What a relaxing Easter weekend I had!
A pleasant trip to Cheshire on the train, leafing through a murder mystery paperback, gazing out at rolling pastures and rocky peaks, revelling in the prospect of Easter eggs and roast dinners with a possible country stroll.
I arrived home, crossing the familial threshold, not into my Mother's welcoming bosom, but into a sitting room in complete disarray! All of the furniture oddly crammed into the middle of the room like some sort of Turner Prize entry.
What can be happening, I thought? A spring clean? A 'welcome home Robert ' game of musical chairs? An orgy? All was revealed when my eyes fell upon eight roughly equal squares of paint on the wall by the window, all of which were almost identical shades of cream. Decorating.
Well, I managed to spend Good Friday and most of the Saturday holed up in what I rather pretentiously refer to as the Music Room pretending to study but in fact chatting to Norwegian gays online. Eventually, I could stand neither the suspense nor the Norwegian gays any longer and joined the debate as to precisely which identical shade of cream to go for. My sister joined in, and thankfully can always be relied upon for constructive input. It went something like this.
Mummy: "The buttermilk is too dirty from this angle. It's alright from where you're sitting, but from where I'm sitting it's dirty.
Daddy: "I like the buttercream not the buttermilk."
Mummy: "No, that's too insipid. I'm not sure what you can see from where you're sitting, David, but from where I'm sitting it's insipid."
Caroline: "They're all bloody awful."
Daddy: "I still like Barley Glow."
Robert and Caroline: "That's exactly the same as you've got already!"
Robert: "Why don't you do a feature wall of the buttermilk, and then the buttercream, everywhere else, like in the sample book?"
Daddy: "Yes! That's what I've been saying all along!"
Mummy: "No. Not nice. I've seen sitting rooms done up like that. I've been to sitting rooms done up like that. I've sat in sitting rooms done up like that. It wasn't nice."
Robert: "They're both magnolia anyway. Why don't you for for Lunar Falls or Daffodil White, brighten the place up a bit?".
Daddy: (adopts patronising tone) "Because, Robert, they're only available in matt finish I'm not putting bloody matt on, it's a bloody nightmare."
Caroline: "They're all bloody awful."
Robert: "But a matt finish is much more contemporary, clean lines and all that. If you're thinking about saleability it's worth going for matt".
Daddy: (adopts tone of rising anger) "I'm not putting bloody matt on."
Robert: "But..."
Daddy: (adopts tone of apoplectic frenzy) "Do you want to do it? Do you want to do it? Do you want to do it? Do you? Do you? Do you?"
Robert: "Not if you're going to speak to me in that tone".
Mummy: "Let's not fall out about this!"
Robert and Daddy: "Too late."
Mummy: "I still think the buttermilk is dirty. What about a feature wall? I like the way they've combined the Ruby Explosion and the Ivory in the sample book."
Caroline: "They're all bloody awful."
Daddy: "Yes! That's what I've been saying all along!. I think the Ruby Explosion is too dark. What about Roasted Red?"
Robert and Caroline: That's exactly the same as you've got already!
Mummy: You'll have to go and get some more samples.
In the end, after two trips to B and Q, which were conducted in stony silence, Ivory was selected with a Mud Hut feature wall. Both of which were my suggestions.
I rest my case.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Monday, 6 April 2009
Shit shit shitty shitting shit.
Isn't England shit? Well, Britain. Well, the United Kingdom if we're going to split hairs, although I have never been to Northern Ireland and it may not be shit, but I imagine that it is.
You see, I am relatively bright. Not massively bright, but relatively. Alright, I think I'm massively bright but my need to outwardly suggest some degree of modesty made me qualify the brightness statement.
Anyway, I am bright. I am relatively hard-working (that really is relative) and and have been relatively hard-working since I started a paper round when I was thirteen. I have never stopped working since then, in fact. I worked in Littlewoods cafe in Chester (albeit for one day). I worked in Marks and Spencer, where I was attacked with a spade by a violent drunkard whilst manning a Portacabin full of chilled perishables (I shit you not). I worked in Racing Green, an awful clothes shop which never had any customers. I endured levels of boredom which you will never understand. I worked in Pizza Hut, for four years. I worked in a call centre. I worked in a hideous gay bar in York. I worked in Marks and Spencer again, in Wood Green. I worked in the glamorous world of TV. I work in a relatively snazzy law firm, even if my office is still like a doctor's surgery even though we've been here for four months. It even smells like a doctor's surgery.
I have qualifications. A masters degree, no less. I vaguely speak a number of languages. I have life skills - hell, I can even touch type.
And yet, I am still poor. Well, alright, not poor, but not comfortable, either. No prospect whatsoever, for example of buying my own home. Not even a studio. Isn't that shit?
I am the first to admit that I have sometimes made the wrong decisions. Choice of degree, for example. Doing a pointless master's degree, for another example. Yet, I might add, I gave up on all my dreams of being a world class flautist and/or opera singer because of the shitty careers advice at my shitty school (bit of fruitless ancient bitterness creeping in there).
So, what I'm saying, is. I'm 30, I'm relatively bright, I'm relatively hard-working, I still have student debts, I'm still not financially comfortable, I live in a flat that isn't big enough for my stuff and I spend my whole life waiting for the bus with Morrisons shopping bags because I can't afford to go to Waitrose, like some latter-day Shirley Valentine. Even she had nice house, albeit a bit surburban for my tastes.
The point of this uninformed rambling, to coin a phrase, is that this country is shit.
NB - I promised myself I would never use any expletives in this blog, but decided to allow 'shit' to creep into this one.
You see, I am relatively bright. Not massively bright, but relatively. Alright, I think I'm massively bright but my need to outwardly suggest some degree of modesty made me qualify the brightness statement.
Anyway, I am bright. I am relatively hard-working (that really is relative) and and have been relatively hard-working since I started a paper round when I was thirteen. I have never stopped working since then, in fact. I worked in Littlewoods cafe in Chester (albeit for one day). I worked in Marks and Spencer, where I was attacked with a spade by a violent drunkard whilst manning a Portacabin full of chilled perishables (I shit you not). I worked in Racing Green, an awful clothes shop which never had any customers. I endured levels of boredom which you will never understand. I worked in Pizza Hut, for four years. I worked in a call centre. I worked in a hideous gay bar in York. I worked in Marks and Spencer again, in Wood Green. I worked in the glamorous world of TV. I work in a relatively snazzy law firm, even if my office is still like a doctor's surgery even though we've been here for four months. It even smells like a doctor's surgery.
I have qualifications. A masters degree, no less. I vaguely speak a number of languages. I have life skills - hell, I can even touch type.
And yet, I am still poor. Well, alright, not poor, but not comfortable, either. No prospect whatsoever, for example of buying my own home. Not even a studio. Isn't that shit?
I am the first to admit that I have sometimes made the wrong decisions. Choice of degree, for example. Doing a pointless master's degree, for another example. Yet, I might add, I gave up on all my dreams of being a world class flautist and/or opera singer because of the shitty careers advice at my shitty school (bit of fruitless ancient bitterness creeping in there).
So, what I'm saying, is. I'm 30, I'm relatively bright, I'm relatively hard-working, I still have student debts, I'm still not financially comfortable, I live in a flat that isn't big enough for my stuff and I spend my whole life waiting for the bus with Morrisons shopping bags because I can't afford to go to Waitrose, like some latter-day Shirley Valentine. Even she had nice house, albeit a bit surburban for my tastes.
The point of this uninformed rambling, to coin a phrase, is that this country is shit.
NB - I promised myself I would never use any expletives in this blog, but decided to allow 'shit' to creep into this one.
Monday, 16 March 2009
Fatness First
The dynamics of the gym never fail to perplex me. I was contemplating this earlier whilst panting away on a stationary bike watching Cash in the Attic which, unusually, was presented by the lovely Gloria Hunniford who spent the entire programme inferring via the medium of sniping sideways remarks when the contestants weren't listening that Milton Keynes is a hellhole. No flies on Gloria.
It's just that everyone else seems to (a) be fitter than me and (b) know exactly what they're doing. Whenever I'm on the stationary bike I have to glance at the person next to me to see if they're on a higher effort level than I am. If so, then I have to increase mine accordingly. Trying to concentrate on Escape to the Country when you're heart rate is 185 beats per minute is no laughing matter. On the rare ocassions when I am fitter than someone (generally a fatty) I get a barely controllable urge to turn to them and engage them in chit-chat regarding whichever daytime offering the BBC has on offer at the given moment, purely to demonstrate that I, unlike them, am still capable of conversation. The fusion of daytime television and gymnasia could be the subject of a doctoral thesis. I mean, as Homes Under the Hammer reaches its gripping peak am I burning more calories? A couple of minutes of Angela Rippon in a pair of fawn slacks and a piqué polo gets me far hotter under the collar than any cross trainer ever will.
Who are these people who work out in the day? There is a surprising amount of totty in there (for Shepherd's Bush) and they look like the sort of people who hold down regular jobs - which came as a surprise being that it is only Fitness First. And Shepherd's Bush. I knew there must be a reason it is so cheap. No membership limits. It's so woefully oversubsribed I spend half of the time in there loitering in between the leg abductor and the chin-up assistor trying to look as if I am casually stretching or engaging in some sort of yogalates manoeuvre, whereas in fact I am desperately waiting to pounce on any one of the three machines I need, all of which are occupied by either (a) men who look like Dolph Lungdren's slightly beefier younger brother or (b) the aforementioned fatty from the stationary bike who has excreted enough sweat on the shiny seat of the lat pulldown machine to make sitting on it about as appealing as spending the evening sellotaped to Jeremy Beadle (before he was dead). At least one gets the smug satisfaction of being able to move the weight up. On the flip side, if one follows Dolph Lungdren (who has just bench pressed the equivalent of Michelle McManus) one feels the need to overstretch oneself. I made the churlish move of attempting this with the calf raise machine last week and spent the best part of four days walking like I had just found a broom up my arse.
There is no point to this rambling. To end on a high, if unrelated note, here's the Postman Pat theme tune dubbed in to Norwegian. More amusing than it sounds.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uLukpgDjOk&feature=related
It's just that everyone else seems to (a) be fitter than me and (b) know exactly what they're doing. Whenever I'm on the stationary bike I have to glance at the person next to me to see if they're on a higher effort level than I am. If so, then I have to increase mine accordingly. Trying to concentrate on Escape to the Country when you're heart rate is 185 beats per minute is no laughing matter. On the rare ocassions when I am fitter than someone (generally a fatty) I get a barely controllable urge to turn to them and engage them in chit-chat regarding whichever daytime offering the BBC has on offer at the given moment, purely to demonstrate that I, unlike them, am still capable of conversation. The fusion of daytime television and gymnasia could be the subject of a doctoral thesis. I mean, as Homes Under the Hammer reaches its gripping peak am I burning more calories? A couple of minutes of Angela Rippon in a pair of fawn slacks and a piqué polo gets me far hotter under the collar than any cross trainer ever will.
Who are these people who work out in the day? There is a surprising amount of totty in there (for Shepherd's Bush) and they look like the sort of people who hold down regular jobs - which came as a surprise being that it is only Fitness First. And Shepherd's Bush. I knew there must be a reason it is so cheap. No membership limits. It's so woefully oversubsribed I spend half of the time in there loitering in between the leg abductor and the chin-up assistor trying to look as if I am casually stretching or engaging in some sort of yogalates manoeuvre, whereas in fact I am desperately waiting to pounce on any one of the three machines I need, all of which are occupied by either (a) men who look like Dolph Lungdren's slightly beefier younger brother or (b) the aforementioned fatty from the stationary bike who has excreted enough sweat on the shiny seat of the lat pulldown machine to make sitting on it about as appealing as spending the evening sellotaped to Jeremy Beadle (before he was dead). At least one gets the smug satisfaction of being able to move the weight up. On the flip side, if one follows Dolph Lungdren (who has just bench pressed the equivalent of Michelle McManus) one feels the need to overstretch oneself. I made the churlish move of attempting this with the calf raise machine last week and spent the best part of four days walking like I had just found a broom up my arse.
There is no point to this rambling. To end on a high, if unrelated note, here's the Postman Pat theme tune dubbed in to Norwegian. More amusing than it sounds.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uLukpgDjOk&feature=related
Friday, 27 February 2009
I just can't help myself
My doctor, with whom I am moderately in love, (he's a sort of mysterious Iranian type - I keep expecting him to whisk me away over sand dunes on a magic carpet and then feed me Turkish Delight whilst presenting me with beautiful treasures which have been facilitated merely by the rubbing of a lamp) is sending me to a Guided Self-Help Counsellor. This is to expunge any negative thoughts about braintumourgate and help me to grow as a person and move on. I am rather hoping that I will morph into a new and scintillating comedy guru or the like once all trauma is released from my life. I don't actually like Turkish Delight. Perhaps cuddling up on a cozy rug in front of a crackling fire whilst wearing chunky cable knit sweaters and drinking Horlicks would suffice.
One doesn't know what to expect, does one? I did think the Mysterious Iranian Doctor (he may not be Iranian, incidentally, this is pure fantasy) handled the whole business in a somewhat offhand manner. After my appointment I had the pleasure of sitting in reception trying to fill in a questionnaire about my state of mind with nothing but posters about incontinence and mouth cancer as inspiration. Rating on a scale of 1-4 whether one has suicidal thoughts or if one feels like a failure (neither of which I do) whilst sandwiched in between a whiffy pensioner who is hacking up every Woodbine he has smoked since 1976 and a lactating expectant mother is rather a tall order. It's not the sort of thing one dashes off whilst leaning on a copy of Good Housekeeping from November 1997, is it? One of the questions asked me how often I found myself speaking too slowly or too quickly. Well, it rather depends upon what one is using as a yardstick, doesn't it? I had half a mind to peer, wild-eyed, at the lactating expectant mother and say 'Do I speak too slowly?' but thought perhaps she had enough of her plate as it was. I think I put 'not often' but am now concerned that this not emphatic enough. What if I have now slotted myself firmly into the manic depression category? Or Asperger's Syndrome? Or Attention Deficit Disorder? Or Tourette's? Or Legionnaire's Disease? Oh god.
One doesn't know what to expect, does one? I did think the Mysterious Iranian Doctor (he may not be Iranian, incidentally, this is pure fantasy) handled the whole business in a somewhat offhand manner. After my appointment I had the pleasure of sitting in reception trying to fill in a questionnaire about my state of mind with nothing but posters about incontinence and mouth cancer as inspiration. Rating on a scale of 1-4 whether one has suicidal thoughts or if one feels like a failure (neither of which I do) whilst sandwiched in between a whiffy pensioner who is hacking up every Woodbine he has smoked since 1976 and a lactating expectant mother is rather a tall order. It's not the sort of thing one dashes off whilst leaning on a copy of Good Housekeeping from November 1997, is it? One of the questions asked me how often I found myself speaking too slowly or too quickly. Well, it rather depends upon what one is using as a yardstick, doesn't it? I had half a mind to peer, wild-eyed, at the lactating expectant mother and say 'Do I speak too slowly?' but thought perhaps she had enough of her plate as it was. I think I put 'not often' but am now concerned that this not emphatic enough. What if I have now slotted myself firmly into the manic depression category? Or Asperger's Syndrome? Or Attention Deficit Disorder? Or Tourette's? Or Legionnaire's Disease? Oh god.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Standing Room Only
At what point does one become less able to stand? I was considering this on the 94 bus on the way home, sitting in the seats reserved for those less able to stand. I am not in peak physical condition owing to the recent surgery, but I'm not exactly a snivelling mess who can't be let out of the house alone. Public transport is still something of a mission, however, as I still have iffy eyesight and tend to walk into seats/walls/Albanians when alighting public transport vehicles.
Well, fate dealt me a blow earlier as I was pondering this question whilst trundling along the Goldhawk Road aboard the 94. As I was smugly cozying up in the said less able seats a partially sighted gentlemen got on the bus and sat next to me in the seats of the people who are less able to stand, thereby pinning me most uncomfortably against the window. He then proceeded to eat very slowly and noisily (and being partially sighted, not very accurately) what appeared to be a battered sausage and a portion of greasy chips from a paper bag whose scent and grease insulating properties can only be described as woefully inadequate. There you go. Karma. I'm taking it as a sign that I am perfectly able to stand.
Well, fate dealt me a blow earlier as I was pondering this question whilst trundling along the Goldhawk Road aboard the 94. As I was smugly cozying up in the said less able seats a partially sighted gentlemen got on the bus and sat next to me in the seats of the people who are less able to stand, thereby pinning me most uncomfortably against the window. He then proceeded to eat very slowly and noisily (and being partially sighted, not very accurately) what appeared to be a battered sausage and a portion of greasy chips from a paper bag whose scent and grease insulating properties can only be described as woefully inadequate. There you go. Karma. I'm taking it as a sign that I am perfectly able to stand.
Sunday, 22 February 2009
Lack-a-day!
Yes, it's been a long time and I know my public await me with a frenzied fervour. Now the whole humourless tumorous episode is over it seems rather difficult to come up with anything profound. I received some information putting it very plainly that recurrence is rare and total resection is generally considered curative. Really better than I had ever hoped for. Perhaps because I hadn't really taken in the whole drama of the situation now I can't really let it go either. I am trying, however. Goodbye Ganglion! Part of me still dares not be relaxed and lackadaisical about the whole thing, so I won't. It's over but it wasn't cock-a-hoop, as they say.
Notwithstanding all this, I had rather hoped that my life would be imbued with a greater sense of profundity and material goods would be nothing but meaningless folly, but to be brutally frank I'm still as interested in hats, shoes and bags as ever. Incidentally, I am still not entirely back to my cool and collected self. I was trying to buy some Yves Saint Laurent L'Homme Healthy Look Moisturiser in House of Fraser earlier and I completely forgot my PIN number. I mean, completely forgot it. I had to walk away empty-handed. I was saved from myself, really.
So, I'm about two years behind on my law course and it's only a two-year course. Bit of an issue.
It looks more or less certain that I'll be moving to Norway. Looking at the weather forecast I am questioning the wisdom of this decision. It's not even as if one can do the British thing and say to oneself "never mind, let's just get through January and February and it'll be balmy by the end of April". Oh no. A lifetime of ceaseless drizzle and humid bone-chilling cold is all that awaits, with perhaps one Thursday afternoon every other July where it might touch 17 degrees for a quarter of an hour if you're in a sheltered spot and your back is to the wind. It's not that bad really, but I always thought that if I were to leave this country it would be for warmer climes. It's only temporary. What's two years when you're young, free and the whole world is your oyster?
Moving abroad is also a logistical nightmare. How does one house-hunt abroad, for example? The internet has made it somewhat easier, although www.finn.no is no Rightmove, I can assure you of that. Lots of lovely properties with wood-burning stoves and loft rooms and mountain views and under-floor heating, but going to view them involves a schlep via the Place Where The Scum Amoebae Of Every European Nation Gather To Travel (Stansted) and then you only really have one attempt to find something unless you want to spend an absolute fortune and can face another sojourn toing and froing amongst the velour-tracksuit-clad peasants. How does one get one's furniture to a country to which one is not connected by land? One drives onto a pikey ferry in a Transit van and then spends a couple of hours trying to work out whether the rising nausea is seasickness or the primal horror of being entirely surrounded by French teenagers with no visible means of escape. One then proceeds to drive for about two thousand miles through a further five countries for four days at great expense, overnighting in motels with bedsheets that seem to have been woven from Ryvita. That is how one does it. Then one has to drive the van back for another for days when one has deposited the furniture. Not a walk in the park.
Scandinavia's saving grace is its music. I'm just discovering more and more. I might try to be clever and post a video of Maria Mena's Just Hold Me. Hang on. OK I tried I'm not clever enough, here's the link. I think she's miming but you get the idea.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yV3YYV1kpkI
Yes, all of the women do look like this in Norway. Most of them more towards the blonde end of the spectrum. Unfortunately quite a lot of the men look like the drummer and the pianist. You can't have it all. Actually here's To Let Myself Go by Ane Brun who I'm going to see on Thursday, in fact, in Islington, of all places. She recently did an amazing cover of Cyndi Lauper's True Colours which was used on the Sky+ HD advert, FYI.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7tQiDHSe5E
The video is nothing to do with the song, but both are rather good, independently. So two singers, both good, both Norwegian. It bodes well. And my new Nano arrived today (woo-hoo! thanks Mum!) so I've got plenty of excuses to sit around with a vague expression on my face feeling dreamy and pensive whilst listening to doleful Scandis, wondering if I'll ever see the northern lights or the midnight sun. I suppose if it's too depressing to go outside there's nothing for it but to sit around writing doleful music (the television isn't really an option, it's just endless subtitled re-runs of Midsomer Murders).
Well I had so many thoughts that seemed scintillating, but I've honed my prose style enough for one evening. I've got to listen to an e-lecture about Co-Ownership of Land. Given that prospect, I could quite possibly be back later with more musical revelations....
Notwithstanding all this, I had rather hoped that my life would be imbued with a greater sense of profundity and material goods would be nothing but meaningless folly, but to be brutally frank I'm still as interested in hats, shoes and bags as ever. Incidentally, I am still not entirely back to my cool and collected self. I was trying to buy some Yves Saint Laurent L'Homme Healthy Look Moisturiser in House of Fraser earlier and I completely forgot my PIN number. I mean, completely forgot it. I had to walk away empty-handed. I was saved from myself, really.
So, I'm about two years behind on my law course and it's only a two-year course. Bit of an issue.
It looks more or less certain that I'll be moving to Norway. Looking at the weather forecast I am questioning the wisdom of this decision. It's not even as if one can do the British thing and say to oneself "never mind, let's just get through January and February and it'll be balmy by the end of April". Oh no. A lifetime of ceaseless drizzle and humid bone-chilling cold is all that awaits, with perhaps one Thursday afternoon every other July where it might touch 17 degrees for a quarter of an hour if you're in a sheltered spot and your back is to the wind. It's not that bad really, but I always thought that if I were to leave this country it would be for warmer climes. It's only temporary. What's two years when you're young, free and the whole world is your oyster?
Moving abroad is also a logistical nightmare. How does one house-hunt abroad, for example? The internet has made it somewhat easier, although www.finn.no is no Rightmove, I can assure you of that. Lots of lovely properties with wood-burning stoves and loft rooms and mountain views and under-floor heating, but going to view them involves a schlep via the Place Where The Scum Amoebae Of Every European Nation Gather To Travel (Stansted) and then you only really have one attempt to find something unless you want to spend an absolute fortune and can face another sojourn toing and froing amongst the velour-tracksuit-clad peasants. How does one get one's furniture to a country to which one is not connected by land? One drives onto a pikey ferry in a Transit van and then spends a couple of hours trying to work out whether the rising nausea is seasickness or the primal horror of being entirely surrounded by French teenagers with no visible means of escape. One then proceeds to drive for about two thousand miles through a further five countries for four days at great expense, overnighting in motels with bedsheets that seem to have been woven from Ryvita. That is how one does it. Then one has to drive the van back for another for days when one has deposited the furniture. Not a walk in the park.
Scandinavia's saving grace is its music. I'm just discovering more and more. I might try to be clever and post a video of Maria Mena's Just Hold Me. Hang on. OK I tried I'm not clever enough, here's the link. I think she's miming but you get the idea.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yV3YYV1kpkI
Yes, all of the women do look like this in Norway. Most of them more towards the blonde end of the spectrum. Unfortunately quite a lot of the men look like the drummer and the pianist. You can't have it all. Actually here's To Let Myself Go by Ane Brun who I'm going to see on Thursday, in fact, in Islington, of all places. She recently did an amazing cover of Cyndi Lauper's True Colours which was used on the Sky+ HD advert, FYI.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7tQiDHSe5E
The video is nothing to do with the song, but both are rather good, independently. So two singers, both good, both Norwegian. It bodes well. And my new Nano arrived today (woo-hoo! thanks Mum!) so I've got plenty of excuses to sit around with a vague expression on my face feeling dreamy and pensive whilst listening to doleful Scandis, wondering if I'll ever see the northern lights or the midnight sun. I suppose if it's too depressing to go outside there's nothing for it but to sit around writing doleful music (the television isn't really an option, it's just endless subtitled re-runs of Midsomer Murders).
Well I had so many thoughts that seemed scintillating, but I've honed my prose style enough for one evening. I've got to listen to an e-lecture about Co-Ownership of Land. Given that prospect, I could quite possibly be back later with more musical revelations....
Thursday, 12 February 2009
Gangly Ganglions
Eyesight continues not to improve. Sigh. I wouldn't mind a blind spot, I really wouldn't, but a swirling distortion is quite another prospect. What to do? I'm going to have to consider a career that involves not using the eyes. Any thoughts? I could become a rent boy, I suppose. Partial blindness would probably help. Hell, I'd do anything for £4.50 and a packet of Frazzles. as long as I couldn't see what I was doing.
As every day passes it becomes harder and harder to convince oneself that everything is going to be alright on the eyesight front. I've still got bruises all over my arms, mind you. If they're like that imagine what the brain is like. Poor brain. I did one of those brain training things on my sister's Nintendo DS (can you believe I am related to a person who has such a thing?). Anyway I was 60. Pleasing, no?
Some good news is that the Thing In Head was not even an astrocytoma, but even less dangerous than that, a Ganglioglioma. That's a mouthful, isn't it? Or a head full, depending on how you look at it. Hardly anything is known about them, it seems, but they're not dangereux. Phew.
Right, so I'm moving to Norway, as if the weather isn't cold enough here. It's snowing as I type. Brrrr. It's amazing just how Scandinavian all the flats we have looked at online are. I mean, it's as if IKEA have built the thing, let alone been responsible for the interior design. Norwegians put their washing machines in the bathroom. It's most irregular. What I'm going to do job-wise I don't know. It would be rather chilly walking the streets and terribly impractical to service clients whilst wearing Helly Hansen. Do they have Frazzles in Norway? I wouldn't have thought so.
As every day passes it becomes harder and harder to convince oneself that everything is going to be alright on the eyesight front. I've still got bruises all over my arms, mind you. If they're like that imagine what the brain is like. Poor brain. I did one of those brain training things on my sister's Nintendo DS (can you believe I am related to a person who has such a thing?). Anyway I was 60. Pleasing, no?
Some good news is that the Thing In Head was not even an astrocytoma, but even less dangerous than that, a Ganglioglioma. That's a mouthful, isn't it? Or a head full, depending on how you look at it. Hardly anything is known about them, it seems, but they're not dangereux. Phew.
Right, so I'm moving to Norway, as if the weather isn't cold enough here. It's snowing as I type. Brrrr. It's amazing just how Scandinavian all the flats we have looked at online are. I mean, it's as if IKEA have built the thing, let alone been responsible for the interior design. Norwegians put their washing machines in the bathroom. It's most irregular. What I'm going to do job-wise I don't know. It would be rather chilly walking the streets and terribly impractical to service clients whilst wearing Helly Hansen. Do they have Frazzles in Norway? I wouldn't have thought so.
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