I had no idea how long I’d been asleep, but I was woken by the lovely Tabitha wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my left arm and clamping a pulse oximeter onto one of my fingers. I barely registered the cuff inflating, then deflating before an electronic thermometer was stuck in my ear. “We just need to take a couple of swabs too. One up your nose and one from around your groin.” Now accustomed to having lost all dignity and ownership of my body, I let her at me with her elongated cotton wool buds.

A busy-looking and very well-groomed charge nurse arrived at my bedside with my things.

“Hi, I’m Lee and I’m the charge nurse for the ward this evening. I’ve finally found you! Your things had been taken to the wrong bed. Anyway, if there’s anything you need, just let one of us know.” With that, he spun on his highly-polished, pointy shoes and left my bedside. My eyes tracked him to the nurses’ station, which was on the corridor directly outside the eight-bedded bay, I saw with bleary eyes that my sister had arrived with her partner. I waved them in.

I think you’ll find you’re in my space
They arrived at my bedside and it was this point that I noticed that there were already two visitors next to my bed. It just so happened that they were visiting the woman in the bed next to me, but they’d seen fit to encroach on my side of the space between the two of us rather than, like socially adept people might, sit on the other side. I could use numerous words to describe this man and woman: her bizarre outfit, her excessive jewellery, her generally odd appearance, his gormless expression, the baseball cap. But why use so many words when two will suffice: trailer trash. Oblivious to the fact that my visitors couldn’t get to my bedside, the woman who was the daughter spent her time focused on being abusive to her mother while her partner interjected with the occasional “Ha! look that this that Brian has posted on Facebook. Fucking hilarious!” Coming to an episode of Jeremy Kyle soon.

My sister drew the curtain around me, the sound of which hid her breathing the words “fucking scumbags” as she rolled her eyes. She passed me my glasses and my phone, I responded to a few text messages and asked her to put it on charge. Then she passed me a drink. It was with a certain degree of apprehension that I took a drink. What if I was leaking? What if it REALLY hurts? Why DOES my chest and throat hurt so much? I really didn’t expect it to hurt there.

She asked the standard questions about whether I’d seen my surgeon, when I’d be getting out, if I needed help going to the toilet while I was there. Essentially, made sure I was OK before pulling out some supplies and placing them on the table trolley next to my bed.

“Oh, you need to make sure these are easily accessible at all times, so don’t cover them up with anything.” She was pointing to something that had been taped to the table.

“What are they?” They looked like nail clippers. I could’t imagine anybody needing to clip anybody’s nails with any degree of urgency.

“They’re staple removers. You’ll have been stapled shut, but if there’s an internal bleed, they’ll need to get in there without any delay so they can put a drain in. OK then, we’re off. You get some rest and we’ll see you soon. I’ll leave this curtain closed.” She nodded towards the visitors again and, before I could say “Give Rocky a cud…”, they’d gone.

Hospital toast
Drifting in and out of sleep, I was woken intermittently by the conversation between the young woman in the bed to the right of me and her visitors. Yes, I know they’ve come a long way to see you, but it’s gone 9pm now and visiting is supposed to end at 8 and I’m tired and you’ve all covered how much of a twat your ex was and yes it’s great that the nurses have allowed your friends to stay for longer, but some of us have had surgery this afternoon and we need rest! Between that and my stomach telling me I was hungry.

Like the shopkeeper in Mr Ben, the supper trolley arrived. At last, some food! The young woman with the trolley stopped at the “soon to be featured on a daytime TV programme” patient next to me.

“Can I have two slices of toast, no, make it three slices, and three packets of biscuits? Ginger biscuits.”

She was obliged without question. What if they run out of toast before they get to me?

“Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate, no, tea. Tea.”

I scowled at her lack of manners, but my smile returned as the trolley arrived at my bed. I wish I could remember the name of the healthcare assistant who provided these refreshments. She was ever so nice, worked non-stop throughout the night and was so caring with everybody. Anyway, maybe she was a bitch and I just liked her because she asked: “Would you like some toast?”

GIMME THE FUCKING TOAST!!!!!! And did I hear biscuits? And hot chocolate??? Bring it on, I’m so hungry!

“Yes, could I have a couple of rounds please? And some hot chocolate? And… do you have any biscuits left (after that greedy fucking bitch took a load)?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll put you some milk in your hot chocolate too.”

There’s something about hospital toast. It really is the best toast in the world. Even though it’s not really warm, even though it’s a little bit soggy by the time it gets to you, it tastes wonderful. I devoured the slightly greasy, soggy toast, drank my not-so-hot chocolate and rested back against my pillow.

The long march
It was then that it hit me. I really needed a wee.

We’d switched from Tabitha to Priti and, once she’d been accosted by her to the left of me for the fourth time in five minutes for requests such as “Could you pass me that off my table?”, I called her over.

“I need a wee, but I’m a bit scared to go on my own, I still feely a bit groggy and wobbly, could you get somebody walk with me in case I feel unsteady please?”

“Just give me a minute and I’ll take you. Here, your drip has finished, I’ll take this off so you don’t have to take the drip stand with you.” With that, she unscrewed the tube from my cannula, dropped the side of the bed and steadied me as my feet hit the floor.

As if my legs weren’t my own, I moved one in front of the other and she steadied me on what seemed a five mile walk to the bathroom. I hadn’t expected to feel this weak, but since I’d already perfected the hospital shuffle, I figured I might as well use it to full effect.

Returning to my bed without incident, I asked if I was allowed to change into pyjamas. Priti looked at me as if I’d asked if it was OK to blow my nose, “Yes, of course it is.”

Casting off the hospital gown and changing into my own nightwear, I felt slightly less owned by the hospital. The scheduled two-hourly observations put me back in my place.

Can we get you some REALLY strong opiates?
I was in pain. I couldn’t deny it any longer. Yes, the area of my wound hurt, wherever that happened to be underneath the tight bandage around my neck, but it was my chest that concerned me the most. Why is it hurting there? Did I have some sort of infection starting? What’s going on?

Biting the bullet, I asked for some pain killers.

“Would you like some codeine?”

What the fuck? Now, I’m the first one to admit to taking the odd recreational cocodamol
when I was teetotal, but knowing the effects, the wooziness in particular, I figured that, what with still having anaesthetic and morphine floating around my system, codeine was the last thing I needed.

“No, paracetamol will be fine thank you.”

The same happened the next morning. Tabitha was back on duty. “Do you need any pain relief?”

“Yes, can I have some paracetamol please?”

“Are you sure you don’t want codeine?”

Do you do take out for when I’m feeling a bit better? I could have some for when I’m home perhaps? Sell it to any takers? “No, honestly, paracetamol will be fine.”

Everybody just shut the fuck up, but especially YOU!
I’d been under no illusions that I’d be spending the night in anything approaching comfort or privacy. It’s not possible when you’re sharing a sleeping area with seven other women, all at different stages of post-operative recovery. It’s expected that your sleep will be interrupted so the nurses can do your observations, that other patients will need attention, that stuff, in general will be going on. But as the lights were dimmed, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, unsuspecting of the constant disturbance I’d experience from her next to me. All. Fucking. Night.

There were the “nurse, can you pass me those tissues?” orders. The five visits to the bathroom: a groan, then a whimper, then the shuffling as she went TO the toilet… I drift off to sleep only to be woken again be her… shuffling BACK from the toilet. FIVE times. The piece de resistance was her opening a packet of biscuits and crunching away at 4am. Biscuits, at 4am. After four slices of toast and biscuits just a few hours previously.

Why are they keeping you alive? Why are you even here? Just go the fuck home!

Then there was the door behind the nurses’ station. It needed oiling and the closing mechanism needed adjusting so that it didn’t close with a… creeeeeeeeeak… BANG! Every time a staff member went into room behind it, something that happened seemingly every two minutes. Or maybe, just maybe I’m the only one on this planet who can hear doors slamming? No? You can’t hear that? You obviously can’t hear it because maybe if you could, you’d hold onto the door and make sure it closed quietly so as not to wake up every poor fucker who’s trying to get some fucking sleep! Oh GOD, and here they are with their bloody sphygmomanometer a-fucking-gain!

Each time I woke, I was reminded of the pain in my hand and wrist, of the pain in my chest from whatever the fuck was going on in there, and the fact that I needed to cough, but was too scared to in case something exploded.

I removed a very large adenoma… oh, and your thymus
After surviving the night without ramming a packet of biscuits down the throat of her next door, I was sitting up in my bed when my surgeon came breezing onto the ward. Cheery as ever, I noted.

She asked how I was feeling and said, “Right, let’s have a look at you” before removing the strapping from around my neck.

“That’s looking fine! We’ll have you back in clinic on Friday to have half the staples removed then the remainder can come out on Saturday” she smiled.

“So, what did you end up doing?” and why does it feel like my lungs are on fire?

“Well, I had a look at the left hand side first because that’s where the scan showed the growth. What we thought was a growth on your left inferior parathyroid was actually on your SUPERIOR parathyroid, so I took that out, then had a look around. I took something out that I thought was you left inferior parathyroid and had it looked at in frozen section, but it came back as being thymus tissue, so I took out your thymus gland too,” her hand gestured to her chest, her CHEST, “you don’t need it when you’re an adult. I didn’t bother going into the right hand side because there’s a chance that something might grow there when you’re older and it’d only cause complications down the road if I went in there now.”

Yes, but what if you’re not around if I need surgery in the future? I trust you, you’re really good.

After a few more pleasantries, we agreed that I could go home that day… and have two weeks off sick leave “Well, the weather’s improving, you might as well take two weeks.”

Please, come and get me out of here
I arranged for Mother to come and collect me at 1pm, got changed into my outdoor clothes and sat expectedly in the chair next to the bed as the activity of the ward time-lapsed around me.

My mum arrived to collect me and, after saying my thankyous to the staff, I started the long shuffle to the car. For the first time in many years, Mum could keep up with me as we located her trusty red Toyota and set off on the road home.

I was escorted to the pre-op room. My anaesthetist and her assistant were waiting for me and I was invited to hop up onto the operating trolley. I said my goodbyes to the friendly theatre assistant who’d accompanied me and lay back on the bed. Feigning calm, I answered the same set of questions for the third time while the anaesthetic nurse stuck electrode pads to my chest. I noted the monitor as I beeped into life.

The room was new. It was clean, tidy and bright. So very bright. My anaesthetist was relaxed, with a happy, confident and caring demeanour that helped to ease my growing anxiety. My left arm was held by the assistant as a cannula was inserted into the vein in my hand. We chatted for a short time as the procedural checklist was followed item by item.

“So what is it you do?”

“I’m a research manager at the university. It’s actually quite a nice job and I like my academics. Most of them. They’re psychiatrists, a lot of them.”

“Oh. right! Right, well, we’re ready here. I’m going to inject some anaesthetic into your vein now, it will probably sting a little bit, but then you’ll fall asleep very soon afterwards.”

“OK”, I responded. “Thank you”.

It always feels icy cold. Whatever gets injected through a cannula feels icy cold. This was no exception.

I looked up at the bright light above me. This would be absolutely fine, I thought to myself. If it all goes wrong and this is it, then this would be lovely. Just let it go. Like an old television set, the blackness engulfed me… the little white dot… then nothing.

I was expecting pain, but not there and not like that
“Ok Cristina, you’re all done now and absolutely fine. Jane is going to look after you in recovery”.

I was moving! Opening my eyes, I saw my anaesthetist disappearing from view as I was wheeled into the recovery suite. We came to stop and I noticed the clock on the wall: 3.50pm? 4.50pm? Definitely 3.50pm. Nearly three hours in theatre.

There seemed to be a lot of activity around me, my nurse was talking to me. “How are you feeling, are you in pain, do you feel sick?”

“I feel a little bit nauseous. I feel like I’m getting a really bad sore throat and chest infection.” It must have been the tube they stick down your throat, I told myself, while remembering all the other things the anaesthetist had told me could happen with the insertion of said device. I checked my teeth with my tongue: all present and incorrect. It was then that I could feel the restriction of the bandage around my neck.

“I can give you something for the sickness and I’ll put some paracetamol into your drip. You had some morphine just before you were woken up, so that could make you feel quite groggy.”

Within seconds, the mild feeling of sickness had disappeared. What was this miracle drug? Why can’t I stockpile it for Saturday mornings?

Suddenly, all the nursing staff vacated the area while something happened to the patient on the trolley next to mine. Ahem, hello? Don’t I need to be moved too? What if it’s like something out of Alien and I, as closest in proximity, am next to get the octopus from outerspace on my face? By the feeling in my chest, maybe I already had one growing in me.

It’s just an x-ray, Tina. They’re just doing an x-ray.

Everybody returned and I heard one of the nurses answering the phone on the reception. “Yes, she’s fine”, she was looking at my nurse and nodding, “tell them that we’re moving her over to you now.”

And with those words, I just knew that she’d been speaking to a staff member from the ward I was going to, and that particular staff member was acting as some sort of medium for my mother. In the days before people used mobile phones, I could tell who was on the other end of the phone from its ring. Oh god, it’s Mother.

Within minutes, I was being wheeled down the hospital’s corridors on my journey to the ward. I always find it odd that this is done in public. You’d imagine that there’d be some sort of private corridor system for transporting patients from theatres to wards, but no, there you are trundling past the great unwashed (and washed) of Salford.

Seconds later, I arrived at my bedside and, lacking any diginity, I flopped myself from the trolley onto the bed. The theatre staff made me comfortable and said their goodbyes as the lovely nurse Tabitha introduced herself to me by performing the first of the hourly observations for blood pressure, temperature, oxygen saturation. She didn’t ask me if I was hungry though, since, well, I’d not eaten for 24 hours. Starving, actually. She did ask, however, how I liked to be addressed and what the most important thing to me was. “Please call me Tina. The most important thing to me is my family… and world peace.”

I familiarised myself with my surroundings, checked for fire exits and toilets, noted the cooling breeze from the open window behind me, and fell asleep.

So it happened. After eighteen months in which I’d experienced seemingly endless blood tests, hospital appointments, scans, genetic tests – and not forgetting my lost weekend held hostage at my local A&E – I finally had surgery to remove the growth that had caused few physical symptoms, but which might have resulted in problems in older age.

Nobody wants osteoporosis or an increased risk of kidney stones if at all avoidable and more acute problems were also a possibility, as borne out by my visit to A&E with an “I think she might be having a heart attack… oh no, it’s indigestion” episode. An episode which alerted the medics to dangerously high calcium levels and resulted in me having burning hell water fed through a drip into my veins.

Of course, hyperparathyroidism and resultant hypercalcaemia hadn’t left me completely symptom-free and was a likely contributory factor to the depression and general fatigue that I’d been experiencing for a couple of years.

On 4th of June, the day arrived for me to go under the knife for the removal of a parathyroid adenoma that had been detected by ultrasound and radiolabel scanning.

One flew over the cuckoo’s nest
The six hours between arriving at the surgical admissions lounge to being escorted to the operating theatre are lonely, boring and peppered with increasing levels of anxiety.

As I sat at the side of my bed in the day surgery unit, wondering when I should change from my clothes into my hospital gown, I noticed that exit from the unit was only possible with a key card via the door in which I’d entered, or accompanied by a theatre nurse through the other doors that led to the operating rooms. You don’t need to be mad to be here, but any wrong moves and we’ll lobotomise you.

“A radical feminist lesbian would be professionally offended by this!”
I’d met my surgeon and discussed my operation, signed the consent forms. I was second on the list, so should be going to theatre mid to late morning.

The anaesthetist had also visited, described what would happen, discussed pain relief and asked me a series of standard questions.

A nurse came by and asked the same questions, followed by “Is there any possibility that you might be pregnant?”

“No, absolutely not”

“Oh, well, because of your age, we’re going to have to do a pregnancy test. We only need a wee sample.”

And it was this that sent my heart racing. Nil by mouth since the night before with only a sip of water that morning, I’d had a nervous pee at the first opportunity, there was no way I had anything in me for the requisite sample. I explained, “I’m gay, I’ve never had sex with a man and that, honestly, I don’t need a pregnancy test.”

But of course I did. Patient safety, risk management and all those things meant that I had to have one. Rational me knew this, but anxiety was taking over. This anxiety had me arguing with myself, what about respecting diversity? I should kick up a fuss, tell them what for! How DARE THEY! I am offended by this!!! Who can I complain to?

The simple fact of the matter was that I was only experiencing this faux rage because I couldn’t pee. I took my little pot to the toilet, and try as hard as I might, nothing, not a single drop. I was gowned-up by this time and I shuffled forlornly back to my bed. There’s something about wearing a hospital gown that transforms an otherwise normal person into an institutionalised shuffler.

“Nothing?” the nurse asked sympathetically.

“No, I’m afraid not”, I replied, slumping into my chair, pulling up my surgical pop socks. Why can’t they just take a fucking blood sample? Or my word for it! Cocks.

I shared my rage on Facebook, via text message, almost tweeted my rage directly to the hospital. And then, when all seemed lost and I was certain that I would have my operation cancelled for the sake of an arid bladder, I decided to give it another go. I shuffled back to the toilet, little pot in hand. I sat on the toilet, leaning forward to put pressure on my bladder and then it happened. I did it! Miraculously, my aim was true and I managed to collect a sample of sufficient volume to perform the test.

I returned to the nurses’ station with a spring in my step, a beaming smile on my face. This felt like the biggest achievement of my life. Not pregnant? Nailed it!

To infinity and beyond
And so the wait began in earnest.

The lady in the bed next to me was having the same procedure and was first on my surgeon’s to do list. She’d been gone for only an hour and I knew there’d be at least another two before my time came; it was 10.30am. I was bored and I was hungry. I watched people come and go, some tried to engage in conversation with me. Some came back, bandaged up and groggy from the gas. I was tortured by their post-operative coffee and toast.

As time passed, and as 12.30 came and went, the tingling in my stomach grew stronger. I knew my time was coming. And then the cheery theatre nurse arrived at my bedside. “OK, your surgeon is just grabbing a sandwich and then she’ll be right with you. Are you ready?”

I was asked the same questions that I’d been asked by my anaesthetist and the unit nurse. My wrist and ankle ID bands were checked and double-checked. I sent a quick text message to my sister and then started the short walk to the operating theatre. My institutionalised shuffle had well and truly returned.

One of Radio 2’s DJs, Jo Whiley, is coming to the end of a gruelling 26 hour challenge running and walking on a treadmill without sleep, breaking for just five minutes each hour.  It’s all for charity.  This will be a commendable achievement, but it’s nothing compared to my walk up to my local railway station last Friday evening.  It’s uphill all the way, on a slanted pavement and as you near your destination, you’re faced with this:

I’m not referring to the impending attack by the mother and pink-clad toddler.

On reaching what seems to be the summit, there are these:

Then a long ramp with a steep incline up to the platform itself.

So, Ms Whiley, if you think your exploding knees and feet are bad, you should try this shit.

I’m listening to the final two hours of her challenge and watching on the internet, she’s something else, looking as fresh as a daisy, if a little deranged.  Gok’s with her, and OH MY FUCKING GOD, Nigella has just turned up.

It’s all in aid of this year’s Sports Relief, so a pretty good cause.

My days of taking part in sporty challenges for charity are far behind me.  In fact, apart from running a mile for Sports Relief ten years ago, my only sporty charity fundraisers were sponsored walks when I was in school.

Oooh! My hair is the same at the moment, not much else is.

I don’t really do physical activity, not since the “skiing incident” wrecked my hip a few years ago.  My left leg is very weak these days and if I tried to run, I’d probably end up going round in circles.  I still have gym membership, but I stopped going because, well, I’m lazy and it really hurt and I found that I couldn’t use the equipment because of the imbalance in strength between my lower limbs.

I wouldn’t even run if I was being chased by an axe-wielding murderer, it’s just not worth the indignity, and next time I catch a train, I’m parking my car at the station.

My charitable work is now restricted to making regular donations to things and living on £1 a day for five days to make a point about people who whinge about not having enough money for food in this country  live in extreme poverty in the developing world.

These aren’t adjectives I’d use to describe myself, not all the time anyway, but my favourite soup that I can’t make in the whole world.

I love it.

I LOVE IT.

Sisterly (as in sibling, not sapphic) duties had me participating in a mock training session on infection control that was delivered by my sister this evening. The little dog and I, Mr Sister and Mrs In-law gathered in her living room and took part in a basic, interactive session that covered all the types of infections, how to prevent them and how to treat them. We were asked to recall a childhood infection and describe it through the medium of coloured felt-tip pens. My picture of me suffering with an ear infection and being treated with banana-flavoured antibiotics was a work of art. There was a section on STIs; she threw in “dental dam” for my benefit, I feel.

Anyway.

There was an evaluation form, which took me back to a previous life in which I delivered training sessions for a living. “How could this session have been improved?” always brought the response “coffee and biscuits”.

Foxtrot romeo oscar.

I eventually changed that question on my evaluations to “with the exception of refreshments, which cannot be provided because of Trust policy, how could this session be improved?”

“More group work”

I’m sure a lot of my participants had different learning types and abilities; some liked to be told what was what so they could get out of there asafp, others could only learn things if I delivered the sessions through the medium of interpretive dance, it being the NHS.

I’d not had the chance to eat before going out and my sister had to nip over to mine anyway, so I asked to bring me hot and sour soup – two portions – while reconfigured an old iPhone that I was giving her. “Get it from the one on the precinct, it’s easier”, although my preference was the takeaway further down the road.

The soup came and I ate the lot. And now I feel a bit sick.

What I love about the stuff is the variety that you get depending on the source. There’s the thick gloopy one that’s basically sweet chilli sauce watered down with vinegar with bits of char siu pork, chicken bits, prawns and whatever they fancy throwing in (this was tonight’s, hence the unwelcome gurgling in my duodenum). “The one down the road” offers a different recipe – less synthetic, less gloopy, much hotter, more garlic, but with the same bits of meat and prawns thrown in. Then there’s the Thai one, tom yum, which is out of this world once you get used to the bits that you aren’t supposed to try to eat. I do have the unfortunate coriander reaction to tom yum though.

I yearn for the day when Heinz start producing tinned hot and sour soup. I can feel a consumer champion letter coming on.

Mindfulness
I’ve started to read Ruby Wax’s Sane something or other… hang on, I’ve forgotten what it’s called… Sane new world: taming the mind book. I say “book” it’s the Kindle version.

It’s all about mindfulness and cognitive… I’ve forgotten again… mindfulness-based cognitive therapy. I haven’t read much of it yet. Because instead of reading it, I’m doing other stuff, obviously.

Anyway, I’m going to practise mindfulness when I’m stuck in the car on the way to work tomorrow. Instead of getting to the point of wanting to leave the 40 minute traffic queue by simply getting out of my car, locking it and walking to the nearest bus stop so I can get home, I shall be mindful of my sense of being.

I am being killed by this.

How do I feel? Let me start with my head, I hear loud screaming in there and my brain is pounding. My eyes are being destroyed by the low sun. My nose is dripping a-fucking-gain. My mouth is dry. My teeth are clenched to the point that I can feel my jaw breaking.

Moving down, my shoulders are hunched and tense and aching so much, my heart is pounding, my hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that they might leave marks in it. I am hungry. I need the loo. My back hurts. I forgot to adjust my seat after wearing pumps yesterday and I am too close to my peddles.

I’m not breathing. I’m NOT BREATHING!

And Chris Evans has spent the last 20 minutes complaining about the sound of the new Formula 1 cars. AGAIN!

But back to the book, I don’t know what to expect from it. If I managed to read it to the end, but my track record over recent years isn’t encouraging. This statement has no bearing on the books that I choose, just my ability to concentrate or maintain interest in anything for the past few years.

I regret buying the electronic version now. This is the sort of book that should be read as a book, something to sit down with, or go to bed with and read by turning proper pages, breaking the spine, escaping from screen time before trying to get to sleep.

Tonight though, I don’t think it’s my late use of this electronic device that will result in poor sleep, rather the sugary, vinegary, fishy, meaty gloop that is sloshing around my poor abused insides.

I am clenching my teeth still. I’m not sure I’ll be needing a dental dam, but maybe a gum shield might come in handy.

I was laughed at today, several times. I was laughed in a nice way though and I don’t mind that one bit.

After spending the morning trying to force out aldehydes from my bloodstream by pumping in pints of Ribena, I became almost recognisable as a human by 2pm.

This was one of those days where’d have been tempted to laze around and do nothing, but I had a date at the restaurant with my family. The company was fun; we were accompanied by my sister’s sort of in-laws and I managed to sit near them and away from my folks.

I adore my parents, but they irritate the fuck out of me, especially in restaurant situations. They’re both hard of hearing, as are their two friends who were also with us this afternoon. My fragile being could not cope with the usual confusion that stems from four partially deaf people (one Italian) talking over each other and having to repeat things ad infinitum because, unlike a lot of a lot of people who’s hearing isn’t what it was, they don’t seem to make any attempt to listen.

So I took a gamble and sandwiched myself between my niece and the in-laws. Little Con got scared by a langoustine, but once her mother had removed the flesh, the alien-like head thing provided much entertainment. Oh, we teach good table manners in our family.

At one point, I turned to my sister and asked if she might cut my hair for me. Mr in-law looked at me in horror, “You’ve just asked her to cut your hair??”

“Yes”, I replied

“But why don’t you just go to a hairdresser?”

“I don’t trust them”, I said. “They get on my nerves with all that faffing around they do, and then they don’t do it how I like it, so I might as well have twenty minutes of pain letting Anna do it. My hair still won’t be how I want it, but at least I won’t have to pay, and it always grows back anyway”.

I must learn where punctuation goes relative to speech marks.

I didn’t say that, but I’ll throw that in next time it goes quiet in the snug.

Anyway, I’ve been hacked at tonight. I think I look like something out of Les Mis. She uses the dissection scissors from the rat brain experiment when I was at university. Not quite sure how she got hold of them. I mean, stole them from me, rather than how she picked them up and used them.

My hair will grow, all too quickly, and maybe I’ll pluck up the courage to let a proper stylist loose on it at some point this year. They’ll throw in the snide remark, “So, who cut your hair last time?”. They all say this irrespective of whether you’ve had it cut by a professional or some maniac wielding a sharp object that was used to snip open a rat’s skull in a former life. I’ll probably entertain them and say it was the rival salon over the road… or “You!”.

I discovered Morcheeba in… 1998… ish. Their song, Let me see, featured in that TV programme, Cold Feet, a major hit at the time.

Here’s a digression. That particular series was very “in” at the time with people my age group – late 20s – who were sort of professionals. It was particularly nice because it was set in Manchester and it made Manchester look good. And then came the property asylum seekers from London, but that’s another story.

Anyway the telly programme featured lots and lots of contemporary music. There were even Cold Feet compilations that you could buy on CD, compilations that featured all the music that appeared in the programme.

I LOVED this programme and was so thrilled when the DVD box set was released that I didn’t mind spending quite a lot of money to buy it. I remember receiving it and settling down to watch all those wonderful moments again. Within a few minutes I noticed that something strange had happened, the music had been stripped out and replaced by some generic studio crap that bore no reflection that which had appeared in the transmitted programme. I couldn’t watch beyond the first episode of that DVD collection and was pretty annoyed. How could they market a whole load of CD compilation albums of music “based on the TV series” then take all those tracks out of the DVD?

Because they’re a bunch of fucking arseholes, that’s why.

The same happened with Titty Bang Bang.

Anyway, back to Morcheeba. Their music was wonderful company for me when I was living alone in my flat in Sheffield from 1999 to 2001. It was a time when I was still actually enthusiastic about music; I sought out new stuff, knew what was what, talked about the intricacies of particular tracks and the flow of albums. I had a tape in my car: Big Calm on one side, Becoming X on the other. It played on loop for 18 months.

Then things happened and music became too associated with life events; I had to let it go.

One thing that I’ve never let go is my inability to get dressed unless a particular pattern is followed. I just tried to put on bed t-shirt right arm first and my head ended up coming out through the arm hole. I can’t put trousers on unless I have my socks on and then, I have to put my left sock on first – same goes for shoes. If I start with my right sock, I find myself pausing to analyse what has happened and deliberate whether I need to remove the sock and start again. It takes superhuman effort to tie my laces. It often takes two or three attempts to button up a shirt or cardigan and doing up the buttons on the cuffs of sleeves just doesn’t happen without the help of a third party.

I do remember my childhood, all of it, but I must’ve been off from school the day they had the “getting dressed” lesson. Maybe the cosmos is just trying to tell me to wear pull on-trousers, a vest and slippers.

The children’s TV character Worzel Gummage was a scarecrow who could swap his head to match any particular occasion.  “I gots me thinkin’ ‘ead on.”  “I gots me singin’ ‘ead on.”  “I gots me ‘andsome ‘ead on.”

Most of Worzel’s transformations were quite scary, but the visible signs that he’d changed from one character attribute to another were nice and obvious.  Everybody could see which Worzel they were dealing with and limited their expectations to each particular one.

When we encounter people, unless they’re displaying extremes of emotion, we can’t tell which head they happen to be wearing at that moment, well I find it difficult sometimes.  I’m not one to externalise my emotions, not generally, but I think everyone could pick up that I had my “I’m in a foul mood, don’t talk to me” head on.  Because of what that particular head made me do yesterday, I’ve been wearing my “thumping head” today.  This is the one where, inside, I am punching myself in the head continuously; like those machines at Ikea that used to kick bits of furniture years on end.  Mobelfakta, that was it.

I’ll be wearing my thumping head for quite some time I think.  But at least it’s me who’s doing the punching and not somebody else.

Silly games

I’ve been playing an online Scrabble game for a few weeks.  I’m shit at Scrabble, but this is good because I can’t have arguments with people about the validity of their words – the game decides for you.  It’s a bit odd because words like “OK” and “jew” aren’t seen as valid, yet those such as “xi”, “qi” and “ae” are.  Even my spellchecker doesn’t recognise them.

I’d been enjoying a high-scoring game with another cheat opponent for a couple of days and today, they messaged me: “Before I start flirting, are you male of female?”

Another instance that would normally elicit a roll of the eyeballs had me dealing another crashing blow to my temple

“Err, I’m female and I’m gay,” I responded, thinking that my opponent was a bloke.

“Ha! So am I!” came the response.

“ADRIENNNNNNE!!!!” the blood was oozing from multiple lacerations on my head at this point.

“Lol, you top or bottom? I top”

KNOCKOUT!

Deary, deary me.  Anyway, she thrashed my 60 points and we’re having a rematch.

I’ve been threatened with a rematch at Lego Lord of the Rings on some games console thing next weekend.  I played this last week, didn’t have a clue what was going on, so kept turning myself into Gandalf and killing my teammates.  Much more fun than hunting for clues and solving riddles.

Vietato fumare

I think that’s Italian for something.  I don’t think it’s Italian for “can I have a go on your tits” because they have signs with that written on them up all over the place over there.  Then again, who can tell with the Italians?

I’ve been smoking myself stupid, drinking too much, not eating and not sleeping for a few weeks.  All this has got to stop. Starting now.  The thing is, the great thing about smoking is that it gives you the opportunity to go outside and look at the night sky, which has been beautiful recently.

It hasn’t fallen in, not quite, there will be others.

I’ve decided that relationships aren’t for me.  Well, I’ve had it decided for me, but I should’ve always known this.  Nobody actually deserves me anyway.  That can be taken in a number of ways.

From now on, I shall be avoiding all romantic encounters and the advances of women unless there is no pretence about what they want from me.  It’s all very good being witty, intelligent, caring and a decent cook, but that novelty wears off for people after a while.  Clearly.

I’m going to get a t-shirt printed with: “I just want a go on your tits”.  I shall wear it in Chorlton and risk arrest for being offensive.  It’s a great way to meet new people anyway.

People, the bane of my life.  I’m sure they just exist to irritate and disappoint.  Best avoided.

I have no positive thoughts.  None whatsoever.

Current status = big, massive PFFFFFFFT