Life is a four letter word

Terror Alert up a Notch

2010-01-23T11:28:00.007Z

Hummm ...Here we are are so what is this new alert? From 'be a bit scared but its not too bad' to okay 'now you need be at nearly poo your pants' stage. Clearly once you have actually defecated over your Calvin Kline's then you know stage 4 is here.

While I agree there should be a warning system we, as a race, are not bio-engineered to be constantly scared. We are survivors so we process the new information and set out own mental alerts. Fear comes in waves with specific triggers. Look at the millions who live on the San Andreas fault or in the shadow of Vesuvius most of the time they live and laugh and cry. But one wee tremor or a rumble of ash and fear comes to the surface. They hold their collective breath and the threat passes and life continues as before.

In the 80s (God now I feel old) I would cack myself at the sound of a siren. The four minute warning was the BIG THING. Jason Robards was in The Day After Anthony Andrews in Z for Zacharia and the threat of all out Nuclear warfare looked survivable - for some at any rate. And that is the problem right there...HOPE...it may happen but not to us, it may happen but we will be okay-ish, it may happen and we will survive with interesting scars and stories or it may happen and we won't know anything about it. We saw survivors among the catastrophe. We rely on our ability to endure, but maybe one day we won't.
There will always be evil in the world. There will always be good. There will always be fear, it is what keeps us alive. But when we are told stage 3 out of 4 it should be a tangible and specific threat otherwise we become complacent, Vesuvius will erupt again the San Andreas fault will move dramatically again, but if we are constantly told to be alert and nothing happens we will not believe it. Not even when it really hurts.

EEEK TEMPUS effed off as it were

2009-08-10T20:31:00.004+01:00

well a363 has been and gone. I achieved the grade I wanted with the score I didn't.

The course was fine but would have been much better with an experianced tutor. To have a novice 'teach' an advanced course was barmey. I used inverted commas for 'teach' - the tutor in question merely observed. Not my favorite OU experiance.

Still U211 beckons and I am really excited by it, and that it is my last course for honours, not completely sold on the russian roulette at the end...aka EXAM!!

Oh jings where has the year gone to?

2008-10-18T11:19:00.002+01:00

Funny course that E301. Great brilliant and utterly compelling. But could I write diddly squat thereafter? Nope. So here I am on A363. Big hopes and expectations and struggling every word of the way. Ideas are there but they are not at the forefront of my brain. Like familiar faces in the crowd but the name only comes to when you have passed them by.

So how do i release the beasts? Simple really...NANO...yep it is there looming large on the horizon...

Big Boy Is 21

2008-02-24T18:35:00.002Z

Hard to believe that time zips forward, my placid baby a young man. How proud I am of him and how lucky I feel.

It was a good night, we ate and drank way too much...but at least it was more civilised than the night he was born and John and his brothers celebrated Brians birth at Panama Jax. The aforementioned bar/club was down on the Clyde waterfront, the only thing they did not know was that Monday night was gay night.... It is still funny to hear them recount that first moment of realisation.

'We had ordered 3 pints, the barman smiled, seemed like a nice boy. Then as I raised my pint to my lips I saw 2 blokes dancing together, then another 2 kissing...thats the only place we have ever left our pints untouched. When we confronted the doorman on the way out, he said 'you can't tell by looking at a person sir.' That was bad enough...but there were three of us!!'

They then returned to our little home and bizzarely played monopoly drinking beer into the wee small hours.

21 years further home we returned and played Singstar and drank beer into the wee small hours...somethings are constant!

Little Britain meets Cocoon

2008-02-08T19:38:00.000Z

Mum was 80 at the end of January so we (my sister who lives in England and I who do not) decided to take her to London, correction -we decided- I took her.
She is still reasonably mobile but cannot walk far or very fast so a wheelchair is essential for zig-zagging through the terminals. I found an abandoned one in the car park at Glasgow airport so I acquired it, put mum into it, and charged on to check-in.
It was an overnight visit so we only had carry on bags. I keep using ‘we’ I mean ‘I’ had all the carry on bags apart from mum’s briefcase and walking stick that she used to crack strangers shins with-either Americans or what she considers good looking men. Anyway I Ayrton Senna’d her around the queue streaming system (and made her slightly dizzy-oops) to the desk, then we had the fun of a security frisk. I pushed towards the gate we had 40 minutes to wait so I got her a coffee and a bun, I sat down started to read the paper, realised it was very quiet and low and behold one empty wheel chair. Mum had decided to go for a wander…ok I know it’s not a major thing but sitting in the special needs area with an empty wheelchair was just plain embarrassing.
The return journey was marginally better. There is a buzzer to press in the car park and a ‘skycaptain’ comes with the wheel chair and deposits her in the waiting area with the other disabled punters. A gaily dressed college boy walks past.
‘See him;’ she points to someone’s back, this is Heathrow it is busy, ‘yes’ I stupidly reply ‘he is the one I told you about.’
‘Eh?’ I stupidly continue.
‘That MP, the one that embezzled all the funds.’
I groan, this has gone on in a loop, for the past twenty three hours. The skycaptain saves me from anymore agony. Again security frisking takes place, shoes off, coats off probes in. I know that they have to be suspicious but surely when they got a whiff of Eau d’Urine they would not bend down??? Nope these guys live on the stuff-not a career path I would choose! Anyway there were two wheelchairs on the Glasgow flight and the flight was full. Wheelchairs whipped away at the entrance to the air bridge the ladies are cajoled out of their new weapons. Assured that it is just a short walk they are suddenly a lot more disabled. These two limping matriarchs bobbled towards the plane. Mum was in second place as the lady from Uganda had clearly been on steroids but she got stuck at the plane door. She could not get her leg up. I watched in disbelief as she attempted to swing her leg over the threshold several times. Scared that I was going to giggle I turned round, to see a long line of impatient travellers look straight back at me. I suddenly felt very responsible and was relieved when she got her leg over. I helped mum on the plane we were in row 6 the Ugandan lady in row 18…perhaps check-in staff were having a laugh? Any way we are ready. Mum is strapped in at the window seat and watching intently for terrorist activity. She spies the long metal poles that are attached to the squat tugs that push the aircraft back and decides that they could be pipe bombs. I explain their function and obligingly a neighbouring plane is being pushed back. ‘Oh’ she says. Eventually everyone is on board and the steward makes his announcement on safety. '
'His diction is appalling'
'um' I reply deciding to ignore her. Mum nudges me and points out the ‘mobiles must be turned off’ instruction. I nod. She taps one long red fingernail against the laminated safety card, rather like the raptors in Jurassic Park. I then rather theatrically flourish my turned off mobile. She nods.
We begin to taxi..and taxi..and taxi…Mum decides she will go for a sleep. WOOHOO I uncharitably think, peace to read. But no she decides to try and have a conversation about the lady who lost her legs. I am grunting in the pauses. Then the plane speeds up and we are off...she is awake and watching again. She decides to read the Sunday newspaper and comment on everything. ‘Would you look at that…he is not a very good speaker you know!....I don’t like Colin Dexter he is so morose…Coffee and a flapjack please.’
and a large gin for me!!
Long and the short of it Mum had a brilliant time, enjoyed seeing her granddaughters, enjoyed the adventure, but has not quite forgiven 5 year old Jennifer for noticing that she looked ‘very old.’ Certainly not as old as I felt!!

Something New

2008-02-08T19:36:00.001Z

It has been said that you should try something new every week. Basketball-watching that is.

The schools had a ‘Jump to It’ Competition, culminating in the semi final and final being played at the Braehead Arena. I have been to the shops (too often) and seen the signs but never been in, further more the Scottish Rocks were playing the Newcastle Eagles at Basketball, another first. Mid January is a lean time moneywise so as the tickets were free, we went.

The Arena was a pleasant surprise, a tardis moment in truth, hidden behind the shops a different if not slightly tired world. We sat and watched the melee and at 5 pm tip off occurred. The game was faster than I had imagined and more physical too. I suppose I had the naive idea that it would be one touch Hollywood basketball, and to be fair sometimes it was. The game was interspersed with time outs which allowed the scantily clad Rockettes to do their thing. Once John had decided that they were legal, he was curious to know if anyone could call a time out!

The Rocks need to win by 24 points to progress in the cup, they agonisingly won by 22 points and right up to the last seconds they could have done it, but a series of technical and sportsmanship fouls allowed their dream to disappear. John prefers his sport to be more streamlined without the interruptions-although he seemed more interested in the interruptions than the game.

Where is my inspiration? Oh where has it gone?

2008-01-05T18:39:00.000Z

Sometimes you just have to batter away at the keyboard until something grabs you. At this particular moment I am just desperate to write but cannot find anything that sustains me for more than four lines. Good ideas yes, but they are not electric, and I need them to be electric, to have surges that compel me to find out what is going on in their minds, to write until I understand them, but all that is there is blank.

Blank can be good of course because that means there are no limits, but too much choice makes decisions hairy fairy.

Now there’s a thought from a typo, The Hairy Fairies. Hirsute fairies in pink tutus, with underarm hair, and hairy legs …now that is just plain weird. Fairies of Eastern European origin with names like Helga and Olga who are scoffing so many steroids that they cannot get off the ground? Perhaps they just want to live here, better working conditions, escaping persecution by the size zero fairies. They are just working class fairies with families to feed, now there is another question how do you get a fairy pregnant? And what do they have, baby fairies? fairy eggs? And whose the daddy fairy? - Olaf the fairy sounds like an oxymoron and quite possibly libellous! Mmm… Not a genre that I would normally pursue but there might be something… twisted admittedly, but perhaps worth chasing…

Ramblings of a self obsessed person

2008-01-03T22:45:00.000Z

I am lonely, right now, on the net, scrabbling at random pages, because I am bored. Why? I could get leathered into my next course and try and steal a march on my classmates, but that’s not what I really want to do. 301 will wait and that’s ok.

I need to find patience, it is there somewhere but I do not recognise it. So I am poodling -doodling with the pc-allowing my wild insides to vent as it were, not sure why I need to do this but I do. A story is forming of sorts and I wonder what else is there, experience tells me its best to relax and let it ambush me; hopefully I will have paper and pen handy when it does!

Right now I feel genre lost…There is a poem somewhere at the back of my mind but it is too immature to work on yet, the poem I was working on is finished -for the moment, it may have more stanzas and that is just scary because it started life at 24 lines and now it is 42.
It is not an amazing poem or even particularly well formed or original or anything much. Just that it was the first poem I wrote, or I showed anyone. Even though I knew the mid section was shite, it was to me at any rate a poem, and that made it special. The problem with special is that it becomes sacred and is set on a make-believe pedestal, and that makes it hard to touch, no matter what I do with it I will never recapture that first feeling of pride, something I created from my mind, an imperfect dream. When I first read it out loud in a writing class all those years ago, I could hear that it was ‘off’ but it did not stop me. But once I showed it, I could not change it, I lost the power, my critics liked its rawness that’s what worked for them, so I left it alone until I started A215, where I submitted it as my TMA0. I promised myself that once 215 was finished I would try to edit it, and I have, kind of.

I am not satisfied, why? Because I knew the original so well? Or because I feel that I have snuck behind my critics back and changed it and have done so essentially in secret? I have done it without permission. I am afraid now to reveal it in its new form, for fear that it just does not measure up to the originals zest. This is something I will overcome with my cape of hard skin, harvested from my smelly feet- (yeuch!! Totally gross image sorry guys!) Anyway how and when I have yet to work out- Do I risk it all and reveal the before and after, or just the new one. Well the answer is I do it a step at a time. This is all very self serving really a bit like life writing.

Life writing is in my mind at the moment and one story is poking hard, but I have done a lot of life writing of late...so what about fiction then?…well its there slowly festering and waiting for the grand TA! DA! moment, but it too is not quite ready, so what has happened is this. I have a spare hour, a free pc and peace and quiet and unless I do something ‘productive’ I will feel as if I have wasted this time, so here I am typing for no other reason than I physically have to. Contemplating my navel as it were. Is this really the essence of blogging, the unabashed ramblings of a somewhat self obsessed persona? Probably!!

Hope you all had a good one

The Resolution

2007-12-29T12:45:00.000Z

A promise or a declaration?

Interesting idea that we start the year afresh with a long list of ideals, that seldom stay fresh until February, and yet we do it every year, millions of us, all over the world. It is a bit like every Monday when you decide to start a diet or stop smoking or whatever…So New Years Day is the BIG MONDAY. (Even though it is a Tuesday this year!)

Generally it seems we (as in the world) pledge:-
To stop smoking/drinking/ eating to excess,
To start exercising/be nice to others/save/spend more time with friends,
To tackle our debt/phobias/housework,
To get a new job/better education and cut stress-everywhere.

How will we be less stressed when we pile on the pressure with unrealistic expectations of our own behaviour? It is bad enough to have unrealistic expectations of our families/bosses/environment/lottery chances, but to set ourselves up with a shopping list of perfection?

Even the government keeps tabs on these resolutions
http://www.usa.gov/Citizen/Topics/New_Years_Resolutions.shtml
And if you think it is just the Yanks...
http://www.britishcouncil.org/languageassistant-new-year.htm

So what will mine be?

Well I have thought long and hard, 2 minutes actually, probably 2 minutes longer than they are worth but here goes.

2008 is the year I will get published!
2008 is the year I will accumulate another 90 OU pass points!
2008 is the year I will fight back. I.E. will not take any more shit, shenanigans or crap from anyone-especially employers!
2008 is the year I believe in me!
2008 is the year I will keep 4 resolutions!

By the way the usual 10 are all ‘givens’ as everyone has them as stocking fillers!!

So may your journey into 2008 be with friends and family, may you be happy and healthy and above all be content.

Christmas Day 2007

2007-12-26T18:57:00.000Z

It dawned at a reasonable time 8.30a.m. We clambered downstairs in a dressing gown conga line and we opened our presents beneath our twinkling tree. Watches, books games, clothes, pants and socks, (the most underrated of all presents-really would you spend 10 quid on a pair of socks for yourself?) all were happy.

Then John made our traditional start to the day, steak and onion baguettes and a large mug of scalding tea. We footered with our gifts, got showered and dressed and set about waiting for the family to descend, Jim Marie Michael and Monica came first. At this point I feel I should say Monica is Michael’s cousin, and not Marks, further more we were swapping pressies which meant a swift trip to the emergency present pile…Marks and Spencer’s Chocolate Santas were duly despatched and eventually eaten. More wrappings fell onto the floor and play sets assembled, a rogue football bounced around threatening my Beleek and blood pressure, but was trapped and incarcerated in the garage, and peace was restored. Stephen arrived with sacks for both of the small boys, more chocolate and wrappings and toys and those little plastic ties appeared and were despatched and we are now on black bin bag number three.

John went for Mum and more mayhem ensued, a flying saucer with a remote control that has an impossibly tiny wee screw that cannot be undone, this is the way into the battery compartment. Still several scissors and screw drivers and sellotape later it works champion style, sighs of relief echo through the house. Also paul discovered he had forgotton to get Gran anything...Back to the emergency present store and a tin of buiscuits were gratefully recieved.

Dinner was served, and the chat is varied and interrupted by the telephone which is Pat (John’s other brother.) Still the meal continues well and we eat an obscene amount of food, but it was good, apparently no one satisfies Mum better than Mario Lanza, which of course led to several other comments none really recountable here.

Mum decided to organise her own funeral with Stephen officiating. It is difficult when faced with such a request to avoid saying ‘I would be delighted.’ But some how, through experience he made the right noises. Mum thoroughly enjoyed herself and was despatched before Doctor Who. (Despatched as in driven home, not buried!!)

Then Jillian and Lauren came over and we unwrapped even more pressies, binned even more paper ate too much chocolate and played Catchphrase.

It was a good night until 12.15 when John and Paul fell out, something to do with singing-they are still barely speaking to one another but then it would not be Christmas if it was perfect would it?

Christmas Eve

2007-12-24T09:38:00.000Z

There is a peculiar air of insanity that pervades the shops at this exact time of year, the move from buying tat to give tomorrow has given way to providing a feeding frenzy. Sharks dressed as little old ladies, ladies who lunch and the saggy eyed-why-am-I-standing-in-a-queue-in –Markies brigade who are contemplating the group insanity of rational people queuing for food at 6 in the morning- and wondering why, but strangely vindicated because they are not alone.

So why get up at an unreasonable hour? Because presumably there will be nothing left at 8am or perhaps it won’t be as fresh! NO it is insane organisation at its best…wait until the last day, pick up food as early as possible, feel righteously pious for sacrificing sleep to deliver the best possible raw ingredients to an already stuffed fridge.

I stood in the pre 8am slot at 7.55 (I am getting better at taking things to the wire –OU TMA experiences to thank for that!) and was astounded at the Disney snaked queue ahead of me. I was quite sure I was only one of a select few insane folk out, until I reached the car park, not choc-o-bloc but not empty, in fact half full. Markies was throbbing with people picking up bottles of Cava only to be reminded of the licensing laws. Strange flowers were perched on trolleys that Dale Winton would have been proud of, and the same trolleys were used to plough their way through any pretence of Christmas spirit.

I stood bemused in front of another weary person as I was asked for the letter I was sent. I received no letter, then I realised she meant the copy order…Order validated she quickly brought my organic turkey breast and ham joint to the till, flashing them across the bar code reader she realised the totals did not match, this was due to the fact that I had impulsively added croquettes and two mini Christmas puddings to the basket. She apologised, she had started at 6 and was obsessively double checking everything in case the wrong thing was given out. ‘Aha’ says brain ‘that’s why you are here early, you don’t trust them!’

Bags carted to the car and home at 8.20. To late to go back to bed, as smallest son has a heavy cold and is upset by the fact that he is losing his voice-he needs it for Christmas, and has woken throughout the night to make sure it was still there. So a dose of Calpol to accompany the Weetabix and orange juice and hot tears, is swiftly administered.

And now the big clean awaits. A day of berating family for being lazy buggers, and washing the skirting boards - Mum is coming for dinner tomorrow and you know it is the first place she will look. But rest assured she is sure to hone in on the things you missed. Like the windows or the unkempt grass or no pepper or teabags....

Well good luck guys, and may tomorrow bring peace and content to your homes.

P.S. My poem is lying in a thousand pieces, so I have to swept it into a shoe box for safekeeping!!

Mid December Malaise

2007-12-14T18:56:00.000Z

Why is it when you have so much to do you cannot be bothered?

I started December well, the guts of a trash can novel written, an assignment completed in record time, my Christmas newsletter written and I even started writing those pesky penguin cards. A fortnight later and I am no further on, tree still in the loft, cards still on the table beside the address book, you get the picture! I have not been painting the town red (or indeed magnolia) nor have I escaped to some illustrious destination.

I have absolutely no excuse.

I have been working and even fiddling with a vague notion of poetry, which as ever is elusive. The harder I try the further away it gets from me. On reviewing one of my many note books I can see that this poem has been nagging me for some time…several months in fact….so I will have to let it come to me, whenever it decides that it wishes to be captured. In the meantime I am going to- cut up/ destroy/ tear apart-edit an old poem that needs editing.

This is uncharacteristically brave of me.

It was the first poem I ever wrote, the first I was truly proud of, and the first I ever showed anyone. I rather suspect I will kill it completely. But I have come to a point where I have to believe in myself, and try to make it a poem in the proper sense rather than its current pretend state, or admit defeat once and for all. No pressure then!

So in the words of a famously dead explorer…'I may be some time’

December Woes

2007-12-02T14:12:00.000Z

Here you are then December, the Christmas month of madness, planning and anxiety, of rash expectations.
Who will give that rogue present and send you into a guilt laden strop?
Have you ordered enough food for everyone? What if someone has turned veggie and not told you? Well, just in case, you should order in a small field of vegetables that’s what vegetarians eat isn’t it? Carrots, sprouts and onions, and nuts, better get a double packet of KP salted peanuts too.
You write cards from last year’s list on the basis that they always send you one. Can you honestly remember how they looked? How do they look now? How long is it since you last spoke, or saw each other? Why did the friendship that was once so vital and so alive simply wither away?
Why did you stop seeing them or speaking to them, who phoned last, is it your turn? No! You realise that it has always been you that has pursued the friendship, sent the cards, made the calls, visited, it was never them. You decide not to send the card this year. You feel guilty.
You look at the assortment of cards, Christmas penguins and polar bears and try to remember the parable in the Christmas story that they refer to, you can’t so you deem yourself a heathen and justify sending these cards as they are for charity.
You browse the Internet for the latest elusive gifts and find the over priced plastic abomination (that you would ignore in normal circumstances and will be ignored by boxing day) and pay twice its worth on E-bay, only to be pipped at the post by some other equally delusional parent.
You spend the month being nice to people you cannot stand because it is Christmas; you even send them cards ‘with love.’
Every one around you is belting out their favourite Christmas song, but you get really irate when the car that has driven to close to the pavement and sent a tsunami of cold brown rainwater running down your face, is pumping out a rap version of White Christmas.
Your child no longer believes in Santa Claus and subsequently you have lost all control over them.
Your partner is looking forward to the Office Christmas lunch and is planning a port and brandy challenge on his boss to see who can out drink each other. You search for the Christmas puke bowl and towel.
You look in the windows of Next and Marks and Spenser’s and immediately covet their golden chargers, glasses of lights and a centrepiece that will ensure that the only bells ringing on Christmas day will be the smoke alarm.
Your entire conversations consist of ‘This year has gone so fast’ and ‘I can’t believe it is nearly next year already.’
You dread the day works stops because of the horde of dirty drunken people determined to kiss you when all you really want to do is deck the bastards, with or without holly.
You have relied on the Christmas bonus to fund Christmas, only the boss is playing god again and has decided to plant a tree in your name this year. You stifle the urge to shout ‘stick the tree up your arse’ and smile real Eco friendly like.

Christmas eve, the postman delivers that card from 'you know who', the new neighbour’s 4 year old brings you a gift of wine and 'something for the kids', and you raid the Christmas tree hoping with unreasonable expectation that it will be something apt for a 4 year old. You hold the hastily ripped off gift card behind your back as you hand over a packet of Ann Sommers chocolate willies, something you do not realise until you return to work. Your youngest son tells you he wants an I pod instead of the plastic thingy that broke your smart new credit card. Your husband tells you that his brother and his wife (that you don’t get along with and is only a vegetarian when you are not prepared) and their three children will be coming for dinner too. Your son announces that he is not coming to midnight mass at 9pm because it is not traditional, instead will be at Campus getting rat arsed, which is also your preferred option, but you cannot because your brother in law is a priest and for the last 21 years you have always celebrated mass with him, and to break tradition now would be to invite the seven sisters of the apocalypse.

The day itself passes in a blur of paper, screams, laughter, tears, indigestion and mince pies. The night is dominated by lusty performances on Singstar and you are more than surprised that your mother sings the Britney Spears classic Hit me Baby one more time. You realise that if you do not get your 80 year old mother off the coffee table she will indeed be hit, probably by everyone. Especially your husband who had just got over the legitimacy of watching said original video and now has a gyrating mother in law superimposed on his memory.
Eventually taxis come people collapse and thanks ‘for the best Christmas ever’ echo though your once serene and tranquil home.

Once December is over you reminisce about how good it was to hook-up with family.
What wonderful gifts you received, and will wear once you have shed 3 stone.
You pack away the spare crackers and smelly gift sets. The Christmas tree is once again wrestled into the failing cardboard box and hoisted into the cavity above your heads, but not before bouncing off the light fitting and plunging the house into fused darkness. Christmas is over…..for now.

A certificate

2007-11-25T15:29:00.000Z

Woo hoo

Purple is the new green. I am a WINNER!!

Imagine that!. Well the buddies are fast arriving and the virtual champers is on ice.

Who would have thought it possible?

Thanks Ali!!

Ablation-Failed

2007-11-24T12:04:00.000Z

Well the op failed. An op with a success rate of greater than 92% and I am in the minority! While it is a bit of a bummer at least I know I tried.

It was strange experience, I was awake on the table for 2 hours, but really only aware for about 20 minutes. The only sensations I recall were the threading of the three catheters into my groin and one in the jugular. I never felt their journey through my body at all. I saw my heart on a monitor resembling the planet Jupiter, (why Jupiter and not Venus? - no idea my heart my planet I suppose!) with what looked like a V shaped Kirby grip and a bendy straw that crossed over it, looking like a giant A.
Now many things happened they tickled my heart and made it go all Tom and Jerry, they discussed it, I suppose, I say I suppose because I was busy reciting Tam O’Shanter and getting confused. For some reason my version had saucy nurses in it…hummm…and oh dear, I was singing too. What ever I had expected of morphine it was not to loosen my already loose tongue!

Then in order to correct the erratic beat they had stimulated they gave me an electric shock. This prompted a rather annoyed and indignant ‘OW!’ from me but nothing else. The only other pain I felt was the burning, it was like heartburn (which it literally was!) and lasts for 24 hours afterwards (think a burnt finger on a hot oven shelf) but 2 paracetamol solved that and the headache I had too.

The procedure did not work because the errant pathway was too close to the legitimate one. As they burn they look for signals from the heart, one of which is the beat rate. During burning they look for it to rise to 150, mine only went to 130, so they felt that if they proceeded they would compromise the legit pathway, meaning a permanent pacemaker. Yes if they had been more aggressive they may have fixed it, but then they may also have blown it and I would be pacemakered and at 46 they felt I was too young for that, so they sensibly stopped. They checked again and they could still generate the erratic rhythm so the op was deemed a failure, although the Doc said that there may be a modification to it, it was best to remain on beta blockers.

Well that was that, but at least I know that it is a physical thing, and not the product of panic attacks, being overly emotional or just not being calm enough or even severe hypochondria! Furthermore I would not be as scared again (I think!) So I suffer from re entrant something or other causing Supra Ventricular Tachycardia which degenerates into Atrial Fiberation , there bet you feel better now!

Part of my(and the families) freak out was related to dates, you see my last attack that prompted the op was April the seventh-my fathers birthday, and the op date November 21st was the anniversary of his death(and a miscarriage too.)

Oddly enough my first ever visit to hospital was on April the 7th 1995, strange the way dates play on our minds and we attach significances to them.

Anyway signing off for now!

Fiona

the 21st is this week!

2007-11-18T18:08:00.000Z

Ah,
The op is on Wedensday, I have taken my last beta blocker the reality of Wedensday has hit my stomach.
To be perfectly honest I was unaware of its athletic ability: cartwheels, handstands and the splits!

I am still trying to ignore it and when at times the nerves attack, I reason with myself that it is just one bad day. And if that bad day cures me then it is wholly worth the long awake hours on the table and the hours lying still thereafter.

I suppose that my greatest fear is loss of control. To have total trust in these masked strangers. I mean how much do they drink? Have they just split up with thier partner? Are they up to thier ears in debt? Is thier mother ill? Do I really matter? Are they really as good as they think they are?

No actually my greatest fear is that I die. I don't want to die. I need to make sure my children and husband are cared for and that is my job, one I am not ready to hand over or reliquish.

But theres the rub, one has to be responsible and 'big' and 'grown up' and I simply am not, I know at 46 I should be but I am not.
In some senses by taking this decision to act aggressivly I am being big, but all I want to do right now is run away, say 'No its okay, I will be fine' then I get that stupid rushed beat that heralds an all out 180-250 heart rate and I realise that really I need to do this.

To be honest I really preferred it when the doctor said you have X we will do Y. This 'well if we do this you might (as in 1/200 or 1/1000) go pearshaped' approach just spooks me all the more you see I am an accountant(occassionally a writer) not a cardiologist.

Anyway enough of this madness and onto another sort, NaNoWrMo, yes 51.5K words under the belt, but a whole lot more to go!

The Birthday Party

2007-11-12T21:05:00.000Z

Marks tenth actually, 10 x 10 year olds , all at the Bowlplex, an interesting set up. 22 lanes of children's parties compared by a manic D.J. music disco games, just the very thing at 10am on a Saturday morning.
Good fun all in all, however 4 guests failed to turn up (the social lives of 10 year olds are not to be underestimated!) leaving one lane of 4 and one of 2 , in my infinite wisdom I filled in for two missing guests. This, on my part, was a severe underestimate of the energy required to heave 4 bowling balls down a lane in quick succession. I enquired if any one would like an extra practice?
'No No Mrs C you are all right!', as they passed me yet another 12lb bowling ball.
by 10.15am I was knackered, and drinking all the barley water under the sun. The DJ had found my future daughter in laws crutches to be a source of general entertainment, much to Marks ire
'Ho! YOU! that's my sister in law!' he warned the rather taken aback DJ. but the ribbing went on By 10.30 I needed the toilet. I indicated with a wide range of hand and arm movements that John should perhaps bowl rather than spend all our money on the fruit machines, and I went to the toilet.
The toilets are large and clean and have the sound system wired through, as I was attending to my toilette, I heard these words,
'We have a special prize for Fiona who is in the toilet at the moment, BUT that's OK because we have speakers in there!'
As I doubled over in utter disbelief, the DJ became most insistent that I 'get a move on' when I exited these facilities, there he was with a bottle of sparkling something for me. Seems I won a prize for doing a unique version of the time walk.

I returned to my bowling torture, it was of course my turn , again. At 12.15 and after bowling approximately 160 12lb bowls I was well and truely knackered....and No I could not beat a ten year old ( I came 5th!)
p.s. Mark had a ball!!

2007-11-08T09:11:00.001Z

Well!!!!
Why me one asks....

This morning we discovered big John had filled the car (last night)with 50 quids worth of unleaded petrol. We have driven 5 miles, we have circulated poison around the carrburretta..... grrrrrrr it is a diesel and it is now lying sick on the driveway awaiting AA surgery, at a cost of 200 quid....being a company car of course this shock news has made my boss one of the happiest men alive.....

hopefully today will improve!
Fi xx

2007-11-07T09:49:00.000Z

Smallest son recieved a mobile phone for his 10th birthday from his brothers and thier girlfriends. He sent his first text to his oldest brothers fiancé

'would you like to come up stairs with me'

Ah well, he is starting young.

2007-11-06T23:27:00.000Z

Well I am 14,760 words into NaNoWrMo, something I truely did not plan in joining, and yet I did, and now I am undone, because this is beer to an alcoholic, painful and wonderful!

Nanowrimo is, in my opinion, the literary equivelent to Colonic irrigation. However on saying that I am well and truely hooked, thanks to my buddies on A215 (the Open University's incredible writing course.)

7 of us have formed our own Writers Group, and that is amazing, those writers are the most talented and original bunch in the world, and I am looking forward to the fun we will have discovering our words together.

More later if I can figure out how this all works!!

Fi :O)

2007-11-06T23:19:00.000Z

Well, here I am , on the net and in techniclour too.
my first posting, a momentous occassion toasted in Peroni and not champagne!..Still it does the same job!