It's Flavia's birthday today. She's 16 (and, as she solemnly told me, next year will be 17....no!) and yesterday was our (Mark and I) wedding anniversary. We've been married for eight years, which isn't bad...longer than any of his other marriages. By this point in my marriage to Simon (pause whilst I try to work out exactly where we were...he was such a difficult employee that we moved, on average, every 18 months so it's a case of working out where we were as to when something occurred, and if that isn't sad then what is?). I know. 1994. Dowlais, Merthyr Tydfil. By this stage he'd kicked me out a few times, I'd left a few times (and crawled back since I felt I had no-where to go) and within the year I'd felt so isolated and depressed I'd taken an overdose of sleeping tablets. What a riot.
Anyway, back to the topic in hand. Flavia's birthday. We celebrated on Saturday, which I thought was pretty good going since initially (and until a week beforehand) we hadn't thought we could commemorate it in any way whatsoever - cash (or the lack thereof) being what it is. However, we managed to wangle things so that she could at least invite a few friends over. My family didn't do birthday parties - we (brother, sister, parents and self) would have tea and a cake but that was pretty much it so I'm a bit at a loss to know what to do. When Flavia was younger I'd organise stuff and hand out party bags at the end and the last couple of years or so she's had sleepovers and dvds but most of the time I'm guessing. And, I have to say, Flavia is very good. She knows our financial situation and doesn't ask much - her friends go to restaurants or the cinema or bowling or whatever (or two out of the three usually) but Flavia knows that if we go to the cinema once a year then that's a big deal. I hate life being so constrained and know her life isn't as rounded as it should be but can't think what else to do.
This year we worked out we could just about manage pizza, cake and ice-cream. Because it was a last minute thing only five of Flavia's friends could turn up but, after meeting in Cardiff (at Waterstone's, their congregation point of choice) then came back for the aforementioned food and to watch dvds. By seven o'clock every one had gone home. Mark and I sat outside and listened to them chanting the words to The Big Bang Theory and I couldn't help but smile - and be very grateful. The time may very well come when Flavia gives me the nightmares of other parents' but right now I am lucky. Yes she can be a pain but (so far) I don't have to worry about drink, drugs or sex. The hardest thing at the party was the own-brand coke from Asda and the nice thing was that no-one gave a damn. The girls were quite happy, we were happy. I don't know whether it has anything to do with how they've been raised (although other parents seem to do exactly the same thing and have the Offspring from Hell) and 'class' doesn't seem to mean anything either, inasmuchas brats can be from a sink estate or go to an independent school but they still manage to get their grubby little mitts on booze and drugs. It could, of course, simply be because we're boring. We don't drink (either in the home or out...not because we're teetotal but simply because it costs money and there are better things to spend one's filthy lucre on than alcohol), we don't go out a great deal (again, it costs money) and we live simple lives. It could be because I had such a sheltered up-bringing (I was seventeen before I found out what a French kiss was - not through experience but by hearsay) but I don't see why. Girls from families as sheltered as my own have led 'interesting' lives and been pregnant by the time they reach Flo's age.
So, now my daughter is sixteen. Technically able to marry (with consent) and I feel ancient. I remember what it was like to be that age and although I'm grateful Flavia is nowhere near as green as I was at that age, I worry for her. She hopes to go to University (Simon has, after all, informed her not to worry about the financial aspect since he is going to win the lottery. The annoying thing is he probably will) and, whilst I know she needs to grow (roots and wings and all that) it's scary. I don't like the knowledge that at some point she'll be hurt. At some point her heart will be broken. Bad things will happen to her and I won't be able to protect her. She's stronger than I am - a bit stroppy, which is good. Takes after her maternal great-grandmother in that regard (an Irish redhead!) so I hope she won't be taken advantage of quite so much (too much to hope she won't be taken advantage of at all. She's human, after all) and I keep my fingers crossed that she is resilient. She gives the impression of being so, but impressions are awfully deceptive.
After all, her father gave the impression of being a decent man (to some, at least) whilst in reality he was/is a sociopath. Hopefully there's just enough of her father in her to enable her to survive - but not so much that she will be as selfish, ruthless and cruel.
Wednesday, 12 September 2012
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Honesty is the best policy?
I have a problem with modern life - actually, that's not fair; I think I'd have problems in most eras. I'm always amazed the way people lie - in Court, to each other, to strangers. I'm not talking white lies ('yes, you look amazing') but bigger ones. The ones that can put one in a bad light. I find it especially boggling when there is proof that the thing has been done by the person concerned. How can someone, in all honesty, state they are innocent of a crime when there is proof? I find it deeply unsettling and I'm very grateful I've never been called for jury duty (you just wait, tomorrow morning....).
I can only assume it is down to upbringing. I was taught, 'don't lie, don't cheat, don't steal, don't swear (okay, I've fallen from that one), and be polite.' The latter is why it gets my goat when people push ahead in a line or don't thank one when the door has been opened for them or I've stepped aside to let them pass...but that's a different story. My parents may have been poor but they raised us right, as the saying goes. Unfortunately.
The problem is that cheating, lying, stealing is the way of the world and the expression, 'nice guys finish last,' is so much on the nail that it's frightening. Look at our MPs and their expenses - cheats are brought back into the Cabinet and failed MPs are rewarded for half doing a job with gongs. The banks and bankers are another example - Gordon Gecko was right, greed is good.
The other day I took Flavia to the orthodontist (she has to have a couple of teeth out before the bottom brace is attached. She's deeply upset about this; not at the removal of the teeth but at the prospect of an injection. Her reasoning is that having a needle in the mouth is unnatural. She has a point). Nothing untoward occurred except that she found a £10.00 note on the journey. She pocketed it, reasoning no-one was actively searching for it at the time. I had mixed emotions about the whole thing. The Mother in me felt she should seek out the owner ('is anyone missing a ten pound note? It's identifiable by the fact that it has a picture of the Queen on the front'), but a part of me not only understood why she had put it in her pocket, but also knew that the majority of people would think her certifiable if she had made steps to seek the originator. Sadly I was grateful I hadn't been put in that position. After doing my own investigative work I would probably have kept the money but been racked by guilt for the next few decades. (Quite true. I found some money in 2003 and still have pangs of guilt that I didn't hand it over to some invisible being).
It made me remember a time when Flavia was seven. Simon was living in Eastbourne and I was in Cardiff and the only way I could transport Flavia from one place to another was via the train (the cost was still almost within the realms of mortal men at that point). Flavia and I arrived back in Cardiff somewhere around ten o'clock on a Saturday night. Not only that, but it was a match night so we had to walk about thirty minutes to the bus stop. On the way, Flavia found a two pence piece. She was distraught. Someone had dropped this money and would be missing it. I'd been travelling since seven that morning and desperately wanted to get on the outside of a pint of coffee or two but nothing would distract her. She had to find the owner. My pointing out that nearly everyone we saw was so out of it they wouldn't notice if they lost a £50.00 let alone tuppence was ignored. She had to find the owner.
Twenty minutes later (and still no result), Flavia decided to compromise and give it to a policeman. He was a young lad and made me feel indescribably old as he bent down to try to hear Flavia over the drunken shouts, whistles and general noises of affray. Solemnly she explained the situation and carefully placed the coin into his hand. I felt rather sorry for him, actually. He tried to suggest no-one cared (nicely, of course), but she'd have none of it. Then he suggested she keep it. The horror on her face let him know how shocking such an idea was. He was obviously desperate to get on with his duties (babysitting idiots) but couldn't bear to let this angelic, trusting little girl down. Finally (and I had to congratulate him on his thinking) he offered to put it in a charity box if he couldn't find it's rightful owner. This - thankfully - met with Flavia's approval and, after bestowing one of her special smiles on him she was quite happy to wave goodbye and let her mother head towards caffeine heaven.
I regaled Flavia with this story and she couldn't decide whether to be amused or disgusted at her former naivety. Which I found rather sad. Whilst I admit to having been in the situation of searching for pennies to try to help the family budget, the knowledge that Flavia's innate honesty and goodness is now at 'normal' standards is depressing but I know the world will deal more kindly with her because of it - it certainly won't hold her up to ridicule.
In the meantime her mother will continue to fret about injustice, apologise to spiders for accidentally trashing their webs and do her best not to step on ants.
I know which one of us will have a more successful life!
I can only assume it is down to upbringing. I was taught, 'don't lie, don't cheat, don't steal, don't swear (okay, I've fallen from that one), and be polite.' The latter is why it gets my goat when people push ahead in a line or don't thank one when the door has been opened for them or I've stepped aside to let them pass...but that's a different story. My parents may have been poor but they raised us right, as the saying goes. Unfortunately.
The problem is that cheating, lying, stealing is the way of the world and the expression, 'nice guys finish last,' is so much on the nail that it's frightening. Look at our MPs and their expenses - cheats are brought back into the Cabinet and failed MPs are rewarded for half doing a job with gongs. The banks and bankers are another example - Gordon Gecko was right, greed is good.
The other day I took Flavia to the orthodontist (she has to have a couple of teeth out before the bottom brace is attached. She's deeply upset about this; not at the removal of the teeth but at the prospect of an injection. Her reasoning is that having a needle in the mouth is unnatural. She has a point). Nothing untoward occurred except that she found a £10.00 note on the journey. She pocketed it, reasoning no-one was actively searching for it at the time. I had mixed emotions about the whole thing. The Mother in me felt she should seek out the owner ('is anyone missing a ten pound note? It's identifiable by the fact that it has a picture of the Queen on the front'), but a part of me not only understood why she had put it in her pocket, but also knew that the majority of people would think her certifiable if she had made steps to seek the originator. Sadly I was grateful I hadn't been put in that position. After doing my own investigative work I would probably have kept the money but been racked by guilt for the next few decades. (Quite true. I found some money in 2003 and still have pangs of guilt that I didn't hand it over to some invisible being).
It made me remember a time when Flavia was seven. Simon was living in Eastbourne and I was in Cardiff and the only way I could transport Flavia from one place to another was via the train (the cost was still almost within the realms of mortal men at that point). Flavia and I arrived back in Cardiff somewhere around ten o'clock on a Saturday night. Not only that, but it was a match night so we had to walk about thirty minutes to the bus stop. On the way, Flavia found a two pence piece. She was distraught. Someone had dropped this money and would be missing it. I'd been travelling since seven that morning and desperately wanted to get on the outside of a pint of coffee or two but nothing would distract her. She had to find the owner. My pointing out that nearly everyone we saw was so out of it they wouldn't notice if they lost a £50.00 let alone tuppence was ignored. She had to find the owner.
Twenty minutes later (and still no result), Flavia decided to compromise and give it to a policeman. He was a young lad and made me feel indescribably old as he bent down to try to hear Flavia over the drunken shouts, whistles and general noises of affray. Solemnly she explained the situation and carefully placed the coin into his hand. I felt rather sorry for him, actually. He tried to suggest no-one cared (nicely, of course), but she'd have none of it. Then he suggested she keep it. The horror on her face let him know how shocking such an idea was. He was obviously desperate to get on with his duties (babysitting idiots) but couldn't bear to let this angelic, trusting little girl down. Finally (and I had to congratulate him on his thinking) he offered to put it in a charity box if he couldn't find it's rightful owner. This - thankfully - met with Flavia's approval and, after bestowing one of her special smiles on him she was quite happy to wave goodbye and let her mother head towards caffeine heaven.
I regaled Flavia with this story and she couldn't decide whether to be amused or disgusted at her former naivety. Which I found rather sad. Whilst I admit to having been in the situation of searching for pennies to try to help the family budget, the knowledge that Flavia's innate honesty and goodness is now at 'normal' standards is depressing but I know the world will deal more kindly with her because of it - it certainly won't hold her up to ridicule.
In the meantime her mother will continue to fret about injustice, apologise to spiders for accidentally trashing their webs and do her best not to step on ants.
I know which one of us will have a more successful life!
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
Aaaarrrgghhhh (or words to that effect)
I have Sarcoidosis (oh, lucky me). I also, as a result of the Sarc, have Fibromyalgia and (because of the aforementioned Sarc or for some completely different reason, such as a trapped nerve or just because my body feels like being cussed) I also have bursitis. In both shoulders. Also severe upper back pain - and I mean severe.
I've just received yet another letter from the hospital asking me if I still want an appointment with the neurologist. This is the appointment I was initially put down for NINE months ago. I've asked my Sarc specialist, my orthopaedic chappy, my GP and the physiotherapist to nudge (ie give a kick up the posterior) to the Neurology department but still they send me these damn letters instead of an appointment. I call them the, 'haven't you died yet,' letters. I've had a few of them. The fact that this one has just turned up means I shall shortly have it's brother - do I still want the rheumatology appointment (no, I just can't be bothered to tell them I've decided pain is a wonderful thing and I love it).
Now, don't get me wrong - I think the NHS is great. Or at least I think the theory was great. I love theories. Unfortunately reality often bears no relation to them whatsoever. Personally I think Bevan is turning in his grave at what has happened to his great idea. Money wasted left, right and centre on administration and piddling little things (sorry, but gastric bands for prisoners isn't my idea of a good use of resources) whilst things that are actually needed - whistle for them. We're still waiting for the wheelchair that was ordered for my mother weeks (and weeks) ago.
I also don't understand the myopia of the NHS. Well, I do (ie short-term cost saving) but it is crazy in reality. I've had migraines now since I've been in single figures (oh, the joys of being female). They are regular little bu****s (inasmuchas they happen every damn month, if not week) and tenacious. Sometimes they're really, really bad - a humdinger. The worst humdingers are when I am vomiting every 15-20 minutes which means keeping meds down is impossible. It used to be that the doc would (eventually) come out, give one a jab for the nausea and then one could take copious medicines and retire, stage left. Nowadays they don't do that. They send you into hospital. I kid you not. The last time I was in hospital (for me, not Mark) was for a migraine. What a waste of a bed!
The annoying thing is that there are possible alternatives out there. I've been told a lot of my ailments probably have a stress element (migraine, asthma, eczema, IBS etc etc) and it has been suggested I try hypnosis. Whilst I don't think it would work I'd be willing to give it a try. But, of course, it's not available on the NHS and there is no way I could afford it myself.
There's also botox (for migraines, not my furrowed brow, although if there was a knock-on effect I wouldn't mind) but that's on trial and you can bet your bottom (or top) dollar that, even though I plan on asking the neurologist (if I get to see them before I die), I won't be put on that waiting list either. And, of course, there's this new gadget that, to my innocent and highly untechnical brain sounds like a TENS machine for the head. When I was working I lost quite a few days due to migraines and the medications I take - well I know the Maxalt Melt costs at the very least a forearm if not the whole limb. I get through at least six a month (that's eking them out). It adds up. I have no doubt whatsoever that my migraine medication has, in this year alone, far exceeded the cost of any of the above alternatives. But, of course, the NHS (or the bods that run it) can't see that.
The sad thing is that I'm not alone. I may not know people in a similar situation but they're out there. It's frustrating. These options exist. They aren't hideously expensive - not when one compares them to the cost of a year's medications - yet they languish, saved for those who have the spare cash to try them. This isn't what Bevan wanted. It isn't what the NHS was created for and it sure as hell isn't why I've paid into it all my working life.
But what do I know? I'm just the patient. An impatient one, but who cares?
http://www.facebook.com/freya.fluharty
https://twitter.com/
gofundme.com/American-Dream-Fund
I've just received yet another letter from the hospital asking me if I still want an appointment with the neurologist. This is the appointment I was initially put down for NINE months ago. I've asked my Sarc specialist, my orthopaedic chappy, my GP and the physiotherapist to nudge (ie give a kick up the posterior) to the Neurology department but still they send me these damn letters instead of an appointment. I call them the, 'haven't you died yet,' letters. I've had a few of them. The fact that this one has just turned up means I shall shortly have it's brother - do I still want the rheumatology appointment (no, I just can't be bothered to tell them I've decided pain is a wonderful thing and I love it).
Now, don't get me wrong - I think the NHS is great. Or at least I think the theory was great. I love theories. Unfortunately reality often bears no relation to them whatsoever. Personally I think Bevan is turning in his grave at what has happened to his great idea. Money wasted left, right and centre on administration and piddling little things (sorry, but gastric bands for prisoners isn't my idea of a good use of resources) whilst things that are actually needed - whistle for them. We're still waiting for the wheelchair that was ordered for my mother weeks (and weeks) ago.
I also don't understand the myopia of the NHS. Well, I do (ie short-term cost saving) but it is crazy in reality. I've had migraines now since I've been in single figures (oh, the joys of being female). They are regular little bu****s (inasmuchas they happen every damn month, if not week) and tenacious. Sometimes they're really, really bad - a humdinger. The worst humdingers are when I am vomiting every 15-20 minutes which means keeping meds down is impossible. It used to be that the doc would (eventually) come out, give one a jab for the nausea and then one could take copious medicines and retire, stage left. Nowadays they don't do that. They send you into hospital. I kid you not. The last time I was in hospital (for me, not Mark) was for a migraine. What a waste of a bed!
The annoying thing is that there are possible alternatives out there. I've been told a lot of my ailments probably have a stress element (migraine, asthma, eczema, IBS etc etc) and it has been suggested I try hypnosis. Whilst I don't think it would work I'd be willing to give it a try. But, of course, it's not available on the NHS and there is no way I could afford it myself.
There's also botox (for migraines, not my furrowed brow, although if there was a knock-on effect I wouldn't mind) but that's on trial and you can bet your bottom (or top) dollar that, even though I plan on asking the neurologist (if I get to see them before I die), I won't be put on that waiting list either. And, of course, there's this new gadget that, to my innocent and highly untechnical brain sounds like a TENS machine for the head. When I was working I lost quite a few days due to migraines and the medications I take - well I know the Maxalt Melt costs at the very least a forearm if not the whole limb. I get through at least six a month (that's eking them out). It adds up. I have no doubt whatsoever that my migraine medication has, in this year alone, far exceeded the cost of any of the above alternatives. But, of course, the NHS (or the bods that run it) can't see that.
The sad thing is that I'm not alone. I may not know people in a similar situation but they're out there. It's frustrating. These options exist. They aren't hideously expensive - not when one compares them to the cost of a year's medications - yet they languish, saved for those who have the spare cash to try them. This isn't what Bevan wanted. It isn't what the NHS was created for and it sure as hell isn't why I've paid into it all my working life.
But what do I know? I'm just the patient. An impatient one, but who cares?
http://www.facebook.com/freya.fluharty
https://twitter.com/
gofundme.com/American-Dream-Fund
Saturday, 1 September 2012
It's Family, Jim...
Today is one of those days. My mother is finally out of the hospital (carers four times a day) and we (Mum, my aunt Margaret, my brother and my sister and her family) as well as Mark and myself are meeting up for lunch. Margaret likes these things and this will be her first real chance for ages - not that the gathering is as large as usual - generally it is in the teens but has been known to be in the upper twenties. I don't know how the others feel about them but I'm not too keen. Flavia, meanwhile, is off to see her father. Meeting at the local railway station at ten o'clock. Doubtless he will have yet some other reason as to why he doesn't pay a penny towards her upkeep. I've given up on him and, did he but know it, so has she. Her primary reason for agreeing to these monthly meetings is money; she tries to get as much out of him as she can. Today she has her sights set on some Doc Marten boots for her birthday. Personally I don't hold out too much hope. They cost over £100 and Simon doesn't really spend that much money - unless it is for himself. Mind you, she's a sneaky thing. Last time she needed a bathing costume and was going to search in New Look before announcing her intention of going into Primark. Simon, snob that he is, didn't want to go anywhere that house Morlocks (and thus took her to BHS. She doesn't get it from me!)
I think being the youngest had a bad effect on me - and not necessarily that which you are assuming. I wasn't the indulged baby but, rather, grew up convinced that I was humoured, albeit impatiently. Everyone was older - aunts, uncles, cousins - and when I say older, I mean older. By at least 15 years. I suspect the problem was (and is) mine rather than theirs but I always felt (and feel) that anything I say or do is humoured but in actuality please let us get back to the adult conversation. A bit of a bummer when one is 48! Of course I shot myself in the foot somewhat when I married a man who regarded me as being an imbecile and had no hesitation of telling me. Repeatedly. Now I feel I am a permanent disappointment - which says something when one considers that I don't think anyone expected much from me anyway! I wish I were sassy, like my grandmother - like Flavia, for that matter. But I'm not. I am (as the spellcheck wanted to change sassy) a sissy. Scared of everything, convinced I am a failure. I might laugh at the dog for being such a creature of habit but like recognises like! The difference, of course, is that I don't like lying on my back having my head rubbed but otherwise we are frighteningly similar. Oh, yes, he can lick his posterior, something I can neither do nor aspire towards.
We are an odd family. Dysfunctional, I think, is the correct term but then point me in the direction of a functional one. I was scared of my brother and sister when I was young, then developed a rapport with my brother before finding out he was so much under the cats' paw that he sided with Simon in the residency case (he is a cleric, after all). I have, superficially, forgiven him but I distrust him to the nth degree. Of course, it wasn't helped when I was told both Simon and I were invited to my niece's wedding on the understanding I didn't fight with him. As Flavia says, she has yet to see me angry. I strongly suspect I can't which I believe is a huge personality flaw. Now my sister and I have a reasonable relationship but the whole family ties thing? Who do you think you're kidding? My brother actually holidayed 10 miles away from my sister (driving within 1/2 a mile of her) yet didn't even consider stopping off to say, 'hello.'
Of course, it's all Hollywood's fault. They might have given us the Ewings and the Colbys but they've also given us the family in Meet Me in St Louis and the Waltons. How can any family measure up to such ideals? Can siblings be friends? More than friends - close, loving and willing to sacrifice for the other. I haven't seen any examples in real life, but then hey, what do I know? My social group is neither large nor hectic - I managed to miss any indication that there's a Mardi Gras celebration in Cardiff today which I can't help but think is pretty good going. Personally I think this whole, 'blood is thicker than water,' stuff is absolute hogwash. I mean, come on! Throughout history siblings have double-crossed, cheated and betrayed each other - at the very least they have indulged in some serious one-upmanship. Life is far closer to Shakespeare's Richard III than the Waltons but we all love the myth. We all love to believe that brother would sacrifice himself for sister and that the world is well lost for love.
They could, of course, be right. But familial love? If you believe in that I have a bridge I can sell you....
I think being the youngest had a bad effect on me - and not necessarily that which you are assuming. I wasn't the indulged baby but, rather, grew up convinced that I was humoured, albeit impatiently. Everyone was older - aunts, uncles, cousins - and when I say older, I mean older. By at least 15 years. I suspect the problem was (and is) mine rather than theirs but I always felt (and feel) that anything I say or do is humoured but in actuality please let us get back to the adult conversation. A bit of a bummer when one is 48! Of course I shot myself in the foot somewhat when I married a man who regarded me as being an imbecile and had no hesitation of telling me. Repeatedly. Now I feel I am a permanent disappointment - which says something when one considers that I don't think anyone expected much from me anyway! I wish I were sassy, like my grandmother - like Flavia, for that matter. But I'm not. I am (as the spellcheck wanted to change sassy) a sissy. Scared of everything, convinced I am a failure. I might laugh at the dog for being such a creature of habit but like recognises like! The difference, of course, is that I don't like lying on my back having my head rubbed but otherwise we are frighteningly similar. Oh, yes, he can lick his posterior, something I can neither do nor aspire towards.
We are an odd family. Dysfunctional, I think, is the correct term but then point me in the direction of a functional one. I was scared of my brother and sister when I was young, then developed a rapport with my brother before finding out he was so much under the cats' paw that he sided with Simon in the residency case (he is a cleric, after all). I have, superficially, forgiven him but I distrust him to the nth degree. Of course, it wasn't helped when I was told both Simon and I were invited to my niece's wedding on the understanding I didn't fight with him. As Flavia says, she has yet to see me angry. I strongly suspect I can't which I believe is a huge personality flaw. Now my sister and I have a reasonable relationship but the whole family ties thing? Who do you think you're kidding? My brother actually holidayed 10 miles away from my sister (driving within 1/2 a mile of her) yet didn't even consider stopping off to say, 'hello.'
Of course, it's all Hollywood's fault. They might have given us the Ewings and the Colbys but they've also given us the family in Meet Me in St Louis and the Waltons. How can any family measure up to such ideals? Can siblings be friends? More than friends - close, loving and willing to sacrifice for the other. I haven't seen any examples in real life, but then hey, what do I know? My social group is neither large nor hectic - I managed to miss any indication that there's a Mardi Gras celebration in Cardiff today which I can't help but think is pretty good going. Personally I think this whole, 'blood is thicker than water,' stuff is absolute hogwash. I mean, come on! Throughout history siblings have double-crossed, cheated and betrayed each other - at the very least they have indulged in some serious one-upmanship. Life is far closer to Shakespeare's Richard III than the Waltons but we all love the myth. We all love to believe that brother would sacrifice himself for sister and that the world is well lost for love.
They could, of course, be right. But familial love? If you believe in that I have a bridge I can sell you....
Monday, 27 August 2012
Being poor sucks!
I know, I know, nothing like stating the bleedingly obvious. It's true though. It does. Not in obvious ways, either. I mean, yes, being able to afford to go on holiday would be nice (duh) but it's the little things that are really the bummer. Like whether we can afford kitchen towels or not (for a long time we couldn't - even now they are doled out like precious gems) or being able to afford fruit. I love the stuff (avocados excepted..don't see the point) but if you were to give me a choice between, say, mango & pineapple or chocolate I'd chose the former which is pretty astounding since I adore chocolate. Unfortunately chocolate is a damn sight cheaper than fruit (although not by much and we can't afford chocolate anyway, but you get the idea). A pound of grapes or a Snickers bar? Grapes win every time. Or would.
My mother is in hospital. Nothing serious (as in nothing actually wrong regarding being ill) but she can't walk. Can't stand, either. Her hip bones have finally told the rest of her body that they're on their own. The hip bones have had enough, which is understandable. They're getting on a bit. She's been in for a while whilst they try to work out a schedule of carers (they will need to use a two-person hoist and she's incontinent...just the sort of bundle of laughs that makes you think you really don't want to be old) but tomorrow she is released. Discharged. Kicked out. However you want to put it. Up until now I've been able to see her on a regular basis but this will change since we live about eight miles away (maybe more, maybe less - there comes a time when it doesn't really matter) and - it's embarrassing to even think about it - I can't afford the bus fare. Yup. You heard it here, folks. We can't afford the £3.40 return it would cost to go to see my mother. Now isn't that a total bummer? Forget these people who are bemoaning the fact that they can't afford the latest bag or can 'only' manage one foreign holiday a year but this takes not having money to a whole new dimension.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. By this age - not, I have to admit, that I ever gave any consideration to being in my forties. Or at least, I gave it as much consideration as I did being in my fifties. Or sixties. As in, none whatsoever - things are supposed to be reasonably settled. You know, have a home that's more yours than the bank's; spouse and brat or two; secure. Comfortable. Having been able to tick some things off one's bucket list. Instead I find myself here: renting a house, counting every penny half-a-dozen times and wearing cast off shoes and clothes. I know I used to tell the kids that life wasn't fair but this is taking things a tad too far.
As I've said before, Mark believes in karma. I don't. Sorry, but. It seems to me that bad things happen to good people all the damn time whilst - even more unfairly - the reverse is also the case. Even if we dispense with the idea that I'm a good person (I am. Trust me. Would I lie to you??) I've known some sorry SOBs in my time and where are they? At the top of the pile. So, no. Karma is a nice idea, just like world peace. But that's all it is. An idea. Rather like the Christian, 'the meek shall inherit the earth.' It's a sop for those poor saps who do try to be decent human beings. You may be trodden on in this life but, don't worry, you'll get the reward after you're dead. Has it ever occurred to anyone that I wouldn't mind the rewards now? In this life? Just in case the afterlife isn't. I've heard of deferred gratification but this is taking it far too far.
Isn't it rather sad when even Fate says, 'the cheque is in the post'?
My mother is in hospital. Nothing serious (as in nothing actually wrong regarding being ill) but she can't walk. Can't stand, either. Her hip bones have finally told the rest of her body that they're on their own. The hip bones have had enough, which is understandable. They're getting on a bit. She's been in for a while whilst they try to work out a schedule of carers (they will need to use a two-person hoist and she's incontinent...just the sort of bundle of laughs that makes you think you really don't want to be old) but tomorrow she is released. Discharged. Kicked out. However you want to put it. Up until now I've been able to see her on a regular basis but this will change since we live about eight miles away (maybe more, maybe less - there comes a time when it doesn't really matter) and - it's embarrassing to even think about it - I can't afford the bus fare. Yup. You heard it here, folks. We can't afford the £3.40 return it would cost to go to see my mother. Now isn't that a total bummer? Forget these people who are bemoaning the fact that they can't afford the latest bag or can 'only' manage one foreign holiday a year but this takes not having money to a whole new dimension.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. By this age - not, I have to admit, that I ever gave any consideration to being in my forties. Or at least, I gave it as much consideration as I did being in my fifties. Or sixties. As in, none whatsoever - things are supposed to be reasonably settled. You know, have a home that's more yours than the bank's; spouse and brat or two; secure. Comfortable. Having been able to tick some things off one's bucket list. Instead I find myself here: renting a house, counting every penny half-a-dozen times and wearing cast off shoes and clothes. I know I used to tell the kids that life wasn't fair but this is taking things a tad too far.
As I've said before, Mark believes in karma. I don't. Sorry, but. It seems to me that bad things happen to good people all the damn time whilst - even more unfairly - the reverse is also the case. Even if we dispense with the idea that I'm a good person (I am. Trust me. Would I lie to you??) I've known some sorry SOBs in my time and where are they? At the top of the pile. So, no. Karma is a nice idea, just like world peace. But that's all it is. An idea. Rather like the Christian, 'the meek shall inherit the earth.' It's a sop for those poor saps who do try to be decent human beings. You may be trodden on in this life but, don't worry, you'll get the reward after you're dead. Has it ever occurred to anyone that I wouldn't mind the rewards now? In this life? Just in case the afterlife isn't. I've heard of deferred gratification but this is taking it far too far.
Isn't it rather sad when even Fate says, 'the cheque is in the post'?
Friday, 24 August 2012
A Tale of Two Cop-Outs
In January 2010 we bought a television from Tesco. It cost us £300 and, although it might not be a great deal of money for some, for us it was (is) huge. I used the money given to me by my Mother and aunt for Christmas and we scraped together the rest, working on the principle that we don't get out much. No, seriously. We don't. We pay our rent, pay our bills and with what is left over we buy food. With a bit of fiddling I can occasionally stretch to buying Flavia school shoes (bottom end of market...apparently they aren't to be worn in the rain but that's another story) so we decided to treat ourselves since it is, apart from the computer, the only form of entertainment we have.
You can imagine our dismay when, 19 months after purchase, it died. We contacted Tesco (who tried to wriggle but Yours Truly knows about the Sale of Goods Act - I'm awkward like that) and they sent us a form to fill in (second class, of course) and just over two weeks later we got a letter from them saying they'd refund us £180. Which rather tells me that they didn't expect the television to last very long. Now, I'm sorry to rain on their parade, but I do. My Mother had to dispose of her television when digital came along but it was going fine and it had been doing so for forty years. Forty years! My God, it should be in a museum. Or immortalised. A monument to Ferguson. I know they say manufacturers install a variant of the kill switch to ensure things don't last a long time but personally I think 19 months is too little. I also think £180 is too little. We certainly can't replace the television with that - or at least we can, but not the size screen and not a built in DVD player (although I don't mind too much about the latter...I wasn't sure at the time. On the one hand it's a couple of wires less - thank heaven - on the other, well, if the DVD player part wants to play silly b's then we have a problem. As it is both the television part AND the DVD part went into touch but there we go).
So it would appear I'll be going to the small claims court to try to sort this out. Am I crazy? Should one expect electrical items to give up the metaphorical ghost in just over 1 1/2 years? Or am I too old fashioned? Presumably a Judge will help me find out.
The other cop-out is the CSA. The little darlings. Don't you just love them? Personally I find they make me go all warm and fuzzy on the inside.
You see (and stop me if I've said this before...the Sarc does make me forget things - just not the things I want to forget), my ex-husband doesn't pay child support. He has the CSA exactly where he wants them and they let him get away with it. In the current instalment he's been working since 3 February but have we seen any child support? It is, of course, everyone's fault except theirs. His. His employer. The post. I've - well, I won't say I nag them, that's wrong, but no-one could say I have been sitting back and letting them do whatever they want. I have been on their case. Oh boy, have I been on their case (they'd probably say, 'on and on and on,' but I won't).
After 26 weeks (yes, I said 26) I finally decided I'd had enough and filed a lawsuit against them. It took the Court 3 weeks to process it (all money claims have to go to Stratford now so the back log is enormous...2,000 new cases a day apparently). Then, miraculously, on Wednesday I had a telephone call from them. Wow. Shock. Awe. I don't hear from them for almost two months then suddenly, wallop, they call. Not only that but they tell me they have FINALLY made the calculations. Only took them seven months. The elephant in the room, of course, was the litigation. They didn't mention it. I didn't mention it. I found it amusing but I suspect Roger (the chap on the other end of the line) didn't. No sense of humour some people.
Now, today, I receive a letter from the Court saying the CSA want to dismiss the case because I have no grounds. Hmmmm. Yeah. Right. They dropped the ball, didn't fulfil their duty of care towards my daughter and let Daddy Darling get away with financial murder. He goes on foreign holidays, the cinema every week, eats out...generally a rather nice life. His daughter, meanwhile, gets her clothes from charity shops, doesn't see the inside of a cinema from one year to the next and is going without a sixteenth birthday party because we don't have any money.
I have no idea as to what is going to happen with either case. Obviously (duh) I'd like us to win both but if I was in the business of getting what I wanted I'd be comfortably off, people would buy my books and I'd own a house that bore more than a passing resemblance to that occupied by the Addam's Family (but with an orchard rather than a cemetery in the back garden). Instead I rent a house and hope like hell the landlord doesn't decide to change his mind/sell/demolish/whatever. Oh, and no-one buys my books. Which is very annoying because I've read far worse and they don't exactly cost an arm and a leg. In fact, they don't even cost a fingernail. Maybe, if I priced them for a vast sum people would buy them. Rather like some art work that shall go un-named but which is tat yet sells for obscene amounts of 0s. The world is a strange place. And people are downright scary.
I had planned, if we'd won the £148,000,000 (I know I could have just written £48 million but then I wouldn't have had the satisfaction and awe of seeing all those 0s), to buy an island somewhere and hide from people. Nothing too big or fancy. Australia or somewhere like that.
Ah, well. We didn't. Didn't win a farthing (which would have been difficult anyway since they don't make them any more). Back to Plan B. Or are we on to Z yet? I wouldn't be surprised. Any suggestions on a postcard, please. Or call the A Team. Whichever is easier.
http://mark-fluharty.artistwebsites.com/
http://www.facebook.com/freya.fluharty?ref=tn_tnmn
http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_8?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=freya+fluharty&sprefix=freya+fl%2Caps%2C159
You can imagine our dismay when, 19 months after purchase, it died. We contacted Tesco (who tried to wriggle but Yours Truly knows about the Sale of Goods Act - I'm awkward like that) and they sent us a form to fill in (second class, of course) and just over two weeks later we got a letter from them saying they'd refund us £180. Which rather tells me that they didn't expect the television to last very long. Now, I'm sorry to rain on their parade, but I do. My Mother had to dispose of her television when digital came along but it was going fine and it had been doing so for forty years. Forty years! My God, it should be in a museum. Or immortalised. A monument to Ferguson. I know they say manufacturers install a variant of the kill switch to ensure things don't last a long time but personally I think 19 months is too little. I also think £180 is too little. We certainly can't replace the television with that - or at least we can, but not the size screen and not a built in DVD player (although I don't mind too much about the latter...I wasn't sure at the time. On the one hand it's a couple of wires less - thank heaven - on the other, well, if the DVD player part wants to play silly b's then we have a problem. As it is both the television part AND the DVD part went into touch but there we go).
So it would appear I'll be going to the small claims court to try to sort this out. Am I crazy? Should one expect electrical items to give up the metaphorical ghost in just over 1 1/2 years? Or am I too old fashioned? Presumably a Judge will help me find out.
The other cop-out is the CSA. The little darlings. Don't you just love them? Personally I find they make me go all warm and fuzzy on the inside.
You see (and stop me if I've said this before...the Sarc does make me forget things - just not the things I want to forget), my ex-husband doesn't pay child support. He has the CSA exactly where he wants them and they let him get away with it. In the current instalment he's been working since 3 February but have we seen any child support? It is, of course, everyone's fault except theirs. His. His employer. The post. I've - well, I won't say I nag them, that's wrong, but no-one could say I have been sitting back and letting them do whatever they want. I have been on their case. Oh boy, have I been on their case (they'd probably say, 'on and on and on,' but I won't).
After 26 weeks (yes, I said 26) I finally decided I'd had enough and filed a lawsuit against them. It took the Court 3 weeks to process it (all money claims have to go to Stratford now so the back log is enormous...2,000 new cases a day apparently). Then, miraculously, on Wednesday I had a telephone call from them. Wow. Shock. Awe. I don't hear from them for almost two months then suddenly, wallop, they call. Not only that but they tell me they have FINALLY made the calculations. Only took them seven months. The elephant in the room, of course, was the litigation. They didn't mention it. I didn't mention it. I found it amusing but I suspect Roger (the chap on the other end of the line) didn't. No sense of humour some people.
Now, today, I receive a letter from the Court saying the CSA want to dismiss the case because I have no grounds. Hmmmm. Yeah. Right. They dropped the ball, didn't fulfil their duty of care towards my daughter and let Daddy Darling get away with financial murder. He goes on foreign holidays, the cinema every week, eats out...generally a rather nice life. His daughter, meanwhile, gets her clothes from charity shops, doesn't see the inside of a cinema from one year to the next and is going without a sixteenth birthday party because we don't have any money.
I have no idea as to what is going to happen with either case. Obviously (duh) I'd like us to win both but if I was in the business of getting what I wanted I'd be comfortably off, people would buy my books and I'd own a house that bore more than a passing resemblance to that occupied by the Addam's Family (but with an orchard rather than a cemetery in the back garden). Instead I rent a house and hope like hell the landlord doesn't decide to change his mind/sell/demolish/whatever. Oh, and no-one buys my books. Which is very annoying because I've read far worse and they don't exactly cost an arm and a leg. In fact, they don't even cost a fingernail. Maybe, if I priced them for a vast sum people would buy them. Rather like some art work that shall go un-named but which is tat yet sells for obscene amounts of 0s. The world is a strange place. And people are downright scary.
I had planned, if we'd won the £148,000,000 (I know I could have just written £48 million but then I wouldn't have had the satisfaction and awe of seeing all those 0s), to buy an island somewhere and hide from people. Nothing too big or fancy. Australia or somewhere like that.
Ah, well. We didn't. Didn't win a farthing (which would have been difficult anyway since they don't make them any more). Back to Plan B. Or are we on to Z yet? I wouldn't be surprised. Any suggestions on a postcard, please. Or call the A Team. Whichever is easier.
http://mark-fluharty.artistwebsites.com/
http://www.facebook.com/freya.fluharty?ref=tn_tnmn
http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_8?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=freya+fluharty&sprefix=freya+fl%2Caps%2C159
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Well, that was fun!
I am officially cream-crackered. Absolutely, totally, no-doubt-about it whacked. What's more, it's all my husband's fault. I put the blame firmly on Mark. No ifs, ands or buts. Not only that, but if he has any sense he'll agree with me.
You know the way you have an afternoon all planned? That was me yesterday. A little gentle pottering followed by a quiet family evening and an early night. Especially the early night since sleeping is not my forte. I used to be good at it; but then I used to be good at a lot of things. Why it is a problem is a bit of a mystery since I take so many meds I should spend my whole life virtually catatonic but it would appear I'm made of sterner stuff. Or something.
Anyway, back to my pottering. Nothing major league, just saying hello to a few old friends in the clothing stakes when Mark comes back from the doctor. He'd had some blood taken a couple of weeks earlier to check on how his diabetes, cholesterol & blood pressure were doing. Routine. My main concern was that he'd be kept waiting (the previous week I'd had to hang around for 45 minutes which was rather boring, especially since surgeries no longer have stacks of those magazines no-one admits to buying but we all can't resist reading...it's the possibility of germs, apparently). I digress. In wanders the Man and tells me (nonchalantly, of course) that the doc wants me to take him somewhere. Initially I didn't understand him - due partially to his Texas accent trying to wrap itself around the Ll in Llandock. As in, 'Llandock Hospital.' As in, 'the doctor wants you to take me to-'. 'When?' 'Now.'
You'll be glad to know I didn't panic. Even when he said she'd done (or whatever it is) an ECG on him, gone white and pointed him in the general direction of the door with the aforementioned instruction. My first job was to bum some money off Flavia (we don't have our own transport, instead we're dependent upon the bus. Isn't it a good thing I've gone to Llandock so often myself I know not only where to catch the bus - the 95, in case you're wondering - but also the times to and from). And, of course, they only accept the exact money. Which we didn't have. Bang went Flavia's £10.00 (with the promise she'd get it back today at the latest).
So, by five o'clock we're sitting in the waiting room at the Assessment Unit in Llandock Hospital. Have you noticed how chairs in hospitals are always uncomfortable? In the same way I have a theory that bus companies purposely ruin the shock absorbers on each bus before putting it into service, I am convinced hospitals are determined never to possess a comfortable chair. Not for patients, anyway. If you're going to litter the place then you're not going to enjoy the experience. So we deposit ourselves on a couple of the sit-up-and-beg chairs and wait. And wait. Then (just for fun) we waited some more. I was going to say that Mark is a bit antsy about hospitals but then, who isn't? Or, if someone isn't then there's something mighty peculiar going on in their cranium. I'm more resigned - I think it's a female thing - but Mark isn't of that ilk.
They took him off to take blood from him (5 vials! Blood suckers) and another ECG but in the interim we waited. Along with other patients and their acolytes. There were periods of brief amusement, such as when a cleric informed someone on his mobile that he'd thought a patient in one of the treatment rooms was his friend but then found she was sitting just behind him (the humour being the person in the treatment room was an obese old man...if I'd been the friend I would have punched him) but otherwise it was unmitigated boredom. Within two hours I could quote the Beeb's coverage of Tony Scott's suicide as well as the changing weather reports. I even accepted a cup of tea. Now for me, that's a big deal. I don't do tea. I regard it as an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. However, there was method in my betrayal - if I was going to be faced with a hot, dark brown liquid then I preferred it to be something I knew I didn't like rather than a bastardized cousin of something I do like that was given to me merely as a form of highly exquisite torture. That was my logic, anyway. It didn't make the tea taste any nicer, though.
To cut a very long, dreary story short by ten o'clock we were given the delightful news that they wanted to keep Mark in overnight so that they could run some more tests this morning. The only fly in the ointment was that there were no beds. Instead we were offered a couple of beaten up recliners in a room that for unrelenting brightness would make the Gestapo salivate. Ve haf Vays of giving you a heart attack. Presumably they reasoned that if dumping us there for 6-7 hours didn't bring something on then he must be okay. There we were left with the units' stack of spare blankets for company. I couldn't really get home even if I'd wanted to since the buses had stopped running just after eight and who can afford a taxi?
My darling daughter took the news with equanimity: I did know she didn't like being in the house all alone, didn't I? (guilt trip time. Of course, as I'm sure you've guessed we live in a big, old mansion surrounded by creepy woods and miles from anywhere. ie There's a Tesco Express just around the corner and so many takeaways I'd need to borrow someone else's fingers and toes just to try to keep a running tally). Then I had the wondrous text: My computer isn't working. What's wrong with it? Now, I know mothers are good (some of us are damn good) but even I, in all my amazing capabilities cannot deduce the cause of a computer crashing from four miles away. Actually, I can't do it if it is sulking in front of me, but that's besides the point. I suppose it was worth a try, though.
Mark slept - if you can call it sleeping. Probably had something to do with his not having eaten during the day or taken his evening medications - I mean, we'd be home in a couple of hours, wouldn't we? Hah. Of course, I didn't have my meds either (duh) but then I don't fall into a state of suspended animation if I neither eat nor keep dosed up. I also stayed awake all night. At five I wandered out into the dark and fresh air to check the bus times since they were planning on taking more blood at six and - well, I wouldn't say I was desperate to leave but I'd been fantasising about it for hours (Mark had been fantasising about Kentucky Fried Chicken up until midnight) whilst the desire for something luxurious like a bunch of grapes stopped me from going totally cuckoo. Instead I stayed at vaguely cuckoo.
Having informed Mark that it may well be a form of angina and that further tests would be required (out, not in) we managed to escape by ten o'clock, with me texting Flavia to let her know we were 1. Still alright and 2. She could now unlock and unbolt the front door (it was her first time left alone...although, as I pointed out, she had two manic dogs, a domineering guinea pig and a cat with delusions of world domination on her side...nobody would dare try to go past any of them).
So. Mark may well have angina (to go with the rest) and he DID have a heart attack about 20-years ago. I'm not quite sure whether he's pleased to find out he was right all those years ago or disappointed to find out he was right all those years ago. If you see what I mean.
I now know I can go 40 hours with only one of them having any relation however tenuous to sleep. I also now know that Mark's idea of a suitable location for a date night sucks. Rather a shame, really, to think that the first time we've spent a night together away from the house and family and it's in an impersonal, faceless, utterly boring and airless room on two highly uncomfortable chairs with another patient as chaperone (he purred in his sleep. Mark snored...I found myself automatically giving him my usual little nudges. At least he didn't talk - and when Mark talks in his sleep, Mark talks in his sleep. In English. In Sioux. It's great fun). I did have a surge of brilliance, however. I remembered I had a pair of (clean) socks in my bag and used them as a makeshift eye mask. I probably looked ridiculous, but then the whole situation was and by that stage I was so past caring I could have waved at it from a distant shore.
The journey home was as packed as the outward one but at least we were going home and we knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the hot liquids awaiting us would be drinkable. Also that the pulled beef prepared for Monday night was well and truly cooked.
I really hope Mark chooses a better place for our next date - something with a bit more ambiance would be nice. Actually, somewhere with any ambiance would be nice. And no white walls or strip lights.
I have a very strong suspicion Prince Phillip got a bed when he was in hospital. I could suggest favouritism but I won't. I'll just think it.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_7?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=freya+fluharty&sprefix=freya+f%2Caps%2C238
http://www.facebook.com/freya.fluharty
http://mark-fluharty.artistwebsites.com
You know the way you have an afternoon all planned? That was me yesterday. A little gentle pottering followed by a quiet family evening and an early night. Especially the early night since sleeping is not my forte. I used to be good at it; but then I used to be good at a lot of things. Why it is a problem is a bit of a mystery since I take so many meds I should spend my whole life virtually catatonic but it would appear I'm made of sterner stuff. Or something.
Anyway, back to my pottering. Nothing major league, just saying hello to a few old friends in the clothing stakes when Mark comes back from the doctor. He'd had some blood taken a couple of weeks earlier to check on how his diabetes, cholesterol & blood pressure were doing. Routine. My main concern was that he'd be kept waiting (the previous week I'd had to hang around for 45 minutes which was rather boring, especially since surgeries no longer have stacks of those magazines no-one admits to buying but we all can't resist reading...it's the possibility of germs, apparently). I digress. In wanders the Man and tells me (nonchalantly, of course) that the doc wants me to take him somewhere. Initially I didn't understand him - due partially to his Texas accent trying to wrap itself around the Ll in Llandock. As in, 'Llandock Hospital.' As in, 'the doctor wants you to take me to-'. 'When?' 'Now.'
You'll be glad to know I didn't panic. Even when he said she'd done (or whatever it is) an ECG on him, gone white and pointed him in the general direction of the door with the aforementioned instruction. My first job was to bum some money off Flavia (we don't have our own transport, instead we're dependent upon the bus. Isn't it a good thing I've gone to Llandock so often myself I know not only where to catch the bus - the 95, in case you're wondering - but also the times to and from). And, of course, they only accept the exact money. Which we didn't have. Bang went Flavia's £10.00 (with the promise she'd get it back today at the latest).
So, by five o'clock we're sitting in the waiting room at the Assessment Unit in Llandock Hospital. Have you noticed how chairs in hospitals are always uncomfortable? In the same way I have a theory that bus companies purposely ruin the shock absorbers on each bus before putting it into service, I am convinced hospitals are determined never to possess a comfortable chair. Not for patients, anyway. If you're going to litter the place then you're not going to enjoy the experience. So we deposit ourselves on a couple of the sit-up-and-beg chairs and wait. And wait. Then (just for fun) we waited some more. I was going to say that Mark is a bit antsy about hospitals but then, who isn't? Or, if someone isn't then there's something mighty peculiar going on in their cranium. I'm more resigned - I think it's a female thing - but Mark isn't of that ilk.
They took him off to take blood from him (5 vials! Blood suckers) and another ECG but in the interim we waited. Along with other patients and their acolytes. There were periods of brief amusement, such as when a cleric informed someone on his mobile that he'd thought a patient in one of the treatment rooms was his friend but then found she was sitting just behind him (the humour being the person in the treatment room was an obese old man...if I'd been the friend I would have punched him) but otherwise it was unmitigated boredom. Within two hours I could quote the Beeb's coverage of Tony Scott's suicide as well as the changing weather reports. I even accepted a cup of tea. Now for me, that's a big deal. I don't do tea. I regard it as an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. However, there was method in my betrayal - if I was going to be faced with a hot, dark brown liquid then I preferred it to be something I knew I didn't like rather than a bastardized cousin of something I do like that was given to me merely as a form of highly exquisite torture. That was my logic, anyway. It didn't make the tea taste any nicer, though.
To cut a very long, dreary story short by ten o'clock we were given the delightful news that they wanted to keep Mark in overnight so that they could run some more tests this morning. The only fly in the ointment was that there were no beds. Instead we were offered a couple of beaten up recliners in a room that for unrelenting brightness would make the Gestapo salivate. Ve haf Vays of giving you a heart attack. Presumably they reasoned that if dumping us there for 6-7 hours didn't bring something on then he must be okay. There we were left with the units' stack of spare blankets for company. I couldn't really get home even if I'd wanted to since the buses had stopped running just after eight and who can afford a taxi?
My darling daughter took the news with equanimity: I did know she didn't like being in the house all alone, didn't I? (guilt trip time. Of course, as I'm sure you've guessed we live in a big, old mansion surrounded by creepy woods and miles from anywhere. ie There's a Tesco Express just around the corner and so many takeaways I'd need to borrow someone else's fingers and toes just to try to keep a running tally). Then I had the wondrous text: My computer isn't working. What's wrong with it? Now, I know mothers are good (some of us are damn good) but even I, in all my amazing capabilities cannot deduce the cause of a computer crashing from four miles away. Actually, I can't do it if it is sulking in front of me, but that's besides the point. I suppose it was worth a try, though.
Mark slept - if you can call it sleeping. Probably had something to do with his not having eaten during the day or taken his evening medications - I mean, we'd be home in a couple of hours, wouldn't we? Hah. Of course, I didn't have my meds either (duh) but then I don't fall into a state of suspended animation if I neither eat nor keep dosed up. I also stayed awake all night. At five I wandered out into the dark and fresh air to check the bus times since they were planning on taking more blood at six and - well, I wouldn't say I was desperate to leave but I'd been fantasising about it for hours (Mark had been fantasising about Kentucky Fried Chicken up until midnight) whilst the desire for something luxurious like a bunch of grapes stopped me from going totally cuckoo. Instead I stayed at vaguely cuckoo.
Having informed Mark that it may well be a form of angina and that further tests would be required (out, not in) we managed to escape by ten o'clock, with me texting Flavia to let her know we were 1. Still alright and 2. She could now unlock and unbolt the front door (it was her first time left alone...although, as I pointed out, she had two manic dogs, a domineering guinea pig and a cat with delusions of world domination on her side...nobody would dare try to go past any of them).
So. Mark may well have angina (to go with the rest) and he DID have a heart attack about 20-years ago. I'm not quite sure whether he's pleased to find out he was right all those years ago or disappointed to find out he was right all those years ago. If you see what I mean.
I now know I can go 40 hours with only one of them having any relation however tenuous to sleep. I also now know that Mark's idea of a suitable location for a date night sucks. Rather a shame, really, to think that the first time we've spent a night together away from the house and family and it's in an impersonal, faceless, utterly boring and airless room on two highly uncomfortable chairs with another patient as chaperone (he purred in his sleep. Mark snored...I found myself automatically giving him my usual little nudges. At least he didn't talk - and when Mark talks in his sleep, Mark talks in his sleep. In English. In Sioux. It's great fun). I did have a surge of brilliance, however. I remembered I had a pair of (clean) socks in my bag and used them as a makeshift eye mask. I probably looked ridiculous, but then the whole situation was and by that stage I was so past caring I could have waved at it from a distant shore.
The journey home was as packed as the outward one but at least we were going home and we knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the hot liquids awaiting us would be drinkable. Also that the pulled beef prepared for Monday night was well and truly cooked.
I really hope Mark chooses a better place for our next date - something with a bit more ambiance would be nice. Actually, somewhere with any ambiance would be nice. And no white walls or strip lights.
I have a very strong suspicion Prince Phillip got a bed when he was in hospital. I could suggest favouritism but I won't. I'll just think it.
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http://www.facebook.com/freya.fluharty
http://mark-fluharty.artistwebsites.com
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