Miserable Mayhem

I  went to my Doctor yesterday. Actually, she wasn't my Doctor, she was a locum. All I wanted was some painkillers for a pulled muscle in my chest. I don't remember pulling it but who does? I couldn't breathe in too deeply because it hurt. Ever the coward, I chose to go without oxygen rather than face the pain. The Doc wasn't too happy with this. 'I think you have a blood clot on your lung and I'm sending you to hospital in an ambulance' she said, gathering a load of paperwork and ignoring me. 'I'm not going in an ambulance, The Borg is waiting in the car and plugged into it's battery. It would possibly be fatal if I were to unplug him for too long' I argued.

To cut a long story short, I lied through my teeth that I would get The Grumpy One to pick me up and she had no choice but to believe me. I then drove The Borg ten miles to my parents' house, plugged him into the mains and breathed a sigh of relief that my parenting skills were still there.  I  had to endure The Grumpy One driving me, 30 miles to an unnamed hospital in the middle of Cornwall. His driving was OK, I am just a hideously bad passenger. You can see where this is going can't you....

I found my way to the MAU, that's Medical Assessment Unit to you and I, accompanied by Hyacinth.  The Grumpy One refused to enter the building on the grounds that they would try to keep him there. Very sensible if you ask me. It turns out that the MAU admit patients from GP referral's. I had no idea it existed. The place was a madhouse, there were Nurses running back and forth, Junior Doctors dropping paperwork and a lot of people sitting in chairs, laying in corridors, hooked up to oxygen masks.

I spent the long hours waiting, cracking inappropriate jokes, between painful breaths and trying to stop Hyacinth buying sandwiches and tea for the all of the nurses/doctors/dying patients. I sent Hyacinth home at this stage before she started cleaning things. I am still a little shocked by what I saw there. Over a 7 hour period I was examined in a corridor, given a blood test in an office where staff were eating sandwiches. The nurse sticking me had to kneel on a dirty, crumb strewn floor. She wore no gloves. I walked myself 3 miles to X-Ray in an attempt to get out of there sooner. Back to a corridor for an ECG, with no modesty blanket, my baps flashing at the world and a 'Healthcare Assistant' that didn't know one end of an ECG lead from the other. It's just as well I don't let these things bother me because I was one of the LUCKY ones....

Art by Karoleenka

A young girl beside me had been referred for head pain. She had been there 10 hours because she didn't need oxygen and was moved down the queue. After waiting all this time she was told the Consultant had gone home and would be back at 8am the next day. It was 12.30 am, the wee hours. The Consultant had thankfully dropped in on me before he went. A word about the Nurses here. There must have been 10 on shift plus 3 admin girls. They were cheerful, gentle, run off their feet and clearly not coping very well. I don't know about you but I could not do that job. Not on that ward. They must burn out within a year.

This is where I sat on a chair for 7 hours between sojourns to even dirtier places. As for my health? I'm fine. It was a false alarm. I won't complain about the nurses, they were bloody terrific in a horrible environment. But I do wonder what awaits me when I do get seriously ill, because like it or lump it that is just what will happen to the majority of us at some stage in our lives. Think about it and pray that you will be run over by a bus at the age of 96 having fulfilled your dreams and won the lottery. Oh and leave all your wordly goods to a Nurse! Normal service will be resumed in the next post.

Mrs Wook.

That Six Degrees of Seperation Thing - Part 1

My life is occasionally surreal. It has been a bit like that since I moved to Penzance. The beach being 300 metres from my door, listening to the waves on a windy night. Great gluts of sunshine whilst the rest of the country suffers under a dank, dark cloud. The ephemeral light down here that has been responsible for inspiring some of the greatest talents the British Art world has ever seen.

Artwork By Leonard Richmond

 A few days after I arrived I had to go to the Council Offices to sort out some boring paperwork. I got talking to an English girl called Kim who had brought a souvenir home from her 12 year trip to the States. She had also just moved to Penzance. That souvenir went by name of Cameron and they have been married for 7 years. We swapped phone numbers and when we finally met up Kim modestly told me about Cam's talent as a Portrait Painter, a Master of Fine Art and College Professor. Wow, I don't 'alf meet them don't I. Oh and don't forget the bit about the Tango. Cam is also a terrific Argentine Tango teacher and is now teaching classes in St Ives. Cameron is currently writing a column for The Cornishman called an American in  Penzance. (I'm hideously jealous of this.) That's a self portrait of him below.

Fabulous isn't it. I'll post a few links to his work at the end of this.


I wasn't quite sure what to do when I met him properly. Bow, scrape, use Castanets or feed him. I did the latter, it's what I do best! Cameron was charming, self effacing and had an utterly wicked SOH.  He was so kind to The Borg and even managed to unplug him for a whole three hours. I am attending my very first Thanksgiving Feast on Thursday, courtesy of Kim and Cam.

I wonder what I should bring. I mean, is it like Christmas where you have all the Rellies round and Aunt Maud gets trollied on sherry, or is it a Downton Abbey style thing where you watch your P's and Q's and 'pass the sauce'. I'll report back soon. In the meantime if you would like to look at Cameron's work then follow the links below.

Mrs Wook

http://www.cameronbennettart.com/#home

http://anamericaninpenzance.blogspot.co.uk

 http://manchestertango.blogspot.co.uk/

She Who Must Be Obeyed.

We all have a Mother. That is one of the three certainties in our lives as humans, the other two are of course Birth and Death. My mother is a mother of 5 and at one point she had four under the age of 5! Very devoted or seriously insane, I am not sure which. She is a perfect mother. Kind, sunny, happy, loving, nurturing and I am so very lucky to have her. We fondly refer to her as Hyacinth. She must also be Obeyed.

Hyacinth visited yesterday. She arrived carrying four loads of  my washing, perfectly ironed and smelling of spring. I had failed (as usual) on the washing front and she scooped the lot out of the bath the last time she visited. A few minutes later two Sky TV engineers arrived to install my new TV and The Grumpy One aka my pa,  popped up from behind the sofa, clutching a curtain rail, muttering something about putting it up in The Borg's room. It was bedlam and there was nowhere to hide. The Little House By The Sea is just that and for once I had to face the chaos.

'Darling, would you like a cup of tea, bacon sandwich, cold drink, Indian head massage' said Hyacinth.  She was not addressing me, this was directed at  the bemused and nervous Sky engineers. They backed hastily into the glory hole (the cupboard under the stairs) and busied themselves with important cables. She disappeared upstairs and I prayed she wouldn't open my bedroom door.  So much for prayer. Two minutes later she shouted, 'Sweetheart, I think your bed needs changing, I'm just going to sort it out'. I grimaced and hoped I hadn't left anything incriminating between the sheets. No, not a man, they are fairly scarce around these parts. Luckily all she managed to find were some mint imperials, a  Kindle and the dessicated remains of a piece of toast.

Meanwhile The Grumpy One was drilling through a steel joist in The Borg's room. The Borg was trying to hide behind his wardrobe with his ipad but was soon spotted and put to work. The Sky engineers were wisely staying in the glory hole and I was making hot beverages in the kitchen and eyeing my car keys longingly. My beloved parents behave like a pair of hyperactive toddlers at a chocolate factory. I wouldn't mind but Hyacinth is 68 and The Grumpy one is 71! I phoned my friend Kim in a state of panic. 'Please help me' I whispered down the phone. She was no help. 'Get a hold of yourself and take some deep breaths, if that doesn't work you could always go and hide in the garden'.

The Saga invaders finally left, clutching another load of washing. As the dust settled (actually there wasn't any left) I asked The Borg if he wanted a drink. 'Go away and leave me alone, people have been touching my stuff' he replied. I know how you feel son..... Still, as I climbed gratefully into bed last night and sank into my fresh sheets that smelled like my mums soap powder, I sighed happily. I am so bloody lucky to have her......

The Invisible Woman

Some days I get out of bed and look fabulous. I just can't help it. My hair falls just 'so' and I look radiant. I look wonderful for the whole day with minimum effort on my part.  Most days I get out of bed and look crap, a pale imitation of my former self. I have never been one to worry about wrinkles. I have never been particularly vain except during the years 18 to 28. But that's normal isn't it? I do not take especially great care of myself. I leave my make up on every night (not that I wear much) and drink far too much wine. I wash my face in a little soap and a soft white flannel, moisturise with Nivea and keep my face out of the sun. Just the plain old stuff.

I can't deal with that 'regenerating' stuff. It feels exactly like when you were a kid and used egg white to create a false scar on your face or being stood in a stiff cold breeze or perhaps a too tight elastic band in the hair aka Essex Face lift!  None of that for me thank you. Then there are things called fillers. Cosmetic surgeons inject various substances into your face/arse/eyebrows/lips and take lots of money from you. Or perhaps they take fat from your arse and inject it into your face and take even more money from you!  I recently saw a picture of my little sister with a friend of hers. They are the same age. My sis looked great and the friend looked like a caricature of her former self. I had to keep looking at the picture with an increasing disbelief that her face was not a mask.

Here I am refusing all gory/seriously expensive/plain daft cosmetic jabs/creams/potions.  What will I do when I am 50 plus instead of 40 something which I am now? To be honest it really doesn't matter because I have become 'The Invisible Woman'. Take heed girls, it happens to all of us. And yes! it is true that I wear more scarves/pashmina's than I should but that is only when using handrails, doors and cashpoints so I have a barrier between myself and you germy lot. I also (very sensibly) steer clear of leopard print in my impending dotage.

Being Invisible means that men no longer look at you and call you 'Dear' or 'My Love'....which infuriates me to point of internal combustion. I don't really mind being invisible because it takes a lot of pressure off and I can just be me. The infuriating part comes when men who have no business looking at you in the first place have the cheek to ignore you.....  I was in the Barbers with The Borg today. I had managed to drag him out to get his hair cut, which is on par with major surgery for him. Anyway, a bloke came in looking like Paul Weller, except he must have been pushing 60 with a Paul Weller haircut and proceeded to instruct the stylist to 'mind his fringe'. He then discussed his 20 something GF with the hairdresser. Eugh, eugh, eugh..... *puts finger down throat and gags*.

No, I am not jealous. No, I don't fancy him. Yes, the 20 something is quite obviously blind but FECK, he completely ignored me! It is obvious that I should break out the shawl and walking stick and reserve my burial plot. After all, I am a 40 something invisible woman.

Such a shame he did not realise that I am a cordon bleu cook, an intellectual , a fabulous homemaker, speak 3 languages and a complete hedonist. Ah well...it's his loss!

Rock it while you can Ladies!

Mrs Wook 

Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All

I am worrying about the Cat. It's raining Dogs outside and he hasn't scuttled in. His name is Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All aka Tibby. At least that's what I call him. I am not a mad Cat lover. I tolerate him and he puts up with me. After all, Cats are spies aren't they? Cats sit on your windowsill, look in, take notes and report back to their base.

A few years ago I was bullied into to keeping my (then) young daughters cat. My parents were moving abroad and I had to take the damn Cat. They had purchased it for my daughter because OBVIOUSLY I was a bad, bad mother and would not have a Cat in the house. It was the nastiest Cat I have ever come across. A stinky Alpha Male that fought on a daily basis and came home at night dragging a dogs tail or a human hand. It was aptly named Tiger.  I am a very fortunate person because I can speak 'Cat'. My parents delivered him to me in a Cat box. My fathers arm was hanging off and my mother was trying desperately to cover her facial scratches with Clinique. I was not impressed.

I started as I meant to go on. He looked at me and sized me up. 'Get over yourself' said I, 'Do not even think about going near my bed. There is a blanket on my oldest stinkiest chair for you. Use it or lose it. I will feed you but if you ever step out of line, I will feed you to the foxes'. He took the hint and we co-existed warily for 18 months.  I had to move from my long rambling country house to a large town for work. I took him to the local vet. 'Excellent' said he. 'We need a good mouser...always looking for a good mouser. I'll chop off his bits and give him to the local farmer'. Tiger sat there hissing at an Alsatian, who whimpered quietly in the corner. 'What's his name by the way'?

Between sobs I told him it was Tiger. Now you know...... despite my reluctance to pander to pets. I have a Cat. He is my Cat. We have long conversations and I worry about him. That is all.

Mrs Wook

The Monsters in My House

I have a Monster hiding in the bath. Having only been in the Little House By the Sea for a few weeks I have yet to purchase a laundry basket. Bit of a posh name for a stinky clothes dwelling place. The Monster is my washing and it lives in the bath at the moment. And No! the picture below is not mine. I am far too chicken to show you mine.

Every day I dutifully put one load on  and promptly forget it's there. I then rewash it and finally hang it out on the line. I hate hanging out washing. Hate it with a vengeance!  My mother is the most Holy Saint Hyacinth of Washing. Everything she touches sparkles and smells fresh and beautiful. I am crap at the job and yearn for another life where lovely Cypriot chaps came and took my laundry and returned it wrapped in paper. I once had a Taiwanese student to stay. He arrived with a suitcase full of clean washing...all wrapped in tissue paper or enclosed in a pretty piece of plastic. I wanted to move in with his parents. But now I am alone in my efforts to deal with the The Borg's detritus and the Monster in the bath. There is more than one monster in this house. The Sock Monster is of course well known in our society.

You put a load of socks in the machine and only one of each pair is there when you unload the machine. I have my own theory on this. I don't think the Sock Monster actually exists. It's too far fetched an idea anyway! I think that sock manufacturers are in cahoots with washing machine manufacturers. The boss at Sock Land gives the boss at Washing Machine World a backhander every time a thousand socks are lost. The guy at Washing Machine World puts a chemical in the machine which obliterates 50 per cent of the wash. There is no other sane reason for it, is there?  The other Monster that skulks in this house is the Pen and Keys Monster. It used to be just the Pen Monster but as I age it seems to be snaffling my keys too.

Now the Pen Monster is pretty stupid because it doesn't actually destroy your pens/keys/purse. It just sits back and laughs like a drain whilst it watches you tear the sofa apart and run up and down the stairs a hundred times in your search for said items. Of course, if you are like me, YOU haven't actually lost them. The Borg has moved them and gets pulled out of his Borg Hole to help you look.  The Pen monster then puts them in the most ridiculous place you can think of aka the fridge and sidles off next door to cause further mayhem.

Will someone PLEASE come and fumigate my house and restore my sanity?

Mrs Wook.

Tsunamis and Clocks

The clocks went back at the weekend. Normally I am distraught, hold my head in my hands, gather my duvets and retire to my bedroom until at least February. This year is different though. My world has changed, geographically I mean. I moved some 47.6 miles from Bodmin to Penzance this summer. What a difference a few miles make. The light is so different, the air so clean and ...... let's put it this way. It's bloody lighter all the time down here. I live in a pretty little house with nice neighbours and I am only 500m from the sea. Blissful.

I took that picture above. Little old me. My father swears that I was born camera shy for a reason because I cannot see what is in front of my face! Thank gawd for a 'point and shoot' digital camera is all I can say. Oh! and the above pic was taken two minutes from my house at about 6.30pm last week.

My busy brain does find itself in a bit of a stew about Tsunamis though. It's all this Hurricane Sandy stuff and worrying about my American friends. I find myself measuring the distance from the sea. I try and comfort myself by the fact that there is at least a Tesco's garage between me and the sea.

After all, a Tsunami wouldn't knock out Tesco's would it? Just the meanderings of a restless mind.

Mrs Wook.