Friday, September 26, 2008

Dad - In Memoriam

It's been a year. Miss you, Pops.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Read it and Weep

You may have read earlier blogs this year when Gertie, my beloved gall-bladder, was (to mis-quote Macbeth) from his father's abdominal cavity untimely ripped. At the time, I was perhaps a tad harsh on our health system when I rashly (and possibly cynically) intimated that 5 admissions to get the job done was arguably not over-efficient. I may have drawn parallels between the service I got then to the time when, as a valued employee, I was a recipient of private health insurance. I say 'may have' as I lack the courage to re-read those particular blogs in case I get bitter and twisted about the residual scar left by the machete-wielding psychopath whom the Dept. of Health & Mutilation let loose on my body.

The last thing I want to do is go on and on and on about the vicious slash marks left on my poor, abused physique. Not the small laparoscopic blemish left on any other recipient of a cholecystectomy - oh no, MY surgical cicatrice was so big Lloyd frigging Grossman could have gone through the keyhole! Anyway, I'm certainly not going to think about it any more although, between you and me, I am considering a personal injury claim. I've heard tell of some reformed prostitutes who have taken legal training and opened up an injury claims helpline specifically for cases such as mine - they're called the ScarPhone Whorehouse!

Recently, I have been reintroduced to the joys of private medicine as the NHS decided to shorten their wating list by offering Mrs B a replacement knee at the local private Nuffield Hospital. When we heard, I rather spoiled the pleasure of this medical equivalent of a flight upgrade by pointing out it would normally cost an arm and a leg - hmmm, not the best phrase to use perhaps? Anyway, the pre-operation ...........sorry, I mean pre-procedure assessment (bloody Americanisms!) was all dealt with on time and with numerous offers to help ourselves to tea or coffee The following week, Mrs B was ensconced in a private room with excellent catering, the operat......procedure was carried out and and it was all rather nice.

Now, to the nub of the matter. We have all sat in a GP's surgery waiting for the obligatory 48 minute delay before those 30 precious seconds where we are finally allowed into the presence of this scion of pharmacalogical expertise.

I'm pretty sure that I am not alone insofar as I spend a lot of that waiting time rehearsing exactly what I want to say; the symptoms and how they present themselves, all beautifully succinct and word perfect until we step into the inner sanctum where it all goes tits up and I lamely stand there and say "Erm, I'm OK really Doc. Dunno why I'm here really' whilst casting covetous glances at all the drug company freebies adorning the room. The reasons for that frantic rehearsal are not necessarily all because of my desire to appear organised and efficient but also due, in part, to the reading matter strewn around the waiting room.

Being an optimistic soul, I always hope that there might actually be something worthwhile to read rather than Peoples Friend circa July 2005 or the many and varied leaflets and booklets which are designed to help me cope with stopping smoking, glaucoma , excess wind, living with fungal nail infections etc. I remember once finding a National Geographic magazine with some wonderful pictures of the Gobi Desert and I still make a beeline for any National Geographics which surface in these slowly mutating piles in the hope of discovering it once more. On the whole though, I sit back defeated and listen to the glorious CD of Songs from the Shows which plays constantly through the sound system, punctuated occasionally by the guffaws of the lucky bastard who's found the one and only Reader's Digest and its 'Laughter - the best medicine' page.


Of course, it's all different at the Nuffield. Glossy magazines extolling the virtues of the Caribbean, current OK magazine, the day's newspapers, The Tatler, Golf World - all arranged neatly on occasional tables around the various waiting rooms. You can tell it's posh there because, by the end of the day, they haven't been nicked and the sudoku has been completed by fountain pen.

That's the real difference between NHS and the private sector. Forget the waiting times, ignore the MRSA infected wards - it's all down to the quality of the reading matter. Get a subscription to Horse and Hound in every hospital and the whole thing's solved - easy!

Incidentally, the inspiration behind this blog was due to a visit to a 'foreign' GP surgery this morning as Mrs B had to have a retinopathy test. As I sat down in the portakabin, I pondered on the difference of standards between there and the Nuffield but was gratified to see 2 extremely glossy magazines sitting there invitingly. Perhaps things weren't so bad after all, I thought as I made myself comfortable and tried to decide between............ WeightWatchers magazine or Pregnancy & Birth! Ho hum.

Sunday, September 07, 2008

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning. Nothing special - same as any other morning really.

When I was younger, I had the same dream several times over the years. I was in this old church - the type with the enormous stone columns running down it. On the side where I stood was sunlight and warmth whilst on the other side, beyond the columns, was darkness and a real feeling of evil. Not being one who really believes in dream interpretation I merely assumed it was my own sides of good and bad and a recognition thereof. Thinking about it now, perhaps the side I was on was the "bad" side, for surely good and bad can be subjective? Maybe the side which I have tried to avoid all my life is, in fact, the side to which I should have moved?

Society dictates what is good or bad. For example, cannibalism is wrong to all but the cannibal. They would sit on their island, happily nibbling their Kentucky Fried Missionary until, somehow, they had the status quo changed. They knew no different and it was the accepted norm. It's only when somebody comes along and, in whatever way, sways the balance of popular opinion and thus changes perception that guilt is born.

Freud thought guilt served to effectively regulate social behaviour although I would suggest that it also serves to crush free expression and subjugate the masses if used judiciously. How much of our lives do we lead in a virtuous way? How many people have had said of them "Oh, he led a good life"? Am I being cynical when I ask if leading a good life is because we haven't got the balls to feel guilty and are therefore taking the easy way out?

I have neither led a good life nor a bad one. I have lived a life tempered by guilts, real and imagined, and they have shaped its course. It has been a cowardly life in many ways although the only person who knew I was being a coward was the person from whom I could never escape - me! Some would say I have been caring and generous and that therefore brings us back to the reasons behind such actions. It would be interesting to see what people really thought of me throughout the years? Somehow, I don't think many would be able to answer in depth. How can I ever let others see what I cannot?

Monday, September 01, 2008

Relative Kindness

In previous musings I have waxed lyrical about the delights of Sky TV and how my life has been enriched by the plethora of channels at which I can gaze and wonder what the fuck I am doing paying £45 per month for such crap? There are of course the occasional consolations like, for instance, sport, How It's Made and the farming programme on Sundays which seems to major on Eastern European tractors but such gems are few and far between.

Sky Sports 1 last Monday broadcast a live 40 over cricket match from the County Ground at Hove where Sussex took on the might of Lancashire and I was among the spectators, courtesy of my son. As we sat there pouring cups of tea into our pockets in a bid to combat the hypothermia of a typical summer's evening, I took solace in the fact that I could enjoy the secret pleasure of seeing myself on the goggle box should I survive the weather. Oh I know we all act blasé when a camera is pointed at us but as soon as I got home and had sat in the fridge for a while to warm up, I was running through Sky+ in a bid to spot Yours Truly. What a waste of time! They had plenty of crowd shots of the bloke dressed as a policewoman, the drunkards in the glitter wigs, winsome children huddled under blankets and studiously filling in scorecards, women looking puzzled by the whole process but dutifully doling out sandwiches and Cup-a-Soup but were there any of the Bassetts? Not a Dickie Bird (cue all cricket aficionados to laugh at the pun). Anyway, I digress so let us return to the glories of Sky.

Recently, due to Mrs B's enforced incarceration, I have discovered other little gems which have made the last couple of weeks that bit more bearable. For example, last night at about 2am, I watched the first ever Thunderbirds! I was fascinated by the sophistication although I was perspicacious enough to spot a couple of flaws in the plot. Needless to say, the good guys won through in the end and I went to bed, tired but happy. I can also now speak knowledgeably on the manufacture of golf balls, the Great Wall of China and the values of antiques according to the Antiques Roadshow circa 1986.

Getting (finally) to the nub of this blog, I was privileged today to enjoy one of the funniest things I have ever witnessed. As you know, I like humour.....in fact, I need humour in my life yet I tend not to demonstrate that enjoyment by outward shows of giggling or laughter. Today, I was almost literally wetting myself as I witnessed a moment of TV class.

Some of you may be aware of a charity called The Dog's Trust which advertises on Sky along with many other worthy causes. This particular plea has always amused me because of the obvious sincerity of the actor, his promise that "your" dog will write to you regularly and the assurance that they never put down a healthy dog. I have this mental picture of a few of the mutts chatting together along these lines:

"Shit, I think I'm getting a cold! For Dog's sake, don't let them know I'm unhealthy otherwise I'm off to that great kennel in the sky"

"Huh, you should worry. I've got 245 letters to be written by tonight and the bloody laptop's on the blink again!"

"Well, it's your own fault. If you hadn't have looked so appealing they'd have picked someone else to go in the ad......you (atchoo) poser!"

"Well, it was either that or put that stupid wig on for the Dulux ad. If they think I'm going to ponce around in that, they can sniff my ass!"


This morning, I was doing domestic things in the kitchens when I heard a familiar voice. Yes, it was the Dog's Trust man but this time he was touting for another charity. As I looked up, I was amazed to find he was exhorting us all to adopt a grandmother!!! It was couched in similar vein, as he spoke of the little old grandmothers in far-off places who had given their all for their off-spring. He promised that they would write to their British saviours and I had wondrous visions of Bengali grannies getting out the Basildon Bond and telling us proudly of how their grandson is now so well-off he can sponsor a dog.

It was a beautifully Pythonesque scenario yet totally sincere. Sadly, I was unable to hear if they put down unhealthy grannies as, by this time, I was rolling around on the floor, clutching my sides. Mind you, had they omitted that reassurance, does that mean the ultimate sanction? Just imagine: instead of the nice letter from your grannie, you get a terse, typewritten note stating that, due to a minor fungal nail infection, you now have a new granny! I had to go and Google the charity in the end as I couldn't quite believe what I had heard and it most certainly exists and, I am sure, does totally laudable work.

Oh well, I thought it was funny!