthouse keeper where no one can hear him sing.
I made up that last bit.
It can be a bit depressing, getting older. But I was saved from feeling old by spending the evening with people a lot older than me. This is what happened:
I was going to have a party. But then didn’t invite anyone. So that didn’t work. At all.
The physicist came to my rescue.
‘There’s a Beach Boys tribute band on in the golf club.’ She works as a waitress at the aforementioned establishment. Physicists have to get their money from somewhere as experiments with custard don’t pay as well as they used to.
‘I’ll smuggle you in. You can dance.’
‘Hoooray!’ (that was me that said that)
The beloved and I arrive at the back door covered in an invisibility cloak borrowed from the local Potter fan club. We are duly smuggled in. The entire audience was made up of people over the age that I have now reached.
‘Hoooray!’ (that was me again)
The band is APPAULING. Hilariously so. I dance and try not to laugh at the terrible singing and the attempts at harmony. I find myself grinning inanely at the lead singer. Or should I say the person fronting the band who is making some noises into the microphone.
He grins back.
I grin back.
He thinks I fancy him.
I don’t. I’m still trying not to laugh.
He fancies me because I’m dancing Reggaeton to old Beach Boy songs. It is very sexy.
We both thoroughly enjoy ourselves.
All the other people are dancing proper old-fashioned dancing.
The band, although supposed to be a Beach Boys tribute band, have run out of Beach Boys songs to play and revert to the Bay City Rollers. Or perhaps they have come to the realisation that they are incapable of Beach Boys harmonies and have sunk to the lowest common denominator of the pop world. They are still APPAULING.
I’m still grinning and dancing Reggaeton. It is very sexy.
The beloved has failed to notice how sexy I am.
The band finishes and, Cinderella-like, so as not to blow the physicists’ cover, we disappear into the night.
The lead singer is very sad and misses me and gives up being in the Beach Boys tribute band in favour of a job as a lighthouse keeper where no one can hear him sing.
I made up that last bit.
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