There should be a word for it

Back at the start of March it was necessary for me to do something.  I'm not going to tell you what because I think by describing what I did I will detract from the meaning of this post.  The thing that I did was necessary and I made a conscious effort to do it, but in so doing I made a most awful mistake. 

It wasn't the sort of error that can be put down to misunderstanding or accident.  It was the sort of error that cannot be explained.  An error which has no substance for an explanation.  I even looked back in my diary to see if I'd been traumatised by an event, an anniversary - something to explain it.  There was none. 

It's an error which can be put right - not by me, unfortunately, but by a third party.  So I need not worry - though I do.  I worry principally becase there is no explanation for the crass stupidity of my actions.  The only way to explain away the error is to assume I had a moment of insanity. 

So if I had a moment of insanity, what are the consequences?  It's not the consequences of this particular error that really worry me; it's the consequences of some subsequent mistake which could be far more serious.  Am I going to be subject to increasing moments of insanity I wonder? It wasn't something caused by failure to remember, so I think we can count out dementia.

I was recounting the tale - not the substance - but the tale, to another seemingly sane and intelligent individual the other day.  Guess what? They told me they'd recently done something identical and made a mistake for which the reason can only be temporary insanity.  I didn't ask them for chapter and verse; when this happens it's far too embarrassing to admit it to anyone other than those who have to know.  We exchanged notes and it seems I'm not alone.  That of course makes me feel a little better, though now I am concerned about my friend too!

I'm convinced that there should be a word for it - as in The Meaning Of Liff . I've decided on Cublington.

(I should say that Cublington is a delightful place and in many ways does not deserve this distinction.  However perhaps there is some slight synergy here because it was almost the site of one of the most potential and catastrophic disasters for Buckinghamshire: the Third London Airport. )

So I give you -

Cublington: a terrible personal error with potentially serious consequences, only discovered later and having no rational explanation other than a moment of complete insanity on the part of the perpetrator.

Breathing normally again

I think I told you I was getting a bit twitched up about my impending appointment.  Well it was yesterday afternoon and it's come and gone, there's nothing suspicious on my x-ray and my next check up is six months away.

(My blood pressure was high; unsurprising.  I was anything by relaxed. Why do they take it? What conceivable good is the measurement?  The nurse ignores it; the consultant doesn't even look at it.)

This morning the world has a completely different complexion.  What a difference a day makes!

God bless the NHS

Well, after another blunderous episode of uncoordinated bureacracy, you can't really say anything other than: God bless the NHS.

So up at the break of sparrows today, I drove mum to her local hospital - about half an hour's drive from here, more in a rush-hour.  But we were early.  Remember that blasted corridor that serves as a waiting room.  We arrived back there. Nice and warm - probably warm all the way up to the atrium roof - a good thirty feet I reckon.  Terrible waste of hot air.

All shutters down on Reception; even the computerised system was not switched on.  7.30 and we were due at 8 am.  We sat down to wait.  Eventually the computerised system sprang into action. Mum on my instruction coped with it fabulously, only to be rewarded with: sorry, we don't recognise this appointment, talk to reception. Problem: shutters still down on reception desk.  Odd people scurry around. 

Eventually 10 minutes after mum was due, I said: Let's have a look at that letter with the appointment.  Ah, solution - we were supposed to be upstairs at the eye theatre unit.  Stairs - I look around.  None. Lifts - none.  Sign showing "theatres" - not "eye theatres".   Should we follow that?  I ask someone. She points in that direction.  I say to mum - you sit here and I'll go and find out.

Through three sets of doors, two flights of stairs, at last a reception desk with someone behind it.  Are you waiting for my mum?  Yes, says the receptionist.  Well we were waiting for reception to open. So are we, says eye theatre receptionist.  We start at 7.30 am here!  Are there any more down there waiting, she asks me? She assures me that she'll look after mum and so I leave her in the care of the eye theatre staff.

What are we doing heating an enormous reception void - goodness knows the capacity of that space - with no-one in it?  Not even a receptionist.  What's the use of a computerised check-in system if it doesn't list all the patients?  Ah and there was the tap on in the ladies, running at full tilt and had probably been doing so all night!!  Yes, it's my money, it's your money and it's probably the equivalent of several hip replacements over a year or so. Good bless the dear old NHS.

After all these years

Those who know us well will appreciate that it's rare we are early adopters of new technology.  This was not always the case for way back in the 70s we had an electric shower installed.  Since that time we've replaced it on more than one occasion with improving models, but always the result has been a gentle flow of water which dwindles right down in the depth of winter.

You see, electric showers - and I mean the ones that run directly from the cold water feed - are dependent upon several things: the pressure of the water, the ambient temperature of that water feed and the length of time spent under the shower. The shower always starts off really hot because the water in the pipe in the house is already warmer, but as more water from outside comes through, the temperature reduces - either that or you have to turn the flow down. It has only been in mid summer, when temperatures have occasionally become near-tropical, that we've had a generous shower of water from the device.

So when the Caravanning & Camping magazine carried sale offer for a device which purported to remedy the situation, we were eager to try it out.  We ordered a JetStormE from Ecocamel. I can't tell you how delighted I was with my first shower of the week. After all these years we now have a shower which won't embarrass me when we have visitors!  The technology is so simple in theory, but it really does work. Yes, I've written to tell the company of my satisfaction with their product and I also think they deserve an accolade and link here.  I see that the model I've bought is still on special offer - so if this story resonates with you, you know what to do. 

Architectural blunder

Last week I accompanied my mother to her local hospital for a pre-op assessment (she's having a second cataract done - it's nothing serious.)

The building we went to was new and externally had a sort of 60s-retro style.  Lovely big glass automatic opening doors into a small lobby then another set of big glass automatic doors.  We entered what was in effect an atrium, the space reaching up another two, or was it three, storeys. Nice comfortable chairs were provided, a real coffee maker, snacks and even new computerised login system which I made my mother use, on the basis that it was educational for her to do so.

We sat in this enormous space - in fact I sat in it for an hour and a half.  What is it with the NHS?  What is it that they don't understand about time-keeping?  When she eventually reappeared I said, "did they apologise for keeping you waiting?"  "Goodness no," was her reply.  Even to my mother the concept of an apology for delay would have been extraordinary.
But it's common courtesy to apologise isn't it?  And maybe, just maybe, the outcomes from the public who so commonly don't turn up for appointments that multiple appointments are booked at the same time, might be improved if staff said: sorry.  Just think, it could result in a whole culture change. 

"I'm terribly sorry Mrs G that we have kept you waiting for 40 minutes and such is the process we have here, we're afraid you're going to be sitting around in various other waiting rooms for probably another hour." What would it cost?  I'm sure a time and motion guru somewhere could put a price on 39 words. It wouldn't be much. 

Would that not improve things so much? Would it not make one feel warm and cuddly towards the much put-upon and underpaid staff?  Would one not feel much more disposed to make their life easier, better, happier. Would one not smile in gratitude and appreciation.  Could this be the one thing which revolutionises the NHS - remember that butterfly flapping its wings in the jungle somewhere.

However that's not actually the purpose of this post.  That's just a rant. The purpose is to tell you what happened when more than one person - or when one person walked quickly - through the double doors and lobby.  The cold wind came in.  But there was worse to come. What happened when the similar arrangement at the other end of this some 50-yard-long corridor, where there was a similar automatic door system, was that an enormous gust of wind travelled the entire length of the atrium, knocking out what heat there might have been and creating an enormous draught

I remarked upon this when I drove my mother home.  She told me that it had been even colder there during deepest winter and on one visit she'd remarked to the ladies on reception how cold they must be.  Apparently they each had an electric heater at their feet! That, dear readers, is just one of the holes into which our desperately-needed NHS money is pouring.

It makes you chuckle

I'm not one for reading other people's blogs very often - I dip in and out of them, just to catch up, rather like people catch up with me here.But one in particular makes me laugh out loud very often and I think it would be rather selfish of me not to share it with you.

The thoughts of Archdruid Eileen of the Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley contain many gems of pure wisdom.  Eileen often writes new liturgies. This is one of her finest and if you have even the slightest knowledge of the Book of Psalms this Lament for those lost in Ikea will amuse you. Enjoy!

Bronchial athletics

Well, it happened.  The thing I'd been dreading since surviving lung cancer happened when the nasty snotty cold which started with a horrid sore throat, climbed down into my remaining right lung lobe. Why couldn't it have chosen the left hand side I wonder? The reason I'd been dreading it was that I wasn't sure how easy it would be to clear that lobe. The answer is, quite difficult. 

I've had to perform some bronchial athletics.  I found the barking deer (well that's what it sounds like) method of moving excess fluids up the tubes most useful.  The physio at the hospital introduced me to it after the lung lobes removal and my mum tells me its something she learnt at yoga. 

Here's how you do it. Instead of during a normal cough, when you start by closing your throat in order to raise the pressure in the lung, you keep you throat open and use your chest muscles in exactly the same way but push the air out throught he open throat.  Several puffs usually do the trick - and then an ordinary cough sorts out the remainder..

I'm assuming that the reason clearing the lobe is so difficult is that it's floating around in a load of space that it never bargained on occupying, therefore making the effect of the muscle activity less effective than it would otherwise be. 

Hey ho - another couple of days and it should all be over and I'll be back to living as if nothing extraordinary ever happened to me.