Glimpsesofcolour

Finally made it to the ear, nose and throat hospital today, in spite of walking straight past it when I know perfectly well where it is, having passed it deliberately several times before on my way to the dental hospital which is on the same road (and which I have to go to as well in a couple of months). Had the usual wait with all the other patients (it seems to be one of those places where everyone gets given the same time), had my blood pressure taken by the nurse from hell (never in my life have I had a blood pressure cuff that tight) and finally saw the doctor who, predictably, was not the one my letter said I’d be seeing.

He shoved a horrible metal tongue compressor down my throat, peered up my nostrils and then sprayed anaesthetic into them, and finally shoved a piece of flex with a micro-camera on the end up each of my nostrils in turn, pushing it in till it almost went down my throat. Despite the anaesthetic spray, it hurt like hell. During this procedure he also asked me to snore on demand. The upshot was, he wants to take me into the hospital to observe my sleep, and then have another appointment.

So that’s another of the hospitals of London added to my long list. I really can’t be far off ticking them all off. Shouldn’t I get badges or something? Green Shield stamps, perhaps?

Bleah. Just bleah.

And apart from that, I’ve been to the dental hygienist again and she told me off for not using mouthwash, and tortured me with her instruments. Still, good persecution practice…

Just got back from going (alone) to a Blockheads gig at a local theatre. I was very pleasantly surprised to hear how good they sounded even sans Dury. Even more surprised to see there was a smattering of people under 50 in the audience. The support band, the Sex Patels (yes you read that right) were good too, with Indianized versions of some punk and post-punk greats (though in fact only one of the band appears to be Asian and the rest are white as could be).

I still feel like death warmed up in an underlying sort of way, but now there is a layer of cheerfulness on the top, somewhat akin to the whipped cream which is the only really worthwhile part of a trifle. Hit me slowly, hit me quick, hit me, hit me, hit me…

Having yesterday cancelled my place at a seminar on hospitality I was going to today, and instead booked in last minute for a Quiet Day at the local retreat place, I duly dragged myself out of bed and joined three other ladies and the retreat leader to be quiet in a very pleasant house and garden up the road (I do like having retreats I can walk to). This particular day was focused on Julian of Norwich, of whom I am a big fan (not Julian of Norwocj whom I just typed by mistake and who is obviously Polish – or possibly Pilish).

I actually learned some new stuff about Julian, which surprised me, and I also sat in the sunshine holding a hazelnut and trying, not very successfully, to imagine it was ‘all that is made’. But by the second session I was definitely dropping off, so instead of walking or praying I lay down and fell fast asleep, waking up twenty minutes after lunch had started (fortunately there was food left). In the third session I coloured, quite badly and with dried up felt tips, a rather twee drawing of Julian done by a nun. All in all it was quite a refreshing time but would have been better if one of the ladies had not obviously gone to chatter rather than being quiet.

Next weekend I hope to go on a proper retreat down in Sussex, with two overnights. I need it really badly. Everything makes me cry at the moment.

The Mattress Doctor came yesterday. He is a pixie-like little man with a white coat, a powerful vibrating hoover, a UV light box, and a practised line in patter. He gave me a demonstration of what was currently in my mattress (19 years’ worth of nasty grey dust which is apparently dead dust mites and their, as he put it, excrement). Then he hoovered with his power hoover, inviting me to feel the bed for vibrations as he did so, brushed under all the woollen buttons that hold the mattress together, and ran the UV box over the mattress to kill any live mites, finally spraying with a sanitation spray which he said was organic and citrus-based.

As he needed to do both sides, and as our mattress is a king-size and very heavy one, he had to recruit me to help him turn the mattress over, which he assured me he usually manages alone. He also treated my precious goose-down pillow and advised me to replace other, cheaper pillows as it costs less than having them treated.

He predicted that I would have a very good night’s sleep. I didn’t, but I did enjoy the feeling that I was sleeping on an ultra clean mattress. And I didn’t cough, which I often do on resting my head on the pillow. The whole thing took him nearly two hours, and was a much better job than I could have done with a normal hoover and a chemical spray. It did cost £70, but I probably won’t do it for another 19 years.

After I’d written here, my Apple/Command key stopped working (I’m on an iMac) and soon afterwards my space bar expired with a small, sad sigh. I have a spare new-style (ie white) iMac keyboard but on that one neither Alt key works. So I had to dig out my old-style (black and bigger) keyboard on which I have now forgotten how to type (the keys are further apart and I’ve now got used to my new one). Hopefully hubby will fix the new one – which appears to be full of biscuit crumbs as well as tea) over the weekend.

Of such minor irritations and unwelcome changes is life made up (and backward speaking I am I know, but 900 years old when you are… etc)

I got various domestic tasks done, I went out to a delicious Indian lunch with a delightful friend who gave me red tulips, the sun was shining as I walked home, and I got out several games of my new Patience game. Even the sight of an empty bird’s nest on the patio didn’t discourage me that much – I thought I might possibly write a poem about it (which would be the first for about three years).

Then – I made the mistake of looking at my screen instead of my desk when putting down my freshly made cup of tea. Hot tea all over my top, all over my jeans, and copious amounts of it in my keyboard. I ran to the bathroom and with a damp flannel managed to sponge the worst. Then I got changed into a new top and newly washed jeans which would hardly do up, and went to attack my keyboard with a large number of cotton buds. Then I sat down at the computer again (feeling decidedly constrained by the too-tight new jeans.). After a few minutes noticing that odd things were happening on the screen, in particular unexplained flashing in the web address field, and refusal to type a capital T (how significant) I noticed something else. My posterior was feeling decidedly damp. I had failed to notice that the posture cushion on my chair was also soaked in tea. Now I’m sitting here with wet legs and a wonky keyboard. And there’s hardly any tea left to drink. Do I dare to risk making another cup? Oh well, I’ve managed to type all this, which suggests the damage isn’t huge.

According to a little piece in the Guardian Weekly, the life expectancy of writers depends on what form of writing they espouse. This has been scientifically researched, investigating nearly 2,000 writers across four cultures.

Poets (as one might expect) live on average a year less than playwrights, who live three years less than novelists. But the greatest longevity is enjoyed by non-fiction writers, who live a whole 5.6 years longer than poets. I guess that novel in the back of my head is never going to be written then… And I should actually be pleased that I haven’t written a poem for three years. Unless I want to die romantically young of course (and I may already be too old for that).

I seem to have managed to delete yesterday’s entry when I was only meant to be deleting the first version of today’s. This is very frustrating. However it wasn’t that interesting…

… just an account of how, being ‘on the door’ at singing last night, I accidentally greeted the newcomer who said ‘Hello, I’m Heidi’ by replying ‘Hi’. And ho-de-ho too.

Also an explanation of my long absence, most of which was due to being in South Wales. I really can’t be bothered to go into all the details again. Suffice it to be said that we had a good time. And to whoever it was (ee, I think) who told me to organize a wibmeet next time I’m in South Wales: thank you, I’ll do that if I’m there again. Meanwhile the retreat/B&B we were staying at can be found by Googling ‘Mill-Leat Ministries’. Highly recommended for those who want to be in a cottage in the middle of nowhere with log fires.

… the way the colours in my scarf perfectly match each of the four coloured bands of my earrings. And the earrings are fairtrade and the scarf was charity shop, so that means extra greenie points to me.

I am also deriving some satisfaction, though I wouldn’t say pleasure, from having written the first draft of my sermon for Sunday. How do you preach on healing to a church where a 20 year old girl, who was born into the church, is battling with aggressive cancer that she’s unlikely to survive without a miracle? I feel inclined just to stand there and cry, but that won’t help anyone.

PS: I am now also taking pleasure in the fact that when one of my earrings, which are a favourite pair, fell out in Tesco, I actually heard it drop and found it again