I am back home now, still high as a kite, but wrote this while I was still in hospital:
I am now feeling pretty much 100%. Have been for a walk and sat outside in mild sunshine and breeze. My roomies looked at me as if I had been to another planet when I got back. Poor Susan feasts her eyes on me. She needs to turn the corner. I am giving her encouragement.
Most of the nurses seem confident I will be released tomorrow. I just don’t have an invalid mentality. Today, being fully dressed, I really don’t fit in. Another drain came out. They think both the others should come out tomorrow or I will go home with one. Shanelle’s Mum, who is called Laura, (she says I can tell you), says her drains were full of skanky slop. She has a bit of a way with words. She is on Twitter, it’s Bubbalicious80.
I can go home! Both drains were taken out this morning. The nurse tells you to take deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth, so you know it’s not going to feel great. You soon find out that it feels as if a long turgid panicking maggot is tunnelling its snout through your body. I looked at the retrieved drain. Quite a length, like 15 cm, had been inside me. (sounds rude!) I asked the nurse if the tube suctions the skanky slop up just from its end. She said no, the tube has lots of little holes, so the slop is slurped up from all along its length (sounds even ruder!)
Spent the night watching the Olympic Closing Ceremony. Steve, one of the nurses, had said to call him when the Spice Girls came on. As soon as they started popping out of their lit-up cabs I skidded out into the corridor and hissed ‘Spice Girls!’ The nurses came running, and we turned my TV round, took out the headphones, let the sound out and had a quiet, illicit boogie.
I and ‘The Beaut’ (my new boob) are now home. Always strange exiting sterility into earth, muddy pawprints, rampant vegetation. The dogs were out at the farrier with Chloe when I got home. We sat at the table to have a cuppa and Debbie and BB came by with a fabulous lemon cake which we ate there and then. The dogs got back and galloped down the big room to leap onto my sofa. Then Norwich Phil dropped by for a cuppa as she’d been to Stansted, and Barney came in and had sups with us, wot Tabby made. Told him about Miss Benyon-sigh-with-admiration-and-joy. He says everyone falls in love with their surgeon. It’s classic and to do with the morphine or the fact you’re totally in their hands or something. (Claire looked it up for me. She says it’s called Nightingale Syndrome after Florence.) I won’t tell you what Chloe then said, but it meant did I want to have sex with her (in much cruder terms which I will not detail as Bashi and Alfie’s mates read the blog). I was like ‘No, Chloe,’ shocked, ‘this is a purely platonic love. Admiration and joy.’ Fred doesn’t mind. He fancies her too. The whole world does. If you met her you would understand. The gin group are all gagging to meet her. I said they should book a tit enlargement or something.
BTW, please don’t tell Miss Benyon-sigh-with-admiration-and-joy that the world is in love with her. I would not tell you about it if I did not feel fairly sure that she is way too busy wielding her skilful scalpel to check out patients’ blogs.
I am FB fwends with Laura (Shanelle and Chelsea’s mum.) She is very naughty and gets on a negative bent. She posts things like ‘No college, no money, only pain.’ I have reminded her to think of the things she does have, like her gorgeous girls, her cat mctubbyfluffybumbum or whatever he’s called, and her house (I’m assuming she has one and does not live in a ditch.) Then I told her I had encased her in pink cottonwool and was asking the universal energy to help her. Dennis told me how to do this. Do you know what? She slept like a baby and now thinks I’m her angel! Today she posted ‘I am not well, I need Shanelle.’ What a great poem! I can tell the force is now with her.
Bashi has changed over the last couple of weeks. She has become scholarly. This is because I took away her computer. Her reliance on it had been bugging me. She has made a map of Greece on her wall and is sticking arrows on it to the places where things happened to Odysseus and other ancient peeps. She is also making family trees of the Greek Gods and heroes. This is complicated as the gods often bonked mortals and messed it all up.
This just goes to show that if screens disappear from children’s lives, creative things start to fill the time. I have long believed this, and used to throw away the TV rather randomly as the fancy took me when they were little. We had so much more fun without it. Our favourite game was sweetie shop. We would buy sweets from a shop, come home with them and set up our own shop. We would make little signs that said ‘1p’, ‘2p’, ‘5p’ and ’10p’, find lots of coins and paper bags, and go shopping. We would take it in turns to be the shopkeeper. Ahhh. Happy days. I actually feel like I want to play that game now but with Old Jamaica, After Eights, Green and Blacks Organic Neapolitans, fifty ps and pound coins. (Fred says these goodies sound like different types of grass. You can tell he grew up on a council estate.)
Alfie would make a massive fuss whenever I got rid of the telly but within minutes he would recover and start to make up for lost time. When he was five he was reading the Biff and Chip books at school along with the rest of the UK, and embarked upon an ambitious project to create a reading scheme of his own. He actually managed this, writing thirty one books. He peaked a bit early really and has not done much since to impress apart from ‘beasting’ COD (Call of Duty, a playstation game for those who don’t know about these horrors). He got four detentions in one week the other day. The process apparently went like this: ‘Alfie, you have not brought your calculator with you: you will have a detention.’
‘Nah bruv, my mum like washed my blazer and stuff….’
‘Alfie, you will have another detention for answering back.’
‘Wot you chattin mate? You can’t do that, innit…’
‘Alfie, stop talking or I’ll give you another detention.’
‘Nah mate, you’re shittin me, you can’t give me detentions for arguing my case, we live in a democracy, you know I is right bruv,’ and so on.
Honestly, the poor teachers. I have remembered a story from Redland School in Bristol. We had an RE teacher, Miss Colliver, who had a bit of theatrical spirit in her. The very first lesson she planted herself firmly at the front of the class of eleven-year-olds, holding a Bible aloft, and declaimed: ‘This is not a book.’
Us kids gazed at her a bit blankly and thought her a bit odd frankly. (Hey Laura, I can do poems too innit?) We all were made to hazard guesses as to what it was if it was not a book. All of our answers, however clever, (and we did have a few good ones) were wrong. By the end of the lesson, we had learnt that the Bible is not just one book, but lots of books. At least this annoying method meant I never forgot this. Of course, seeing as we never had a telly and did actually communicate with each other as a family, I related this to my sister Penel, who, it turned out, had quite a retentive memory. Two years later she walked into her first class with Miss Colliver.
‘This is not a book!’ announced Miss Colliver.
There was hardly time for this bold statement to reverberate around the room before Penel shattered the peace with: ‘No, it’s LOTS of books!’ The teacher choked and spluttered in distress. Her entire method had been belittled. I bet Penel is repentant now, being a teacher herself. For some reason my brother Pete absolutely loves this story, and can do it with voices and everything, even now, and for Penel using a squeaky little Donald Duck voice.
But anyway, a decade ago, when Alfie was five, he could hardly wield a pen or spell, but this did not stop him focusing on his work. The back of ‘the horible giant’, which is thirty two pages long, has a picture of a small rather ill-looking owl and says:
Stage six OWlS Stage severn
the bonfire the teacher
the pig the bully
balincing the horible giant
pictuese a fite
the chinies vase
the flower pot
(I have helped you in case you are not yet on Stage 7 and thus find the original hard to read.)
It’s a dim photo because we can’t find the camera charger so had to use the mac. Will show some of the ‘pictuese’ when we find it. You will love the very phallic ‘a fite’ which is full of ‘bow-ran-arrose’ and ‘souds’ and ‘speayears’. Basically goodies kill ‘badies’ and badies kill goodies and then ‘light tin comes and rain comes.’ You turn the last page and it says ‘And the sky biagan to turn red.’
Nighty night from happyland.