tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65313451317046301342024-03-14T02:12:34.957+01:00Dee's DiaryHere's my sort-of-a-diary, sometimes about being a student mental health nurse, mostly about being me.Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.comBlogger294125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-21747225633084792332013-05-07T12:24:00.000+01:002013-05-07T12:24:25.347+01:00I Get Knocked Down But I Get Up Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have a fondness for these oh-so-90’s lyrics from Chumbawumba: I get knocked down but I get up again / You’re never gonna keep me down. They’ve been my go-to support on all but the bleakest days. Sorry Mother Theresa, Dalai Lama, and Cute Katz.<br />
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Everything feels a bit knocked down at the moment. 3 years of student nursing has left the house in a bad state, the mess escalating weekly. Just lately all sorts of stuff has broken: the shower, the central heating, the kettle, a tooth, the car steering column. We stayed positive, managed to replace the kettle. There’s a lot of talk about nurses needing to develop resilience. Is this what is meant? In as much as the definition is ‘put up with it, don’t complain and don’t get sick’, I suppose it is. <br />
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At the beginning of the academic year, I set myself the goal of getting a First. My grades hovered in years one and two between 1st and 2:1, 71% both times. I decided to work hard more consistently. I really thought I could do it. It turns out I couldn’t. I’ve worked harder but….well I don’t know what happened. The results haven’t matched the effort, adequate, but not enough.<br />
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Logically, it doesn’t matter. Degree classifications really aren’t important in nursing, in fact most nurses have a diploma. If I ever want to teach or do research it won’t matter either, a 2:1 will be enough. Nobody’s bothered. I’m bothered. I’m embarrassed about being bothered. When I think about the last disappointing result, my eyes tear up. I have one more assignment to finish but motivation has slipped away. I’ll get it done but I won’t be as enthusiastic about it as I would have done if I’d have got 8% more last time because I’ll be in the park or watching TV or fixing up the house (OK not that).<br />
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I don’t think it’s the getting up again that Chumbawumba intended, but it will have to do.<br />
<br />Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-2868956502415590502013-04-25T11:17:00.000+01:002013-04-25T11:17:15.618+01:00Now (Shhh!)
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peek. How are you? Where are you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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days, although still not as much as I should. People in their final year are
coming up to dissertation deadlines so every computer is in use and there is a
conga line snaking around the carols, hunting. It’s the silent floor though so
no singing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Yesterday, the young woman beside me started to cry, silently. She was
searching through her files. A few seats along someone was playing music
through their headphones and the sound leaked. I snatched them from her ears
and bit through the wires. I leant her my cyber-mum headphones that have
padding to keep it all in. I barely noticed as I got on with my work. Those
things happened in alternate universes. In this one I gave her a dirty look
with a little tut. In the afternoon, there was a rattle through the metal pipes
and everyone looked up and at each-other except one who got up and ran out. Ghost
in the machine?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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allowed. `Sealed containers only’ is the rule, so I’m safe until I pour tea
into the lid. I cradle it in my hands and drink it like a shot, sneaky. They have
a purple-shirted posse to root out that kind of behaviour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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desktop is a partially complete pretend report about a service improvement plan.
I have never seen a real-life one. If they exist, I doubt they come with
Harvard references. Sleeping uneasily in a closed file is a quarter of my
dissertation on suicide. I have promised myself time to work on it after the
service improvement plan in the way that people plan their treats. The parents
of two boys who died by suicide were on the news this morning, reminding me of
what it’s all for. The future’s on the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-23415024547868685572013-01-03T20:33:00.001+01:002013-01-03T20:33:48.401+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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First Blog of 2013. Last year didn't get very many entries, maybe I'll do better this time.<br />
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The long break from Uni for Christmas is almost over. If I get a job as a nurse after I qualify it might be my last Christmas off for a few years. Naturally we didn't make the best of it, Nick and I were ill consecutively so the time passed unpleasantly. Our youngest was missing from the festivities too, so nothing felt like as much fun as usual. Ah well, I've thrown out the last of the smoked salmon (a holidays only treat in our house) so it's all over now.<br />
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This week I am working in the uni library on two assignments. For the first on complex care (this just means mental health needs plus one additional complicating factor) I'm focussing on learning disability. I had initially decided to stay away from the topic because to get a poor mark following a 20 year learning disability career would be humiliating. However, up against the deadline, I've succumbed and am enjoying writing it probably more than any other essay I've written. More and more, I'm considering going back to working with people with learning disabilities once I qualify. We shall see. Naturally I wished I hadn't left the writing so late.<br />
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In contrast, my next assignment is on the law and services for psychopath offenders. It seems unlikely that I would ever work with that client group. Never say never though.<br />
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Happy New YearDee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-5261905280092797522012-12-13T21:57:00.002+01:002012-12-13T21:58:37.123+01:00Christmas Begins<br />
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Today has been so cold and dry that even the dullest parts
of Coventry looked like a Christmas card. A fitting start to the holidays for a
student nurse. We've lit the wood burner and stocked up on mince pies. It’s been a long term.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Twitter is running a hashtag #underratedbands. Not really a
band, but in the light of the winter frosts, here is my long-time favourite thing on
youtube.<o:p></o:p></div>
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N's home tonight, she hates me blogging about her. I'm so glad she's back but shh you didn't hear it here.</div>
Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-56108404466616767672012-12-12T23:17:00.001+01:002012-12-12T23:17:38.146+01:00OSCE Angels<br />
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Bringing back the blog quietly, just to see how it goes. All
kinds of fun has been happening over the last few weeks, shame you missed it.
There’s no going back now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One of the rights of passage for student nurses is the OSCE
(objective structured clinical examination). It’s kind of an assessed role
play. Theatre for the terrified. So today, in the presence of an eminent
scholar, I had a conversation with and then injected a plastic bum. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Beforehand, my nerves had been getting the better of me and
it might have gone badly were it not for some people I met while waiting for
the lift. Firstly, there was the man in the waistcoat. I know him a little and
it’s always nice to see him but this was extra special because he was wearing a
tweed waistcoat over his floral shirt. Appearances aren’t everything for sure.
In fact they mostly aren’t anything, but this man is not usually a waistcoat
wearer and this slightly dressy look suited him. He hung around long enough to
be embarrassed when I told him so, and then took the stairs. I’m not saying my
compliment and his walking up three floors are connected in any way but…………<o:p></o:p></div>
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I called the lift again and when I turned back it was to a
small child in a pushchair. This is an unusual occurrence in a university
building. Why was here there? What was he studying or was he a visiting lecturer?
He giggled and showed me his teether. It was a beautiful moment. The child was accompanied by two people shy
but very happy people who I met this time last year when their son was newborn.
They had stopped especially to say hello to me and it was meaningful given
their awkwardness around people. They could just have walked on. I was glad to
be meeting them in much happier circumstances than before. It was the best of
social encounters.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The angels by the lift had settled my nerves just enough (we’ll
overlook the needle stuck on the syringe and my inability to calculate the date
two weeks from today etc). I passed, and since it was the last OSCE, qualifying
feels closer. After Christmas there will be people who might need an injection.
Bottoms of flesh. There may also be angels.<o:p></o:p></div>
Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-82331555958260571672012-07-19T15:18:00.000+01:002012-07-19T15:18:55.231+01:00<br />
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Hello, I’m back from my gap year, did you miss me? What’s been going on? My dirty washing? Yes, here it is. Thanks. Can you lend me some money please?<br />
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I closed the public diary last year, having got a bit paranoid about nursing rules, confidentiality, and how things might be interpreted. I’ve missed it though as I’m rubbish at keeping a diary I don’t show people and now all the good stuff is missing. Neither you nor I will know what happened. How can I be expected to remember things I haven’t written down?<br />
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So I’m coming back to Dee’s diary, but I’m making a few changes. I’m going to alter some of the things I write about so that the people and organisations in them are less identifiable. It seems a shame, an untruthful diary starts to become a work of bad fiction after all, and I have no concerns about anything I’ve written in the past. However, Nursing is a sensitive trade, so you and I are going to have to compromise a bit. <br />
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Talking of Nursing, I’m going to be writing more about mental health and a bit less about family stuff. That’s mostly because I’m coming up to the end of the second year of my training, and all kinds of things are happening. I want to be able to think about it (‘reflect’ is the word used in nursing, mawkish isn’t it?). Don’t imagine that I’ll be able to resist showing off a luscious bit of stitching though, or bragging about seeing Richard Herring’s latest show. <br />
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Hope the changes don’t put you off. I know you really want to read all the juicy personal stuff. A friend reminded me that I somewhere in this diary I wrote about my first sexual experience. I hope reading about it was a memorable for her as writing about it was for me.<br />
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I don’t remember penning it at all.<br />
<br />Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-61577605651713455412011-11-17T22:31:00.000+01:002011-11-17T22:31:57.335+01:00She'll Be Here SoonI'm back.Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-25659743620906425752011-08-18T00:39:00.000+01:002011-08-18T00:39:15.437+01:00Full of Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing*<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I spent the day doing housework, and jumping jellyfish it makes me grumpy. I imagined that by the time the kids had grown up I’d have mastered the skill of keeping a lovely home, possibly with home made bread and a Denby stoneware. Not a bit of it. The place is in a worse state than my student bedsit in 1987, and I have about the same in the fridge (moulding cucumber, 2 slices ham, milk, nubbin dried out cheese, jam date-stamped best before 1987).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, I spent hours cleaning today, the house doesn’t even look any better because stuff has simply migrated to join piles in other rooms. I am aware that some of you will be saying to yourselves, ‘oh, I love cleaning’. Well, what I say to you is, ‘*** **** *** **** ** ****’.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Other things have been making me furious lately:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->The princess holding up the queue at Ikea, who insisted that someone load a thing into her car, the thing having the weight of a paperback book. Heavens to betsy it was a Saturday, do us all a favour love, do it yourself and maybe save on gym membership. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->The drug dealers hanging around the corner of Gloucester Street, and the Community police people. How come you Community bods feel fine about moving my kids on when they’ve just stopped to chat to a friend, but can’t see four suspicious men hanging about for hours with mobile phones in their hand and a car down the street?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Facebook status updates that go round, the mawkish ones that say how great it was when ‘we’ were kids, or that looters should be hung, or anything about their religion….erm yes, I know I’m a fine one to talk but at least my drivel is original.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->My begging dogs. I love you but not every scrap of food in the world is yours. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Whoever keeps nicking all the fizzy pop from the fridge. I hate you. Get your own.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: justify;">There’s more but this isn’t helping. Can’t stand it when I write a list of things to vent and it doesn’t work. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: justify;">I think it would be best if I never hoover again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 38.7pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: justify;">*Thomas Hardy</div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-34575456646054206662011-08-15T17:13:00.000+01:002011-08-15T17:13:53.520+01:00The Long Slow Fall‘Coo, that’s gone quick’.<br />
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Almost everyone I know has said a version of those words, commenting about the ending of my eight week student nursing placement in a dementia care home. Most of the time I’ve nodded and changed the subject while inside I’ve been screaming, ‘No it hasn’t, it’s been one of the longest and toughest periods of my life’. I had understood that having completed this elderly care placement, I wouldn’t be required to do another one, but last night, my friend informed me that it’s one a year. I almost choked on my bombay mix.<br />
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I still don’t understand why dementia care is not for me. I liked the people I was nursing. My mentor said that most students start off frightened by the strange noises, odd behaviour and personal care. I explained I was positive I could work with all staff groups (ouch that’s more a groan than a laugh). I was confident though. Because dementia is a type of mental impairment, the overlap with working with people with learning disabilities is extensive so all of my old skills kicked in. Naturally, my distaste for the model of care that involves getting 42 strangers all with their own problems to live together in someone else’s house kicked in as well. Especially as the someone else happened to own an extensive collection of vintage cars. I believe in Person Centred Planning, I cried, Get Me Out Of Here.<br />
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The staff were mostly kind to me, and they do their best in under-resourced circumstances. The shift pattern was convivial (early starts not too early). I had some time off to hit the library. There were tea breaks. I got used to having to wear the uniform. My mentor was intelligent and experienced, happy to engage in discussion. It should have been a breeze, and yet I never got comfortable.<br />
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Student nurses are implored to value even the difficult placements as learning opportunities. I went all in on this, and I’m much better informed than when I started. Practical skills (dressings for pressure ulcers, suctioning, injections...) buzz along in my head with assessment and care planning frameworks (Continuing Healthcare Funding, Oxford Care Pathway, Gold Standard Framework) circled by issues of nursing ethos (own training, management of staff, where responsibility rests and the gaps left between). Then there are the different forms of dementia, including Korsokoffs – alcohol related – the kids are tired of me telling them not to drink. I’m far more familiar with the musical The King and I than I ever expected to be. I wonder if Tom Kitwood, father of person centredness realised that his work would be so taken up by learning disability workers while being underutilised in Dementia where he developed it. <br />
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There have been beautiful and moving times. A woman asking me ‘Look, you say this is my home? Well why are all these people here? I can’t afford to cook for them and clean for them.’ A lady waking suddenly from sleep, frightening us both ‘I don’t know you’, and me apologising and agreeing with her although she had seen me around ‘But you’re nice’ she said, rolling over, curling back into slumber. A man obsessing over the work he had to do, lifting and breaking things beyond his strength, yet holding my hand gently, telling me about his father. A woman screaming and fighting, calming with a few words reminding her of who she was. A bath, another bath. Weetabix. A discussion about Scottish nationalism another about education and another about curry. Elvis, Abide With Me, and the discs they used to give away with Sunday supplements. My own soundtrack to it all, Chris T-T’s Tall Woman, and the metaphor of the ‘long, slow fall’.<br />
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Boiling it all down to the last week, when I’d got used to the place and started to think I enjoyed being there was this: my work in caring for people so far has been all about life. Living the best life in spite of the bad hand that has been dealt. Helping people live well. This placement has been about the opposite – about how to die well, and about waiting for death...in slippers...eating mashed potato...enjoying Tom Jones until finally, after a year or ten comes morphine and a CD of ‘Angel Music’.<br />
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I admire the people who work every day helping people to do this, but I’m forced to own, it isn’t for me. It’s taken 43 years to come to the infuriating conclusion that I can’t do everything. No wonder I’ve spent 8 weeks sad, frustrated and annoyed. Like it is when all relationships fail: Dearest Dementia, it’s not you, it’s me (and a bit you to be honest).<br />
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Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-50914109431705334622011-07-31T21:36:00.000+01:002011-07-31T21:36:43.755+01:00Fat Pains<div class="MsoNormal">There’s nothing more cliche than middle aged women talking about how they’ve put on weight, so let’s do that. Then I’ll remark that policemen are getting younger.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have been putting on weight though, big time, a whole size in the six weeks of placement so far. In my spare time I examine the extra folds of flesh that have appeared. I’ve seen these old friends before at the time the scale points to the particular weight at which they appear. I’m considering labelling the dial differently. I could go with ‘triple chin point’, ‘rings don’t fit’, ‘knee agony threshold’, ‘additional fat-pad on upper thigh’, ‘impossible to buy shoes’, ‘cinema seats uncomfortable’ and many more disgusting options. It’s disappointing that in spite of all of the experience of all the disadvantages, I still eat the food that piles it all on. Will you have joint pain or cake? Cake please, and two paracetamol if you would be so kind.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s been worse this time. I’ve had pain in the hips, knees, foot arches and a strange new pain in the back. Not the spine, but sort of the side of the back. Not there, down a bit… Also, I have an odd sensation that I think may be a hernia. And can you have earache as a result of putting on weight because if so, then I have?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if it’s my age, or my weight, or maybe just because I’ve been slightly low, but my body feels as worn out. Nurses are supposed to be stoic, but I’m not a nurse yet so there. Worryingly, if I don’t coax my body into better shape, I might not be able to be one. I’ve run out of cake now, so I’ll never eat any again. Not even the French Fancies that are on special offer £1 a box. Well…not until tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I went to the supermarket for lunch last week. They’ve put the prices up, but as if to compensate, they’re displaying the calorie value of all the meals and drinks. I can’t see it helping sales. It’s somewhat offputting and let’s face it everyone knows that cheese and bacon burger with chips is not going to help you lose weight even if it comes with salad garnish. I always had the fish and chips. Now I know that’s 1075 calories, with a side order of shame. It was nice though. I was good this time. I skipped the peas.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">By the way, I left my car parked on yellow lines by accident and didn’t get a ticket. I blame all those young policemen.<o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-57661962901300160582011-07-28T17:35:00.001+01:002011-07-28T17:35:56.476+01:00And that's Another StoryThe Care Quality Commission released their report on homes run by the Castlebeck care homes firm. Following the abuses at their premises as exposed by Panorama, it comes as no surprise that many of the issues are systemic. The report on the home closest to us in Coventry makes especially <a href="http://caredirectory.cqc.org.uk/_db/_documents/1-116865865_Castlebeck_Care_(Teesdale)_Limited_1-138702353_Arden_Vale_RoC_20110603.pdf">grim reading</a>: locked doors, visits by appointment, rules and restraint. More than ever, it should show us that hospital style services are an unacceptable model of long term care for people with learning disabilities (for anybody, probably).<br />
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Anyway, here's another funny old story I was thinking about:<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><i>It was a warm day in the 1990’s. One of those days when the kids are off school and everyone seems to be getting a train out of the midlands. That was what the five of us were doing; me and four people with learning disabilities*. Here we were, in the community, not very long out of the hospital and if we had the ‘care in the community’ look found questionable by some at that time, none of us minded.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> We were going for a day trip to the countryside and we were all excited. I was heady with newfound responsibilities, William was anxious that there should be cake, Robin hugged himself not liking to be jostled by passers by, Richard wasn’t showing it but we all knew just by the jumper he had picked out he was up for a good time. Every group has a leader though, and ours was Maureen. She had led the way out of the house, she was first off the bus, and I had held out a protective arm as she edged close to the edge of the platform.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The train pulled in, and our door was opened by a guard. People in front of us got on and I ushered our party together, worried about Robin’s need for personal space. Maureen strode to the front of the queue, people giving way to the presence of an older lady moving with a sense of entitlement and a red handbag. I was about to board when the door slammed before me. I wasn’t too worried. I explained to the guard that we had become separated and could he let us on? Please? Oh but please?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The train was full and about to depart. No more room. All right then, please could he let Maureen off? Because as he could see, we were travelling together? Please? I was a carer for people with learning disabilities so he could understand…Please?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>He blew his whistle, and the train pulled away in slow motion, going in the direction of Penzance carrying a woman who had never been to the corner shop alone, had no money and no verbal communication skills even if she has possessed a mobile phone that hadn’t been invented yet. William, Robin, Richard and Maureen were all waving. I wasn’t.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The station master was very understanding. Maureen was finally located just before Bristol. She had been sitting with two elderly ladies who had shared their flasks of tea and hadn’t thought to inform the guard of the presence of their new traveling companion. Some time later she was returned to us. My relief was overwhelming. ‘Maureen’, I exclaimed, ‘ are you all right? I’m so sorry. You must be hungry.’ She wasn’t listening to me though. She had opened her handbag and was fishing inside. Out came a package wrapped neatly in a serviette. She handed it to William, smiling. He took it, grumpy from waiting, but then beaming with gratitude. ‘Chocolate Cake!’ And so it was that his day at least had gone to plan.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">*names and some details have been changed to preserve confidentiality.<o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-39520993831010505962011-07-27T19:32:00.000+01:002011-07-27T19:32:13.591+01:00OldOut of touch for a while, but here I am. Exhausted from my latest nursing placement with older adults and from quick visit to Nan. She recently gave up climbing the stairs and seemed much more frail with failing hips and failed sight. She has been falling out with the religious ladies who visit her. 'It's all rubbish about dead people coming back', she told me 'I want to live'. And then she said, 'mind you I must have someone looking after me'. We fixed her up a headboard and bought sweets. Life goes on and Coventry was calling.<br />
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I've been asked to contribute a funny story for the Mental Health Nursing Newsletter. I wrote this old story up, and thought I'd post it here too.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><i>Alfred (born 8.8. 1915) was my Great Uncle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did watercolour painting, made me a brilliant swing, mended clocks, tamed wild animals, rode a Triumph Acclaim motorbike, kept receipts and saved coppers, polished furniture, and knew the virtue of iodine. He studied signwriting until the outbreak of the Second World War when he was called up fighting with Monty’s Desert Rats in North Africa. He held all kinds of job, including coffin maker, but mostly worked with his brother mending shoes and horse harnesses, retiring in his eighties. Oh, and he had Asburgers Syndrome. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>It was cold, dark and raining the night he came down the lane, walking right in to his sister’s kitchen, already shouting. His voice had a particular tone that carried, his words repeated, often with varied pronunciation. Nan was used to him but couldn’t at first work out what had happened. ‘Alfred, Alfred sit down here’. He wouldn’t though, and demanded to call the police (he had no phone of his own, too expensive). Was he sure he needed to? Yes. He took the phone and the call was made. We lived in a rural area and they would be some time. He phoned again to make sure they were coming. Tea was offered and having taken over the precise measurement of the leaf tea (too much was wasteful) he became more coherent.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Some boys had come to his house. Not boys, youth. In a gang. They had demanded money and threatened to do damage if they weren’t satisfied. He had sent them packing but they might come back.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>‘What did they say exactly?’ My Nan questioned him cautiously. Alfred was still angry. ‘They demanded money with menaces’. He told her how they had knocked the door and said something he couldn’t catch. They were dressed up in coats and scarves over their faces. He asked them again and they said something about treacle. When he had asked what they meant by it they had threatened to do something to his house if he didn’t give them money. ‘Treacle, are you sure?’ He was sure.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The police officer arrived and Alfred retold the story. ‘It was definitely about treacle’, Alfred said, ‘treacle..treacle.. treat’. The officer folded his notebook. ‘Sir it is the thirty first of October’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a long pause. ‘Could it have been Trick or Treat?’</i><o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-17919724650537118432011-06-29T08:26:00.000+01:002011-06-29T08:26:53.498+01:00Thanks Mum<div class="MsoNormal">Nina is 21 today. Where did my life go? Subconscious working overtime, I was awake for the early-morning time she was born. We gave her some money to go to a festival this weekend, and a TV as a surprise gift. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For a special birthday treat, I offered to give her a lift to her job, usually a half hour walk away. The trouble is that she doesn’t drive and I didn’t know where the job was. We picked a route we thought we knew, but in the year that Nina has been at Uni a new housing estate has been built and the road layout changed. Lost, we got out the sat-nav, but the little voice was perplexed, taking us in ever increasing circles as the traffic built up.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Already ten minutes late, but luckily still laughing, I drove Nina to the nearest point from which she could find the way on foot – virtually home. ‘Thanks Mum.’<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In my bad sitcom life it’s a parable of motherhood: trying to do my best, blundering about making mistakes, and still somehow managing to have great kids. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Happy Birthday Nina (sssh, she hates it when I write abut her).<o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-25457794755296425022011-06-26T22:47:00.000+01:002011-06-26T22:47:00.230+01:00Joining the Dance<div class="MsoNormal">In tough times, isn’t it a comfort that there are loads of wise sayings out there to help me get through. No, it isn’t. Wise sayings are just one line fairytales designed to keep us from rebellion. I’m a woman on the edge – but wait – ‘What does not kill us makes us stronger’. Oh, that’s fine then.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In employment, in addition to company slogans that are wise sayings in disguise (see above), we are offered comfort from codes of behaviour. Elaborate dances to the tune of authority structures, customs, and values. Few of these are explicit, and a new team member is pretty much set up to trip over and get bruised. The jobs that I’ve lasted in have been the ones I’ve been able to pitch in quickly and prance about laughing until I’ve worked out what everyone else is up to and where I fit in. In those jobs I’ve enjoyed the rhythm, so not knowing the dance hasn’t mattered. I shared in my colleagues’ common joys and trials. This is the way I felt about my first job in Mr Leatherbrother’s (Mr Lee to staff) chippie when I was thirteen. I had a sixth sense about when the teapot was about to run dry, could squeeze between the summer crowds with a pile of crocks in one hand and a rag in the other. I loved the boss and he loved me, especially when I burned the meal of pigs’ trotters that his ex-wife had set on the boil in the back kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved washing up with the boss’s son to Dexy’s Midnight Runners. He was the only black child I knew in Cornwall that was as white as Princess Diana’s wedding dress in 1981, and the only adopted child too. We compared notes about life and disagreed in a good-natured way on everything bar Genome. Most of all, I loved the women who served in the shop, their humour, their hard work, their pragmatism, the way they made allowances for my age but not many and not for long. I loved their stories about their husbands, gossip about their children, their moral values, the liveliness and life in them. One day when I was away at college, Mr Lee did what he had always talked of doing and sold up to retire. I returned to find a clothes shop in place of the chippie over the road from the museum. It was as though I had come home to find that my family had been wiped out by the ravages of an earthquake. I grieved until I found them. The women had set up a refugee camp working at the bakery on the front street, Mr Lee had gone back to Yorkshire after his son had run away having robbed the old man by climbing in over the roof at night. It was a scandal over a saffron bun.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If I fitted in at Mr Lee’s, I did the opposite at the supermarket. Aged sixteen, I had been tempted by the better pay and hours (I was developing a cider-based social life). I was on the checkouts covering the breaks of the other girls. In the time before scanning checkouts, tills were a beige coated cast iron calculator. The task was to find the price label on the item then copy it into the machine by pressing the heavy square keys. After finishing the number it was necessary to depress a bar at the side of the keypad with the edge of the hand, making the till add up. It was all set up for right handed people, and this made me slower and clumsier than average. I never got to know anybody in the subsidised canteen where people chatted and smoked, looking at me with suspicion as I sat alone. Neither did I learn the numerous rules of conduct. I felt bullied by the supervisors who seemed to catch me out in the transgressions routinely overlooked in everyone else. The other checkout girls (the manager had his own policy of employing only pretty young girls, he told us so on our first day along with the fire drill was ‘wear make-up but not too much, tie your hear up nicely and smile’) were all a bit older than me, and wouldn’t let me adjust their seats while they were on their breaks so I was always uncomfortable and sore. I bit back the tears threatening to smudge my blue eyeshadow as the supers ostentatiously re-calculated the value of a trolley of shopping that I had put through, finding me 2p in the wrong. During afternoon tea-break on my sixth day, I walked out, telling no one that I wouldn’t be back, and leaving my overalls by the door of the personnel office. I never went back for my 98p per hour wages and no one ever called to check that I hadn’t been abducted by aliens. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I fell into learning disability work, mostly by accident, I felt like I already knew the dance of the job. Falling out of it was more about tiredness and ill health than any disenchantment with the tune. Last year, I began mental health nursing with caution about how I would find it. It went well on the last placement, like coming home. It was imperfect, and there were trips and bruises, but I never wanted to walk away. They warn students every placement is different, and that some are difficult. Student nurses have to be exposed to a range of experience so the placements are allocated by a mysterious process to which I’m not privy. Given this, I was certain to be given at least one placement that I wouldn’t have selected. I’m all grown up now though, experienced in the ways of the staffroom, powerful in the way that I thought those middle aged women at Mr Lee’s to be. I ought to be able to join the dance anywhere. And yet, it’s the end of the first week and I have the same feelings of the sixteen year old who dumped the uniform and made a break for the fresh air.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t get me wrong, it is as one of the nurses so aptly put it, a good-hearted place. Adequate or more than so in every respect. It turns out (and why would it not) that people with dementia act in the style of people with severe to profound learning disabilities with life limiting conditions. The staff are people of kindly and efficient nature, doing all they can for people with warmth and affection. There’s a good staffroom, rest breaks and tolerable hours. People have been pleasant to me. It should feel right but something is amiss in the dance between me and this place. I have the wrong shoes, the well worn trainers that encourage people to learn to do all they can, to battle their disabilities, find new pleasures, live to the full. The footwear to compliment this placement’s tune might be slippers in which to sleep out the long last afternoons. I came unprepared by my Nan, now one hundred and a half, who said this last week after telling me her age as she says every time ‘and I want to live’. She has moved into her living room now, unable to manage the stairs but otherwise unchanged. On my first day of placement, a member staff introduced the service by explaining that she thought of it as offering mainly terminal care. This was echoed by a service user who seemed cheerful as she said she was here waiting to die. She laughed at my shock and changed the topic for me. And so I learned a little more about kindness.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One week down, seven to go. There’s no Mr Lee to go back to, so I’m going to have to make it to the end of the tune all be it with bruises. After all, ‘what can’t be cured must be endured’. Oh.<o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-65914807803861629262011-06-01T03:09:00.001+01:002011-06-01T03:18:39.111+01:00Watch it and Weep<div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Usually I aim for funnies on this blog, but not today, however good the latest episode of Richard Herring’s <a href="http://www.comedy.co.uk/podcasts/as_it_occurs_to_me/">AIOTM</a> is. Today is for thinking about abuse, and how it happens, and even how it can be fed by the best of people. All of this was prompted by the <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/panorama/hi/default.stm">Panorama</a> investigation into a ‘hospital’ for people with learning disabilities, uncovering abuse that looks like torture from my place on the sofa. If you’re in the UK and haven’t seen it, have a <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b011pwt6/Panorama_Undercover_Care_The_Abuse_Exposed/">look</a> if you can stand it, but not just before bed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The program raises lots of questions. Who abuses? Why? What about management? Regulators? Training? How to ‘manage people with challenging behaviour’? I don’t have the answers, but I’m ready to tell a story of abuse. It’s true, but names and places are changed for confidentiality.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was the part of the ‘90’s before we had Brit Pop, football for the middle class, and laddism. No one I knew had a mobile phone or had heard of the internet. It was my first job as a support worker. I was on a challenging behaviour unit working with a group of men who because of their history of ‘severely challenging behaviour’ were the last to be released from hospital to the community. It wasn’t their own place though; it was officially hospital premises, led by nurses who had worked at the hospital. The support workers were local women some with hospital experience but most not, of whom I was the youngest. There was no induction or training, support workers were unqualified, gaining unofficial seniority through length of service or strong personality. We worked to a number of rules and routines that weren’t subject to question. I cleaned skirting boards twice daily and was unable to display the service users’ drawings because the notice board in their kitchen was for staff. Walls were putty coloured and chipped, furniture was vinyl upholstered, and there were no curtains. I had to face early shifts. There was a lot not to like, but from the first day I loved the men and their families and felt I had found my vocation.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Harold was one of the men I worked with. He would have been in his forties at the time, tall slim and muscular he was always active. His chief loves were to be outside scratching in the bushes with his tough fingers, or to follow staff about, joining in with what was going on chiefly by cheekily disrupting it. His speech comprised a few words he had made up, although he understood a bit more. There was a kindness about him, he could tell if someone was upset and would approach and attempt to cheer them up, ‘Awww’ he would coo, and then tug an ear and dart away laughing ‘ekky, ekky’. He exhibited the behaviours of people who lived at the old hospitals: a love of sweet tea and a fear of keys which before my time were brought down on the knuckles of people as punishment. Don’t get me wrong though, Harold was hard on the nerves when he pestered for what he wanted which was often difficult to determine. He was bruisingly rough and when focussed inwardly saw no danger or self-control. One time, he ran into a busy road unexpectedly after a leaf. Three of us couldn’t stop him, or persuade him to get up from his kneeling position as he turned it in his hands, precious as it was to him.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the time, the senior management were looking for us to be seen to do more activities with ‘the gentlemen’ as they were called. This can be hard in learning disabilities work because people may struggle to concentrate for more than a moment, there can be issues of safety, there are never enough staff to take people out (or if there are, there’s no transport), and what with shift patterns and gossip and notes and meetings, well….. At the time, the patients’ money was tightly controlled to the extent that when the dentist suggested to me that one of them could be more independent in cleaning his teeth if he had an electric toothbrush I had to go to a panel with the dentist’s recommendation in writing and three quotes. Some of us began to cook with people, looked through books, did drawing, and turned things like cutting fingernails into manicures while the old guard watched in astonishment – what about the skirting boards? Some of those old timers, catching on to the new ‘activities thing’ had a brainwave. They revived the unused allotment area on the grounds of the unit. That way, they could get away for a smoke, grow a few potatoes, and need only take the ‘easiest’ of ‘the gentlemen’ with them. If I seem unduly cynical about all this, I will own that at least ‘the gentlemen’ got to eat organic home grown veg when it was only available from health food shops.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It had been a sunny afternoon. I had been working alone in the house while two of the older support workers had been up at the allotment without a service user. Sometimes it’s easier to do things for people, and John, who they might have taken with them, had stretched out on his bed when offered the activity ‘fk-ovv’. I didn’t mind. Harold and I had been cleaning (me the windows and Harold my arms), I had been singing line by line while he made up a chorus in rhythm ‘ee oo eea’. If I stopped he would demand ‘singy singy’ and we would go on.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The staff came back, one of the nurses arrived, there was chatter in the kitchen and tea to drink. A support worker had picked a bunch of cabbage and it lay in its roots and soil on the worktop. There was talk about the crop, and pride at the successful growing season. Harold had been listening in, leaning on the wall, unnoticed. Unexpectedly, he strode across the kitchen, pushing the women aside to reach the cabbage ‘ooo oooo mmm’. He clasped it to himself. At that time, emphasis was placed on teaching people things. Someone had picked manners, partly I suppose to get ‘the gentlemen’ better socialised, but also (and this had been made explicit to me) to get them to acknowledge the authority of staff. They should ask before they had things, thus Harold should have said ‘ple’ which was his word for ‘please’ and have pointed to the cabbage before picking it up. Immediately the shouting started, ‘Harold, Harold you give that back and say please…Harold put that down now…no, you can’t have it’. All three women at once, surrounding him with high pitched sound.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Harold held on to the cabbage that had come from his allotment, picked by his support worker for his dinner. There were no risk assessments then, but if there were, we’re talking a non-harm-causing, non-harm able cabbage. ‘Nah, nah’, Harold shook his head. The nurse assumed charge; she pulled at the cabbage, calling to the other staff to pluck his fingers to release it. Harold was screaming now, backed into the kitchen cupboards. Eventually, he threw the cabbage to the floor, shoving past us and running to the adjacent living room.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Kitchen and lounge were linked by a serving hatch with doors that we normally kept closed. The lounge was the nicest room in the house, it had the TV, vinyl sofas, a coffee table and a dresser. Room length patio windows led on to the grounds that went downhill to a stream and weeping willows in the valley. Harold began to pick things up and tap them, first a book ‘na na na’ in a sing-song voice like Three Blind Mice, tap tap tap. The nurse pursued him telling us to stay where we were as she would ‘make him behave’. Harold went for a brass ornament, banging it louder, still singing, then the end of the coffee table. Things by now were looking risky, and we all knew from past experience that Harold would not now easily be calmed. The nurse, still shouting at him to put things down and behave began to pass things to us through the hatch. It was a room of few knick knacks, soon emptied. Harold rushed about looking for things he could bang ‘nah nah nah’, bang bang bang. Having run out of things, he tried to leave. The nurse barricaded herself and Harold into the room using the sofa. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still more distressed, spit flying, his head tilted upwards, Harold began to spin on the spot, He was caught up in his rhythm now, oblivious to calls, and to the nurse's attempts to hold him still. I remember his sudden movement, but not what prompted it. He made a last attempt at the blocked door, shifting the sofa a foot then turned and ran at the patio door, punching his hand through the glass.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Time slowed down as it shattered (it wasn’t safety glass), shards holding in place as he pulled his hand back and looked down at it, a six inch cut bleeding heavily . Then, he sank to the floor, holding the hand as he had first held the cabbage ‘ekky, ekky bad ba’. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While Harold was at the hospital getting his stitches, we sat down to write our witness statements. I wrote what I was told to, with the story starting at the door to the lounge and omitting the sofa barricade. It was concluded that ‘that’s Harold and it couldn’t be helped’. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I learnt a lot, but I’ll leave you to your own analysis.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The window was repaired before Harold’s hand, the glazier told me he had been out twice before when patients had put them through and he always replaced the broken ones with safety glass. There were twelve panes in total. I had enough courage to ask the boss if all of them could be replaced to save further injury, but was told they could not and that ‘the gentlemen will learn from their experience’. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Harold healed (slowly because he was forever removing the bandage to look at the cut, bad ba), and I moved on. I kept in touch for some years after as his team changed around him. Before long, all of the staff bar the nurse (who now worked on another ward) were new to me. The place got curtains and fresh paint, better food and carpet. Harold got a holiday photo out of his pocket to show me. One Christmas, a nice member of staff asked me where the scar came from. She held it out to me as she did so. He snatched the hand away , running a thumb across it soothingly ‘bad ba ba’.<o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-43214754523106813802011-05-22T23:40:00.000+01:002011-05-22T23:40:15.175+01:00Jamaica: John Crow's Botty<div class="MsoNormal">Jamaica is two weeks behind me now, and as is the case with every holiday I’ve taken, it’s hard to believe that the holiday destination is carrying on just the same without me. I’m reliably informed that it is, just as the rest of the planet has carried on in spite of the warnings of a <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/apocalypse-quietly-harold-camping-awol/story?id=13659311">nut</a> who had some people fooled and who captured the imaginations of a whole lot more of us. The holiday laundry is done, the souvenirs given out, we’ve drunk some of the rum but not broken into the spices I brought back. Those, the fading tan line from the wrist band, and memories remain. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This bits I liked best about Jamaica all feature birds. I’m no twitcher, but in those training sessions where the leader has run out of things to teach and asks, ‘What animal do you most identify with?’ Right after I ask myself why I’m wasting my life, I always think of birds. Sometimes I think of being one of a cluster of songbirds, a pretty one, pecking over seed on a bird table. Other times I think of starlings at twilight thousands of billowing as one in the sky like a black sheet shaken out. Most often, I reply that I identify with one of the hunting hawks that float on the warm air currents and answer to no-one. Then, I blush, feeling I’ve given away too much and wish I answered ‘cat’ just like every other woman in the room (men answer ‘cat’ too, they just vocalise it as ’tiger’ for testosterone proving purposes). <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The hotel we stayed at was on the beach. If I walked to the far end of it, right down by the fence that separated our hotel’s bit with the next hotel’s bit and made it impossible to walk along the coastline, it was almost possible not to hear reggae music. At first, I just enjoyed the beach looking like they do in the brochure: white sand, turquoise sea, gently shelving, blue sun loungers, palm trees… Then, shortly after I discovered the fence (and its twin at the other end), I realised that the palms were planted in a straight line, and that the reason for the lack of proper waves and the tide coming in only a metre was that out towards the horizon was some kind of wall that the waves were crashing on to. I scoped out the coastline beyond the fence and there, the water broke on to sandstone scrubland, proving that the sand was imported. Thus, I was hemmed in on all sides by a luxury playpen. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There weren’t just palms on the beach. Some broad leaf trees had taken hold. They had wide–spreading flat tops, and dry, white bark that ants lived in. I developed a fondness for spilling a bit of sticky drink and watching them gather for a feast. I could hear birds in the trees as I lay on a lounger below them, but it took me some effort to spot them. Then, just like one of those illusion puzzles where you can’t see the image for a while, but when you do you can’t unsee it, they were everywhere. I’ve tried looking them up, and they could have been <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jamaican_Crow">Jamaican crows</a>, only there’s no mention of them living on artificial beaches in the grounds of hotels. I had a special one who kept his beady eye on me, as I did on him. I didn’t want to get bird poo on me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I just took an exam by the way. It seemed to go really well because, for the first time since O’level maths, I did proper revision. Maybe breaking my kindle just as the holiday started was for the best, all I had left to read was my revision notes. In the exam, I had a moment just as I read the question about the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Recovery_model">Recovery Model</a> of mental health when all I could think of was a bird. It was a small black and white one, all alone. It moved quickly in the air over the water, and then flapped its wings hard to stay still before dive bombing into the shallows for fish. It seemed to favour the same spot from late afternoon until sunset. The light would catch under its wings, and it would lurch about the sky, unaffected by the mundane happenings of humankind, the most beautiful thing I saw in all of Jamaica. Naturally, I can’t work out what it was. Possibly this <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black-capped_Petrel">petrel</a>?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One day, we went out of the hotel with a relative of my friend and her boyfriend. He drove us along the coast road from Mo-Bay to Negril where there is real coastline. As it was Easter, people come in coaches from the hills inland to play on the sand and go to beach parties. At night, walls of speakers are stacked four metres high and rum-bars appear. That’s all by-the-by. I spotted big dark birds in the sky and asked what they were. ‘Crows’ the man scowled ‘like vultures feeding on dead animals’. I took a liking to them but neglected them as the events of the day unfolded. That night we stayed in a house up in the hills where chickens and goats roamed wild and where water was delivered to wooden shacks in bowsers. It was strange to sleep in a room in a shared house (‘dolphin house’ because its door pillars were sculpted that way) owned by the cousin of somebody. I woke just before sunrise and watched from a balcony as the great carrion birds ascended from the woodland treetops in groups, off to catch the warm air currents, each alone for the day. Days later it was pointed out to me that the JB rum I had bought as a souvenir featured the birds. We call it ‘John Crow’s Botty’ the man told me as he lined up the sun loungers, ‘but really it’s Jamaica’s Best or Jamaica Breast’. I thought he was joking, but as it turns out, those great birds are known locally as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turkey_Vulture">John Crows</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-1153805522384862792011-05-17T22:51:00.000+01:002011-05-17T22:51:09.543+01:00Jamaica: Sex Crime Eighty Dollars<div class="MsoNormal">Before I set off, my ultra-supportive husband borrowed a guidebook from the library for me to read. This marked the watershed for holiday planning, and whilst I told myself I was just looking up the basic info to pack a suitcase, as I read I developed expectations. In a former life, I learned about expectations. The trick in business is to just exceed those of your customer, anything over is waste, and anything under is disappointment. I have a rather idiosyncratic theory that depression is the result of unmet expectations. I won’t be mentioning it on the forthcoming exam paper, although some theorists say that depression is due to a bucket and I will be writing that. Strange? But I digress.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The guidebook mentioned white sands, palm trees, waterfalls, and coconuts. There was a very tiny part where it also mentioned sex tourism and cannabis. Jokingly, I pointed this out to Nick and asked him if he minded be taking full advantage of all that the nation had to offer? I needed the guidebook because until my friend told me that Jamaica was where she was taking me, I had never thought of going there. I had formed no expectations other than that it was a long way to go and would be out of my price range. I sort of like the music of Bob Marley, but given his untimely death from cancer some years previously it was unlikely that he would be performing. I suspected that all I knew were clichés; after all, I went to Tunisia and didn’t see a single grain of couscous. I went to America, and didn’t see a single child with a gun. I planned to take it as it came.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was our first morning. My expectations had been met by palm trees with coconuts on them, a pool with sun loungers around it and exceeded by the breakfast buffet. The sound of the sea was drowned out by reggae music. Hot sun had revealed the trim, tanned flesh of young American women in designer beachwear and the reddening beshorted flesh of the wealthy American men who seemed not to be their dads. I am a fat, moderately off English woman. I realised I would need to purchase a number of sarongs. The marble was gleaming, the plants exotic, the breeze was warm. There was a bank of salespeople at tables selling trips to hilltop mansions, magnificent waterfalls, tropical rivers, dolphin experiences… I took in my new all-inclusive town, my subconscious feet following in the wake of my lovely friend. She was heading for the gate.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">If Jamaica equals Bob Marley and Rastas then it follows in the mind that cannabis figures. I don’t have strong feelings on cannabis; all I can say for myself is that it makes me nauseous, so I don’t use it. There were two guards at the gate, they operated a large barrier. From there we could see we were on a side road bordered by scrubland, there was a petrol station and a Burger King. We were approached by dust-coated raggedy men immediately we passed the barrier, a little like we had come through one of the magical shields featured in the works of JK Rowling. They offered drugs and sex. There was friendly rivalry between them four had come forward and another handful watched from a pavilion over the road. It occurred to me they might have built it. The banter was flattering, superficially light but beneath that was a mix of wariness and hunger. I sensed keen business intelligence assessing the prospects offered by two lone women, one of whom had not bothered to wear a ring that morning.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend went to sit in the car of an individual in Rastafarian dress. I was left with to make small talk with a licenced taxi driver who for eighty US dollars would make sure I had a good time. He could also get me coke, cannabis, or seemingly as a last resort drive me wherever I liked to go. His friends catcalled from their shelter, but he remained as focussed on me as my little dog is while food is on my plate. I stood monosyllabic, expecting him to work out I was not about to buy his services and then to swear a little and move off. However, once his awkward assessment was done, he seemed to relax. He had asked me where I was from and went on to talk about a relative who had come to Birmingham. He hadn’t been to England and would like to have done when he was younger, but now his father was getting older and he had a family. He said that he worked around the hotel here and would beat the process offered by the hotel. Again he proudly showed me his licence and warned me that not all drivers had one, which was against the rules. I found myself thawing, and in spite of my initial revulsion, accepted his business card when he offered it to me. My friend came out of the Rasta’s car and entered into negotiations with another man about a factory made friendship bracelet sporting the legend ‘ire’. She wanted it and I handed over the equivalent of £10 to get him to leave. He followed us to the gate.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At sunset, men in beaten-up canoes paddled the length of the beach selling sex, cannabis, and hematite jewellery from their boats. No doubt to protect themselves from bad magic, they never set foot on land, but stayed in the shallows while the occasional tourist paddled out, calf deep. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">As the holiday went on, it transpired that eighty dollars was the going rate for what tourists bought from locals. I came gradually to the conclusion that behind the charming roadside stalls selling conch soup (thin spiced, with conch pieces), and fresh jelly coconut (fresh green coconuts the top shaved down with a machete so that the warm milk could be drunk through a straw) was a trade in drugs. Could anybody make a living selling the occasional drink for a dollar? Away from the gate, there was a sense of hand-to –mouth poverty remedied by selling one cash crop and limited services. That said, we were shackled by our all-inclusive wrist bands (unaccountably they didn’t have’ exploit me or mug me’ printed on them), and apart from a drive out with relatives of my friend, we didn’t see much of the country. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eighty US bought two very large twigs of cannabis. I never found out what kind of sex a woman could get for the same money, but I’ll always have the fantasy.<o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-83091896069107630722011-05-14T23:08:00.001+01:002011-05-14T23:09:52.284+01:00Jamaica: Three Take-Offs and a Rum Punch<div class="MsoNormal">Long absence from blogging because, guess what? I’ve been to Jamaica. All thanks to my lovely generous, clever and beautiful and spontaneous friend. Sometimes life throws an opportunity you just have to catch. The next few entries are likely to be about the trip, but not too much about Jamaica because…well, you’ll see. In case you came looking for some kind of tourist guide, here’s the info: the weather is really hot, the sea is blue, they drink a lot of rum and syrupy fruit drinks, prices are more or less the same as the UK, Riu Hotel’s delicious all inclusive buffets make you fat, you can buy drugs and sex the reggae is free and all three are everywhere. Print that, Thomson. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m frightened of loads of stuff. I blame my Nan who was a lovingly overprotective grandparent. I don’t like: escalators that run downwards, standing on anything higher than chair height, the sensation of floating, small boats, unfamiliar squishy foods, insects, anything wobbly, anything I might fall off of, graze myself on, or trap my finger in…The list is extensive, do you think it includes fear of flying? <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We had champagne at the airport. They have a special type of café that sells all different types of it by the glass or bottle, served with smoked salmon for breakfast if you like. I’m sort of afraid of Champaign, not particular because of the danger of corks, nor the risk demonstrated by Richard Herring of the surprise anal insertion of a bottle of verve clincot during a threesome, but because wine brings on indigestion. However, my friend suggested a bucks fizz compromise option and I didn’t have the heart to say that orange juice gives me indigestion too, so I was drinking alcohol at 7am. This may or may not be enough to excuse my updating my facebook status far too often for anyone’s comfort. Ah well..<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We boarded on time. It had all been trouble free. Nick asked me what kind of plane it was, but I can only say it was a big one, the type that has two seats by each window and four down the middle. I was all set for the flight; I had crisps and sweets, my Kindle and my revision notes. Seatbelt sign illuminated, we trundled into position. My Nan forgot to warn me that metal tubes are subject to gravity and so I love flying fearlessly. Take off is my favourite, I watched Birmingham recede under clouds, the sweets dealt with my painful ears and I was looking forward to ten hours 15 minutes: my choice of doing revision/watching in-flight movies.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I often point out to anyone who will listen, that anywhere people gather to enjoy themselves, there will be a twat to ruin it. I’m afraid I always use the word ‘twat’ so am compelled to use it in this case (no, I’m not self-aware enough to realise that sometimes I might be the twat). A seat along from us was a man with twin one year old babies. As I watched him repeatedly berate his small, placid daughter, I made my classic remark to my friend. I’m not sure she heard, she was enjoying a little drink, and is in any case too open of spirit to notice even the the most twattish behaviour. Thinking about it, this may be the reason for our friendship enduring over decades.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We had been in flight for an hour when the voice of the pilot came from the PA, we were turning back due to a fault with the aeroplane. All around me, the air thickened with anxiety. The flight back was long enough for this to transform into a kind of group sulkiness. We were supposed to be on the way to Jamaica, but now we were heading for East Midlands Airport. How dare the pilot not carry on? Surely the fault couldn’t be that bad, there was no smell of smoke or rushing of wind. Surreptitiously, once I had familiarised myself with the location of the emergency exit, I reached under my seat to find the lifejacket. The seatbelt was already tight enough. Fully extended, it was a snug fit.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">East Midlands airport was pretty in the sunshine. The fire engines came along to welcome us as our plane, fat with fuel for long haul, it landed hard, and there was a small fire. There was some tutting. I pretended I was the queen as I walked down the aircraft steps. I’ve never seen her boarding a bus parked at the bottom though. In my opinion, she’s missing out. I love a game of sardines. We had several hours to get to know East Midlands Airport (the bit we were locked into has a bar, a café, six toilets, a cage for smokers and erm..) during which I dropped and broke my Kindle. This was the worst thing that happened all holiday as I was left with nothing to read but my revision notes. Anyone who has ever read the National Dementia Strategy will be aware this couldn’t be a good thing.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thompson gave us a £5 voucher for a meal, and got us all back on the plane. They had fixed the faulty brake fluid pipe, and were taking on some more fuel. At some point. Quite soon. Presumably this could only be done with all of the passengers on board. The pilot came back on. We would be taking off…. but were going to Manchester. There was a lot of shouting in the cabin at this point, so it took a while to get the gist that this was because replacement crew were being collected. They couldn’t come to us because this would mean them working too long, which is what had happened to the existing crew while they waited for the repairs. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I got on with learning the mechanisms by which the body controls blood pressure. Fascinating. The man with the children was up and out of his seat, swaggering to the back of the plane and making his views known to the stewardess. He came back rather in the manner of a yo-yo on the up spin. How dare she tell him to sit down? Holding his now sleeping daughter in his arms, he paced and shouted, too close for comfort in the small cabin. Other men attempted to soothe him, but this served to reignite his ire. Meanwhile, the man in the window seat took his third glug from his litre of duty free scotch. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a smooth landing in Manchester, England, where there were no palm trees. Jamaica has a Manchester too, probably it has no magpies. A woman told me the delay had ruined her holiday. The plane was hot. There were unpleasant odours. I felt lucky. We weren’t floating on a raft in the Atlantic. We wouldn’t get to Jamaica only to crash because our crew were exhausted. The day had started with Champaign and my glass was half full. In this moment of peace I realised that finally I was mentally well, able to cope with stress and see the positive. It’s been a long trip. Then the twat started up again. The atmosphere became dark as the crew attempted to placate him. The man by the window, by now a litre through his duty free, began to argue with his girlfriend. Further along, a young woman who seemed to be unaware of the possibility of a moderate approach to tanning or vocal volume remarked that Thomson should refund the cost of the trip, ‘If I’m not there I lose a £45 appearance fee’. I was intrigued but too shy to ask for an autograph.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A new captain came on. In furious tone, he said that he would be completing pre-flight checks in his own time and we were to stay in our seats and not take it out on the crew who had all had to come in at short notice. Then, the police arrived. They ordered us to sit down, in a way that suggested they might pull out guns if we failed to comply. As they dealt with the twat, and the drunk who had refused to yield his bottle to the crew, holding it to himself more lovingly than the father held the still sleeping baby. A posh man cornered a member of the cabin crew, calling out that he wasn’t happy to be shouted at by the police. The twat swapped twins, and began to play with his infant son in a charming way. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were off. They gave us a letter at the end to claim on the insurance for the nine hour delay, but it was more than made up for by the free in-flight entertainment supplied by the passengers. At bedtime, there was fruit punch with rum. I have no fear of rum.<o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-31354128311034746352011-03-30T19:23:00.000+01:002011-03-30T19:23:41.766+01:00Alien Visits Coventry<div class="MsoNormal">It’s all happening around here, a bit like one of those corny films where the gods set the pieces in motion. The pawns have a sense that things are changing, but are clueless as to how it might all pan out. Will they get washed away in a tsunami or wild sex in a Jacuzzi? Will the tsunami wash them away to a tropical paradise? Will they catch gonorrhoea from their good times? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Luckily, my life is not that exciting. Nick has another job with the Council, but no idea of what the salary will be and little idea of what the job involves. I might be going on holiday at Easter, although I have no passport, money, or beachwear. The volume of work for Uni is multiplying, and I’ve been doing some work towards it, but not really understanding if what I’ve been up to has been any use for the forthcoming exams. My efforts towards the willowpattern embroidery project are looking splendid. That’s the bit of my life that I’m confident about. I’m a bit overwhelmed and still ill with my wheezy chest so my skittish brain is coming up with all sorts of nonsense.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A bit of sunshine makes everything look better. It’s quite a lot to ask it to make my part of Coventry look good though, and the same goes for the citizens of Coventry. We are an exceptional grouping of humanity. It’s as though we style ourselves on our flea ridden feral pigeons. Sorry if I’m offending any of my vast Coventry readership (heaven knows I can’t afford to lose any of you), but come on..you know it’s true. </div><div class="MsoNormal">One afternoon this week, I saw someone who was genuinely beautiful. This never-ever happens in Spon End. A young woman, long-legged and slender, wearing denim shorts that were short but not sleazy was walking in flat pumps towards the subway. Her honey-coloured skin caught the afternoon light, the gloss from her dark hair dazzled, even her elbows were attractive. Down she went, into the urine soaked depths, seeming to float above the debris of takeaway cartons and vomit. I had never seen her before, and that shouldn’t be a surprise in a city of 3.8 million but after a while in one place, you get to know the faces and types. Perhaps she was an alien being, shaped to blend in, who had based her research on the beaches of Miami but crash-landed west of Matalan. Maybe she was a goddess who had the fancy to get down with the mortals but couldn’t face the full garbage feeding disguise.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feared as I walked behind her that I was having a bizarre middle aged moment of reversed sexuality. Seeking reassurance I looked about me to notice that everyone who<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angel passed turned to look at her once, then twice, and then a shamefaced third time. Some stumbled, some stopped breathing. One, his arm unexpectedly lifeless, dropped his phone. The old ladies with their shopping trolleys, the homeless in their anoraks, the girls pushing buggies with shopping on the back, youths in tracksuits, men in suits, hippie would-bes in unpressed linen, all of us affected. Angel looked neither right nor left, but climbed the steps and went on fast past the nightclubs and hairdressers. I glanced away and then back, but she had gone, probably shimmering before she vanished into a silver orb.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Surely she wasn’t heading for Primark?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Coventry does have an exceptionally good Primark. Is that enough of a draw for a space-alien-angel-goddess though?</div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-2833067549565305872011-03-23T18:07:00.000+01:002011-03-23T18:07:00.361+01:00Extra-Extra<div class="MsoNormal">Spotted in front of me at supermarket checkout:</div><div class="MsoNormal">Skeletally thin man with extra-extra-thin crust pizza. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Behind him: </div><div class="MsoNormal">Me with two tubs ice-cream and two crème eggs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you think there could be something to the calories in calories out approach? Nah, it’s a metabolism thing, obviously.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, must dash, doing proper uni revision and that second crème-egg won’t eat itself.</div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-36693501238858150992011-03-23T02:56:00.001+01:002011-03-23T02:58:31.866+01:00Not a Review of Richard Herring's Christ on a Bike<div class="MsoNormal">Impulsively, I drove my chest infection (and H) up the motorway to Derby. With the spare time that being a student affords, the lure of Richard Herring’s Christ on a Bike had been too hard to resist. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Derby turned out to be a market town that elegantly manages to combine old world charm with a huge bustling Nandos. We got to the venue early for the unallocated seating, a guilty pleasure since I had booked the tickets half an hour before we set off but managed to get an ace second row place. The theatre was one of those municipal types where the bar makes no attempt to over-charge, and the mature usher sits by the door with a kind word for the bewildered. This got me smiling as I sat down. I don’t know if I’m alone in thinking the venue important. My heart sinks when I consider going to Wolverhampton with the high booking fee and the over-zealous security. I hadn’t considered Derby before but it’s about the same distance away in time (further in miles) and I’d definitely come back.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had seen the Edinburgh Christ on a Bike, but given the subsequent London run and tour I had expected developments. Naturally, I had seen the Edinburgh version of Herring too but I was unprepared for his new slimmer, smarter look. If ever his girlfriend is to make an honest man of him, she should get on with it this year because the photos will be lovely. The show is more sleek too, pacy, clever and very, very funny. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I never know how to write reviews, so it’s just as well the audience were there for me to eavesdrop at half time. The teenager who began the evening saying this was probably going to be a waste of two hours of her life was in conversation with her dad about the meaning of ‘begat’. An older female relative of hers remarked that she could tell Herring was a brilliant writer because she had to think what he was saying and then he was funny. Meanwhile, the committed fans were going over the recurrent themes, debating their origins. Someone, somewhere said ‘Of course, he used to be big but you never see him now, so I thought I’d come.’ Happily, no one compared him unfavourably with Steward Lee.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They all have a point. Herring’s comedy is full of detail and delivered at a blistering pace. The cleverness is always as much on his sleeve as the cheekiness that allows him to get away with talking about the cock of Christ. It’s a far more demanding gig to sit through that the average comedian, you have to concentrate. Hours and weeks later, bits come back to you in a gut burst of a giggle, in intellectual inquiry. It’s why I love Herring far more than say, Ross Noble (who really makes me laugh on the night, but not after), but I think also why Herring doesn’t fill arenas. That wonderful new Pret-a –Manger joke deserves a big audience though.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s a beguiling, child-like quality in the stage Herring. Being so, there’s nothing a child likes as much as an in-joke as between mates. These have grown over the years, and if you’re a nerd for his work, you crave their presence. By the same token, I wonder if they’re the other reason Herring’s not on the telly (please let him be on the telly). The paying punters who weren’t on the inside were left bemused, with no way of bringing them in, save the next laugh, and the next. You get the hang of Herring, or you miss the point and leave half way through.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was good to take H to see this show. It’s a testament to where dedication to your craft gets you. He pretends it’s all a clever trick, but nobody’s fooled. Even Herring’s yahtzee scores betray his tenacity. The theatrical set pieces succeed due to Herring’s stage experience and hard work as well as the clever construction. He’s at his funniest, enough to make my eyes tear and my ribs ache. In spite of it being a scripted show, he’s effortless in making a second’s problem with a mic stand into cause for a laugh. There’s time for that trademark warm, sweet rapport that keeps us nerdy fans coming back.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Richard Herring is <a href="http://www.richardherring.com/gigs/">touring</a> all over the UK, some sell outs, but not all. If you haven’t seen him, go give Dee's favorite comedian a try.<o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-76095812198290314532011-03-21T21:25:00.000+01:002011-03-21T21:25:35.479+01:00Dyspeptic Toad<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me and my chest infection braved the spring sunshine to make it into Uni today. The pressure was on as last Friday I had received an email asking to see me about my attendance. I’d have gone in anyway because I was no longer likely to expectorate over the row in front, and also I’m committed enough not to want to miss this term’s lectures which have been good so far. The email added to the pressure though, and being still ill, I’m over-sensitive and could have done without the anxiety of having to go and explain the only two days sickness I’ve had since going back to uni in September.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I knocked at the lecturer’s door on time and was kept standing in the corridor while he finished a phone call. Wheezy from walking along the corridors, chest itching to cough but worried about my bladder’s ability to take the strain, I thanked him for the seat. Then I squatted like a hungry but dyspeptic toad required to wait for the courtier to get on and read the proclamation. It came to me that I was behaving quite strangely. I said ‘shit’ at one point and although I love a swear, I wouldn’t normally in that situation. I also apologised immediately for it, which is far worse because swears are only powerful if they’re confident.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to bring the conversation round. The damage was done though and I can only say in my defence that I wasn’t the only one not making much attempt to listen. It was a painful meeting of strangers in the presence of the two other lecturers who share the same office. Thank heavens I only needed to talk about a chest infection – that and my shit maths test. Although, it might have been fun to wax on in the presence of three male nurses about some glamorous pelvic discharge.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Afterwards, I was annoyed with myself and with the situation. I don’t particularly like talking about my health with complete strangers and I don’t see why after just two days sickness I should have to. In the days when I was the courtier speaking to the toad, I used to have to ask about people’s illness because that was the king’s law. There’s plenty of business research that conducting sickness/fitness interviews reduces the number of sick days, especially odd days. I agree that checking how people are doing and offering a bit of help should be a nice thing to do. It’s a strange thing how good intentions go awry though:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Were you sick?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘yes’<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">‘really sick’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘yes’<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">‘how sick’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘this sick’<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">‘and you couldn’t come in because....’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘I was sick’<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">‘and you know it’s not good to be off sick?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘yup’<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">‘and what action did you take about your sickness’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘I did what I thought I needed to do given the state of my health and the NHS, I’m not a fuckwhit’<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">‘and what support do you need’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘do you provide miracle cures for the norwalk virus? Only I thought you just sell drills and stuff?’<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">‘good, no support needed, so just to check the paperwork.. you were sick?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so on. </div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-83577585462557645432011-03-20T00:40:00.000+01:002011-03-20T00:40:49.401+01:00Comfort StuffI have a chest infection and my 100 year old Nan is unaccountably unable to come up and offer comforts as she used to do when I was poorly* so I've had to get on and entertain myself from my sofa. Here are some things I like:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.addictinggames.com/woobies-game.html">Woobies</a> I've been playing this childish game. Can't get past level 16. Pathetic but true.<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZSfSV5BSZ2g">Tim Minchin</a> is all kinds of amazing. I have a soft spot for this particular one but it's a bit UK specific, so you may prefer Inflatable You.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.richardherring.com/">Richard Herring</a> This is the website of my absolute favorite comedian who I didn't go see in Leamington yesterday because I was coughing. It's some compensation that I've spent the week with his DVDs.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://craftivist-collective.com/">Craftivism</a> There's a new project coming up. I haven't had the energy to get excited about it yet. Soon though.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*hot-waterbottle wrapped in teatowel, Lucozade, soft boild egg, Twinkle comic, footsteps on the stairs. Wish you were here, Nan. Love you xDee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-25073623364082612622011-02-26T22:20:00.000+01:002011-02-26T22:20:32.191+01:00Hot Suggestion<div class="MsoNormal">I was sitting on a bench in the centre of Leeds, breasts tight with milk and Nina still sleeping when the old lady approached. She was dressed in tweed, moving stiffly and as I remember her, she was using a walking stick. I may be imagining that because don’t all wise old grannies have one of those? She had come to look at the baby, and to give advice: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>enjoy these years, because they were going to be the best in my life. It was at that point that Nina woke up hungry, my breasts spurted, and I was too modest to get my boobs out. I had to walk home with my top drying in the sun, smelling of cheese.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Even at the time, I was confident the advice was poor. I was a young first time mum in a strange town with no family support, about to be stuck with negative equity in our home that would last ten years. I had the final year of my degree to complete, no childcare, and no money to pay for any. I was about to walk two miles home through blazing August heat to find that our cat, unsettled by the move, had shat on the carpet. I’ve had happier times since. If that old lady had her magical advice giving hat on that day, the one that provides the sparkling gem of prescience that if taken will lead to a better future, she would have said, “Teach your baby to cook”, and then she might have moved on quickly so I could get on and feed her.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nina is twenty now, and managing very nicely for herself in a student village in Swansea. I think Nick and I did very well in bringing her up. She’s ace. It’s just that she never wanted to be in the kitchen, and because it’s not the 1930’s I never insisted. I thought she would pick it up in her own time, and she has, sort of. A few years ago, while frying an egg, she set light to the cat (it deserved it, it had shat on the carpet all those years before after all and it was unharmed save the melted hair). She’s moved on from that. Lately, she’s been burning herself. There was a gammon incident a few weeks ago resulting in second degree burns to the face. Today, I see from facebook, there’s been a rice crisis. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s tough being a parent. You just never know what is worth teaching until all of a sudden the baby is out clubbing, and the decisions you took when you weren’t much older than your little darling is now are showing their worth. Seems a bit late to point out that hot liquids hurt skin. Ah well, she’s bound<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to work it out before she loses an eye. Isn’t she? Or do you think I should advise her to live off takeaways?<o:p></o:p></div>Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6531345131704630134.post-87982524526621110502011-02-25T14:48:00.000+01:002011-02-25T14:48:54.609+01:00Just ThisI have nothing to say for myself, so I give you <a href="http://www.lettersofnote.com/2011/02/older-mistresses-are-so-grateful.html#comments">this</a>. I especially like point 5. <br />
<br />
The weather is picking up, H is home from her holiday, and in spite of having a sniffle, I feel better.Dee's Diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01797995567692128768noreply@blogger.com0