Ramblings – Page 3 – Captain's Log

Iron Man faints at the gym!

A bizarre title you might say but it was a bizarre series of events if I’m honest.

I’ll make this a quick one as I have already blogged today, but this made me laugh so here you go.

I have a suit of armour in my front lounge. I say front lounge as though I have more than one but I don’t. I have a tiny lounge, and my knight stands in the corner glaring at people as they enter the room. I’m seriously thinking of fitting a little microphone thing inside his helm and saying ‘NONE SHALL PASS’ to whoever comes to visit me.

He was almost menacing. Almost… until you spot the rubber gloves.

That would be cool right? But I digress.

A friend and his autistic son came and visited me today to drop off some goat food (Yes, I have goats.) and the young lad was in awe of my suit of armour. He kept poking it which causes my eye to twitch in what I presume is irritation and barely restrained gorilla rage. He keeps poking until it starts to sway at which point I feel the need to ask them both to leave. The father was somewhat embarrassed and I kind of feel bad, but hey… nobody pokes my knight in the groin.

A little while later I receive a text message from the father, firstly apologising and secondly telling me that his son thinks I am Tony Stark, aka Iron Man. Now I found this to be hugely cool. I have never been a hero before, even in my dreams. (Yes, I have been a Jedi.) To make things even cooler, my wife also bumped into them and the son asked her if I was a superhero. Ever up for a practical joke she simply replied, ‘Oh I wouldn’t be allowed to answer that. Superhero’s need to have a disguise, don’t they?’

She said his face lit up as though he were the only one in the world to know my secret. Priceless.

So, I am now a superhero in the eyes of an autistic child. Now, superhero’s need to look pretty super. They have to look all muscular and strong so that the baddies know they’ve picked on the wrong guy, and so I went down the gym. Now it’s important to remember a few facts here.

I am now an approved superhero.
I have not been to the gym in at least six months.
The Olympics is on and they play it on huge screens in the gym, egging you on to greater feats of endurance and godliness.

I only did half an hour and boy did I feel as though I’d run for a week and lifted every rock and stone of Hadrian’s Wall. I left the gym and I have to say I was feeling pretty good until I stepped outside. My wife met me (as she had been swimming) and said that my lips were grey and that I had less colour than paper. I have to admit to feeling rather ill. We drove home as quickly as possible where upon getting in the house I promptly collapsed. My wife tells me I had no pulse at my wrist at this time and had it not been for my pitiful cries I could have been dead. Not a good look. Thank god the autistic kid didn’t see that.

Right, that’s it for today. I need my rest. Hopefully my dignity will grow back as I sleep.

M J

eBay…. you suck.

Okay… I was mad before when I wrote this post the first time. Now I am positively enraged. Seriously. I’m like a wasp in a bottle over here.

So, you’re probably guessing that I’ve just been outbid on eBay. This would be true. Chances are the same thing has happened to you. Sucks right? Fuck yeah. Some git beat me in the last second. The LAST second! Not only that, but they beat me by exactly one pound. Now, call me a cynic but I smell a rotten fishy. I’ve heard that there is software out there that will bid for you. Some kind of sniper software that will put in a higher bid in the final millisecond so that you can never lose but… come on, seriously? Surely that would be against the rules right?

I must be upset. I’ve just caught myself staring at the keyboard with a pouty bottom lip. This blows. Right, fuck it. Where’s my Gin????

I hereby boycott eBay for at least a week. Maybe a day.

Fuck it. I’ll let the Gin decide.

M 😦

This is not an amused face…

;

Okay… slightly miffed as this is the second time I have written this post but…. count to ten….

Okay. Feel better now. Where was I?

Today, is actually a pretty good day. I have just submitted a short story to a publishing house and feel really quite chuffed with myself right now. I am sorely tempted to crack open the wine and have a mini celebration all on my own but I’ll have to try to resist. My wife took her motorbike into work today and I happen to know that she was running low on fuel when she left the house. She’s at that nervous stage in her biking life whereby she knows the bike needs fuel but she’s never filled a bike up before. I went with her the first time but today she is all on her own. I got a text message a few hours ago that said she hadn’t stopped on the way and so she’s hoping she can make it to the fuel station on the way back.

*Sigh*

No wine for me just yet. I wonder if I’ll have to go and rescue her? Running through the options, it would seem the most likely scenario will see my driving to the fuel station and buying one of those annoying little containers. Then I’ll have to stand in a cue of cars like a lemon until I can fill the thing up. Drive off, fill up her tank and then drive off in disgust. Okay, maybe not disgust… but that won’t be a joyful face.

I’m off work today, and have been praying all week for a nice sunny day today. Behold! It is sunny! I was insanely pleased about this when I got up this morning as I’ve been itching to get out on my own bike all week. Alas, look at what I found in my tire…

An EVIL nail. — Arghhhhhhhhhh! I don’t believe it!

It should be noted that this is an image dragged off the net but, yeah, this is the same thing I found this morning. A fucking nail!

I rang my local garage and asked if I could pop in on the off-chance and have them just change it over quickly. I could almost hear the bitch sniggering down the phone, and I swore I heard her mouthing to a colleague ‘Oi, Daphne…. this bloke’s asking if he can just pop in on the off chance!’

Bitches.

Anyway, the end result is that it will be Tuesday afternoon before they can do the work. I’d do it myself but they don’t even have it in stock so I’m doubly shafted.

So, Tuesday…. hmmm. Just in time for me to go back to sodding work.

Damn, I really want to open that wine. Maybe if I text her now she can tell me of she thinks she’ll make it to a garage? Hmmm, maybe not. As pissed off as I’ll be having to rescue her, I doubt my wrath will compare to hers if I can’t perform said rescue because I’m drunk.

*Sigh*

M 🙂

Think…. think… oh sod it.

The title pretty much sums it up. I’m supposed to be studying and yet I keep getting sucked into bloody Facebook and various other forums,

Well, in an effort to do something constructive I thought, ‘Hey! Why don’t I write on my blog?’

I mean, its been fucking aeon’s since I even looked at this thing.

Damn this wine is good.

You see what happened there? I was telling you how long its been since I wrote something and then I go and get all involved with the wine again. I’ve been doing that all night. You don’t believe me? Ha, well I started that last sentence a half hour ago. I’ve been trawling through Facebook since. Oh, and Its my second glass since even starting this post.

Damn this wine is good.

Did I mention I like motorbikes? I do. I think they are gods own mode of transport, should he actually need anything. Anyway, this is just a random tangent I’m letting my fingers tread so bare with me a while longer. I’ll tell you about my latest project. Take a look at this…..

I call this beast El’Rusto. Its a fucking heap…. for now.

This beast has been keeping me busy for a few weeks now. I bought as a project and possible business venture with the wife. The plan was to buy up mechanically sound but otherwise cosmetically challenged bikes and make them look all pretty again. Simple eh? I mean its bomb proof right? Eh-er!

Its been a bloody disaster. Okay disaster is a bit harsh. Its not worked out quite how I thought it would. To save time here, and because I am a super lazy fucker, I will now compile a list of things I have learned and that have most likely fucked me off over the past few weeks.

CBR 125’s are as plentiful as council estate chavs.
Many council estate chavs are highly likely to own a CBR 125 at some time or another.
Being a chav, they are also highly likely to neglect little things like, oh I don’t know, servicing, MOT, basic maintenance. That sort of thing. Anything important that would involve any degree of responsibility.
Its also highly probable our friendly chav does not own a garage or even a shed. El’Rusto will sit outside in the garden, alongside a fridge maybe, and possibly a sofa.
If, like me, you are super keen to get to work and hopefully turn a profit, you’ll discover that because of all of the above, you’re in for real treat.
On getting the bike home (and into some decent light that doesn’t involve Mr Chav showing you the bike via a zippo lighter) you discover that the bike is more rust than anything else.
All of the fairings are scratched, cracked or both.
Every single serviceable item i.e air filter, spark plugs, breather pipes etc. are all absolutely fucking knackered.
An oil change will have you tearing at your own eyes as you struggle to make sense of the black sludge that drains from the sump.
Inspection of coolant will reveal that there is none.
Same for break fluid.
The forks will be badly pitted with the fork seals resembling something like Mrs Chav’s knickers after a night on the town.
You’ll probably sigh with relief as your realise the tires appear to be in good order, only to realise that that the rims are banana shaped.
Every little task you set yourself will, upon further investigation, be hiding a fucking big problem requiring not the half hour you planned but a full day.
I could go on… but the wine is running low.

I’m so glad this is good wine.

So, not to worry. The bike project is finally starting to make some headway now. I have conquered most of the major problems and corrected them and I’m happy to say that I think I nearing the finishing line. No, don’t applause. I’ve been here before and I don’t want anyone fucking clapping until that thing passes its MOT. I’m not sure if I had a goal prior to starting this other than to make money but now I certainly have one. I’d like this thing to pass its MOT first time with no advisories. That would be bloody wonderful and a testament to my manly skills too.

Right, wine? Wine??? Where the fuck is my wine?

A Simple Fall

Thought you might like a bit of insight into a typical paramedic call out.

I am as some of you know, a paramedic.

Last night I was called to attend a scene where an elderly female had fallen out of her wheelchair.

Now bearing in mind this had come in as an emergency call on the 999 system, I was dispatched the moment the call hit the switchboard. The address was only a few miles up the road from the ambulance station. I had to respond on blue lights and sirens as at this time the call takers had not managed to assess whether or not the old dear was injured. By the time they had come to the conclusion that she was not injured I was already on scene and in contact with the patient. This means I am now unusable for further emergency calls and my call sign drops off the system until I ‘clear’ from the scene.

I was met by two ‘carers’ who said they had not attempted to pick up the patient as they did not know if she was injured or not. I managed to assess that the lady was not injured in about 15 seconds. Firstly I asked simply if she had any pain anywhere, to which she answered no, and secondly, I asked her to show me she could move all of her limbs. She duly did so.

The carers then told me that they were not aloud to lift and that even if they could, they had no lifting aids.

*sigh*

I glanced back at the patient and estimated she weighed perhaps 7 stone. My offer to simply lift the patient up of the floor caused much alarm and posturing from the head ‘carer’, who insisted I fetch my air cushion and use that to lift the patient.

*sigh*

Still, off I trot and return with my air cushion. The cushion is to be placed under the patient before being inflated slowly. It can lift about 50 stone, which means if you are unlucky enough to find your patient is made of solid lead, you stand a reasonable chance of lifting them.

The carers were keen to help with the placing of the cushion, and so I handed the deflated unit over and asked them to place it under the old dears arse.

After about ten minutes they decided they couldn’t do it. They had tried rocking her from side to side to edge the cushion under her but that didn’t work. Then they tried asking the patient to shuffle herself onto the cushion. She moved about 1mm.

In exasperation, they turned to me and I have to say I was hoping they would. I can’t resist an opportunity to point out how ridiculous this kind of situation is and so leapt into action.

There are various methods to getting someone onto one of those cushions. They’d tried rocking her from side to side, edging the cushion a bit further under each alternately raised cheek. They’d tried getting patient to move herself (always my first choice) and they’d even fumbled about with a slide sheet for a while. None of these had worked. But then, it really didn’t matter because this was all a complete farce.

I placed the cushion behind the old dear…. And then lifted her onto it. I made a mental note that my earlier estimation of seven stone was far too generous.

I couldn’t resist a contemptuous sneer at the head carer as I did this.

We inflated the cushion and the old bird rose up into the air like a graceful animated corpse.

The thing is, we still haven’t solved the problem. Old dear is still not in her wheelchair, she’s just a few feet in the air now.

The carers had absolutely no idea how to transfer between the air cushion and wheelchair. I found this particularly strange as they were involved in every aspect of old dears care. Old dear couldn’t get onto the toilet, for example, without their help.

So after another ten minutes watching them try and convince the old dear she could perhaps levitate, I decided to step in. Once again, I just lifted her up and plopped her down in her wheelchair.

You see what a total farce this is? We have to be seen to using manual handling aids, but if you work on your own as I do and the available help isn’t trained, then what do you do?

The answer is that I should call in another ambulance resource. They might take an hour plus to get to me though as this is no longer deemed an emergency. When was it ever though? She’s not injured. She just can’t get up without help. I’ve known the arrival of back up to take up to three hours before. There just aren’t enough ambulances out there and so I am not going to call one of the few we have to assist me lift a sub seven stone woman.

So I take it upon myself to do what I feel has to be done. I take what I believe to be the common sense approach and I lift that frail old lady. I have performed a dynamic risk assessment on the fly and I feel I can confidently move that weight with little or no danger to myself or patient. What’s wrong with that?

So the old dear is now back in her chair, but I can’t leave yet. I have to complete my epcr – Electronic Patient Care Record. It used to be that we could complete a paper record of the event. Something along the lines of:

‘Non injury fall, assisted back into chair, nothing untoward found, left in care blah blah blah.’

Not these days though. Now I carry a little laptop type thing. I could write a paper form in about five minutes. This thing takes a minimum of thirty minutes.

By the time I have finished the care record and moved all my equipment back to car I find I have to stop briefly and reflect upon the amount of time spent with this patient and whether or not the call could have been completed quicker. I conclude that it could not have.

Put it this way. If the old dear was a member of my family, I firmly believe I could have assessed and popped her back into a chair in under five minutes. I would not have required any lifting aids and certainly no help from any other person.

As it stands, from call to finish, I have spent a grand total of one hour and forty five minutes dealing with this non injury fall.

This is apparently the way it has to be. Health and safety has gone completely nuts in my opinion.

Freelance? Me?

I won’t lie. I want to make money out of this writing lark. I’m sure many people do, as I’m sure many people actually do. But can I?

There in lies the question at the heart of the matter. There are a few concerns I shall list below that are at the forefront of my mind whenever I ponder this subject.

1) Do I have the motivation to stick to a given deadline? I really don’t know. If the frequency of my blog posts is anything to go by then you would be forgiven for thinking that the answer is no. And yet, I write an awful lot behind the scenes and 90% of the dribble I do churn out is just sitting on my pc’s hard drive. I tell myself that maybe one day it might make interesting reading but in reality it probable won’t. I am a victim of today’s fast society. Everything must be now now now. I need instant gratification. If I start reading something that hasn’t got me hooked within the first few lines then I’m gone. It hurts to say that because I know how hard it is to write. To spend hours crafting something, rewriting countless sentences and re-reading paragraph after paragraph – you don’t need someone like me deciding it’s not worth the effort after reading your first line. Perhaps I’m missing out. Maybe. Or maybe I’m saving time for those writers who know how to grasp my attention.

2) Talent. Quite simply, do I have any? How do you gauge this? I could (and have in the past) give my work to my friends or family to see what they think. But what are they really going to say? It’s doubtful they’ll be rude or harsh in their critique, just as its likely they’ll come back with something nice to say about it. They won’t be impartial and because of that fact, anything they say wont mean a damn because you just never really know what it is they really think. So what do you do? My personal thought on this is to not give anything you value to friends or family. Instead, send something you love equally out to the competitions. Let the public be the judge. I have a few bits and pieces on another website right that are doing quite well. A short story I wrote while smashed off my face a year back is still ranked number one in its particular category. Yet, when I re-read that piece I cringe. It’s grammar is appalling and I clearly didn’t proof read it before submitting but there you go. I guess maybe even if it looks bloody awful (and it really does), the underlying story still somehow shone through the shite. It never ceases to amaze me what people really like.

3) Were my fortune to change and I managed to sell something, or several bits and pieces…. How much would I have to sell before I actually made enough to live off? I’m not in this for mega money. I’d just like to be able to get up, not bother getting dressed, sit in my study and paint with words all day whilst not having to worry about how to pay the bills. That’s not too much to ask is it?

4) Where do I find the writing jobs people say are everywhere? How do you break into writing for tv or role play gaming?

5) Where the hell is the writing oracle who knows all the answers to my noob questions??????

Well there you have it. I know I’m not alone, and that there are 100000000000 of you wannabe writers out there but I just thought this post might strike a chord with some. We travel a lonely road but maybe someone reading this has seen the off ramp somewhere and might throw a few sign posts up? Then again, maybe that’s why the road is lonely. If its that hard to get to where you want to be… Maybe you feel nobody should have an easy time of it. I mean, if you worked as hard as I am right now to get where you are, are you really going to let someone else in who hasn’t put in the time? I’d be interested to know any thoughts people may have.

A Tower of Tampons

I hate shopping. No, that’s no fair. I am bored by shopping. So very bored.

Yawn…. We’ve heard all of this before… Why should I read any further?

Well you don’t have to, but if you stay I’ll share with you how it is that I get through a shopping trip with the wife.

Many men hate/loath/fear being dragged around Tesco or where ever for the weekly food shop. Me too, but secretly, I’m really starting to look forward to it. Now its an opportunity for me to come up with new and inventive ways to make a nuisance of myself and generally be as unhelpful and childish as possible.

It all started during a trip to a local DIY store. I was outstandingly bored to the point that I found myself staring in mock disgust at other men, other men who were nodding enthusiastically at their wives selection of lamp or curtain pole. On one occasion a chap caught me staring at him, my face a twisted sneer of loathing and he stood stock still. I imagine the awful realisation of what he had become was dawning upon him as his arms, outstretched as they were and clutching a carpet held up to catch the light from various angles, slowly lowered as he stared back at me. I could see the momentary change in his gaze as we shared a moment of understanding. What had we become? In my mind I wondered what a warrior Celt or roman soldier would have done when confronted with a choice of fabric to put on his humble homes floor. I imagine he would have back handed the woman to the floor, roared like an enraged god and then charged out into the ice wind to seek enemies to smite. He would return speckled with blood and carrying the bloody corpse of a slain lion – actually, two lions, one in each hand. The woman would then gratefully show her respect by prancing about naked and making ‘cute’ gasps of delight as our hero describes the lions final moments. Needless to say she would then except her reward for being a good and dutiful wife through the medium of a proper deep throating.

Er…. I digress.

So this guy sees my sneer of disgust and knows instantly that I think he’s a thumb crushed wimp of a man, but what’s this? His look of shock and recent dejection changes. It warps before my very eyes into one of a wry smile, grows into something more before finally, he beams in abject triumph. I follow his gaze and turn to see my own wife. She is holding a curtain rail in each hand and waiting for my judgement.

Sigh.

She sees me squeeze my eyes closed and assumes I am thinking really hard about which rail to choose but I’m not. I’m trying to hold on to the memory of me as a heroic Celt warrior being noshed silly by a grateful nymph and yet the dream drifts away – mere smoke through my grasping spastic fingers. In its place I see a pathetic looking man, naked and limp. He is sad as he looks at me and points where his beautiful naked nymph once stood. There stands a cackling witch and in her hand she holds a curtain rail shaped wand.

Sigh.

And so I grow angry, and then mischievous. We walk to another isle where a row of plungers catches my eye. I walk along the row pushing each and every plunger down so that it suctions to its shelf. Then I retire a little further up the isle and await some poor fool to walk into my trap. Behold! My first victim arrives and assuming nothing is amiss he tries to pluck up a plunger without even breaking stride. His stroll is suddenly arrested as the plunger refuses to move and he almost pulls himself off his own feet. As anyone would, he looks around quickly to see if anyone has noticed and sees me sniggering to myself. He shakes his head at me and reaches for another only to be thwarted a second time. I continue to snigger, only a little louder and my obvious mirth appears to challenge him. He places one foot on the shelf and for some reason unknown heaves with all of his might. I’m not sure how much suction he thought was holding those plungers down but the amount of effort he applied was probably a tad too much. The plunger, obviously, relinquishes its grip and the man, plunger in hand stumbles backward into the opposite isle.

I can barely stand, such is my amusement.

After that episode I spent many hours considering other schemes to amuse myself.

Hiding with the trolly is always a good one. I usually do this after my wife has just been down the pet food aisle and so carrying two cases of cat food. Watching her struggle to carry them around the shop and red with rage is priceless.

My best one so far though has go to be this. My wife has a fear of tampons. I don’t know if it’s the word ‘tampon’ or if it’s actually the thought that anyone who sees them will know she’s on her period but it still makes her bury them in the shopping trolly. This always amuses me. One day, I feigned interest and walked around the shop with her. I didn’t do any of my usual tricks or jokes and she assumed I’d finally grown up. When we got to the checkout she went to the packing bit and started to pack the bags while I proceeded to construct my masterpiece. I was getting some strange looks from the woman in the queue behind me as instead of laying all my shopping out nicely I proceeded to build a tower of food and other bits and pieces. And yes, you’ve guessed it, I placed her tampons at the top of this tower. I knew I would pay for it a soon as I got home but right there and then I was glowing with pride. The till girl saw what I had done as my massive tampon tower slowly moved toward her. At least she had a sense of humour as she laughed out loud. My wife then noticed and turned a brilliant red. It was awesome.

So you see, shopping doesn’t have to be hell on earth. There are a million and one different ways to make it more interesting, if not a little dangerous, but you get the meaning.

I wish you luck in your endeavours and hope you find as much enjoyment as I have an still do.

The Dreaded Synopsis

I need help.

My mind is failing me greatly as I attempt to pen a synopsis for a short story I am writing.

In my mind, the synopsis is soooooo important in avoiding the slush pile. I don’t know this for certain, as I am as yet unpublished although I’m working on the theory that a synopsis is equivalent to a personal statement in a CV.

The personal statement is always read first in an effort to find the applications that stand out. After all, if a company receives 100 applications for a single position then it can be safely assumed that they all meet the basic requirements for the job. Hopefully. Just trawling through them is not going to help in selecting the best candidate though is it? It would be soooooo boring trawling through 100 applications that all read the same.

Step forward the personal statement. This is the only piece of your application that allows you to show that you are a human being, and not just another drab looking application among many. If anything is going to help your application stand out then it’s the personal statement.

I think of the synopsis in the same way. I want so much to get it right and to stand out, but I’m drawing a major blank. The words just won’t flow. I sat at my keyboard for four hours yesterday and managed a mere 300 words, 200 of which I deleted. I went to bed with a splitting headache and feeling thoroughly defeated.

Today I am back at work and will be for most of the week. Hopefully this will give me the time I need to sort my head out and get back in the game.

Sit me down and ask me to write a personal statement and I’ll be fine. I have never, ever been refused an interview for a job in which I needed to submit a personal statement. Why then am I finding writing a teeny weeny synopsis so difficult?

Perhaps it’s because, unlike all the jobs I have applied for in the past, I didn’t really mind if I got the job or not. Now, all I can think about is getting this right.

I would genuinely appreciate any thoughts you may have on writing a synopsis. Do you have a particular method? Do you struggle too?

I am sure I’ll get it out sooner or later, but for the moment, consider this a cry for help.

M:-(

Strange but true…

I am near-psychic. It’s true.

If you call 999, ask for an ambulance, and I turn up, I can pretty much guess which house is yours. I don’t need to look at a number to get my bearings either, which really freaks out the new recruits.

There are some things that need to be true first before I can call upon this ‘gift’, but ultimately it almost never fails.

Time for an example.

I am called to a residential home for a ‘grey lady down’, which basically means an old dear has taken a nose dive somewhere in the building. I don’t need to know the layout of the building. As we drive up, I’ll take a quick look at which bit I think is the least accessible part of the building, and that’s where she’ll be. If it’s a three story building with no lift, she will definitely be on the top floor. If it’s one of those sprawling amalgamations of seven buildings knocked into one, she’ll be at the back somewhere, probably wrapped around a toilet.

This is 100% certifiable truth. I cannot explain it. It just is.

It also follows that, the higher up in the building you are, the more likely it is that you’re going to be really unwell. Again, I cannot figure this one out either.

I’ve just been to one actually, which prompted me to write about it. Number 67 it said on my job box. I looked at the building as I approached and knew from memory that it didn’t have too many rooms. There was a high possibility that my patient was very sick too.

Sure enough, number 67 was on the third floor, at the back of the building. Walking from the front door, which is the only way in by the way, you simply could not have chosen any other room that would have been further away.

Typical.

People never ever consider the emergency services when they chose where they are going to live.

Some people are DIY enthusiasts and landscape artists extraordinaire – they create a beautiful garden with shingle pathways, thousands of steps on multiple levels, and an phalanx of Rose bushes and other deadly pointy plant things for the poor paramedic to negotiate.

On one memorable occasion I visited a house that had a garden just like this. I swear the house itself was built on top of a hill. The old boy who lived there had clearly been involved in some D-Day action. Possibly on the side of ze Germans as his house was nigh unapproachable. I can’t imagine I would have been too surprised if I’d heard a machine gun open up on us.

So we arrive in the house, pouring with sweat and cursing a multitude of thorny sores and find this old boys wife on the floor. She’s clearly broken her hip given the amusing angle her left leg is in. She has also, along with her husband, clearly enjoyed life as she’s bigger than both my colleague and me put together.

I can still remember it clearly. I was none too pleased having to hump all that equipment up into the house, knowing full well it was all going to have to come back down again, but the moment I had been waiting for had arrived.

You have to appreciate that this couple have lived in that house for virtually half of their lives and not even considered what would be required if x happened or if y collapsed and broke her hip.

I explained to her what she had done and that we needed to get her to hospital. She just nodded at first, and I just sat there and waited……

And then light dawns. Her face creases into a frown as realisation hits home.

How the hell are we going to lift her out of that position and then negotiate that beautifully, well thought out garden?

She looks at me and I nod. Welcome to my train of thought Mrs Goodlife.

I can’t say it was fun or easy getting her out of her house and down into the ambulance, but we managed. Admittedly it took five people to do it but that’s the way it had to be.

I can’t say she enjoyed the experience either, being carried ever so gracefully like a flying elephant down her lovely landscaped garden whilst half the street looked on, drawn like moths to the two ambulances and the fast response car parked outside her house.

The old boy was great. As we descended with our precious ‘cargo’, he ran on ahead, helpfully clipping Rose bushes with a pair of scissors. I can’t say it made a huge amount of difference, but it was amusing.

So there you have it. Inaccessible places are the haven of accidents and ill health. Take my word for it.

I’m psychic you know.

M;-)

Death by PowerPoint

I am on CPD today.

CPD stands for Continuing Professional Development.

I hate it.

The only upside to attending CPD is that it’s a day off from the normal grind.

Every registered professional in the health service has to do it at least once per year. It’s where we go to ensure that if nothing else, we are up to date with the most fundamental changes to our practice. I guess this satisfies the Department of Health though.

It’s not the trainers fault that it’s so dull, though they don’t help themselves. I mean, who wants to sit in front of power point presentations for eight hours? Booooooring. I am of the belief that it is impossible to learn this way. I mean, I’m on my lunch break now and I have completely forgotten the entirety of this mornings ‘teaching’.

I upset the teacher too. He caught me nodding with my eyes closed. This is his first teaching gig and he’s eager to impress. He goes through each slide with such relish I can actually visualise him abusing himself over this crap behind closed doors.

So I upset him when I nodded off. I could really care less.

Only a few hours left now. I’ve sat here counting the lunch hour down and drinking anything that contains caffeine. The teachers will have their eye on me now and will gleefully single me out for awkward questions should I nod off again.

I may ask them to repeat the presentation if they do.

‘I’m sorry, I missed that bit. Could you repeat it please?’

…….

‘Yes, all of it. I haven’t heard a word you’ve said.’

Should be a fun afternoon.