Healthcare defence. How to blow your nose.

Posted: December 28, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

I’ve had a head cold.

It’s been very Christmassy.

A solution was to blow my nose, which I now know was a mistake without proper training.

Simply, I blew my nose too hard, to the point that the room began spinning after an immense pop.

I was dizzy, and after enjoy that for a minute or sonwith a few twirls about thr kitchen, i decided to google what might be seriously wrong with me.

Apparently, I never learned to blow my nose properly. And probably, nor did you.

I visited a health are website which explained: “if you blow your nose with too much force, the air that moves through the tube puts intense pressure on the little bones of your inner ear.”

Immediately upon hearing this, I felt like a right bastard.

Oh those poor little ear bones. There’s only three of them and they’re tiny. And I imagine they’re sisters too, being a trio, yet also a mix of toddlers and grannies; the traditionally infirm.

Too much pressure? I can relate, oh my dear, dear little ear bones.

The sympathy I felt was immense. Not for me, but for my ear bone trio that never did nothing to nobody.

Without a doubt, this same sympathy should be utilised for the benefit of our own health, individually and nationally.

Consider this. You drink too much. You think to yourself “this isn’t doing me any favours really, but oh well”. So you drink. Too much.

Now picture the same scenario, but with your liver sobbing quietly because the nasty alcohol was picking on it and pickling it.

I need to stimulate the same for my ventricles. Don’t we all?

We (well, even if you all don’t, I will) should adopt a more aggressive, protective, perhaps even parental attitude to our health.

Psychopathic, would be most appropriate.

“Anyone here got a problem with my darling little gall bladder, step my way and I’ll nut you…..with my defenceless little forehead….”

It might be a flawed approach, but then apparently so is the traditional method of blowing one’s nose.

One nostril at a time everyone, same for blowing your nose as it is for all things.

One nostril. Less dizzy. And defend your gall bladder with your lives.

Sam

PS: this is written in memory for those dearly beloved little ear bones. They just couldn’t take the pressure of the season.

I read the paper. Now I’ve opinions.

Posted: December 24, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Today's paper. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

You’d better watch out!

You’d better not cry!

You’d better watch out and I’m telling you why...

Sam just read the paper, today.

And the world is fucked, in a very ‘but buy tomorrow’s edition’ way.

Actually, you can’t buy tomorrow’s edition because it’s Christmas Day, but that’s no reason to not panic about world events.

Such as the pet owner who was charged £40 for a phone call to discuss his cat’s constipation.

If the cat had eaten the phone, causing both constipation and a necessary phone call, I’m on the side of the vet. Holding up a scratching and wailing cat to my ear will result in me as calmly as possible letting you know that I’m going to be charging you for this above my normal rates.

Of course, the cat didn’t eat the phone, which is nice, and it did get some medicine, which is about as nice as not eating a phone.

Then there was the annual Christmas Day plunge into sewage on the nation’s coastal swimming spots.

Concerns are that those who like the bracing experience of seawater in December whilst wearing an amusing hat might get poo in their mouths, eyes, stomachs and bloodstream. And brain, probably.

I don’t know much about poo, but I wonder if it’s good for the skin. Probably not, but also, possibly so.

Maybe we should start finding alternative uses for poo, rather than just sending it down river or hiding it under less-pooey things.

Maybe use it in Law? Like shitting in the sinks of the water company Execs for every illness and death their actions caused. Copro-punishment.

Still, here’s hoping the Execs and the swimmers all have a happy Christmas.

The Druids made the news, at the only time of year they ever seem to these days (scarcely at all this millenia so far) to welcome winter solstice.

They watched the sun come up apparently, at Stonehenge. Quite windy, according to reports.

Surrounded by Druids and flaming torches, with a sun rising between ancient menhirs, that must feel like a good place for the world to end. Wiltshire.

And lastly, someone was arrested for stealing some valuable criminal damage.

Banksy does his stencil and spray-paint thing and people are arrested for stealing it before the council has a fair chance to steal it for themselves.

When I write “bugger” on a wall, I’m just stared at. By my wife. In the living room.

A good message in the sign though. Things do need to stop. I hope they do.

Merry Christmas wishes and hopes to all those who won’t have one.

Sam

Christian allegory and me.

Posted: December 22, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

I do get it, but honestly I’d rather not.

I’ll leave it at that.

There are ballerinas out there. Somewhere. Boiling eggs.

Posted: December 22, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I give you my word on this. Ballerinas are heavy.

By God, you know when a ballerina’s leap is finished. They land visually like nobody else – dainty and flowery. But they land audibly like the best and rest of us. “Thud.“

Though I’ve not been landed-upon my many professionals, I’m sure ballerinas would take the biscuit, even more than a bakery burglar.

I think they have to be weighty – as a matter of function.

One can’t twiddle one’s toes incessantly, to the point of being able to launch an entire human through the air just by toe-power, without becoming immensely and densely muscular from the ankle down.

That’s why ballerina’s thud.

They’re paid to thud.

They’re trained to thud.

And they bloody well do, thud.

However, the thud is only so thuddy thanks to the silence with which they float through the air, but this is where it depends on what you attend a ballet for, because I really think the thud lasts longer than the floating.

Whilst floating is for some, and thudding is for others, I’m not a real fan of either in the context of ballet. Devastating news, I know, for the thousands of ballerinas reading this, but I’ve a priority I must ask.

Where are you? And what are you doing?

It’s it strange to think that there are ballerinas out there in the world, in society, being ballerinas.

Catching flights, boiling eggs, breaking up with partners, forgetting their cat’s name till the third attempt, and perhaps maybe even two or three other things, but all whilst being a ballerina.

I’d presume they need to stub their toes continually too, simply to ensure hardiness, so any opportunity to kick something hard would be taken too. I presume. I don’t know as I’ve never met a ballerina, but they must be out there somewhere.

Probably, though hopefully not, you’re presuming I’ve a weird focus on wanting to find a ballerina.

I don’t want to find a ballerina at all, and I’ve no intention of seeking them out. I just don’t want to be surprised by one all of a sudden when out in public.

DO you catch flights? DO you boil eggs?

And do you read a script for your feet?

The Nutcracker is a ballet over 100 years old, and there is a much beloved score that is performed note for note, as per the sheet music.

Where’s the script for the feet? Or is improvisation of the feet expected?

Are ballets scripted per flourish of the limb? Is it written somewhere, or does a choreographer tell people when to move which leg where and in what manner once the Rat King turns up?

When to thud, and when to float? And in which direction, and – remember this – with a facial expression?!

Maybe I should meet a ballerina, just to dispel these ignorancies of mine, but till I do I’ll simply have to remain vague in understanding, though I’ll tell everyone that asks that I expect ballerinas are out there somewhere, and that they do boil eggs when necessary.

And that’s just the primary ballerina, which I think is a ‘soloist’, but there are extras too, and what the hell do they spend their time doing apart from practicing to over-react to a ballerina’s floating whilst pretending that a thud isn’t about to happen.

I suppose it is like much of stage theatre – a matter of over-reacting until you’re paid, in costume, at matinee and evening performances. Acting can be brilliant, but to really pull of being a stage-extra, you’ve got to get the knack of over-reacting subtly.

Like a parsnip chip pretending to be a potato chip. Very convincing, and quite irritating too.

I’d rather be the bear that pursues the rest of them off-stage.

I could make a good bear. I’d look better anyway.

I always do when I look like someone else.

Sam

My Nan is in hospital.

Posted: December 16, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

My Nan is in hospital, and is due to remain for a few more days, following a week of already having been stuck there.

She is 96, she has dementia, bronchitis, a UTI, and I’d imagine depression too considering all those combined after a week in hospital.

This year has been her greatest deterioration. This was the year she didn’t recognise me right away. And was the year she asked me if I’d seen her mother around. I hadn’t – she died before my mother was born.

She wants her mother, which is quite the thing to want at 96 years old.

I think, not just from the emotional low of wanting ‘mum’ to make everything better, but there’s also a simple, sensible logic to it.

“I’m confused and don’t know where I am – I’d better find where mother is. That’ll solve everything, as usual.” That’s a problem solving habit we grow out of, but I suppose we also cling to.

I’ve a feeling this is commonly noted by those visiting old and poorly relatives in hospital; they look so small.

She is curled up in her bed, blankets over and around her, with side-shelves full of debris from visitors and staff. Uneaten meals under heat-covers, unopened magazines of gossip and brain-teasers, sweets and fruit drinks.

I added to that some photos of my son, from his school’s photo shoot.

He looks ridiculous, but I suppose that’s in his DNA.

It made her smile and laugh, and I could see it also made her think and try to remember. She recognised him, but I think she may also have liked just seeing a cheerful little boy smiling under a mop of previously combed hair.

She was concerned about where her shoes were, so I kept pointing to them and throwing them in the air every now and then to liven up the place. She liked that too, but also asked that I put them back carefully, where she could see them.

“When I die, all my children are going to get a little bit of money.” she keeps saying, again and again, loudly. I kept having to match her volume by saying “not yet Nan, you just stay with us instead of going”, so others didn’t think I was trying to coax it out of her with a power of attorney one hand and a pen in the other.

I brought her some strawberry bon-bons, and she had one. I think it was the thrill of the day.

My mother is worried about there not being a proper care plan for her. Nan asked me, “who am I going to live with” and at first I didn’t know how to answer because I don’t know her care plan, and then I realised she’d actually forgotten that she currently lives alone, next door to my parents. She didn’t know where she lived, and was asking me.

It’s no less sad to tell you this because of who my Nan was, as that shouldn’t matter.

But I’ll tell about that sometime soon.

She should be home soon, before Christmas.

It’s seems pointless to tell you I love my Nan very much, that would be assumed by most and is true. But she loved me beyond care of danger and damage. She’d take on a bull at full charge for me.

Just a grandmother loving their grandchild I suppose.

But it’s important to remember, I feel anyway, that this is how things are, were, and will be. It’s important to remember because it’s important.

Nan was completely on my side. And now I sit at hers.

I’ll tell you about her sometime. Her name is Betty, something she was first called when she was a little girl, held by her mother and father.

Now she’s 96. But she’s still Betty.

Sam