Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Bertie's Hospital Blog - Part 5

After yet another bad night sleep-wise, brought on by a combination of worrying about what decision day would bring as well as a tender tummy and a poorly arm, Tuesday morning saw a lady in business suit by my bed at 8am who was apparently the administrator. She wanted to know exactly what had happened with the phlebitis as, apparently, one incidence is unusual yet there were 3 among 32 beds. She apologised profusely and I told her I wouldn’t sue but would settle for an out-of-court negotiation of either red jelly for lunch or a 24 hour period where my bowels were not mentioned. I’ve a feeling that she wasn’t quite sure how to take that!

The other early morning news was that the breakfast lady and I vaguely knew each other so I was OK for extra toast, tea etc. I was very good and ordered Flora rather than butter. That’s another thing – no jam, just orange marmalade is available. What power does the colour orange hold over the NHS? Very strange. Maybe the NHS is sponsored by EasyJet? I suppose it explains why I was only allowed a certain amount of baggage in my locker.

By 9.15, my doctor arrived. He explained that he had tried to get me on tomorrow's list but there just wasn't room so I was free to go! Within 5 minutes I was dressed and packed and by 10am I was sitting in the Discharge Lounge waiting for my meds whereupon I was free to go. The Discharge Lounge is rather nice with lovely big comfy chairs and people offering tea, coffee and posh biscuits at regular intervals. I settled down to wait and it started to fill up as more detainees were released.

What is it about older women in hospital? As soon as there was a quorum they all took great delight in discussing their symptoms, treatments and all the minutiae of the stay. I sat huddled in a corner, all sense of enjoyment long gone as I listened to the saga of Mrs Kneetrembler's infarction and Hilda's raptures about the quality of the surgical stockings supplied to her. By midday I was still there and I was offered lunch.

Now, hospital food permeating a large ward is bad enough but to have to sit in a relatively small room surrounded by it was too much to bear. I asked the desk clerk when I might expect to go and she said that there had been a slight problem with my drugs - quel surprise! I sat down once more and glumly chewed on a ham and tomato sandwich whilst listening to the decrepit old biddy next to me ordering the steamed fish as she 'really enjoyed that'. Fortunately, my meds arrived before the fish so I walked out to freedom.

The world never looked as good as the cab took me along the cliffs towards home. The sun glinted off the sea and all was right with the world. Back in familiar surroundings, I suddenly realised just how tired I was so, after a cup of tea and a passing fancy for some orange jelly, I fell into bed and slipped into a blissful 3 hours of sleep.

As I sit here typing the final few words of this blog, the last 5 days seem a distant memory. The body feels fairly reasonable, I've watched Liverpool play (and win!) and nobody has questioned the state of my bowels for over 12 hours.

Despite my somewhat cynical observations, a lot of hospital people have worked hard to help me during this time. My thanks go to all of them as well as the loved ones and friends, both near and far, who have wished me well, worried for me and kept my spirits high. You know who you are - bless you all.

Bertie's Hospital Blog - Part 4

Monday morning and the usual 6.30 wake up call. The night had been punctuated by several episodes from Mr Snorey who had been ranting loudly in his sleep. I’m sure that, in normal circumstances, he is a jolly, larger than life character with whom I would establish instant rapport. Currently however, he is prime candidate for my “Hit of the Month” award.

There was a new staff nurse this morning who introduced herself as Lesley. I knew things had changed when she asked why I was eating breakfast? I tried to explain that eating was the most accepted method of dealing with breakfast when she uttered the immortal words ‘This is a surgical ward, you know.’ I can only assume from this that she was of the school of thought that starved all her patients on the off chance that there might be a spare operating table. Then, she questioned me about the fat-free diet whereupon I, in best service traditions, gave only my name, rank and NHS number. Needless to say, I now have a big sign over the bed and she has been to see the kitchen staff!

We then went through a plethora of needless forms and I pointed out that I was lucky to have her here as nobody else seemed to have bothered with them. Totally missing the irony, she agreed that she liked to be methodical and then took my tablets away – the ones I have taken every night for the last 20 years! As I raised a quizzical eyebrow, she observed that there was no label on the bottle and I might not therefore know what they were and thus, place myself at risk. Despite me pointing out that, by her asking me what they were and my replying, it sort of proved I did know, they were duly locked away ready for allocation at the appropriate time.

Back to the forms: What foods did I like and dislike?

OK, now it’s revenge time. If she likes methodical then she can have methodical! I reeled off a list of foods I dislike ranging from fish pie to Somerfield beef sausages, fully expecting her to capitulate and ask me to generalise. Oh no, she wrote them all down and I collapsed once more, defeated.

Later on, she did pop her head round and impishly ask if I needed a blanket bath? Perhaps the Bassett magic had penetrated the Hattie Jacques exterior and found the wanton woman beneath? Maybe, if I wooed her, I could persuade her to remove the low-fat sign? Somehow, I doubt it!

The doctor rounds started and I marvelled once more at the blatant use of child labour. Earnest looking adolescents following their Svengali as they moved from bed to bed; the swots standing at the front looking eager and the less brave hiding away at the back. Mine eventually arrived and told me that it looked like gall bladder but they needed yet another ultrasound and might even consider removing it sooner rather than later! I was pretty keyed up at the thought of going home and felt pretty low at this point so was really pleased when a med. student friend of mine popped in. I tried to persuade her to sign discharge papers but no good. I was even prepared to compromise and settle for asking her to change me to full-fat diet but nope. I waved a sad farewell to macaroni cheese and settled for a chicken sandwich for my lunch.

This whole hospital thing is losing its appeal. At 4.30, the medic popped back and told me they have decided not to ultrasound after all as they are unanimous in their opinion that it is my gall bladder (probably). He explained that if I still have the pain tomorrow and, provided they can find me a ‘slot’, they will operate Wednesday. If I am feeling better, then I can go home and await their pleasure.

This is a tricky one for me to decide. There are more risks if I have it done now but there will be less pain in total. I decided to leave it to Fate, the surgical team and my own particular guardian angel. His name is Barry and he’s great for advising on house decor and soft furnishings – I just hope he’s up to speed on choleocystitis.

The afternoon was a bit quiet but I was buoyed up by the thought of my (low-fat) sweet & sour pork. As it arrived and the Catering Dispensing Technician lifted the cover with a flourish, I gazed at a pale grey, slightly amorphous mass undulating gently on the plate. I hesitantly tried a taste and have to say its relationship to Chinese cuisine was rather similar to China’s relationship with Tibet – cold, sterile, tasteless and totally wrong. It was shite! I drew comfort from my slab of orange jelly as well as Mrs B’s observation that all the prohibited dishes looked disgusting also.

I knew things were getting me down when I started to ponder on the excitement of whether tomorrow’s jelly might be of another colour? Perhaps they make one giant jelly at the start of each month and it lays there in a corner of the kitchen, rather reminiscent of a Torchwood alien, whilst bits are hacked off it each day? Loyd Grossman was apparently the driving force behind this NHS menu so perhaps I shall write to him and ask.

I watched a documentary on Kamikaze that evening and learned some useful tips for my flight simulations. Judging by the footage of the planes plummeting out of the sky, I really feel I am making progress as was evidenced by the number of times I proudly thought ‘I can do that’. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one that can take off, fly and then totally screw up the landing.

Ooh, just one other thing that happened: I had a shower this evening and blagged a razor off one of the nurses. I have an electric one with me but this doesn’t fine-tune my moustache to my satisfaction hence the disposable. The only problem was that I had no shaving foam and there was no way I was going to ruin my skin by going in dry. Luck smiled upon me as I spied a small individual sachet of lubricating gel left over from Goodness knows what. It worked a treat and I can thoroughly recommend it in an emergency! I would imagine however that shaving foam and lubricating gel are not necessarily interchangeable from the other point of view, if you see what I mean. Please tell me if you know differently!

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Bertie's Hospital Blog - Part 3

Sunday came and, after the normal early morning routine, I decided to venture out in my green scrubs trousers and tee shirt to find the WRVS shop. Rumour had it they sold proper coffee, newspapers, sweets and all things nice. Unsure of whether parole was allowed, I had slipped past the nurses’ station and quickly reached the lifts. Three floors down and I was there – the NHS equivalent of Switzerland to escaping Colditz officers. I purchased coffee, Werthers (after explaining they were for my grandfather) and Bassett’s Cherry Drops and made my way back. No alarms were sounding so I was feeling pretty damn’ good..........until I realised the doors to the ward were locked! Paranoia instantly took over until I noticed the sign asking visitors to press the buzzer, as a security measure. I pressed it and tried to affect the air of a rather eccentrically dressed visitor. They obviously fell for it as I soon reached the safety of my bed once more.

The rest of the afternoon was not good as I had yet another bout of the pain but Mrs B and the kids arrived with Cher (my laptop), a large bag of Joosters, a bag of gobstoppers and Pepsi. The bed area was now looking a tad cluttered: laptop, iTouch, iPod, mobile phone – not to mention the Sunday paper and its 473 supplements. Football was on the TV but I managed to get a grunt out of Master Bassett before kick-off saw him revert to his normal catatonic footy-watching trance.

At one point, I noticed both Mrs and Miss B in hysterics – I mean real, eye-watering, knuckle stuffed in mouth hysterics. I was also aware of a stentorian voice behind me yelling down a phone that he couldn’t hear the person on the other end. Mrs B weakly gestured behind me before once more falling to the ground in a puddle of mirth and, as I turned, I realised the cause of their bladder-loosening hilarity......Mr Snorey had forgotten to remove the TV headphones!

Poor kids were a little worried when they left - I think one tends to think of parents as superhuman and it's not often that they've seen me really poorly. I'd reached the stage however where I couldn't mask it very well. They toddled off and I could allow myself the luxury of doing what unwell males are best at - moaning, groaning and trying to elicit as much sympathy as possible. The nurse came over and gave me some OraMorph which seemed to do the trick so I spent the evening feeling better and starting this blog.

By the time tuck-down came, my previously canulated arm was starting to get hot with a solid lump above where the canula had been. I spent an uncomfortable night as I had apparently contracted phlebitis which is caused by the canula allowing the vein to become a little infected and is characterised by a tenderness of excruciating sensitivity. It also gets extremely hot and swollen – definitely not recommended.

Bertie's Hospital Blog - Part 2

The next day dawned.......... I know – they woke me especially to see it! What is this thing about getting people up so early? As I lay there, listening to a chorus of moans, groans, yawns and farts, a sweet lady of foreign extraction asked me what I would like for breakfast and I glumly pointed at the large FF sign above my bed. She wandered off to ascertain the meaning and then came back to offer me the choice of tea or coffee. To be honest, I’m still not quite sure which it was but at least it was hot and wet.....well, wet.

Now, let me just say a word of warning at this juncture: the drinks squad take great pride in their work. Whatever you ask for, they take great pride in remembering your choice and will always bring the identical drink at all subsequent visits. In other words, if you ask for coffee, then every other drink they bring you, irrespective of however long you are there, will be coffee. I had the temerity to ask if I might have tea and this was met with raised eyebrows and a shocked expression.

The rest of the morning flew by in a flurry of bed-making, blanket bathing, bowel enquiries etc. I, being the only one in the ward who was mobile, took great delight in padding round in tee shirt and best M&S knickers until a nurse pointedly looked at my legs and asked if I wanted some trousers? I accepted and he went off to get them muttering about people wearing outfits better suited for the beach – charming! he did come back with some rather lovely disposable slippers as well - I can well see why they were called 'disposable' - I took one look and dropped them in the bin.

Lunchtime came and I was told that my FF diet entitled me, not only to a cup of soup, but also jelly and ice cream! By this time, my will had been broken so I wept tears of gratitude at this wondrous treat. Ideally, of course, they would have served the soup in a separate container but beggars can't be choosers. I then had a visit from yet another medic who explained that, whilst they hadn’t got a conclusive opinion, it did look like gall –bladder and I was therefore formally permitted to partake, once more, of food, albeit low-fat. As the food orderly didn't seem to be aware of the low-fat stipulation, that evening, I ordered low-fat steak & mushroom pie, low-fat sauté potatoes and low-fat jam sponge & custard!

By this time, my arm above the canula was starting to hurt and I told the nurse. She flushed it through and told me it was fine. I mentioned it to another nurse a few hours later who looked at it and said it looked fine to her. Oh, the caring face of the NHS! That evening, as they went to insert another armful of antibiotic, the canula was blocked so they took it out and put it into the other arm. Problem solved (although the story carries on later).

Mrs B came up for a visit and we sat there, like all hospital visitors and visitees, making desultory conversation. It's strange the effect hospitals have. Even the most dynamic of relationships seem to fall under this strange cloud of small talk. Of course, it's not easy chatting as everyone else listens in and the best bits of the conversation tend to be about the other occupants. I was beginning to wish I had stuck to the low-fat as the stomach was starting to regret my previous lack of willpower.

The evening ended with more medication, more tea and a deep discussion with Alex the nurse about the NHS preoccupation with bowels. He was obviously a man after my own heart as his initial reply was "Who gives a shit!"

Bertie's Hospital Blog - Part 1

The hospital sojourn is over for the time being and I am now home! Apart from a nice parting present of phlebitis from where one of the canulae was fitted, I at least now have a firm commitment to surgery in 4 to 6 weeks. Naturally, I blogged it all and I will release over the next few days. Here it is then - Bertie's Hospital Blog!


Well, where do I start? The routine of hospital life? The preoccupation with my bowels? The amazing indifference of some nursing and medical staff and the dedication of others? The joys of NHS jam sponge pudding?

I suppose the best place is to start at the beginning when the pain.....almost unbearable pain..... necessitated a 4.30am cab ride to A & E. Having done it all before, I was longing for that wonderful morphine moment but the chappie there wanted to check that it wasn’t indigestion first.

I was willing to try anything and chewed away on the 4 Gaviscon tablets he placed in my hand. At this point, I was unable to lie, sit or stand still and was making crab-like circuits of the room whilst sounding rather like the audio dub on a 70’s porn movie. I could feel the contents of my mouth expanding as I chewed until I took on an attractive rabid look to compliment the groaning. Obviously it made not a scrap of difference so I was ushered along to a cubicle and handed that symbol of acceptance into the “system”: an NHS gown!

It was the usual procedure of ECG, BP, etc., etc. until we reached the stage of morphine. Now, last time, it was a wondrous moment as my pains dissipated into a dreamy haze so I lay there awaiting that delicious moment. The nurse pumped in a third of the syringe...

”Any better?” Nope

Another third...

“That better?” Nope

Final third....

“That MUST be better?” Nope

Finally, 5 minutes later, the pain went down to 7 out of 10 on the Bertie Scale and I was on my way to MASU.

MASU is not some strange cabalistic acronym but stands for the (rather all-encompassing) Medical & Surgical Unit – in other words, the “not sures”. I was pushed into bay 25 (I hasten to add, I was attached to a bed) and lay there, tired, disoriented and not a little whimsical - MASU was Dad’s last hospital stop. Bay 25 is rather nice: a corner plot with commanding views over the toilets and ample space for development potential. As I was whisked away for a few X-rays, I looked forward to returning to, what to me, was already ‘home’.

Of course, I never saw Bay 25 again. I was now the proud new resident of Bay 12 and I celebrated with a nice glass of water as I was on fluids only. The outlook was interesting: 3 ladies, one antiquarian who had lost more marbles than Greece after Elgin’s visit, another of late middle-age in fetching white knee socks and hospital gown who sat there and imitated a tumble dryer! Imagine if you will, an open mouth endlessly moving round and round and you have the idea. The third lady seemed quite normal but had a partner/husband who seemed bored with the whole idea of her admission and just sat there with his hoodie pulled over his head. I had all the obs. once more and spent an entertaining few minutes watching the nursing auxiliary puzzling why the cuff around my arm wasn’t inflating. She took it off, checked all the tubes, peered at all the dials and scratched her head whilst a ward full of bored patients looked on. I have to say, the way she realised the problem, took the end of the cable and then plugged it into the machine with nonchalant aplomb was beautifully done!

I was now due a CT scan to check out the gall bladder once more and was told I needed to drink a whole jug of water in the next 25 minutes which I duly did. Into the “doughnut” I went and then back to the ward with the thought of a wee heavily on my mind. I, at least, had the ability to fend for myself in this department rather than rely on recycled egg boxes pressed into various comical but practical shapes.

I was visited by yet another medic. Let me say at this point I had been interrogated throughout the day by various youths purporting to have some medical knowledge. They all asked the same questions, they all seemed fascinated by my bowels and they all went away, never to be seen by me again. Was I part of some strange medical Scavenger Hunt? Was I in the I-Spy Book of Bowel Movements and they all wanted the points? Was it some strange induction originated by Hippocrates whilst under the influence of Ouzo? This particular medic actually imparted some news i.e. there might be some fluid around the gall bladder but he wasn’t quite sure. He told me that he would consult with the senior radiographer and would eventually report back. Woohoo, progress at last! He also said I was able to eat at last and I triumphantly tucked into a ham and tomato sandwich. Let me say, at this point, it’s probably the unused sandwiches rather than egg boxes that make up the bottles and bed pans – there seemed a direct correlation between the textures and, I would imagine, the taste.

Following a spirited bidding war for my body between departments, I was then transferred to a surgical ward. Most hospitals have ward names like Nightingale or Albion or something of significance. What do I get? Level 8! Having said that, it was a nice room of 4 beds, all of which were electrically adjustable and, most important, I had the facility of TV, phone and internet. There was the usual 30 minute wait for the moron at PatientLine to grant me the privilege of paying extortionate amounts of money for a service which made even Tiscali look impressive and then I could relax in my nice clean bed: relatively pain-free and looking forward to a good night’s sleep. Why, even the sunset over the sea was breathtaking as I gazed through my picture window. Perhaps now was the time when fortune swung in my favour?

Pah! Not only did some nurse inform me that I was on a “free fluids only” diet but I encountered the World, Universe & InterGalactic Snoring Champion. I tried arguing about the former but was informed that ‘the notes said so’ – Bang goes my double soss, eggs, bacon and fried slice for brekkie. As to the snoring, the guy in the bed diagonally opposite was the culprit. He obviously wasn’t well and I’m sure the medication didn’t help but he lay there, a gaping maw from which issued a sound normally heard only in the labour wards of warthogs. As he breathed in, we clung desperately to our beds as various unattached objects whistled through the air. As he exhaled, they returned at an even greater velocity. I finally drifted off to sleep with a surgical glove stuffed in each ear and a black rage in my heart.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Swallow, You're on Candid Camera

Thus far, this week has been one of many conflicting emotions.

On Monday, I was asked if I wanted to indulge in that frustrating little pastime which involves missing long stretches of short grass (known as fairways) and hitting a small white ball into puddles, bushes and piles of various animal excreta - otherwise known as golf. Now, I feel I am rather good at this as I seem to succeed with remarkable ease in all these skills. I laugh with scorn at the fools that can go round a course quickly and efficiently - I get my monies worth!

Anyway, my clubs were stored in the cellar at the local pub where I dumped them when I needed the car boot for something or other. I went to retrieve them and found, to my surprise, that some dear person had helped themselves to my woods, the trolley and a few other bits in the pockets of my capacious golf bag. The clubs were a present from my son last year so had more than a little personal value. Coping with that, as well as the feelings of invasion and the fact that the culprit was, by definition, someone I knew was not good.

Also, or maybe because of this, I started to worry about my imminent endoscopy. No idea why because normally I'm pretty good at sublimating concerns but I was in for a predominantly sleepless night.

Tuesday dawned bright and sunny. Having had time to stuff all concerns, frustrations etc. firmly into boxes, I looked forward to a day of simulated flying (by the way, taking off and flight are coming on well but I do wish they'd make runways a softer material. Landings would be so much more comfortable).

Lunchtime came and I got a call from Mrs B. A very good friend of ours had just heard that there was a very strong possibility that his spinal cancer had returned. He's in his early 40s and has had 2 previous episodes at 10 year intervals. Obviously I shot down there and spent the rest of the afternoon a) talking it all through with him, b) taking his mind off it and c) providing a shoulder to cry on, all as the circumstances dictated. having anaesthetised him temporarily with San Miguel, I bundled him into my car and took him home. He's off to the Royal Marsden Friday so hopefully we'll know more after that.

Returning home, upset and angry at why the good guys always seem to get the shit, I later got a call from my bestest buddy telling me his Mum had died.

The day served to put all my petty gripes and annoyances and problems into perspective and, in a strange sort of way, helped me enormously. Perhaps the day before (hopefully) finding out what was wrong with me wasn't the best timing but hey, that's life!

Endoscopy day dawned. No food or milk from 7.15am and no drinks from 11.15am so when I woke at 9.15 with a tongue like an old shoe, I bit the bullet and made black tea. As my tongue slowly absorbed the moisture and shrunk to a size where I could fit it back inside my mouth, I was conscious of the plethora of foods beckoning seductively to me. "Get thee behind me, Warburton's Thick Sliced". "Avaunt thee, Tunnocks Snowballs."

I occupied myself Googling bus timetables as we had decided to fill some time having a bus ride to the hospital. Now, bus rides are few and far between for me. I took my first in many years about 6 months ago when the car was being serviced and it was certainly an experience. I stood puzzled as I waited for a conductor, I gazed speechless at the little cash thingy by the driver, I sat astonished as the bus sped past where I wanted to get off! How was I to know you have to ask for a bus to stop these days? Whatever next?

Anyway, much as Mrs B and I were drawn to a ride along the cliffs in a charabanc, we both expressed concerns at sharing our transport as well as cynicism at the vagaries of the bus timetable so eventually opted for a cab.

Of course, we picked a mad taxi driver! He spent the whole 25 minute journey discoursing about a variety of subjects ranging from his days as a Health & Safety rep, British athletics and a school mistress who was sacked for consorting with pupils. I occasionally tried to join in but apart from about 484 one word interjections which were quickly absorbed by his continuing diatribe, failed miserably. As we left the taxi to join the hordes of people gathering for a cigarette outside the hospital, he was still chattering - presumably into his radio, but who knows?

The actual endoscopy procedure was dead easy. We got there and the waiting room was empty so I was called straight away. The nurse went through all the usual stuff and offered me the option of a throat anaesthetic or sedative? I think she was a bit surprised when I asked for both but eventually conceded that a sedative would be given. I was then off into my little cubicle where I was pleasantly surprised to find I had no need to exchange my rather fetching Levi 501s and cashmere top for a designer hospital gown with unrestricted arse access.

Another nurse appeared to insert the canula and the fun began:

'Ah, I seem to be having difficulty finding a vein in the back of your hand.'
(at this point, the tourniquet thing was pulled so tight, my hand had reached a shade reminiscent of Royal Navy uniforms)

'Well, I have got some - honest'

'Let's try the other hand'
(oh good, both arms match now!)

'Nope, no good. let's go for the vein at the elbow.'

'Why didn't you go there first?'

(short pause) 'Well, we might need that'

'Erm, why?'

'If things go wrong, we might need it, you know, for an emergency, like'

Well, that was reassuring but never mind. The next nurse got me to sign the consent form after explaing that very occasionally things might go wrong. I queried this and she explained that sometimes the camera can tear the bowel but it was very rare indeed. I asked her to perhaps elaborate on "very rare" and she suggested 1 in 1500. I quickly computed the number of endoscopies performed daily times the number of UK hospitals and started glancing round for the Exit signs. I blithely said to her that, presumably, it was just a matter of opening the unfortunate victim up and sewing the hole but she went into great detail about how it was far more complicated than that and could be life-threatening.

As they wheeled me to the endoscopy suite with several burly nurses sitting on me to prevent my escape I was enveloped with a sense of Kismet. I was told to lie on my side (flashbacks to the last time they asked me to do that!!!) and next thing I knew I was lying in the recovery ward with oxygen mask, BP sleeve and various other bits attached to my body. Phew, all finished - now where's my cup of tea?

They were all very pleasant although refused my request for the oxygen mask to come home with me (it would be great as an addition to my flight sim. pilot role). I apparently manufacture too much acid as there was a fair bit of scarring in there as well as a hiatus hernia but it seems I am not quite due to shuffle off this mortal coil as yet - just more tablets to forget to take. Master B arrived to take us home and, as I floated through the front door thinking thoughts of more tea, we found we had a power cut which continued for a further 2 hours. Thank God for a gas hob - one large saucepan of PG Tips then off to bed for a 3 hour kip, I've spent the rest of the evening being the ideal invalid. I've managed to force down several cups of tea and coffee, grapes, sandwiches, gobstoppers and the Tunnocks Snowballs have finally got their comeuppance.

To paraphrase my hero, Victor Meldrew, I still have to go back and see a Yasser Arafat lookalike masquerading as a consultant but hopefully, that's the end of another chapter in the medical mishaps of B. Bassett Esq.

Friday, February 08, 2008

Senior Moments

Yesterday evening, young Miss Bassett and I whiled away some time watching videos of her and her brother. They range from 12 to 15 years ago and it's the first time either of us have seen them since then (although as she's now still only 17, she doesn't remember a lot about them).

Sadly, I am not able to disclose some of the more embarrassing contents as she has threatened me with all sorts of unmentionable things but the sight of her at 2 was lovely to see once more. Young Master B at his school Christmas Extravaganza, her at her first Nativity, an Easter Egg Hunt around the house, silly moments of no import but totally precious to me: it was all pretty good stuff until I stepped out from behind the camera and got caught myself!

The moustache was dark - sort of Tom Selleck in his Magnum days. The hair was still showing traces of brown and the body was similar to now (but ironed).

The lovely thing about kids is that they don't mind a videocam being shoved in their face. None of the long-suffering looks of the adults (unless they are ancient whereupon they seem to go completely stupid and think they've become a combination of John Travolta and Billy Connolly). "Sing Baa Baa. Black Sheep", "Do your dancing for Daddy", "Wave" - Oh, if only they were so obedient these days!

Kids are great insofar as they have few inhibitions (hence the embargo on me mentioning certain footage).

Talking of kids and inhibitions, I had another of my 'senior moments' this evening. I was doing the fun trip to Scummerfield and wandering around the shelves searching desperately for tagliatelle. As I'm reading the labels of the few packets of pasta, nestling between the vast numbers of Easter Eggs, I was mentally checking them off and realising just how nice they all sounded if you use an Italian accent.Rigatoni, penne, conchigli, farfalle, fettucini.............I was really rolling the names around my tongue and thoroughly enjoying the resultant sounds when I realised I was actually saying all of this out loud. Gazing round sheepishly and very grateful of no audience, I carried on the Italian theme and retreated hastily.

As I queued at the checkout, I was aware of 2 teenage girls in front of me buying baby food. They were loud, they were showing off to the young lad behind the till and, worst of all, they committed the cardinal sin. Now let me say at this point, we all have things that annoy us and me, in all probability, more than most. I will no doubt blog that subject at some point but the culpable act for which they were accused, indicted and (ideally) shot was that most reprehensible of store crimes - they failed to put a separator down on the conveyor belt after their goods! Aaaargh, that makes me soooooooooo cross!!!. I reached across them and smashed it down on the belt (narrowly missing my Belgian buns) whilst glaring at them. They of course blithely ignored me.

They were of a particular type of young girl. Fortunately, their evolutionary process had been less than others and therefore they still had rather long, simian-like arms. This was handy to make room for the tattoo on one of these charmers which went something like 'I love Craig (crossed out), Darren (crossed out), Lee (crossed out), Jason (crossed out), Wayne (crossed out), Dwayne'.

The other one was more succinct and just had a Visa logo.

Anyway, they left, I packed my bags and headed for the Exit only for them to reappear once more ahead of me. This is where things went wrong.

One said in a loud voice "Woss she got that I haven't?" and I thought 'brains, style and sophistication at a rough guess'. I had no idea of whom they were talking but it seemed a fair bet. It was when they suddenly went quiet and slowed down that I realised I had done it again - I'd been thinking out loud once more!

What do I do? Stop going out? Wear a gag? Go the whole hog and start dribbling and wetting myself?

I'm getting old. The brain cell is deteriorating and there's nothing I can do about it. For all I know, I'm not typing this: I'm sitting in a corner mumbling it to myself whilst pulling wings off butterflies.

Perhaps the days of the Tom Selleck moustache weren't so bad after all?

Sunday, February 03, 2008

Just Another Day

I think it's time for another random ramblings as there is nothing I particularly want to rant, postulate or pontificate about. Right, time to empty brain onto paper:

We all know we're getting old when things don't taste as they did. You know what I mean; eggs, milk, butter all tasted so much better back in Palaeolithic times, when I was a lad. Well, today, Mrs B was queueing in Sainsbury for cigarettes and in a mad moment of philanthropy, bought me some HubbaBubba bubble gum. I immediately opened it and filled my mouth with a curious combination of chemicals which, by some weird alchemical process, combined to produce an intense strawberry flavour. By the time we'd got to the car (no more than 5 minutes), this had disappeared and I was to all intents and purposes chewing on something quite similar to the pencil rubbers issued at school. Now, I tend to think of HubbaBubba as something quite modern and when I (rather ungratefully, I was told) said that it didn't taste like it did when it first came out, I realised just how old I had become. I was now a double generation "things ain't what they used to be" moaner!

For those of you who read about my pathetic attempts to emulate my flying hero (surely you've read 'Biggles Flies Undone'?), there has been progress.

Not only can I now take off and land in my motorised hang glider but I am also adept at flying around in a grown-up plane. OK, so I still haven't quite mastered the knack of landing very well but it is progress. I do have the new Flight Simulator's predecessor and loaded that in as it has lessons. I figured that a few minutes invested with that may well pay dividends.

Lesson one: Straight and Level Flight. Sounds pretty easy really: you just sit there and admire the view. Oh no, not in BertieWorld. Several pages of physics explaining what forces attach to keeping the aircraft in said position, the effects of drag, upthrust, downthrust, yaw etc and then onto the actual lesson. The virtual teacher was jolly nice. He'd say things like 'Don't worry, I have control again' and 'Let's try that again shall we?' as I struggled to adjust the trim wheel. It was all reasonably simple so we moved on to turning and banking.

Once more, lots of theory and then into the cockpit. He was starting to get a bit lary now, asking me to turn 15 degrees to port, maintaining an altitude of 2500 feet and keeping the revs at 2000 or whatever it was. Three things to think about!!

He was still sounding like my favourite Uncle as he pointed out that I had actually gone 30 degrees left, overcorrected and was now 15 degrees to starboard, was flying at about 11 feet and doing 12,000 mph. It's a shame that software isn't advanced enough for him to actually say what he really thought. - I may well have learned some new words.

Anyway, it's inspired me enough to want the whole new Microsoft Flight Simulator X . Mrs B kindly donated her credit card and it's now been ordered and should be with me by Tuesday. The theory is that, should I like it, she doesn't have to undergo the usual "I've no idea what I want for my birthday" and can just buy me lots of vital flying things like a control yoke, white silk scarf, handlebar moustache and parachute. That link also has the free trial download so if any of you fancy a go, feel free. Just don't tell me if you're good at it! Hopefully, the tuition might be a bit better on the new one. I'm sure there will be a new instructor. The last one was last seen gibbering wildly as he jumped out of my plane and legged it to the nearest Valium bottle.

On Friday, I made 2 new (7 week old) friends.

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We were offered one and saying no was extremely hard but we had to put on sensible heads (for once). I totally fell in love with the black one and he seemed quite happy just snuggled on my chest, occasionally seeing if my chin tasted as nice as my watch, my leather bracelet and anything else in reach. I shall say no more at this juncture but they were both wonderful and we really miss having a pet.........

Did I mention I have my gastroscopy thingy on 13th February? The blurb said that, as they were shoving a camera down my throat and into my stomach, I might wish to elect for a sedative. Sedative? I want a full anaesthetic, 3 paramedics and a crash trolley at the very least! I've been warned that I will be there for 3 to 4 hours so I assume that they are taking the opportunity to not only take a video but make a whole mini-series.

Can you imagine it? Forget Big Brother and Peter & Katie: welcome to Bertie's Intestinal Secrets.

Oh well, that'll do for now. We're off out to see some friends (assuming we don't freeze to death on the way).

Ooh, by the way, I've tried to redo the blog juke box. I don't think it's necessarily streaming that well at the moment but I'd recommend ZZ Top's La Grange, if you don't know it. My buddies in the band do it (much better, in my humble opinion) so I'll try and get a recording of them and upload it shortly.