ionetics

"No hugging, no learning"

2010-07-26T23:58:00.008+01:00

Hallo my dears,

I shall be sending a donation to Wikileaks following their reportage on US military communications today. These wars aren't quite as clean as portrayed for civilian casualties. Picked up Harry's discarded Guardian in my local pub tonight and was both horrified and gratified by the exposay.

Kiddos are away in Orkney with their others (dad and step-mum) leaving me latitude to get into trouble.

I got into bother on Friday night with a local man, whom I'd first met a fortnight before at the pub. We shared a long and chaste night smoking and listening to music that night. He turned up at the pub looking for me again and was still tall, dark and handsome, so we went up town for another drink alone. We were getting on so well that I allowed him to kiss me, but when I suggested we go back to mine, he flipped. The lover of the minute before started calling me a slag, slut, whore etc., with a slow truth dawning that I was in the company of a nasty-type nutter. When I told him to stop insulting me and to leave ("shut the fuck up and fuck right off out now"), he continued his sexualised personal insults with a raised voice and finger-poking gestures.

I sobered up remarkably quickly, realising I'd made a really bad call and now needed to get home safe and alone, by ensuring he left first and didn't hang around outside. Told him if he didn't leave I'd have the barstaff remove him, but he just carried on shouting about my whoredom and jabbing his finger at me. So I went to sensible-looking blokes sat nearby and told them through tears that I needed help getting rid of the maniac. While he was brave enough to scream for 10 mins at a 5'4", 9 stone woman against her requests to desist, it took just one quiet word from a 6'2" man to get him out. Thank God for the kindness of strangers, who let me get home safe.

What have we learned, ion? That you are not always a good judge of character, especially in your cups. And that tall, dark and handsome does not a gentleman make.

This negative experience apart, it's good getting out more and developing a community. It only took me 6 months to realise that home-working within 4 walls most days was not good for my mental health. So now there's often a morning coffee with Sweetie in the caff downstairs, especially if I'm hungover, and some evenings in my local pub, The Hell in a Handbasket, if I'm not. A glass of wine, a read of the papers or a book, some fiddle music, a chat with my favoured regulars, and claps of the regulars' dugs.

Sweetie from the caff has taken a leadership role with our neglected common back green, strimming the weeds, weed-killing the docks and dandelions, and digging a veg patch in which she's growing courgettes and carrots for the caff soup-pot. What a good influence she is! But amongst the 40 flats sharing the back green, there had to be one bastard. Yesterday, garage owner downstairs asked Sweetie to move her veg patch, due to his need for a 3 ft margin outside his bordering wall for maintenance access. In addition, he hopes the BBQ held out back last Saturday would not be a regular event, representing as it did a fire and safety hazard. It will give me some pleasure this week when I phone the Cooncil to establish that he has no such right. He's never been a pleasant neighbour.

2010-07-22T04:42:00.003+01:00

Hallo my dears,

Long time no see, but I survived the winter and am back on form due to combination therapy of happy pills and sunshine. I can't possibly fill in 7 months absence except to say; alles gut mit mir!

Let's see... in the interim
1. British troops are still in Iraq and Afghanistan, dying for a cause we now can't remember
2. There's a new coalition govt talking about some 'Big Society' for English women's institute people, forcing Vince Cable (an actually reasonable guy) to inform us that higher education is fucked, and some other dweeb to tell us that the NHS is also up the swanee
3. Obama is getting panelled by the tea party movement- is this the US equivalent of the women's institute?
4. Annual mating swarm of flying ants transpired locally this Tues, to my immense delight
5. My Big Wan may be moving out to a campus Uni in a couple of months (coalition govt willing), and the wee wan might become socialised soon
6. It was R's birthday yesterday, so we sang her 'Happy Birthday' and will take her out for boozy fish lunch this weekend
7. I stopped and then re-started drinking alcohol since my last post. Prefer the latter
8. Have had adventures both in Wales and the Trossachs the last few months, and planning another lost weekend in Berlin next month with R.

A bit shallow, but I have to ease back into my metier gradually. After all, it took me 2 hrs to trace blogger sign-in and password. Phew!

Ion x

Fashionably late

2009-12-03T21:40:00.002Z

Oh dear, has it really been 7 weeks since my last post? It seems like yesterday, but this could be early-onset dementia. Truth is that I now travel a lot and sometimes work stupid hours with the new jobbie, while entrenched in false consciousness. When I am at home, the Big and wee Wans give me quite a lot of work as their hormone levels rocket and mine plummet.

My dears, I am very well, so you mustn't worry. I may get a work-life balance later and come back more regularly, but for the meantime please expect scanty posting.

I visited Edinburgh's Modern Art Gallery this weekend, and by chance came across this inspiring artwork on its Georgian frontage. Who I am to disagree?

Toilet stories

2009-10-10T00:03:00.005+01:00

Rob requests toilet stories, and so shall he receive:

1. The Cairnpapple toilet story (history student etc. was a tale of jobbiness in more ways than one. R. was bursting as we arrived, but delayed her relief with my promise of the chemical toilet in the back area of the information Nissen Hut. She's a proper lady, you know, and prefers to pee in sanitary conditions, unlike some.

Anyways, on arrival at the Nissen Hut we're keen to pay up admission at the Nissen Hut, not least to gain access to the saniloo. A sweet-faced young graduate is warden, but (crucially) receiving a visit/ inspection from his Big Boss as we arrive. We stump up admission, buy a guidebook (!) and then request use of the facilities.

The Warden's eyes dart first between R. and Big Boss, then upward to his right visual field as he remembers the H&S lectures, and states carefully that there are no toilet facilities available to the public. R. says she needs to use a loo, and asks what he suggests- peeing outside behind the Hut? Warden says he can't recommend this option either, but has no alternative suggestions.

Thankfully at this point the Big Boss interceded to say that in the circumstances R. could be permitted to use the staff loo, to everyone (especially R's) relief.

When we came back to the Hut after the tour, full of beans and questions, Big Boss had left and the Warden was full of apologies about the earlier exchange. A student of modern US History and a wee charmer, his history expertise was only 4,000 years out.

2. This story is not mine to tell, but:

A friend, while travelling recently in Italy, took lunch at a railway hotel during a stop in her train journey. After some initial friction with the maitre d' over table size and water ordered, my friend had enjoyed her meal. The maitre d' then made up these misunderstandings with her, and then whispered in her ear that maybe they could meet in the toilets....?

Italian is not her best European language, and I suspect it took some time before she properly apprehended the true humanitarian nature of his offer. As she paid and left, maitre' was still signalling upstairs with head gestures, so there was no dubiety to his intent.

As I texted at the time, clearly this gentleman's kind proposition proved he was one of the world's last great romantics, and I can't believe that she managed to turn down this once in a lifetime opportunity for a toilet assignation, since apparently he was 'no' bad'.

2009-10-08T04:34:00.003+01:00

For me:

For Big Wan:

For wee Wan:

Botanical cases

2009-10-07T22:36:00.011+01:00

Life is and should be all about learning. Several query-exercises were set during the Lago Maggiore visit, and I set out here some research from a subset of these.

1. Capt Neil McEarcharn- the founder of Villa Taranto Gardens, who (naturally) did not work alone and whose chief factotums (aside from innominate Italiano labourers) were a Mr Crocker from Galloway and later Antonio Cappelletto, this latter (and his heirs) commemorated along with Capt. McEacharn in the memorial chapel, with its vivid and naturalistic floral stained glass windows. Capt. McEacharn appears to have been a lower son of landed Scottish aristocracy, bypassed through primogeniture. But either he or his retainers had extremely good botanical sensibilities.

2. Dahlias- Villa Taranto's garden is set out in a serpentine meander with ~200 hybrids in full blooming splendour in Sept. Their woody stems and leaf conformation have some affinity with chrysanthemums, but don't know if this is epiphenomenal or genuine consanguinity. According to wikipedia, "The great variety results from dahlias being octoploids (they have eight sets of homologous chromosomes, whereas most plants have only two)." Fantastico!

3. Pronunciation of plant names: Dahlias (named after a Swedish Mr Dahl) are often pronounced as Day-lia, as I believed to be correct before researching the etymology. But then Camellias (also prominent at Villa Taranto) are usually pronounced as Kam-eel-ia. Neither pronunciations can now be accepted (in my new nomenclature) except as vulgarisations.

4. Pollinators- Amongst the insects glorying in the Dahlias was a wierd fat-bodied type, about 2cm long, with a hugely long proboscis (as long as its body), a wing-beat so fast the wings couldn't be seen, and a hovering and darting habit as it moved between dahlia blooms. We swithered whether this could be a tiny hummingbird, but after research I now know it to be a hawkmoth (Sphingidae).

5. Dragonflies- The massive, iridescent, reptilian dragonflies patrolling the lily and lotus ponds were beautiful, mechanical and robotic. She was not, as imagined, attracted to our floral clothing, but looking for nymphae prey or patrolling her territory. After research, I believe our Anisoptera (possibly inspiration for DaVinci's helicopter engine) was a female Aeshnidae, most probably Aeshna cyanea or possibly imperator.

Lago Maggiore

2009-10-07T20:28:00.004+01:00

No photos for this blog, because my phone camera died last month in a rainstorm up Cairnpapple Hill, after which R. and I schmoozed the history student for toilet priviliges after a long drive. That's another story...

Last week I spent a few days in Ascona at the north end of Lake Maggiore (Swiss side) blagging along on R.'s attendance at a conference at Monte Verita. Monte Verita was a famous Bauhaus hotel/ artist colony in the 1930s, but now a state-owned conference venue. My welcome was far from its anarchist roots. After travelling for 14 hrs, I arrived to hear that "R. is not staying here and she is in a single room" and basically could I kindly fuck off and die.

But I didn't, instead phoning and finding R. in an eccentric hotel down the hill with a weird juxtaposition of formal German furniture, crucified Jesuses, Heironymus Bosch prints, crude and unattractive 70s ceramic nudes scuptures, taxidermic jays in an outside birdhouse, a stuffed egret inside and crude rainbow-coloured LSD-influenced 1970s paintings-as-therapy on many walls. We achieved enormous amusement that one such in the reception atrium featured a spider with 6 legs (!). I dared R. to ask more about the artist from the receptionist, who started laughing too behind her Swiss veneer, and imparted that the artists was a female relative of the owner.

Such idiosyncrasy was a real pleasure. So R. and I hung out when she wasn't on conference duty, learned the buses, checked out the porto, the local cemetery and the botanic garden on the larger Isola Brissola (fantastico!).

R. paid ridiculous money to hire a car on the Weds so we could together see the gardens at Villa Taranto (Italiano side). She saw these at 9 yrs old, and had wanted to revisit ever since. This garden started by a Capt Neil McEarcharn from Galloway. God knows what evil gave him the money to institute this garden, but it's a piece of heaven on earth with trees and shrubs from 4 continents. R. and I spent 5 hrs there daundering, amazing at the Dahlia garden, the hawk moths and dragonflies, smelling the shrubs, getting prickled by the Nymphaceae blooms and arguing over genus names- close to heaven by our norms. On the way back R. had the unenviable task of driving the narrow Lago road back to Switzerland with crayzee Italian drivers comin' at us at every bend, then up the mountainside to an osteria for a relatively cheap but fantastically flavourful meal over the waterfalls at Santa Ana above Cannebio. I wish I had photos and audio to impart...

Definition of a crime

2009-09-13T04:01:00.002+01:00

From Fela Kuti; 10 mins of dialectical materialism, to which one can dance.

New Regime

2009-09-10T04:47:00.003+01:00

I'm happily adopting false consciousness to enjoy my new jobbie, even while it runs me ragged with long and odd hours, unaccounted time travelling and disregard for the dialectical materialism I know to be objective truth. But maybe I just needed a change. The odd and flexible hours suit me, as does the extra income, and I'm now learning to manage the fits and starts in workload to suit.

At first, I got all guilty when I'd be at home twiddling thumbs with nothing to do, then stressed from the 14 hr marathons when the workload (with 24 hr deadlines) came in at 6pm. After 5 weeks, I'm learning that when it's slow, that's the time to catch up on Laundry Mountain and Dirty Dishes Peak, reduce the filing backlog and go on the Post Office run. If the year on the dole (2006) taught me nothing else, it was that one should always get outside at least once a day. And when there's tsunami of 'incoming', one prioritises, ploughs through as much as is possible, and when exhausted or booked for something more enjoyable- one stops! Though I'll never be houseproud, it's been years since the flat was so tidy.

I got in trouble at the last jobbie for over-flexing my hours, until I kept the timesheets to show I was doing way more than contracted hrs but with a lengthened cycle. Once on a roll, I prefer to follow a thread. What was penalised before is now rewarded, such that I get kudos for the ability to work stupid hrs on a 36 hr cycle if needed, and freedom to take these back once my tank reaches empty,

I couldn't do this job if the kiddos were still wee, when routine and reliable off-time was needed. Now they're big, braw and mostly looking after themselves with gentle guidance, it's perfect. Kiddos, like me, seldom know from one day to the next whether I'll be home monitoring their friends' visits and school lateness or away 'in the field' so they're unexpectedly shipped back to the benevolent Nazi dictatorship at their Dad's.

My dear departed dad's Aunt Elsie had a saying (accompanied by lateral circular hand gesture) of "Mix 'em up, mix 'em up", meaning keep 'em guessing and on the back foot. A rule for living, I think.

Back from the dead

2009-08-31T22:50:00.005+01:00

I've been silent through much busyness. New jobbie occupies an average 55 hrs per week in its first four, some of it travelling between home and the Darklands in southern England, but hoping to reduce this with practice. And outside of the jobbie, I'm steaming ahead with home-improvements. I should think I'm just getting better and better.

I can't remember anything longer than 2 weeks ago, so shall write about my Edinburgh festivals experiences, limited as they are.

R. and I attended the Book Festival talk by Colin Thubron and Susan Richards (an Anna Politkovskaya event). I'd signed up because I much enjoyed Thubron's travelogue of a post-Soviet Siberian journey. However, for R. and I and the unsuspecting lady sitting in front of us, the event was an unmitigated disaster. I got hot under the collar at early signs that this talk would be an unreconstructed paean to the new Russian 'democracy', as did R. In fact, the authors softened this line over the talk, but by then R. had spoiled all enjoyment for the lady sitting in front through fidgetting, voluble sighs and tutting, as the lady later remonstrated. Both authors later pulled away from an initial bourgeois, British anthropocentric and toff take on Russia, but by that time we were poisoned, hearing an unqualified welcome for the new Russia, without criticism of the fall of the scientific intellentsia or the rise of the Mafia and plutocrats.

Tonight I saw Michael Clark's dance medley. It started with a trancey dance I loved, but the main course of junkie-era Bowie, Iggy and Velvet Underground left me cold. Music was great, but I felt no crescendo/ decrescendo from the choreography as I wished. However, I may be a philistine.

I attended on sufferance Ivo Pogorelich's piano performance at the Usher Hall, starting with Chopin, moving to Liszt and Sibelius and finishing with Ravel's Gaspard de la Nuit. This was retrospectively my Festival performance highlight, with Ivo using finger pyrotechnics, rubato and piano-forte to wring unexpected emotion. The closing Ravel was incredible: written in 1907, but with chord modulations in the middle Le Gibet movement anticipating Miles Davis decades later, and acrobatic fingering and thematic codas in the final Scarbo movement. And I didn't think I enjoyed 'classical' music till now.

But maybe the best Festival event was last Saturday, when the wee wan and I daundered up the High St and Princes St, pausing to see street performers. My dear wee wan turns 13 next month, but transmogrified into a teenager quite suddenly about 6 weeks ago. Overnight, she started with giving attitude, monosyllabic responses and applying make-up with a trowel. But this weekend we walked arm in arm uptown while she educated me in her considerable esoteric knowledge of colloquial Japanese, 'kawai' and the current sub-genres of British and Japanese youth subcultures. I live and learn, and love acting dumb so she can educate me. So endeth the lesson.

Carole Shelley from Billy Elliot

2009-07-25T22:52:00.004+01:00

Ms. Shelley plays a dotty grandma in Billy Elliot, delivering my favourite song from the show. She's in cabaret format here- not character- with this stirring performance.

And Grandma in character, with earthy lyrics

Holidays

2009-07-22T22:48:00.005+01:00

Kiddos and I spent 8 wonderful days in New York recently with my Californian dad and step-mum. Not a city I knew before, but now my favourite European city. Spent a whole day each in the Natural History Museum and the Met, and covered maybe 25% of their riches. My folks treated us to seeing 'Billy Elliot' musical on Broadway, which was wonderful. New York is a civilised city with excellent public transport, a tourist-friendly order in street naming, clean avenues and parks, incredibly helpful citizens and a rainbow society to which we should all aspire. Am working on the kiddos to study there so I can visit more often.

I worked a last 2 days at the old workplace and am now on leave and recognizance before starting new jobbie at beginning August. Despite social and weather hiccups, R. and I celebrated her birthday a day late today with shopping and then a trip to Cairnpapple- the highest hill in West Lothian, and a Neolithic and Bronze Age ceremonial site. The stair-rod rain first necessitated returning home to change out of our soaked clothes, but we set off to Cairnpapple (allegedly translated as Hill of the Magpies) in the spirit of hope and were rewarded by blue skies, curious calves, summer sunshine, panoramic views to North Berwick and Fife, and the blessing of the chemical toilet in Historic Scotland's Nissen Hut.

Glastonbury phone calls

2009-06-27T00:34:00.004+01:00

Had two missed calls from a Glastonbury code this week.

My colleague L. thought it was Jarvis Cocker calling from the festival to ask me to marry him, but it's a stonemason I contacted last week trying again to commission dad's gravestone.

I live in hope.

2009-06-24T03:15:00.004+01:00

I didn’t know it, but a million midgies exsanguinated me last weekend, only now starting to itch less. I think I got the worst of these on our side-trip along the banks of Loch Voil to Balquidder on Saturday evening to see the kirk with yews (burial place of Rob Roy and his family). We were turned away for a meal at the end of this track, but stopped off along the banks to find the now obvious crannogs at every turn, bee orchids, unusual ferns amongst the birch woods.

After my trashing by white wine and pool on Saturday night, we took a more modest breakfast Sunday morn, then took off again over the Duke's Pass for our early appointment on the Loch Katrine ferry from Trossachs pier to Stronachlachar and back. Despite the forecast for storms, Loch Katrine was a mirror, ripple-free, all the way out to Stronachlachar, providing the most aesthetically beautifully optical illusions. The captain's commentary, lifted from his guidebook (R. buys every guide going, with educational benefits), was idiosyncratic, of the purple school of prose, and uplifting in the best possible way.

We're the bad girls at the back of the bus, reading out purple paragraphs from the guidebook whilst astounded at the scenery, and corpsing to hear the cap'n's abrupt pronouncements over the tannoy. Unless I'm a Dutch uncle, the Factor's Isle at Stronachlachar was originally a crannog, about which they promote a story about Rob Roy (the Scottish Robin Hood) holding there a landlord for ransom.

The tourism agency has decided that Rob Roy is the hook for the Murrcan tourists, and if I heard one more word about him I would puke. He's grown a Walter Scott spin (much like Mel Gibson's Braveheart) I can do without. Gimme a crannog anyday.

But on Saturday, I'd forced R. to stop at the Rob Roy Motel between Callendar and Aberfoyle, to view their much-boasted New Tartan Room. They were holding a wedding function that night so we couldn't decently intrude more than to peer in the windows to behold its true plastic tartan glory before being (rightly) chased off.

After our cruise, we had to pass back to Aberfoyle to drop off the forgotten keys for our room at the Inn, then on to the Lake of Menteith. The heavens opened on that run, forcing us to enjoy a simple and delicious lunch at the Hotel by the shores, and more old yews guarding the kirkyard.

It being a high season weekend, we had to wait at the quayside for our motorboat to make its return journey from Inchmaholme, allowing time to PeepTom a flycatcher (with splendid yellow waistcoat) along with the always entertaining dance of the pied wagtails. Pumped up on one glass of prosecco, we were so indelicate as to cheer for being the last 2 admitted on that boat-capacity: most un-Edinburgh. Then disgraced ourselves further by cheering and punching the air again when Historic Scotland's sailor guide informed us his cursive route from the pier to the island was due to a submerged…crannog!

We were beginning to hit heavy weather on the run home that evening, but I'll never regret the sidetrip R. encouraged to The Pineapple at Dunmore- a feat of folly architecture seldom rivalled.

Thank fuck R. (used to tropical storms) was driving as the monsoon hit on the homeward motorway. Without her fortitude and commonsense, we'd be in a ditch now. Or are we there already? In the gutter, looking at the stars.

Freedom of the road

2009-06-15T14:42:00.004+01:00

What a fantastic weekend away with my dear friend R. in the Trossachs! The gods smiled on us, for the predicted heavy rain didn't hit until our return journey, by which time we'd had so much fun nothing could dampen our mood.

One of the reasons R. wanted me to take the new job was so I can afford to have roadtrips with her again. What times we've had! Our last roadtrip was two Eurovisions ago in Alnwick, when we scandalised the B&B owner and were asked in all seriousness 'Are you local?' when requesting a table at a cafe. Then there was the blissful roadtrip in Majorca picking marguerites, sunbathing on an empty beach, eating sardines by the sea. And before that the Gairloch trip when I picked up a 17 19 year old and kept poor R. in the next room awake half the night... We have had wonderful times together, and this was no exception.

As registered nerds, we wanna do the historical and nature-type things as well as (at least on my part) getting hammered. And so it came to pass...

We stayed at the Forth Inn in Aberfoyle, whose staff cannot be praised highly enough. They were so friendly, welcoming and warm, which made up for our tiny room. I suppose we might make a striking couple, as we're visually loud and audibly so too once we reach our stride. The dining room fell silent (cf Wicker Man) when we entered making us feel like the only gays in the village. And we're not even gay! Really!

We stayed late in the bar, then walked by the river Forth, and I later sat smoking cannybliss and reading on the balcony after R. had turned in. Thankfully, I didn't obey my impulse to squat the large and empty room off the balcony, for it was occupied later. Two people tried to lock me out on the balcony but I persuaded them I was both legitimate and quiet. Meanwhile the whole pub turfed out at 1.30 am into the car park directly opposite the polis station, and I picked up quite a lot of local colour from the conversations wafting up to the balcony.

R. and I studied the map in the bar that night to decide our itinerary, and were so fired up at the thought of the Crannog Centre that we decided to alter plans to drive up to Kenmore the next day. After a massive fish breakfast, we drove over Duke's Pass, stopping to admire orchids, cottongrass and lochans, before swapping our tickets for the Loch Katrine cruise to the next day. We're driving along some of the most beautiful and dramatic countryside known to man, playing loud music and screaming with laughter, as is our roadtrip wont, letting the 4x4's with not time to smell the roses overtake us. It shone solidly whenever we wanted to stop for a walk, and we both caught a touch of the sun.

We turned up a one-track road to Fortingall, because R. wanted to see the oldest yew in Europe in the churchyard there. What a treat! What a serendipity! This is a very strange and quite beautiful 'model village' built by a Glasgow magnate in the early 20th century near a cluster of standing stones and cairns. The cottage gardens are type-specimens, and the kirk quite stunning in a simple and clean way. It houses some Pictish/Celtic artefacts from the early Christian era and before, as well as the Yew which is reckoned to be 5000 years old.

We both 'felt' it to be an old pagan place even before knowing of its ancient past, and the hairs on the back of our necks were standing up. We counted 5 species of bumblebees grazing the cotoneaster in the kirkyard and even honeybees (in these days of Colony Collapse Syndrome). The quite wonderful historical leaflet for sale through an honesty box in the kirk alerted us to the triad of standing stone clusters in a local field. We tramped through hip-high meadow to these, where I found an unfamiliar slug in residence on the biggest stone, R. found a huge clump of four-leaved clovers, and we communed with the ancestors.

Climbing back over the gate, we found a thread-wrapped dreadlock which some fellow-traveller had left as a remembrance of their communion too, then returned to find our car blocked in by extremely courteous and pretty hot bikers.

On to the Crannog Centre on Kenmore (Loch Tay), where our charming (and totally hot) guide allowed us to ask challenging archaeological questions about these strange and mysterious structures, then made fire for us using a bow, a hazel branch and a pinewood lath. I can't recommend this educational centre enough. We learned that 9 out of 10 'islands' on Scottish lochs are crannogs (circular lodges built on stilts on water, with a causeway to the land), and made it our business to search for crannogs on every loch we passed thereafter. And boy, did we find them thereafter!

We had to make another detour to Fortingall/Glen of Lyon to seek the other standing stones and cairns we'd missed earlier. I made a spectacular misdiagnosis that a farm-dumped pudding stone with an steel shaft was a 'killed' stone before we found the real McCoy. We came across even more varieties of Bombus (bumblebees) on the deaf nettles there, and a stripey slug which I've yet to identify. The kine in the field did not break our arms, and the ewes and lambs gambolled and bleated.

We had a really shitty meal in Callander that evening, at the 'Ben Ladi Cafe', and it didn't stop our fun for a minute. Then back to the Forth Inn at Aberfoyle, where I got trashed at pool, trashed on white wine and administered some counselling to a really nice guy just a few months into separating from his wife of 16 years, before resorting to the balcony for cannybliss again, listening to the swifts'(genus Apus) chirpings and watching their swoops and dives.

That's enough for one day.

Indiscretions

2009-06-10T22:58:00.003+01:00

This blog isnae Facebook, so will the old or new bosses find me here? I dunno! If they can, there's not too much here I'm ashamed of, since I reserve slagging forums for politicians.

What a interesting day I had today.

I requested my resignation be sent upstairs before today, when psycho Big Boss held his clinic here, so I could get over the inevitable fall-out and the organisation could be appraised. I've nothing to feel guilty about- done nothing but work my arse off for the last year for a pitiful salary.

So he strides in this morning and states (as if this is news), "It's a free country- anyone can leave". Stating the obvious- this is not an earned privilege by indentured slaves, but enshrined in Human Rights legislation. It's not a sign of his generosity.

Then, as anticipated, he starts with the headfuck and tells me my new bosses have 'internal turmoil' and that 'they work their staff really hard'. What- more hard than working all last weekend, and being on-call 24/7 for 2 years? At least the new bosses will pay me 7k more even for the same conditions.

He invites me to speak to former colleagues, with whom I'm not in touch, to corroborate his views. At least one of these is a fucking nut whose advice I wouldn't take as a gift. I don't know if she was nuts before he turned her so, or only after.

Then he starts turning through the textbooks on the bookshelves, requiring me to say which are his and which mine. Where's this one, or that? Um, they're mostly institution possessions, and they're all there. Is he accusing me of stealing?

He exits. Storms back into the room an hour later asking the whereabouts of a particular artwork. His description doesn't ring any bells in my mind, nor my colleague's, so he has to accept it hasn't been around since before my employment.

Then I pick up an email sent to the wee boss from Big Boss last week- a report from a 'patient' who underwent a day and a night of studies in late April. The footer on her detailed report states 'commissioned by [Big Boss]'.

This 'patient' curiously arrived hours early, had unusual requests for individual requirements, and had unusually normal outcomes from her studies. Her report mentioned that she'd also underwent studies at a sister centre, and a competitor centre. How very curious!

So Big Boss who can't pay a living wage can afford to send a Management Consultant as a pseudo-patients to test his staff and facilities.

So here's a representative extract from the report:
"I believe in giving credit where credit is due. The staff were fantastic (her bold italics)....This is so rare in the medical profession- even in private practice- it was a breath of fresh air. There was professionalism amongst the staff which would inspire confidence in any patient."

She then includes 2 pages of comments about the cheapo, decaying shower facilities and IKEA furniture in the bedrooms. These I and my colleagues have kvetched about for 2 years, but which Big Boss has been too cheap to redress.

Tonight I emailed to colleagues my official resignation (just regrets at losing their camaraderie and positive wishes to them, collectively and individually), then found that my work email is a blocked address to my London colleagues!

Hell mend him.

BNP

2009-06-09T21:13:00.003+01:00

It's just as well I haven't yet taken British subjecthood, since compatriots voted in 2 BNP candidates as Euro MPs. Really, if I was British I'd have to hang my head in shame. This on the same day that Spain awarded citizenship to 7 freedom fighters who fought alongside the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War. Some of us still remember about fascism.

But it was good and heart-warming that Nick Griffith got egged today outside Parliament and had to run crying to his car. If he spoke locally, I'd be hard-pressed not to do the same or worse to him. He's a right to free speech, but I'd like to see him manage that through a pounding of rotten veg in the stocks.

Resignation

2009-06-07T21:12:00.003+01:00

I resigned from the jobbie on Thurs in an email addressed to the wee boss, acknowledged today. The wee boss has capacity for fellow-feeling even though everything is about him, so understood in a twisted way.

Also grasped the nettle that (against my cowardice) the Big Boss should be informed before his monthly clinic next Weds. Almost certainly, Big Boss will harrass, intimidate, bully and wheedle in turn. It won't be pleasant or dignified. But if I'd taken the coward's way and delayed informing him, he'd not have the extra notice (a personal courtesy) which I made it my business to extend. You stand by your decision and take yer lumps. He won't get physically aggressive, so how bad can it be? Couldn't possibly be more uncomfortable than that time he tried to shag me. It's all relative.

Jobbies

2009-06-02T00:39:00.003+01:00

The offer and the contract came through this week, and suddenly now there's a need for retroactive references and Security Disclosures and Occupational Health forms to be completed.

I wish they'd asked these sooner, but if retrospective maybe these'll have less precedence if the wee boss decides to big himself up by putting me down, or I happen to have a soon-to-be-expired minor conviction, or an ancient history of mental meltdown. At my age few people won't have some of this history if they're honest, or of the capability, intelligence but stupidity to have been pushed past normal limits. Badges of honour.

Specifically, I've always taken responsibility for the stupid choices I've made and chosen not to abrogate responsibility when I've fouled up. I coulda said 'bad boys made me do it', but never taken that option when I'm smart enough to know when I've been dumb. Cop-outs are for thickies, but the smart kids remember and learn from their mistakes. I'm not smart yet, but I do try to get smarter. I hope I'll be smart by the time I retire.

Happiness

2009-05-24T20:07:00.003+01:00

I was privileged that every one of close friends altered their plans to come round on Friday night to help celebrate my good fortune in the new jobbie. We drank cheap pink fizz and I got lots of kisses for my serendipity. I fell into my bed at 2am, full of positive thoughts, and my hangover the next day was full of deserved happiness too.

It's so shallow, but in two days, I've gained potential financial latitude to book a weekend away in the Trossachs with my dear friend R. and a week in Noo Yawk with my dad, step-mum and the kiddos in July. My cup runneth over!

R. was here last night when the boiler of the new tenants upstairs burst in a quite spectacular manner, causing a Niagara Falls of filthy, smelly water to pour out of my kitchen light fittings and the wall of my kitchen chimney breast. Just Mum and Granny were in residence and had not had to cope with such as this before, so I found their mains tap and switched it off before Gareth downstairs also started to suffer.

Some might've despaired at this act of God, yet all I could think of was how fortunate I was that this had occurred before my prospective kitchen re-fit! I'm a fortunate creature, so I am, I am, I am!

I got the job!

2009-05-22T10:28:00.002+01:00

I got the job! I got the job! I got the job! I got the job! I got the job!

Interview!

2009-05-19T00:20:00.007+01:00

Had an interview for prospective new jobbie today- an educative and interesting experience, regardless of the future outcome (which'll take awhile).

The jobbie's in industry, and the run-up was complex. I'd written tentatively and speculatively to a senior friend in my field, to ask whether his yet more senior friend (with contacts in this industry) would be willing to provide me a reference. Before I knew it, and before I'd applied, this secondary friend-of-friend is sending glowing references I hadn't anticipated nor known I deserved. Next thing I know, I'm at an interview in a south coast town before I'd really even gotten past the contemplation stage of applying.

I've never been interviewed by industry before. I was a pure pawn in the hands of people much cleverer and more sophisticated than me, and despite being physically present and responsible for my own responses, I've yet no idea if I performed 'well' or 'badly'. That'll come next week. The interviewers sucked me in and inveigled me to tell the truth, even though I knew absolutely beforehand this was bad practice. One hears of 'stress' interviews, and this was the opposite- to make you so relieved at not being waterboarded that you become scrupulously honest and ridiculously open.

For better or worse, I've egotistically gotten off on the me, me, me! aspects of the process. They're attending to me! If they want me I'm fucking brilliant! If they reject me I'm shit! Should one fail to subject this raft of bizarre cognitive consequences from the first premises to critical analysis, you could get lost quite quick.

I was expecting to start my interview with my prepared presentation on 'My Strengths in the Role...' but was instead seated in a darkened and massive boardroom (30 seats) to complete a psychometric inventory to evaluate my team-working skills.

I canny read fuck all in dim light these days, so asked for better lighting before deciding how to select and rate in 6 categories of 10 statements each my personal weightings about my attitudes to team-working. For each section, you're required to weight 10 points amongst any or all of 10 statements in each category, ranging from 'I'm an exploitative psycho' (paraphrased) to 'I'm a doormat for foot-wiping', or 'I'm an autistic egotist' to 'I'll go along with any Milgram experimental protocol'.

I hope the lighting was just SNAFU and not part of the test, because that would be pure shan. Also wish I'd attended to the psychometric test title better so I could retrospectively re-analyse whether I'm more a Nazi sado or an Epsilon masochist. Prolly a bit of both.

That was the first 15 mins. There was a 90 mins after this 'softening up' of interactive interview during which it was established (by my own admission) that I'm a patsy but with curiously rigid ethical boundaries, who has powerful friends, an analytical intelligence but no leadership skills, significant research, technological, educative experience and managerial proficiency (the latter less-liked), and that I'm a Scorpio with Virgo rising, of so crap a Virgo nature that she has to call on her friend H.etc to clean her house. Why can't I keep my stupid mouth shut?

Anyways, the wierdest/most critical interview experience was that they literally forced on me a lift back to the airport from their on-call driver. Some might have taken this as as a sign of favour, but just like my pre-interview interviews by two of their current staff I knew otherwise: this was a another non-interview of the most important kind.

The prospective boss told me that I'd enjoy my driver, and so it came to pass. On the stretch of A27 to the airport, Eddie spoke of and gently solicited my knowledge of the rich history of the south coast, its colonisation and migrations, naval background and its decline, and the economy of his wife's homeland of Norway. During this 40 min drive, we talked of Saxon, Roman, Norman. Viking invaders and before that Boxgrove Man, and how we're all migrants, of lime and flint in the construction of housing- a Sussex leitmotif, and how the Falklands and Gulf War 1 were 'won' on fading and now practically moribund naval kit. We passed the closed Ford plant (where once Spitfires were built), and all was of of faded glory. Unlike your regular taxi driver, politics were not discussed, but economics, military power, history and race became academic topics in the best possible way.

When he dropped me at the airport, Eddie revealed he lives 4 doors down from the HR interviewer, and that he'd put in a good word for me.

Exigencies

2009-05-15T00:55:00.002+01:00

I made a client cry today during acclimitisation to a therapy she needs but doesn't want, and which makes her feel labelled as ill, old, compromised and ugly. She's none of these- actually she's gorgeous, intelligent, relatively healthy, definitely young, and vibrant; yet would probably benefit from the therapy recommended of she can thole it.

Instictively, I call her 'honey' and touch her knee when she cries, yet don't know (but hope not) if this represents an impairment of her dignity. Mainly I know I have to respond to pain in as intelligent and sensitive a manner as I can muster, and deal with this as constructively as I can, with ongoing attendance to personal and individual needs, and always the over-riding need to observe and internalise ethical standards. I tell her we can together work on and tailor the therapy over time, but that ultimately her decisions are hers to take. No one has the power to take decisions about her health without her sanction. She's a self-determining person, as long as these are empowered by information, and that I'll support these both personally and practically all the way.

My client happens to be born rich and was referred as a 'VIP requiring the full service'. This instruction was somewhat insulting, since all my patients are VIPs regardless of background. They all receive a personalised and individually tailored service to the best of my ability because that it is my job, the source of my satisfaction and the validation of my 20 yrs expertise. I don't know if she'll manage with the prescribed treatment, but I'll do my damnest to give her the best support if she chooses this.

Long weekend

2009-05-04T23:23:00.004+01:00

I relished 4 days off in a row from the day jobbie, and that felt wonderful. One day just sleeping, one day visiting mum and working up a possible alternative jobbie, one day in the Botties and the pub with good company, and today 11.5 hrs marking the M.Sc.'s. This must be what they call a work-life balance, and it feels much better than last week.

On the domestic front, I was trying to further the kitchen re-fit by applying for a mortgage loan increase. All looked great, until my credit rating turned turtle. I applied for and received this, and my rating number is in the 'excellent' category, but... I'm not on the electoral register. And I can't be because I've never been naturalised as British despite 38 yrs residence.

As a young adult, becoming a British citizen wasn't necessary, then once a working parent the £130 necessary to do the paperwork was never readily available. While I was waiting to get richer,the cost has risen to £795, an English test, a UK knowledge exam and the necessity to get an original birth certificate and then try to explain why it's not my applicant's name. But it'll be worth it to clear my credit rating.

Free stuff

2009-05-02T23:31:00.002+01:00

H-etc. phoned me last week to tell me that while walking Reekie-dog up the Observatory on Blackford Hill, she'd found a baggie of skunk by the bin. Did I want it?

Of course I want it, even if just to redistribute. I am sorry, baggie-loser, that your loss became my gain when she dropped it off to me on Thurs. I can see the Observatory from my window when doing dishes, and with my bird-watching binoculars could've clocked the loser had I been prepared. That baggie has a story, a history and a owners that are sadly unknown to me. Mum joked tonight I shoulda handed it in to the polis, but I regret I am not yet so compliant.

I smoked a diluted smidgeon yesterday and the lines of the New Yorker started coming in and out of focus and depth. Mmm, skunk, I thought; my sole allergen apart from lobster. So people can afford to lose drugs now for which I haven't yet even found capability!

Comedic-tragic

2009-04-25T01:11:00.003+01:00

It was 60 hrs this week at the real jobbie, and zero hrs on the homer M.Sc. jobbie. I don't have time for lunch in the day jobbie, and substitute approx 4 smoke breaks of 2 mins each during these days. No spare capacity for the homer after arriving home at 8pm or 10pm except to use the bathtub and CBT, or in extremis temazepam, so I can sleep.

Last 2 days, I've been slightly shitty to the casual staff for whom I'm responsible, by pressuring them to respond within a week for fuck's sake to emailed shift rotas, and to let me know when they're on hols so I don't waste time offering them shifts they know they can't (but I think they might) do. They owe me nothing. Most of them are unaware that I earn a less per hr than they, but still it doesn't feel good. Their keys don't work, which pisses them off, but they probably don't appreciate that new ones can only be cut if I personally make time to go to a locksmith and personally pay out (in expectation of reimbursement 2 months later) the £150 necessary.

Quite rightly, the casual staff tell me that the security light on the back porch has burnt out, that the Freeview reception in the pt bedrooms is crap and that ants are marching in the kitchen, when I have 10 studies to score between constant pt calls, random queries and appointments.

Today was a motherfucker.

Day before, I'd been stuck at work for 13 hrs, doing the usual daytime work followed by an evening training session with the clinical trial monitor. Today I was committed to my 8.30am start to conduct all-day daytime tests on a clinical pt, but also knew I'd be sharing my workspace all day with the clinical monitor, and that the Big Boss from London would be conducting his monthly clinic upstairs. So I knew I could expect at least a triplet of slavery expectations that day.

And so it came to pass.

On arrival, the night assistant asks if his duties are finished, and says he's washed the breakfast dishes. Ten minutes after his exit. I find the unwashed dishes in the pts bedroom, and dealing with those is another 10 mins gone and eaten up which I could've spent either smoking or eating before the onslaught from the clinical monitor and Big Boss.

Our trial co-ordinator is taking some well-deserved time back (after a continuous 60 hr shift this week), and by her absence making me 'it' for the monitor.

The clinical pt requires an hour of testing at 2-hourly intervals through the day. It's also my job to fetch the pt's, the monitor's and my lunch (though I won't have time to eat mine), and account for these in cash and receipts on my return to two separate accounts.

In between, I signed off CRFs, worked on the backlog of clinical dictations, researched and communicated that a stock-control fuck-up on equipment replenishment wasn't mine, discussed the technological implications of the wee bosses' plans for a continuous 3-day legal monitoring, commissioned two professional tech reports from a colleague on his behalf, organised and emailed out off the current May rota.

Still it's not enough. The Big Boss tries to hand me a CPAP education and
CPAP issue (inc. paperwork) on this hellish day. I tell him I can't do it in between nap tests, and that I have no backup today. He still pushes so I have to tell the patient face-to-face it's not a simple procedure, and that's it's not in his best interest to take a second best CPAP edu in half an hour rather than 1.5 hrs. They're pissed off, but not so badly as me.

I finished up at 7pm. I was left alone with a patient for two hours, which is supposed to be a no-no. At 5pm the wee boss was out for his exercise, and by 3pm the Big Boss was taking a nap with instructions I should wake him at 5.30 pm. Where's my fucking nap or lunch break?

Space occupation

2009-04-22T21:40:00.003+01:00

It's near the end of the month so I feel duty-bound to post something, even if it's not quality.

My jobbie conference at York University this month was enhanced by the waterbirds of the campus pond and environs- about 20 species by my count. I was totally taken with the waterfowl's attitude that it was their territory and not humans', prolly heightened by it being breeding season. Some of my fellow delegates felt menaced by the geese, who look you straight in the eye and hold their ground on the paths, giving you the odd hiss (much like Her Catness) when they perceive challenge. At closing time, the paths were assumed as dormitories by the sleeping birds, and it was a pleasure to see that they're in charge locally, and not us. The birdies, especially when they have an attitude, were pure pleasure and to a large extent much more fun than humans.

Why are moorhens so-called? They're neither hens nor moor residents, since they rely on ponds or waterways for nesting sites and forage, and are (to my knowledge) obligate waterfowl. I dunno. Coots (forgetting our anthropomorphic similes of baldness) are amongst the most curious and inquisitive of birds- very fetching creatures.

In the human realm, I've seen two recommended films this month- Armando Ianucci's 'In the Loop' (a feature length episode of BBC political satire 'In the Thick of It') and 'Teddybear'- (a charming Czech reflective/romantic comedy).

Reading has been Orlando Figes' 'The Whisperers' (historical documentary of Stalin's Terror) and Colin Thubron's 'In Siberia', a travelogue of a trans-Siberian journey conducted in the dying days of the Soviet regime in 1982. Currently, Colin has me in Tuva where (in Mircea Eliade's footsteps) he's trying to explain the anthropological crossover of shamanism and Buddhism.

H. etc., grieving quietly for Peter Ballox, took off for a week in Cyprus. She brought back photies showing at medieval royal tombs at Paphos the same 'clootie tree' you can find in Siberia, Tibet, Scotland, Ireland and Israel: a cross-cultural, presumably animist tradition adaptable to whichever colonising faith.

Apart from these, I work my arse off between the 50 hrs/week at the jobbie and the M.Sc. marking every night. I'm hoping to maybe get a clue what it's all about sometime soon.

Mostly, it's about the kiddos and how to get them where they want to go. That means kicking the Big Wan's arse to study more for his Higher exams this month, and gently enquiring of the wee wan why she needs to wear so much eyeliner when she's naturally gorgeous. Ah... what goes around comes around.

Hoping to get smart soon, but not counting on it.

Neighbour relations

2009-04-06T22:32:00.003+01:00

AFAIK, the last person to officially sweep and mop my stair was me in Jan 2008, before tenant changes turned it all to shit. I swept again later last year when the Downstairs Neighbour, during the height of his complaints that I actually locomoted after midnight, put up a notice to the effect that spilled cat litter was making the stair stink. At that time, my feckless BW had spilled around 0.5 oz of cat litter from a leaking binbag, and I stepped up to the plate to solve his complaint.

Well, since then the two bad upstairs neighbours (there exist three, but only two bad yins) are doing worse things that DN could ever imagine. Because I'm too cheap to have a nameplate engraved for my door, my handwritten paper address nameplate gets torn off about once a week at 1am by screaming banshees. My 16 yr old BW (whose bedroom backs on the stair) had to go out at 3am last weekend to tell off people 10 years older than him for making anti-social rammies and leaving smoking litter in the stair. Even his Fraggle friends know this is unacceptable behaviour.

I've put up a notice tonight to respectfully ask all occupiers to ask their guests to dispose of their smoking litter responsibly. These born-in-a-barn over-privileged types leave their fag butts, packets and cellophane as litter in the stair and on the landing windowsills, expecting some maid to sweep up. Well, it ain't me who's leaving or cleaning it, even if DN would like it to be so.

Both DN and UN suspect or know I'm mad, especially after I circulated the communique last year that anyone re-aligning my aerial again would have their freeloading wiring excised. I am mad, but that doesn't mean I should accept stinky litter in my stair as just desserts. It's just not acceptable in an Edinburgh stair. I shall call in the Environmental Health to conduct DNA analysis of the fag-butts, if it doesn't get solved. That's how nuts I fucking am.

Refurburation

2009-04-05T00:27:00.007+01:00

While away in the Flatlands, I spent a soupcon of the kiddos' inheritance for Donald and Kevin to fit a new bathroom. A far as I'm aware, we're the only flat in our stack of three to finagle a tub into the small shower-room. None of the tenants of the other two, of course, speak to me anymore. Result!

Since neither tall nor wide by habitus, this corner tub is genuinely comfortable for me. Not so sure about the Big Wan (now about 5' 10") but since he chooses bath over shower since the refurb he must be able to hunker in, if not luxuriate like I.

eBay is sending me an offcut of industrial lino in a pale green, studded with non-slip mica, to finish the floor and I'm looking for a mirror to stare at me from above the sink. Tomorrow, God willing, I'll be painting those beautifully smooth plastered walls a clean white.

I tried to see 'Il Divo' tonight. I really wanted to understand such a beautifully scripted and filmed work, but after 1.5 hrs couldn't for the life of me piece together the fragmented conspiracies feeding on Andreotti's reign. I do know I'd like to live on those sets/locations forever.

BT

2009-03-31T23:04:00.002+01:00

I live in hope that tonight's reconnection from BT represents rapprochement and that all will now be well. Yeah right, but one must travel hopefully. Can't be bothered recounting my 6 months of problems so far, and merely dine out on the possibilities of reselling my 3 superfluous HomeHubs on eBay. I've paid for those in blood, sweat and tears and hours of phonecalls to Calcutta. By the way, the Calcut callcentre staff are not the culprits- BT is fucked from a systems viewpoint.

It's only taken 3 hrs tonight to move the PC to enable a wired connection, get remote control help from Calcutta, unwire and reposition the PC. My back is aching, so it's off for bath, bed and the New Yorker: heaven.

Interrupted service....

2009-03-29T13:13:00.003+01:00

I've been enjoying only intermittant internet access for 6 months as a special gift from BT. After three malfunctioning Home Hubs (routers), last week I was formally disconnected due to non-payment of a bill which showed me to be £19 in credit. It's no use asking for an explanation for such events, I've learned: you can spend hours being passed from tech to billing to broadband services before being accidentally cut off. My one formal complaint was met with frank disbelief and seems to have ended in my disconnection. Anyway, that's the reason for slow blogging and lack of email replies. I'll allegedly have a new account and connection next week.

Jobbies and their place

2009-03-13T01:48:00.005Z

Alles gut. I didn't get the job, and have never been more relieved in my life! Four days in the Flatlands was quite enough, and I've never felt more alive, grateful, appreciative or grounded than when pulling into Waverley on the 5th day. Home, home to my wee flat, kiddos, community, Arthur's Seat, architecture, trees, topography, waterways, a coastline, history, multiculturalism and high streets with independent shops. I've never been so happy to be a loser as when phoned with the blessed bad news that I'd 'been unsuccessful'.

The jobbie was 10 miles NW of Cambridge, in a desert of wheat fields broken by the dual carriageways, connecting new-build estates. Sometimes the housing and industrial estates will surround an ex-village High St of empty shopfronts with decaying paintwork, betraying prior prosperity. These will be lucky if they still have a pub or a Post Office. The new-build estates of cul-de-sacs are serviced only by isolated giant hypermarkets spaced at 7 mile radii. The new-build town of Cambourne (1 mile from the workplace) is 5 square miles of new-build homes for 110,000 people, mostly unoccupied and containing one huge Morrison's supermarket, one Fish 'n Chick'n Bar, one Birthday card shop (for the sympathy cards) and one plastic pub. I'd last about 10 mins before topping myself.

A dear friend was encouraging me for my own good that it wasn't as bad as it seemed, so I visited a local Nature Reserve to access the grace and connectedness that can flow from such. But it was just another a big monocultural wheatfield unbroken by nothing higher than a shrub, flat as far as they eye could see, with a few jackdaws. Cambridge is also flat but boasts a river, some trees, some independent shops and two brown people seen exiting the Baptist church. Unfortunately, both rents and selling prices for housing are approx 50% more expensive than central Edinburgh, and everyone talks funny. I asked for the nearest bookshop at a Tesco 5 miles out of Cambridge and was directed to the town centre.

I don't really know why I wasn't offered the job, but it stopped the ongoing mental hell I was experiencing while trying to see how and where I could make it work. The feedback was that I had the professional but not the managerial knowledge.

Possibly I pissed off the manager interviewer by asking for interview expenses? I'd assumed that my costs for a the two-day visit they'd requested, including the depressing night in a Premier Inn, would be covered. But the manager looked at me as if I had two heads when I enquired after these after the interview, and asked me if I was asking whether they'd cover these or if he had a form. Somewhat perplexed, I responded that if a) then b), and was told it would be looked into. It was looked into and I've been informed that since no agreement had been made beforehand I was out of luck. This luck is relative- it's a lucky escape.

I'd like to apologise to the people of Cambridgeshire for this review of their environment, doubtless based on ignorance. I feel sure it must have saving graces, since it contains a population, but am still mystified as to where the population of Cambridgeshire and Huntingdonshire carry out their community activities and prevent a lemming-like mass suicide. Hit the North!

Who knows where the time goes

2009-02-25T21:37:00.002Z

Sandy Denny speculated on the subject before she fell doon the stairs. I've not had any falls, but still miss large chunks of time that can't be explained by drunkenness or fugue states.

The now entrenched false consciousness allows me to spend an average 50 hrs/wk at work, leading to a compensatory need at weekends to excommunicate the phones and doze for 18 hrs in between listening to Radio 4 and reading snatches of Chat! magazine. In any remaining time I'll tend to feel bad (distractedly) about my failings as a friend, sister, daughter, mother, cook and human being, mark M.Sc. exams, ruminate on my upcoming interview in Cambridge, and try to arrange the bathroom re-fitting before it plummets into the Downstair Neighbour's through water damage and neglect. That last could constitute a substantiable complaint, even in my perception.

Luckily the world keeps turning regardless. The Big Wan's achieved 2 Bs and a high C in his Higher prelims (so far), the wee wan writes exemplary English book reviews and history homework and Her Catness is surviving Reekie and plumber intrusions with aplomb. The snowdrops came up early in Feb, crocuses now cover the Meadows and the robins are holding their own against the magpies at the arboreal dojo at work. Amazon has delivered a text on 'Change Management' for me to plagiarise for my upcoming jobbie interview, when I shall embroider actualities to tell a good story and wear a nicotine patch to prevent unscheduled boltings for fag sooks.

Choices

2009-02-09T21:52:00.008Z

I'm gonnae go down to the Flatlands for an interview soon, with a heavy heart. Mebbe they'll hate me, mebbe I'll hate them; but if so at least I can sabotage myself deliberately instead of through inaction.

Despite their misgivings, even the friendies and the fambly think it deserves a clear shot. It offers the chance to recoup some of the investment I put in over 20 years in the slug world, and a prospect of pension and some future security. Mebbe I need a new start, now the work ethic's back. Kiddos are the worst of it, but they'll always be top of my priority list amongst the givens.

Peter Ballocks, RIP

2009-02-03T22:57:00.003Z

Peter died yesterday in Kelso, with his son and H.etc. by his side. He hung on far longer than seemed feasible, and I sincerely hope he's in a better place now, free of pain and distress. His last conscious words, 36 hrs before, were "I'm going now, I've had enough of this". I shall miss his clever, pig-headed, stubborn, insolent, indolent Peterness.

We light a candle and wish him better, and on some other plane Peter is again his young self dressed in his biker gear, astride a large-engined British motorbike with the twinkle in his eye, gi'in' it laldy with the lassies like the wideboy he was and sticking up his fingers to authority. To Peter!

Zionist conspiracies

2009-01-26T20:50:00.004Z

If there was anything guaranteed to promote anti-semitism it's the decisions by the BBC and now Sky to decline to broadcast appeals for humanitarian relief for Gaza.

There can be no controversy that Gazans desperately need aid, now. The devastation and human-rights outrages from the IDF's New Year operations are now leaking out, despite the Israeli prevention of independent journalism from Gaza. Civilians there suffer/ed famine, drought, the bombing of civilian areas inc. schools and the use by Israeli forces of banned weapons such as WP (white phosphorus). It's a fucking mess, a tragedy and a war crime.

The BBC's decision to boycott relief appeals for Gaza on the basis of 'maintaining independence' defies belief and reason. 1.5 million Gazans- civilian men, women and children- need help now; this is not a debatable political viewpoint but a material, human fact.

The BBC's stance makes a lie of their alleged lack of bias, and is an outrageous betrayal of the principle of independence. The BBC know that most Gazans are historic refugees, robbed of freedom of movement, and sitting ducks. They weren't terrorists before, but will be now in the face of blanket collective punishment by the IDF, and now the turning of the cheek from supposedly impartial reporting agencies. If people didn't hate Jews and harbour suspicions about their abuse of power before, they will now. Jew-haters can now quote this event, with evidence, as a further example of the Zionist conspiracy, where Israeli interests outweigh all else.

God help the Palestinians and God help the Jews, when this is how 'fairness' is played out.

Jobbiness

2009-01-15T23:23:00.003Z

Thankfuckly the planned three days of scary split-shifts were aborted (for reasons outwith my control) before I reached the Ativan category. Just 36 hrs of this jobbiness had mental meltdown rapidly approaching, with the 13 hrs/day turning out to be more like 18hrs/day. Now I've slept, my rational mindset is to make as my management priority to manage to prevent such scheduling happening ever again.

John Humphries, Eddie Mair and Ed Stourton of Radio 4 relay the redundancy count and unemployment figures daily, hammering home that it's a bad time to be making waves in a private sector job. I've flirted with an eminently-suitable, well-paid jobby opportunity in the public sector, but based in the Midlands. But my ambivalence is exemplified by a complete inability to complete the application form, using a million excuses, for over 2 months. Truth is I can't face losing treasured time with kiddos through relocation, even though they'll be grown and living independently soon enough anyway, at least if I'm a successful parent. But in the short-term I can't face their tears from my selfish opportunism, and selfishly I want to have every available minute with them while they're still kiddos.

You're soon enough dead, no one wishes on their deathbed they'd worked harder, and there's no pockets in shrouds.

2009

2009-01-14T03:46:00.018Z

It's here! Recent blog silence requires filling with ephemera.

1. The Big Wan's dyed his hair permanently black. Now he looks so individual as to be indistinguishable from his Fraggle friends. Excepting me and R., all other friends and family have complimented his New Look, but I seriously miss his unusual, natural and age-limited ash-blonde hair. I blame the big gay pink telly.

2. Most reasonable people would be having interesting dreams now (4am), but they're not stupid enough to work a (temporary) split-shift pattern of 13+ hrs per day for 3 days, with no more than 8 hrs between shifts for no extra pay. No way you can sleep on night 1, and by day 3 you can't not sleep, even when awake. Should I start proselytising some epiphany on Friday, Ativan may be in my best interest.

3. A forgotten 30 yr old photo has become part of the montage cover for a family friend's music CD, to my pleasure. I'm told the CD is very good, but who's that girl?

4. Full arc rainbow captured on Monday: it was snowing 5 mins later.

5. Her Catness' response to dog invasion of territory (for curmudgeons)- few can puff up, growl with such quiet menace or arch as magnificently as She.

6. This month's full moon...(look outside yesterday)

Survivors

2008-12-28T15:04:00.002Z

Yes, we made it! Only Hogmanay left to get through now!

Best present this year has been immersion in post-apocalypse. Friend brought up the first BBC series of 'Survivors' on PC, and I'm up to episode 11 of the 13-parter. The opening sequence (a backstory of the accidental unleashing of plague) and the theme music of this series is wonderful. It's a rather rose-tinted, altruistic possible world; an unconsciously anarcho-syndicalist commune coalesces with the aim to re-learn self-sufficiency from the land, gathering the cognitively, psychologically and physically disabled under a benevolent leadership. There's dire scripting for the male lead (made to be a lame James Bond), but a quite radical characterisation (for its time) and portrayal of the female lead, Abby Grant, by the actor Caroline Seymour.

The first episodes are notable for showing social structures or moral values rejected by the main characters- exploitative opportunism, self-appointed vanguardist dictatorship (instituted by an ex-union organiser), paramilitary enforcement of assumed power, a polygamous harem, feudal aristocracy, commoditisation of sexual favours, racketeering. Our autonomous band instead attempt a neo-agrarian model of food production and an organic non-authoritarian social structure, which has to address means to allow collective decision-making and the enforcement of internal justice.

In between, I've been reading Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road' (2006) on the Big Wan's recommendation. BG achieved his wish to be bounced from English Higher, yet shows discernment and fortitude with this selection. It's a gruelling read- man and his son scavenging a perilous existence in nuclear winter, food sources limited to dwindling antebellum supplies or human meat. There are big questions raised about God and purpose, told in stunningly simple, pitiless and haunting language. I can't get this book out of my head.

I'm in the mood for total immersion in post-apocalypse, and a re-reading of 'Riddley Walker'. I must've read this beauty 4 or 5 times now, but it continues to deliver more with every reading. It is not approachable, being written in a transformed English, so it's best to start by reading it out loud to get the gist. Hard work, but so worth it. The vocabulary is rich with double meanings and references, with the ghost of half-remembered technological expertise and religion embedded in the language and within the myths and folk tales which enrich the text.

'Walker is my name and I am the same. Riddley Walker. Walking my riddels where ever theyve took me and walking them now on this paper the same. There aint that many sir prizes in life if you take noatis of every thing. Every time will have its happenings out and every place the same. Thats why I finely come to writing all this down. Thinking on what the idear of us myt be. Thinking on that thing whats in us lorn and loan and oansome.’

X-word

2008-12-21T12:21:00.005Z

It's coming, ready or not! Big red-dressed basturn heading for your chimney very soon. Several people have broken the no-present rule already (R.'s included in this), causing me a 'world of pain'.

I got the kiddos' pressies- portable tellies- partly as pressies for me, hoping that these will further my evil plan to reclaim my spaces (sitting room and my bedroom). That was a major coup, until we opened the boxes last night to discover they are big gay pink tellies. That's fine for the wee wan, but the Big Wan's not too impressed. His has to go back to be exchanged for a manly black or silver telly, in case he's turned gay against his will. I'm not clear if the pink telly will turn the wee wan gay too, but she's more secure in whatever sexuality it is she's been assigned.

Now that R.'s out of the country I can reveal more about the hedgehog situation, since she's not here to hit me. R. became all misty-eyed when she read about disabled, distressed Uist hedgehogs requiring homes in the 'Big Issue' and took it upon herself to 'adopt' one for her small garden.

However, her act of altruism did not extend to thinking through the implications, including that even while hibernating, hedgehogs require food and water every few days. R.'s lifestyle includes spending an average of one week in four out of town, and just as soon as she obtained the wretched, half-blind animal she's headed off for a 3.5 week trip to another hemisphere. All her sensible friends have refused to have anything to do with the beast. We had a late night phone call in which I reassured her of my unconditional love for her, and also my considerable pissed-offness at her irresponsible actions.

The Uist situation is a fucking mess of human irresponsibility. Some stupid human imported Erinaceus europaeus to Uist, an environment lacking natural hedgehog predators, so that the hedgehog population exploded to several thousand in just a few years, upsetting the natural species balance and endangering local rare birds, whose eggs represent a delicacy to the invading Erinacaidae. A cull of hedgehogs was started, then halted when bunny-huggers got upset about killing cute little Tiggywinkles to protect the avian community. Now they're exporting excess hedgehogs to the mainland for re-homing, including the lame ones who'd normally be destined for rapid natural selection out of the population.

This chain of events has left me in the unenviable position of forced checking/ feeding/ watering of an unfit hog, displaced to an unnaturally small territory, every few days for the next 3.5 weeks while sincerely wishing it dead.

Merry Xmas!

Catchphrases

2008-12-17T22:20:00.003Z

Very short on postings. Oh dear! There is just no time these days. I spend far too much time at work in a state of false consciousness, and good chunks of other time badly managing a search for alternative paid employment, the encroaching X-word, the Ballox' gradual decline, Hebrew inscriptions and an unfortunate hedgehog situation of which I cannot write.

There are other friends, family and duties I'm neglecting currently, but none deliberately. The mood is predominantly a light olive green colour; moderately up, moderately successful (that's the false consciousness), this light green colour dirtied by the guilt that I'm not keeping up with the non-urgent stuff. So now my two current catchphrases, 's/he's a piece of work', and 'hell mend him/her', apply to me in spades.

Take back the sitting room!

2008-12-09T21:02:00.002Z

In sympathy with the righteous Stansted airport protesters and the Greek uprising against police violence, I've decided to occupy my own sitting room in a display of non-violent protest.

I'd barely realised it, but over the past 2 years my sitting room has been effectively squatted by the Big Wan and associated Fraggles, such that psychologically it no longer feels mine, even when they're absent. Gradually, I've retreated to a bedsitland-like existence between my bedroom and the wretched kitchen. It was a gradual retreat, partially promoted because the computer's in my bedroom and because I rarely watch TV. But when the wee wan's here, my bedroom is hers too so I truly have no private space. Christ knows what Social Services would make of a 12 yr old girl who sleeps with her mother. Presumably it'd be a case for the paedo police, who would learn I have to throw a veritable hissy-fit to have my bed to myself.

This has to stop. Both the weans have their own bedrooms, and if the Big Wan's is an uninhabitable tip that's up to him to fix. If the wee wan finds her bedroom lonely, let her get used to it. Surely one of the few privileges of paying the mortgage and bills should be to access the space!

The X-word

2008-12-08T22:03:00.003Z

Is it December already? How did that come up, and how do you service the annual consumer fest with nae money? Possibly quite well-

1)Use a tenuous Jewish interest (membership of the Jewish Literary Society) to feign a religious objection
2)Strong-arm friends and family into the no-present pact
3)Have the friend who's a great cook to stay over Xmas
4)Assign and then applaud kiddos' repudiation of materialism; anything more than a lump of coal and a satsuma are ostentatious superfluous capitalist displays of wealth bled from the exploitation of alienated labour etc. ....

Bingo!

Ballox

2008-11-30T20:00:00.004Z

A flying trip today to the Borders to check in on the Ballox, who's having a second wind of health and functional status after a 5 day admission for palliative care at the Kelso Hospital. The hospital/hospice augmented his oral Good Stuff (oxycodone and morphine) with fentanyl patches and ondasteron, then released him home as he wished. The fantastic care Ballox has received in Kelso means he now trusts them, and allows district nurses in to check on him. He even accedes that when the next downturn comes, he'll accept in-patient care back at Kelso Hospital.

He was more mobile and cheerful than I've seen him for 6 weeks, and made my day by moving himself to the sit on top of the storage heater in order to "get the ballocks warmed up". He disnae know his nickname, you see. He worried that it would be too hot in his flat for me, so invited me to strip off naked if that would be more comfortable, since "he was no longer in a position to take advantage". God love him- I will remember and cherish this visit forever.

The other pleasures I received today were chocolate-box sugar-frosted landscapes on the drive down and back. It remained below freezing all day, so I was treated to views of every tree and hedge rimed with glistening ice, outlining and solidifying every fractal edge. Sumptuous.

Fall Sunday

2008-11-22T01:18:00.005Z

A potentially horrid hangover Sunday was recently transformed into a brilliantly pamperful day by my birthday book token. Willfully declining to rise from my bed or answer the phone for 18 hrs, instead I worked my way through Mark E Smith's autobiog 'Renegade' and someone else's musico-docu book 'The Fallen' in a single slothful glut session. The former is MES's reconstructed, denial-filled dictation from his local pub, presumably to a ghost-writer; the latter a personal and documentary account of the author's journey to trace the 40+ sacked or resigning members of MES's personal vehicle, The Fall, over its 30 year history.

Neither are great works of literature, but what fun to read; a guilty pleasure akin to my 'Chat' and 'Pick Me Up' (crap-mag) habit.

MES allegedly loves Edinburgh, though thankfully I've never met him and would cross the road if I saw him on Princes St. I've especially never met him when he fails to show up for gigs, repeatedly. He may have voted Tory, though eschewing politics. And yet The Fall have consistently spewed out glorious, spitting, cacophonous, meticulous stuff.

'What have you got in that paper bag?'
'I chucked out the Alka-Selzer'
'Mm-brrr-zap the subject'
'He wanted sex in the dummies eyes'
'That's what you get for having a hobby'
'A prickly line of sweat covers enthusiast's forehead as the
realization hits him...'
'I've never felt better in my life'
'I got my last clean dirty shirt outta the wardrobe'
'The people I like live in kitchens and halls'

The War Zone

2008-11-15T21:12:00.003Z

Strange and existential. Today I had a family meeting about dear departed dad's headstone, then a viewing of the film 'The Baader-Meinhof Complex', then emergency voicemails concerning the Ballox, and gradually I lost the ability to distinguish fact and fiction, war and peace.

1. Headstone: Tasked with organising headstone, I researched the format, made contact with the EHC who can help with Hebrew, found their expert to supply and oversee Hebrew translation/transcription, and sourced a stonemason experienced in Hebrew. It's up to those with opinions and a purse to see the project through now.

2. Baader-Meinhof Complex film: Harrowing and duplicitous. It upset me that three members of R.'s group asked me afterwards "Did you enjoy it?". No, I did not enjoy it, for it was not a feel-good movie. I discerned no insight from any of the other viewers that the B-M/RAF protaganists were anything other than psychopaths. No insight from any viewer that events such as the 'suicides' could be open to other interpretations. I was a saint by not reacting when one viewer explained to me that her definition of terrorism is any acts of violence conducted outside a state-declared war. Thus soldiers are exempt, and once a conflict is stepped-down by state-declared communique (e.g. Iraq), any non-military action is terrorism. I am very proud that I kept me mouth shut.

3. Ballox: nightmare. I arranged a home visit by his wonderful GPs on Weds. Ballox was sleeping and wouldn't open door, coming close to a police door-forcing situation. Despite promising to accept daily nursing care from the district nurses last weekend, Ballox refused nursing help that day and the GP explained that since 'compis mentis', his wishes to die alone uncared for must prevail. That day he took a taxi into Kelso and bought new boots and a rifle with which to shoot rabbits. How he imagines he'll use these since he canny walk is anyone's guess. Good.

Hell mend 'em, all.

The Art of Juggling

2008-11-12T23:16:00.004Z

I struggle to keep up with washing-up and laundry at the best of times, but there's a lot more to be keeping airborne at the mo. Peter Ballox's imminent death occupies most time and mental energy (a novel in itself). Also school visits about Big Wan's under-achievement, medical crises in dear friend's families, neighbour relations, bathroom renovations and headstones, and managing being a manager. I've a pertinent analysis and tactic on each of my issues, and absolutely no time to annotate.

Headstones

2008-11-08T21:04:00.004Z

It's time to commission the dear departed dad's headstone. I've been researching on and off for months, but it's now overdue for mum, sis and I (all shiksas) to get practical about it.

This job is a tough one because the dad is the first of his liberal Jewish congregation to be buried at their grounds and his stone will set a precedent. Responsibility!

Because proper Jewish ritual was important to the dad at the end, we reckon he'd want an inscription both in Hebrew and in English. This makes for a lot of text, and the Hebrew has certain traditional formats and phrasing that are very easy to get wrong.

It's traditional to denote Jewishness by symbolism (gender-dependent and tribe-dependent) and a header meaning 'Here lies' (gender-dependent). Then the dear departed's Hebrew name (a patronymic construction) and their dates in the Hebrew calendar. Date conversion from Gregorian to Jewish calendar are dependent on times of day as well as dates, and written calendrical dates in Hebrew are neither decimal in construct nor Arabic in notation. The traditional Jewish footer (a five-letter abbreviation) is often translated as 'may his soul rest in peace', but has a closer (and more lovely) meaning as 'may his soul be bound forever in the bonds of eternal life'.

The Orthodox community, who generously helped us with taharah and tachrichim at his death, will help us again with the Hebrew inscription.

Mum and the wee wan accompanied me to Piershill Cemetery today to view the current burial grounds of the local Orthodox Jewish community, to get some pointers. The headstones tend to be tall because of the dual-language inscriptions. Our own family taste is for small and simple, and we'll see how close we can get to this while satisfying form and format. Luckily, Mum has said that she doesn't want to be commemorated on the same stone (since she's not Jewish) which is just as well- there will be no room.

Going around, coming around

2008-11-06T23:35:00.002Z

This is about Peter Ballox, who's getting closer to the end of this life and/or the beginning of the next.

I spent Monday evening with him when he was up for his (pointless) chemo. The deterioration in his physical condition was quite shocking, but though the body is fading the mind's sharper than for years. I know for a fact he was in considerable pain, but he hid it artfully, making quite a show of his remaining abilities and minimising his increasing disabilities.

We talked about the dug, his immaculate new housing association flat in the Borders village, sci-fi, the US elections and his now constant thirst. In the air was that we both know his life expectancy was estimated at 2 months a month ago.

Because I'm a hard bitch, I asked why he's still having chemo, and why he's not yet hooked into the Good Stuff from palliative care for his pain. I'm not supposed to know about the pain. He hid it well, but a horrorshow enacted the previous evening had proved that if dying painfully, you're likely to receive better practical compassion from a vet than from a 5-star NHS teaching hospital.

Peter used the death-word and the dying-word a few times, allowing me to ask what kind of these he wanted. The denial-wish kicked in and was behaviourally evident- getting up to feed the dug, offer me unwanted tea, fetch cold milk for sipping (quickly puked back up). But I'm a hard bitch and came back to those words when he was calmed. In a personal conversation, we covered some practical and aspirational aspects of the how, when, who and why of the d-words.

Peter was at his very best: ripping the piss out of me in such a charming and affectionate manner, and disclosing some personal regrets of astonishing grace.

I wrote to Peter's Borders GP that night, because though he'd rather die than ask, the Ballox now needs the Good Stuff. And the GP listened, I think, since he persuaded the Ballox into being admitted to the Borders hospital today to optimise his pain management.

The Ballox has always despised H.etc.'s cat, but puss became very ill too this week, requiring expensive surgery. It fills me with pride that Peter has quietly paid for the cat's operation, when he's never before put his hand in his pocket for H.etc. It's late in the game, but never too late.

Go Obama!

2008-11-05T00:25:00.002Z

Willing this man on, against better judgement, in hope for a better future for the planet. Quite possibly the electronic voting travesty, or voters' inculcated racism, will rob him of presidency at the last moment. Quite possibly if elected he'll immediately cave in to capitalist pressures, or some nutter racist will assassinate him for his mild perma-tan. But I can't remember investing hope and wishfulness in any previous US election.

Colleagues are warned I'll be up much of the night watching the returns, and not to expect much of me tomorrow. I want a small stars-and-stripes to wave tomorrow, should he succeed. Go Barack! A black in the White House! Chocolate City here we come!

The Greys

2008-10-27T22:50:00.005Z

For 6 weeks Mum's been loitering with intent at her local pet shop, Paws Here (suppliers of Bad-Dog Jakie's kibble). Who can blame her, with its collection of beautifully socialised small pets for sale, or as boarders, or as companions of staff. The wee wan and I had a love-in there a few weeks ago; me with the rats and the wee wan with two grey bunny sisters. Following independent love-ins both solo and with the wee wan, the grey bunnies have gone home with Mum. Here are my new sisters, and the Big and wee wan's new aunties, Leah Marie Grey and Lady Jane Grey.

These wee honeys accept claps, warm a lap and eat up their greens with relish.

Truth and Consequences

2008-10-26T00:41:00.003+01:00

Arriving home yesterday evening, I could hear the screaming from the street. Once inside the stair, I recognised the voices and realised with heartsink that this rammy was being enacted inside my own flat and refuge.

Two Fraggles were conducting a high-volume row in my hallway, oblivious to my entrance. My phone rang, and one, clearly the worse for drink, delivered articulate but outrageous abuse and vitriol down the headset to a remote Fraggle's mother. My own Fraggle, the luckily sober Big Wan, was hiding in another room. As all three Fraggles rapidly exited the flat, I was the recipient of another phone call from the hapless Fraggle mother, who delivered some context. I learned the pissed Fraggle had spent much of the afternoon delivering abuse and vitriol to his unfortunate Fraggle victim via my telephone and PC.

This was not what I need on any evening, and most particularly that evening. My home had been squatted, my resources hijacked for a hate campaign, and my son had failed to act when action was needed. I'm medium fond of the pissed Fraggle, who's received the benefit of much free advice in my auntie capacity. But he was already on two strikes for disobeying my no-smoking rule; three strikes and you're out.

The disrespect for my person and home and Big Wan's failure to manage the situation were disappointing. Worse was my ethical duty to speak to the pissed Fraggle's parents. For were it Big Wan, I would wish to know of such behaviour from another parent.

To his credit, the pissed Fraggle later phoned to apologise, and we had a chat covering the need to walk away from rage, that intoxicants cloud your judgement, that age 16 is a temporary mental illness which resolves, and that despite his remorse I was still duty-bound to speak to his parents, who love him and therefore need to know when he's heading off-base. When the Big Wan was but a twinkle in the eye, I never dreamt that this would be part of parenting.

Black spots

2008-10-23T21:55:00.002+01:00

A bad week for these. The cleaners at my work, Fred and Liz, have each had family black spots. Fred's sister died suddenly on Tuesday, and Liz's dad is in the Western being slowly poisoned by liver failure. The man hadn't smoked or drank alcohol in 14 years, but (in Liz's phraseology) was found to be 'riddled' with tumours in his lung, kidney, stomach, bone and gullet. He received the diagnosis on his 54th wedding anniversary. What can you say except sorry, and to mention the wonderful humanitarian gifts offered by the Marie Curie hospice service.

Peter Ballocks was told on Monday his gullet cancer hasn't responded to chemo, and he has ~2 months. They offered to insert a stent to allow him to (gradually) become accustomed to eating solid food again, but he refused this. "What's the point?", he said. H. etc brought Reekie back to Edinburgh the next day, to spare the dug from his dad's externalised rage. She's back down in the Borders again now, absorbing the flak as she always has. I'll go down next weekend so The Ballocks can be angry at me too, and maybe if he's ready, try to soothe him. Whatever he needs to achieve ease. He often feels cornered by words, so I'll take him Casal's Bach cello concertos; he loves classical music.

Weekend

2008-10-17T23:55:00.004+01:00

It feels like such a treat to arrive at the weekend and enjoy options! No jobbie, no kiddos, no duties, no incoming fire!

Through happenstance and acts of God, I'm sometimes back in that seventh circle of hell called 'middle management'. This is a place/headspace where one owns all problems yet lack resources to solve any. Middle management hell can incorporate (if you let it) a jobbie, a Big Wan's school performance, friendies' life events, neighbours' noise complaints, an ambulance nee-nawing to a stranger, the result of a national election, and the wound from your singular failure to fix all these.

What have we learned?
a) Entrained behaviours are not necessarily adaptive
b) Sweeties taste nice but can make you diabetic
c) You can fix some broken stuff, but others need thrown out

-------------------------------------------------------

What a lovely Saturday I had! R. and I daundered in the Botanics picking up autumn leaves. The chestnuts, maples, beeches and birches (Castaneae, Acer, Fagaceae, Betula) are quite magnificent at the moment. It was clear, sunny and sharply cold, a high wind chasing clouds across the sky.

Then we caught the new Coen Bros film, Burn After Reading. For once, we both loved a film and roared with laughter throughout. This is one I could and will watch over and over again- a complicated black comedy involving espionage and romance. No learning or hugs: relatively good people get stuffed and relatively bad people walk out scot-free. Intelligence is not rewarded and God is dead in this film.

The cast is superb (John Malkovitch, Tilda Swinton, George Clooney, Brad Pitt), with a beautifully crafted narrative and the disparate characters delivering pithy one-liners. It's going to be a slow burning cult film like Big Lebowski, with the cogniscenti throwing around catchphrases from the film in years to come.

"Tell Dr Cox I've got her new key", "I'm an American citizen", "I haven't had a run in 3 days", "This is a clusterfuck" and "What have we learned?". I want to go again next week- it's just going to get better and funnier on repeated viewing.

Even Downstair Neighbour's pithy note on the main door couldn't spoil my evening. "Could whoever trailed cat litter down the stair clean it up immediately. My landing stinks of cat pee". Needless to say, I (or rather Big Wan) was the culprit, though there was no smell of cat piss from the very light sprinkles that Wee Wan had failed to sweep up. He's such a drama queen in writing, and such a feartie in person.

Colours of shite

2008-10-14T01:15:00.006+01:00

There's all colours of shite pouring down at the moment between the jobbie, the Big Wan's teenage alienation, the neighbours' complaints and the capitalist economy.

Sometimes I would like to be the sole colonist of the Moon, and start all over again pure of construct and history. On the Moon, no one will own or manage others, or require of them duties. There will be no assumptions or expectations, no property and no currency. Time and labour will not be bought and sold. There will be no intermediary between need and supply, as need will must.

I'll have a small garden to grow moon veg and flowers, a hand-turned sewing machine to make fancy dress for my own amusement, and a cat for company, to give milk, and to keep me in my place. Given the lack of atmosphere to transmit soundwaves, language will be movement-mediated, and every word will be happy when it's a cartwheel or a handstand.

Asking for Axe Murder

2008-10-07T20:34:00.003+01:00

Hi [ion]

I'm happy to discuss your suggestions for reducing noise between our 2 flats and think that another meeting between us might be the best way forward.

Perhaps we could arrange to meet one evening next week but before doing so I would like to take a moment just to get things in their proper perspective and clarify my position which seems to have been misinterpreted somewhat.

My one objective through all of this has been simply this: to try to ensure that when I go to bed, I can sleep without being woken up in the middle of the night.
Everyday noise has never been the issue and while any efforts you've made to reduce this are appreciated, as far as I recall, I have never asked or expected that you or your children modify your behaviour or restrict your lifestyle in any way during the day or evening. While I do hear some noise at these times I have always viewed this as an unavoidable part of tenement life and not something I would complain about. The only complaints or requests I have made have related to noise occurring directly above my bedroom late at night i.e. after midnight, that has woken me up or kept me awake, leaving me seriously struggling to do my job the next day. I think anyone in that situation would try to do something to improve it. If you felt that I was attempting to get you or your children to be completely quiet at all times then you have misunderstood my objective and I hope this has helped to make it clear.

As I said, I'm happy to discuss your suggestions for getting us closer to the stage where we can both get on with our lives without bothering each other. I am pretty busy for the rest of this week and will be away at the weekend so perhaps next Wednesday or Thursday would suit? You are welcome to come down here for a coffee or, if you prefer, I can come up to you. You can let me know when and where would suit you best.

Regards,
[Downstairs Neighbour]

----------------------------

Hi [Downstairs Neighbour],

Apologies for my lack of response- been busy with one thing and another and did not intend either rudeness or disrespect by this.

Clearly, we need to solve this problem, so please let me know your availability next week for the chat you request.

As an heuristic agenda I have a few possible solutions in mind, involving either moving my PC to another room, or insulating your ceiling and/or my floor. Adoption of your bedtime by us is not realistic and will only cause further failure and stress to us both. My solutions would instead involve some limited expense, but I hope (like me) you may decide these will be worthwhile in the long run.

Regards,
[ion]
--------------------------

I'm reading this back now and thinking; Downstairs Neighbour is sooo lucky I haven't deliberately stayed up late playing techno (which I need class As to enjoy) purely to make his life a misery. Mind you, he manages that quite well by himself...

HPV and me 4- MRSA

2008-10-04T22:34:00.008+01:00

I'm 2 lbs lighter after Monday's op and 2 inches smaller in waist size! Thank the Lord and the NHS for fixing me up!

I was last on the surgical list, because (as I learned) routine tests had shown another iatrogenic problem: that I (or more specifically my fanny) carries the MRSA bug. Thank you Baby Jesus!

My lovely surgical nurse explained to me that the NHS stopped testing health care workers for MRSA long ago, when pilot studies showed that >70% of hospital staff like me are asymptomatic but colonised carriers of MRSA. Public health policy, I have since learned, is one of "Don't test, don't ask, don't tell".

Knowledge of my MRSA colonisation meant that I had to be 'done' last, and transferred from Day Surgery to a ward for barrier nursing while I came round. Like most carriers I'm asymptomatic, and only discovered my status because of incidental tests. The surgeons recommended I see Occupational Health, and since this is me at my workplace, I phoned NHS24 to seek advice.

Given Day Surgery's 'get her out of here' reaction, I kinda thought NHS24 would be on red alert, advising me to sterilise everything I touched, signing me off work and banning me from patient contact till treated. I felt dirty, and intensely concerned for my colleagues' and patients' safety. However... NHS policy is that asymptomatic MRSA carriers like me should not be treated (since they'll just be re-colonised next week) and should continue regardless, implementing just the standard hygiene practices such as hand-washing and glove use.

The NHS24 nurse was thick enough to tell me that since I don't use my fanny for work, I pose no infection risk. She was stumped when I pointed out the logical fallacy and error of omission: that a lack of testing of my other skin areas is not evidence that only my fanny 'has' MRSA. Personally, rationally, scientifically, I'd conjecture that MRSA flora in one's fanny gives a high likelihood of MRSA colonisation of other skin areas.

However, after a course of an appropriate antibiotic (on which I insisted) I am probably now 'clean'. At least until the next time I touch a door handle at work and am re-colonised, through transmission from one of my healthy, untested and blissfully unaware colleagues or patients.

HPV and Me (TMI) Part 3

2008-09-27T21:41:00.003+01:00

/Continued

All hunky-dory until last weekend, when I my period was due again. I had menstrual pains much worse than labour, on and off, but little bleeding. I have a high pain threshold anytime (no pain relief at all for my daughter's birth) and have visited A&E just once in my life, when I couldn't stop a deep cut in my hand bleeding and needed stitches. It was my medical friend who thought I needed to be seen, after being incapacitated by pain so severe I was retching, sweating buckets and rolling around incapable of speech, for the third morning in a row.

Long story short- treated like a stupid schoolgirl panicking at her first period at A&E on Sunday night. Told nurse I had severe menstrual pain- worse than labour- but no bleeding, then nurse asked if I was in any pain (?) No vaginal exam in A&E because 'it's policy to preserve privacy'. Friend was asked "Are you a doctor?" when she suggested my fanny might have cervical stenosis (blocked/scarred cervix) after the last treatment, and when she answered "Yes", A&E doctor was gobsmacked but still sent me home without exam, on ibuprofen (already taken) and a referral for an 'emergency' gynae triage appointment on Tuesday.

So, after two more days of severe pain, an ultrasound on Tuesday showed my uterus was packed with unexpelled menstrual products and my cervix was completely stenosed.

I was in very bad pain and did not behave well to the gynae nurse who asked me when my last period was, and refused to understand I couldn't answer this ("Do you mean pain or bleeding?" I asked, with no comprehension on her side). Then she asked me to confirm I'd attended in June for a 'colonoscopy' (clearly she didn't know her arse from my fanny) and that's when I finally lost it with her.

After another 2 hours, I saw a baby doc who explained that our theory was correct. My fanny's cervix was blocked by the last treatment and the blood and clots from my last three periods are backed up and festering in my womb. She said we'd wait for her boss, Mama Doc, to become available, then they'd examine my fanny and try to pass a 'probe' through my cervix to allow the muck to be expelled. Baby Doc was lovely and approachable, so I felt able to state that they'd better fucking give me some decent fucking pain relief before they tried putting a fucking knitting needle up my fucking fanny. Wouldn't she want the same?

Finally someone was listening to me, and the particularly stupid 'colonoscopy' nurse was called through again to (ungraciously) give me some proper, opiate-based pain relief. Baby Doc and Mama Doc had a look up my fanny and made noises to the effect that my cervix was barely there anymore- 'extremely shortened'. Mama Doc tried the knitting needle cure, but the scarring was too deep for her to make a new os.

Mama Doc wanted to book me in for a D&C (to open my cervix and scrape out the muck) under a general anaesthetic that day, but the surgical list is full. Sent home on two heavy-duty antibiotics and opiate painkillers to await the first surgery space on Monday. Started puking badly on Weds night, when the GP added two more anti-vomit pills to the pharmacopaeia. Let this be over soon.

Hopefully, I'll be fine again by Monday night. Thankfully, I do not have cancer of the cervix (credit to Dr Pap, colposcopy and LEEP), but a chain of events has caused me and my fanny a lot of grief, fear, worry and unnecessary pain. The lessons are:

1. Use condoms!
2. Get your daughters (and sons!) vaccinated against HPV!
3. Look after your johnson or your fanny!

HPV and Me (TMI) Part 2

2008-09-27T20:30:00.003+01:00

/Continued

In the last post, I explained how cultural norms and scientific ignorance allowed me (and many of my generation) to fail to protect my fanny from epidemic HPV.

Come the mid 1980s, my fanny and I were living in a virtual heaven. We were in a long-term and monogamous relationship with a very nice johnson whom we later married and with whom we had children.

I always took care of my fanny (as she did me) by attending for Pap smear tests when summoned by my GP. It was in the late 80s that my fanny produced her first abnormal smear, and I had to take her for a colposcopy examination at the Elsie Inglis hospital (later sold off by Lothian Health Board). I'd not yet matured at this time into a serial protester, but I recall being distressed by and non-compliant with this clinic's factory-line ethos.

They insisted I should carry my knickers in a wire shopping basket in full public view from waiting room to doctor's consulting room to treatment room. When I refused, on the grounds that I preferred holding important conversations while wearing underclothes, I was laughed at. My fanny was refused a local anaesthetic before they biopsied and froze 'bad' areas of my cervix because 'the cervix has no nerve supply'. This was and is categorically untrue (why is cervical dilation during labour sore then?), and I've not had to endure such indignity or unnecessary pain during any subsequent cervical treatments.

A few years later my fanny was called back again after another dodgy smear result, but this time I was able to discuss the plan in a dignified setting, and my fanny received a local anaesthetic before diathermy (burning) of some new dysplastic areas.

All was rosy, and the treatments didn't hamper normal deliveries of two spanking kiddos. Brilliant! The johnson belonging to my husband took off for pastures new in 2000, and thereafter my fanny found her pleasures elsewhere, mostly in fairly long-lasting, serially monogamous relationships. The married johnson had been happy to use condoms, but I learned that the generation below mine seemed reluctant to do so. Who knows whether my poor fanny received a nasty HPV from one of these, or whether she'd been cooking pre-cancer from her teens.

This year, another bad smear result came back so I took my fanny up to the new hospital in June for more cervical pre-cancer treatment, this time by loop electrical excision procedure (LEEP). LEEP is a more invasive technique (shaving the cervix all over), but since I had a local and have finished child-bearing, thought no more of it.

In retrospect, my periods started going wrong afterwards. Lots of menstrual pain (never previously a problem for me), bleeding stopping then starting at odd times throughout my cycle. I put it down the the menopause (for which I'm rapidly heading), and tholed it like a Stakhanovite.

/To Be Continued

HPV and Me (TMI) Part 1

2008-09-27T20:19:00.001+01:00

My fanny and I have been close, not to say bosom buddies, for many years and have had many adventures together. She's been a wonderful companion, helping me experience much pleasure and to bear two (sometimes) lovely kiddos. We're both getting older now, and I'd assumed we'd drift gently into an affectionate dotage together, but lately she's got the hump with me again. It's her story I would like to relate here.

-----------------------------------

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago in an era called the 1970s, there was a short-lived golden age, sometimes called 'the era of free love', when young people could explore their sexuality free of fear.

In this era, young women (and through them, their male partners) now had access to new hormonal contraceptives for the first time, which prevented the Big Bad Bogeyman of unwanted pregnancy spoiling their fun. The most popular of these was The Pill (it was always capitalised in those days), which many young women would swallow on 21 out of every 28 mornings.

The young women liked it because they could please and keep their boyfriends without ever having to worry about pregnancy excepting those 30 seconds it took to swallow The Pill. The young men liked it even better, because now their girlfriends were available for spontaneous sex anytime and anyplace and they were absolved from worry of a shotgun wedding, from anything so fun-spoiling as placing a latex barrier between their johnson and their girlfriend's fanny, or anything so embarrassing as having to ask a chemist for a pack of condoms. In fact, condoms were extremely fuddy-duddy in those days and sales were at an all-time low.

And it was (somewhat) good for everyone, and most especially the young thrusty men who for sociobiological reasons that they didnt understand wanted lots of no-strings sex with lots of partners.

In the 1970s (as I recall), there were only two sexually-transmitted infections (STIs). There was your gonorrhoea (clap) and your syphilis (pox), but both were eminently treatable by antibiotics, so no one cared about those. It was only at the end of the 'free love' that anyone started to hear of some new ones that were less treatable, such as non-specific urethritis (which grew up to be chlamydia) and herpes. HIV and AIDS were still a twinkle in an African green monkey's eye.

It wasn't till the 1980s that young people started to be warned, using leaflets and cinema adverts showing tombstones and icebergs, that there were other new STIs and some of these could be fatal. It turned out condoms (or a nasty granny's plastic rainhat called a Femidom) could prevent all STIs except pubic lice (crabs) being transmitted, as well as preventing pregnancy. But it was too late for a whole generation of young people, both gay and straight, who'd had quite a lot of spontaneous fun in the preceding decade.

---------------------------

One of the non-important STIs that were floating around in the 70s were genital warts. These were just like a wart on your hand or a verruca on your foot, except you'd get them on your johnson, fanny, geffizit (perineum) or ringpiece (anus). They weren't sore and if one was cosmetically bothered these could be easily burnt off with podophyllin or frozen off with dry ice. No big deal it seemed to us, until it became clear (some years later) that the virus that caused these warts- human papilloma virus (HPV)- came in many subtypes.

Now, clever doctors had always suspected that cancer of the cervix (once a major killer of women) was mostly a kind of STI, because nuns and lesbians hardly ever got this. Clever virologists learned in the 80s that infection with some subtypes of HPV (ones which didn't themselves cause warts) turned out to be the main cause of cervical* cancer.

It turned out that almost all sexually active people (excepting exclusive celibates, lesbians or virgins who'd entered a monogamous marriage) were carriers of HPV of one subtype or another. Men mostly remained asymptomatic apart from the odd wart, but women infected with a nasty HPV subtype while having unprotected fun could develop cervical pre-cancer, and later cancer, if not treated.

*Cervical- Pronounced serv-ikal in reference to the upper region of the spinal column, and serv-eye-ikal when in the fanny context

/To Be Continued

Mog Log Blog

2008-09-27T12:29:00.010+01:00

Dearie me! Dreadlock emergency with Her Catness this morning.

I have not been too well and am taking two types of anti-nausea medication. But when Her Catness jumped up on the bed this morning (thankfully I hadn't had breakfast yet), the cloacal smell from her back-end was so bad it set me off on 5 mins of the dry boaks.

Her usually white, fluffy and delightfully fragrant pantaloons were festooned with dangling, shit-matted dreadlocks, stinking to high heaven. Dreadfully undignified for Her and very unpleasant for Her human companions.

I instructed the troops to "Tool Up!", get on their body armour and apply cologne-soaked masks in preparation for de-dagging Her Catness.

Then with a cry of "Let's roll!" we launched into combat. Her Catness does not appreciate attention of any kind to her nether regions, and is equipped with claws and teeth to defend Herself. We had our first casualty before we even had Her restrained. Luckily it was not me.

She won this battle, and escaped under the kitchen cupboard for an hour or so before seeking human help again. This time I took the front end and simultaneously soothed and restrained Her while a platoon member got busy with the scissors at the back-end. She's happier and sweet-smelling again now.

---------------------------

An anonymous, anti-social tosser (who is dead if I ever discover their identity) dumped a mattress out in my back garden. However, I now have a strapping laddie to do my manual labour, and Fraggle Friends to aid him. A few days ago, I instructed these troops also to “Tool Up!” and don binbags to save their clothes from soiling when moving the stinking, mouldy and now green mattress. They turned this into an opportunity to dress up as Adam Ant (with felt-pen make-up). That’s my Big Wan on the left.

Downstairs Neighbour and Me

2008-09-24T00:05:00.002+01:00

Hi [ion]

Thanks for getting back to me. I appreciate your suggestion to carpet your room but I'm not sure thats the answer to the latest issue. It would certainly muffle footsteps and things moving across the floor but I haven't been woken up by that type of noise for some time now (thank you for your efforts on that front. Much appreciated). I also know from many years of experience with noise from the pub below that carpet does little if anything to reduce music or TV noise.

I'm interested to hear that you have Tv or radio on every night because its not something I've ever been aware of, which is a sign that normally the volume is absolutely fine. Its only in the last couple of months, perhaps on 3 or 4 occasions that I've been woken up. For whatever reason, on those nights, the TV or radio was loud enough to be heard quite clearly. I could be wrong but I think it was the TV I was hearing so perhaps its just a difference in volume between the TV and radio? Or possibly a difference in the volume that various programmes are broadcast at? As I said, the vast majority of the time, I cant hear them at all so I think if you can just keep an eye (or ear) on the volume to make sure its at the level you normally use, we should be fine.

Thanks again,

[Downstairs Neighbour]

----------------------------------------------------

Hi [Downstairs Neighbour],

Glad the percussion noise is better, sad there's now a new problem with TV/radio noise. As you point out, these separate types of noise nuisance have independent physico- mechanical properties.

It's very distressing for you to have your sleep regularly disturbed and equally distressing for me to receive ongoing complaints. I daily consider your low arousal threshold and sensitivities, making every effort to reduce noise to the extent of restricting my and my kid's normal behaviour in your interest. Yet the problem persists, even if it shifts focus.

Evidence is that no matter how hard we try, the noise nuisance persists. I feel that further restrictions to our lifestyle, such as using headphones or exercising even greater consideration, are not workable and are unlikely to be successful in the long term.My kids are now 12 and 16 and can't be expected to respect the strict rules on noise production that I have followed this year.

Thus I feel a new tack is needed, aimed not at further modification of my and my kids' behaviour but at insulating you from our everyday noise so you can sleep and we can lead a normal family life. I think we should consider insulating the ceiling/floor space between our bedrooms, in the interests of both our qualities of life.

Best,
[ion]

Enhanced Disclosure IX

2008-09-19T18:44:00.014+01:00

Here's the latest in my fact-finding mission to use my personal case to explore Police Forces' use and abuse of the UK criminal records database.

Background:
Like many people of my generation, I have a trivial 24 year-old drug possession conviction, which according to changing guidelines should have disappeared in 1994, 2004 or, according to the authorities' latest interpretation...2063. However, the Information Tribunal (ombudspeople on Freedom of Information and Data Protection) have recently ruled that Chief Officers of local Police Forces are in breach of UK law, human rights and the ITs previous rulings by continuing to disclose spent convictions such as mine.

Update:
I received an email from an entirely new correspondent, of "FED Disclosure Scotland" (whatever that is) on the 12th. She writes:

Dear [ion],

I have had a look at your case, and referred it to the Disclosure Manager, Brian [XXX] for his attention. You will receive a letter of reply shortly from him.

If I can be of any assistance in the meantime, please feel free to contact me.

Regards,
[FED Team Leader, Disclosure Scotland]

Brian is Head of Disclosure, second in command to the CEO of Disclosure Scotland, so I'm hoping to hear soon his response to the questions I posed in my last email. Meantime, does this latest mean the FEDs are after me? (That's a joke, by the way)

Downstairs Neighbour's state of mind

2008-09-19T18:44:00.007+01:00

Dearie, dearie me. The serial complainer (me) meets her match in Downstairs Neighbour, and she doesn't like it! The email disturbed me and left me feeling oddly vulnerable. Specifically, DN's attribution of the problem to a lack of consideration on my part is both incorrect and potentially psychologically unhealthy, and it is worrisome that when one type of noise problem is solved a new one takes its place.

DN's initial noise complaint was of percussion noise, which is objectively corroborated as a major problem with stripped floors such as mine. This type of noise is mechanically transmitted and amplified by the physical structures in a tenement. But media-volume noise (excluding the bass of e.g. deep dub reggae or techno music) is an airborne pressure wave. The mechanical and physical properties of old tenements' structure tend to insulate and baffle this type of noise very well.

Neither my TV nor radio contact any floors or walls, the daily pattern of my media-listening habits is unchanged and the volume settings of my TV or radio have not been adjusted. So where does it come from?

Though we have no social contact, DN's complaints have had far-reaching effects on my thoughts and behaviour. I think of him every night- tiptoeing round my flat in bare feet, hushing the kiddos up, stopping the wee wan practising her dancing except on carpet and in daytime. DN effectively invades my bedroom every night, mentally, whether he's complaining or not, and there are aspects of this dominance and control which are unreasonable and unhealthy. I'm well aware that he feels that I invade his space too, but it's becoming apparent that the counter-measures I undertake may always be insufficient.

So, who 'owns' this problem, as asked by Rob? Possibly, as Rob implied, it now belongs to both of us. DN definitely has a problem and possibly a type of fixation (though not in a good way) with me. In response, I'm also now becoming overly involved with DN (again not in a good way), and over-attending to his comfort and appeasement.

I don't know for sure the best way to 'solve' our co-owned problem. I suspect that my supplicatory approach till now has some unhealthy aspects, feeding a folie a deux misconception that if I will only try harder, his problem will go away.

I have tried really, really hard and the poor man still can't sleep. He couldn't sleep before I moved in and he'll continue not to sleep if I go. If I continue to play soft-ball and accept his blame, I'm feeding the misattribution. On the other hand, sleep deprivation can make one truly crazy (I speak from personal as well as professional experience), and challenging his blame belief could augment my status to pure, evil enemy.

Here's how I responded last night:

Hi [DN],

Sorry to hear you've been disturbed recently by my TV or radio, most recently on Tuesday night, and thanks for letting me know of this recent problem.

Certainly, I would have had either BBC 2 TV or BBC Radio World Service on all night on Tuesday night (as every night), because this has always been the case. I can't fall asleep without spoken word in the background.

I'm perplexed about this new problem because my sleep pattern is more 'normal' than when we last spoke, my media habits (and volume settings) are unaltered, and my hearing is not significantly impaired as yet (though this will come!).

I did indeed have a late night on Tuesday, but this example was recent enough that I can specifically attest that I was that night implementing the counter-measures previously agreed to preserve your sleep, as I've done assiduously in recent months.

Since lack of consideration is not the problem, yet nothing implemented so far is improving your quality of life, it may be that we need to consider sharing the costs of carpeting my bedroom. I'm willing to discuss this if you think it might solve the problem. Let me know.

Yours sincerely,
[ion]

I'm opening this issue up for any budding agony aunts. Any good advice for me?

Downstairs Neighbour kicks off again

2008-09-19T00:31:00.002+01:00

Hi [ion]
I'm writing to let you know that, unfortunately, I've been getting woken up
again during the night by what sounds like a TV or possibly a radio. Its
happened several times over the last month, last night being the most recent
occurrence. I've tried using ear plugs but they don't always block it out
completely. Any chance you could turn it down a bit next time or perhaps use
headphones?
Thanks a lot,
[Downstairs Neighbour]

------------------------

This marks the start of the end of my patience and consideration for DN. I've been extremely considerate since his first complaint and have made considerable behavioural and furnishing changes to accommodate his low threshold for noise. Now I'm realising that he will never be satisfied.

There's been no change in the volume settings of my TV or radio since I moved in 8 years ago, and I am not deaf (yet). I have always slept with either BBC2 TV or BBC World Service radio on low-volume all night since a kid, because the spoken word lulls me to sleep.

For the last 6 months I've removed my shoes on entry into my home, shushed the kids when they shout, reined back their natural spontaneous galloping locomotions, but it's never enough. I discovered that Environmental Health cannot find objectively excessive noise in his flat, and DN and I have discussed that he may possess ultra-sensitive hearing or a low arousal response, for which I have done my utmost to cater.

Enough is enough. I spend more mental effort offering DN consideration than I do my own family. It's getting time DN recognised that he has an endogenous problem.

We do not play techno music, have wild parties (I should be so lucky) or practice flamenco, though we would be quite entitled to do so should we choose. DN- you had a problem with noise before I moved in and you'd have the same or worse with any new neighbour except a corpse.

DN should sound-proof his room, or alternatively move to an isolated detached house in a rural setting, when he will develop a new sensitivity to morning birdsong, electro-magnetic radiation, or a full-blown total-allergy syndrome. The problem lies with him, although he will always ascribe it to his environment.

Futures

2008-09-14T00:37:00.004+01:00

Most top-quality experimental and clinical slug research continues to be conducted through funding by public bodies such as the MRC (in the UK) or NIH (in the US). Of course, only la creme de la creme (cf Miss Jean Brodie) are blessed, but at least we can be sure that this research is meritocratic rather than profit-driven, as when funded by Big Pharma.

My good friend George Bush II, erstwhile ruler of the world, stymied stem-cell research during his tenure because of his Born-Again religious objections to using foetal cells or cross-species methodology to ameliorate human disease.

Currrently, the 'Irish Candidate' (as my American dad refers to O'Bama) is slipping in the US polls, meaning that McCain and his running-mate Sarah Palin are in with a chance to become the face dictators of the world in Nov 2008.

While we all know the President and his VP are only front-figures (with the real power in the Pentagon), the November election could have serious impact on slug research. There have been enormous advances in scientific understanding and clinical applications of slug research (predominantly through cross-species models) in the last decade, many predicated on the assumption that humans are related to other life forms on Earth.

McCain, being rather crumbly by health and age, could kick off to the next plane anytime, leaving our young, vital and creationist hockey-mom Palin to assume Ruler of the World role. Is she going to fund the incredibly exciting recent research showing homologies of structure and function between nematodes, fruit flies, rodents and humans? No.

For in her belief set, G-d created all these species as unique and sui generis, and to mix them up is sinful. Any homologies are purely coincidental (maybe because He is constitutionally lazy and couldn't be bothered to re-engineer each of the individual species on Noah's Ark).

G-d, if he exists and happens to like humans (not that He should), would help us now and send Sarah an angel, an epiphany or a lightning bolt.

The Bear

2008-09-14T00:00:00.002+01:00

Just back from a professional conference on Slug Research in Glasgow.

A bad thing happened on Weds. Someone drank too much, stayed up too late, took a hefty dose of temazepam to allow decent sleep, then woke the next morning to find a bear had trashed her hotel room. She found a pre-packed salad strewn on the floor, a bruise on her forehead and a loaned book she'd been reading soaked in apple juice. How these had occurred was entirely amnesiac, as the bear had enacted these while she slept. He is a very clumsy bear.

This person happens to feel printed books are sacred objects, and that defiling them is sinful. She reacts badly when others disrespect her books, so has no defense except that the intruder bear broke in while she slept and committed acts of desecration. She has sourced and purchased through the internet a replacement book in VG condition (since the specific book edition is now out-of-print) and hopes this will arrive soon. Luckily the original book did not have irreplaceable, hand-written marginalia such as Fermat's Last Theorem.

"I have a truly marvellous demonstration of this proposition which this margin is too narrow to contain."

Parenting

2008-09-03T23:40:00.007+01:00

The Big Wan swapped from a Maths Higher to French last week, without consultation. This caused a sharp intake of breath from both his parents, but may prove to have been for the best.

It's pretty stupid (in my opinion) to initiate the Higher Maths syllabus with differential calculus, which can scare off all but the most gifted students. And when it comes to Maths, some cats got it and some cats ain't. Thus, Big Wan can attain a better mark in French (while coasting) than in Maths with hot-housing. Logically, swapping subjects can only help him get best marks this year. Plus, Big Wan did raise concerns about the Maths Higher with both me and the Nazi Papa, and received from us only exhortations to 'work harder'.

So I'm accepting BG's decision on dropping Maths, and so- to his credit- is Nazi Papa. In recent conversations, NP and I are getting healthily close to a united policy on our teenage menace: give the laddie a tap of the whip but also a bite of the carrot.

I wouldn't be so vain as to imagine this softening is due to anything I said. More likely is that NP's apprehended and respected Big Wan's action for what it was: a statement of autonomy. The beneficial effects of this may be far-reaching, because NP and I could maybe now form a temporary coalition of convenience, much like an Italian government. Already, the new Popular Parent Front is quietly machinating so Big Wan will want to do a Maths Higher next year...

Enhanced Disclosure VIII (reprise)

2008-08-29T02:41:00.004+01:00

Latest typo from McBT's Disclosure Scotland (maintaining a 100% mistake rate) is that my correspondent's misspelled her own email address. Worst is, McBT's not even doing it on purpose- they are really this incompetent. It puts a new complexion on the phrase 'criminal record'.

----------------------------------------

Dear [Disclosure Scotland],

Thank you for your email below, which apologised for your unit's previous typographic errors. Since Discover Scotland's purpose is to meticulously link identities to events within a legal framework, I would expect better standards of accuracy.

Sadly, my emailed responses of the 21st and 23rd of this month to the email address supplied at the foot of your email have been returned as undeliverable. Could it be that your signature's email address (see below) is also incorrect? It has no period between first and surnames, unlike the address I write to here.

Be this as it may, your email below states that I must now personally take my dispute to Sussex Police.

In response:
1. Please provide me with the full content of your correspondence with Sussex Police, undertaken on my behalf while investigating my Enhanced Disclosure dispute.

2. Please inform me of the powers, responsibilities and limits of Disclosure Scotland to investigate disputes by applicants.

3. Please inform me of the current status of my dispute in your system, with reference to Disclosure Scotland's targets, and whether my dispute is now classified as rectified or unrectified, ongoing or completed.

Regards,
[ion]

Botties

2008-08-28T23:50:00.013+01:00

HMRC and "your youngest child"

2008-08-28T19:12:00.005+01:00

This is getting beyond a joke- I'm becoming a full-time complainer. But I can't stand it when authority is stupid.

Yesterday I phoned HM Revenue & Customs to try to affirm for my Child Tax Credit status that I've had no change in circumstances, e.g. a massive pay rise or a win on the lottery. The gentleman who took my call put me through a long list of security questions, the last of which was my youngest child's date of birth. At this point, I was informed in stern tones (with a whiff of "you're a fraudster") that I had given incorrect information and that I should re-check my paperwork and call back later.

I checked my Child Tax Credit paperwork and realised that some years ago, on advice from HMRC, the kiddos' dad and I had split up the kiddos so we each claimed for one. I happen to claim for the Big Wan and he for the wee wan.

When I phoned back and went through the same 20 security questions, when asked my youngest child's DOB this time I checked which youngest child they meant? The youngest child I bore and care for, or the youngest child for whom I claim tax credits? Of course, they wanted the latter.

But that's not what they asked. And don't try to tell me that the HMRC database doesn't talk to the ID, council tax, registered births or school databases. Call me a pedant, but in a 21st century where shared custody is (thankfully) enshrined in law, HMRC should try to ask for what they actually mean and not what they assume to be usual practice (i.e. single mothers and absent fathers).

I spoke to a manager at HMRC tonight and tried to get this point across. I'm assured that my complaint has been noted, but that the Data Protection Act means they can't confirm that my incorrect security answer yesterday was my factual response to their incorrectly-worded question. Laughing uproariously at this, I countered with a question about the counterbalanced rights afforded to me by the Freedom of Information Act.

Is there something wrong with me? Am I mad cat-lady from Tunbridge Wells who lives only to complain to bureaucrats? Possibly. There are worse types of people, though I never intended to become one.

Honestly, I don't look for this hassle with the authorities. Seems to me they specially seek me out for a right proper fucking over, and I'm not likely to happily acquiesce.

Update

2008-08-28T15:53:00.003+01:00

Things are going fine. My correspondent at Disclosure Scotland has gone strangely quiet, but that's OK. If I don't hear back soon, I'll re-send the emails as registered snail mail in case these mysteriously never arrived in her in-box.

Frankly, were I her I'd pass my dispute like a hot potato to the next level (Sussex Police) so that I can instigate my dispute-proper with them. It's Sussex Police Force who are refusing to remove improperly disclosed information from the PNC, not BT's Disclosure Scotland.

Interestingly, two recent Disclosure policy documents I've found from 1996 and 2000 indicate that my 1984 drug possession charge should have been expunged/stepped down in 1994, not 2004!

-----------------------------------------

The Nazi Papa and I had an informal meeting on Monday, which proceeded just as anticipated with no negotiation on his side. It's his way or the highway. But unlike two years ago, I am much surer and more confident that I am not a poor parent, and thus there were no tears or shouting on my part at his intransigent stance. The worst things I said, after an hour of stonewalling, were that his dictats can only harm his relationship with the Big Wan and that if he refuses to budge I will haul his ass to Family Mediation. But these are facts- not threats or opinions.

I do feel bad that I've nicknamed him the Nazi Papa here. However, this is to protect his anonymity, and because the term 'kiddos' dad' becomes unwieldy when I'm referring to 'kiddos' dad's dad', 'kiddos' dad's sister' etc. It's difficult to properly explain here that I maintain regard for him despite our rather acrimonious break-up, and that I think his heart (if not his head) is in the right place parenting-wise.

Nazi Papa has always found a pre-emptive strike the best form of defense, so I wasn't surprised when he kicked off with asking me about my home rules for smoking tobacco by the Fraggles. Luckily, I had instituted a ban on smoking inside my flat by any Fraggle, whether legally of age or not, and each and every one has been personally informed that I will remove the organs of generation of any who gives my son cigarettes.

However, I also assured Nazi Papa from the top that I too would like to see the Big Wan do well academically this year for his Uni entrance exams, but not if it pushes him into social isolation or reactive rebellion.

I was unsurprised when Nazi Papa brought up his two elder brothers (both now GPs) as models of an ideal 5th Year experience. Both were entirely asocial at school so had no social or cultural life to impinge on study time. However, one (the eldest) has been a bona fide psychopath since childhood. The other became an excellent and well-loved GP (serving many of the young homeless and sexually abused of our area), but as far as anyone is aware has never had an intimate relationship in his ~50 years of life.

Apparently the Big Wan's Standard exam scores of 7 Credits from 8 exams was piss-poor, so now he must learn to do better through the stick with no carrot. The most telling statement from our parental meeting was Nazi Papa's belief that Big Wan must now submit to total control, in order to learn responsibility! This was my absolute favourite double-think. So... we lock him down for an entire year to get good exam results, and expect that from this he will thus achieve an internal motivation engine. Right....

Nazi Papa had some curious definitions of nighttime social activities. For instance, he swore blind that he'd allowed Big Wan out every night during his custodial weekend (last weekend). On examination, these three nights-out transpired to be curfewed at 6.30 pm on Friday and 5 pm on Saturday. Big Wan was allowed out to meet friends on Sunday night (after being kept in all day) for 1.5 hrs from 6.30 pm to 8 pm. That's 'out' three nights of the weekend?

Nazi Papa maintains opposition to the after-school club job on Friday afternoons, because a) Big Wan would be better attending the Youth Filmhouse Group in that time slot and b) because my grandmother's inheritence (held by me in trust for him) means he won't have to work at Uni.

Wrong, wrong, wrong. a) Big Wan already threw in the Filmhouse group because 'it was all Fettes' pupils' (Tony Blair types) and b) no way is Big Wan getting his hands on his very small inheritance until he can demonstrate a responsible aptitude with money.

Currently, the cards on the table are that:
a) Nazi Papa has no right to dictate how I raise kiddos in my 50% parenting time.
b) That if Nazi Papa continues to exercise inappropriate control in his time, my natural reaction will be to relax control in my time.
c) We will meet again in 2 weeks to see if Big Wan is meeting Nazi Papa's criteria, for a review of Big Wan's freedoms from Nazi Papa.
d) If Nazi Papa continues with the stick and no carrot, I will haul his ass to Family Mediation with the Big Wan, to explain in front of a counsellor his reasons to imprison a bright, normal young adult.

Enhanced Disclosure VII

2008-08-23T21:27:00.002+01:00

Date: Sat, 23 Aug 2008 21:26:57 +0100 (BST)
From: [ion]
Subject: Enhanced Disclosure dispute
To: [Disclosure Scotland]

Dear [Disclosure Scotland],

I have an additional query to those in my email below. I thought I raise it now so that it can be answered with my two existing unanswered queries.

Please can you inform me of the current status of my dispute in your system? Specifically, has my dispute been classified as rectified or unrectified, ongoing or completed?

I gather you normally seek to 'rectify disputes within 21 days' (http://www.disclosurescotland.co.uk/Disputes1.htm), so am curious as to how my dispute (instituted 02/08/08) is currently classified with reference to Disclosure Scotland's targets.

Regards,
[ion]

Enhanced Disclosure VI

2008-08-21T22:11:00.002+01:00

Dear [Disclosure Scotland],

Thank you for your email below.

I accept your apology for your unit's typographic errors. Since Discover Scotland's purpose is to accurately link identities and events within a legal framework, I would expect high standards in this faculty. Thus, quoting incorrect conviction dates fell short of acceptable standards and obfuscated my dispute.

You state that I must now personally take my dispute to Sussex Police.

In response:
1. Please provide me with the full content of your correspondence with Sussex Police, undertaken on my behalf while investigating my Enhanced Disclosure dispute.

2. Please inform me of the powers, responsibilities and limits of Disclosure Scotland to investigate disputes by applicants.

Regards,
[ion]

From: [Disclosure Scotland]
Sent: 15 August 2008 09:42
To: [ion]
Subject: Dispute

Dear [ion]

I refer to your email dated 14th August 2008 regarding the conviction dated 09/08/84. I must apologise for the typing error in my letter which read 09/08/04. Sussex Police informed Disclosure Scotland that they are not prepared to remove the conviction, since you have another conviction dated 22/03/2006 still “ live “ on the Criminal History System. Should you wish to further contest this information then please contact Sussex Police directly.

Please do not hesitate to contact me should you require any further information.

Yours sincerely,
[Disclosure Scotland]

Nazi Papa

2008-08-20T23:26:00.009+01:00

Kiddos' dad and I generally do a reasonable job of our legally-enshrined 50% co-parenting- the kiddos' fineness being the evidence. The arrangement, functioning well for 8 years, is a swap-around of kiddos' homebase every 2-3 days.

But the Nazi Papa is again exceeding his authority and re-kindling his issues.

Wee wan should've started High School today, but the strike by public service school janitors (hooray!) meant her commencement is delayed till tomorrow. I'd assumed that wee wan would spend the day at my house 'home alone' (it being my parental shift) until I arrived home from work at 5.30 pm. But there was no wee wan here, and no message on my answerphone or mobile reassuring me that she was in safe hands. So tonight I phone the dad to ask where the 12 yr old kiddo might be?

She's with him, thankfully. It turns out Nazi Papa has decided unilaterally, retrospectively, without communicating his decisions and without regard to law that a 12 yr old wee wan, with more common sense in her little finger than most 40 yr olds, would be neglected and endangered if 'home alone' in the daytime. That she's been home alone for 2 hours after school for a year, and several 8 hour stints over these summer holidays, seems immaterial.

Then Nazi Papa laid down his other New Regime for the Big Wan. It was the first day of his 5th Year, but I'd granted permission for him to go to tea at one of his Fraggle Rock friendies' houses tonight, so long as he was back by 9 pm.

Nazi Papa and I have murmured agreement that Big Wan should be encouraged to do the best he can academically this year. However, I was neither consulted nor informed of Nazi Papa's new self-declared dictat (unilateral, retrospective, uncirculated and enacted without negotiation) that Big Wan is grounded on weekdays for the next 10 months, till his Higher exams are finished. Without telling me, Nazi Papa ruled in my absence that tonight the Big Wan had a curfew to be home with me by 8 pm and not 9 pm.

Nazi Papa labours under the impression that Big Wan's Standard exam results of 7 'credit' grades (1s and 2s) and 1 'foundation' (5) grade were shit. Anything less that 8 '1' grades were pure failure by Big Wan, and now require a lock-down curfew until Big Wan's Higher exams next June.

I remember being 16 (not pleasantly) and a lock down then for 10 months would quite likely have elicited a (defensible) response of 'fuck you', an abandonment of education and family, an application for a council flat in Wester Hailes and a new career as a dolie on green medicine.

I feel a Family Mediation coming on. In Nazi Papa's and my 5th year I can recall no academic study outside school by either of us, but an enthusiastic and time-consuming extra-curricular interest in shagging each other senseless. Despite this, we both got to Uni, graduated, one of us got a PhD and one of us a well-paying management job permitting a good standard of living, selective amnesia and implicit authority.

Enhanced Disclosure V

2008-08-17T23:26:00.004+01:00

A recent appeal before the Information Tribunal found that three Police Forces had contravened the Data Protection Act by actively disclosing to the PNC and third bodies ancient history offences.

Extract from conclusions of Information Tribunal, 20th July 2008

"Conclusion and remedy

205. The Tribunal accepts that it is a police purpose to disclose conviction data held on the PNC to bodies such as the CRB and ISA who require such information in order to undertake their statutory duties. However the Tribunal finds that this does not mean that Chief Constables are required to retain conviction data on the PNC, in effect, indefinitely even if no longer required for their core purposes. Chief Constables are required to process personal data including conviction data in accordance with their statutory obligations under the DPA and HRA. If such compliance requires the erasure of conviction data, as seems to be accepted by the Appellants that it does for soft criminal intelligence or data, then that information will no longer be held on the PNC. This does not mean that the police are in breach of other statutory obligations because these other obligations, as explained above, in our view go no further than require the police to disclose information held on the PNC.

This position has existed for many years with the weeding of conviction data in England and Wales up until 2006 and seems to exist quite happily in Scotland up to this very day. If the government requires a different regime to operate then it will need to legislate accordingly with all the necessary safeguards that would be considered appropriate.

206. We find that the responsibility for complying with the DPPs is that of the data controllers in these appeals namely the Chief Constables of the police forces involved, not ACPO. Any advice or guidance from ACPO cannot replace this responsibility under the DPA. The Chief Constables responsibility is to consider each case for the stepping out of conviction data on its own individual merits taking into account all the circumstances including any advice from ACPO in accordance with the DPA. This clearly happened in the case of GMP2.

207. Having considered all the evidence and arguments of the parties in these appeals and that the burden of proof lies on the Commissioner we uphold the Enforcement Notices in these particular cases and dismiss the appeals. We require the Appellants to erase the conviction data in question from the PNC within 35 days of the date of this decision.

208. In view of this finding we do not find it necessary to make a decision on the issue raised by Home Office in paragraph 86.1 above, namely whether disclosure of the conviction data at issue in these appeals under Part V of the Police Act 1997 and in the future under SVGA 2006 is lawful and does not infringe the Data Protection Principles and Article 8 ECHR. This is because as we are upholding the Enforcement Notices which require the erasure of the conviction data at issue in these appeals, the question of the disclosure of this personal data in the future under these provisions no longer arises.

209. The Tribunal would observe that the 2006 Guidelines do not appear to be a suitable approach to the retention of conviction data in order to comply with the DPA. ACPO seems to have ignored the guidance provided in the 2005 Tribunal decision at paragraph 225 of the judgment in relation to stepping out of conviction data. We appreciate that policing requirements have changed since that decision but the 2006 Guidelines do not appear to us to even attempt to provide a proper consideration of DPPs 3 and 5 in contrast to other police codes referred to in this decision.

210. Our decision is unanimous."

Enhanced Disclosure IV

2008-08-15T23:28:00.014+01:00

Disclosure Scotland emailed on Friday that the wrong conviction dates in their response to my dispute was a result of their typo, and not SPFDU's.

I'd assumed that Disclosure Scotland was a public service organisation operating under civil service type management. Wrong. In its latest Annual Review I learned that Disclosure Scotland is an out-sourced service run for profit by British Telecom (BT).

The same organisation which handles my broadband tech problems with script-reading call-centre workers in Bangalore also manages Disclosure Scotland.

According to the Organisational Chart included in the 2007-2008 Annual Review, my dispute is being managed by a staff of 6, operating to a target of 21 days turnaround time on disputes.

However, BT's Disclosure Scotland is delighted to announce that it hit 2 million disclosures processed in April 2007, and its dispute rate fell from an initial level of 0.07% in 2005 to just 0.04% of their 783,0000 disclosure applications in 2008. Therefore I hope I don't screw up their excellent figures too much with my dispute.

Enhanced Disclosure III

2008-08-14T22:24:00.004+01:00

I may be starting to enjoy this correspondence too much, but everyone needs a hobby!

----------------------------------------------------
14th Aug 2008

Dear [Disclosure Scotland],

Thank you for your letter of 12th August informing me of the result of your enquiries with Sussex Police Force Disclosure Unit (SPFDU).

In this you inform me that SPFDU have determined that "since [my] last conviction showing on the record is 22/03/06- the conviction dated 09/08/04 will remain until 22/03/18 as a minimum period under current guidelines" and that "Therefore they are not prepared to change the information previously disclosed".

In response, I would I would ask both you and SPFDU to re-examine your records.

It was clearly stated in my email below that the conviction disclosure I am disputing dates from 09/08/1984. I have no conviction from 09/08/2004 as stated, and can be reasonably confident given my unusual, if not unique name, that inaccurate conviction details supplied by SPFDU are not due to identity confusion.

Therefore I would ask you to re-present my dispute, whose substance was stated in my email below, to SPFDU.

To reiterate: I have no dispute that my conviction of 22/03/06 will be disclosed until 2018 under current guidelines. It is my 09/08/1984 conviction whose disclosure I dispute.

I hope you will forgive my comment that this exchange has not so far bolstered my confidence in the accuracy of information held by Sussex Police Force, PNC or Disclosure Scotland, or the reliable implementation of ACPO guidelines for Disclosure Scotland purposes. However, it is reassuring that my middle name is now being spelled correctly.

Kind regards,
[ion]

Big Wan exams

2008-08-08T00:26:00.003+01:00

The boy done good in my book. His Standard grade results were four '1's, three '2's and a '5'. My understanding (admittedly from a biased source- Big Wan himself) is that 1s and 2s are equivalent to the As of the old days, and a 5 to a C.

His dad is ever-keen on the stick, querying why Big Wan failed to get eight 1s, and phoning me to discuss a unified 'knuckling down' austerity program for the next school year. His dad and I got 8 As in O grades at his age (without a scrap of work from either of us), but for me the Big Wan receiving a single C (in history) is hardly failure.

Big Wan is not short on smarts but constitutionally inclined to 'cruise'. Thus encouraging study skills and application during this coming year is indeed a good idea, to enable him to obtain optimal Higher results. However, Big Wan will be just 16 years old when he sits his Higher exams next summer, and in my opinion too young to start higher education thereafter, even should he acheive 5 As. Give the kiddo a break, fer chrissakes. Let him develop personally as well as academically before he starts on the treadmill for the next 50 years.

Yesterday, I broke ranks by disclosing to Big Wan that his dad failed his own Maths Higher exam. It might have been a bit bad of me, but I wanted to communicate that getting a single suboptimal exam result is not a catastrophe, and that one needs to play the long game. In the back of my mind is that it's the ultra high-achievers who throw themselves off Appleton Tower when they fail to get a first, or when dumped by their girlfriend. We all need to get a perspective and a life.

So ends the lesson.

Enhanced disclosure II

2008-08-06T20:29:00.005+01:00

Soon after instituting my 'dispute' over disclosure of my deep, hideous and dark criminal past, I received an acknowledgement letter from Disclosure Scotland.

#1 mistake in the letter was its statement that my dispute concerned 'the accuracy of the information contained in [my] disclosure', when this is a bald misrepresentation. My dispute letter made it clear I was disputing rather the incorrect disclosure of entirely accurate information, and misapplication of the 'relevance test'.

#2 mistake- a damning one- was that the letter is addressed to a stranger with my address, fore- and surnames, but a different middle name. If I'm receiving this doppelnamer's highly privileged, confidential information, some other stranger is very likely receiving the same or worse on me and my criminal past!

Seriously, one would've thought that a system sufficiently comprehensive to dredge up fossil criminal offences might also carry the ability to do a basic fucking mail-merge.

Enhanced Disclosure

2008-08-03T16:54:00.006+01:00

A new workplace policy last year required Enhanced Disclosures of criminal records for all staff, in keeping with recent Scottish legislation on protecting Vulnerable Slugs.

I pre-warned my line manager immediately of the unfortunate incident in Nov 2005- a regrettable drink-driving offence- and also a prehistoric 1984 conviction in Brighton for possession of drugs as a 20 yr old student, from the good old days of stop-and-search. This latter should have been expunged (even for enhanced disclosures) in 2004, since I'd not re-offended.

The Enhanced Disclosure certificates came back from Disclosure Scotland a few weeks back. The bosses had considered and counted as irrelevant the information before I'd even gotten around to opening my copy of the certificate. The recent regrettable drink-driving was there, but also the ancient history drug possession. Not only am I intrigued, but also activated by the legal grey areas of my 1984 conviction and its disclosure.

Some background:

The Scottish legal justice system operates on the 20/40 year rule- that excepting life custodial sentences and sex offences, convictions are 'weeded' from the police computers when the convict reaches 40 yrs of age and the offense is 20 years old without recidivism. 'Weeding' means that the offence is not just spent in term of the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act 1974, but also for perpetuity.

The English/Welsh/N Ireland system previously operated a similar expungement system whereby offences would be written off after 20 years or less, providing no repeat offences were convicted. Serious offences stay on record for 20 years, less serious ones or those committed by young persons are expunged sooner.

But then (as I understand things) the Ian Huntley case caused a major panic. The enquiry into how this child-abuser, who'd been cautioned for child sex offenses, got a clean criminal record check to work as a school janitor precipitated a new system whereby all spent offences, cautions and indeed even 'police intelligence' would be kept on the Police National Computer (PNC) in perpetuity and disclosed as thought appropriate by Chief Police Officers to potential employers.

I learned from the March 2008 Retention of Records Guideline from ACPO, that 'stepped down' (i.e. spent and expunged records) can only be disclosed, even on an enhanced disclosure, at the express permission of a Chief Officer, following his/her application of a mysterious 'relevance test'.

This means the Chief Constable of Sussex Police has personally decided that possessing recreational drugs as a 20 year old student in 1984 is so serious and relevant a crime that it should be actively disclosed to employers, even though it has 'stepped down' according to guidelines.

So- where are we?

1. If I'd been caught with my wee personal stash in Scotland in 1984, the conviction would be gone bye-bye, but because I was nabbed in England it's not.

2. Because possession of drugs has been downgraded but not decriminalised, the PNC can keep it in file in perpetuity, despite that if I was caught with the same in 2008, I'd get a hand-slap at most.

3. A criminal record which should have been deleted from the PNC in 2004, according to then-current legislation, has re-appeared, phoenix-like.

4. A 'relevance test' personally conducted by the Chief Constable of Sussex Police has determined that an isolated drug possession by a 20 year old student still remains relevant 24 years later to her suitability to work as slug physiologist.

-----------------------------------------------

This situation is luckily not a personal problem, but it does highlight the idiocy and inconsistency of state apparatus. Out of interest, I'm instituting a 'dispute' on my 1984 offence disclosure.

There's a lot more info out there on how the PNC is now allowed to hold discloseable details of your convictions, cautions, unsuccessful prosecutions, 'intelligence' and even simple allegations, all until you die or reach 100 years.

And if you want a laugh, inspect ACPO's 'severity' rating for criminal offences, determining the time till they 'step down'.

'Possessing controlled drug' (any and all) is a category A offence requiring at least 20 years before being 'stepped down', along with genocide, manufacturing chemical weapons and terrorism offences.

In Category B (less serious) are 'Causing death by reckless driving through drink or drugs', GBH, racially-aggravated assault, people-trafficking, indecent assault on a minor, child-stealing, child cruelty and gross indecency.

In Category C (least serious) are assault, battery, child neglect, selling weapons to children or the insane, cruelty to animals, industrial pollution and detaining a woman in a brothel.

The weekend!

2008-08-02T22:07:00.003+01:00

What joy to receive back my kiddiwinks yesterday! Hard to believe how much I missed them while they were away in the back of beyond (Altandhu, near Achiltibuie) with their dad. He had the precognition to book the week with glorious weather, in contrast to my wet week in Yorkshire.

The Big Wan is back to his normal good humour, aided perhaps by the addition of pints of cider from the Furan Bar in Altandhu, bought for him by students working at the Smokehouse. Maybe I should try this technique next time he kicks off. In the meantime, it is so good to have my Big Wan restored to me! The exam results are to be issued on Tuesday, and I suspect I'm more nervous than he. The black dye is leaching out of his hair, revealing again the ash-blonde locks I love so well.

And the wee wan is just as sweet and juicy as ever, and brought us back two more haggis toys, Hagforth and Hagnes, to join the original Haggie. She moves up to High School this month, so it's all change. How can they have gotten so big and grown up? How will I cope when they leave home?

Lots of jobbiness in the last week...zzzz. Yes, I'm to assume my colleague's managerial roles when her maternity leave starts next month. Yes, I'm to train and supervise two new inexperienced part-time staff. No, there will be no acting-up pay. Will I fail? Yes! Stick, stick, stick, and no carrot.

But the mood's up, the weather's intermittently good, the dear mum's back from her hols and the Hari Krishnas gong-bashing along Princes St. were a lovely sight!

A fit of pique

2008-07-26T14:33:00.002+01:00

You know you've been too long in a jobbie when you get a fit of the pique. Remember I'm the one on a verbal warning for 'unreliability'? But when one of the (casual) nightstaff fail to show up, I'm the only staff member willing to cover and experience the unexpected pleasure of working 20 hrs of a 24 hr period.

But to the preggers slug manager, this state of affairs is my own fault, and further confirmation of my gross stupidity. It should be transparently obvious to anyone off the street that her emailed rotas are coded. Bold text indicates confirmed slugs and staff, normal text unconfirmed. Never mind that she didn't task me to confirm before her 3 days off- what is wrong with my psychic powers?

She does a great job of managing, having recently mastered the art of the passive-aggressive email, the imaginary SOP, the unspoken request and the stick without the carrot. It must be obvious to her and others that I'm constitutionally incapable of the cognitive value-set required for management. When casual staff fail to show or produce rubbishy studies, it's clear to me that as you sow, so shall you reap and that quality of output is directly proportional to quality of investment. GIGO.

Maintaining personal regard for her is not a problem- I genuinely like the woman. But it's coming time to end unconditional patience and tolerance, the bitten lip. We need to discuss respect issues, the stick and the carrot, reasonable and unreasonable expectations, telepathy requirements and managing her imminent transition to maternity leave.

Yesterday, I gave a small object lesson. She notices she's not written up an important contact with a certain slug. I quip, "Yes, I noticed too, but found the relevant information in other records. It was no big deal, and I didn't even send you a snippy email." Taken aback from perfection, she's maintaining it must've occurred just before her leave, but I know this isn't the case. I keep my silence while she discovers there are no extenuating circumstances, and it's just one of those normal human errors to which even she's subject.

At 5.30 pm, she's still working furiously when I stick my head round her door to wish her a good weekend.

Elevated mood!

2008-07-25T21:56:00.005+01:00

A couple of hours of R.'s company (and two glasses of wine) turned the day from the downward spiral to a potentially long-term sustainable state of limbic uplift. The two glasses of wine are habitual, but tonight's conversation was a unique and potentially patentable euphoriant. And it was all about me! Perspective, psychodynamics, affirmation! How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Misc

2008-07-21T21:49:00.016+01:00

No postal episodes at work! Practically rehabilitated/ re-institutionalised today, despite the extreme provocation of the hair comment on Friday.

So what is going on with the Big Wan? You know- the clever, empathic, articulate, imaginative one? Symptoms- emotional lability, agoraphobia, irritablity, torpor. History: Imprisoned for a week in Guantanamo-like conditions of social and sensory deprivation in rural Yorks. Diagnosis: Nearly 16 yrs, PTSD.

Back home but on summer hols there's an increased flow of the unisex friends, all expressing their individuality with their uniformly straightened dark-dyed hair. I don't know what to do with these kiddos with their recklessness, their failure to use condoms, their cigarette smoking, the pregnancy scares. My efforts so far are to develop a small repertoire of semi-comic lectures inc. "Think for yourself", "Cigarettes are stupid", and that perennial favourite, "No glove, no love".

Should hair-dye later prove to be toxic, Big Wan and his generation will be wiped out wholesale.

Back to work

2008-07-17T20:50:00.002+01:00

It happens tomorrow, and I'm girding my loins. The policy is: never go back to work on a Monday after hols, as 5 full days of wage slavery at once could just tip one over into postal mode. This possibility was slightly increased by today's PFO (please fuck off) letter from a recent jobbie application for which I should've been well suitable.

Ach, it's no so bad. Samye Ling on Tuesday offered good weather, a beautiful environment, fantastic lunch, a wee wan to enjoy and genuinely interesting otherness from Hotboy, the tummo afficianado. Wednesday I chose to read all day and indulge myself by failing to get dressed, which is always satisfying. Today I enjoyed good company with the wee wan, visiting the Chambers St museum and the Botanics.

It was disappointing to learn from the cleaning staff that the old part of the museum is off-limits till 2011/2012, and the fishies are gone for good. I'd been planning to spend a couple of hours by the ponds listening to the fountains, watching the koi undulate, while doing some manuscript editing, and wait for the millenium clock performance at 2 pm. Instead we took in the RMS's magnificent collection of Pictish stone carvings, with particular attention to the pre-Christian ones (my favourites). The RMS sadly makes little effort to attempt explanation of the mysterious themes of earlier Pictish imagery ('combs', 'mirrors', 'Zs', 'dolphins'). When the sun broke through the clouds temporarily, off to the Botans to see the annual border at its peak, and watch the birdies doing their birdie thing. The simple pleasures are the very best!

H-etc. dropped round, allowing me to pass along some truly fresh-laid eggs from the flock across the road from our Yorks. cottage. And to thank her for clearing my laundry backlog while I was away, and the bouquet of wild canterbury bells and feverfew she left for our return. She wouldn't take the money offered for feeding Her Catness. Her full name is not H-who-is-very-good-to-me for nothing.

Yorkshire

2008-07-14T13:08:00.002+01:00

Yorkshire was wet- stair-rod downpour about 70% of time- but a nice break. We were in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of the North Yorkshire moors, offering an outdoor hot-tub and on-site goats Basil and Spangle. The wee wan spent a lot of time walking the goats (on leads) and feeding them chip-sized carrot pieces. Hopefully I shall add some photies later.

Although AA website cited about 3 hrs' drive to York, the actualite was 7 hrs there and 6 back, including a short lunch break. The Big Wan had not been formally trained in navigation duties before we set out, so there were long circular lost-excursions at Darlington on the way down and at Eyemouth on the way back. Big Wan had undergone formal navigation training for the return drive, but unfortunately Lothians page of the AA book-of-the-road is torn out.

A highlight of the trip was a picnic at the beck in Pickering. A nutty old lady was battering ducks with her walking stick as she strolled the banks, and engaged in conversation the older couple sitting on the bench nearest. She started with a diatribe on the ducks and their feckless breeding habits and headed rapidly onto her favourite subjects- the dangers of modern living, the uselessness of modern parenting and the criminality of the youth of today. All the time, she's casting meaningful sidelong glances at Big Wan, slumped on a bench in his menacing black clothing. According to her, Pickering (pop 8,500, 6 churches) is a hot-spot for crime, particularly pickpockets. She enjoined the couple to watch their bags and told tales of armed robberies at the charity shops of the town. She then escalated to recount the tale of the time that "the vandals broke into my house and hit me over the head with an empty pizza box!". By this time the couple were tiring of her 20 minute monologue, and stood up to move on. They walked off with her waving her walking-stick, shouting, "Remember! Don't ever go out after dark!".

It was a relief to visit Scarborough and Whitby, where we saw the only brown faces of our whole trip (inc. York). I had a haircut in Pickering from a lass who encouraged me to boast that I'd had a shag at the hairdressers. And we bought Lucky Ducks from the glassworks in Whitby, mine to replace the one from c. 1973.

Holidays!

2008-07-04T18:13:00.003+01:00

They're here, and not a moment too soon. Jobby jobbiness reached a peak yesterday, so the timing is good.

The meeting yesterday (re-visiting Prague) flipped into a ?verbal warning on my 'unreliability'. The only example supplied was from Prague last week, when I missed the first 1.5 hrs on the third morning, after the dispute with the boss. That my roles and deadlines can have me working at home on weekends or all night till 4 or 6 am wasn't accounted for. No- not being there 9-5, 5 days is unreliable. I'm now to be under the microscope on timekeeping and performance. The timesheets are fine with me- keeping these can only strengthen my position- but performance is a different matter.

I'm to cover my colleague's maternity leave for a year from Sept. There will be no acting-up pay. The preggers colleague has had me as a fulltime colleague for 15 months and together we managed an intensive slug trial for 3 months last autumn.

But in contrast I'm to have one (maybe two) part-time, casual, untrained, inexperienced newbies as my back-up. I'll be responsible for their training and performance on the 9-month slug trial, and personally on-call 24/7 from Sept. to manage, co-ordinate, cover absence and complete the trial.

The boss, who is all heart, said he didn't want to show me the stick without offering the carrot. The carrot is a performance-related bonus of... (wait for it)... £1K in a year's time, should the 9-month slug trial go well. That's £25/wk (before tax) for 9 months of 24/7 on-call.

--------------------------------------

I'd put in a request to work a 12-hr nightshift during my hols (£170 before tax) to produce the high-quality recording needed for external quality-verification in the slug trial. I need the money, they need a perfect recording.

The colleague emails today saying she prefers one of our casual staff runs the accreditation recording. She offers the consolation prize of attending for the same 12-hr overnighter, but acting instead as the slug subject. I can earn £50 (before tax) for the same 12-hr shift, and can I also train staff in the new slug study procedures that night, since I'm there anyway?

While thanking her for this exciting career opportunity over my holidays, I graciously declined the offer.

---------------------------------------

Fuck this for a game of soldiers. The jobbie I'm applying for today is a 4-day, 9-5 post for more pay. If there's a god, I'll be in a new jobbie soon, hopefully just when the colleague starts maternity leave. I'm a sinner, because the pure joy of observing fall-out as they struggle to meet contracted slug study commitments with one or two underpaid, untrained, casual, part-time staff members is so very, very attractive.

Holidays!

2008-06-30T15:43:00.003+01:00

I'm preparing 3 hrs of teaching tomorrow, delivering this in Bristol on Weds, back for last meetings at the Slug Factory on Thursday, before two glorious weeks of holiday! Kiddos, Big Wan's friend Chimily, I and my friend will spend the first week at a farm cottage in North Yorks. An open fire, an outdoor hot-tub and three goats on site!

Goats are perhaps my favourite domesticate (excepting dogs) so am looking forward enormously to making their acquaintance. I picked the location to re-visit some sites from a holiday as a pre-teen with mum and dear departed dad, walking the Cleveland Way. With my wee car (should it pass its MOT) we're in range of beaches, cliffs, moors, hills and dales. The kiddos will hopefully find self-organised amusement on the farm while I, the Queen of Sheba, eat, drink, smoke, read and sleep to excess. Hooray! Second week will be at home, but we'll do day trips inc. hopefully a visit to Samye Ling. It doesn't get better than this! This is the life!

Bollox Redux

2008-06-28T23:41:00.003+01:00

The Bollocks is back! Discharged from the hospital yesterday after 5 days, equipped with and educated to use his new naso-gastric tube, a genuinely portable liquid food pump and 2 weeks worth of food bags.

When I visited last night he was only an hour out of hospital, and you would think he'd been reprieved from the electric chair. Quite manic, energetic and rewardingly euphoric compared to the desperately thirsty, hungry and weak man of last weekend. They finally got the tube past his tumour and into his stomach during his general anaesthetic for laparoscopy on Monday, so he's had food and fluid since then.

What a difference a few days make, and thank God for the NHS! Last night, Il Bollocks slagged the book I brought as a gift (of a genre he likes) as too thick, established to his satisfaction that he knows more about everything than anyone else, and liberally criticised his saintly hostess H.etc. while she looked after him. He's back on form, and it makes me very happy!

Embra!

2008-06-28T21:57:00.002+01:00

Prague trip for three days was quite nice, considering it was on a jobbie. US-style timetabling (8am-5.30pm) is becoming increasingly pervasive, and when you get to be a big cheese you're rewarded with pre-meeting meetings from 6.30 am. I can't wait to be promoted!

As usual you don't have time to see the city, but a native friend's shown me around before. Prague boasts geographical interest (the meander of the Vlatava, the hills), exciting history (both ancient and modern) and a well-preserved mediaeval centre. Crossroads of Europe. In the taxi to and from the airport, even the suburban estate highrises have the architectural quirks and human utility (e.g. balconies) of Bauhaus.

Of social interactions, the notables were a political fight with a colleague-peer and a professional one with my boss.

The colleague is a medical doctor in his 30's; westernised Syrian, recently separated, exploited in a technical job far below his qualifications and drunk. Not drunk all the time- just when we had our row. In the afternoon he'd confessed he was homophobic, for which I ripped the piss out of him, pointing out that gay men lessened his competition to snag girls. We talked some about middle eastern culture, philosophy and politics, which was interesting and educative for me. But in the evening he got steamboats and tried to tell me some Africans are cannibals and not really human, which made me talk over him and raise my voice. Very later (him steamboats +++) he started on about 'the Jews' and, despite my warning shots, proved incapable of discriminating Jewish individuals from the State of Israel. He left to hunt girls after an earful from me.

The fight with the boss is currently redacted, but no steamboats- just some honest interchange. It started with mutual discomforts about some dodgy practice at the Slug Factories, progressed to pay discussions and ended with me asking, "What does that mean? Are you trying to threaten me?", and terminating the discussion. He was still trying inanely to switch tack from menacing to supplicative mode as I walked off.

It was lovely to get home to Embra airport, comfortingly raining stair-rods even though it's late June. Boss rapidly sent damage-limitation email and wants an off-site meeting next week to discuss 'shared goals'. That's fine. I'll attend, but Slug Factories talk is ten-a-penny but written commitments scanty.

Regardless, I'm the Daddy now.

Reekie-dog

2008-06-21T20:53:00.004+01:00

It's been such a pleasure to spend time with him the last few days. The first shot is in H.-etc's garden (unfortunately blurring her fine cabbages and lettuce behind our boy) and the latter two my Reekie-laddie down the Braidburn. What a fine figure of a dug!

Black spots IIII

2008-06-20T20:55:00.002+01:00

Tired and somewhat emotional, so may delete what I write later, but it's been a hell of a day. Peter Ballocks and I saw a quite lovely GI surgeon this morning, who gently asked what PB understood of his diagnosis and laid out a contingent care plan.

The tumour is huge and may have infiltrated his stomach. They need to do a laparoscopy on Monday to better assess this, the results of which will determine whether he's still a candidate for chemo and/or surgery. And before this, they need to admit him- now- in order to get some fluids and nutrition into him.

Hearing this was an enormous relief, that finally the patient and not just the tumour is the focus. And Peter Bollocks consented and said 'whatever you think is best, doc'. I picked up a lot of other info between the lines, but am too tired to explain these. They're all bad prognostic indicators. Peter shouted at me at least twice during the consultation when I added more real history or asked practical questions. "Shut the fuck up! You're not my wife!", but it didn't stop me getting across some important information, like his absence of support in the Borders. Luckily, any treatment will now occur in Edinburgh. As we left the consultation the surgeon whispered in my ear that I had the patience of a saint. I wish it were true!

The surgeon wanted to admit PB there and then, but we talked him into letting us away for a half hour, ostensibly to pick up toiletries but really so Peter could have a last joint and see his Reekie-dog. He'd wanted to get pissed that afternoon, but in truth the alcohol wouldn't have gotten past the obstruction. While we packed, he swore furiously and continuously, and I made light of the situation.

When I dropped Peter back at the hossie for admission, I teased him that he must be nice to the nurses, and he teased me back that because nurses are nice, unlike me, he'll be nice. Then he gave me a kiss and told Reekie he hoped he's see him again. I think I held off crying until I pulled away to take Reekie for a long walk, as Peter had asked. After the walk I spent 3 hrs with H-etc. In the 4 years I've known her, I think it was the first time I've seen her cry. I am the worst cry-baby ever but I stayed dry-eyed for H.etc until I left.

It was the poor bloke in the offie who got it, by asking innocently how I was doing. I was trying for yer usual "Fine" but some other TMI stuff came out. "So he's on amicable terms with his ex?" he asks. I think he later regretted that question.

I'm sometimes good at practical stuff, and made some family calls for H-etc. I'll take the dug up to see his master tomorrow, which I hope will cheer them both up.

What else can you do?

More black spot II

2008-06-19T19:13:00.003+01:00

How wonderful that the weekend started tonight! Jobby business books me to be at the airport at 4.30 am on Sunday, so I get tomorrow off in lieu. Hooray! At least till 3am Sunday morning.

Thus I am free to accompany Peter Ballocks to his Edinburgh hospital appt tomorrow. Things are not good. The docs are fixated on his tumour (a huge oesophageal adenocarcinoma) while spectacularly neglecting the person surrounding it. He can't even keep down his milkshake-type meal replacements now, and in the last few days even clear lemonade comes back up. If this goes on, he will die of thirst and hunger before they even get to play with the chemo and surgery to the tumour, as is their plan.

In fairness to the docs, I know PB is not his own best advocate- not least because he comes across as a jakie, minimises symptoms and fails to listen. Thus I am grateful that he's allowing me to attend his appt with him tomorrow. I talked him into it by offering a lift there and back, and squeezed in the request to accompany him for the consultation before he knew what he'd agreed to.

Peter is not a good historian and needs a less-obtunded advocate to point out the basics to his medical team. Palliative care was mentioned by one doc 2 weeks ago, but he wasn't and isn't able to process the import of the information. Don't know for sure if he's failed to take in prognosis through cognitive dissonance or whether he's just too cognitively fucked to understand. Doesn't really matter. He's paid his stamp and is entitled to all the NHS can offer. Depending, this might include an oesophageal stent so he can eat and drink, some parenteral nutrition/hydration or perhaps as little as hefty doses of morphine and fentanyl to satiate his hunger and thirst.

H-etc. (his ex-wife) is the angel in this picture. Now that she knows he's gravely ill, she wants to nurse him here in Edinburgh. Knowing how hungry he is, she can't eat in front of him now, and will be losing weight she can't spare before we know it.

Mr Ballocks has no transport (he's too weak to handle his big motorbike now) and has zero social support in his Borders village, where the hospital is 30 miles distant. His cousin lives 2 mins walk over the road but has declined to visit or collect liquid meal prescriptions from Kelso because of his own overwhelming personal problems (which do not include illness or threat of death). Cousin took £30 off Peter to run him to the Borders hospital for his last endoscopy, without a trace of shame. Tomorrow, part of my advocacy will be to make Peter's social circumstances clear and ask for his care to be transferred up here, as is H.-etc's wish.

What can you do?

More black spots

2008-06-15T22:49:00.002+01:00

They just keep coming. Now my best friend's sister has an early but aggressive breast cancer at age 37, with twin 8 yr old boys to raise. That's pure wrong.

There is no god, I tell her and H-etc and Peter Ballocks. No white-bearded masculine patriarch we were taught from Christian churches. Neither the punishing god of the early Old Testament nor the benevolent, kindness-rewarding briber of the New. In everyday life, the black spot is too randomly scattered to be a product of judgement. But the absence of god doesn't preclude a hereafter.

So you think about mitzvot and do the best you can for comfort and practical help. Seek and frame breast cancer survival statistics in light of the medical advances of the last 10 years. Undertake to accompany H-etc. when she collects Peter Ballocks from the Borders for more diagnostic tests in Edinburgh.

And mitzvot you receive back. Peter Ballock's friend (bowel and liver cancer) talks about his recent stay at Samye Ling. Walking Reekie-dog by the banks of the Bowmont you can't miss the buzz of natural life. I sat by the banks listening to the church quarterly chimes, hearing the water babble, watching the bumblebees work, picking some marguerites to take home.

#2 Disgrace

2008-06-13T20:45:00.002+01:00

... was rather minor compared to #1. I met up with my old schoolfriend D., mother of my 'miracle-baby' godson (now approaching his second birthday). D. has been very good to me over many years. She moved up with me for the first 3 months of my divorce in 2000, and together we selected my current abode with the benefit of MDMA, and it was a good choice! Life was rather different for us both then, but then we've been through many life changes both before and after then while preserving mutual regard.

So we met at Liverpool St station with the full intent of catching some capital culture- maybe the Cranach exhibition or the Xian statues. Went to a local hostelry to assemble our plans and were still there 4 hrs later. While I have kept my liver enzymes on high-alert for this time through regular challenges, for the last 3 years D. has been pregnant or mothering, while her previously polypharmaceutical partner has been through detox and successful abstention.

Thus when I was just getting loosened up, she'd reached her limit and required my assistance to make it home. This makes me what is termed by the AA 'an enabler', and was previously known as a 'bad influence'. But a loving one.

What I did on my holidays

2008-06-11T20:40:00.005+01:00

Away last week for a short sojourn Daan Sowf, during which I had the pleasure to admire a burgeoning home garden, eat its home-grown French Breakfast radishes (crisp, peppery pink & cream delights) and visit my godson. A lovely break. I only disgraced myself twice!

#1 Though normally abstemious, an atypical day-long ingestion of white wine, super-loaded spliffs and then a hypnotic (since I wasn't yet sleepy) brought on the first whitey I've had for years and years. Suddenly the room span, nausea gripped my guts and probably (though there were no witnesess) all colour drained from my face. Realising I might have over-egged the pudding, I took the physiological hints that I needed bed badly and now.

This was the cognitive aim when I purposefully stood up, but apparently autonomic physiology took over.

What my friend experienced:
A big percussive noise and an unconscious person lying on the floor. Initially rousable, but when lifted to the vertical passed out again. ?Stroke ?Fit ?Head injury

What I experienced (every point as if the first)
1. Need to get to bed- get up, stand up and move.
2. Fuck me- I'm lying on the floor, can see around but have no idea where I am. What have I done now?
3. Oh, here's friend coming to sort me out! Hi! Sorry I'm accidentally totalled! Thanks for lifting me up to get me to bed!
4. Fuck me- I'm lying on the floor, can see around but have no idea where I am. What have I done now? Uh-oh, this seems strangely familiar.

Of course there was no harm done, except to my dignity and my friend's blood pressure- and it has been literally 10 years since I last had such a proper whitey. No bad!

I'm knackered, so #2 will have to wait till later.

Balance

2008-05-27T19:06:00.007+01:00

It's Rob who says everything balances up. And Lo! It came to pass!

My hard-working colleague was uncharacteristically off or working at home last week. She was back this morning in good time to watch me roll in late, as is not uncommon. When she asked me to hang about for a 'quick word', I'm expecting some (deserved) censure of my timekeeping, esp. because she's been noticeably irritable in the last few weeks.

But no- she has some news. She is unexpectedly preggers. She is unexpectedly very preggers.

I'm careful not to betray any reaction till hers can be gauged. But as she talks, her face start to shine with happiness and clearly it's the best news ever. She's 18 weeks gone- halfway through- without having suspected a thing.

Today I learned she's been undergoing investigations of her 5 month amenorrhoea at the high-falutin', five-star Dept of Reproductive Medicine of the local teaching hospital. Bloods have been taken for hormone assays, to assess her for ?premature menopause and to exclude nasties like a pituitary tumour. Both she (a very bright life-sciences graduate) and the high-falutin' docs had rejected the most common cause of amenorrhoea in their differential diagnoses, since an IUD boasts a 99.5% success rate at preventing pregnancy.

It was a new GP, passing on my colleague's spectacularly normal hormone assay results, who suggested excluding the obvious. A urinalysis there and then saw the twin lines form in the hCG test's window, and that's when it started to snowball.

God bless the NHS, within 2 days she'd had an ultrasound to estimate dates, to seek the wandering coil and to exclude an ectopic pregnancy. GP couldn't palpate a pregnancy (and she's not showing at all), so estimated dates at 8-9 weeks. Um, no. On ultrasound no coil anywhere, but a huge, beautiful, sound and entirely unexpected intra-uterine foetus of 18 weeks gestation, waving hello to its parents. She showed me the scans, which brought tears to my eyes for her happiness, the beautiful babbiness and the memory of mine. This will be the best thing that ever happened for her, and, smart woman, she already knows it. Now she needs to learn to take a lunch-break.

Varieties of the black spot

2008-05-25T13:15:00.006+01:00

Mum tells me that it comes with age, that signs and portents of the Black Spot will become increasingly frequent.

This week, I received an abnormal smear report, a friend's friend is found incidentally to have a brain tumour and Peter Ballocks is diagnosed with an oesophageal mass.

My abnormal smear is not the black spot- maybe a tiny grey comma, if that. It's a pre- pre-cancer warning that will be treated and go away. That's what the cervical screening program is for. I may write about this later as a health education topic and a warning for the next generation, but it's of no real health concern as long as appts are attended.

The friend's friend had a head MRI scan during participation in a research study as a normal control subject. This showed tissue projecting into his fourth cerebral ventricle, with radiological appearances of a subependymoma. If you had to select your own brain tumour, this is the one you pick- slow-growing, non-infiltrating, excellent prognosis. He'd had a neck MRI 6 years ago, and although not picked up at the time the mass was present then- same size and location, then as now asymptomatic. It's not causing any structural/mechanical problems (e.g. hydrocephalus) so he will probably opt to watch and wait. The 4th ventricle lies between the cerebellum and the brainstem, and sticking a knife in there raises a possibility of damaging the autonomic control centres that regulate heartbeat and breathing. For the moment, his tumour will be a silent companion and symbiot. It's not bothering him, so he won't bother it.

Peter Ballocks' tumour is not a harmless stowaway. It's got so big and greedy to grow that it's stopped him swallowing. When he tries to eat solids it makes him throw up, so he sticks to alcohol and milk. He's lost a lot of weight in the last 3 years. Last year he became so persistently obnoxious (behaviourally) that H-etc. kicked him out, and he moved back down to the Borders.

I've had a working diagnosis of Korsakoff's psychosis for Peter for some years (a B-vitamin deficiency provoked by alcohol, which destroys the brain's mammillary bodies and kills memory), but now I wonder if he has another stowaway in his brain, thrown off from the oesophageal tumour. This Friday, the growth in his gullet is so big the endoscope couldn't get past it. He'll be sent for scans next week to image his stowaway's size and assess the extent and location of metastases.

H-etc doesn't visit here, so it's safe to write what isn't yet said. Oesophageal cancer is not a one you'd pick. By the time symptoms precipitate investigation it's usually too late for the docs to do much. In 80% of cases, surgery, chemo and radiotherapy are not worthwhile, causing more symptoms than they solve and little improvement in life expectancy of any decent quality. Survival rate at 5 years- 5%.

All I can do is let H-etc. (the 'etc.' stands for 'who is very good to me') know that my phone line and door are always open, day and night. I can be the nagging bitch on the Western General Hospital's phone line, who makes sure she and Peter B. have access to specialist oncological services and to Marie Curie when the time comes. I can try to help her talk through the guilt feelings that will probably well up once his prognosis becomes clear. Luckily, I know that Peter Ballocks, for all his charm and once-intelligence, was a fucking nightmare to live with, pre-dating this neoplasm, and she didn't divorce him over nothing. I'm good in a crisis, as long as it's not mine.

'Grief', Matthew Dickman

2008-05-17T00:48:00.009+01:00

I read this poem a couple of weeks ago (New Yorker mag) and was bowled over, so shall pass it on. Posting this is in no way a sign of distress (I'm actually quite chipper), but an appreciation. I found previous drafts on the internet, but this really is my favourite version.

'Grief'
by Matthew Dickman
New Yorker 5th May 2008

When grief comes to you as a purple gorilla
you must count yourself lucky.
You must offer her what’s left
of your dinner, the book you were trying to finish
you must put aside,
and make her a place to sit at the foot of your bed,
her eyes moving from the clock
to the television and back again.
I am not afraid. She has been here before
and now I can recognize her gait
as she approaches the house.
Some nights, when I know she’s coming,
I unlock the door, lie down on my back,
and count her steps
from the street to the porch.
Tonight she brings a pencil and a ream of paper,
tells me to write down
everyone I have ever known,
and we separate them between the living and the dead
so she can pick each name at random.
I play her favorite Willie Nelson album
because she misses Texas
but I don’t ask why.
She hums a little,
the way my brother does when he gardens.
We sit for an hour
while she tells me how unreasonable I’ve been,
crying in the checkout line,
refusing to eat, refusing to shower,
all the smoking and all the drinking.
Eventually she puts one of her heavy
purple arms around me, leans
her head against mine,
and all of a sudden things are feeling romantic.
So I tell her,
things are feeling romantic.
She pulls another name, this time
from the dead,
and turns to me in that way that parents do
so you feel embarrassed or ashamed of something.
Romantic? she says,
reading the name out loud, slowly,
so I am aware of each syllable, each vowel
wrapping around the bones like new muscle,
the sound of that person’s body
and how reckless it is,
how careless that his name is in one pile and not the other.