The week before last, we had a lot of snow. On the first serious snow day, I had to be in Leicester. As luck would have it, I had planned to go by train, which was obviously a very good thing. Sadly, I am not good at snow, and I am VERY bad at ice. Unfortunately, even after all these years in this country, I still do not really get the whole proper shoes bit. So, to cut a long story short, I set off for the train in a pair of shoes with absolutely no tread. Disaster was practically guaranteed.
During the day, this did not matter. I was careful, and I was with a wonderful colleague who ferried me about in his car and made sure that I did not have to cover vast sweeps of ice. All went well and, as I caught the train home, I was congratulating myself. I alighted somewhat gingerly at Nottingham, and headed for the entrance. I was late (about 9.30 p.m.), and in a hurry, because poor Molly cat had been alone since eight o'clock that morning and would be cross and hungry.
For those of you who do not know Nottingham, I must explain that the station is undergoing a major refurbishment, with all the chaos that implies. The main entrance has been moved to a side road, but I still use the 'old' main entrance to get in and out, because I find it more convenient. On that day, I did precisely that, and emerged onto the street. The pavement there is very wide, probably about 6 feet (sorry, I don't do metric!) and, to my horror, it had not been gritted. As I stepped out, it was sheet ice under my feet, and I only saved myself from falling my grabbing at the coping on the wall. I will not pretend that I was not shaken, but I had to get round the corner to the taxi rank (no way I was walking home in this) so, still clutching the wall, I took a tentative step. My foot slipped; I clung on for dear life, but did not fall. Grimly I thought, I can do this if I can hang on to the wall. Three shaky paces later, I came to the place where they had turned the pavement into a slight incline to allow for wheelchairs and pushchairs, and where there was no wall. In despair, I clung to my piece of wall and considered my position.
I have to confess that at this point I was feeling like a toddler needing its Mummy. However, I obviously had to behave like a grown-up, so I decided that my best bet was to return to the station entrance in the same ignominious manner that I had achieved my two yards of progress, ring for a taxi and explain that the driver would have to come as close as possible and would have to get out and help me across the ice. I was psyching myself up to do this, when a voice said "Are you alright?"
At this point, I was facing the wall. I turned my head tentatively and there was a lady (I use the term advisedly), younger than I am, but not in the first flush, so to speak, smiling at me. I was totally taken aback, but I am also a Mediterranean. Any proper Brit would have replied, 'yes, fine, thank you' and watched her walk away. I did no such thing. I summoned up my Mediterranean heritage and explained, in florid detail, what the problem was. Her smile was kind. She offered her arm. I demurred. She explained that she had good shoes and that if I held on to the wall with one hand and her with the other she would get me to a taxi. And she was as good as her word. She walked me the fifty or so yards to the taxi, waited till one arrived, and helped me into it. She was amazing and wonderful.
I wish, now, that I had asked her who she was, so that I could offer her dinner some evening. If, by any unlikely chance, you are reading this, please get in touch. In the mean time, all I can say is that she restored my faith in humanity. I would never have expected this to happen. Thank you, dear lady.
Tuesday, 29 January 2013
Monday, 28 January 2013
Very Bad News
Well, dear friends (if anybody is still out there) - I'm back. I must, first, apologise for the long silence. In my own defence, I was extremely unwell over Christmas, being housebound from Christmas Eve to January 8th, at which point I turned up for work and was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was in no fit state to be working. I am grateful to the colleagues who bullied me into seeing a GP and getting some proper medication. You know who you are: thank you.
Secondly, being housebound and poorly does not provide a lot of interesting stuff to write about. To add to the difficulty, as soon as you start feeling better, you are desperately trying to catch up, so you are even less aware of what is happening outside the world of work. Pathetic!
However, today I decided that enough was enough, and that I was going to start boring you again. And the reason for this is that we had had some very bad news, and I realised that I had not sent out the appeal for prayers (if you believe in them) or positive thoughts if you don't, that I had done on Twitter. Some of you will know that I collect God-children. I have ten. One of them has a lovely little sister (let's call her B) who is fifteen months old. Over Christmas, B was diagnosed with a hepatoblastoma. For the non-medical people among you, this is an extremely rare form of liver cancer that occurs in young children. B is now undergoing chemotherapy, and holding up well, but clearly this is a difficult time for the family and all those who love them.
So, I say again, for those of you who share our Faith in a beneficent God, please remember B and her family in your prayers. For those of you who do not, please send positive thoughts into the Universe: it can't do any harm.
And I promise to be more cheerful next time.
Belated Christmas and New Year greetings everybody.
Secondly, being housebound and poorly does not provide a lot of interesting stuff to write about. To add to the difficulty, as soon as you start feeling better, you are desperately trying to catch up, so you are even less aware of what is happening outside the world of work. Pathetic!
However, today I decided that enough was enough, and that I was going to start boring you again. And the reason for this is that we had had some very bad news, and I realised that I had not sent out the appeal for prayers (if you believe in them) or positive thoughts if you don't, that I had done on Twitter. Some of you will know that I collect God-children. I have ten. One of them has a lovely little sister (let's call her B) who is fifteen months old. Over Christmas, B was diagnosed with a hepatoblastoma. For the non-medical people among you, this is an extremely rare form of liver cancer that occurs in young children. B is now undergoing chemotherapy, and holding up well, but clearly this is a difficult time for the family and all those who love them.
So, I say again, for those of you who share our Faith in a beneficent God, please remember B and her family in your prayers. For those of you who do not, please send positive thoughts into the Universe: it can't do any harm.
And I promise to be more cheerful next time.
Belated Christmas and New Year greetings everybody.
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Death of a Toaster
Last night, I was toasting some bread when there was a loud bang, a flash of bright light, and all the sockets went down. After a moment's stunned silence, I unplugged the toaster and re-set the circuit board. Nothing extraordinary there, I'm sure. But this toaster was extraordinary, and I mourn it's passing.
To explain why, I must give you a little bit of history. I was a medical student in Malta in 1977, when a medico-political dispute broke out that led to the closure of the medical school. I was, at the time, just about to start the fourth year of training. Locked out of the medical school, we were all desperate to continue our training. The Commonwealth desk at the British Medical Association was wonderful. Over the next two months, they found places for all of us who wished to continue training at British medical schools. Which is why, one sunny day in early September, I and others from my course were sitting nervously on a British Airways aircraft waiting to take off from Malta.
I landed in London that day with a large suitcase, a teddy bear, a radio cassette player and nowhere to sleep that night. I also had a terrible cold. I have felt better. Fortunately, I was able to make contact with a friend who arrived to rescue me and take me home to his parents for two days. They were very kind, but soon I had to fend for myself.
A room was found at the hall of residence of the medical school in London to which I had been assigned, and I started to settle in. And the first things I decided I needed were a kettle and a toaster. The kettle has long since bitten the dust, but the toaster has accompanied me everywhere ever since. For 35 years it has moved from student accommodation, to junior doctors' quarters, and eventually to my own home and through four further moves. It was showing it's age, and was distinctly un-modern, but it worked and I was fond of it. It reminded me of the evenings when I would bring the bread and the butter in from the window sill for two slices of toast before setting off for the hour's walk to the Albert Hall for the Proms; it recalled evening with friends when we ate beans on toast and drank cheap red wine; it had seen me through illness, and Glyndebourne breakfasts with chums. It was a part of my life.
So, I shall now buy a new toaster, but I am not quite sure that I am going to have the heart to throw the old one away.
To explain why, I must give you a little bit of history. I was a medical student in Malta in 1977, when a medico-political dispute broke out that led to the closure of the medical school. I was, at the time, just about to start the fourth year of training. Locked out of the medical school, we were all desperate to continue our training. The Commonwealth desk at the British Medical Association was wonderful. Over the next two months, they found places for all of us who wished to continue training at British medical schools. Which is why, one sunny day in early September, I and others from my course were sitting nervously on a British Airways aircraft waiting to take off from Malta.
I landed in London that day with a large suitcase, a teddy bear, a radio cassette player and nowhere to sleep that night. I also had a terrible cold. I have felt better. Fortunately, I was able to make contact with a friend who arrived to rescue me and take me home to his parents for two days. They were very kind, but soon I had to fend for myself.
A room was found at the hall of residence of the medical school in London to which I had been assigned, and I started to settle in. And the first things I decided I needed were a kettle and a toaster. The kettle has long since bitten the dust, but the toaster has accompanied me everywhere ever since. For 35 years it has moved from student accommodation, to junior doctors' quarters, and eventually to my own home and through four further moves. It was showing it's age, and was distinctly un-modern, but it worked and I was fond of it. It reminded me of the evenings when I would bring the bread and the butter in from the window sill for two slices of toast before setting off for the hour's walk to the Albert Hall for the Proms; it recalled evening with friends when we ate beans on toast and drank cheap red wine; it had seen me through illness, and Glyndebourne breakfasts with chums. It was a part of my life.
So, I shall now buy a new toaster, but I am not quite sure that I am going to have the heart to throw the old one away.
Sunday, 9 December 2012
Another Molly Story
Last Friday, I had to be in London (again!). I waved goodbye to Molly at 0730 and set off blearily for the station. Gosh it was cold. Near Luton, there was even snow. And London was perishing, with that wind that goes right through you no matter how many layers you have on.
Now, Friday is my standard Ocado delivery day. They deliver between 6 and 7. I had failed to take this into account when booking my return train, with the result that we pulled into the station at 1759. This would not normally have been a problem, since I would have telephoned Ocado, explained, and promised to be there in five minutes. However, my phone had died - and no, it wasn't from lack of juice, it's EE's fault, but that's another story. Praying that Ocado would be late, I jumped into a taxi and we raced for home. Imagine my relief when I arrived to find the van at the door and the delivery man about to reload all my shopping. I grovelled, he was charming, and we headed into the flats together.
So what has Molly got to do with all this? I hear you ask. I opened the door and the man and I entered together. Molly was furious. She was not amused at me turning up with somebody else and therefore not being able to give her my immediate, undivided attention. By the time he left, probably no more than three minutes later, she was in a high strop and refusing to talk to me or take any notice of me. She did not calm down for almost an hour.
Now, that's a real prima donna!
Now, Friday is my standard Ocado delivery day. They deliver between 6 and 7. I had failed to take this into account when booking my return train, with the result that we pulled into the station at 1759. This would not normally have been a problem, since I would have telephoned Ocado, explained, and promised to be there in five minutes. However, my phone had died - and no, it wasn't from lack of juice, it's EE's fault, but that's another story. Praying that Ocado would be late, I jumped into a taxi and we raced for home. Imagine my relief when I arrived to find the van at the door and the delivery man about to reload all my shopping. I grovelled, he was charming, and we headed into the flats together.
So what has Molly got to do with all this? I hear you ask. I opened the door and the man and I entered together. Molly was furious. She was not amused at me turning up with somebody else and therefore not being able to give her my immediate, undivided attention. By the time he left, probably no more than three minutes later, she was in a high strop and refusing to talk to me or take any notice of me. She did not calm down for almost an hour.
Now, that's a real prima donna!
Friday, 30 November 2012
Molly Cat is Having a Bad Day
This morning, I had to be on an early train to London. Molly Cat is never happy when I am rushed in the morning, because I don't have time to give her much attention. On top of that, I had had some friends round last night, and she is a VERY jealous cat. For the last week she has been in a very funny mood: prickly and scratchy and refusing to eat any of the wet food. She was also a little off colour early yesterday evening (before the guests arrived) and I think she may have a hair ball.
All this background is to explain why, when this evening I arrived home to a loving Molly, who purred like a train every time I stroked her and who kept very close to me as I went about the business of changing etc., I was very pleasantly surprised. We had a cuddle, then I decided I really must get on with changing from work clothes to home 'Friday evening slouch' clothes.
This is when things started to go wrong. I moved to what is loosely termed the dressing room: there is, of course, no space to dress and barely space to open the cupboards since, like virtually every other available space, I have had it covered in book shelves. (Aside: why is there NEVER enough book space, no matter how many shelves you put up?). However, there is a closet, which I duly opened to get out one of my more reprehensible pullovers. As I was taking it down from the hanger, I took an incautious step backwards. I had forgotten that my tool box had migrated to just behind me. And sadly, I had not noticed that Molly was standing immediately behind me, tight up against the toolbox.
I think I must really have hurt her. She took off like greased lightening and, for the first time in months, hid under my desk. It took me half an hour to coax her out, and another half hour before she agreed to play with her favourite toy.
Eventually, however, she was cheerfully chasing the feathered object at the end of the pole and I was happy. Until I stupidly waved it too close to her water fountain. Chasing it, she landed four square in the water fountain, spraying water everywhere and giving herself a great fright. I compounded my crimes by laughing. She is now sulkily sitting in her hammock over the radiator.
I'm hoping she'll come round tomorrow morning.
All this background is to explain why, when this evening I arrived home to a loving Molly, who purred like a train every time I stroked her and who kept very close to me as I went about the business of changing etc., I was very pleasantly surprised. We had a cuddle, then I decided I really must get on with changing from work clothes to home 'Friday evening slouch' clothes.
This is when things started to go wrong. I moved to what is loosely termed the dressing room: there is, of course, no space to dress and barely space to open the cupboards since, like virtually every other available space, I have had it covered in book shelves. (Aside: why is there NEVER enough book space, no matter how many shelves you put up?). However, there is a closet, which I duly opened to get out one of my more reprehensible pullovers. As I was taking it down from the hanger, I took an incautious step backwards. I had forgotten that my tool box had migrated to just behind me. And sadly, I had not noticed that Molly was standing immediately behind me, tight up against the toolbox.
I think I must really have hurt her. She took off like greased lightening and, for the first time in months, hid under my desk. It took me half an hour to coax her out, and another half hour before she agreed to play with her favourite toy.
Eventually, however, she was cheerfully chasing the feathered object at the end of the pole and I was happy. Until I stupidly waved it too close to her water fountain. Chasing it, she landed four square in the water fountain, spraying water everywhere and giving herself a great fright. I compounded my crimes by laughing. She is now sulkily sitting in her hammock over the radiator.
I'm hoping she'll come round tomorrow morning.
Monday, 12 November 2012
How do Single Parents Cope?
I have a lot of godchildren. I normally claim 10, but depending on how you count them, it is anywhere between seven and 16. The differences depend upon whether I was actually at the font, whether there was a font at all or just a request to be a 'special adult' (of various names), and whether the request was slightly retrospective.
My latest godson is 14 months old. He is adorable, bright, full of energy, and totally exhausting - which is all as it should be. I love him dearly and enjoy nothing more than greeting him, his parents, and his baby brother to my place for supper. Such an event happened last Thursday.
There was a confluence of two slightly unfortunate events that evening. On the following day, Friday, I had a very important meeting in London which meant I had to leave home at 07.30. I realise this is normal for most people, but I am not good in the morning. I explained I HAD to be asleep by 10, so they needed to leave by quarter to the hour.
On this evening, however, we had agreed that the Dad would cook a rather special meal. As it turned out, this was slightly more complicated, and took rather longer, than I had bargained for. This resulted in him being engrossed in the cooking for a lot of the evening, leaving Mum and me to look after the children. Two adults; two children under two: surely no problem?
If you are thinking that, you have never tried it. As we swapped babies, we managed to allow Godson to pull a candle to the floor, showering glass everywhere. That took a little time to clear up, and Dad had to be dragged from the cooking to help. An accidental jolt knocked something off the wall. There were tears before bedtime as attempts were made to quieten things. They left far later than I had hoped, and with poor Mum looking miserable and guilty, for which there was no need.
So, how did I fare? Naturally, I was fine. I slept like a log (who invented the 'slept like a baby' rubbish?), awoke refreshed, made my train with masses of time to spare, and had a really good day in London. However, on the train back I was reflecting: how do single parents cope? And what should we be doing to support them more than we do?
My latest godson is 14 months old. He is adorable, bright, full of energy, and totally exhausting - which is all as it should be. I love him dearly and enjoy nothing more than greeting him, his parents, and his baby brother to my place for supper. Such an event happened last Thursday.
There was a confluence of two slightly unfortunate events that evening. On the following day, Friday, I had a very important meeting in London which meant I had to leave home at 07.30. I realise this is normal for most people, but I am not good in the morning. I explained I HAD to be asleep by 10, so they needed to leave by quarter to the hour.
On this evening, however, we had agreed that the Dad would cook a rather special meal. As it turned out, this was slightly more complicated, and took rather longer, than I had bargained for. This resulted in him being engrossed in the cooking for a lot of the evening, leaving Mum and me to look after the children. Two adults; two children under two: surely no problem?
If you are thinking that, you have never tried it. As we swapped babies, we managed to allow Godson to pull a candle to the floor, showering glass everywhere. That took a little time to clear up, and Dad had to be dragged from the cooking to help. An accidental jolt knocked something off the wall. There were tears before bedtime as attempts were made to quieten things. They left far later than I had hoped, and with poor Mum looking miserable and guilty, for which there was no need.
So, how did I fare? Naturally, I was fine. I slept like a log (who invented the 'slept like a baby' rubbish?), awoke refreshed, made my train with masses of time to spare, and had a really good day in London. However, on the train back I was reflecting: how do single parents cope? And what should we be doing to support them more than we do?
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
My Cat had PMT
Alright, the truth is I don't actually know this, but we certainly had a very uncomfortable week when she bit and scratched and generally behaved in a very bad-tempered way, and now she is better. In fact, she is really cuddly and will even let me pick her up and hold her for many minutes. She had never done that before.
Stopping the biting was, actually, the easy part, with the help of a water pistol. She doesn't like that water pistol. I only have to reach for it and she is off. I have never actually got her with the water, but she knows what it is.
Surprisingly, her apetite also seems to have picked up, and she is sleeping later in the morning. I haven't been woken before 0630 for the last three days.
Does this all sound connected? Do other people's cats behave this way? Do cats get PMT?
Stopping the biting was, actually, the easy part, with the help of a water pistol. She doesn't like that water pistol. I only have to reach for it and she is off. I have never actually got her with the water, but she knows what it is.
Surprisingly, her apetite also seems to have picked up, and she is sleeping later in the morning. I haven't been woken before 0630 for the last three days.
Does this all sound connected? Do other people's cats behave this way? Do cats get PMT?
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