30 and flirty and fabulous....well ok, nearly 33 - spoilsport!

I'm hugely into my history. I do victorian re-enactments and I love vintage styles. Being rather voluputous (yes that would be fat to the layman) I find that the styles of the 40's and 50's suit me far more than the modern 'fashions' of today and so I stick to them where I can.

I have always wanted to get some professional photo's taken of myself and back in April I decided to just go for it. I mean, I'm not getting any thinner, younger or perkier, so I figured it was now or never. I asked my vintage pals for their recommendations and booked a shoot. I booked it for the end of August, just before I went back to school and it seemed eons away. I thought I had loads of time to get my clothes and props together, but as life always does, it crept up on me faster than expected and before I knew it the big day had arrived.

So last wednesday at the ungodly hour of 4.45am, I dragged my half dead ass out of bed and into the shower. By 5.40 I had put petrol in the car and picked up my pal Jo, 30 mins later I had collected my sister and set the SatNav for Southend on Sea. Google maps had estimated a 2 hour travel time, but we managed it in an hour and a half and even had time to pop into Asda for a hot brekkie before arriving at the studio.

Thanks to both the SatNav and good directions from Terry Mendoza (the photographer) we found the studio easily and started unloading the car. By 8.30 am I was perched on my chair being ministered to by the hugely talented Hair & make-up artist I had booked. A mere two and a half hours later, I had completed my transformation from frumpy to fabulous and was ready for my close-up ;)

Now Terry had warned me that he doesn't like to bring friends into the studio itself, as he feels it makes his subjects more self-conscious. Despite this, I arrived with my entourage of my sister and my friend Jo. I needed my sister to help me in and out of my corsets and Jo was interested in having a shoot done herself and had come along to see how it went before making her final decision.

I went into the studio in my first (of about 6 or 7) outfits and Terry grudgingly (which is understandable) said that they could come in for one or two pics. He suggested a few warm-ups shots to loosen me up, but after all the pampering from the make-up artist and with the fabulous forties music playing in the background I was ready to pose for Britain. I danced and whirled and posed and played and within a few short minutes he stopped to ask me had I been practising for weeks as I was doing great. Funnily enough there was no more mention of making the girls leave the studio ;)

It really was the best experience and I urge everyone to give it a go. I came away hugely liberated and full of confidence. I (will) finally have good pictures of myself that I actually like and want to look at, as opposed to the usual 'Dear God, do I look like that?' photo's of the usual night out.

What can I say guys? I finally feel 30 and flirty and fabulous, so what if it's 3 years too late ;)

You can book your own exhilarating experience with Terry or just ogle the gorgeous pics on his website

http://www.retrophotostudio.co.uk/

Knitcamp 2010 - Major organisational fail, but the people made it great.

So it's been a very long time since I posted, but boy has it been a busy summer. I went from one extreme to another. Last year, I did nothing with my summer and it dragged by slowly. This year I definitely planned way too much and it has flown by in a flash.

Many of you will know that I was hugely excited about attending KnitCamp. I started knitting only a year ago and have found it to be a great hobby. I was keen to learn new skills and techniques and when I discovered that there was a 'KnitCamp' to be held near my mate Lith's place, I knew it was fate. I booked 4 classes, and my flight and began my holiday dreaming.

I know I am far from being the only person who got burnt by British Yarn's Knitcamp, and I have tried hard to remain fair about my comments. Thanks to the many cancellations, Tutors being deported and utter lack of communication, by the time my holiday came around I was dreading it.

The british yarn terms and conditions clearly stated that they would contact their customers to notify them of any changes or cancellations. Well despite my giving them 2 different email addresses, I was not notified about any of my 4 cancelled classes. I found out through ravelry, and either other members, or indeed tutors. despite these cancellations, I tried to remain positive and even went so far as to book another class, an excursion and even 3 nights accomadation at the camp itself. The new class I booked also got cancelled, as the tutor was deported for lack of the correct working visa. I purchased a KnitCamp zip-up hoodie which I have yet to receive and despite my contacting the organisers a week ago, I've still heard nothing about either a refund or actually getting my jumper.

Despite the many, many cock-ups and massive organisational fails, KnitCamp was great. The hundreds of fabulous knitters who attended from all over the world made it great. The atmosphere was amazing and I learnt so much that by the end of the week I was fairly sure that my brain was going to explode. There were official classes and then the unofficial (and often drunken) 'oh that's eeeeeasy, I can show you that. Have you got dpn's and spare yarn on you' classes. Naturally the response to that was always 'but of course' ;)

The tutors who did make it to the camp were expected to 'make do and mend', and use their initiative to help their classes run smoothly. To give those men and women their due, they did a corking job. They were (mainly) friendly and helpful, and very down to earth. They were informative in class and out and it was kind of like rubbing shoulders with the rockstars of knitting. I have to say a huge thank you to Joan McGowan Michael who shared her lunch and dinner with me several times and was a free flowing fount of knowledge to this relatively new knitter. She really was kindness itself and if she visits the UK again and needs a bed, she'll always be welcome Chez Tootsie.

As for my final thoughts on KnitCamp, well they are a little mixed. I will never again attend anything organised by Jo Watson's British Yarn company. However, the concept of KnitCamp is a very sound one and I sincerely hope that someone attempts it again in the future. I think it could work as something that is run every 3 or 4 years, which would give people a chance to save their money (cos damn but it was expensive all round) and it also would give people a chance to put the skills they learn to use and practice before learning new ones.

I do think I've tried to be honest and fair here, but I'd love to hear peoples comments on my thoughts

You can't light a fire without a spark

Dating in the noughties is tough. Gone are the halcyon days when you'd head down the local boozer on a friday, surrounded by a small posse of like-minded mates. No longer can you down 10 cocktails, dance round your handbag for a couple of hours then head home with the likeliest prospect for a night of wanton (and often very drunken) bed wrestling. Not if you're looking for more than a quick tumble for a couple of nights (which I admit, is tons of fun).

In the eighties and nineties we bought how-to books like 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus', but not anymore. There are singles nights, speed dating events, and an increasing horde of internet dating sites all claiming to be the best and capable of matching you with your perfect partner.

It seems that the most common form of dating in today's society is online, but however you try it, the internet dating pool is far from a smooth sail. Whether you dip your toe in, or dive in head first, there are things to consider before you take the plunge.

You have to decide on what you want out of your experience. After all, this is the internet and people will offer pretty much anything on there. Whilst you are happily telling the world your deepest darkest relationship secrets and searching for the perfect fit, the sharks are circling ready for fresh meat.

Why is dating so hard? All anyone seemes to want is a likeminded soul, willing to share their life, but so many people still seem to be living a lonely existance. I chat to my friends, both girls and guys, and the stories are always so similar. Guys are idiots, girls are insane yada yada yada.

Why do we find it so hard to communicate? I know loads of guys who are looking to settle down, yet most of my girlfriends claim that there are no guys like that out there. I know several girls who don't want to be tied down yet, they're too busy enjoying their lives, but again, I hear guys saying that all girls are out to trap themselves a hubby.

When did we stop understanding the opposite sex? I met a lady recently who had celebrated her 70th wedding anniversary a week previously. When the Queen had her 50th wedding anniversary, she invited 50 other couples who married in the same year to Buckingham Palace for a tea party. There were so many couples that they had to have a lottery to choose the invitees. Clearly in years gone by, we didn't have as many problems communicating with each other.

I do firmly believe that there is someone for everyone, you just have to find them. Personally, I have no clue about what goes through a guys head. I have no clue about what goes through most girls heads. Hell, half the time I can't work out what's going on in my own head! All I know right now is this. Yes, one day I want to meet the right guy and start a family, but right now I'm enjoying my life. I like meeting new people, I like having fun and believe it or not I even enjoy my occasional run-in's with the local sharks, though I may need to get a bigger boat ;)

The best things in life are free

Or at least, everyone seems to think they are! This weekend the summer appeared for a brief, shining, glorious few days and so I seized the moment. I spent saturday gutting out my flat, packed up my car, and dragged my ass out of bed at the ungodly hour of 5.45am this morning. My Destination? The local car boot sale. I had been assured that the picking were rich, and that people would buy anything, so I had selected a wide range of items to sell to Joe Public.

I had two friends with me, and we arrived at the sale grounds in a heavily weighed down cavalcade about 6.40 this morning. I hadn't even turn off the engine of the car when there was a tap on my window. 'I look at your stuff!' ' I see what you sell!' Seriously! These guys were like locusts, peering in the windows of the car, trying to pull at the contents of the bags as I got them out of the car. Being as I am far from being a morning person, they got a pretty short shrift. I sent them packing, with a curt 'come back when I've unpacked'.

Once they were out from under my feet, I got the stuff out nice and quickly. I kicked back in the chair I'd actually remembered to bring along, whipped out the knitting and relaxed in the bright monring sun. I didn't get to relax long, before the Vultures returned. I get haggling, and honestly? I quite enjoy it it, but these guys weren't haggling, they were just plain rude. They'd ask the price of an item, I'd give them my first quote, but no matter how high I started they'd just go '50p'. Dude, these were brand new shoes, with the label still on, that cost £40 to buy in the shop. Not a freaking chance love. They'd come back every 20 mins or so, clearly thinking they could wear me down. One lady Vulture was not amused when she returned to find the handbag she had coveted had been sold. 'what price you sell at?' ummm the same one I quoted you originally love.

The vultures weren't the only ones though. I know there is a credit crunch, but these people seemed to want something for nothing. No matter how cheap it already was, they wanted it cheaper. There were times when I felt like asking if they wanted me to open a vein while I was there since they were already ripping me off.

While I had fun with my friends, I don't think I'll be doing it again for quite a while. It was an awful lot of work, for very little return. I came home with almost as much as I left with, and immediately put the lot of it on freecycle. I guess I'm not destined to be a Delboy anytime soon ;)

where has this year gone?

It's been nearly a year since I finally let my mum teach me to knit...again. Mum is an amazing knitter, creating gorgeous traditional Irish arans off the top of her head. How could anyone compete with that?

Back when I was a school girl in Northern Ireland, it was compulsory for both boys and girls to knit something each year, though the only thing I can remember doing was a very badly knitted bear. I really didn't like knitting back then and I was very relieved when I moved to secondary school and I was able to give it up.

Six years later, with the long summer holidays stretching before me, I decided to teach myself to crochet. I figured that since Mum didn't do it, I would be able to learn at my own pace, and not have to live up to the high standard she had set. I picked it up really quickly and thoroughly enjoyed seeing pretty lacy finished items flowing off my hooks.

I've crocheted off and on over the last sixteen years mainly cos I find it such a relaxing pasttime. Last summer, I discovered Ravelry, and my eyes were opened. I was a mere neophyte, nothing but a dabbler in the art. The many varied projects there were works of art, and more importantly, their range of patterns was vast. Way beyond my scope of imagination that's for sure.

Seeing the many beautiful objects on offer there, I decided it was time to get over my aversion to knitting. Mum had planned a visit to my place, and when she arrived we took a wander up the High Street to the LYS. One set of needles and a ball of sock yarn later, we strolled back down the street and my lessons began.

Perhaps becuase of my many years crocheting, I took to knitting quite well. Granted it's a whole new language, and sometimes it's far from straight forward, but I do really enjoy it. I started out small with scarves and fingerless mitts, and have worked my way up to shawls.

For mum's birthday this year, I knitted her a lace shawl. It was the hardest thing I'd tried, and to call it a labour of love would be an understatement. I cried over that thing, and sweated, and cursed, but I persevered and was thrilled with the final result.

I love knitting lace patterns, and I love the way blocking the project can make such a huge difference to the finished item. However, having started a new lace project, I've discovered something new about myself. I hate knitting with lace weight yarn. It's like knitting with thread! I'm using the most gorgeous yarn created by Jen over at Fresh From The Cauldron, and the colours are the only thing keeping me going with this wrap. I can't wait for it to be finished!

www.ravelry.com

Rainy days and sundays

I don't know what happened to me this weekend. I usually adore listening to the sound of the rain on the roof, but for some unknown reason, the familiar drumbeat bossanova just made me feel melancholy.

I've been so much happier this last 2 months, getting my mojo back you could say. My smile has been getting wider and wider, though I haven't really found where I stashed my patience yet. Unfortunately, this weekend, my smile and happiness has been MIA. No matter how I've tried (and trust me I've tried all the usual methods as well as a fe unusual ones), I can't seem to perk myself up. Is it just the rain? or a natural slump after weeks on high?

I am a quite solitary person. I love coming home after a long day of full, busy classrooms, and locking the door behind me, just savouring the peace and quiet of my wee flat. I love knowing that if I want to get into my jammies at 5pm and just veg on the sofa, I can, but for some reason, lately, it's just made me feel more and more lonely.

I moved to my new flat, knowing only a few work colleagues in the area and I've tried very hard to make friends since getting here. But I have one big problem, and it's one which has haunted me all my life. People let me down. No one thinks twice about cancelling plans they have made with me. I throw a party? no one comes. 'Toots won't mind' is the perpetual cry. However, should it be the other way around, it's a totally different story. God forbid, I should decide that I can't go to someone's soiree. I'm the worst in the world...obviously.

Oh well, I guess I'll find my way back to happiness eventually.

I'm walking on sunshine

Isn't it glorious?

God I love the sunshine! Life is brighter and clearer, it's easier to get out of bed in the mornings, and walking to work is just a joy.

That's right folks, I'm back to work, and I've had a fab week. I can't believe how much all my cherubs have grown while I've been away, and it seems that some of them have even missed me as much as I have missed them.

The one thing my long illness has taught me, is that life, and particularly your health, is a very precious commodity and we need to take more care with it. With this is mind, I decided to spend some of my Easter holidays figuring out ways to reduce my stress and my work load. I needed to find more balance in my life.

My first big decision was to keep weekends sacred. No more marking, or planning or worrying about the small fry on a saturday or sunday. This was quickly followed with work ends at 5pm. No more staying in my classroom til 6pm, then carrying on working at home after tea. If it's not done by 5pm, it needs to wait until the next day.

If these decisions were going to be viable I needed to get organised, so I sacrficed two days and went into work. I tidied the classroom, throwing away the junk left by multiple supply teachers and the general detritus you find in the wake of 9yr old children. With a clean fresh room, I turned my attention to getting the cupboards in order and getting a jump on the term's planning.

I was lucky enough to have my teaching assistant give up some of her time to come in and work with me and between us we got the first few weeks sorted out. It made such a huge difference to know that I was riding the wave of work, rather than drowning under it.

So starting back was that little bit easier and the children were mostly on their best behaviour. As always when children ar involved, comedy is never far behind. I love the funny little things that I hear and this week has been no exception.

I was teaching about negative numbers, using money and overdrafts to try to make it relevant to real life. I stood at the board and said "I have £10 in my account and I spend £25 at amazon, what am I left with?" Quick as a flash, one of my world weary 9 yr olds said "Debt! That's when the loan sharks come in!"

On Friday, I was really pleased to see all hands in the air, and every child getting involved. I was teaching French and we were just starting to learn about telling the time. The children were suggesting words we would need to learn like midday, midnight, afternoon etc. All was going well until I asked Bob to share his word with the class.

"Miss Glass! That man over there is in the shower and you can see EVERYTHING!!!!"

Yup, my classroom overlooks a side road and it seems we can see right into the house on the end. You would think that since they overlook a school they'd have checked their windows were sufficiently frosted, but apparently this was not the case.

I love my job!!

Run for the sun little one

There is something special about storytime, something that we never really grow out of. After all, what is TV and film, but an extended animated version of the original bedtime story.

We humans are a total contradiction. We spend years reading our children tall tales, fairy tales and adventures, convincing them that anything can happen if you put your mind to it. We teachers further perpetuate that myth, forcing them to write imaginative stories about rampaging giants and distant turreted castles.

Yet somewhere around age 10 to 12, we start forcing reality back in. There are no giants. Dreams don't come true. There is no handsome prince, ready to sweep you off your feet.

Why?

Why do we spend so much time creating this world of illusion for our offspring, when we are all too ready to tear it right back down again?

I understand that the world we live in today is a different place, from the one I lived in as a child. There are more opportunities for those who do not carry good intentions, but unless we make a concerted affort, the next generation are going to be cynical and burnt out before they've even left school.

What's so wrong with climbing trees and playing pirates? In my day everyone knew who One-Eyed Willy was, and could quote almost every line to you. I can swing from a tree with sword in hand even now. I have the scars to prove it, yet when I did just that whilst babysitting some 7 year old boys, I got a mouthful from another mother about how I was a bad influence for them. When pressed, she said 'they might fall and hurt themselves'. Well? so what? The damn sky could fall and we'd all be dead!

Life is for living, not wrapping these kids up in cotton wool and bubble wrap. Parents of the world, I teach your children and they are boring! They are spoilt, selfish and generally more whiny than a week old baby. Give them their childhood before it's too late. Teen angst should not be starting at 9. In fact, if you get it right in the early years, it need not start at all!!

Let them play in that forest. Let them make that tent out of old duvets in the garden. Hell, let them camp in the garden all night. As Marie Antoinette once so aptly said:

Let them eat dirt!

(ok, so a slight misquote, but you're getting my drift, right?)

I can't get no...na na na..I'm in gitmo..no no no

Seasoned torturers have a lot to learn. It really doesn't need to be a time consuming drawn out process for them. They can throw away their bamboo splinters and pliers etc, cos all they really need is the tummy bug bacteria. Just infect your prisoner, leave to stew for a bit, then sit back and wait for the info to come to you. I'm telling you peeps, after 24 hours battling vomiting and diarrhoea, most peeple would sell their momma to satan if they thought that it would give them their life back!

As you can likely guess, I've been afflicted with the dreaded stomach flu. I was so excited this week, thinking that I would be posting about my first week back at work and seeing all my cherubs again, but no, here it is.....flu!

I did make it in to work this week, and I had such a wonderful welcome from all my babies. The kids really made me feel at home again, which I really needed after so long away. I was terrified about going back. I mean I had been away so long, and they'd had such a mixed up time with different teachers, and sometimes even teaching assistants teaching their class. I didn't know what sort of reaction I would get, but bless their little hearts, they all had a smile and a story they were desperate to share with me.

Unfortunately, smiles and stories weren't the only thing they were sharing :( I had a full house on monday, but by Tuesday's registration we'd dropped by 2 people, Wednesday saw several more sent home. Personally, I'm not quite sure how I got through Wednesday. I did have to go home at lunch and lie down, but by that evening I was sleeping (in the loosest sense of the word) in the bathroom. Strangely enough, I didn't make it in to work on the Thursday. I was annoyed, because I really wanted to finish my first week back, but how could I know that my cherubs would be so generous with their germs?

I've lost nearly 7 pounds in 48 hours....not my idea of the ideal diet :(

You are my Sunshine, my only sunshine...

Isn't it amazing how different your mood can be be with just a little glimpse of sun? I know that SAD is a recognised medical condition, but it's still one of the poor relations of illnesses. Along with stress, depression and sinus pain, it is scoffed at by happily healthy folks who think that those affected are just swinging the lead to get special priviledges.

Now, I'm not depressed, or suffering from SAD, but I'm more than happy to admit that a little sunshine makes my day that much brighter. Everything seems that little bit more more manageable, and possible suddenly becomes probable.

I'm most definitely a summer person. I love turning my face to the sun and feeling the warmth washing over me. I love wearing pretty airy dresses and skirts, painting my toenails and getting my sandals out. I like to put my heavy winter coats deep into the back of the cupboard, along with the fuzzy jammies and the fleecy robe.

England is slowly coming back to life after it's winter hibernation. Trees are greener, and thermometers are slowly climbing. Staring around my estate, I can see windows opened wide, making the most of the fresh spring breezes. There's a sense of optimism in the air that you can almost smell, and pedestrians have shrugged off their 'huddled against the cold and wind' posture to have put a spring in their step.

Today isn't that bright a day, but still, my internal sun is shining. I may be terrified of going back to work, but I logged into the blog today to discover that someone had nominated me for a sunshine award. Thank you Thea, it made my day and I've proudly stuck the pic at the top of the blog. Now according to the rules of the sunshine award, I have to nominate 12 blogs, but I don't actually follow 12 blogs. However, I'm happy to nominate those I do.

So without further ado my nominees are :

Pren over at Wilcox wizard wares, who runs the bestest Harry Potter Knitting swap ever - http://wilcoxwizardwares.blogspot.com/

http://pumpkinbelleknitsandbits.blogspot.com/ for sharing her knitting challenges with the world.

Jana over at http://justblocked.blogspot.com/ again for sharing her crafting with everyone on the web.

My old friend Jenny because she's a working mum who always has a smile on her face and shares her ups and downs with everyone. http://morganandjenny.blogspot.com/

Gena Showalter - for all the lovely beefacakes, as well as the books http://genashowalter.blogspot.com/

And the lovely Ari foor keeping me sane whilst poorly http://stitchncraft.blogspot.com/

Thanks guys!!

Now here are the instructions for accepting the award!

1. Place the logo within your blog or post.
2. Pass the award on to 12 bloggers.
3. Link the nominees within the post.
4. Let the nominees know they have received the award by commenting on their blogs.
5. Share the love and link to the person from whom you received the award.

I would have nominated Wisson's world of sport, but I don't think that H would find a 'sunshine' award manly enough for his testosterbot meanderings. It's well worth a view though, as his thoughts on travelling and people in general are really well written and very insightful

Right, must go beat the shawl into submission before lunch.
Keep on trucking folks

Alice? Who the F@@k is Alice?

I've been taking my new meds for about 2 weeks now and (fingers crossed) they appear to be working some magic. I'm finally starting to feel a little bit human again, and this week I made an effort to rejoin the land of the living. I've been to the cinema three times this week, for three very different films.

I started the week nice and slowly, deliberately choosing films that had been out for a long time, as I'm not a fan of crowds right now. Valentines Day was my first pick and I was the only person in the screen. Total bliss! The film itself wasn't at all what I had thought it would be, and this became the theme for my whole weeks viewing.

I had thought that this film would be a saccharine sweet ode to love, which would curdle the popcorn in my stomach and leave me cold. I couldn't have been more wrong. It was quietly romantic, with a hefty, but subtle, helping of comedic reality. The whole cast was a veritable who's who's of hollywood, yet no one tried too hard to shine above the others, making this sweet little film one that I'd happily watch again on a girly night in.

Next up was the American contender for the Harry potter throne, Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief. This film had an easy lead over the others, because it stars the lovely Sean Bean as Zeus, King of the Gods. Typecasting I thought;) Still it was nice to see him back in the armour he fills so well.

I can see this franchise doing extremely well with the post-potter crowd. The actor playing Percy is perfect jailbait for that generation and unlike the seemingly endless HP movies, the film had an excellent pace and flow, and didn't drag on forever. Kids love anything quest-like, so I'm surprised that the Greek Gods haven't come in for this treatment before now. Most of the other greek inspired epics have had too high a rating for younger viewers to enjoy them on the big screen. This movie balanced the adult elements beautifully and kept me entertained right to the end.

And finally, Last night I saw Tim Burton's version of Alice in Wonderland. The hype has been huge, and people have been raving about how amazing it is, but as with Avatar, I was a little disappointed.

Don't get me wrong, again like avatar, it was lovely to look at. A veritable feast for the eyes, in fact, but I was expecting a Tim Burton film. Instead I got a traditional Disney movie. Pretty, brightly coloured, bastardised story to suit the Disney crowd, and ever so slightly beige overall.

Tim Burton's films have always seemed, to me at least, to be a little anarchic. Out of the norm, if you know what I mean. I was expecting a totally different reworking of the Alice stories, not a sickly sweet romp through pretty wonderland. Hell, even the Fearsome Bandersnatch was positively cuddly! He could have won Crufts, for crying out loud! Half the kids in my screen went 'awwwwww' when he first appeared, depsite the fact that he was chasing a very IT girl-like heroine through the garden.

Which brings me on to the costumes. The supporting characters were pretty well imagined, if a little safe, but it was Alice's wardrobe that really got my goat. Other than her first and last few outfits, I felt that the costume desinger had totally lost the plot and decided to use the film as her chance to showcase her ideas for Paris Fashion week. The costumes reeked of badly done Haute Couture, and the rather insipid, slightly doped-up looking actress became a mere coat-hanger for the designers high fashion aspirations. Such a pity as the scope for costuming in this film was endless. I did think the make-up was fabulous. Depp's mad hatter looked wonderfully asexual and had tons of wee details on the face to lift the character to new levels

While I'm not the biggest Johnny Depp fan, and therefore a little biased, again I wasn't impressed. I'm afraid all I've seen for the last few films is Jack Sparrow. I'm reminded of that old mothers standard for face pulling children. 'If you're not careful the wind will change and you'll stay like that!' Perhaps Mr Depp's mother forgot to remind him of this?

Now before you all jump in and say 'ooooh but it's so much better in 3D' you need to know that it WAS the 3D version I saw. I have a slight problem with this recent fad. You see unless something is thrown towards the audience, like the rugby ball in the SKY advert before the film, I don't really register the 3D. After 5 or 10 minutes, it could just as easily be plain old 2D for me. I think in the future I'll save myself the surcharge and uncomfortable glasses, and stick to the traditional method of viewing.

Reach out and touch

Yesterday was an amazingly good day. It started very well, with a phone call from an old friend. You see, a good 20 years ago when I was a mere 12 years old, my baby sister got a part as one of the child dancers in the Panto at Belfast's Grand Opera House. My dance teacher was providing all the child dancers, and so she and my mum and I were at the theatre a lot. However, NI, and Belfast in particular still wasn't safe in 1989, and about 2 weeks before it was due to start, the Hotel next door to the theatre was seriously bombed and the theatre took too much damage for the show to happen. Well we all thought that was it. No panto for Belfast that year.

All the actors had come from England and as soon as they heard about the bomb, they hustled straight back to their homes. All but one of them. Tom O'Connor was the star comedian that year, and he decided that he wasn't going to let terrorists ruin christmas for the kids of Belfast. He went on TV and asked for help. A local hotel donated it's ballroom, another it's raised staging. A circus who was shut for winter donated their tiered seating (which ruined the ballroom floor!), and an English company gave costumes and another script. Norn Irish actors came forward to be in it, and the circus provided one of their small juggling acts to help out. Before long instead of the production of Babes in the Woods which had been planned, We had a decent production of Aladdin. Even I got a small role as a 'Lovely Assistant' in the Name That Tune section of the show and I had rehearsed til I dropped.

It was as we were applying for the children's performance licenses that Tom realised his problem. He had asked one of the small fry who had meant to be a 'Babe' in the original production to play the lead role of Aladdin in the new one. However, as he was only 7 or 8, he was only allowed to perform at alternate productions. They were stuck, and that my friends, is how I came to play the lead role on alternate evenings. I got a gorgeous pink and purple satin tunic, though as I was too young to be a real principle boy, I wore leggings below my tunic and not tights. As the kid who was sharing the role was young, the lines were short and sweet and pretty easy to remember.

Tom decided to bring a lot of his family over for christmas including his granddaughter, and as we spent a lot of time at the hotel, we got to know the family pretty well. They were the most kind a generous people I'd ever met and we had so much fun promoting the new show. I got to do lots of promotional things like go on local tv, or take advertising photos. We did two photo shoots which really stood out in my mind. The first was for a Jewellers in Lisburn. I had to sit on the counter wearing about £10,000 worth of jewels. Necklaces, rings, brooches in all shapes and sizes. Smiling was really hard, cos I was terrified that I would drop or break something.

We were there for what felt like hours while the photographers shot frame after frame, so I got a really good look at the stock. In typical 12 year old girl style, I fell in love with some of the jewellery. Not the diamonds, or pearls, or even the sapphire of my birthstone, but a small gold ring with a victorian style cameo on it. I stared and stared, memorising every detail so that I could tell mum what I wanted for christmas. Except when we left the store and got back in the car, Tom gave me a small jewellery box. slowly opening the box, I was more nervous than a desperate 30-something wannabe wife. As the lid lifted and my much coveted ring came into sight, my heart just flipped over. I still have that ring. It doesn't fit anymore, and strangely, I've rarely worn gold since I outgrew it, but I've kept it hidden away.

The other photo shoot was the ultimate dream of any child of the 80's. Those of you who love their cars, will know that the infamous DeLorean, of 'Back To The Future' fame was produced not far from Belfast. There weren't many of the unwieldy but supercool cars made and most people need to go to a museum like the Folk and Transport Museum at Cultra to see one. However, one car was kept in private ownership, and became the focus point of one of our shoots. That's right folks, I got to stretch out on the bonnet of the DeLorean, loaded down in jewels! I'll never be a page three model, but boy was it fun pretending to live the life!

Tom and his family convinced my parents to send me to theatre school, and we swapped christmas cards for years. As with many old friends, we just fell out of practice and lost touch, though I never forgot my experiences. On Monday or Tuesday this week I was calmly watching 'Come Dine With Me' on channel 4 when I heard a familiar voice. I looked up from my knitting to see Tom amongst the guests. He hadn't changed a bit and I was thrilled when he won.

All my memories came flooding back and I decided to try googling him. The first result which came up was his own website, so I emailed the address on there, never really thinking that I'd get any answer from it. Yesterday morning, the phone rang at 8am and it was Tom and his wife. It was as though we had spoken only yesterday, despite the many changes in both our lives. They had had only one grandchild when I knew them, and that number had grown dramatically, and in fact the granddaughter I had babysat for is now doing A-Levels! ok, so now I felt really old, but it was worth it. It was a wonderful way to start the day.

It really is good to talk ;)

It's a waiting game

So those of you who've read the this blog from the start, or who know me in the 'real' world, will know that I've not had a great time over the last year or so. It seems like just as you get one thing going right, another will go wrong to take it's place.

I now know what's wrong with my heart, and on Wednesday I started a new med to try to control the problem. Things were going well for a change, then Thursday dawned. I was sluggish, and tired and really didn't want to get out of bed that day, but I managed it and even made it out of the house for a walk. I was happily daydreaming about buying a big house, as I wandered through the gorgeous show homes on my estate, when my phone rang. Mum...again...well that's what I thought, except instead of gabbling away with the in's and out's of her day she said the words that every child hates to hear.

'Your Granda's not very well, we're waiting for the doctor now'. It's that call, the one that plunges your heart to your feet, before dragging it up to reside in your throat. It's even worse when you live so far away and you can't instantly drop everything to head to his bedside. You sit gazing at the phone, half of you willing it to ring, the other half scared to answer when it does ring.

Granda, has had another heart attack and is now in the hopsital. There is something 'off' with his heart. That is in fact the current technical term the docs are using, so obviously I'm very reassured. I'm even more reassured, because when I called the ward to speak to him, the nurse told him I was my mum, then tried to tell me he was 'confused' when she thought he was using the wrong name for his daughter. Isn't it reassuring to know that the NHS service is just as crap in NI as it is here in England?

So what do you do when you're waiting around for the phone to ring and are trying not to brood? Me? I bake! After all, stressed, is desserts spelt backwards and I find baking something sweet the quickest way to chill myself out. So I flipped the switch on the oven and trawled through the thousands of recipes I have for something new to try. I came up with these vampire cookies, a recent find for a swap I'm involved with over on ravelry.

They were really simple to put together and as you'll see from the pics they turned out ok... well I think they did.

Even more importantly, they killed the time I need to kill. Mum has just rung to say that the hospital are releasing him, and letting him go home. Unstable angina, brought on by the smorgasbord of tablets they had him on, so they're cutting a lot of the meds out for the future.

So my wonderful, funny, caring, amazing grandfather is on the mend, thank God. It may be mothers day this weekend guys, but don't forget the Granmas and Grandas that brought your mothers into this world. Appreciate every minute you have with them, for they are very precious and are gone far too quickly.

Mama, I love you, Mama I care

So by now my mother has been to visit and returned home to Belfast again. I love my mum to bits, but boy is she tiring. The woman is amazing. Despite knee surgery three weeks ago, she is a one woman shopping dynamo and nothing stops her. I’ve always had trouble keeping up with her, but with the way my health is at the minute it’s ten times worse than usual.

Mum was always a typical ‘mum’. She cooked, cleaned and provided a taxi service to all the usual childhood clubs and classes. When my sister and I took up dance classes, we discovered how far behind Northern Ireland was when it came to culture. The only way to buy ballet shoes was to draw around your foot, then write your name on it and mail it to Freed of London. They would figure out your size and send you back a pair of shoes. Mum wasn’t having this and immediately set about opening a shop to cater to the dancewear market. That was 20 years ago, and though there are now other shops, her shop is still the top place for dance costumes and accessories in Northern Ireland.

Like many women, my mother is a woman of many contradictions. She is tiny and feminine, yet I get the feeling she could successfully manage an army with just one raised eyebrow. Many men I know are terrified of her even though at 4’9 and a half (that half is very important peeps), she’s hardly of an intimidating stature, in fact I think she falls under the legal definition of a little person.

My mum is a nurse, and she’s been through many various nursing incarnations. As long as I can remember, she was a night duty nurse on an ENT ward. A few years back, she decided to go back to Uni, completing both a diploma and a degree, which meant she could convert to children’s nursing. She spent a few years on the Children’s ENT ward, before accepting a post as a nurse in a special school.

I think I can safely say that Mum found her niche. She is amazingly dedicated, even going as far as visiting her young charges when they are hospitalised. She’s always in school early, and often leaves after the teachers.

Like many mothers, she does take a lot of interest in her children’s lives and those of you who know me, will have heard me complain about the amount of daily phone calls I get from her (upt to 7 or more a day at times!). My sister is totally different, she only answers the phone when she feels like it. This means that I regularly get calls asking me what my sister is up to, despite the fact that my sis lives 25 minutes away and I never see her.

However, much as I can be annoyed at times, I know that my mother is unique. Not only is she amazingly generous, but she’s surprisingly open-minded as parents go. How many other children can say that they’ve gone shopping for a transvestite or a lap dancer...with their mother? Or that their mother was the one to invite a boyfriend to stay over? The best bit, well I think it’s the best bit, is that my mum even watches porn. Ok, the soft focus cheesy crap that used to be on channel 5 after 11, but still, you have to admit. I have the coolest mum in the world!

I’ll add that to my list shall I?

I’ll be honest and admit that being off work for so long has been driving me crazy. As any of you who know me in real life will testify to, I’m a workaholic. I love being busy, and will never do just one thing at a time if there is the possibility of doing more. I’m never happier than when I have the opportunity to make lists. Lists are my life! How did anyone ever survive without them?

By week four, despite my sleep problems getting worse, I am finally able to read normally again, and am starting to think that I should maybe have shares in Amazon. I’ve been spending a lot of time on Ravelry and the lovely ladies over there are more than happy to point you in the direction of yet another vampire book series. It seems that there is no end to the paranormal romance phenomenom, and just like life it comes in all shapes and sizes. No matter what you’re in the mood for, you can find a supernatural book to suit you.

Whether it’s the sex and violence of J.R Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood, Kelley Armstrong’s strong women, or the Bridget Jones-esque antics of Katie McAlister’s heroines, there is quite literally something for everyone. I’m loving nearly all of them, as my moods these days are as quick to change as the capricious British weather, and thanks to having a dicky ticker, I still have no life to speak of.

The lists this week have been more about cleaning than fun things. My mum is arriving this evening to lend some moral support. She’s going to go with me later in the week to see the specialist, and I get the feeling she is planning on kicking ass while she is at it. Like me, mum has had enough of indecision and lack of answers. I’m so pleased she’s going to be with me, but her arrival means that I’ve had to tidy the flat.

My flat is generally clean, but I just don’t do tidy. Why keep putting something away when you’re going to use it again in an hour or two or even a day or two? It’s not like you’re tripping over things, or that I’m hoarding newspapers from 50 years ago. I’m not even as bad as an old flatmate who used to keep bags of rubbish in his room. No matter though, when family or friends arrive, we have this urge to tidy and clean and put on a show. Why aren’t we happy to be ourselves? Why can’t we assume that our loved ones will accept us for who we are and the way we like to live? So I’ve decided that this is the last time. If you want to judge me by the way I live fine, but I’m going to be me. From now on, y’all will just have to take me as you find me.

Small pleasures, small pleasures, who would deny us these?

So by now you’ve heard the whole sorry saga of my week in hospital. I honestly cannot find the words to describe how good it felt to walk through my own front door and crawl into my own big cosy bed. We really do take the little luxuries in life for granted. There is nothing like sliding between freshly laundered sheets, in clean pajamas, after a long hot shower. As mastercard says...priceless.

It’s been four weeks since I was released from the hospital, and while I feel a good bit better than I did in there, things still aren’t great. The consultant is still tap dancing around answers in his best Fed Astaire style, and my sleep is still fairly non-existent.

However, while still a touch anxious, I am by no means depressed. Why are doctors so quick to assume people, and women in particular, are depressed? GP’s seem to prescribe anti-depressant tablets at the drop of a hat, dishing them out like sweeties at a kiddies party. If the NHS is so deep in debt, surely some of that wasted money could be clawed back by cutting down the number of patients who have been misdiagnosed with depression?

The first few weeks out of the hellhole were tough. I was still dragging ass, and unable to get my head in the game enough to read or knit for any length of time. I slowly worked my way back up to activities, feeling childishly proud of myself for something as simple as doing all the dishes in one go, or for getting more than one load of laundry done in a day.

Sadly enough, the highlight of my third week out was the fact that I finally managed to have a go at playing with my new Just Dance game for the Wii. Ok, I only managed one short dance before having to collapse on the sofa, but hey I finally dancing again! It brings you back to the title of today’s blog. Look around you, take in the little things, and above all, appreciate the small pleasures that life offers you.

Jesus may love you, but everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.

I never want to get old. Being old, from all I have seen, really really bites. It’s bad enough to lose your dignity, having to be helped with such small tasks as washing or going to the bathroom, but the thought of losing my grasp on reality scares me, and this recent hospital stay hasn’t helped. I’ve talked about Sweary, the elderly patient who like to slag off the nurses. Well this lady was in her 80’s, blind, partially deaf and going senile to boot.

If you tried talking to her, she would become more coherent the longer you spoke to her, but strangely enough, the nurses really frowned upon you talking, ok shouting, to her in the middle of the night, and unfortunately that was when she was most awake. I never even found out what she was in hospital for, but she made my stay hell.

Her favourite trick, once she’d realised that shouting for a nurse wasn’t going to work, was to sing at full volume and top of her songsheet was the Sunday school classic ‘Jesus Love me’. Well boys and girls, I’m not afraid to admit that at 3.55am, after 47 runthroughs of verse one, the thoughts crossing my mind were far from Christian. Jesus may love her, but I was ready to pop an air bubble in her IV.

Obviously, I didn’t stoop to murder. However, this was my breaking point, and after being denied a sleeping tablet by the nurses, I hid in the bathroom and had myself a damn good cry. The docs had been making a song and dance about me being depressed, but this was the first time I began to think they might be right. I say began, but it didn’t last long. I wasn’t depressed just exhausted and desperately in need of a 12 hour sleep session.

By morning, I really wasn’t feeling much better and keeping cheerful was getting tough. Finally, it was time for rounds again and The Consultant and his minions appeared at the end of my bed. Once again, despite being a mere 3 feet away from me, they jabbered away as if I didn’t exist then turned on the failproof ‘charm’to ask about my mental state that day.

Basically, the underlying message of their visit, was that they had no clue what was wrong with me. They decided to spring me free from my incarceration simply because they didn’t know what else to do. Eight long days of ups and downs, and all for nothing it seemed. They wanted to see if my sleep problems were actually a symptom, or merely a side effect of the hospital circus. It didn’t really matter at the time, all I heard were the magic words.’ You can go home for now’. Thank you god, freedom is mine!

Round and round and round again

Weekends on a hospital ward are a little different to the mid week hustle. The biggest difference is that there are no doctor’s rounds in the morning, though you do see the odd junior dogsbody running around signing for prescriptions etc. It means, that during the day at least, things are a little more peaceful and a lot more boring...if that’s even possible.

Days on the ward seem like endless stretches of time broken only by the rigidly timetabled meals, and the not so well timetabled obs rounds. Nurses flit by, always rushing to the next ringing call bell, and requests are often forgotten. It would be easy to say that they are ignored, but I know that it’s not that simple. These men and women have far too many tasks to do already, and so when asked for something simple like a jug of water, or an extra blanket, it’s far too easy to simply forget that they had been asked.

I think the worst thing of this whole experience was the way the doctors treated me. They stand in a wee huddle at the end of the bed discussing you as though you weren’t even there. Then they turn on that patronising smarm and ask ‘and how are we feeling today?’ WE? I am climbing the damn walls, thank you very much. Calmly, and patiently I explained my symptoms, over and over again, to every doctor who came by the bed. However, instead of coming up with any answers, all I got were yet more questions. Every doc had a different answer, and not one agreed on the type of tests I should undergo.

The only thing that was keeping me sane was Emma, in the next bed, though we were often in trouble with the nurses for setting off our monitors. I particularly remember the Sunday evening. I’d finally caved and paid for the hospital TV. I wanted to watch the vampire diaries, and the superbowl final ,and with no internet, TV was the only way to go. So I shuffled off to the card machine, and then got myself all wrapped up in my blankies with my water glass nearby.

It was only after I got comfy I realised that I was in trouble. I still had an IV in my right elbow, which meant I couldn’t bend my arm. Have you ever tried to put on a pair of headphones one handed? Even worse, I was right handed, and having to use my left for everything. Cack-handed doesn’t cover it, and after a minute or two my giggles started. Emma didn’t take long to follow and soon both of us were rocking with laughter. We’d barely started when the thud of racing feet came our way and a frantic nurse skidded to a halt between the two beds. ‘Just what are you two troublemakers up to now?’ It seems that on a hospital ward, fun is forbidden too.

With friends like these...

I was really getting sick of the whole not sleeping thing. It was 2.30am and all wasn’t quite well on the CCU. Earlier in the week I had been told I had to wear surgical stockings to help prevent DVTs, or blood clots for those of you less well versed in hospital acronyms. Now I’m a very retro girl and I love anything vintage. I’ll wear garters and stockings far far quicker than I’ll put on a pair of tights, but these are not your average stockings. These are boa constrictor tight, itchy as hell and bright raging green. Even worse, I wasn’t allowed to take them off...ever.

After 3 days of non-stop usage, I’d had enough. The itching was driving me crazy, so I did the one thing I try never to do. I pushed the nurses call button and waited for that soft shoed angel to appear. After a few minutes of explaining, and whinging, and alright, out and out pleading, she finally agreed to let me take the instruments of torture off for an hour or two and I finally got some sleep.

Morning broke with the usual blood pressure and temperature rounds, and I had to put the evil stockings on again, but at least this time I had two hours sleep to fortify me. I waited patiently for the drug round and my morning cocktail of tablets to swallow down. As the nurse dispensed my goodies she informed me that I was being moved again. Again! Dear god it was like musical beds in this place! I was heading back to ward 16 again. OK, so I’d just gotten comfy, but this was a good thing. This meant I was getting better right? Surely this had to mean that I would get some answers soon?

This time my transfer was by wheelchair and I was getting used to the length of corridor between the two wards. A short hop later and I was pushed down the ward to see Emma waving at me. She was pointing at the empty bed beside her and calling ‘Here! Put her here!’ Thank god they did put us back together, and we took a few minutes to catch up on the few hours we’d been apart. Yes I know that sounds sad, and like some sort of old married couple, but hell, there was bugger all else to keep us sane except for each other.

I glanced around my new abode to take stock of my new neighbours and had to do a double take. Surely God wouldn’t be that cruel? Nope, he or she was, and there facing me were the screamer and the foul-mouthed old lady from the first ward I had been on. Give the staff their due, the screamer looked loads better and was even sitting in a chair beside the bed, but in the bed beside her, Lil Miss Sweary was dozing away.

I soon learnt that this was a routine. Sweary would sleep all day, bitching at the nurses when they woke her for meals or the obs rounds, then wake about 7pm and talk all damn night. I say talk, but what I really mean, is talk, sing, cry, shout and obviously, swear. All night long! The doctors prescribed her a sleeping tablet, but it didn’t work. So the rest of us asked for sleeping tablets...and were refused. How in the hell was anyone meant to rest in this madhouse?

Stop the World, I want to get off.

So, as I’ve said before, CCU was very peaceful in comparison with my previous residences. Obviously, that’s not counting the constant low hum of monitors, or the beeping of racing hearts. I had never realised how mesmerising watching a wavy line could be. I pestered the nurses to explain what ‘tachy’ and ‘brady’ meant (fast and slow basically) and why the machine recorded them. I became an expert at spotting when my ectopic beats (that’s extra beats to you laymen) would appear, and would hold my breath and play statues every time I set the monitor off...which was pretty often. I even held off on going to the toilet too much, because every time I moved, my heart rate would sky rocket.

I got to know my ward mates as best I could and discovered that Emma loved the twilight books almost as much as me. I don’t care if I’m 30 plus and sad, I really enjoyed them and will happily spend hours analysing them with fellow fans. Unfortunately, after only 5 minutes of discussion, we started talking about the men in the films and found a nurse flying to our sides as the heart monitors went off the scale. Oooops. So, no talking about men then. I don’t watch soaps, or read magazines, and I was still too listless to do much reading or knitting. What the hell else was I to do? Even worse, they were moving Emma across to Ward 16. I was being abandoned!

Naturally I spoke too soon, for as rounds started I had the first of four different doctor’s visits. Yes I said four! Even more fun, they all had different opinions of what was wrong with me, and what they should do to fix me. Those curtains were opened and closed more often than Jordan’s bra comes off that day. Eventually, they decided to do a test called an Ajmaline reveal. I will admit that when they explained the test to me, I did have a mini panic in my head. It was a fairly scary test, but at least they said I could have someone with me. So, ignoring the frantically beeping monitor, I slipped into my dressing gown and fluffy boot slippers (Thanks Auntie Angela, most useful crimbo pressie ever) and toddled off to the day room to update the parents, and beg my baby sister to come hold my hand. Hell I don’t care if I’m meant to be a big girl, I was scared shitless and desperate for a familiar face.

A few hours later, after a rather amusing argument with the pharmacy people who did not want to dispense the drug needed for the test, the posse arrived at my bed with a lot of scary equipment. There was the, by now, very familiar ECG machine, the drip stand and a fucking huge needle, and then there was the crash cart. Yup, that thing with the paddles that you see on every medical drama, usually with a hot doctor attached screaming ‘clear’.

For the umpteenth time in the last 5 days, the world and his dog got to stare at my tits as I was loaded up with sticky tags and electrical wires. They even put the rubber mats for the paddles on me. Hell what were they expecting? I was beyond paranoia and into full blown fear by now. I just kept repeating to myself that they would let my sister back in once I was covered up again. Except they didn’t let her back. Some Hitler in knickers at the front desk said that she and her boyfriend had to come back in an hour when the test was over, and wouldn’t let them on the damn ward. This was not in my contract peeps. I wanted a hand to hold and where the hell was it?

The test itself wasn’t pleasant at all. As usual, my veins were less than co-operative with getting an IV put in, and it took several botched attempts before they managed to get a baby-sized one in. Once the drug was in, the seriousness hit me. My tongue was numb, I had pins and needles all over, and was dizzy as all hell. They were taking ECG’s every 5 minutes to start with, then they cut it down to every 10minutes. Suddenly, just lying on the bed doing nothing was looking better and better every minute. Staring at the Doctors and nurses surrounding me, I was reminded of a line from an old musical. ‘Stop the world, I want to get off!’

Silence Is Golden

Result! A whole 4 hours sleep. It felt like heaven and though I could have done with some more, I was happy to settle for that. I was even more pleased when the now rather unhappy staff nurse returned to apologise for the night before. Yes, I was right, the student had fabricated the entire thing and was going to get a bollocking when she arrived for her next shift. The day was getting better and better. All I needed now was a free pass to get home and the day would be complete.

After what felt like hours, and was in fact, hours, the docs made their way round again and I sucked in a deep breath and waited to hear the magic words ‘you can go home’. You can probably imagine my disappointment when they said that they wanted to do more bloody tests. I mean, you can only give blood so many times, right? Still, I was a good girl and sat patiently while the nurse attached the sticky pads and leads of a wireless heart monitor to my chest. At least this ward was a little quieter. I would cope, that’s all.

Not even 30 minutes later the ward sister appeared and announced that I was moving...again. It seems hospital beds are like buses. You can’t get one for love nor money, then two come along at once. This next move was to the Coronary Care Unit, and I’ll be honest, the name alone scared me a little. I’m only 32, why the hell did I need to be on a tiny ward with 8 beds and a permanent crash team on standby? Was I really that ill? And if I was, why the hell was no one telling me anything?

So yet again, I packed my belongings (which were rapidly starting to look like I’d moved in permanently) ,dumped everything onto the bed and waited for Igor to arrive to move me. You know I feel a bit mean calling the porter ‘Igor’ cos it isn’t his name, but he honestly walks and talks just like a mad scientist’s sidekick from an old 50’s horror film. He didn’t take long, lurching into the bay with his lop sided gate and we were off again.

The CCU was as scary as the name had sounded, at least to begin with. As I said, it only had 8 beds, and everything was hushed for the afternoon quiet time (I kid you not). Lights were off, visitors had been chased away and the blinds were down. They took their nursing seriously on that ward. The people here were much more ill than those I’d seen previously and most of them were waiting for an operation at an Oxford hospital.

The ward was divided into two bays of four beds, with the most ill patients in the right hand bay, and us not quite so ill peeps on the left. Well...I say not so ill, but the lady nearest the nurse’s station was dying, and had an endless stream of weeping family slipping in and out of her curtained off area. Facing her was a gentleman who was clearly very ill, and constantly wearing an oxygen mask, though he was clearly trying hard to keep optimistic. He had a wee portable dvd player and was watching endless episodes of Sherlock Holmes at full volume.

The woman in the last bed turned out to be my life saver. She was 36 and a routine angioplasty had discovered a 99% blocked artery in heart and she was waiting to go to Oxford to have a stent placed in it. Other than that, she felt perfectly healthy, and like me was climbing the walls.

They wheeled me to my place and I realised there was a monitor screen by the bed. I could see exactly what my heart was up to at all times. Now I don’t know about you, but I think that makes things even scarier. Every time I moved my pulse would race off and the machine would start yelling at me.

As a teacher, I had taught enough basic science that I knew what a resting heart rate should be. I even knew that it would get a bit faster as I moved about, however, I sure as hell knew it shouldn’t race to 160+ just because I straightened out my blanket, or turned over in bed! Nope, this wee machine was too much info, and hell on any attempts to sleep, as the minute you rolled over in bed (and your pulse raced off again) it set off its siren wail to the nurse’s station, and you waited patiently for the nurse to appear to reset the machine. Funnily enough, yet again, sleep eluded me.

I’ve got to get out of this place

After a second night of no sleep my patience was fast waning, and I wasn’t impressed by some of the nurses I had met. One Gestapo wannabe actually told me off for warning her that The Screamer was trying to escape. Despite the fact that this time she’d managed to swing her legs all the way off the bed and had actually made contact with the floor, pulling out two of her IV lines in the process, I got told off. ‘What do you think we do when you’re not here missy?’ well actually nurse, as it took you 15 minutes to answer the call bell I pushed, I think she falls and sets back her healing even further, but thanks for asking. With only 2 trained nurses, and a handful of HCA’s for nearly 30 beds, calling the ward ‘stretched’ was a joke. Adequate care was almost a thing of the past and they were only just scraping through.

Doctor’s rounds brought no joy for me, only the prospect of yet another day sampling the not so hospitable joys of the NHS. It did mean musical beds again, and this time we lost Wheezy and Singy, and gained Dumb and Dumberer. Dumb was living in the past and would relive long gone conversations in between her breaks from shouting at the nurses and calling them names. The highlight of that day was hearing this frail looking little old lady call the nurse a motherfucking bitch troll from hell. She would turn the air blue with regularity.

Finally, at 7 pm, after a day of listening to the yelling, bleeping and hissing from the oxygen masks, and just as my visitor arrived, they finally found me a bed and the prospect of sleep was in sight again. I packed up my belongings and the porter started the short trek along the corridor to the new ward.
Once there, I was quickly settled and staring round me in stunned shock. Sure, there were still the odd bleeps and buzzes and the inevitable brrrr of a phone, but in comparison with the CDU it was blissfully quiet. I even started to feel more positive. My sister and her other half appeared to entertain me, and things really looked a ton brighter.

As we were chatting and catching up on life outside hospital, a student nurse appeared and asked if she could ask a few questions to admit me to the ward. She asked 2 questions, then announced that as I had guests, she’d come back later. I found it a tad strange as they’d been there when she appeared with her clipboard and it hadn’t bothered her then, but I kept my mouth shut, and just nodded like a good little patient. However, she didn’t come back and 2 hours later I saw her slip her coat on and head home. I still had no chart, and was waiting for the jug of water she had promised me.

When the drug round started, the chart magically appeared, and as soon as the nurses moved on, I did exactly what my mummy had taught me. I hauled that puppy up from the end of the bed and read every line in it. I may not have 7 years medical training, but I’ve spent enough time in hospitals, and around my mum, to pick up enough info to work out the gist of it if nothing else. I could see that I’d been having a high temperature off and on, and that my blood pressure was getting lower and lower. Then I turned a page and found the new bit that the student had started. I’m sure you can imagine my disgust when I realised that instead of coming back to ask her questions she’d gone ahead and made it up. I was now allergic to Penicillin, had been admitted with shortness of breath and had no history of dizziness or fainting in the last six weeks, or history of heart problems in the family.

So the fact that I was allergic to bisoprolol, not penicillin, and had been admitted with a blackout after dizziness was just a minor detail. Again, being my mother’s daughter, I wasn’t going to let that slide and as soon as I could snag a nurse (still no mean feat, cos they were just as short staffed on the new ward) I explained that one or two bits weren’t quite right. ‘No, they’re fine’ was the answer and no matter what I said, the staff nurse argued until she was blue in the face that I was wrong and she was right. Well, I was too knackered to fight and was ready to hit the sack so I left her ‘looking into it’ and curled up for the night, crossing my fingers and toes that sleep might actually, finally be in sight.

Why Does It Always Rain On Me?

Why do people think that hospitals are restful places? Where does the ‘angel of mercy’ nursing stereotype come from? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve met some amazing nurses, and my mother and several good friends are in the profession, but like all professions, healthcare has its unwanted relations, who give everyone a bad name.

After waiting on a very uncomfortable gurney in A+E for 9 hours (yes, you did read that number correctly!) I was finally moved to what is known as the Clinical Decisions Unit, CDU for short, or as I have come to call it, The Tenth Circle of Hell. It’s a bit like a holding pen for casualty, or that room that Royal Mail have for the letters whose authors were dumb enough to forget the post code on their envelope. Chaos wouldn’t even come close to describing this place.

Buzzers sounding, alarms wailing and beds being trundled past by igor-like porters, and that was only the first 5 minutes! I was placed in a bay with 6 beds and within minutes, after staring around the room, I knew that as usual, I had drawn the short straw with my roommates.

To my immediate right was a young girl who had recently had her appendix removed and managed to catch a post op infection. Ok, so far, so good. I looked left and started to get disheartened. The lady in that bed seemed pleasant enough, but was sporting a chest drain that rattled and gurgled like a leaky old gutter. Casting my eyes across to the opposite beds, my heart gave up on sinking and plummeted to my boots. It was like some twisted version of Snow-White’s dwarves. To add to Sweaty and Wheezy, in the left corner we had Singy, the centre bed was Tiny (ok, admittedly, she was pretty nice) and finally, to the far right was the Screamer.

Singy liked gospel and in particular ‘Oh Happy Day. She also liked singing at top volume, slightly off key and with numerous repeats. When I say numerous, imagine a CD on repeat..repeat..repeat. Tiny was a lovely lady, but really rather ill, and her monitors would go off with amazing regularity which would lead to a stampede of medical staff thundering into the room and barking staccato orders in stentorian voices, generally just as I’d start to doze off. Then there was the Screamer who started out ok, with more of a moan than a scream, but gradually her muttered ‘oi’ would rise like a soprano reaching for that glass -shattering high ‘c’. Much to my horror, around midnight, she decided to change her repertoire. As her agitation built, she would start trying to climb out of her bed, and with all the wires and tubes she was trailing, my palpitations went into overdrive!

With this motley crew, I wasn’t expecting the best night’s sleep but I was still vaguely hopeful. When the lights were still shining brightly at 1.30 am, my hope was waning, but I dutifully lowered my bed (by remote! I so need one of these babies at home. It’s the only good thing about being stuck here.) turned off my light, pulled all of my four blankets over me and closed my eyes.

There is only so much you can do about trying to sleep. I used to brag that I could sleep anywhere, and as I had in fact fallen asleep under the main speaker in a busy nightclub, it wasn’t just telling tales. However, that was a few years ago, before the stresses of being a teacher and the joys of Betablockers came into my life. Now sleep is my most treasured commodity and I guard it like a leprechaun with his pot ‘o’ gold. Thanks to a change in tablets before Christmas, I hadn’t been sleeping much...well at all really. Since Christmas Eve, I hadn’t managed much more than an hour or so a night. 5 weeks later, after being admitted to hospital, I was more than ready for a good 12 hour marathon kip, but like that pot ‘o’ gold, it was always just out of reach.

Tuesday brought another game of musical beds, and we lost Sweaty to the surgical ward. She was replaced by a girl my own age who was in the throws of a rather massive asthma attack. She was gasping and sucking at the air around and just not taking any of it in. While they eventually calmed her down a bit, her fear of all things medical was verging on a severe phobia and the slightest thing would set her off. Things such as The Screamer’s escape attempts, which were now coming every ten minutes like clockwork. Bless the nurses, I have no idea how they kept their patience, cos I was ready to pop an air bubble in her IV after an hour and apparently she’d been there for days.

Days start early on the ward, with the nurses starting the blood pressure/temperature obs at 5.30 am. I eventually saw the cardiologist about 10 o’clock and listened with resigned ears as he told me about the tests they would be doing today...and tomorrow. My 24 hours was stretching and I was far from amused. The only bright sign was that he wanted me moved up to another ward which specialised in cardiac/respiratory patients. It was just a matter of waiting for a bed.

Naturally, being as tired as I was, I was not a happy patient, though I tried hard to be a good one. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m a pretty active person. I’m a doer, a worker, a ‘the devil makes work for idle hands’ kinda gal. I’m getting better at leaving work at work and have spent more time on my hobbies in the last few months, but I am still training hard to win an Olympic gold in multi-tasking. Simply put, I don’t do bored.

To my horror, one unfortunate symptom of this as yet unknown heart/possible exhaustion/we don’t know what the hell is wrong condition, was being unable to focus on one thing for very long. I couldn’t knit more than 2 rows before having to put it down, or read more than 3 pages before casting the book aside to lie listlessly in bed. I was climbing the walls! Luckily Cheeky Charlie came to the rescue again and brought me my laptop and a selection of dvd’s. It was only after she left that I discovered that my laptop didn’t play dvd’s. With no sign of a bed in the other ward, I was fast approaching breaking point, and facing night 2 in hell, I started planning my escape.

Emergency Paging Dr Beat.

I’ll, be honest, I’ve heard of blogs, and understand the concept. I just didn’t think it would be something I would ever do. After all, I’m no writer, and with my terminal case of verbal diarrhoea you’re lucky if I make sense at all. However, this week I’ve found myself a reluctant resident in one of the NHS’s finest medical establishments and after listening to my tales of life chez l’hôpital, one of my guests suggested I have a stab at documenting life on the front line. Naturally, my first instinct was to laugh it off, but after 4 days here, I’ll try anything to relieve my boredom.

I arrived here on Monday morning bright and early. Admittedly, I’m not much of a morning person and don’t so much leap out of bed, as reluctantly peel away the duvet and drag my zombie-like body towards the bathroom for some cold water to kick start the day. Monday was no exception. I’ve not been sleeping well lately and hadn’t slept at all that night, so I was feeling particularly useless on my rise from the dead...sorry bed. I wandered into the bathroom, parked myself on the loo, with the day’s ‘to-do’ list scrolling through my head, and promptly blacked out. Not your Hollywood swoon with a graceful slide to the floor, but a cheek plastered to the wall and drooling down my chin job. So attractive! I came to a few minutes later and decided that just maybe, rather than driving myself to A+E, I should perhaps ask my neighbour to drive instead.

I’m amazingly lucky in my flat, in that I have fab neighbours on my floor. It’s a bit like being back in Dorms again, but more importantly, I like to think they’re good mates. So after a minute or two to wipe up the drool and make sure I was covered, if not decent, I banged on Charlie’s door. She looked just as awake as I felt, but didn’t hesitate to offer to drive me in, and we were suited and booted and on our way in to casualty in no time at all.

Now, I’m pretty cack-handed and have spent my fair share of time sampling the delights of various emergency departments, and so I wasn’t that worried about going in. After all, it was 8.30 on a Monday morning, how busy could it be? It wasn’t as if I had to contend with weekend drunks or sporting heroes. Judging from my years of experience, I reckoned we’d be in and out in about 2 hours or so. Perfect. Get them to check me over just in case, then crawl back into my bed and attempt to catch up on my missed sleep. It was the perfect plan...and like the best laid plans, destined to go awry.

all started so well. The department was empty and I was seen by the triage nurse in less than 5 minutes. We settled down for the expected hour and half wait to see the docs. True to form, an hour and a half later I was called through to a cubicle. Thankfully, the lovely Charlie had stayed with me and was on hand to keep me entertained. See I’m not a good patient, I hate to wait for anything and have a tendency to forget or underplay my symptoms, and after calling me through , the rather scary doctor clutching the obligatory clipboard and sporting a 5 o’clock shadow, proceeded to disappear like the after eights at a party. There wasn’t hint nor hair of him for another hour, and just as I was settling in for my toddler in a tantrum scene, he finally reappeared. Man he was scary, he barked out questions like a drill sergeant on parade, and treated me like a specimen on a glass slide. He ordered some bloods and vanished yet again...for another bloody hour!

Thankfully, he was swiftly replaced by a very handsome young registrar, who made me go through the whole damn rigmarole again. Why do they bother taking a history and triage notes, if you’re going to have to go through it again and again? Still, I wasn’t so pleased to see him when he said that they were going to keep me in for observation. ‘Just 24 hours’ he promised. ‘Just let the cardiologist take a look then you can go home.’ I should bloody coco. I’m still here 5 days later!