Some years back, dear E purchased her darling Papa a gift for Father's Day. But surely, you protest, you must mean that each and every year she makes such due offering upon the ancestral altar?
Well, yes, of course she does to the extent that any child in this land troubles themselves with these twin artificial occasions of supposed love-fest to the parent - Mothering Sunday and, its complementary, the aforementioned Father's Day. That extent being no more, generally, than the opposing parent actually shelling out for card and present, which is then handed gratis to the child with the suitable and stern reminder: "You know what tomorrow is, so be nice to him/her throughout the day. No arguing or tantrums please, and here's what you're giving him/her in token of your great fondness and, above all, gratitude."
I hope - for it is certainly not my intention - that I am not painting a picture of an unfond or indeed ungrateful off-spring, for E most certainly is far from being that. What really, though, one is saying is that children are by-and-large untouched by the unreality of it all. Why indeed should they be bothered with the one day per year chosen at random by the marketeers, only keen to make a few bucks more for card, gift and - above all - flower shops?
If then out of the mouth of these babes comes - "But Dad, you know I love you shedloads all the time and, also, fully acknowledge that without ready access to your ever-open wallet I'd not be able to keep myself in the manner to which I am most certainly becoming accustomed. Must I really then cadge some more cash simply to spend it on making that very point?" - you can see they have a shrewd and compelling point. (One is so reminded of the old seminary jest oft heard: "Lend us a fiver and I'll buy you a pint.")
That then being the rationale norm, it came, as you can imagine, as somewhat of a great surprise that, in this year in question, E actually showed up clutching a parcel she had bought entirely with her very own money and quite on the QT, H knowing nothing about it at all.
"Here you are Pa," she beamed. "Saw this and at once thought of you. Happy Father's Day and when you've got a minute could you fix my stereo for me it's gone on the blink? I don't mind if it's not before you give me a lift to the stables. Up to you." (So ever wonderful these children eh? Human all too human, which is quite how it should be.)
And so what was this special gift that E had alighted-on as spot-on for good self? None other than a seriously fine pair of slippers! Well, that of course was cause of merry mirth in itself. Poor old geezer, getting on in years, nothing like some cosy indoor footwear to go with the recently taken-up pipe.
That was the jest really, as indeed yes pipe-smoking had become the new boy-toy for the man: racks of finest Irish pipes filled to the brim with tobaccos from Denmark to the Balkans and back. Even a longish churchwarden pipe to complete the image of eternal rural rectitude and rapidly approaching dotage. (Please though, do not overlook the wilfully intended post-modernist irony, lest you seriously believe I would have myself writ-off so.)
These slippers then were, indeed, just the job to complete the fun. Better than that even, they were not just ordinary slippers they were... Well no, they did not come from that particular emporium at all. Far too wacky for that place. On them - on each one naturally - was embroidered the very lifelike image of the Dad of all Dads, none other than Homer Simpson himself with the proud accompanying legend - again on each slipper of course - 'Best Dad in the House.'
No finer compliment, no greater tribute, could be sought or given. How happy - nay proud - was I to have confirmed that one's own child could be quite as ironic as her father. Nature or nurture to credit? Now there's an interesting thought, a two-pipe problem if ever there were one. Does one inherit the delightful ironic sense from the parental genes or does one acquire it through familial example and experience?
Let us though leave that to the philosophers. If E does irony then that is totally splendid whatsoever the cause. Why though, now this quiet Sunday evening, does one recall that happy day and moment? 'Tis the sad truth that in this Vale of Tears we call life, nothing lasts forever and that includes certain slippers, especially those worn daily these past five years and more. Frayed, decayed even, the time came they had to be retired.
Preserved as a memento of a good jest, but consigned in due season to the attic lumber room, no longer wearable or to be worn. Worn down and now worn out. Bit like the wearer really. No, not really, only kidding. New slippers for old have been bought today: plain black leather with suitable fluffy lining. Eminently suitable and practicable for the purpose, but utterly lacking in irony sadly. Nothing funny about a fellow buying his own slippers that I can see.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
On Not Going Commando...
...just had an astonishing note from my ever fragrant correspondent, with a remarkable tale that must be further told.
Apparently, it transpires, there she was on her way North to some general church bash - her thing really not mine - centred on how to revive certain obscure liturgical practices that the new Arch has instructed should once more be brought to the fore. (He may command but he cannot control is my view of the matter, and I think you'll find me right in the long run.)
Be that as it may, my EFC, as is her wont, has been journeying today by train not motor car. Oft have I remonstrated with her that public transport is to be shunned at all and any times. My line is ever thus: "The buses and the trains themselves may be all very splendid, on-time and planet-saving even; but until and unless the public using such conveyances can be trusted not to threaten one's peace of mind, or even one's very life, they are no place for a lady."
She won't have it of course, being a more trusting soul than I. Well, had it today, in spades even, she has I now learn. (Fear not, she is not harmed though there has been a rocky moment or two vis a vis personal dignity.)
For there she was, it seems, minding as ever her good business, reading some worthy tome or other, when some lurching idiot fellow passenger, passing by her seat, managed to dump a near full bottle of wine onto her sweetly trousered lap. Had the wine been white or the trousers red the disaster, as such, would have been at the thin end of the scale. Sadly, au contraire as it were, it was a good strong claret chucked onto an elegant, cream linen sort of garment. Pretty thick that, you'll agree.
So nothing for it apparently but off with the sodden, stained and utterly unwearable trews! Now changing one's trousers in a public place is not the sort of thing any gal should have to do, but being made of stern stuff my EFC no doubt teeth were gritted and smiles kept fixed as the operation was completed with maximum panache and minimum fuss.
Or so one would have presumed. Missing quite though from the equation was a replacement pair. The EFC was travelling sans baggage, never a wise move. One off, but not then one on. Awkward, you'll agree. But sit tight, place book as necessary, keep smiling and hope for journey's end.
But oh dear no, for it seems that a necessary junction change was looming and nothing for it but to sprint down the platform with jumper held as low as possible, hoping not for arrest or other assault.
And this is where it gets really interesting, though if the tale has not already caught your fullest attention then you are a dull cove indeed. You have doubtless heard these heartening tales of people plucked from peril at sea or off wild mountain sides courtesy of their mobile telephones etc., etc? Well this rescue - as it was to turn out to be - was most happily executed through the medium of that singular phenomenon of none other than 'Twitter'.
Frantic signals were sent back and forth across the ether: "Help I'm stuck.", "Don't panic.", "What else is there to do?", "Phone a friend!", "Can't, no signal!" - that sort of thing, with various others chipping in saying how all perfectly splendid and side-splittingly funny it was. Helpful that last no doubt.
And then the serendipitous epiphany: "Have you looked in your ever-present carpet bag? Perhaps you are carrying a large scarf, such as the one from India your mother gave you many years ago, that would serve for a passing fair skirt, only you've somehow managed to overlook the fact?" (About the max. for a Twitter I believe.) "By crikey, how right you are. Foolish gal that I am, I do happen to have about my person - or rather within my travelling bag - a scarf of the very kind you describe! How could I have been so foolish as not to think of it before. The day is...." (Beyond the Twitter max. that one.)
One last - and I must say deeply puzzling - 'tweet' came through: "Well at least I wasn't 'going commando' today!" Can't imagine for the life of me what my EFC meant by that.
Must ask H for explanation. Or perhaps better not. One senses trouble. Will certainly be eyeing YouTube tonight for evidence of the whole affair. Bound to be someone who filmed the scene. They always do these days. Member of the public I shouldn't be surprised to hear. That should teach her!
Apparently, it transpires, there she was on her way North to some general church bash - her thing really not mine - centred on how to revive certain obscure liturgical practices that the new Arch has instructed should once more be brought to the fore. (He may command but he cannot control is my view of the matter, and I think you'll find me right in the long run.)
Be that as it may, my EFC, as is her wont, has been journeying today by train not motor car. Oft have I remonstrated with her that public transport is to be shunned at all and any times. My line is ever thus: "The buses and the trains themselves may be all very splendid, on-time and planet-saving even; but until and unless the public using such conveyances can be trusted not to threaten one's peace of mind, or even one's very life, they are no place for a lady."
She won't have it of course, being a more trusting soul than I. Well, had it today, in spades even, she has I now learn. (Fear not, she is not harmed though there has been a rocky moment or two vis a vis personal dignity.)
For there she was, it seems, minding as ever her good business, reading some worthy tome or other, when some lurching idiot fellow passenger, passing by her seat, managed to dump a near full bottle of wine onto her sweetly trousered lap. Had the wine been white or the trousers red the disaster, as such, would have been at the thin end of the scale. Sadly, au contraire as it were, it was a good strong claret chucked onto an elegant, cream linen sort of garment. Pretty thick that, you'll agree.
So nothing for it apparently but off with the sodden, stained and utterly unwearable trews! Now changing one's trousers in a public place is not the sort of thing any gal should have to do, but being made of stern stuff my EFC no doubt teeth were gritted and smiles kept fixed as the operation was completed with maximum panache and minimum fuss.
Or so one would have presumed. Missing quite though from the equation was a replacement pair. The EFC was travelling sans baggage, never a wise move. One off, but not then one on. Awkward, you'll agree. But sit tight, place book as necessary, keep smiling and hope for journey's end.
But oh dear no, for it seems that a necessary junction change was looming and nothing for it but to sprint down the platform with jumper held as low as possible, hoping not for arrest or other assault.
And this is where it gets really interesting, though if the tale has not already caught your fullest attention then you are a dull cove indeed. You have doubtless heard these heartening tales of people plucked from peril at sea or off wild mountain sides courtesy of their mobile telephones etc., etc? Well this rescue - as it was to turn out to be - was most happily executed through the medium of that singular phenomenon of none other than 'Twitter'.
Frantic signals were sent back and forth across the ether: "Help I'm stuck.", "Don't panic.", "What else is there to do?", "Phone a friend!", "Can't, no signal!" - that sort of thing, with various others chipping in saying how all perfectly splendid and side-splittingly funny it was. Helpful that last no doubt.
And then the serendipitous epiphany: "Have you looked in your ever-present carpet bag? Perhaps you are carrying a large scarf, such as the one from India your mother gave you many years ago, that would serve for a passing fair skirt, only you've somehow managed to overlook the fact?" (About the max. for a Twitter I believe.) "By crikey, how right you are. Foolish gal that I am, I do happen to have about my person - or rather within my travelling bag - a scarf of the very kind you describe! How could I have been so foolish as not to think of it before. The day is...." (Beyond the Twitter max. that one.)
One last - and I must say deeply puzzling - 'tweet' came through: "Well at least I wasn't 'going commando' today!" Can't imagine for the life of me what my EFC meant by that.
Must ask H for explanation. Or perhaps better not. One senses trouble. Will certainly be eyeing YouTube tonight for evidence of the whole affair. Bound to be someone who filmed the scene. They always do these days. Member of the public I shouldn't be surprised to hear. That should teach her!
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Cider With Rosie's Dad...
...the last time I drank Farmer Perkins' home-brewed cider was the night it had been confirmed that indeed [see earlier] his youngest - the Rosie in question - had legged it with said Canon Dewhurst. That Perkins min. was actually a maj. of some nineteen summers, and there being no Mrs. Canon Dewhurst to claim prior privilege of the man, did not in any way diminish either the local shock or the parish scandal.
What he saw in her needs no reporting. Never been kissed - him not her - by mid-thirties was my diagnosis of the root cause of the matter. Ready as a nine-pin to be bowled over by a maiden, which I believe her to have been despite the widespread gossip to the contrary at the time and long after.
Neither she the wanton hussy hell-bent on bringing down a man of the cloth, nor he a seducing priest misusing his status and authority to cause loss of mind and virtue in a vulnerable parishioner that pair in my view. Both do happen of course, the one as much as the other in my experience. No greater aphrodisiac than the dog-collar is the common and not incorrect presumption.
Two silly sausage idealists rather is how it seemed to me at the time. H tended to agree, which was a reassurance she being the renowned ninja expert in matters of the heart not I. (One believes it is a woman thing, but one does not dare ask.) They were not of the same parish even, but had met at some regional bash to plan for some great spiritual revival among the young - a lethal combo that, in my esteemed opinion, youth and revivalism. Should be banned bell, book and the candle for all our safe sakes!
Anyway, one tiny discussion about 'How green is your soul?' - a good thing apparently these days, though the notion strikes me as somewhat heretical, as if that matters anymore sadly - and there they were, absolutely a-sighing and a-pining and a-whatever else.
Why, though, quite either of them thought they needed to vanish together as a love-pair no one ever could fathom. Rosie's Dad wouldn't have minded - told me so himself over the cider to which we are slowly coming - and, barring the noted age differential, I doubt any in the parish would have much cared.
One has to admit that the emotional range of Woldean folk is not wide: the women would probably have simply been glad that sweet, pretty Rosie was no longer a freely-available and not so obscure object of desire for their men-folk; and said men-folk though regretting the loss of what they would charmingly call 'a possibility' would, as like as not, have added "Well at least he's not queer. Was beginning to wonder about that one." Not wide indeed, as you see.
So off they went together into the nether lands of who knows where, one autumn evening, some five years back. Long - very long - letters were left for the Dad and the Bish, with buckets of gush about 'true love knowing no bounds' etc., etc., plus some hint about a Christian green commune their ultimate, loving destiny.
'Twas awful mean of them never to have written ever after. I doubt the Bish much minded - eventual laicisation for 'Drippy' and a swifter ending of his pension rights was about it - but poor Perkins has not recovered to this day, still of course mourns his Rosie and drinks now more of his cider than perhaps is helpful.
Ah! So there we are finally back to the subject in hand of the cider. The night the lovers left he appeared, gone ten no less, at the Rectory with a stonking great flagon of the stuff. "Need to talk some if you don't mind Vicar. Brought something to help my tongue work. Bit dry inside and out if you get my meaning." No refusing a parent in such circs., not even taking note of all that one had heard about the missile-fuel qualities of that particular brew.
Of what we discoursed that night I shall not speak, that remains between man and man. The aftermath though can be revealed.
It was early morning and somewhat a deep Woldean autumnal fog about the place. I woke - gingerly as one might - to find myself stretched out on a tombstone. Perkins lay on the grass beside me snoring gently. How we finally arrived there neither of us could ever recall, but there indeed we were, sodden damp in the foggy dew, and - I for one - aching all over with a head like a rugby football after a singularly hard-fought game involving much meaty kicking for touch.
Must have been about seven ack emma to judge by the angle of the sun, faintly piercing the morning mist. Either that or the bell tolling for Mattins giving the game away. Thank Heaven above one thought (a loose word for a subliminal, no more, cerebral stirring) that Curate Julian - he being the junior rank of the day - had offered to take the service. All right, it had been more of a senior order: "Perkins has just arrived," went the frantic 'phone call, "and he's clutching his cider. No way am I going to be fit to face the morning. Don't care if it is your day off, you're on matey got it!" (Smack of firm leadership or what?)
Cometh Mattins though, cometh also Miss Emily Brackenbury. Not one Mattins missed in over half a century - and she not infrequently the only one of the place not to be so missing - bless her. But cometh Miss Emily Brackenbury, as is her wont, through the graveyard on her way to worship. Most unfortunate.
It was the snoring that undone us. The fog of course prevented her espying two reprobates sprawled drunken in her beloved churchyard. But penetrating - as sound does - the cloak of invisibility came loud and clear Farmer Perkins' stertorous splutterings.
Now this Miss Emily Brackenbury of ours, let me tell you, is built of stern stuff. You don't get far in a career of District Nursing if you are not stronger than the ox and as fearless as the bear, indeed not. But on hearing snoring coming from the graves of the dear departed there is only one reasonable human response: you turn, you flee and you scream as loud as loud can be.
H, of course, being both nearest at the Rectory and also bravest within several country miles, came running at once to see what the matter was, fearing - as she later said - rape, murder and the devil-knows-what all in one. Mercifully, by the time H arrived, Miss Emily Brackenbury was a good half-mile down the main village street - still screaming - and safely out of any sight of, or occasion for, further disturbance to body, mind or soul.
Having, the night before, properly briefed H on the matter of Perkins, need to talk, cider to hand etc., etc., no further Sit. Rep. was necessary to explain its consequences. A semi-scrambled struggle back to base camp, strong black coffee by the barrel, plus a huge fry-up when stomachs were up for it, and in due time Perkins was back off home. "If there's anything I can do..." my last remark.
We haven't met much Perkins and I these intervening years. He never much troubled the inside of the Church at any time and - oddly or not - was never to be found at home the first seventeen occasions I tried visiting him of an evening, after dark, when farmers have no business being out and about. So one took the hint and left well alone.
But then what blessedly has happened tonight? Gone ten - once more the fateful hour - the front-door bell has sounded. (If it's not E's boyfriend forgotten his key - and who says Woldean parents are not terribly à la mode eh? - then generally that means trouble ) And who should it be but none other than dear Farmer Perkins, bearing once more a flagon or two of his lethal cider.
"Heard you got some troubles of your own Vicar. Thought I'd drop by and see if you fancied a talk. Nothing quite like a good chat man to man. You done me proud them years back. 'Tis my turn now."
Oh bless the fellow. He even allowed himself to be hugged, good man, and here we are one gallon gone with more to come. Will it end in the graveyard shift as before? You know something, I don't care if it does and I somehow suspect it might!
What he saw in her needs no reporting. Never been kissed - him not her - by mid-thirties was my diagnosis of the root cause of the matter. Ready as a nine-pin to be bowled over by a maiden, which I believe her to have been despite the widespread gossip to the contrary at the time and long after.
Neither she the wanton hussy hell-bent on bringing down a man of the cloth, nor he a seducing priest misusing his status and authority to cause loss of mind and virtue in a vulnerable parishioner that pair in my view. Both do happen of course, the one as much as the other in my experience. No greater aphrodisiac than the dog-collar is the common and not incorrect presumption.
Two silly sausage idealists rather is how it seemed to me at the time. H tended to agree, which was a reassurance she being the renowned ninja expert in matters of the heart not I. (One believes it is a woman thing, but one does not dare ask.) They were not of the same parish even, but had met at some regional bash to plan for some great spiritual revival among the young - a lethal combo that, in my esteemed opinion, youth and revivalism. Should be banned bell, book and the candle for all our safe sakes!
Anyway, one tiny discussion about 'How green is your soul?' - a good thing apparently these days, though the notion strikes me as somewhat heretical, as if that matters anymore sadly - and there they were, absolutely a-sighing and a-pining and a-whatever else.
Why, though, quite either of them thought they needed to vanish together as a love-pair no one ever could fathom. Rosie's Dad wouldn't have minded - told me so himself over the cider to which we are slowly coming - and, barring the noted age differential, I doubt any in the parish would have much cared.
One has to admit that the emotional range of Woldean folk is not wide: the women would probably have simply been glad that sweet, pretty Rosie was no longer a freely-available and not so obscure object of desire for their men-folk; and said men-folk though regretting the loss of what they would charmingly call 'a possibility' would, as like as not, have added "Well at least he's not queer. Was beginning to wonder about that one." Not wide indeed, as you see.
So off they went together into the nether lands of who knows where, one autumn evening, some five years back. Long - very long - letters were left for the Dad and the Bish, with buckets of gush about 'true love knowing no bounds' etc., etc., plus some hint about a Christian green commune their ultimate, loving destiny.
'Twas awful mean of them never to have written ever after. I doubt the Bish much minded - eventual laicisation for 'Drippy' and a swifter ending of his pension rights was about it - but poor Perkins has not recovered to this day, still of course mourns his Rosie and drinks now more of his cider than perhaps is helpful.
Ah! So there we are finally back to the subject in hand of the cider. The night the lovers left he appeared, gone ten no less, at the Rectory with a stonking great flagon of the stuff. "Need to talk some if you don't mind Vicar. Brought something to help my tongue work. Bit dry inside and out if you get my meaning." No refusing a parent in such circs., not even taking note of all that one had heard about the missile-fuel qualities of that particular brew.
Of what we discoursed that night I shall not speak, that remains between man and man. The aftermath though can be revealed.
It was early morning and somewhat a deep Woldean autumnal fog about the place. I woke - gingerly as one might - to find myself stretched out on a tombstone. Perkins lay on the grass beside me snoring gently. How we finally arrived there neither of us could ever recall, but there indeed we were, sodden damp in the foggy dew, and - I for one - aching all over with a head like a rugby football after a singularly hard-fought game involving much meaty kicking for touch.
Must have been about seven ack emma to judge by the angle of the sun, faintly piercing the morning mist. Either that or the bell tolling for Mattins giving the game away. Thank Heaven above one thought (a loose word for a subliminal, no more, cerebral stirring) that Curate Julian - he being the junior rank of the day - had offered to take the service. All right, it had been more of a senior order: "Perkins has just arrived," went the frantic 'phone call, "and he's clutching his cider. No way am I going to be fit to face the morning. Don't care if it is your day off, you're on matey got it!" (Smack of firm leadership or what?)
Cometh Mattins though, cometh also Miss Emily Brackenbury. Not one Mattins missed in over half a century - and she not infrequently the only one of the place not to be so missing - bless her. But cometh Miss Emily Brackenbury, as is her wont, through the graveyard on her way to worship. Most unfortunate.
It was the snoring that undone us. The fog of course prevented her espying two reprobates sprawled drunken in her beloved churchyard. But penetrating - as sound does - the cloak of invisibility came loud and clear Farmer Perkins' stertorous splutterings.
Now this Miss Emily Brackenbury of ours, let me tell you, is built of stern stuff. You don't get far in a career of District Nursing if you are not stronger than the ox and as fearless as the bear, indeed not. But on hearing snoring coming from the graves of the dear departed there is only one reasonable human response: you turn, you flee and you scream as loud as loud can be.
H, of course, being both nearest at the Rectory and also bravest within several country miles, came running at once to see what the matter was, fearing - as she later said - rape, murder and the devil-knows-what all in one. Mercifully, by the time H arrived, Miss Emily Brackenbury was a good half-mile down the main village street - still screaming - and safely out of any sight of, or occasion for, further disturbance to body, mind or soul.
Having, the night before, properly briefed H on the matter of Perkins, need to talk, cider to hand etc., etc., no further Sit. Rep. was necessary to explain its consequences. A semi-scrambled struggle back to base camp, strong black coffee by the barrel, plus a huge fry-up when stomachs were up for it, and in due time Perkins was back off home. "If there's anything I can do..." my last remark.
We haven't met much Perkins and I these intervening years. He never much troubled the inside of the Church at any time and - oddly or not - was never to be found at home the first seventeen occasions I tried visiting him of an evening, after dark, when farmers have no business being out and about. So one took the hint and left well alone.
But then what blessedly has happened tonight? Gone ten - once more the fateful hour - the front-door bell has sounded. (If it's not E's boyfriend forgotten his key - and who says Woldean parents are not terribly à la mode eh? - then generally that means trouble ) And who should it be but none other than dear Farmer Perkins, bearing once more a flagon or two of his lethal cider.
"Heard you got some troubles of your own Vicar. Thought I'd drop by and see if you fancied a talk. Nothing quite like a good chat man to man. You done me proud them years back. 'Tis my turn now."
Oh bless the fellow. He even allowed himself to be hugged, good man, and here we are one gallon gone with more to come. Will it end in the graveyard shift as before? You know something, I don't care if it does and I somehow suspect it might!
Monday, September 21, 2009
"More Tea Vicar...."
Do you know, that in all the years I've trod the largely rural boards as a fair to middling - I aspire no higher - parson about the place, no one has ever enquired of me whether more tea would be my thing?
No great surprise perhaps as I make it one of my very first tasks in any new parish to inform the suspicious - they always are bless 'em - locals that coffee alone is my drug of choice. Strong, dark, no milk and not a molecule of sugar thank you very much.
Doesn't always go down well that I own. "Oh, but Canon Dewhurst was never one to refuse a good cup of strong tea freshly made," they may well whinge. To which I could only firmly reply "Well, 'Drippy' Dewhurst may have been a weak-kneed tea drinker who a) is seriously dead and I in his place, or b) has run off with Farmer Perkins' youngest and the least said about that the better!" (The text according to the circs., but the message clear - new man, new ways, new tastes.)
Once then that hurdle has been successfully jumped, it does not need forever enquiring about any top-up. Show me an addicted coffee drinker, such as myself, and I'll show you a man who needs no prompting when his cup is observed half-empty. 'Bring it on' is all that silently has to be breathed.
It is, of course, a bit mean to rob the average parish punter of one of the accepted rituals of conversation. After all, what does one say to a fellow bearing a dog-collar? Terribly hard, certainly in the early days of acquaintance, for the poor souls to know whether to opt for the "Don't fret about me Reverend, my heart belongs to Jesus right enough", or the "Any thoughts on the 3.30 at Kempton Vicar?"
Cancer too brings its own stock phrases, some more welcomed than others. Passing by on the other side for fear of contamination or from mere blind panic of not knowing what to say is pretty common. That one accepts, if with a certain sense of increased isolation from human kind and kindliness.
The worst, of course, is the often blurted out "Don't worry, you'll be fine!" To which one can only, in all honesty, reply, "Why, you've seen the frigging scan results already then have you? God you're a prescient genius! Any danger of letting me know next week's Lottery numbers while you're at it?" Harsh maybe, but the only possible response to such nonsense.
In the middle way are all the perfectly reasonably human sentiments, ranging from the supportive "So sorry to hear your news, hope it all works out" to the rarely directly spoken but oft implicit "God this is awful, but rather you than me."
A tip though should you wish one, but please only use it in good faith. The one thing that, in these circs., one loves to hear is this: "If there's anything I can do, just let me know." You might even get a hug for that. Be warned!
No great surprise perhaps as I make it one of my very first tasks in any new parish to inform the suspicious - they always are bless 'em - locals that coffee alone is my drug of choice. Strong, dark, no milk and not a molecule of sugar thank you very much.
Doesn't always go down well that I own. "Oh, but Canon Dewhurst was never one to refuse a good cup of strong tea freshly made," they may well whinge. To which I could only firmly reply "Well, 'Drippy' Dewhurst may have been a weak-kneed tea drinker who a) is seriously dead and I in his place, or b) has run off with Farmer Perkins' youngest and the least said about that the better!" (The text according to the circs., but the message clear - new man, new ways, new tastes.)
Once then that hurdle has been successfully jumped, it does not need forever enquiring about any top-up. Show me an addicted coffee drinker, such as myself, and I'll show you a man who needs no prompting when his cup is observed half-empty. 'Bring it on' is all that silently has to be breathed.
It is, of course, a bit mean to rob the average parish punter of one of the accepted rituals of conversation. After all, what does one say to a fellow bearing a dog-collar? Terribly hard, certainly in the early days of acquaintance, for the poor souls to know whether to opt for the "Don't fret about me Reverend, my heart belongs to Jesus right enough", or the "Any thoughts on the 3.30 at Kempton Vicar?"
Cancer too brings its own stock phrases, some more welcomed than others. Passing by on the other side for fear of contamination or from mere blind panic of not knowing what to say is pretty common. That one accepts, if with a certain sense of increased isolation from human kind and kindliness.
The worst, of course, is the often blurted out "Don't worry, you'll be fine!" To which one can only, in all honesty, reply, "Why, you've seen the frigging scan results already then have you? God you're a prescient genius! Any danger of letting me know next week's Lottery numbers while you're at it?" Harsh maybe, but the only possible response to such nonsense.
In the middle way are all the perfectly reasonably human sentiments, ranging from the supportive "So sorry to hear your news, hope it all works out" to the rarely directly spoken but oft implicit "God this is awful, but rather you than me."
A tip though should you wish one, but please only use it in good faith. The one thing that, in these circs., one loves to hear is this: "If there's anything I can do, just let me know." You might even get a hug for that. Be warned!
Snap, Crackle and Pop...
...No one unwell, or indeed anyone at all, should forgo or otherwise lose the moment and pleasure of reading Thomas Mann's 'The Magic Mountain.'
General readers will delight in the extended exposition on disease (tuberculosis in this case) as a metaphor for some of the finest as well as many of the most wretched aspects of the human condition. Male readers - though not exclusively - ought to find at least a part of them in complete accord with the questing mind and seeking soul of its central character, young Hans Castorp. Tears even might be shed when, after seven years' seclusion in his mountain-top sanatorium, he of a sudden plunges back into the maelstrom of the impending First World War. A serious and a thoughtful seeker after experience, knowledge and even some wisdom, but above all a patriot.
Tears most certainly ought to be shed for his cousin Joachim's brave soldierly defiance of his fatal illness, and for his stubborn refusal, in such exigent circumstances, to bend even one inch of his silly stiff neck to acknowledge and own the raging passion he holds deep in his heart for a lady whom he sees every day over many years, yet to whom he never once addresses a single word because, simply, they have not been formally introduced.
For Hans, illness offers some loosening of the social constraints that bind a young, correct German man of his generation - his famous and fabulous 'Walpurgis Night' - but for Joachim, anything of that sort would be mere sign of weakness in the face of an enemy. They are indeed a fine contrasting pair throughout, even after Joachim's premature, heroic death. But no more on that, if you wish to know how he lives on and with what extraordinary consequences for his cousin Hans then to the book itself you must go.
But if they differ, these two, in their willingness to 'cut loose', both inevitably are drawn by curiosity to explore the very thing that binds them to the Berghof - their pulmonary self and the decay within. Each patient becomes their own expert at the marvellous 'cure': from rug-wrapping against the evening chill on their balconies, to recognising by sound alone the import of each 'tap, tap, tap' as Behrens knocks their torsos exploring for dry scar tissue and wet live disease; from courteous visits to the suffering moribund whose dying is an affront to the regime of the place, to the compassionate acceptance of the hysterics who rail against their lethal misfortune and all decency.
These are, of course, early days for the science of diagnostics by machine. Generations of skill perhaps for telling when a man grows better or sicker by sight and by touch alone, but it is now the very new X-ray apparatus that permits both physician and patient alike to view the live inner flesh at work and, of course, the terrible fell thing within that is flesh of their flesh yet also the harbinger of its total destruction. They will see themselves alive, but will also be a witness to their own dying.
This peep behind the curtain, as it were, of existence itself is a mighty and modern privilege, something to be approached - if at all - with a certain numinous awe as well as perhaps a near religious dread. It can be done, but maybe it is not a thing that ought to be done. This is knowledge intended perhaps not for a man but for his God only.
Doctors, though, respect but are not quailed by these quite proper sentiments. Behrens ushers the cousinly pair into his darkened laboratory, accepting their trepidation - allowing some due ceremonial indeed to the occasion - yet also briskly setting dials, pressing buttons and aligning plates as they strip to the waist in preparation for their ordeal by radiation, standing almost to attention - Joachim fully martial in stance even - waiting the orders of their superior to attend for innermost examination.
Read the text for the humour of the machine itself. Perhaps Mann did not intend it, though I believe he did. No silent running as we moderns are used to, but a great snapping, crackling and popping summonsing of mysterious, semi-demonic radioactive forces. A conjuring almost, a cross between Dr. Frankenstein and the Wizard of Oz.
And behold then the magic of the mountain - a man observes his inner being, his living beating flesh. Hans and Joachim are suitably smitten with the wonder of the thing. One wonder though was not theirs to have, the great question: am I sick or am I well? They were already feverish with their tuberculosis. The picture of themselves they saw was, in the end, but a visual confirmation of pre-existing knowledge. Awesome certainly, but not a revelation of anything other than that they were mortal.
My forthcoming CT scan is so much like theirs and yet so very different. It too will peer deep inside me, show doctors and myself hidden regions and inner workings. I, as the cousins, may well ponder whether this is a sight fit for a man to see. It will, however, be a quiet affair, I shan't know the minute the picture is taken, no smiling for the birdie. Not even, these days, a physical photographic plate to take away with me, one to be feverishly searched for clues by the ignorant patient in advance of the knowing doctor's review.
In the old days I would walk into the appointment with the plates under my arms. My oncologist would be none the wiser at that moment than I. Only when she had taken the plates from me and posted them on her screen would I know that she was finding out what they said. I would keenly watch her face for any trace of revealing thought or emotion. She in her turn would give nothing away until she was ready to speak. A tense few moments as you can imagine.
This time around it will be different. The scans will have been emailed in advance and she - or whoever it is with this new disease - will already have reviewed them, determined her conclusions and be prepared, the moment I am through that door, to give them.
Behrens would never have been saying to the cousins: "My Lord, I have been wrong all these years. You haven't got - never have had - tuberculosis." My man or woman, however may be saying to me: "By crikey, I never expected to find any evidence of spread, but I am so very sorry to say that's precisely it. I have."
Plenty of crackling and popping before that moment arrives, not to mention an inevitable amount of snapping all round. Time then, once more, perhaps to re-read Manns great work on man.
General readers will delight in the extended exposition on disease (tuberculosis in this case) as a metaphor for some of the finest as well as many of the most wretched aspects of the human condition. Male readers - though not exclusively - ought to find at least a part of them in complete accord with the questing mind and seeking soul of its central character, young Hans Castorp. Tears even might be shed when, after seven years' seclusion in his mountain-top sanatorium, he of a sudden plunges back into the maelstrom of the impending First World War. A serious and a thoughtful seeker after experience, knowledge and even some wisdom, but above all a patriot.
Tears most certainly ought to be shed for his cousin Joachim's brave soldierly defiance of his fatal illness, and for his stubborn refusal, in such exigent circumstances, to bend even one inch of his silly stiff neck to acknowledge and own the raging passion he holds deep in his heart for a lady whom he sees every day over many years, yet to whom he never once addresses a single word because, simply, they have not been formally introduced.
For Hans, illness offers some loosening of the social constraints that bind a young, correct German man of his generation - his famous and fabulous 'Walpurgis Night' - but for Joachim, anything of that sort would be mere sign of weakness in the face of an enemy. They are indeed a fine contrasting pair throughout, even after Joachim's premature, heroic death. But no more on that, if you wish to know how he lives on and with what extraordinary consequences for his cousin Hans then to the book itself you must go.
But if they differ, these two, in their willingness to 'cut loose', both inevitably are drawn by curiosity to explore the very thing that binds them to the Berghof - their pulmonary self and the decay within. Each patient becomes their own expert at the marvellous 'cure': from rug-wrapping against the evening chill on their balconies, to recognising by sound alone the import of each 'tap, tap, tap' as Behrens knocks their torsos exploring for dry scar tissue and wet live disease; from courteous visits to the suffering moribund whose dying is an affront to the regime of the place, to the compassionate acceptance of the hysterics who rail against their lethal misfortune and all decency.
These are, of course, early days for the science of diagnostics by machine. Generations of skill perhaps for telling when a man grows better or sicker by sight and by touch alone, but it is now the very new X-ray apparatus that permits both physician and patient alike to view the live inner flesh at work and, of course, the terrible fell thing within that is flesh of their flesh yet also the harbinger of its total destruction. They will see themselves alive, but will also be a witness to their own dying.
This peep behind the curtain, as it were, of existence itself is a mighty and modern privilege, something to be approached - if at all - with a certain numinous awe as well as perhaps a near religious dread. It can be done, but maybe it is not a thing that ought to be done. This is knowledge intended perhaps not for a man but for his God only.
Doctors, though, respect but are not quailed by these quite proper sentiments. Behrens ushers the cousinly pair into his darkened laboratory, accepting their trepidation - allowing some due ceremonial indeed to the occasion - yet also briskly setting dials, pressing buttons and aligning plates as they strip to the waist in preparation for their ordeal by radiation, standing almost to attention - Joachim fully martial in stance even - waiting the orders of their superior to attend for innermost examination.
Read the text for the humour of the machine itself. Perhaps Mann did not intend it, though I believe he did. No silent running as we moderns are used to, but a great snapping, crackling and popping summonsing of mysterious, semi-demonic radioactive forces. A conjuring almost, a cross between Dr. Frankenstein and the Wizard of Oz.
And behold then the magic of the mountain - a man observes his inner being, his living beating flesh. Hans and Joachim are suitably smitten with the wonder of the thing. One wonder though was not theirs to have, the great question: am I sick or am I well? They were already feverish with their tuberculosis. The picture of themselves they saw was, in the end, but a visual confirmation of pre-existing knowledge. Awesome certainly, but not a revelation of anything other than that they were mortal.
My forthcoming CT scan is so much like theirs and yet so very different. It too will peer deep inside me, show doctors and myself hidden regions and inner workings. I, as the cousins, may well ponder whether this is a sight fit for a man to see. It will, however, be a quiet affair, I shan't know the minute the picture is taken, no smiling for the birdie. Not even, these days, a physical photographic plate to take away with me, one to be feverishly searched for clues by the ignorant patient in advance of the knowing doctor's review.
In the old days I would walk into the appointment with the plates under my arms. My oncologist would be none the wiser at that moment than I. Only when she had taken the plates from me and posted them on her screen would I know that she was finding out what they said. I would keenly watch her face for any trace of revealing thought or emotion. She in her turn would give nothing away until she was ready to speak. A tense few moments as you can imagine.
This time around it will be different. The scans will have been emailed in advance and she - or whoever it is with this new disease - will already have reviewed them, determined her conclusions and be prepared, the moment I am through that door, to give them.
Behrens would never have been saying to the cousins: "My Lord, I have been wrong all these years. You haven't got - never have had - tuberculosis." My man or woman, however may be saying to me: "By crikey, I never expected to find any evidence of spread, but I am so very sorry to say that's precisely it. I have."
Plenty of crackling and popping before that moment arrives, not to mention an inevitable amount of snapping all round. Time then, once more, perhaps to re-read Manns great work on man.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
"A Hit...
...a palpable hit!"
Not sure what it is with me and the Bard at present. Does an unwell Englishman retreat into his ancestral past for comfort? Possibly so, but whatever the cause I do keep finding he has all the right words - and unlike dear Eric Morecambe of blessed memory all in the right order too.
The hit in question of course was a sword strike, first of many to come in Hamlet's last duel scene. It is this bladed assault to which I now refer. Once upon a time in childhood I had, as many children do, to suffer the thorough unpleasantness of having my appendix removed. My first taste of surgery at quite an impressionable age, and you'll not be entirely shocked to hear that the impressions as such were none too favourable.
A feeling of terrible invasion in the cutting of the flesh, wretched pain afterwards that would not ease and a wound that could not heal at all. No fun at seven indeed.
Then it transpired that to add, as it were, grievous insult to loathsome injury I had caught some nasty hospital infection, peritonitis had set in and - so I was later told - Death was already half-way down the corridor by the time nurse picked me up from the balcony where I was merrily playing at pushing paper airplanes through the grill onto the street below, grabbed me under her arm and, sprinting like a sterling rugby fly-half across the ward, threw me down onto the bed, ripped off my pyjamas in exchange for a surgical gown, thence more throwing onto a trolley and a belt down the Death-approaching corridor with the anaesthetist already clamping his horrid smelling mask over my screaming mouth.
On waking in dazed shock of course what did I find than that they had opened up my festering wound for another spot of surgery? That let me tell you was - and still is all these many years later - a heavy psychological scarring to inflict on a young and now not so young fellow. It may have been - was indeed - life saving, but it was a total travesty of all that medicine should seem to be. To cut a cut is a foul thing, even if the right thing.
And so where do I find myself now? Why in that very same place once more! All right, this time it is planned, it is standard procedure, but I will still once more have to bear being cut where I have been cut before. Wide excision following narrow excision as per the textbook.
First wound is healing quite nicely, pain is nearly done, and here am I about to say "Have another go chaps. Hit me once more. The scar shows you just where to aim the blade."
Not backing out of course, but by golly am I hurting inside. The screams of the seven year old, terrified and disbelieving, are as loud once more in my head tonight as they were in that dingy hospital corridor some forty years ago.
Not sure what it is with me and the Bard at present. Does an unwell Englishman retreat into his ancestral past for comfort? Possibly so, but whatever the cause I do keep finding he has all the right words - and unlike dear Eric Morecambe of blessed memory all in the right order too.
The hit in question of course was a sword strike, first of many to come in Hamlet's last duel scene. It is this bladed assault to which I now refer. Once upon a time in childhood I had, as many children do, to suffer the thorough unpleasantness of having my appendix removed. My first taste of surgery at quite an impressionable age, and you'll not be entirely shocked to hear that the impressions as such were none too favourable.
A feeling of terrible invasion in the cutting of the flesh, wretched pain afterwards that would not ease and a wound that could not heal at all. No fun at seven indeed.
Then it transpired that to add, as it were, grievous insult to loathsome injury I had caught some nasty hospital infection, peritonitis had set in and - so I was later told - Death was already half-way down the corridor by the time nurse picked me up from the balcony where I was merrily playing at pushing paper airplanes through the grill onto the street below, grabbed me under her arm and, sprinting like a sterling rugby fly-half across the ward, threw me down onto the bed, ripped off my pyjamas in exchange for a surgical gown, thence more throwing onto a trolley and a belt down the Death-approaching corridor with the anaesthetist already clamping his horrid smelling mask over my screaming mouth.
On waking in dazed shock of course what did I find than that they had opened up my festering wound for another spot of surgery? That let me tell you was - and still is all these many years later - a heavy psychological scarring to inflict on a young and now not so young fellow. It may have been - was indeed - life saving, but it was a total travesty of all that medicine should seem to be. To cut a cut is a foul thing, even if the right thing.
And so where do I find myself now? Why in that very same place once more! All right, this time it is planned, it is standard procedure, but I will still once more have to bear being cut where I have been cut before. Wide excision following narrow excision as per the textbook.
First wound is healing quite nicely, pain is nearly done, and here am I about to say "Have another go chaps. Hit me once more. The scar shows you just where to aim the blade."
Not backing out of course, but by golly am I hurting inside. The screams of the seven year old, terrified and disbelieving, are as loud once more in my head tonight as they were in that dingy hospital corridor some forty years ago.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
"Out Damned Spot..."
...thus poor deranged Lady Macbeth, driven utterly potty by contemplating the horror of Duncan's foul murder. One does say 'poor' in a forgiving sort of way, as madness in the face of one's sin must be taken as a mark of - if not repentance as such - then at the least a plain recognition that evil has been done and oneself has been the doer.
But this is not more Bardean exegesis tonight, merely an apposite image for some troubling of the mind as we find it. And no it's not a case of 'More sin Vicar?' we have here. The fret - and there is fret in spades - comes with the confirmation that indeed - as we all already knew - one's aforementioned mole is quite a mal thing.
From last post to this one has had the initial surgery, with something of a teaspoon sized lump excised from the rectorial leg and sent for due pathological analysis. The results are in and they are bloody good for being awful. Yes, it is melanoma but it is but a miserable thin thing - which is splendid - and signs of spread there are none evident as such and as yet.
Purely then on a 'just in case' basis one is to be hauled in once more for a larger lump (one pictures somewhat grimly an ice-cream scoop shaped instrument) to be hewn out and away. They will of course look see if this second slice of leg shows any evidence of disease, not on the whole expecting to find any.
This though then is the rub - briefly back to the Bard once more - and the cause of my fret. The word to come back will be 'No Evidence of Disease' and not, crucially, 'Evidence of No Disease.' The latter they never say; never have and never will. Haven't for near ten years with this sarcoma malarkey [see earlier passim] and won't, in addition, be saying that either about this mal thing.
At least, though, with the sarcoma there was some ready-to-hand nuclear science to zap any residual malignancy possibly lurking near the primary, and even some top-shelf poison with which one could be depth-charged in case the little tinker had set sail for other bodily parts.
With this here melanoma though that, apparently, is not even on the menu. Only the knife, which though a fine thing in itself for tackling the primary is actually a pretty blunt instrument when it comes to mopping up any afters.
So, all right, I am but a little bit cancerous in the way that one (a female one of course only) would be said to be 'a little bit pregnant.' By extension of the analogy, I am not likely to come to full term with this thing - and for that mercy of course great thanks - but there is now another spot that cannot be outed for all my wanting it so.
Don't believe the Bard ever used this image - though am perfectly prepared to be corrected - but it is as if one were another Damocles with not one but now two swords hanging by slender threads over his aching head.
But this is not more Bardean exegesis tonight, merely an apposite image for some troubling of the mind as we find it. And no it's not a case of 'More sin Vicar?' we have here. The fret - and there is fret in spades - comes with the confirmation that indeed - as we all already knew - one's aforementioned mole is quite a mal thing.
From last post to this one has had the initial surgery, with something of a teaspoon sized lump excised from the rectorial leg and sent for due pathological analysis. The results are in and they are bloody good for being awful. Yes, it is melanoma but it is but a miserable thin thing - which is splendid - and signs of spread there are none evident as such and as yet.
Purely then on a 'just in case' basis one is to be hauled in once more for a larger lump (one pictures somewhat grimly an ice-cream scoop shaped instrument) to be hewn out and away. They will of course look see if this second slice of leg shows any evidence of disease, not on the whole expecting to find any.
This though then is the rub - briefly back to the Bard once more - and the cause of my fret. The word to come back will be 'No Evidence of Disease' and not, crucially, 'Evidence of No Disease.' The latter they never say; never have and never will. Haven't for near ten years with this sarcoma malarkey [see earlier passim] and won't, in addition, be saying that either about this mal thing.
At least, though, with the sarcoma there was some ready-to-hand nuclear science to zap any residual malignancy possibly lurking near the primary, and even some top-shelf poison with which one could be depth-charged in case the little tinker had set sail for other bodily parts.
With this here melanoma though that, apparently, is not even on the menu. Only the knife, which though a fine thing in itself for tackling the primary is actually a pretty blunt instrument when it comes to mopping up any afters.
So, all right, I am but a little bit cancerous in the way that one (a female one of course only) would be said to be 'a little bit pregnant.' By extension of the analogy, I am not likely to come to full term with this thing - and for that mercy of course great thanks - but there is now another spot that cannot be outed for all my wanting it so.
Don't believe the Bard ever used this image - though am perfectly prepared to be corrected - but it is as if one were another Damocles with not one but now two swords hanging by slender threads over his aching head.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
"Some Vicious Mole of Nature..."
...thus spoke Prince Hamlet, and by golly did he quite hit the spot with that image.
To expound as best one might. 'The stamp of one defect' meant the Bard, by which possession - by nature and not through personal failing - a man takes 'corruption from that particular fault' alone, overturning any good he might otherwise have accomplished.
That single defect then is his downfall. He might have lived had he not died of cancer. That sort of thing.
Let us, though, be clear here. Shakespeare's 'mole' is not the mouldwarp but the mal. Not the cute furry animal, 'Wind in the Willows' stout-hearted hero and terror of many a lawn; but the stain or blot. The etymology is quite different, the meaning differentiated and distinct.
And yet in melanoma, do not the two come together in one unwholesome whole? A mole on the skin derives from the mal. It is, quite literally, a stain. But when it burrows into the skin, leaving behind it a visible heap - as if a molehill - bringing malignancy in its train and wake, is it not precisely so very like the earth-digging creature in its doings?
Does seem, perhaps, a tad unfair to burden an innocent animal with a metaphor of decay and death, yet it is hard not to be so tempted. For it is the burrowing beneath the surface that makes the thing, more than any image of a stain. Drop red wine on a shirt and it marks as it dries. But it does not then set off to penetrate further, as does the mouldwarp.
If you know your melanoma, you'll too know that the deeper it digs the nastier and more deadly it becomes. We all have stains, but not all mercifully are undermined thus.
Just how undermined I am, I am shortly to find out. My mole - my mal and my mouldwarp - has been excised. It is pronounced malignant, but we do not yet know quite how penetrating or how threatening. But what we do know is that the deeper it has gone, the more defective and deadlier it will prove to be.
To expound as best one might. 'The stamp of one defect' meant the Bard, by which possession - by nature and not through personal failing - a man takes 'corruption from that particular fault' alone, overturning any good he might otherwise have accomplished.
That single defect then is his downfall. He might have lived had he not died of cancer. That sort of thing.
Let us, though, be clear here. Shakespeare's 'mole' is not the mouldwarp but the mal. Not the cute furry animal, 'Wind in the Willows' stout-hearted hero and terror of many a lawn; but the stain or blot. The etymology is quite different, the meaning differentiated and distinct.
And yet in melanoma, do not the two come together in one unwholesome whole? A mole on the skin derives from the mal. It is, quite literally, a stain. But when it burrows into the skin, leaving behind it a visible heap - as if a molehill - bringing malignancy in its train and wake, is it not precisely so very like the earth-digging creature in its doings?
Does seem, perhaps, a tad unfair to burden an innocent animal with a metaphor of decay and death, yet it is hard not to be so tempted. For it is the burrowing beneath the surface that makes the thing, more than any image of a stain. Drop red wine on a shirt and it marks as it dries. But it does not then set off to penetrate further, as does the mouldwarp.
If you know your melanoma, you'll too know that the deeper it digs the nastier and more deadly it becomes. We all have stains, but not all mercifully are undermined thus.
Just how undermined I am, I am shortly to find out. My mole - my mal and my mouldwarp - has been excised. It is pronounced malignant, but we do not yet know quite how penetrating or how threatening. But what we do know is that the deeper it has gone, the more defective and deadlier it will prove to be.
Monday, September 07, 2009
The Game's Afoot...
No slouch our GP Dr. P. Fixed me up to meet and greet with a certain Dr. D, certified consultant in the skin trade, for last Friday
Nice chap our Dr. D, with good manners and clearly knowing his business. Took me through the basics of what he was seeing: "Large dark centre, almost black and slightly raised. A starfish shaped corona of a lighter colour." (OK 'starfish shape' is my image, but it gives the flavour of the thing.)
Said, indeed, all the right things except for: "I'm afraid that very much looks like a melanoma to me." To which, from my carefully crafted list of pre-prepared questions, I could only respond: "B*gger!"
So having again carefully explained next steps (initial excisional biopsy) and likely further action dependent on test results (wide excision, maybe sentinel lymph node biopsy) we exchanged phone numbers in the hope he can do me privately sooner rather than NHS later.
Am now confirmed for tomorrow pip emma, which is about as swift as swift as can be. The game, therefore, is quite afoot, though precisely which game we'll have to wait and see.
It might prove simply be a little horrid something that can be cut out, binned and never heard from again; or could be something so very much more threatening and nasty, leading to Heaven's knows where and when. (Still, of course, the minutest scintilla of a possibility that it is just masquerading as a melanoma in order to add some confusion to the medical text books. But I'm not holding the front page on that, and neither I suspect is Dr D.)
Funny - in the odd way - having (probably - I cling to that for now) a cancer you can actually see and touch. The sarcoma was a protruding lump easy to spot under the skin and to run the hand over, but it's something else altogether when you can actually stare it in the face and touch it with the finger. Been doing a fair amount of that this weekend!
Not exactly feeling too chipper about the whole thing today to be honest. (English gentleman's code of course for feeling totally freaked and more than half out of my mind!) It's not so much the having of the cancer itself (probably, as before) as facing going through the whole thing once again.
All the steps and stages, the uncertainties, the anxieties, the hopes and fears (of me and mine), the waiting and the wondering. Those repeated times when each appointment begins with one of two chances: the good option of 'Hey, the tests were clear. Go celebrate', or the bummer 'Sorry to have to tell you, we've seen something.'
I lived with and through that for the first five years of sarcoma - for the first two years every three months. Had the energy to cope with all that then. Don't feel quite so strong this time round.
As our dear American cousins will say: 'Sh1t happens.' Or as I would, in more Anglo-Saxon mode, would put it: 'B*gger!'
Nice chap our Dr. D, with good manners and clearly knowing his business. Took me through the basics of what he was seeing: "Large dark centre, almost black and slightly raised. A starfish shaped corona of a lighter colour." (OK 'starfish shape' is my image, but it gives the flavour of the thing.)
Said, indeed, all the right things except for: "I'm afraid that very much looks like a melanoma to me." To which, from my carefully crafted list of pre-prepared questions, I could only respond: "B*gger!"
So having again carefully explained next steps (initial excisional biopsy) and likely further action dependent on test results (wide excision, maybe sentinel lymph node biopsy) we exchanged phone numbers in the hope he can do me privately sooner rather than NHS later.
Am now confirmed for tomorrow pip emma, which is about as swift as swift as can be. The game, therefore, is quite afoot, though precisely which game we'll have to wait and see.
It might prove simply be a little horrid something that can be cut out, binned and never heard from again; or could be something so very much more threatening and nasty, leading to Heaven's knows where and when. (Still, of course, the minutest scintilla of a possibility that it is just masquerading as a melanoma in order to add some confusion to the medical text books. But I'm not holding the front page on that, and neither I suspect is Dr D.)
Funny - in the odd way - having (probably - I cling to that for now) a cancer you can actually see and touch. The sarcoma was a protruding lump easy to spot under the skin and to run the hand over, but it's something else altogether when you can actually stare it in the face and touch it with the finger. Been doing a fair amount of that this weekend!
Not exactly feeling too chipper about the whole thing today to be honest. (English gentleman's code of course for feeling totally freaked and more than half out of my mind!) It's not so much the having of the cancer itself (probably, as before) as facing going through the whole thing once again.
All the steps and stages, the uncertainties, the anxieties, the hopes and fears (of me and mine), the waiting and the wondering. Those repeated times when each appointment begins with one of two chances: the good option of 'Hey, the tests were clear. Go celebrate', or the bummer 'Sorry to have to tell you, we've seen something.'
I lived with and through that for the first five years of sarcoma - for the first two years every three months. Had the energy to cope with all that then. Don't feel quite so strong this time round.
As our dear American cousins will say: 'Sh1t happens.' Or as I would, in more Anglo-Saxon mode, would put it: 'B*gger!'
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Something New Under The Sun...
...well, not new of course in the sense of never yet seen or heard. The Preacher after all was right when he wrote that there is simply nothing new under the sun. For every human event there will always be someone already with the tee-shirt bearing the logo "Been there, done that...etc., etc."
But a novelty within my life, though even here it must be said only up to a point. One has trod before the Via Dolorosa of cancer [see earlier] and now it seems one may be about to tread that same rocky road bearing a new and lengthy slogan: "Yay melanoma, do you think after I've survived a most minging sarcoma that should have seen me off a decade ago I'll let a little skin cancer do for me?"
Lacks a certain precision as a slogan I'll admit. Hard to get all of that text onto a medium-sized rectorial chest. We are not quite there yet, so time still to work on it.
'Twas H of course who set the whole thing in motion. "Don't like the look of that peculiar shaped mole dear PP. Hie thee to a GP this instance and let him opine on the matter."
Well you know us blokes - anything to avoid mithering a doctor. (First Rule of Bloke Health: 'Ignore it and it will go away.' Second Rule of Bloke Health: 'Sometimes that's a really stupid thing to do.') One thing though more to be avoided, at all and any cost, even than troubling a busy GP and that, of course, is a good indoors and persistent nagging.
So solely to ease the ear-bashing, one duly telephoned the local NHS slaughter house masquerading as a surgery. A brief convo. with the Female Demon (receptionist), a swift telling of the circs., and it was "See you 9.05 ack emma tomorrow Rector and no excuses."
All a little hasty one pondered. Usual waiting time for an appointment - if you're still actually breathing - being nearer the two to three weeks mark. Wouldn't even put it passed H to have had a word with said Female Demon, they both being on some committee or other for public good of a generalised and no doubt splendid nature.
Anyway, so no sooner Mattins done and dusted than it was off to dear Doc Peasbody for to let him take a decko at said unfavoured mole. Slightly, one must say, taken aback at his reaction. For no sooner had the professional gaze alighted on the spot in question than pens were being grasped and phrases such as "referral for urgent excisional biopsy" were upon his lips.
The fax even was sent as we sat gassing about life, the universe and the odds of it being malignant. "About 50 / 50 I should say Rector" - in a voice that had me not reaching for my wallet to bet on the better half of the wager.
And as if that wasn't bad enough, no sooner is one back in the old study sipping a reviving and nerve-steadying pre-luncheon malt of some considerable measure it must be owned (not sure what line the Dutch take on courage in the face of possible fatal sickness, but whatever it is they have it nailed for certain), but the old telephone sounds in the old study with a new voice announcing that a 'See and Treat' appointment has been made for Friday following.
Allowing that this here 'See 'n' Treat' malarkey is just a fanciful name for the NHS simply doing its job, one is still impressed - if slightly over-awed - by the swiftness of the whole thing. Where gone are the good old, bad old days of "Around Michaelmas-tide I should expect, if the weather be fair" approach to secondary medicine I should like to know?
And so there we have it. One may - or one may not - have melanoma and one somewhat anxiously waits to find out. This is where the whole 'Been there, done that, worn the wretched tee-shirt' thing comes into its own. For once more must I become the 'impatient patient', finding out in advance all there is to know and ask about melanoma in order to ensure that all options are considered and all decisions taken are with my full and active consent. Will we or not, for example, opt for the 'sentinel node biopsy' to check for local invasion of the lymph system and if not why not?
My poor people who treated the sarcoma had to become accustomed to my asking all and any question I cared to ask. "That big shiny yellow thing in the sky..." "Yes Rector, it is the sun now may we proceed?"
So now we have the time of waiting. Either I have the thing or I do not. Here, tonight, and for possibly some several weeks to come I shall not know which it is. One or the other though it must be, I cannot play quantum and be both beam and particle at once. Either one door will open pointing the way to 'business as usual', or else the other darker door will usher me into the Lord alone know what.
This waiting then is painful. It agonises and it sets the spirit and the soul on fire. Poor H is all over the shop and I'm not exactly standing calmly by the till waiting to serve the next customer, as it were.
If you know your Bob Dylan you'll recognise the song that is pinging in my head right now. Comes from my all time fav 'Blonde on Blonde'. Catchy little number with a rock-a-billy beat called 'Memphis Blues Again'. Irresistible line goes thus: "And here I sit so patiently waiting to find out what price you have to pay to get out of going through this whole thing twice."
Nothing new then really under this or any other sun. (And yes, I do still miss my horse. That will and can never change. Some constant in one's life is always welcome.)
But a novelty within my life, though even here it must be said only up to a point. One has trod before the Via Dolorosa of cancer [see earlier] and now it seems one may be about to tread that same rocky road bearing a new and lengthy slogan: "Yay melanoma, do you think after I've survived a most minging sarcoma that should have seen me off a decade ago I'll let a little skin cancer do for me?"
Lacks a certain precision as a slogan I'll admit. Hard to get all of that text onto a medium-sized rectorial chest. We are not quite there yet, so time still to work on it.
'Twas H of course who set the whole thing in motion. "Don't like the look of that peculiar shaped mole dear PP. Hie thee to a GP this instance and let him opine on the matter."
Well you know us blokes - anything to avoid mithering a doctor. (First Rule of Bloke Health: 'Ignore it and it will go away.' Second Rule of Bloke Health: 'Sometimes that's a really stupid thing to do.') One thing though more to be avoided, at all and any cost, even than troubling a busy GP and that, of course, is a good indoors and persistent nagging.
So solely to ease the ear-bashing, one duly telephoned the local NHS slaughter house masquerading as a surgery. A brief convo. with the Female Demon (receptionist), a swift telling of the circs., and it was "See you 9.05 ack emma tomorrow Rector and no excuses."
All a little hasty one pondered. Usual waiting time for an appointment - if you're still actually breathing - being nearer the two to three weeks mark. Wouldn't even put it passed H to have had a word with said Female Demon, they both being on some committee or other for public good of a generalised and no doubt splendid nature.
Anyway, so no sooner Mattins done and dusted than it was off to dear Doc Peasbody for to let him take a decko at said unfavoured mole. Slightly, one must say, taken aback at his reaction. For no sooner had the professional gaze alighted on the spot in question than pens were being grasped and phrases such as "referral for urgent excisional biopsy" were upon his lips.
The fax even was sent as we sat gassing about life, the universe and the odds of it being malignant. "About 50 / 50 I should say Rector" - in a voice that had me not reaching for my wallet to bet on the better half of the wager.
And as if that wasn't bad enough, no sooner is one back in the old study sipping a reviving and nerve-steadying pre-luncheon malt of some considerable measure it must be owned (not sure what line the Dutch take on courage in the face of possible fatal sickness, but whatever it is they have it nailed for certain), but the old telephone sounds in the old study with a new voice announcing that a 'See and Treat' appointment has been made for Friday following.
Allowing that this here 'See 'n' Treat' malarkey is just a fanciful name for the NHS simply doing its job, one is still impressed - if slightly over-awed - by the swiftness of the whole thing. Where gone are the good old, bad old days of "Around Michaelmas-tide I should expect, if the weather be fair" approach to secondary medicine I should like to know?
And so there we have it. One may - or one may not - have melanoma and one somewhat anxiously waits to find out. This is where the whole 'Been there, done that, worn the wretched tee-shirt' thing comes into its own. For once more must I become the 'impatient patient', finding out in advance all there is to know and ask about melanoma in order to ensure that all options are considered and all decisions taken are with my full and active consent. Will we or not, for example, opt for the 'sentinel node biopsy' to check for local invasion of the lymph system and if not why not?
My poor people who treated the sarcoma had to become accustomed to my asking all and any question I cared to ask. "That big shiny yellow thing in the sky..." "Yes Rector, it is the sun now may we proceed?"
So now we have the time of waiting. Either I have the thing or I do not. Here, tonight, and for possibly some several weeks to come I shall not know which it is. One or the other though it must be, I cannot play quantum and be both beam and particle at once. Either one door will open pointing the way to 'business as usual', or else the other darker door will usher me into the Lord alone know what.
This waiting then is painful. It agonises and it sets the spirit and the soul on fire. Poor H is all over the shop and I'm not exactly standing calmly by the till waiting to serve the next customer, as it were.
If you know your Bob Dylan you'll recognise the song that is pinging in my head right now. Comes from my all time fav 'Blonde on Blonde'. Catchy little number with a rock-a-billy beat called 'Memphis Blues Again'. Irresistible line goes thus: "And here I sit so patiently waiting to find out what price you have to pay to get out of going through this whole thing twice."
Nothing new then really under this or any other sun. (And yes, I do still miss my horse. That will and can never change. Some constant in one's life is always welcome.)
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Farewell My Horse...
...it has indeed taken the derring-do of the aforementioned to stir me from the torpor that has prevented me posting these past weeks.
For I am man in mourning and silence is my retreat from pain.
My beloved horse - Diamond Jane, or Janey, or even 'J-Pops' - is sold and I shall never see her again. I am bereft. E wanted it so to advance her equestrian career; H commanded it so. I, therefore, acquiesced though with heavy heart and spirit torn.
She - a mare - has gone to an new owner who swears to cherish her. I will rip the woman asunder if I hear any different.
Fed, watered, groomed and well-ridden that is all she will want. She may or may not wonder when 'Grandad' will next visit, but I shall miss sorely her until the day I die.
For I am man in mourning and silence is my retreat from pain.
My beloved horse - Diamond Jane, or Janey, or even 'J-Pops' - is sold and I shall never see her again. I am bereft. E wanted it so to advance her equestrian career; H commanded it so. I, therefore, acquiesced though with heavy heart and spirit torn.
She - a mare - has gone to an new owner who swears to cherish her. I will rip the woman asunder if I hear any different.
Fed, watered, groomed and well-ridden that is all she will want. She may or may not wonder when 'Grandad' will next visit, but I shall miss sorely her until the day I die.
Frank Corti - A Good Neighbour...
...We, mercifully, are blessed with good neighbours. I trust it is a view they share.
That they are at somewhat of a distance - the Rectory being of the old style, large and with plentiful grounds - does not signify, as they are all in fact decent, quiet coves; though were they not the half an acre of lawn surrounding would be handy.
Mr Frank Corti, a hero of our day, is not so happily blessed it seems, his neighbour - one scumbag named Gregory McCalium - bursting in one evening on the startled Mr Corti and his dear wife Margaret, armed with a knife and intent on burglary with harm no doubt.
The photographs in the newspaper today show both victim and assailant alike. There is young McCalium, 23 years of age; and there is old Mr Corti a white-haired seventy-two.
The one is bruised and bloody, eye blackened with thickened bloody lips. Mr Corti, on the other hand, shows himself firm, upright and properly defiant.
For yes indeed, Mr Corti, an ex-soldier and boxer to boot, taking - as he would - unkindly to McCalium's threatening intrusion into his peaceful home, brushed aside the scumbag's knife giving the would-be thief the old one-two.
Biff, bash, bosh as they say. Or as Mr Corti himself said: ""I was scared when he first drew the knife, but my old training must have kicked in because I just punched him as hard as I could and he went down like a sack of spuds. If you can't defend what's yours, where are we at?"
That accomplished, it seems Mr Corti then restrained the battered McCalium awaiting the Police to cart him away.
Bravo Mr Corti for your deeds and for your words. Last word perhaps, the Judge to McCalium before sentencing him to four-and-a-half years without the option: "You got what you deserved." Quite so.
I wouldn't know if there is a 'Neighbour of the Year' award proximate to where Mr Corti and his wife live, but there jolly well should be and he its winner.
That they are at somewhat of a distance - the Rectory being of the old style, large and with plentiful grounds - does not signify, as they are all in fact decent, quiet coves; though were they not the half an acre of lawn surrounding would be handy.
Mr Frank Corti, a hero of our day, is not so happily blessed it seems, his neighbour - one scumbag named Gregory McCalium - bursting in one evening on the startled Mr Corti and his dear wife Margaret, armed with a knife and intent on burglary with harm no doubt.
The photographs in the newspaper today show both victim and assailant alike. There is young McCalium, 23 years of age; and there is old Mr Corti a white-haired seventy-two.
The one is bruised and bloody, eye blackened with thickened bloody lips. Mr Corti, on the other hand, shows himself firm, upright and properly defiant.
For yes indeed, Mr Corti, an ex-soldier and boxer to boot, taking - as he would - unkindly to McCalium's threatening intrusion into his peaceful home, brushed aside the scumbag's knife giving the would-be thief the old one-two.
Biff, bash, bosh as they say. Or as Mr Corti himself said: ""I was scared when he first drew the knife, but my old training must have kicked in because I just punched him as hard as I could and he went down like a sack of spuds. If you can't defend what's yours, where are we at?"
That accomplished, it seems Mr Corti then restrained the battered McCalium awaiting the Police to cart him away.
Bravo Mr Corti for your deeds and for your words. Last word perhaps, the Judge to McCalium before sentencing him to four-and-a-half years without the option: "You got what you deserved." Quite so.
I wouldn't know if there is a 'Neighbour of the Year' award proximate to where Mr Corti and his wife live, but there jolly well should be and he its winner.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Frank Cook - An Apology...
...his not mine of course.
Let us read his explanation:
Stockton North MP Frank Cook has today described as ‘inexplicable, embarrassing—and deeply regrettable’ the report that amongst his Parliamentary expenses for 2006 was a note referring to a donation a Battle of Britain Memorial service.
The MP said that, whilst he could not understand why the note had been submitted to the House of Commons Fees Office and said they were ‘entirely right’ to have rejected it.
Said Mr Cook “Anyone who knows me will understand that there is no way in which I would seek intentionally to make a claim for a donation made at a church service or to a charitable cause—in over 26 years as a Member of Parliament I must have attended hundreds of services and other similar events and never once have I sought to claim for money I have paid as a donation or for a wreath.
“I must assume that the story in the Sunday Telegraph is correct and, as I explained to them and to other journalists who have contacted me, I cannot recall the note to which they have referred—and I certainly do not understand how it could have been submitted to the Fees Office. The Sunday Telegraph reports that it was rejected by the Fees office—and thank goodness for that.
“Whilst I cannot understand how the note came to be submitted, I have to accept responsibility for its submission, hold my hands up and apologise. It was a genuine mistake and I stress again—I would never deliberately make a claim of this kind.”
And so where did this 'note' come from that so inexplicably found its way to the Fees Office? He can hardly - one assumes - have asked for a receipt on the day, given the circs. So who wrote the note if not he? And if so, why so? And having done so, why and how did this note come to be passed for payment?
We all have bundles of receipts in our wallets and purses that - where the occasion merits - are striped down for reimbursement. But not a 'note' we have carefully crafted for a clear purpose.
Did he indeed not bother to check what 'notes' were being sent in for claim?
Chiltern Hundreds for that man if he has a shred of decency. Only the three available, so he'd better hurry.
On which note - don't we love the shop that now boasts the warning sign: 'Only two MPs allowed in at any one time.'
Bravo! The nation speaks.
Let us read his explanation:
Stockton North MP Frank Cook has today described as ‘inexplicable, embarrassing—and deeply regrettable’ the report that amongst his Parliamentary expenses for 2006 was a note referring to a donation a Battle of Britain Memorial service.
The MP said that, whilst he could not understand why the note had been submitted to the House of Commons Fees Office and said they were ‘entirely right’ to have rejected it.
Said Mr Cook “Anyone who knows me will understand that there is no way in which I would seek intentionally to make a claim for a donation made at a church service or to a charitable cause—in over 26 years as a Member of Parliament I must have attended hundreds of services and other similar events and never once have I sought to claim for money I have paid as a donation or for a wreath.
“I must assume that the story in the Sunday Telegraph is correct and, as I explained to them and to other journalists who have contacted me, I cannot recall the note to which they have referred—and I certainly do not understand how it could have been submitted to the Fees Office. The Sunday Telegraph reports that it was rejected by the Fees office—and thank goodness for that.
“Whilst I cannot understand how the note came to be submitted, I have to accept responsibility for its submission, hold my hands up and apologise. It was a genuine mistake and I stress again—I would never deliberately make a claim of this kind.”
And so where did this 'note' come from that so inexplicably found its way to the Fees Office? He can hardly - one assumes - have asked for a receipt on the day, given the circs. So who wrote the note if not he? And if so, why so? And having done so, why and how did this note come to be passed for payment?
We all have bundles of receipts in our wallets and purses that - where the occasion merits - are striped down for reimbursement. But not a 'note' we have carefully crafted for a clear purpose.
Did he indeed not bother to check what 'notes' were being sent in for claim?
Chiltern Hundreds for that man if he has a shred of decency. Only the three available, so he'd better hurry.
On which note - don't we love the shop that now boasts the warning sign: 'Only two MPs allowed in at any one time.'
Bravo! The nation speaks.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Frank Cook - Utter Scumbag
If the Telegraph is to believed - and we here do - then Frank Cook, MP, must merit as the worst of all the worst.
For we read that he attempted to claim five pounds in expenses, that being the amount he had put into the collection plate during a Battle of Britain church service.
Read that again and does not your anger mount and your very stomach retch?
Let us wait perhaps for any repudiation or denial before gathering the faggots to build the burning pile with him atop it. But should there be no ready answer to hand, then here in my hand tonight is the box of matches to light the cleansing fire.
For we read that he attempted to claim five pounds in expenses, that being the amount he had put into the collection plate during a Battle of Britain church service.
Read that again and does not your anger mount and your very stomach retch?
Let us wait perhaps for any repudiation or denial before gathering the faggots to build the burning pile with him atop it. But should there be no ready answer to hand, then here in my hand tonight is the box of matches to light the cleansing fire.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Bill Cash
...says it all really don't it?
He hands over the Bill and we have paid him the Cash.
Handy little aide memoire indeed should the volume and the detail of it all threaten to engulf you.
He hands over the Bill and we have paid him the Cash.
Handy little aide memoire indeed should the volume and the detail of it all threaten to engulf you.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Horse Sense...
...the selling of a beloved horse should not be trouble free. The decision, in the first place, to part with the beast in question should itself be taken not lightly.
There is, shall we call it, the professional dimension to consider: if one feels that equestrian aspirations of top-notch dressage are not within its capacity, how confident can one be that the next nag would be any better? Never is there the perfect horse; they - as their riders - all carry some degree of imperfection and only time tells if there is a possible partnership that can develop to some level of acceptable harmony and performance. When you buy you simply don't know if it will work out well or badly.
Then there is the far more potent moral matter: having committed to cherish the animal on purchase, having grown quite to love the thing over five years, how could any other person be entrusted with its care? The vetting process for any new owner has to be utterly rigorous. They are scrutinised and quizzed, third-party information is sought and considered. Only then, when that can be as satisfactorily resolved as may be, is the horse to be submitted for its own vetting.
No one of course seeks to ask the horse if she would mind awfully leaving for another yard, another rider and another life. Impossible even to let the thing know that this is what is intended. Nature has not equipped the respective species with opportunities for mainstream communication. One has, therefore, to go by clues and cues, being sensitive to both but not sure of either.
Today though our mare has spoken out loud and clear what she thinks of the whole thing. Irked by the initial proding, not happy with the eye test in a darkened stable, clearly unsettled by the intrusive flexion tests; no sooner then had E mounted to show off her paces than we were all treated to the horror show of a wild, untamed mustang-like affair, all rearing and twisting and bolting, with E at once thrown to the ground in a pained heap. Horse then bucking its way round the arena quite out of control and all character.
E is carted off to hospital for check-up, potential buyer flees in tears, vet stands aghast and we are all puzzled to have seen something so dire and unprecendented.
Later check-up calls to the stable reveal that horse has resumed its habitual stunned-donkey nonchalance, quietly munching away without a care in the world and, presumably, thoroughly happy with her performance guaranteeing she stays just where she is.
There is, shall we call it, the professional dimension to consider: if one feels that equestrian aspirations of top-notch dressage are not within its capacity, how confident can one be that the next nag would be any better? Never is there the perfect horse; they - as their riders - all carry some degree of imperfection and only time tells if there is a possible partnership that can develop to some level of acceptable harmony and performance. When you buy you simply don't know if it will work out well or badly.
Then there is the far more potent moral matter: having committed to cherish the animal on purchase, having grown quite to love the thing over five years, how could any other person be entrusted with its care? The vetting process for any new owner has to be utterly rigorous. They are scrutinised and quizzed, third-party information is sought and considered. Only then, when that can be as satisfactorily resolved as may be, is the horse to be submitted for its own vetting.
No one of course seeks to ask the horse if she would mind awfully leaving for another yard, another rider and another life. Impossible even to let the thing know that this is what is intended. Nature has not equipped the respective species with opportunities for mainstream communication. One has, therefore, to go by clues and cues, being sensitive to both but not sure of either.
Today though our mare has spoken out loud and clear what she thinks of the whole thing. Irked by the initial proding, not happy with the eye test in a darkened stable, clearly unsettled by the intrusive flexion tests; no sooner then had E mounted to show off her paces than we were all treated to the horror show of a wild, untamed mustang-like affair, all rearing and twisting and bolting, with E at once thrown to the ground in a pained heap. Horse then bucking its way round the arena quite out of control and all character.
E is carted off to hospital for check-up, potential buyer flees in tears, vet stands aghast and we are all puzzled to have seen something so dire and unprecendented.
Later check-up calls to the stable reveal that horse has resumed its habitual stunned-donkey nonchalance, quietly munching away without a care in the world and, presumably, thoroughly happy with her performance guaranteeing she stays just where she is.
Monday, May 25, 2009
A Healthy Diet...
...the aforementioned Ian McCartney is, we are told, now to leave office for 'health reasons.'
Champagne diet you see. Catches up with you in the end.
Champagne diet you see. Catches up with you in the end.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Let Them Drink Champagne...
'Mr McCartney [former Labour Party Chairman] said he had claimed for a dinner set and champagne flutes because, when he was a senior minister, he had to hold meetings at his home. He said: “I had to feed people.”' - Telegraph this evening.
Well, quite.
Well, quite.
'None of the Above' - X Marks The Spot...
I may perhaps be too late, but in case not am pleased to announce the formation of a new political party set fair to storm the hustings ere long.
The 'None of the Above Party' will of course be dedicated to ensuring that none of the above candidates of any of the present and utterly corrupt political parties will gain one single, solitary vote.
They hardly will of course, but people are stubbornly attached to voting; they don't care not to make their mark even if it is for the least of all the available evils.
So NOTA - could we even, and why not, pun it 'Nota Bene' - will be there for those who yearn not to absent themselves from the democratic process. A noble and an altruistic calling you'll readily agree.
Problems will doubtless later arise when NOTA is swept to power on a wave of popular sentiment and revulsion for others in equal measure. Our candidates will surely prove as venial as other men and women.
Already - as President of this fledgling force for good - I am measuring the rectorial library for new oaken shelving, and pondering if plain calf leather is sufficient for the strictly necessary re-binding of the thousands of books therein. H would no doubt much care for - need rather - a fine new kitchen of marble and chrome, whilst how could I apply myself to national duties knowing E did not have all the horses she requires to compete at the highest level?
Subscriptions for potential NOTA members will shortly be available. Fee rates are yet to be determined, so do please just send signed blank cheques payable to me at your most earliest convenience!
The 'None of the Above Party' will of course be dedicated to ensuring that none of the above candidates of any of the present and utterly corrupt political parties will gain one single, solitary vote.
They hardly will of course, but people are stubbornly attached to voting; they don't care not to make their mark even if it is for the least of all the available evils.
So NOTA - could we even, and why not, pun it 'Nota Bene' - will be there for those who yearn not to absent themselves from the democratic process. A noble and an altruistic calling you'll readily agree.
Problems will doubtless later arise when NOTA is swept to power on a wave of popular sentiment and revulsion for others in equal measure. Our candidates will surely prove as venial as other men and women.
Already - as President of this fledgling force for good - I am measuring the rectorial library for new oaken shelving, and pondering if plain calf leather is sufficient for the strictly necessary re-binding of the thousands of books therein. H would no doubt much care for - need rather - a fine new kitchen of marble and chrome, whilst how could I apply myself to national duties knowing E did not have all the horses she requires to compete at the highest level?
Subscriptions for potential NOTA members will shortly be available. Fee rates are yet to be determined, so do please just send signed blank cheques payable to me at your most earliest convenience!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
