MISHAPS IN MIDDLE-EARTH

Phew!!

What a week: I set off last Saturday on what proved to be (with check-in, in-transit and check-out times) a 30+ hour long journey from my London Bag End to the Wellington equivalent of the Lonely Mountain!

Then came the attack of my personal Smaug in the form of a nasty infection of the skin tissue in the left leg (cellulitus) probably triggered by the trauma from a rather nasty fall I took in London before I left...

In between meeting the brilliant artisans of Middle-earth (and encountering a baker's dozen of dwarves) I've been spending time worrying about my painfully swollen while sitting in doctor's surgeries, hospital waiting rooms and late-night pharmacies!

Mega-doses of antibiotics seem to be (to use a leg-orientated simile) 'kicking-in' at last and I am desperate to get myself feeling better, more mobile and focusing on the task of gathering information about the adventures of Mr Bilbo Baggins on his journey through Jacksonland, rather than on my personal status as one of Hobbiton's walking wounded!

So, what can I tell you of the wonders, miracles and delights that I have glimpsed over-hill and under-hill? Sadly, having signed a non-disclosure document – that gives Warner Bros more control over my immortal soul than Mephitopheles had over Dr Faustus –– I can tell you absolutely NOTHING! Other than that it's all looking pretty darn fantastic.

The newly acquired iPad has not (so far) yeilded all its promised potential and I'm incredibly frustrated to find that I can't upload photos to Blogger or flickr which is why this post is, uncharacteristically, lacking in illustrative embellishment!

Never mind, down here, I've two days of taking it easy while my host nation anticipates – with a mixture of elation and anxiety – Sunday's Rugby World Cup semi-final between NZ and Oz. Monday will either be a day of jubilation or deepest mourning!

By the way, I know it says 'Friday' on the top of this post but, down here, it's already Saturday. I could try to work out how to change the Time Zone setting on my Blogger account, but with iPad holding out on me, I'd probably end up losing the post or even deleting the blog!

MY FIRST ABC

I was kind-of 'tagged' by Sibley-blog-regular, SCB (alias Where there are Meadowlarks), with a meme based on the Alphabet.

So, here's my ABC - which stands, in case you wondered, for Autobiographically Blogged Confessional...


A – Age: 59 --- for five more days only!

I will be, as the mathematicians amongst you will by now have deduced, 60 on 14 July.

In fact I've already received my application for my winter fuel allowance. Am I at all depressed? Well, what do you think?

B – Bed Size: Super King Size - and, even with all that room (as David will unhappily testify) I still take up more than my half!

C – Chore you hate: All chores! That's why they're called 'chores'! The clue's in the word!

D – Dog’s name: I've never owned a dog, probably because when I was a small boy, some friends of my parents had a poodle who mistook me for a tree (or, possibly, a lamppost) and peed up my leg!

Favourite fictional dogs (mostly - but not entirely - with Disney connections): Lady and the Tramp (and their canine companions), the One Hundred and One Dalmatians, Old Yeller, Greyfriars Bobby, Rin Tin Tin, Pluto, Toto and, obviously, Snoopy...

E – Essential start your day: Tea, toast and marmalade.

F – Favourite color: The fact that I can't instantly name a favourite colour means I probably don't have one - other than black, of course, which is what I wear most of the time under the misbegotten belief that it makes me look slimmer.

G – Gold or Silver: I don't have much of either and rarely wear what I have. I occasionally wear the gold signet ring with a blood stone that my parents gave me when I was 21, a gold bracelet that I bought with birthday money when I was forty and a silver cross given to me, a few years ago, by our friends on Kalymnos.

Every now and again I wear my mother's wedding ring on a gold chain which was a birthday present from my friend Dave, twenty years ago.

And, of course, I constantly wear my white and yellow gold partnership ring - which matches David's and came from Athens...

H – Height: 5′10.5″ I fervently believe I used to be taller but have, in keeping with my advancing years, now started to shrink - except, needless to say, around the waist!

I – Instruments you play(ed): The recorder, tambourine and triangle - at school and badly!

If the human voice counts, I sang as a Policeman (in a papier mache helmet and with a rubber truncheon) in a school production of Gilbert and Sullivan's The Pirates of Penzance ("Tarantara, tarantara!") and almost sang the role of Captain Corcoran in G&S's H M S Pinafore - until the music mistress had a breakdown and never came back!

Many years later - I sang and (sort-of) danced in To Sea in a Sieve, a musical play based on the life and verses of Edward Lear (right) written with my composer friend, Dave Hewson, and performed with Polly March (playing everyone except Edward Lear, including Queen Victoria and a parrot!) at the Edinburgh Festival and then at the Westminster Theatre, London.

I also sang a bit - in a Rex Harrisonesque fashion - in a show entitled, England, Our England, compiled and presented with my friends Ms March and Tony Miall which opened the St James's Arts Centre in Malta. The description 'international singer', would, therefore, not be entirely unjustified!

J – Job title: 'Writer'. It used to 'Writer and Broadcaster', but since I hardly ever get to do the latter nowadays, it seems a bit presumptuous.

K – Kid(s): None. Though, happily, quite a few of my grown-up friends fall into this category!

L – Living arrangements: Flat but the word 'arrangement' really does not apply to the constant muddle in which we live!

M – Mom’s name: Doris. As a young woman she was very handsome and my first memories are of her looking very much like this...

She died 10 years ago, but I still wish I could pick up the phone and talk with her...

N – Nicknames: At school I was 'Sibbers' (which I never liked but had to get used to) and, to a few people, 'Bri' (which I've always hated). More cruelly, I was 'Frog's-eyes' (because of their prominence) and, when I started wearing specs, inevitably, 'Four-eyes'.

Occasionally, people have jokingly called me 'Brain'! In fact, when I was born, my Mum misspelled my name thus in announcing my arrival to my paternal grandparents. Nowadays, it's only my magician friend, Fay Presto, who uses that moniker.

My mate, Dave (collaborator on the aforementioned Lear musical) used to call me 'Brisy' which was a bit camp - even for me - and, thankfully, never really caught on!

O – Overnight hospital stay other than birth: Major internal operation, aged 3 or 4, performed in the early hours of morning. Being in the days before parents were allowed to stay with their children in hospital, I was alone except for my white polar (teddy) bear, Brumas (see later under 'Z' for 'Zoo'), and was utterly terrified! I carry the physical and psychological scars to this day.

I had a duodenal ulcer, aged 21 (cured with several weeks of bed rest and a liquid diet - yuck!); and, rather more recently, a few heart-scares. Undoubtedly (and unfortunately) there's more to come...

P – Pet Peeve: Waiters (and other people in the so-called 'service industries') who tell me that something I've requested is "No problem!" Also most other debasements of the English Language!

Q – Quote from a movie: "Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

Said by Clarence Oddbody the Angel (Henry Travers) to George Bailey (James Stewart) in Frank Capra's 1946 film, It's a Wonderful Life.

Or...

"If you can't say nuffin' nice, don't say nuffin' at all!"

Spoken by Thumper (quoting his father's advice) in Disney's 1941 animated feature, Bambi.

R – Right or left handed: Right. Always thought it would be cool (and occasionally useful) to be ambidextrous but have never seriously tried and am terrified of breaking my right arm!

S – Sports: Er... No!!

T – Time you wake up: Depends how bad a night I've had. Usually around 7:00-7:30 am, but I'm frequently having a cuppa and doing correspondence, writing blogs and playing Bejewelled at 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning.

U – Underwear: Have you read my blog?!

One thing I know: underwear advertising has certainly changed during my lifetime...

Er... Just a little...

V – Vegetable you dislike: Aubergine, which is a pity, because, uncooked, they look so beautiful.

That said, Irene Glinatsi at Artistico (in Emporios) serves them thinly sliced, battered and drizzled in Kalymnian honey. Sensational!

W – Ways you run late: Believing that David is really ready to go when he says he's ready to go! Believing I'm ready to go, when I've yet to locate my keys, watch, phone, credit card or brain...

X – X-rays you’ve had: Chest, hips, feet, knees and (using a long tube with a camera on the end) boomp-sa-daisy.

Y – Yummy food you make: Never cook these days, but I used to make a mean cottage pie and a rather good strawberry fool-type desert with semi-frozen Muller Light.

Z – Zoo favorite: I vividly remember my first visit to the London Zoo as a child (age 2 or 3) having a ride on an elephant and seeing the polar bear, Ivy and her cub, Brumas, who had been born four months after me in November 1949.

I was re-introduced to the zoo by a zoology-mad school chum and, a few years later, became a member of the Zoological Society of London going there at least two or three times a month.

I still love all zoos (if they're well run) and most of their inhabitants - except reptiles and insects. Particular favourites: bears and elephants (of which - quite rightly - there are now fewer or none in zoos), giraffes, hippos (the one below lives in Amsterdam zoo), red pandas, otters, penguins and pelicans.

So, that's it: ME from A to Zee!

Now, let's see...

I'll tag... Sharon M, Bitter Animator, Good Dog, Susan D-L, Diva of Deception, the blog-less Roger and/or Sheila (send your entry as a comment) and anyone else who fancies a challenge!

Quite a few of the images were uploaded via flickr.

BAGS OF ADVICE

A while ago now, I posted images featuring interesting bag advertisements (check them out)...

Well, here's another one, this time promoting a product to help nail-biters stop from chomping their mitts...

And here's what they look like when they're being carried!


But...

If you're a nail-biter would you really want to admit to that fact by carrying a bag announcing that you were trying to quit?

Anyway, here's another bag, this time not hanging on by the skin of its teeth but going hand-in-hand with a promotion for autism awareness...


What remains a mystery to me is how it happens - with all this inventiveness in carrier-bag-design in evidence - that I always end up the ones where, by the time I get home, all the black (red, green or blue) print has come off on my hand?

'ELL FOR LEATHER

In and OUT! Talk about fast!

Actually, at the last minute, my surgeon - Mr Leather - decided not to go ahead with my hernia operation due to the fact that the drugs I am on include ones that are immunosuppressants which make me liable to infection. "What you've got, there," said Mr L, "is a very vulnerable groin!" As medical chat-up lines go that's got to be one of the best.

Obviously the problem has not gone away and I'm to be reassessed in a few months to see whether the operation can be performed using keyhole instead of open surgery.

Meanwhile, thanks for your concern and best wishes which I'll keep carefully in a drawer for the next time...

OTHERWISE ENGAGED

Since I'll be in hospital for the next few days (hopefully not longer) the posts you'll be reading will have been written and scheduled in advance.

Any comments you post, therefore, may be delayed rather longer than usual - at least, until Mr W gets round to seeing them and approving them. But, sooner or later, it will be done!

I'm not really sure if this note ought to count as a 'genuine' post in the run up to 1000 posts - or whether, maybe, I'll now have to delay suspending the blog until 1001!!

A DATE TO REMEMBER

Well, it's 19 years, today, since Mr W and I first shared a significant evening in each other's company.

It wasn't quite what you'd call 'a date', not even a first meeting since we'd already met before on various occasions with mutual acquaintances. It was more in the nature of a getting together in a pub - the Sydney Arms in Chislehurst, for those who like historical facts - for a drink and a chat about various people in our lives (and known rather too well to us both) who had left us hurt and confused. However it started out, it ended up with both of us speculating on the possibility - likelihood, even - of our getting together...

And so, as can happen, one thing led to another and not long afterwards we began a relationship that's sailed (sometimes lurched, but mostly sailed) along for almost two decades.

Thanks, David, for all the loving support and encouragement over those years and - in more recent days - for your patience and tolerance in coping with my various disabilities. I hope we never forget what it was -- whatever it was! -- on that day, nineteen years ago, that brought us close enough to move closer...

And guess what, friends? We've got something very special lined up by way of a celebration today! Yep, I'm spending the day at King's College Hospital being assessed for a hernia operation on Thursday!

Still, next year...

AT A LOO'S END

The other day, on one of my weekly hospital visits, I passed a door with a sign...


Out of order loos are, regrettably, common enough, but this loo was out of order for a very specific - or specifically vague - reason...


And this is a --- what's it called? --- oh, yes, HOSPITAL!

Meanwhile (and there is - or will be - a point to this seeming digression), if I were drawing up a list of the ten things I'd rather die than do, then bungy jumping would be pretty near the top!

When our friends Roger and Sheila recently took an antipodean tour, they stopped off at the Kawarau Bridge Bungy Jump, outside Queenstown - to look, I'm glad to say, rather than jump!

"I think," writes Sheila, "it's a place that's better looked at when one is standing upright and not behaving like a yo-yo!"

I think so!


"The Shotover river below," Sheila continues, "is incredibly deep, which gives it a wonderful blue colour..."

Thinking about 'incredibly deep' and the potential snapability of bungy ropes would, I know, turn me a 'wonderful green' colour!

In fact, unlike R&S, I don't think I could even watch people hurling themselves off that bridge and trusting their fate to several hundred yards of knicker elastic!

Anyway, before taking the plunge it's no doubt wise to make a visist to the loo, although even the smallest room had a reminder of what was in store - at least I guess that's what it was meant to represent...

PIG DEAL

The Sun newspaper has long been noted for its high standards of taste and decency: a fact endorsed by Tuesday's front-page headline...


Courtesy of Sun Headlines: a blog-spot entirely devoted to headline gems from this journalistic paragon.

DECIDEDLY DOGE-Y

My first thoughts about my bandaged face were, you will remember, Christmas Carol-related, but David, subsequently, said I looked like I was playing the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet - a part which, actually, I think I'd be rather good at!

Now, however (especially with my woolly hat on), I think I have a certain kinship with the Venetian Doges who were the chief magistrates and leaders of the Most Serene Republic of Venice for over a thousand years...



See what I mean...?

Images: Doge Mocenigo by Bellini, 1480; Doge Sibley by Weeks, 2008.

JAW-DROPPING ART

Click images to enlarge

"Pictures, were there, repleat with
such enduring beauty and expression:
with such passion, truth and power:
that they seemed so many young and fresh
realities among a host of spectres."

- Charles Dickens


"Painting is the way Venetians write."

- John Ruskin

"White walls, the paper of the mad."

- Venetian Proverb

***

A few hours after writing this blog posting, I was having an unexpected Venice adventure: I yawned and dislocated my jaw!

We went straight to the Ospidale (water taxi fare: €45!) but the doctors in Pronto Soccorso (the Venetian equivalent of A&E) couldn't get it back into its correct sockets, so I had to wait three hours - in what was excruciating pain - for a specialist to come over from the mainland. He was terrific, but had a heck of a struggle because the jaw had been dislocated for such a long time.

Finally - after a needle full of Valium in the bum - the muscles relaxed sufficiently for him to get the jaw relocated and we set off by boat back to our apartment.

BUT --- almost an hour later, and three stops down the line, out it popped again! As soon as we could, we jumped ship and headed back to back to the Ospidale...

The specialist (who was, by now, back home on the mainland)was telephoned and turned round and set off across the lagoon once more.

Another three hours of agony ensued until he got there and put things right for the second time. On this occasion, however, he decided that - having had my jaw out of sync for best part of six hours - I would have to have to bandaged up to prevent it from moving until the muscles relax and go back to where they should be...

So I now look rather too like Marley's Ghost with his kerchief wound about his head (to keeping his jaw from dropping open) and I've got to remain like this - on a liquid-only diet, too! - until Monday when I will see more specialists at the Ospidale who will advise me what's best thing to do next...

Some holiday!!


Images: Brian Sibley & David Weeks © 2007/8. The top image shows Titian's Assumption of the Virgin located in the Basilica of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari.

For more Venice imagery, visit my website to view the album Venice Observed and then follow the links at the foot of that page to three further albums of photographs.

AFFAIRS OF THE HEART

There's an old saying (which, like all those Old Sayings, is trite but true): “It isn't what you have in your pocket that makes you thankful, but what you have in your heart.”

Which - in unromantic terms - is what I've been worrying about for the past eighteen months since a hospital test suggested that I had something in my heart that oughtn't to be there - to wit, one or more malfunctioning arteries.

Finding out what's going on in a person's heart is far easier and more prosaic than the poets ever imagined: you undergo a coronary catheterization (it's OK, you don't have to click on that link!) which provides photographic evidence of what, if anything, is not tick-tocking properly within your ticker.

After several postponements (due to infections resulting from the drugs I take for arthritis) and one painful aborted attempt when they couldn't insert the catheter through which to pass the camera, yesterday was the designated date for the next attempt.

Then, over then weekend, it looked as it would once again have to be postponed when I started having a serious plumbing malfunction which led to my spending most of Monday in A & E fully expecting to have a rather different kind of catherterization. Despite the discomfort I was in, I was secretly comforted by the thought that, at least, I wouldn't have to go through the next day's cardiac test.

But medication was provided and I very quickly started recovering and was deemed well enough to go back to the same hospital the following day for my heart to be investigated. So, screwing the courage to the sticking place - I was, I freely admit, totally terrified - I turned up at the Cardiac Catherterization Unit at King's College Hospital prepared (in my most Eeyore-ish state of mind) to find out the Worst...

Even before I arrived at my bed, I passed a door bearing a sign that said it all...


Several anxious hours later, I was lying on my back with a mini-camera crawling through my chest grabbing snaps of my heart that were being televised on a screen above my head. Frankly, I'd have sooner been watching re-runs of the worst-ever TV shows of the 20th Century...

Anyway, with the aid of wonderful sedatives (I wanted to bring a supply home for recreational use, but they weren't having it!) and a fabulous team who talked me through the whole experience rather in the way that those cool, calm and confident Air Traffic Controllers used to talk down failing aircraft in '50s 'B' movies, I --- they, we --- got through it and the Good News - which was like someone vanishing that sword of Damocles that had been hanging over me since Spring 2007 - was that my heart was FINE!

All wasn't entirely plain-sailing: the artery in my groin being deep and difficult to get into - I always knew I had depth! - led to a lot of rather painful prodding and poking. Then, afterwards, the self-dissolving plug which is used to stopper-up the entry point refused to go into the puncture hole which resulted in the doctor having to apply a great deal of pressure for rather a long time to stop the bleeding. By far the worst bit was having to lie perfectly still for four hours while all the other patients in the ward were merrily toddling off home.

But that was a small price to pay for long-needed peace of mind. David fed me chicken mayo sandwiches and sips of tea through straw and when I was finally able to totter round the ward to see if I sprang a leak (thankfully, I didn't) gave me a firm arm to lean on - although, to tell the truth, I'd been leaning on him quite heavily, one way and another, for the past month or more...

Of course, I still have the arthritis and the hernia and the asthma and several other faulty fittings, but the HEART is, as I say, fine! Fine! Nice word, that! I like having a fine heart!

Like undertakers, doctors have a very particular sense of humour. Here's a sample from a note-board in my ward. It used to be said that the way to man's heart was through his stomach, but, apparently, not so...


Images: 'Heart' by Heather Garland; 'Door' and 'Noteboard' by David Weeks

MAKING THE BREAK

It's just a little short of two years since I broke a bone in My Left Foot and now I've gone and done it again! Still, at least I'm consistent! Oh, well, better foot forward...

CHANGING MEDICATION

I recently mistyped Paracetamol as

Pracetamol

Spell-check kindly offered me the correction...

Peacetime

Which is not a bad approximation of what Paracetamol offers the pain-sufferer!

Talking of tablets...

I've just been put on a new medication the possible side-effects of which include: difficulty finding words, difficulty with thinking, memory impairment and confusion (nothing new there then!), panic attacks, hallucinations and abnormal dreams (does anyone have normal dreams?) and... er... changes in SEXUAL INTEREST----

WHAT??

Oh, my god! Not WOMEN!! Not my time of life!!

OSTRICH-EYESED

Here's an Ostrich that we happened to encounter at a farm shop in Cambridge the other day...

Click on image to enlarge

Which prompts me to offer my readers a second chance to relish a salutary tale of mine about...

THE OSTRICH
WHO KEPT HIS HEAD DOWN

There was an Ostrich who was, perhaps, the most nervous creature of its kind. At the least provocation, the merest hint of alarm and the flimsiest cause for concern, he would thrust his head into the sand and stay there until he was sure, beyond any doubt that the coast was clear and the danger past.

He could often be seen - his neck, body and legs very much in evidence, but his head well and truly out of sight - long after the wildebeest stampede had galloped away in a cloud of dust or the big game hunters’ jeep had rattled off into the distance.

“Why do wait so long before showing your face?” asked one of the other ostriches.

“Well,” said the Ostrich who kept his head down, “one really cannot be too careful…”

“But---” began the Other Ostrich and then stopped short on hearing a low snarly-roar that suggested that a large predator was lurking nearby.

Instantly, the Other Ostrich made a dash for safety, knowing that, with a head start, he could out-run anything on four paws.

The Ostrich who kept his head down, on the other hand, poked his head in the sand and pretended that, since he could see nothing, he could not be seen.

The Jaguar, for that is who was doing the stalking, sat for some time washing his paws and looking at the exposed haunches of the Ostrich. Eventually, however, he decided that, without the chase, the kill would be boring, so he wandered off to look for an antelope or two.

The Ostrich who kept his head down, kept his head down for several hours, congratulating himself on having eluded certain death.

As a result, he failed to notice great banks of black storm clouds rolling in across the veldt or hear the rumble of approaching thunder. In fact, he knew nothing about anything until - with a single dazzlingly searing flash - he was struck by lightning and fried to a crisp.

MORAL: The person who said, “What you don’t know can’t hurt you,” was another idiot who got struck by lightning.

Images: Brian Sibley & David Weeks, © 2007

You will find other, similarly disturbing tales (for which I am inexplicably unable to find a publisher!), on my blog-site, Likely Stories.

________________________________________________

LATE BULLETIN: ANGIOGRAM UPDATE!

Yesterday's hospital visit turned out to be a bit of a fiasco since they didn't succeed in getting the catheter in through the wrist... Two doctors tried valiantly, but the artery kept going into spasms and they ultimately failed. It was a bit traumatic and really very painful and, after eight hours in King's Hospital, I'm unfortunately no further advanced --- other than having a bruised and aching arm...

Also, I now have to reschedule the procedure and next time they will attempt to go in through the groin... :-(

However, thanks for all the various expressions of concern and good wishes - I'll let you know when you can express then again!! :-)

MORNING REPORT

TODAY......








































...absolutely nothing's happening of any consequence...


EXCEPT.................................













My ANGIOGRAM......

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!!


[Images © Brian Sibley 2007]

BUGGED!

Every now again, somebody tells you something that suddenly puts your own woes and sorrows into perpective and you say, "Well, at least I'm not as badly off as X!" or, in my case, at least I'm not as badly off as my Guest Blogger today, Glasgow-based journalist and writer, SHARON MAIL, who recounts a tale with, unfortunately, a bit of bite in it...

"FLEAS RELEASE ME, LET ME GO..."

"Britain is in the grip of a record outbreak of ticks and fleas – and the wet summer and recent mild weather is to blame." Metro, Sunday Oct 14, 2007

IT'S NICE TO BE POPULAR and I generally get on well with people. However, my popularity has reached epidemic proportions and I’m far from happy with it.

A few weeks ago, following a working visit to Auschwitz, I got what I thought was a cluster of midge bites on my leg. The following week, another small group on an arm. Two weeks later, they were still itching and suddenly I found myself with a couple of dozen new ones on my legs. The next morning, about the same number again appeared on the top half of my body and many of the ones on my legs had turned to blisters. "Go to the doctor," everyone said.

So I did. And what did the locum medic say? "Gosh, I know it’s not much help to you, but this looks really interesting." After much humming and hawing he ruled out bites or shingles (because of the volume and spread) and chickenpox – which I’ve already had twice, thanks very much. His gut feeling was that they were the manifestation of a viral infection.

That night, after clocking the latest crop of red blotches to appear, I saw a tiny black speck – shaped like a grain of rice – on the white blouse I’d just taken off. Suddenly it started to move …. and then it hopped! I lost it – and then found it elsewhere on the blouse – or perhaps it was another of the blessed little blighters. I grabbed a tissue and squeezed for dear life – it kept moving. I squeezed harder – it tried to escape. I managed to flush it down the loo.
The truth had at last dawned on me – I wasn’t suffering from some peculiar manifestation of an infection. No, I had fleabitis!

I’ve bunged the bed linen on a high temperature wash and hoovered and sprayed my bedroom. Let us spray that I’ve exterminated the little sods – but somehow I doubt it.

I don’t know where they came from – we’ve got a chinchilla, but they don’t get fleas. Perhaps it was when I was in London recently at the Gielgud Theatre watching the Scottish play. When Banquo uttered his last words, "Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!" some little darlings may have misheard and - thinking the instruction was "Fly, good fleas and fly, fly, fly!" - managed to hop onto me!

All I would like is for them to stop treating me like a gourmet meal (I must now be listed in the Fleagon Ronay Guide) but I’ve no desire to enter The Guinness Book of Records for flea bites and blisters obtained!


Rotten luck, Sharon! And, from latest news received, I gather the search and the struggle go on... Keep up the fight and may cleanliness ultimately prevail! Any helpful hints from readers will doubtless be appreciated...

Meanwhile, Sharon will just have to take comfort from the fact that many others have suffered before her - including at least one of our great poets...

THE FLEA

by
John Donne

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two;
And this, alas! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true; then learn how false fears be;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

And if, dear reader, you still not feling even slightly ITCHY, then maybe you should read my tale of The Ambitious Flea.

HEARTFELT

This was to have been the day on which I should have had an angiogram on my heart, but due to the COLD and COUGH which have now nestled down nicely onto the chest, they can't carry out the procedure until I'm better...

So, the apprehension and the anxiety goes on for a couple more weeks...

Meanwhile, for those who, when I've mentioned what I was supposed to have been doing today, asked: "Angie WHO?" here's what the short definition. I'll spare you the HOW, because, if you're anything like me, it will make you knees go a bit wobbly...

An X-ray film or image of the blood vessels is called an angiograph, or more commonly, an angiogram. Angiography or arteriography is a medical imaging technique in which an X-ray picture is taken to visualize the inner opening of blood filled structures, including arteries, veins and the heart chambers. Its name comes from the Greek words angeion, "vessel", and graphien, "to write or record".

Oh, well, it's comforting, at least, to know that the Greeks are involved - even peripherally!

No images today, because, well... you can imagine...

BRIGHTON BREEZY...

...snuffly and sneezy!

The sun shone, the sky was blue and (left) the seagulls obligingly flew past on cue... but, unfortunately, I spent most of the time sneezing and coughing.

As a result, our Honeymoon Boudoir was not quite as romantic as it ought to have been: the roses, champagne and chocolates (courtesy of - how's this for a name? - Bona Foodie!) being outnumbered by boxes of tissues, packets of Lemsip, tubes of Soothers, bottles of Benylyn and the occasional Vic inhaler!

Still - between bouts of coughing and wheezing - we at least began to acclimatise to the idea of being officially Mr and Mr!

The real downside is that the cold has meant that, after weeks of apprehension, Monday's visit to the hospital for an angiogram - the original reason for the almost indecent dash to the altar! - has had to be postponed as the hospital won't carry out the procedure on a patient who keeps giving way to rasping coughing-fits... The test has been rescheduled for Monday 22, so I have two more fun weeks of anxiety.

Never mind, at least David and I finally got around to tying the knot - and, since my Civil Partner happens to be a magician who's routine include several tricks with ropes and knots - I better make sure it's not a slip-knot!

See also... button's blog!

UNDER STRESS

I would never - that is NEVER - go bungee-jumping, skydiving or rock-climbing. But yesterday, courtesy of the NHS, I had a stress echocardiogram to check out my heart that was probably the equivalent to doing all three in quick succession.


This involves being hooked up to machines that monitor your blood pressure and heart rate while a drug called dobutamine is pumped into your arm via an intravenous drip. As the dosage increases so does the heart beat until it is racing and jumping about in your chest like something out of a Warner Brothers cartoon.

Then, once it is going like the clappers and you are fighting for breath and drenched in sweat and your mouth is dry and your focus is going and your head is spinning, the doctor begins ramming a scanner against your rib cage until - from the pain - you are convinced that you now have at least one broken rib, possibly more. This then goes on doing for the longest 15 minutes in the world...

Just before they begin this torture the team reassuring advise you that only one in 10,000 people suffer cardiac arrest during the test. Too late, you realise that you forgot to ask how near they are to having carried out 10,000 of these tests!

Well it was an experience - probably rather like having a sustained orgasm in middle of a 7.9 earthquake. Frankly, if I had a choice - knowing what I now know - I think I'd opt for the bungee-jump and see whether my heart was still beating when I reached the end of the elastic...

TAKING THE PILL

In common with many other folk, I am currently taking a LOT of daily medication - pills for this, capsules for that. Some are once, twice or three-times a day, some are only once-a-week and on the day you take those there are others that you mustn't take.

It's potentially confusing and, although only two-thirds of the way to my dotage, I make mistakes: forgetting this or that dose just too late to squeeze one in before the next. Now, if I'm challenged by this regime, how much harder must it be for those who are (really) elderly or have sight-impairment? In fact, having lived in close proximity to several veteran pill-takers, I don't even need to ask the question, I know the answer...

I mention this as a prelude to a quick rant against the drug manufacturers in this country who seem incapable of agreeing on colour-coding for pills and capsules.

Two of my drugs have changed colours - one of them twice - in less than a year, which means that just when you've got used to remembering that blood pressure equals a pink-and-white capsule it suddenly becomes a pale-green-and-white capsule and then, only a month or two later, inexplicably changes again into a yellow-and-white capsule!


So, why use any colours if they're not important? I bet that even among those clever pharmaceuticalists there are those who avoid orange-coloured Smarties or green-hued Wine Gums! So, why not just settle on a colour combination and bloody well stick to it, then everyone knows where they are and - more importantly - what they're on!