...Losing one's rag in a supermarket is not, on the whole, a good thing; best avoided really if at all possible. Yesterday, though, one came mighty close to battering some fellow to the ground with the formidable weapon that is one's shopping trolley. Had indeed, on the spot, thought it the only way forward, as it were, to run him down with bloody intent. Well, actually, no. The intent was to prevent, as necessary, the shedding of any blood. Let me explain.
It all went like this. There we were approaching the front portal of the place (Dante's words on Hell's gateway springing of course to mind), equipped as per with the aforementioned trolley, when one suddenly became aware of a mighty fracas brewing.
A youngish fellow complete with bulging rucksack was in the process of being accosted by a lady store detective who, it would seem, had detected contraband being smuggled out of the place. The loud ringing of the shop's alarm was a useful contextual clue of course.
The fellow, though, was having none of it. The polite request that he should step back inside for a swift frisk-down fell entirely on deaf ears. That one clearly gathered from the loud, roaring, ranting swearing with which he let it be known how he felt about the whole situation. Not the tone of injured innocence, but one of snarling defiance.
The next step was not, in those particular circs., the wisest choice. Joining the lady store detective came a large gentleman of the place who clearly - and in my view wrongly - felt that if words could not effect the required response, then actions would. A mighty shove in the chest did indeed propel the fellow some feet closer to the door, but it was what also resulted that transformed an unpleasant scene for all into something quite other.
Dropping the rucksack, the fellow just shoved made a sudden reach into a coat pocket. In search of a comb to smooth his ruffled hair? Looking for the receipt to prove his innocence? Either of course might have been possible, but though one has led, by and large, a pretty sheltered life, when a man is looking to pull out a knife for fell purposes one just knows that to be so. (The sudden look of terror on the faces of the two most likely to be on the receiving end of any murderous attack, was sufficient to show that my take on the way things could be heading was not mine alone.)
Now one is not a brave soldier, one does not yearn to rush into any battle at any time, but at an instant came the realisation that, should this putative knife make its much unwanted appearance, then a sudden armoured flank attack with trolley was probably the only way to put an end to the matter before it had time properly to begin.
Mercifully, we were all spared by the arrival of reinforcements in the shapes of five other stonkingly large gentlemen from within the store to confront the man and his possible weaponry. Some rapid recalculation of the odds and the fellow promptly gave in. Even to the extent of actually putting his hands up high above his head, which did indeed make me feel he was not an entire novice at these things. A little melodramatic perhaps, but a welcome sight for all.
A relief too to be spared the inevitable headlines in next week's St. Boniface Chronicle: "Revving Rector Rattles Robber" or somesuch. (H tells me I must cease at once my Dirty Harry impressions. I think I do a rather good rendition of "So do you feel lucky punk?" Must try and drop that into Sunday's homily. Or perhaps better not.)
Monday, November 23, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Too Much Of A Good Thing...
...two things one learnt yesterday. Item the first - no malignancy observed in second wider excision. Hurrah! Item the second - the physical trauma of the second excision will take up to two years to heal, involving a predicted crescendo of pain both acute and chronic from months three to six. ('Boo! Boo!' as dear Danny Baker would yelp.)
Now call me Mr Picky, but as I already have lived - and do live - for the past ten years with enduring chronic and occasional acute pain from previous and necessary single excision of an earlier cancer, I am none too thrilled with the prospect of a double-dose of same for the, or indeed any, duration.
The less am I thrilled in pondering now that the second recent excision was utterly a 'just in case' procedure. The first, unavoidable, surgery had - as everyone and every textbook correctly forecast - removed the thing entire and entirely. This second pass of the knife does come highly recommended - it is standard procedure, has all the stats and the data to make its case - but it has proven pointless other than to promise me further serious jip.
Should I have said no? Should I have thrown medical caution and wisdom to the wind, taking my chances with just the first, unpleasant but bearable, wounding?
The questioning is perhaps as pointless as the procedure. The thing is done and cannot be undone. But as I lay awake at night unable to sleep in any recognisably human manner - because if I lie so as to ease the pain of one scar the other utters loud squeals of protest and vice versa - it is a compelling thought.
Now call me Mr Picky, but as I already have lived - and do live - for the past ten years with enduring chronic and occasional acute pain from previous and necessary single excision of an earlier cancer, I am none too thrilled with the prospect of a double-dose of same for the, or indeed any, duration.
The less am I thrilled in pondering now that the second recent excision was utterly a 'just in case' procedure. The first, unavoidable, surgery had - as everyone and every textbook correctly forecast - removed the thing entire and entirely. This second pass of the knife does come highly recommended - it is standard procedure, has all the stats and the data to make its case - but it has proven pointless other than to promise me further serious jip.
Should I have said no? Should I have thrown medical caution and wisdom to the wind, taking my chances with just the first, unpleasant but bearable, wounding?
The questioning is perhaps as pointless as the procedure. The thing is done and cannot be undone. But as I lay awake at night unable to sleep in any recognisably human manner - because if I lie so as to ease the pain of one scar the other utters loud squeals of protest and vice versa - it is a compelling thought.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Tears Of A Father Remembered...
...dreamt last night of my late Papa and he in tears. Not unconnected with today, Remembrance Sunday, I believe.
In life only twice saw the fellow weeping: from agonising, physical pain and again from some unknown personal sorrow. The second, of course, the harder for any off-spring to take. Children understand that a scrapped knee must be cried over, but confronted with a parental wounded heart and the boy's world of certainty and comfort dissolves.
Never did find out or was told - though one guessed - the particular cause of that second demonstrable distress. Not a heart-on-sleeve chap at all in many regards was Papa. A generational thing quite possibly, though also fitting his own unique style. The War was, unsurprisingly, therefore not a topic of any great conversational exchange over the years 'twixt us. The "So what then precisely did you do in the War?" question was regularly asked and, only intermittently, answered.
Dreams dashed of being a fighter pilot, enlistment in the infantry, refusal to allow self to be put up for a commission (on the 'All officers are idiots, why would I wish to become an idiot too?' line), service in North Africa as artillery spotter, some terrible wounding later in Italy leading to a non-combatant liaison post at the University in Perugia and then eventually to home and the life less martial. That, more or less, the general mapping of it.
The wounding thing long puzzled the child. No visible scarring, all limbs accounted for, and so forth; so how and where then the enemy attack? Was not a tale that could be told to a boy, needed the grown man to hear it in truth.
Taking shelter from shelling in a roadside ditch, a near-by blast blew him clean out of the ditch, through the air some thirty feet and more into ditch opposite side of the road. Not physically damaged, beyond some busted bones, but utterly terrified. One minute later and the same damn thing. Second shell lands close by with another mighty bang, Papa again sailing like a rag doll through the air landing with terrific crash once more and back into the very first spot from whence he had begun, further busted bones ensuing. (Not many unbusted by this point one gathered.)
The subsequent rescue, long hospitalisation with necessary limb-mending was not, though, the end of the tale. This the bit that took all his telling and all my hope to try and comprehend - the mind too had taken a mighty beating. We would say now post-traumatic stress, though the old-fashioned phrase shell-shock more literally applying in his case.
It was - for him - the happening of it twice in rapid succession that was his undoing. You can see his point. Once is pretty wretched but is done with once done. But if not, if instead an immediate second burst of noise, of terror, of being tossed through the air and of pain - and taken with that the sense of humiliating helplessness, of being played with - then there is thence only the compelling anticipation of the third blow imminently to come.
That the dread which had him cowering in darkened corners, sobbing. That the horror which clean took away his mind, his heart and his courage for the best part of a year it seems. Eventually mended - or at least patched up and papered-over - there was to be no more fighting but the administration of a, largely superfluous, 'de-fascism' programme for the locals.
There were no tears - of his - in the eventual telling of the full story. The men and women today in their Whitehall march-past are largely dry-eyed too, if intensely staring in fierce remembrance of the particular horrors each has witnessed and experienced. That is their way as it was Papa's. I though do dream his tears for him in remembrance of and respect for all their enduring sacrifice.
In life only twice saw the fellow weeping: from agonising, physical pain and again from some unknown personal sorrow. The second, of course, the harder for any off-spring to take. Children understand that a scrapped knee must be cried over, but confronted with a parental wounded heart and the boy's world of certainty and comfort dissolves.
Never did find out or was told - though one guessed - the particular cause of that second demonstrable distress. Not a heart-on-sleeve chap at all in many regards was Papa. A generational thing quite possibly, though also fitting his own unique style. The War was, unsurprisingly, therefore not a topic of any great conversational exchange over the years 'twixt us. The "So what then precisely did you do in the War?" question was regularly asked and, only intermittently, answered.
Dreams dashed of being a fighter pilot, enlistment in the infantry, refusal to allow self to be put up for a commission (on the 'All officers are idiots, why would I wish to become an idiot too?' line), service in North Africa as artillery spotter, some terrible wounding later in Italy leading to a non-combatant liaison post at the University in Perugia and then eventually to home and the life less martial. That, more or less, the general mapping of it.
The wounding thing long puzzled the child. No visible scarring, all limbs accounted for, and so forth; so how and where then the enemy attack? Was not a tale that could be told to a boy, needed the grown man to hear it in truth.
Taking shelter from shelling in a roadside ditch, a near-by blast blew him clean out of the ditch, through the air some thirty feet and more into ditch opposite side of the road. Not physically damaged, beyond some busted bones, but utterly terrified. One minute later and the same damn thing. Second shell lands close by with another mighty bang, Papa again sailing like a rag doll through the air landing with terrific crash once more and back into the very first spot from whence he had begun, further busted bones ensuing. (Not many unbusted by this point one gathered.)
The subsequent rescue, long hospitalisation with necessary limb-mending was not, though, the end of the tale. This the bit that took all his telling and all my hope to try and comprehend - the mind too had taken a mighty beating. We would say now post-traumatic stress, though the old-fashioned phrase shell-shock more literally applying in his case.
It was - for him - the happening of it twice in rapid succession that was his undoing. You can see his point. Once is pretty wretched but is done with once done. But if not, if instead an immediate second burst of noise, of terror, of being tossed through the air and of pain - and taken with that the sense of humiliating helplessness, of being played with - then there is thence only the compelling anticipation of the third blow imminently to come.
That the dread which had him cowering in darkened corners, sobbing. That the horror which clean took away his mind, his heart and his courage for the best part of a year it seems. Eventually mended - or at least patched up and papered-over - there was to be no more fighting but the administration of a, largely superfluous, 'de-fascism' programme for the locals.
There were no tears - of his - in the eventual telling of the full story. The men and women today in their Whitehall march-past are largely dry-eyed too, if intensely staring in fierce remembrance of the particular horrors each has witnessed and experienced. That is their way as it was Papa's. I though do dream his tears for him in remembrance of and respect for all their enduring sacrifice.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
I'll Be Googled!...
...one does, of course, wish - nay need even - to keep abreast of developments in all and sundry modern means of communication, if only as the uncertain surfer preferring to ride a wave, howsoever ungainly, not be dashed under.
'Twas indeed many years passed one strongly sensed the movement of this particular tide, when pastors the length of the land could be seen striding out clutching the thick volume that was not the Gospels as before but a Filofax instead.
It was not then a happy sight, nor is it now any particular pleasure to note a conference of clerics all merrily tapping away on their Blueberries - or somesuch wizardry - when they really ought to be paying attention to the Bish's terribly important speechifying.
Granted the old fellow can be dull beyond bearing, but where is there any need, of an instant, to relay the torpor to the world? Show me a priest who 'twitters' and I show you a man who is on the royal highway to perdition. Ours may well be a broad Church - little too wide mostly for my particular liking - but blowed if I'll see it transformed into a broadband one. (Quite smart that. Shall save it for the Sunday homily. Duly written - as God intended - with goose-quill pen and oak-gall ink!)
You'll thus not be too surprised if I show some essential sympathy with our cousins in Norfolk, who are being even now terribly castigated for not taking it upon themselves to search the Internet for any revelations concerning Mrs Truss and her adulterous past. Now, let one be clear here one's purpose. It is not to aver that only they with spotless reputations on the domestic front are fit and proper persons to be duly elected Members, etc., etc.
Perish the thought indeed. One must, after all, be somewhat pragmatic. Strip the place of the morally imperfect and who would be left standing? Granted the appeal of an House of Commons uninhabited and devoid of all and any politicians, a nation set free to mind its own business, and so forth; setting though that aside as an Elysium dream, I am the happier to be governed by the acknowledged sinner far more than by anyone claiming spurious sanctity.
My objection does, though, remain to the heavy criticism levelled at the Selection Committee that it was their implicit job and duty to go surfing for all and any gen about the candidates. When asked if they "had Googled" the lady in question, their only right and proper reply should have been: "Certainly not. I hardly know the woman."
My vote is with the Tennessee farmer, who after having been persuaded with considerable reluctance to have a telephone installed in his house, refused ever to answer it. "If I want to talk to someone then I'll use it, but ain't having no truck with folk who think they can interrupt me just when they fancy."
Hear, hear - as perhaps Mrs Truss will be moved one day to say.
'Twas indeed many years passed one strongly sensed the movement of this particular tide, when pastors the length of the land could be seen striding out clutching the thick volume that was not the Gospels as before but a Filofax instead.
It was not then a happy sight, nor is it now any particular pleasure to note a conference of clerics all merrily tapping away on their Blueberries - or somesuch wizardry - when they really ought to be paying attention to the Bish's terribly important speechifying.
Granted the old fellow can be dull beyond bearing, but where is there any need, of an instant, to relay the torpor to the world? Show me a priest who 'twitters' and I show you a man who is on the royal highway to perdition. Ours may well be a broad Church - little too wide mostly for my particular liking - but blowed if I'll see it transformed into a broadband one. (Quite smart that. Shall save it for the Sunday homily. Duly written - as God intended - with goose-quill pen and oak-gall ink!)
You'll thus not be too surprised if I show some essential sympathy with our cousins in Norfolk, who are being even now terribly castigated for not taking it upon themselves to search the Internet for any revelations concerning Mrs Truss and her adulterous past. Now, let one be clear here one's purpose. It is not to aver that only they with spotless reputations on the domestic front are fit and proper persons to be duly elected Members, etc., etc.
Perish the thought indeed. One must, after all, be somewhat pragmatic. Strip the place of the morally imperfect and who would be left standing? Granted the appeal of an House of Commons uninhabited and devoid of all and any politicians, a nation set free to mind its own business, and so forth; setting though that aside as an Elysium dream, I am the happier to be governed by the acknowledged sinner far more than by anyone claiming spurious sanctity.
My objection does, though, remain to the heavy criticism levelled at the Selection Committee that it was their implicit job and duty to go surfing for all and any gen about the candidates. When asked if they "had Googled" the lady in question, their only right and proper reply should have been: "Certainly not. I hardly know the woman."
My vote is with the Tennessee farmer, who after having been persuaded with considerable reluctance to have a telephone installed in his house, refused ever to answer it. "If I want to talk to someone then I'll use it, but ain't having no truck with folk who think they can interrupt me just when they fancy."
Hear, hear - as perhaps Mrs Truss will be moved one day to say.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
"Don't Let Me Keep You..."
...last week one had a darn good chat with Doc P (he's good that way) about feeling a bit thrown in the old belfry department consequent to the recent alarums on the cancer front. All fairly within reasonable norms - both the thing in itself and the proposed response.
"Hie thee to a counsellor," was the prescription gladly received. "Four month waiting list, sorry Rector" though is the rather lowering response when said prescription is presented for cashing.
That of course no use to man or beast - including man with low-flying belfry bats about his person - so back to Doc P for further cud chewing, with the intended outcome of some 'happy pills' for the duration.
Doc P sadly not available, so instead a necessary convo with a certain Doc O never yet before met. Decent sort of cove this Doc O, one is happy to report, if looking too young to be out after dark let alone physician to the tax-paying public. ('You can tell you're getting old when...etc., etc.')
Circs. duly explained his initial response, I have to own, somewhat threw me. Should have seen it coming - standard textbook stuff - but didn't. "Does all this make you feel suicidal?" he properly and promptly asked. Well in truth one could only speak the truth, so one did.
Now the next bit is all in the tone. Having established the risk, it is the job of the dutiful GP to enquire into the probability. Sensitive stuff you'll agree, needs some careful handling. Have to say that, all in all, I don't quite believe he hit the right note full on as I would have wished it.
"What's stopping you then?" he asked and I gawped. A pertinent question no doubt, but so put as if to carry the meaning - unintended one has to hope! - that no great barriers to self-immolation being self-evident, why not simply get get stuck in?
Can't believe he meant it that way. Know that he didn't mean it that way. Just wish he hadn't put it quite that way. So do the bats.
"Hie thee to a counsellor," was the prescription gladly received. "Four month waiting list, sorry Rector" though is the rather lowering response when said prescription is presented for cashing.
That of course no use to man or beast - including man with low-flying belfry bats about his person - so back to Doc P for further cud chewing, with the intended outcome of some 'happy pills' for the duration.
Doc P sadly not available, so instead a necessary convo with a certain Doc O never yet before met. Decent sort of cove this Doc O, one is happy to report, if looking too young to be out after dark let alone physician to the tax-paying public. ('You can tell you're getting old when...etc., etc.')
Circs. duly explained his initial response, I have to own, somewhat threw me. Should have seen it coming - standard textbook stuff - but didn't. "Does all this make you feel suicidal?" he properly and promptly asked. Well in truth one could only speak the truth, so one did.
Now the next bit is all in the tone. Having established the risk, it is the job of the dutiful GP to enquire into the probability. Sensitive stuff you'll agree, needs some careful handling. Have to say that, all in all, I don't quite believe he hit the right note full on as I would have wished it.
"What's stopping you then?" he asked and I gawped. A pertinent question no doubt, but so put as if to carry the meaning - unintended one has to hope! - that no great barriers to self-immolation being self-evident, why not simply get get stuck in?
Can't believe he meant it that way. Know that he didn't mean it that way. Just wish he hadn't put it quite that way. So do the bats.
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