ear saga part 2

Did the whole nose spray thing (yes, in my nose), carried on with ear drops, even the magic Japanese ichor as supplied by wonderful Sweded bird... no change. Pathetically stood in front of Other Receptionist and said in my best taal please miss, I did everything theother lady told me to, she said I couldn't have an appointment so what else can I do to help? She looked a bit miffed, but I felt it was not aimed at me; she told me to come back at 2.30 so she could have a look inside. She looked, asked me if I had had a cold, looked again, then looked in the right ear. Hm, it was not what she expected.. so now I am waiting for a telephone call to see - gasp! An Actual Doctor!
Problem is, now, should I feel worried that it isn't a simple case of blocked ear? Or prepare myself for a Dyson hoover moment if they have to extract any foreign body - please don't let it be an earwig... that would be too horrible. Why can't bodies be more like cars?

of course

So I finally gave in to pressure and called to get an appointment at the Doctors. My ear has been blocked and deaf since wednesday morning, and it's a bit painful too. Now I shall guess that this is the same the world over; The Guardian of The Doctor AKA The Receptionist. Interrogation as follows
me - can I make an appointment please?
her - what is the problem?
me- my ear is painful and blocked up, I am deaf on the left side.
her - how long has it been like it?
me - since wednesday morning (it's now friday)
her - what have you done so far?
me - ear drops and warmth
her - have you used nose spray? You can buy it at the chemist
me - yes I have some
her - well, use it.
me - um, ok?
her - it goes in your nose, not your ear
me - (WTF?) um yes...
me - so I can't have an appointment?
her - no, it's not necessary. long silence.

I make 'have a nice day' sound a tiny bit like 'FFF you' and hang up. My dutch is not up to a long discourse on condescending, patronising banter. So. I absolutely resepct that she is more qualified than me to judge whether or not I need to be seen. I respect that she is trying to save her employer time and unnecessary appointments; I really do get that. What I just don't 'get' is why these sort of people manage to get precisely the job which lets them get power crazed and infuriatingly, pedantically, patronising. They could end up anywhere, but no, invariably, they end up here. This is a worldwide phenomenon. I know that.

just

just for one minute I was a 'Daily Mail' person. I read about the excuse for human who threw a kitten off a tower block, and actually did think 'Die and rot in hell you scum bitch' and mean it with every fibre of my soul. Then I realised, she is in Hell already.

no insight

no insight whatsoever, just curious as to whether the obsession with holidays post xmas/New Year started by itself or has been instigated by us over the years. It just seems to occur naturally; perhaps after long grey months of cold and rain it is human nature to begin dreaming of sunshine and fun? Are we programmed into it by insidious media coverage? Holidays are not fun, really. It's time to drop the pretence, cancel the conspiracy and come clean; holidays are nothing but trouble. Stress, misery and pressure. Traveling used to be glamorous, didn't it? Now it is boredom and terror combined, herded like sheep from terminal to desk and through toxic xray machines. Insulted and manhandled, exposed to recycled farty air in tiny flying buses, identikit airports flourishing worldwide like fungus. No sense of crossing real 'borders' or joining another culture, just a series of shopping malls with oversized public transport facilities. And yet, somehow, we are seduced into dreaming of a smiling family strapped securely into a flying palace, arriving refreshed and well fed at a tropical, exotic yet amenable location staffed with people falling over to do our every bidding; we will lie in the sun like pampered seals, poring over worthy prize winning novels, and occasionally foray into a clean town with cheap delicious food on every corner. We will sleep like dogs, play like cats and eat like royalty, then return; refreshed, looking ten years younger and ten pounds lighter, ready to plunge back into work/routine
HA
We know in reality, we will arrive at the airport already exhausted, dishevelled and inappropriately dressed, snarling at each other. The staff will be bored, condescending and uncaring, processing us like burgers. Queues will be long and slow, the one you nearly chose will always move faster. Children will be wailing, yelling and swearing, or hyperactive and c... you know what? I can't even think about it so I am not going to write it. Let me hang onto my illusions.

ouch

day 2.5 of one blocked deaf ear. The whole left side of my face is shorted out and consists only of stabbing pain and white noise. I wonder what would happen if I stay like it forever; how long would it take to get used to? Very disconcerting that people can be right next to me and I am unaware of them; also I can't hear my voice so I am scared to speak dutch today.
On the plus side, noise pollution from traffic and mopeds is significantly muffled.
Angry incomprehension is about ageing (again); ok, it's better than the alternative, but why is the degeneration so fast? Domino effect? Why can't it be like a game of Age Bingo; crossing them off gradually? (Gradually should also mean gracefully).. I honestly don't believe gyms or diets make a toss of difference, BTW.
I would like to hope mental attitude does, but I shan't take it for granted. Just a touchy subject lately, I am sure it will pass.

if

if seagulls had proverbs, they might be along the lines of 'He who starts a fight with a full beak, ends it with an empty stomach'

sad

I was chatting to a young shop assistant last week, young enough to be my daughter. We were discussing being alone at work, whether it was safe or not, and she mentioned a young guy had been hanging around a while, so she asked him if he wanted anything. He apparently blushed and mumbled something about just looking at her because she was so nice looking, and maybe mumble mumble flowers, mumble dinner? And she told him off, gave him some sort of rude dismissal, and called him a loser (to his face? not sure, but to me she definitely said 'what a loser' and totally slated him) I was, frankly, shocked and saddened. How much effort does it take for a shy guy to pluck up courage to approach the object of his dreams? To be so rebuffed must be quite devastating; is it any wonder guys feel they can't win? Apparently they are supposed to romance women, but NOT? What are the chances that guys who get knocked back like that develop into serial killers or rapists? OK I am being extreme, I realise that, but what happened to manners, or graciousness? Just accepting a compliment where given and saying 'thank you but I am not available', or maybe even 'you are kind but I can't fraternize with customers, thank you'.
Why did this affect me?

imagine

my worst fear - getting pregnant accidentally. At my age. I would have to auction the baby off, and start a bidding war between Madonna and BrAngelina. Would either of them want the offspring of a myopic ADD sufferer and a balding yet talented guitarist stroke data warehouser? I certainly couldn't manage all these stairs with a sprog. At my age.

20/20

picked up my new glasses yesterday; after 2 years of juggling 3 pairs (4 if you count prescription sunglasses) I now have one pair for all occasions. Feels incredibly strange, and now I can see how old I actually look. hm. No wonder they say 'rose tinted spectacles'.
So, when I was choosing a pair, I jokingly turned to t'husband and asked him if they made me look 10 years younger? Quick as a flash, the salesman quipped 'fifteen'. I tittered dutifully, but my eyes lasered him 'don't push it, lul' Unless those specs can gently botox my entire face and coat it in a dewy non creasing foundation, they do not in any way make me look younger. Maybe less squinty, at a pinch?

witches

why is it, certain women go on and on about Menopause? Have I got it inscribed on my forehead that I am imminently about to lose my last apparent shred of feminity? Do I really need to hear the gruesome ins and outs of what to expect? In a word; NO. When I pass through this private and personal experience is my business. If you think I am willing to discuss vaginal dryness and bodily emanations, YOU COULD NOT BE MORE WRONG. I do not want to rate various potions, or trial herbal tablets. I don't wish to broadcast the state of my libido to all and sundry.  I want to hang onto the illusions that I am still womanly and young enough to care about being interesting and/or attractive. I don't routinely discuss periods other than the odd admittance to cramps, so why the hell would I want to openly talk about the horrors of encroaching middle age? I don't care what Hell you, or an anonymous friend went through; just like when I was pregnant I did not want to hear horror stories of birth. I knew how shit that would be, thanks. Keep your body away from mine, keep your advice to yourself and let me get on with decrepitating on my own terms? Sisterhood? bollocks.
(ps, this is not directed at any close personal friends, just so you know)

tree of pose

Jonathan Safran Foer - Tree of Codes... so if I buy one of his books and chop it up, is it Art? Art of the Humument did it first a long time ago, so a) it isn't new, and b) it's CRAP.... take a book and cut bits out of it to make another story? Hey, why not buy a Dictionary and make lots of stories? Deconstruction, very Post Modern and tongue in cheek.... or just having a laugh all the way to the bank? Something about it just sticks in my craw, sorry; like getting paid to make fun of literature. I want to believe in it as a subversion of traditional literature, really I do; but I can't. William Burroughs did it once or twice, and it did shake things up back in the day; I think I need to find out why this is provoking such a strong knee jerk reaction in me. Am I jealous? Yes, but then if I had done it NO ONE would give a feck. Because he is like, I don't know, the Damien Hirst of PoMo literature, people 'get it'?? Is it that is seems sacriligeous to destroy a perfectly good book? Maybe a smidge of that also, and how annoying is it to read? MAYBE I am just too old and cynical.

Hm, a new thought. Maybe take a classic Led Zep LP and just y'know; cut bits out of it and rearrange bits... oh wait. It's been done. So scratching and remixing moves onto books? I could write a computer programme to do that for me with music and books, you say? Bring it on...

gone

so yesterday went by in a blur of bus, train, haircut; train, bus, housework; bus, train, social thingy; train, bus home, cook, clean, entertain. Loved it. Apart from the bit right at the beginning where I put my sacro iliac out.
Pineapple Thief on the iPod as the sun came up was pure magic though. Yes, I remembered it for once.

 Sometimes this country resembles a gigantic building site. Actually, it's not sometimes, it's all the time. And with this rain it makes you feel like we are piling buildings up higher and higher to no effect. Cycling, for all that I pretend it's like a free dermabrasion facial... no. It's more like a slap in the face; I quite enjoy it most days as I know I am alive, but somehow a prolonged wet period shuts the world down. Horizons are lowered, the sky seems closer too. A swollen bruise glowering over us, like mental blinkers disabling our facility to see beyond the next puddle. People frown and mutter, siege mentality takes over; I even hear myself repeatedly saying 'never mind, it's a good day to stay in with a cheesy film or a crap book and stuff your face with comfort food'.. Like I would ever do that myself. Oh I am tempted, don't misunderstand; but somehow the opportunity never quite arrives. If my back is not better tomorrow, maybe I should try it for once.

My angry incomprehension today is focussed on the Melkweg who are having a Punk Festival called Rebellion... with the UK Subs and Cockney Rejects among others... when I have stopped laughing I will write something.

funny

Cycling at 5pm on a wet January evening is nothing like cycling at 5pm on a wet December evening.
Apropos of yesterday ; Richard Burton said once,

"All great art comes from people who are either ugly or have a terrible inferiority complex. I know no one who is beautiful and produces art. "

I was thinking, the wannabe drug dealer over the road really should steal a less conspicuous bike. He has one with a child seat on the back; as if anyone would want to breed with him.

Today I was forced to listen to The Corrs - Live dvd at 'work'... please, I will do anything you ask, please NEVER make me go through that again. I loathe these cod Gaelic falsetto puppets with their twee faux french and little tittering asides. In fact, I feel like sneaking in when the place is closed, and hiding (or throwing into the canal) every awful cd in there. Bye Abba in concert, seeya Dire Straits, feckoff forever Kylie Live.. I can live with aural wallpaper a la Jack Johnson or even KT whatserface; anything that can be put on repeat and soothingly meld seamlessly into the air. I sneakily put on a self made Radiohead compilation, or Turin Brakes, or even NIN if I think I will get away with it, when no one else is around; but the minute anyone else comes in it goes horribly wrong and I want to run away screaming. Of course I appreciate it is a matter of taste; but which is worse? Bad taste, or no taste?

monday musing

A stress free train trip, but a punch up on the tram. Saw Jesus in a dress; it must have been him as he had bare legs and feet and it was very cold today. He had beautiful lustrous hair, but I was on another tram and he was walking. I bought a lorry load of fruit and vegetables to dislocate my shoulders with (pulling the Trolley Of Rock). The sun shone ALL day, a blue and gold day. Out in the farmy fieldy bits, there are still stretches of frozen dykes with snow on, so white stripes. Shame I forgot my iPod yet again, I could have synced the tunes with the monotonously attractive scenery. Trains are great for musing, somehow the movement is inspiring. Todays musings revolved around 'can comedians be sex symbols?' I scribbled so much I didn't even notice the conductor asking for my ticket, but I am pretty sure he had no idea who Sid James was, or whether there is a sort of Venn diagram where he meets James Bond. My synapses were firing, but not in a coherent way, so I will come back to this. So far all I have established is that great comedians need to be unattractive to succeed.
Still working on which country is best to live in; sod all these 'lifestyle' questionnaires that say Scandinavian countries win hands down, I want to know who has the silliest laws. Or if we are better off all chipping in for either an island to share, or a remote abandoned village to turn into a sort of independent Utopian state? Self sufficient, of course...


 

p.s.

p.s. What kind of random question is this????

What was the stage name of your favorite actress before she was born?  this is what this website just asked me

obvious

I am not one of those 'state the bleeding obvious' people. Yes, it's cold and very dark - its farking winter. What do you expect? Bouquets of orchids springing forth (my mistype there -spronging - is a much better word) while lyre birds weave nests from your navel lint? We live in the Northern hemisphere. Oh, wait. I just did exactly that.

Anyway. My new part time occupation is promoting my husbands' band; this means lots of post office trips and emailing, schmoozing and, well, promoting. Thanks to a fantastic social circle this is not a chore. Thanks to living in an unpredictable land, it is. More on that land later, right now I am busy eating slightly singed porridge out of a small saucepan, while hungry cats circle me.

So, question of the day is; Is there a perfect country to live in? I will be researching this question all week, and giving some thoughts and observations throughout.

How did I get here?

So I sit, clueless, about to attempt to 'blog'. A word that sounds as appetizing as snot or clog. As in -ged up. It reminds me of blocked up school toilets.
Angry incomprehension, a recurring theme lately.
Sunday evening; a palpitation tinged pause at the top of the ski slope, wondering if everything is done up tightly for the launch into the week.