Oh hello 2020

Wow. How time flies, as the saying goes. Here we are in February 2020 and here is a random post on my dear old blog. As is usually the case with these intermittent musings, they occur by chance.

Today, I am sat at my computer in my office and I just happened to spy the 'Blogger' tab on my browser. And, as always happens, my interest is piqued and I find myself delving, wistfully, into my ramblings from years gone by. Actually, the very use if the phrase 'delving, wistfully' indicates that I must be entering that dreaded period know as 'late middle-age'. Otherwise known as 'over 50'. For this is where I now reside. An it's a strange old place.

For me, primarily, it is because of the sudden and unexpected arrival of medical 'situations' I have hitherto deemed to be exclusively reserved for old people. Ah, how cruel life is. It spends decade after decade convincing you that you're immortal, or at the very least mortal but you'll be just fine for ages to come ... and then, out of the blue, stuff happens. And you're suddenly a tad more mortal than you'd anticipated.

On the bright side, I'm not dead. As proven by the appearance of this very posting. Which can only be a positive. And positivity is something I seem to have quite a lot of. This despite, quite often, not feeling entirely chipper about, well life 'n' stuff. So, it often comes as a surprise to me that I seem to sail the dark, mountainous seas of adversity on my ferry of positive thinking.

And so I suppose the moral of today's rambling anecdote is: You're born and then you die, so you may as well enjoy the bit in the middle.

Hmmm, good name for a blog, I reckon.

A slice of bad luck

Picture the scene: you're enjoying a bit of James Bond on DVD (Casino Royale no less), with your best friend. You've enjoyed a fab, gut-busting meal and the world is a happy place. Then you decide to make it just that little bit more perfect. Melons. Yes, you suddenly remember that you have a ripe one, nestling in the fridge between the Onken yoghurt and the 2 litre bottle of Strongbow. I'm a classy geezer you know.

So, without a moment's thought, the DVD was paused (no, not the bit many of my female colleagues get all excited about - Daniel Craig emerging from the sea in his pants) and I leapt over the sofa, did a forward roll into the kitchen and threw open the fridge door with gay abandon. Er...

Seconds later, the juicy melon was at my mercy, held down upon the chopping board by my manly hand. I whipped out my knife and got to work. Slice after dripping slice of sweet melon fell away as I powered through the powerless fruit. The it happened.

I think I may have said something along the lines of "OH F*CK!". This was because, in my haste, I had almost sliced the end of my thumb off. That knife was terrifically sharp and I had sliced two-thirds of the way through the tip of my innocent finger. The second I felt the blade slicing through one of my favourite digits, I knew I was in trouble. Bravely, I called out to me lovely friend that I was in a fair bit of pain, before almost fainting. Well, when I say fainting I mean that my natural defence system kicked in and decided that the best way to help me would be to make me sweat profusely, develop tunnel vision, tinnitus and a desire to rest my head on the cold floor. I obliged.

After several agonising minutes and a fair amount of horror-film-style blood splattering (the bottle opener and salad bowl took the brunt of it), my friend had stemmed the flow and helped me administer a rather nifty looking bandage. I knew my First Aid training would come in handy one day. Finally, we cleared up the red mess, tidied up the blood-soaked pieces of kitchen roll and headed back to the telly to resume our film. Then I remembered the melon.

Look, you have to get your priorities right. I may have nearly lopped the end off my thumb, experienced exquisite pain and bled like a halal pig, but food is food. Just because you've suffered a major, life-threatening trauma (am I exaggerating a tad?), it shouldn't mean you have to neglect your tum. So I zipped back into the kitchen, grabbed the plate of succulent (and blood-free) slices and returned to Jimmy B and his trunks. Life was once again, good.

But now I have a phobia of melons. The fruit that is.

First aid - last resort?

Oh I am proud of myself. The other day I re-qualified as a first-aider. It's surprising how dangerous a little knowledge can be. The re-qualification course is only two days long which is half the time of the original course, three years ago. Despite this, I had emerged with a renewed vigour and confidence in my ability to revive the dead, heal the bleeding and turn water into wine.

The course was so positive and supportive that I was, seriously, feeling able to deal with a person who is unconscious and has stopped breathing ... as long as they have no arms or legs or abdomen.

You see, in every first aid training class in the world, all of the practising you do for CPR (cardio pulmonary resuscitation) is carried out with a life-size but limbless dummy who, for some reason, is know as Annie. Believe me, she's no looker. However, she obediently has her chest pumped and gob blown into on a regular basis so that people like me can hone our life-saving skills. However, you sort of get used to the fact that there are no arms or legs to get in the way as you struggle to revive this inanimate mannequin. This makes the whole process much simpler than if she were fully limbed-up and this gets you used to working with an armless, legless victim.

Now that's the problem. If I'm ever faced with a real person who's heart has stopped, I'm going to find myself having to carry out CPR. How the hell am I going to cope with the stress of trying to restart some poor sod's heart whilst trying to deal with all these body parts that simply weren't there when I was training?

Furthermore, when you do CPR your have put your hands "between the boobs" as our trainer said. This is where you have to start doing the chest compressions. Between the boobs. What if it's a woman who's collapsed and you thought she had stopped breathing but had, in fact, merely fainted. So there you are, kneeling on her arms, kicking her legs and scrabbling all over her boob-area in an attempt to find the 'right spot', when suddenly she comes round to find herself being groped and assaulted by a complete stranger.

So, after some reflection, I've decided that if such a situation does arise, I shall adopt the accepted approach. The course of action favoured by the great British public. I'll ignore it.

Unless she's just a torso called Annie.

Pheromone failure?

My boss's boss at work was telling me that she's convinced that testosterone makes computers work. Stick with me on this. There was a problem with our 'puters at work the other week. I think the server had been used as a Breville Toastie by someone from Marketing or something. Anyway, everything was buggered and not responding - a bit like when ET's little heartbeat was beating feebly inside his teeny tiny alien chest...

Anyway, having no luck with the server, she called our IT support company. They went through loads of things over the phone, all to no avail. Eventually the chap on the other end of the phone said he'd just have to come over to see us in person. My boss's boss had also phoned our own IT bloke (who works part-time) and had another long phone call which resulted in the same decision. He decided to come in to work.

The two men arrived at my illustrious workplace at the same time. Sorry, I just said 'illustrious'. I meant to say 'lean-to'. I digress. The chaps headed up to the server room where they met with my boss's boss. The server was still operating about as well as a eunuch with Erectile Dysfuntion. It did not look good.

The two men stared at the server .... and it began to work! It really did. They literally came into the server room, looked at the mighty behemoth and it just began working again. My boss's boss is convinced that it was the men's combined flood of testosterone that did the trick.

Sounds like a load of b*llocks to me.

Supreme indifference

I just choked on an apple. I nearly, actually, really, died. I am at work and my boss was standing beside me as my life began to ebb away. She did sod all. I mean really, how close to death do you have to be before your own manager, (another human being let's not forget) either notices or cares about your well-being? It's a bit like Hitler. Oh dear, she's just come back into the office and seen what I'm writing.

I fear death my be my companion sooner than expected.

Leaning Desk Syndrome

My desk at works leans. My colleague's desk leans too. So either we both co-incidentally, have leaning desks or the whole building is on the wonk. Now if that's the case then it means my workplace has subsidence which is clearly a major safety issue. Therefore, I shall have no option but to leave my job which will result in me being unable to pay the mortgage and then it will get reposessed by the bank and I shall end up living in a Zanussi freezer box, near the bins behind Dolland & Aitchison.

Alternatively, I can just place a small piece of cardboard under the legs to correct the lean and then everything will be fine. Unless, whilst lifting the desk up and stooping to place the cardboard under the legs, I cause my vertebrae to collapse, rendering me unable to walk which will mean I can no longer work which will result in me being unable to pay the mortgage and ... etc etc.

Actually, how do you use a spirit level?

Out of the Blues

Well I never. Not only am I finally better (five days of poorlyness) but I received a massive boost to aid my recovery, last night. I was already feeling more like my old self as I settled down to watch Birmingham take on Newcastle United in their FA Cup, third round replay. It was at Newcastle's place and as they are in the league above us and had won a great match at Spurs just a few days ago, my expectations were a tad on the low side.

I should not have worried. Birmingham ran out 5-1 winners! They were just magnificent and with every goal Blues scored, I just felt better and better. And to top it off, I've since learned that this was Newcastle's biggest home defeat in the Cup since 1914. How fantastic is that? If only you could get footie tickets on the NHS.

So that result has definitely lifted me out of the blues and now I can look forward to going back to work.

Erm ...

Still ill

Going to the doctor's this morning. Tried to go to work yesterday but failed to survive 2 hours.

Ill still...

Poorly

I'm ill. Been in bed for two days (Saturday and today) and feel worse than yesterday. Back to bed now.

Soz.

Posting poorlyness

What a bizarre title for this posting. I apologise. I was trying to convey two points in one phrase. Clearly it hasn't worked. Oh well. Anyway, the 'posting' bit is a way of saying I'm sorry at the slightly less-than-regular postings this month. Can't really give a reason why but suffice to say that guilt is my constant companion as a result. I shall try and rectify this although I shall give you fair warning that things may well get worse on this front over the next 8 weeks or so as I shall be extremely busy at work. I trust you'll stick with me. OK, please stick with me!

The second bit of the title refers to me feeling a tad under the weather and before all the women reading this, collectively shout "Man flu!" - it bloody well isn't. I'm genuinely not feeling especially magical and even came home early from work today. So there. If you're reading this in some warm and sunny part of the world - I hate you. Well, not hate. That's a bit disingenuous. Perhaps I should just say that I wish I was there and then maybe I wouldn't be feeling so cack. Oh the joys of England in the winter. Mind you, it could be worse.

I could be in Greenland.

Oh yeah

Life is good. My neck is feeling better; Birmingham won again; my car is nearly paid for and I've got a whole weekend off. Now you may say that I'm easily pleased and you'd be right. Mind you, I've just had the best part of a whole bottle of classy white wine and I'm listening to iTunes as I type. So, yes, things are pretty good. You want details? No? Well here they are anyway.

Due to the advice from my doctor, sitting bolt upright at work and in my car; doing neck exercises and sleeping with just one (god, that's difficult) pillow have all helped to make me feel ever so slightly human again.

Birmingham (City FC) won again today against local rivals West Brom. In the past few weeks things have been a bit todge for the Blues and there were even rumblings about the boss (Steve Bruce) possibly getting the elbow. However, a trio of victories have changed all that and we are now equal fifth in the league and still in the League Cup.

And yes, after five long years, I make my final payment on my car in mid-November. I shall be several quid better off each month which fills me with considerable joy and self-satisfaction. So what shall I spend my extra cash on? Answers on an email to 'bornthendie@mac.com'.

So, I'm feeling pretty chuffed with myself at the moment which means that something terrible is bound to happen, such as one of my limbs developing deep-vein thrombosis during the night or tribe of murderous, psychopathic Slovakian commis chefs invading the back garden and setting up an open air-cookery school for foreign dissidents. That would be just typical.
I feel, therefore, that I must make the most of things while the going is good and take a few risks.

I'm going to eat the 19 day-old cauliflower that's festering in the fridge.

Pain in the neck - part II

I posted previously about my manky neck. Well you'll be delighted to know that it's still there. The pain, not my neck. Although, of course, my neck is still there. Anyway, I finally went to the doc's yesterday and was told that I have a "chronic neck injury". Oh joy. It's all to do with the fibrous muscles which are connected to my spine being in spasm, pretty much constantly. More joy. It looks like I've developed this delightful affliction over a sustained period and that it's caused by things like being on the computer; the way I've been sitting and possibly just generally giving the left side of my neck some grief.

And the cure? Don't sit wrong, lie wrong or use the computer mouse wrong. I also have to do neck exercises that make me look like a simpleton. Added to this I need to have my chair at work and my car seat, bolt upright. I look like a right old duffer as I'm driving along with my head touching the roof of the car and then twisting my whole body round when I need to look right. I've seen people tittering.

It's doing my head in. Sometimes the pain in my neck is bad enough to make wish for a distraction. I've even considered dropping a couple of live lobsters down my trousers or gargling a cup of Windowlene for a bit of light relief. Oh well, I'm sure things will be back to normal soon enough.

Yes. I am brave aren't I?

USPAS comment killer

Doh! I made a boo-boo. There's me banging on about how easy it is now to leave me a comment and then I go and make a schoolboy error. So, I get a fabulous bit of creative literature (USPAS - needs explaining) from a generous correspondent and what do I do? I publish it then I delete it! My God, it's a good job I'm not in charge of a nuclear missile base - "So red is 'launch missile' and green is the dinner bell - er, I've got that the wrong way round haven't I?" Thus instead of bangers and mash for everyone at the base, it would be global, thermonuclear war and the annihilation of the human race for ever.

OK, it's only someone's comment - but it's important. Now, if the person concerned can send that little comment to me again I can re-publish it. Believe me, I tried to get it back but like an otter in a flood - it just wouldn't return. If you've forgotten what you wrote then email me at 'bornthendie@mac.com' and I'll email you back with your comment and then you can post it on here again and then everyone can read and then I'll be happy and you'll be happy and then there will be world peace and everyone will be happy.

Happy now?

I wish my blog was famous

Yes, I know it's a bit sad but I'd love to have a famous, well-known blog. I'd even like to know how many regular readers I have. I know of a few loyal followers of my inane drivel (thanks to you - you know who you are) but who else reads my rambling waffle? Maybe I should write more interesting, controversial stuff. Or maybe I should drone on about social injustice; religous disquiet or political subversion?

Oh bugger it - I'll just keep posting stuff about manky trees, Homer Simpson and ... the smell of wee! Actually it's just come to me. Why does your wee smell of Sugar Puffs when you've eaten Sugar Puffs? If you don't know what they are then you'll just have to believe me when I tell you this is, indeed, the case. It doesn't happen with any other foodstuff. I don't recall my tiddle ever having the odour of a cinnamon bagel or spicy vegetable pasty. So why the sugary breakfast cereal? It really is a mystery and the sort of thing that keeps my brain ticking over. Actually, that's a rather worrying admission. My cognitive thought processes are kept stimulated by cogitating the science behind the causes of cereal-related wee smells. Surely there's more to me than that?

Obviously not.

Pain in the neck

I've knackered my neck. Well, not totally but I've definitely pulled a muscle or two and it's really painful. I did the same thing a few weeks ago, although I don't know what I did then so I don't know why the hell it hurts so much now. Due to the unremitting pain, I also have a semi-permanent headache too which is really special.

Therefore I'm not going to write a post today because I feel truly grotty. Ah. I seem to be writing a post. Bugger. Right, well I'm not writing any more now. I just need to repair my neck, give it some TLC and just be patient. Talking of being patient, I was thinking of popping down to the doc's but they'll only patronise me and give two junior Asprin, so I have decided to let my neck get better 'au natrel'. OK, time to stop typing.

My fingers are having sympathy pains.

Bus stops and blisters

I went out with some pals from work last night for several beers. When I left at about 10.45pm, I'd missed my bus (yes just like the one in the blurry photo). I tried to get another one (it stops sort of near my house) but my ticket wasn't valid for their company. Then I found my next bus was going to be another hour so I decided to walk towards home to kill time. Smart move. Unfortunately, my super-trendy summer footwear is not designed for long, hot walks and as a result, after walking almost two miles, I had 5 blisters developing on my feet. They were spectacularly painful and had me staggering along like a grandad with piles and rickets - at the same time.

Finally the bus appeared out of the darkness (well, the sky was dark even if the brightly lit city streets were not) and carried me the remaining 4 miles home. This 20 minute journey gave my blisters time to develop nicely so that by the time I got off the bus I was partially crippled and unable to do little more than shuffle for a few agonising seconds before stopping to recover and prepare myself for the next few tortuous steps. I finally got home a little after 1am. What a cracking evening then.

Er, no.