Author Archives: Tina

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About Tina

Unleashed for a second term of blogging.

Waiting for the knock on the door

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My niece is brilliant at the moment. So much so that I want to bottle her up and keep her as she is forever. At five and a half, she’s a bundle of fun and a chatterbox sponge that just soaks up information. And she’s currently fast asleep in my spare bedroom.

I don’t like children as a rule. They irritate me, make too much noise and mess, and they either don’t listen or they answer back when they do. Over the years I’ve come to realise that it’s not the children I dislike so much, well it is, but it’s the parents of unruly chimps that are the main focus of my ire. Class isn’t an issue either and I don’t discriminate between the offspring of middle class yummy mummies any more that I would dolescum breeders those parents at the lower end of the income scale; I just find them all generally disagreeable.

It’s like dogs and cats. I have my little pooch, who I love, and I’ve had cats that I have absolutely adored. I can see myself always having a pet of dog or cat persuasion, but when it comes to other people’s pets, I’m not that fussed. So when somebody thinks it’s appropriate to send me e-mails with pictures of cute cats in them, I tend to delete unread.

This post went missing for a couple of days between starting it and rediscovering it just now. Needless to say, my niece did come knocking on the door in the small hours. I fed her some Calpol and she came to bed with me and the little dog. She wriggles. He snores. They both have a tendency to kick me in the face while they’re asleep. It’s not the best night’s sleep imaginable, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

I’d like to have her as my own, but her mum would object and so would she. When all is said and done, and despite my sister’s lack of patience with her, they adore each other. But I’ve got Nick Junior!!! And an iPad!!!! It just doesn’t compete with that unbreakable bond between them.

Mother
Connie, my mum, is in a bad way. She’s getting on and bits are wearing out: she has a pacemaker; she’s diabetic; hypothyroid; arthritic. A total knee replacement a eighteen months ago never brought any relief to the pain she was suffering in the joint, she complained that it was even worse than before the surgery. She insisted repeatedly that it wasn’t right with the surgeon, who sent her for physio, she pleaded for help from her GP (who could only refer her back to the hospital). The climax of her troubles has been emergency admission to hospital after the whole leg became swollen this week. The joint is infected. It may have been infected since the very beginning. The joint will probably have to be replaced, once the infection is cleared, but if this isn’t possible, the options are: remove the joint and fuse the leg, or amputate above the knee. I’m certain that we won’t be heading for a worst case scenario, but it’s still extremely concerning.

That aside, her stay in hospital has provided some entertainment. The use of morphine sent her off her tits last night and it transpires that she doesn’t even recall me being there. I was there all right. Oh yes, I was there while she tried to talk to Rocky, spoke to people in empty beds, told me that the beds were moving towards her and repeatedly asked her neighbouring patients when they were having their surgery, despite them all being in a holding area awaiting discharge or onward movement for further treatment. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there when she had a fight with two nurses who were trying to put her on a commode, because that would’ve rounded off a perfect day for me. “My husband is here, he’ll stop you. What are you doing to me?? How dare you!” It’s fortunate that staff were understanding of her drug intake, so they were firm, but fair.

I hope she’s going to be alright after all this. I don’t mind the prospect of looking after my parents, they’ve looked after me long enough, but the prospect of her losing her independence fills me with dread.

Children, look after your parents, give them a worry free and happy life, insist that they take care of themselves. What the fuck am I on about? I’ve never been a cause of worry for my folks. I was a lovely child who brought them happiness and pride. I’ve always insisted that they take better care of themselves. And look at how they repay me, by falling apart in front of my eyes. I think I need to write a letter of complaint to whoever’s in charge.

When the sky falls

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I’ve been expecting you, I said when the delivery man knocked on my door yesterday evening. Having ordered a new gadget from Amazon on Sunday, the lovely automated e-mail told me that I’d receive it the next day because I’d signed up to Amazon Prime in a drunken state earlier on this year. On returning from work, I scanned the floor beneath my letterbox, only to be disappointed at that it was devoid of anything other than the draft excluder and a litter of the little dog’s toys.

Humph. So much for promises.

I checked my e-mails again and found a tracking number: my delivery was still in transit and could still arrive that very day! The excitement brought on the predictable desire to go to the toilet, but I was in a quandary: how could I leave the vicinity of my front door for anything more than a millisecond? Why does this happen to me? Every time I need to do something, my colon gets in the way. Luckily, I managed to keep it together for long enough for the knock on the door at 6pm. Trying my best not to look too desperate excited, I cheerily signed the man’s electronic whatever the hell that thing is called with a “you think I’m signing my name, but I’m writing that I need a poo” and took the package from him.

So what brought about all this excitement? Well, it’s a fabulous keyboard/cover for my iPad, one of these, in fact. It’s functional, but it’s also beautiful and when great design meets great technology, I’m hooked/screwed.

The keypad on the iPad itself is pretty nifty, but this effectively turns the device into a little notebook.

Little things.

Skyfall
Having found myself stuck in the doldrums for months, something happened a week or so ago that seems to have dropped me a rope ladder that I’m using to climb out of my black hole of doom and gloom, albeit slowly. I don’t know what that something was, but I decided to stop drinking and this one simple thing has helped enormously.

My improved mood prompted me to want to do stuff all of a sudden, and it stopped me from wanting to do other things. With the building excitement about the impending release of the latest Bond film, I decide to go to the cinema on opening night to watch it… on my own. So I did.

On Friday night, I took myself off to Bury, managed to get to my destination without getting lost (as I usually do) or writing off my car (as I have done once) and I found the cinema. The excitement was building and I felt drawn to the pick and mix. The rule here is GO FOR THE LIGHT STUFF, but I’m a sucker for chocolate brazils and cola bottles, so ended up paying £7 for about four sweets.

Still stunned from being mugged by something that made my pancreas scream, I found my “VIP” seat in the theatre and waited for the feature to start. And I waited, and waited, and waited. There was half an hour’s worth of adverts and trailers. Half a fucking hour. I sat there becoming restless, my tablet was wearing off and bad Tina was telling me to forget it and go home. CBT Tina told me to “Shut the fuck up and stop being ridiculous. Besides, you’re now wedged in your seat after eating all that confectionary, so you can’t get out if you try”.

The film itself was brilliant and I’ve found myself bursting to talk to somebody about it, but nobody else has seen it yet. I could ruin it all here by saying that Skyfall is [insert spoiler here], [insert another spoiler here] dies and [insert another spoiler here] played by Ralph Fiennes, but that would be really unfair. Do I hit delete? Well I would, but this being effectively a Mac keyboard, it doesn’t have one. Ok, I took out the spoilers, it was CBT Tina who made me do it.

Animals
I love animals: as pets; as food; as cute things to look at in fields and that. I must love animals, or the little dog would be dead rehomed by now. I’d love to have more pets: ever since the beautiful Max cat, I’ve wanted another tabby; I also think it’d be a nice idea for Rocky to have another little dog (who I shall name Sausage) as a companion. Unfortunately, neither of these is a possibility. I live on a busy road and the cat would get squished in much the same way as the poor kitty I found this evening. The idea of a Sausage is appealing when I think of taking the little fellers for runs in the woods, but my heart sinks when I consider taking another dog for a walk on-lead with Rocky behaving as he does when he’s on his.

Alas, therefore, it’s just me and the little guy for a while. We do OK together, me and him.

Tail-lights and takeaways: depression is a ten minute traffic queue

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Every afternoon on my journey home from work there are two or three traffic hot spots that cause me anxiety as I approach them:

  • Will somebody ignore the “stay in lane” instruction and side swipe me as I cross over Portland street?
  • How many changes of lights will it take to turn left onto Liverpool Street?
  • How many vehicles will cut me up on the roundabout with the A6?
  • Will the top road queue start before or after I’ve reached McDonalds?

    • The latter queue is a depressing place to be held in traffic. It represents a journey through time that I took on foot or by bus many times as a child as I went to the local market or swimming pool, or the local children’s hospital where my sister was a regular inpatient. It’s not in a particularly deprived area, but nor is it affluent, but for all my life it’s always felt run down, in need of some TLC, a bit of investment.

    20121016-234057.jpgThis used to be a Co-op, now it’s a bargain shoe store

    The market disappeared years ago, it’s an Asda now. The shops that lined the road have gradually been taken over by takeaway after takeaway. As I sit in the traffic, hoping for a speedy change of lights, I look at their signs. Chicken, curry, kebabs, burgers – over and over. Some look less than attractive, but others have been renovated recently; I really fancy the look of Sykes’ chippy, the only stalwart from my youth.

    20121016-234143.jpgKurry Hut for a kebab?

    20121016-234219.jpgThe Windmill in all its glory

    I am overwhelmed with depression. Why can’t they phase the lights so the queue in this directions isn’t so bad at this time? Why not introduce parking restrictions to open up traffic flow on the approach to the junction? Why not do something other than hand out fast food licences when these premises are leased out? Probably because they’re the only sorts of businesses that are successful there.

    As I finally reach the set of lights that have delayed me, the feelings of anxiety start to subside. It’s a clear road from here. Thirty seconds along and I’m past my parents’ house, past my primary school, past my past and into my now. Is it past or passed? I never know.

    20121016-234243.jpgThe final stretch approaches

    Staring into the abyss

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    It’s Monday afternoon and I’m finally starting to feel human after roughly 36 hours of a vomiting frenzy that rendered me bed bound for the duration. Thanks to a banana and chicken pasta broth, I think I’ve turned the corner and I’m returning to wellness; an infection-free state at least.

    The little dog is now becoming impatient with me after not having a walk since Saturday afternoon, however his behaviour yesterday was impeccable, especially during those scary moments when it must have seemed like my face was being devoured by the monster dwelling at the bottom of the sick bucket. At one point, the sick monster took the form of a harp seal: black eyes and nose formed from large bubbles within a face of foam, the result of a guttural explosion of sparkling water.

    The aches and shakes that accompanied the first 24 hours of illness have now gone, but for that time, my joints screamed at me, begging me to at least attempt some placebo paracetamol to ease the pain and fever. Alas, I’m one of these pathetic creatures that can’t hold anything in my stomach, so I just had to ride the storm.

    So the question is this: where did I pick up this infection? I hadn’t to my knowledge been vomited on the previous few days, nobody I knew had been suffering similarly. Then it dawned on me, the brief visit to my GP on Friday morning. That Mecca for the diseased to trudge to and insist on help, rather than staying the fuck in bed and riding it out like the rest of us do. In a Sixth Sense scenario, I could be that little boy, looking around the waiting room, “I see norovirus… everywhere”. You can’t avoid touching things while you’re there: the exterior doors are automatic, but the next set aren’t; you walk past two sets of toilets on your way into the reception; you confirm your attendance using an touch-screen log on; you sit in the waiting area, surrounded by illness.

    Once the sickness subsides, I absolutely need two to three things to get me back on my feet: fizzy water; chicken pasta broth; orange Fanta. Salt, sugar and water. I’m going to phone the shop over the road to see if they’ll bring me a can of pop. In the meantime, here’s a photo of Rocky, wondering if he’ll get to go for some fresh air today. Later, boy, later.

    20121015-154217.jpg

    Like a bad smell

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    How often are you supposed to bath a dog?  Fuck me, my little feller pongs already and he only got tubbed on Sunday.  I think he’s been mixing pheromones with some male company that I had over the past day or so.

    Of course, when I say “male company”, I refer to the partner of my visiting female friend.  I was horrified when he lay on my bed – might I get pregnant?  Euch.

    After years of telling April how I’m an OK cook, I had to put my money where my mouth is and cook for us the other night – coq au vin.  This involved the use of quite a lot of garlic, some of which has been residing in my kitchen bin since Monday and has taken on the smell of hideous garlic breath; you know the sort of overpowering funk that grabs you by the stomach, throws you to floor and makes you vomit until your eyeballs explode?  Like that.

    I don’t like smells, unless it’s my own trumps.  You get to thinking how your natural smell affects people who you share office space with.  Not referring to body odours, I mean the sort of fragrances that cling to you as a result of your morning ablutions – shower gel, hair products, moisturisers, perfumes.  How does one have that difficult conversation with a colleague who wears a vile signature fragrance – in perfume, shower gel and moisturiser form? Is there a subtle way of sending them a link to the Jo Malone website?  They’d probably still choose some combination of scents that, alone are divine, but in union turn into something that could be used as biological warfare agents.

    Jesus loves you

    Oh good grief, this is brilliant.  There’s something about people of religion that just makes me want to kill them.   Nothing personal, but they’re clearly suffering from serious mental illness and they need conversion therapy to turn them into fully functioning, rational members of the global society.  Am I being harsh?  You decide by checking out the Team Jesus for Michelle Bachmann facebook page, and this little beauty that I found there today:

    Gay dinosaurs

    Dinosaurs became extinct because they were all gay

    Fuck a doodle doo.

    The Bachmann Facebook page is clearly a spoof (I hope) to show how utterly ridiculous some Christians are, but I’m assuming some class A moronic bible basher came up with this graphic.

    Maybe in years to come we’ll be able to make a cartoon that said Christians became extinct because they just pissed off so many free-thinking, normal people off that world governments decreed they were either put into mental asylums or sterilised banned from having access to children and mass communications tools.

    Friendship long distance

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    She’s arriving tomorrow morning. I should be asleep as I’m picking her up from the airport at 8am, but I’m a bit too excited.

    I’ve “known” April for over seven years now. We first encountered each other because of the “next blog” feature on either mine or her blog. Hers was an online account of things she observed in her daily life as a young mum in British Columbia – called simply “Pissoff”, she liked pear cider, but didn’t get enough of it, and she had little time for short men. Mine was also an online account of my daily life, but mixed with the sometimes surreal hypothesising of parallel encounters where I actually opened my mouth and told people what I thought of them, or even acted on my desires to maim those who crossed me. I think the election of the new pope and his resemblance to Ann Widdecombe had something to do with April Pissoff commenting for the first time. Or maybe it was Ryan the catholic (“Bravo!”) whom I’d torn to shreds after he decided, unwisely, to make a comment about about gays being cursed and destined to eternal damnation.

    I guess you had to be there.

    Over the course of a few months in 2005 there grew a friendly band of like-minded people who shared a creativity with words, pictures and graphics. In a strange sort of way, we got to know each other through our virtual lives; there’s a brutal honesty that comes through when people write about stuff on the internet, even if it is something as mundane as Coffeemate.

    So it came to pass that I became more comfortable relating my thoughts to people I’d never met than those who were part of my real life – nothing new there – but I struck up a close bond with that woman from Vancouver Island and it only took one invitation for me to book my flight over there to visit in the summer of 2006.

    She popped over in 2008 with Mish-Mash (who John Pigster joked “used to be a man”).

    And then there was also the Vegas trip of 2009, where I travelled alone and met up with April and her friend for a few days, enjoying the museums and galleries in that cultural capital of Nevada.

    It’s odd that somebody who you only meet on a small number of occasions can be counted as a genuine good friend, but the internet is a great ice breaker when you’re a bit nerdy and shy.

    I wish I could promise the bright lights and excitement of Vegas during the next couple of days, but I can’t – this is Bolton. I have, however, fixed my security light in her honour and there’ll be food, wine, laughter and the odd Coast Salish death stare to put me in my place.

    The proceedings may see me increasing my credit limit to allow for an Italian road trip next spring. And what the hell if it does? Life is made up of experiences; spend more time with those who love you and who you love and, on balance, it’ll be great.

    School dinners

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    When I spend time with my parents, conversation often turns to the youngest (human) family member, my niece, Little Con. She’s recently started her second year at primary school and I asked my mum (Big Con) as to how she was settling in with her new teacher, classmates, and the like.

    “She came home starving the other day; hadn’t eaten a thing”

    With our family, food is everything. I can trace this to a few things:

    • My parents being children during the Second World War (Mum’s family were in Liverpool and living on rations and whatever could be grown in allotments, Dad’s family were in the south of Italy and literally had to go and dig in the forest for food after the Nazi occupies had taken all the village’s provisions);
    • My Dad being Italian;
    • The acknowledgement that our combined tempers become unbearable when we’re hungry (we’re a pretty irascible bunch at the best of times)

    So the news that Little Con “hadn’t eaten a thing” all day at school was tantamount to national disaster.

    Con used to take a packed lunch to school with her, but her mum recognised that a hot meal during the day might be better for her powers of concentration as the intellectual effort was increasing. But things aren’t the way they were when we were at school. When we were at school, you lined up in the dining hall and you were given a plate of whatever was on the menu that day -no choice. The dinner ladies patrolled the tables to ensure that you ate everything (including the odd bit of gristle) and that you drank plenty of water before the main treat of pudding completed what generally a good meal.

    I understand that primary school children are given a choice these days, but they don’t know what the choices are until they reach the end of the dinner queue, by which time it’s too late to go back and they end up with a crappy sandwich that they don’t want.

    Choice and young children do not mix, this is developmental fact. This is something that parents and people responsible for the care of little ones need to understand, especially when it comes to providing food to kids who rely on school for their only hot meal of the day.

    I’m going to write to my Little Con’s school and tell them what’s what:

    • Hot meal every day, including pudding
    • One meat (if necessary), one veggie option
    • Chips no more than twice per week
    • Lots of veg
    • A healthy mix of flavours
    • No choice
    • No processed shit
    • SAS trained dinner ladies
    • Death to any parent who complains

    And now as I hit the “publish” button, I see what a cock up I’ve made of my bullets.

    Unhappy anniversary

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    This weekend marks a couple of terrible anniversaries.

    Two years ago, a close friend lay struggling for life in intensive care while his partner was left dealing with hideous anguish and the inevitability of the love of his life being cruelly taken from him.

    One year ago, I was deliriously happy, but confined to indoors decorating the home that I shared with the love of my life while the rest of country enjoyed one last fling of summer and she attended a conference.

    My beautiful friend lost his fight for life, leaving his grief-stricken partner to pick up the pieces amongst much confusion. That night of 1st of October, 2010 was the saddest climax to a fortnight of disbelief at the rapid demise of a man who I’d loved as a brother, but which saw the rising in stature of another man who I’d walk barefoot over hot coals to make a cup of tea for if he asked. I’ve never witnessed such love as I was privileged to be part of that night as I sat in the hospital while Martin was comforted by the nurse and handed the belongings of his beloved. I was terrified as I went to say goodbye to John’s body, yet strengthened by Martin’s dignity as we were taken into the ward. My dear Piggy had left us long before that moment, before I’d seen him earlier that week, but he’d left an indelible mark on Martin, on all of us, that, well, it’s indelible.

    John lives on in our hearts and fond memories, and in the strength of his super hero Tazzy. :@)

    Just twelve months had passed and my life was brilliant. I was stupidly in love with the woman I’d been waiting for all my life. We’d built a home together and had plans for a future. Desperately trying to decorate before getting carpets laid, I spent the weekend up a ladder getting splattered in paint (B&Q rice cake matt emulsion) while she attended a conference. It was hot, the sun shone all that Saturday, but I persevered and finished the dining room. Eager to tell her of my progress, I waited for her call or text to say that proceedings had finished for the day; all I got was a text to say that things had gone on longer than expected and that she didn’t have time to call before going to the evening meal and disco. I thought nothing of it, but thought it odd and was disappointed that I didn’t get at least a goodnight text that night.

    And so signalled the start of my justified suspicions. The rest is history… that eats at my very being every day that I breathe.

    So this weekend, I think of Martin and Piggy, and of Ali. Piggy was a shit, but I will never for one second doubt his love for Martin. Ali was a shit who betrayed me in the worst possible way and left me bereft and so confused as to my belief in human relationships.

    Thinking of the former though, I draw comfort from Martin and hope I can follow his example when it comes to strength and dignity. But for now, I’m still wishing that she’d have called me that night.

    Sideways glances

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    I spent most of today at my parents’ house. It was quite pleasant; the usual stresses of their bickering numbed by chronic sleepiness and a general feeling of “I’m feeling ok today” that’s missing for long periods. There was no real reason for me being there, I just fancied hanging out with them, doing nothing but enjoying the growing cantankerousness (if that’s a word) of their advancing years, fighting the losing battle of reason versus parents. Plus, I couldn’t be bothered cooking and the lamb stew my mum was planning on preparing appealed to me.

    The little dog was with me. He likes the attention his adopted grandparents give him, but not quite as much as the pizza, pudding and biscuits they treat him with. The fee of a spectacular high-five performance on his part is little price to pay for junk food and cuddles.

    My parents, the family, have always been cat people. Cats have been part of our lives since I was a young child. Only one feline family member remains today: Otto the one-eyed pyjama case. He’s very shy. I’d never realised this when I lived at home, but since moving out, I noticed how he’d run and hide when an unfamiliar voice came into the house. Needless to say, when Rocky announces his presence at the back door with much howling and barking, Otto scarpers.

    And so this was the pattern for our visits there for the past five years… until recently. A few months ago, Otto developed a “stuff you, you insane bag of fur” attitude, resulting in him hanging around, in pyjama case mode on Mum’s knee, whenever I call round there. And Rocky is terrified of him, to the point that the little dog has developed owl-like head movements so he can keep track of the cat whenever he’s there.

    So that’s good.

    Tomorrow I’m back in the office. It’s a nice enough job that pays OK, but I’d much rather just hang out and absorb the insanity and comfort of my parents and animals. Tomorrow, I shall allow myself to be wound up by people queue jumping in the traffic jam to work, the mental assault by e-mail, and idiots using the lift to travel just one floor – all the time thinking about my Friday evening meal and the impending visit of the lovely April…