Still Suffering

I have been laid up now for over three weeks!

I don't like it!

Packing boxes ready to move house isn't an option, going for anything other than short walks is uncomfortable and sitting (or lying) down is driving me nuts!

I was told to rest, you see. Take it easy.

I used to have active days ... out and about for 14 or more hours ... sometimes seven or more days in a row and I was less tired than I am now.

I'm constantly dropping off!

I'm so bored that I've resorted to amusing myself by picking people at random on Facebook and sending them jokes!

How sad is that?

Anyway, I have to get back to my suffering!

Owowow!

Ribbed

OK, so it's been a while.

I lost interest, if truth be told. The motivation ... or sporadic genius if you prefer ... up'd and left.

I put my energy, such as it is, into work and home, although after work there was precious little left for home.

I'm writing now as a form of therapy and in an attempt to cast off the blanket of apathy which has smothered me for far too long.

And to tell you about my pain!

Oh, the pain!

I worked through the pain for a whole week before tearfully dragging myself to a doctor ... and after my wife threatened to cut my todger off if I didn't.

It began with a plastic dog bed.

As I carried it to my car (to take to the local dog charity) there was popping sensation in my ribs on the left side.

I'm pretty dammed sure I heard it pop too!

Needless to say that the dog bed landed on the ground, closely followed by a groaning and rapidly crumpling yours truly.

The pain, although short lived, was tremendous! It quite literally took my breath away.

Anyway, it went away and I was left with only an ache under and around my ribs.

However, as the week progressed the pain increased and I soon found myself unable to walk, sit, stand, drive, laugh, cough or fart without discomfort.

Stupidly I soldiered on, going from call to call grunting and groaning my way through each one, much to the concern of my clients ... except for one chap who thought it was hilarious that someone was in more pain than he was.

So, threatened by my wife, I took myself off to the doctor.

It seems that my floating rib on the left side has decided to change places with the rib above it. For some reason they crossed causing some tissue and muscle damage.

Hence the pain.

I've been off work and on heavy duty painkillers for three days now and I'm so [insert expletive] bored!

The pain is still severe and my floating rib is continuing it's 'day trips' up my rib cage, so you can imagine just how comfortable I am right now.

I will willingly accept even the merest scraps of sympathy from anyone reading this ... any young ladies wishing to pop around and give me their sympathy in person shouldn't hesitate to do so. In my condition, they can be absolutely sure of their safety.

Mores the pity!

Dilemma Averted

Last night ... as I was eating some chocolate ... Oh, the pain!

I somehow contrived to bend my right thumb backwards or something.  My God! It hurt!

The pain was severe and my whimpering brought my wife rushing to my side.

"What have you done?" she asked.

I told her.

"Do you want to strap it up?  Go to A&E? What?" she said.

I um'd and ah'd.

"Well?" she asked,her impatience growing. "What are you going to do?"

It was an easy choice in the end.

"I'll have to eat my chocolate using my left hand, won't I!"

The Wart

(This article was prompted by Perlchen's wart post and is really only the reply I made to it.)

I used to love my wart!

I really did.

But then one day the top fell off it! My finger hurt like hell (pinky, right hand).

Two days later, my wart began to restore itself to it's former glory by rising and crusting.

But it didn't stop growing! I soon ended up with a wart that not only scared me but, on those rare occasions I dared venture outside with it, appeared on satellite images.

I tried every known wart cure to no avail. Doctors would VISIT ME just to look at it and say "Hmmmmmmm?"

But no one could help and my wart grew and grew.

After a year of having a continent sized growth on my finger I took a very drastic step.

I cooked my finger!

Yes, Perlchen, I turned on the hotplate of the cooker and (after a short prayer and a swift slug of the hard stuff) I pressed my wart onto the hotplate for just a second.

And yes, I did make some un-heroic screechy-type noises and there was a slight moistening of the eyes, but after a mere one week of pain, my wart had been defeated!

To this day, my pinky is wart-less!

I strongly suggest that no one tries this method of wart removal at home unless, of course, you are as brave (insert stupid if you wish) as I am.

Where Did We Meet - A Response

SherilinR wrote an article entitled "Where Did We Meet?".  This is my response to that post (slightly altered from the version that appears in her blog)




We met, as I recall, just as you pushed that big red button that had a "Do Not Press" sign on it.

It was a loud bang, but the light show was fantastic and who would have thought that my arm, as it flew through the air, would have had enough velocity to go through 10 inches of concrete!

Damned lucky for you that you knew where the safety bunker was!

And how you tried to remove that sharp piece of metal from my abdomen was really sweet of you, but it did sort of, you know, smart a bit.

I also remember how kind you were and how, after retrieving my legs, you carried them to the ambulance for me. You taught me how to write left handed and you were instrumental in getting me my new wheelchair.

Gosh! How we laughed that time when you pushed me in my chair down that big hill towards the cliffs then accidentally let go just after you said "Oh no! I think the brake is broken!" ... You remember ... it was on that day my when I was going to write my will and you said "Don't worry about that. I have a will in my pocket that I signed for you earlier."

Those were the days, eh?
 

Anyway, how are you doing? Are you out of prison yet?

Quick Word: The Student Pain

The recent violent demonstrations have left me cold to the students of this country and their plight.

And, when all is said and done, very few of them will ever pay back their student loans anyway.

Those students convicted of any sort of violence or destruction of property should be immediately excluded from whichever university they attend.  Lock 'em up and throw away the key.

And the press doesn't help!  The way they report it, the police are to blame for EVERYTHING! Either they didn't do enough, they did too much or they were the instigators of the violence.  They can't win whatever they do, but some of them still end up in hospital!

The sad thing is that some of these ba$tards are going to end up running this country or it's industries!

(My views are a little extreme perhaps, but I'm sick to death of all  their whining and whinging)

Alarms, Bladders And Road Rage

For most of us, the day begins with an annoying noise.

Our alarm clocks remind us bluntly that we don't deserve another minute in bed and we should get up or it'll get louder.

The slumber button is always so difficult to find when your eyelids are still pasted shut.

The effort of finding the button and pressing it, finally silencing that ear-piercing din, albeit only for five minutes, is sufficient to get your brain working just enough to register that your bladder is screaming out for attention.

There is a squirming and a wriggling under the quilt as you attempt to find a posture that would give your bladder another couple of cc's capacity and, after realising that No! You ain't gonna have an accident, you settle back down to your slumbers.

The alarm peeps or rings as again.

'That was never five minutes' you think as you waste precious sleeping time struggling to read the time, in stead of just pressing the slumber button again.  I think that everyone does this so they can catch their alarms cheating.

Your bladder is increasing it's pressure for attention.

The slumber button pressed for a second time, you settle back into your warm bed, but by now you are starting to get a little crabby because ... damn it! ... you work hard and need your sleep.

The insistence of your bladder reminding you that you are in desperate need of taking a leek is ... excuse the pun ... pi$$ing you off and, in that special way of 'holding on' that you developed as a child, you begin to jiggle your legs in the hope that sloshing the contents of your by now basketball-sized bladder, will ease the problem.

The alarm peeps or rings as again.

The pressure by now is horrendous and you are faced with a choice: vacate or flood?.

Fuming, you decide against the latter and head for the loo.

Be careful stepping over the remains of your alarm clock, won't you!

After a pee timed at 4  minutes and 13 seconds, during which "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" was sighed several times, you admit to yourself "I shouldn't have waited so long".

From here on in, it's going to be a 'down hill' kind of day.

A shower fails completely to 'pick you up' and dressing (all those straps and things!) is soooooooooo difficult as your eyes, still convinced you should be in bed, are half closed and convinced you are just having a nightmare.

Slouching downstairs  you are determined to strangle anyone with the balls to say "Good morning!" to you.

Cereals don't help either and that smell of bacon and coffee that your other half is preparing just makes you want to vomit.

Eventually you leave for work and you hear radio reports of loads of road-rage incidents happening all along the stretch of road you are travelling on.

Funny that you haven't seen any of them.

Perhaps you would if only .... "Get outta the way you fugging ass hole!  Up yours!" ... those others would drive ... "Ba$tards! I'll kick yer head off'f yer shoulders!" ... more  ...  "Yeah? You and who's army?" ... considerately.

What happened at work?

No! Not today.

Maybe I'll rub your nose in it another time ...

... Erm, you did get to work, didn't you?

Those Who Fell (A Re-post)

Someone mentioned this poem a little while ago and to be honest, I'd forgotten I'd written it.  I re-read it and decided that it deserves a second airing. 

Those Who Fell

I often stop and wonder why,

and ask 'What it's all about?'

I find myself looking into the sky,

and hear myself scream and shout.

I wake from my sleep,

with my heart beating fast.

And tears I weep,

as I long for safer days past.

More sand and dust,

another day of hell.

Doing what I must,

remembering those who fell.

Winning hearts and winning minds,

trying every day.

Doing this job takes all kinds,

but I wish it would just go away.

I dread each day when we go out to seek,

the enemy with his gun.

But all I have left is one long week,

then my time here will be done.

I hope I can hold my head up high,

and say 'I did my job well'.

And I, with a sigh,

will remember those who fell.

What Would Batman Do?

OK, so we all know, right, that Batman … The Caped Crusader … would definitely do something heroic and incredibly brave when faced with danger but, and it’s a ‘biggie’ BUT (hahaha! Does my but look big in that?), what would you do?
I think each and every one of us has at sometime in our lives imagined ourselves as a ‘Joe-public’ kind of hero that just happens to save that special person that you’ve always been too shy to talk to from a fate worse than death or you did a ‘Willis’ or a ‘Snipes’ and saved people from terrorists.
I’m no different, although my last last ‘save the day’ fantasy must have been when I was in my mid teens, and it was induced by the then girl of my dreams who, as is usually the case, didn’t know I existed.
We were still in school and she was dating a scumbag who’s hobby was waiting for kids outside the school gates to either beat them up or humiliate them.
Let’s call the girl Maggie to save her blushes should she ever read this.
Scumbag, my nemesis, was Tom Harmon (name changed because he’s still out there)!  He would take great pleasure in giving me a hiding, and he did so on numerous occasions.
It was on the day of one such beating that I had this little fantasy of standing up to him and kicking his arse for a change and in doing so, winning the heart of Maggie.
This fantasy persisted for days, nay, weeks. 
But I was stupid and one day, which I still regret, I opened my big mouth and mentioned it to my soon to be EX best friend, Brian.
Within the hour, Brian had blabbed.  Within two, fingers were pointed and giggles were heard.  Within three, I was quaking in front of a pretty arrogant,  cocky and angry Tom.
Five minutes later, I had a bloody nose, a black eye and some very sore ribs.
But let me tell you folks, I didn’t go down without a fight!
In fact I didn’t even go down!
After he’d already punched me two or three times, he began to whimper like a baby.  He’d broken two fingers in his right hand on my thick skull.
So I kicked him right in the family planning department and as he folded up I kneed him in the side of the head.
This was too good to be true so, in the spirit of a true coward, I proceeded to kick and punch seven bells out of him … until Mr. Phillips (Geography and  Chemistry) pulled me off and ordered my to the Headmasters study.
I think I received, as was the norm in those days, ten blows from Mr. Bell’s (Headmaster) cane and about a weeks worth of detention, but it was worth it.
I was never bothered by Tom again ….
…. and Maggie?
Well, she hated my guts for beating up her boyfriend.
You can’t win ‘em all, eh?


By the way ... Happy Birthday Denise (my sis).  102 today!

The Day The American War of Independence REALLY Ended!

Everyone knows that the American War of Independence, if not directly started by a minor disagreement concerning tea, certainly was partly fuelled by it.


On December 16, 1773 Bostonians got uppity, threw their dollies out of their pushchairs, and disrupted someone's tea party.  Scones were thrown too, so I've been told. 


Anyway, this amongst other minor things led to the War of Independence, in which Britain finished in a very creditable second place .... or so the history books would have us believe.  The war actually ended on the 4th July 1981 on an American base situated close to the town of Butzbach, Germany .... it took 20 baseballs to win it!

I  was young and very naive and when my Sergeant Major said that I had been 'volunteered' to attend, and assist with, and American-German Independence Day Fete, I jumped at the chance.  

He told me to dress in uniform and look smart because I would be representing the British Army in all her glory.

I had creases in my trousers and shirt that could have cut down trees, my boot were gleaming and had mirror-polished toecaps that could have looked up any woman's skirt and my side-cap was brushed and cap badge buffed to a shine.

I was picked up at 10am by a scrawny looking colonial private in a huge truck that had seen better days and was in desperate need of some valeting.

Once in camp, I was introduced to a Captain Hamilton (the bast%@d) who would show me exactly what was expected of me. I was keen and eager to please and said I would undertake anything to help.  

If I had known what he intended, I would have told him to get stuffed.

But it was too late.  He introduced me to my task by showing me a huge water tank, above which a banner had been stretched with the words "Sink the Brit!" written in large red letters.

There was a seat above the water in the tank and above it, a round red, white and blue target disc.

In case you haven't already guessed it ... it was a dunking stool, and I was the idiot that had to sit on it.

At that moment I re-declared war on the colonial scum and on my Sergeant Major, who I'd declared an honorary 'yank' for day.

The Fete was opened and the dunking stool became a very popular attraction; American's and Germans getting their own back on the dastardly British Empire.

I was seething!  I wanted to kill!  I wanted to slap the living daylight out of EVERY American brat that chose to hit ME rather than the damned target!  

Three hours I sat there ... being brave and gathering bruises (bloody baseballs hurt!) ... until pity was taken on me by a lady who turned out to be the wife of the base commander!  She determined that I'd had enough and ordered (She did! She really did!  She scared me!) that I should be given some nice dry clothes and fed.

That was when I capitulated and the war came to an end for the second time. 

I was given a brand new American uniform and boots for my troubles and was given spare ribs and chicken for lunch.  I was also treated by the local medic for a cut above the eye from one of those bloody baseballs!

Although I was battered and bruised, I did have a good day and that nice (scary) lady saw to it that I didn't have to pay for anything for the whole day.

All's well that end's well.

But if that lady hadn't been there, America would have belonged to us again.