Fast Karma

Karma works both ways, and sometimes it works extremely quickly...

The forecast said sunny intervals and the sky to the south-west was blue, so I took a chance on Saturday and went to the beach. Oh joy! My lovely hut neighbours had put a first coat of paint on the bits I can't reach and it's looking good. I handed over the money for the paint and Hilary said, 'Oh, David, tell her about that man! Kite-man!'

'Oh yes,' said David, a twinkle in his eye. 'I saw him in the car-park, with his leg in plaster. Seems he lost control of his kite and came crashing down on the sand bar and broke his leg ...'

When I stopped shaking with laughter I slapped on some suntan lotion and lay down on my lounger to soak up some rays. Within twenty minutes a light wind had sprung up, sending clouds to hide the sun. Another twenty minutes on and Hilary and David, by now clad in fleeces, packed up and went home. I toughed it out a little longer before retreating into the hut with a blanket and my book, shutting one door against the now howling gale. After another hour I gave up, got dressed and stepped outside the hut into the cold wind.

There was Kite-Man, leg all mended, blowing up his rig and preparing for an afternoon's fun in the sea.

Now that's Karma.

I take it all back ...

I got home, logged on in one last vain attempt to connect to the internet before giving Talk Talk the benefit of my (not very high) opinion of them and ... it's working!

Maybe the upgrade to the service in my area took a little longer than planned but whatever the reason, my internet service and I are happily re-united, without the need to buy a new router that I can't afford. Phew!

Thank you, God.

Incommunicado ...

As I usually do before going to bed, I sat at my computer to check for any late emails. Talk Talk flashed up the helpful message, 'It looks as if you are having problems connecting to your Broadband.' I followed all the usual steps (Talk Talk 'loses' my connection on a fairly regular basis) and, when that didn't resolve it, I rebooted. That normally clears it. In fact, ring your office helpdesk, wherever you are in the country, and the chances are that you'll be advised to switch off and switch on again. Having booted up, Talk Talk flashed again, 'We have detected a problem with your broadband connection.'

This was about 11pm on Friday. I followed the steps, I logged on and off, I followed different steps, logged on and off again, in short, I would not be beaten! Eventually, at 4.30am on Saturday morning I had to admit defeat and I went to bed.

Later that same morning, I left a pitiful voicemail on a friend's 'phone - 'lucky' woman uses Talk Talk as well - explaining the problem, and she 'phoned back with a solution! Not the quick/easy/cheap one I was hoping for, but a solution nevertheless! Apparently, Talk Talk has been upgrading their service, area by area, and since the upgrade, the wireless router that was sent out to new members last year is no longer compatible. Of course, they didn't acknowledge this themselves, my friend's partner managed to find out the information on the internet and my friend's solution was to buy a new router. She's had no problem since.

My problem is that a) I can't afford a new router and b) if I could, PC World have had such a run on the particular type I need that they have sold out, presumably to disgruntled Talk Talk customers.

'Check the internet for fixes in one of the nerd forums,' my brother helpfully suggested. I would if I could connect to the internet ... (well, I know I'm connected at the moment because I'm posting this, but there is a limit to how much time I can spend on personal stuff at work!) ... and if I understood nerd-speak. I am fluent in French, I have a smattering of German, but geek is all greek to me.

So tonight I have the prospect of wading through pages of nerd-ese that I've sneakily printed off at work, and talking to the lovely people at the Talk Talk helpdesk who, according to the friend who had the same problem, could be prosecuted under the Trades Descriptions Act for their lack of help. They couldn't understand what was wrong in the first place, much less suggest a solution.

When/if my internet connection gets back and running I think my first Google search will be for wig manufacturers, because by then I shall have torn all my hair out ...

Wish me luck!

Progress ...

Oh me of little faith!

I had a letter from the District Council yesterday in response to my cry for help about getting the kite-surfers a designated area to the west of the beach, away from the huts and the children and the swimmers, where they can do less harm. The Council has invited the Secretary of the British Kite-Surfers Association for a meeting to discuss the issue, and I will be informed of the outcome!

It may not be success (yet!) but it is certainly progress, and I am very hopeful for a more peaceful and relaxing summer next year, without Mr ex-SAS getting stroppy and threatening, and bringing hordes of his kite-surfing pals to set up camp in front of my hut with what feels like the express purpose of winding me up.

Watch this space!

Things that go bump in the day ...

As a pre-birthday treat (and shame on all who forgot it was 2 August - notable lapses being my Aunty Wendy and my Grandmother) a friend of mine took me out for the day on Tuesday 29 July. I was allowed to choose where I wanted to go, and my requirements were simple. 'I'd like to go to a haunted house, please.'

I had heard nothing about Athelhampton House prior to our visit, except that there was supposed to be the ghost of a monkey there. I went along hoping to hear a chattering or scratching noise, but the reality was far more interesting ...

The house and gardens are far more spectacular than my few photos here show, so do take a look at their website via the above link.

The friend I went with, Lesley, seems to be a lot more sensitive to atmosphere than I am, but we both felt very giddy on the staircase leading up to the King's Bedroom, to the extent that I had to hold onto the bannisters. We had a quick look into the room before realising that we had missed some other rooms further up the stairs, so returned the way we had come and visited the Marevna Gallery, at the top of the house.

Back in the King's Bedroom, as I walked past the left-hand side of the bed, I suddenly felt that I couldn't breathe: my lungs seemed paralysed. There was a pressing feeling in my chest, as if something soft, like a ballon or a pillow, was being pressed very hard against my heart. I'm very alert to anything to do with my heart after my op earlier this year, but it didn't feel like an angina attack, just a heavy pressure. I said to Lesley, who was walking ahead of me, that I couldn't breathe, and she came back to where I was standing. She was breathing fine, but said she felt a pressure in her chest - just as I was feeling, although I hadn't said anything aloud! The feeling of pressure, and not being able to breathe vanished as soon as I left the room, and I asked the house steward if she knew if anyone had died in the King's Bedroom. Due to the age of the house, it seems very probable, and as I had brought the subject up, she was able to tell me that there have been several people who have had inexplicable experiences in the house, or seen/heard things.

I sensed nothing else for the rest of the tour around the house and the lovely grounds, and I didn't feel that the experience I had was malevolent or threatening in any way. I'd recommend the place to anyone, even if you're not interested in ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties...

The house steward told us that Athelhampton had been featured on Most Haunted as one of the top ten haunted houses in England - you can view the episode, broken down into segments, here or all in one hit here.

I only took a few photos because the official website has much better ones, but here are a few pictures from the gardens :

All in all, a very interesting and exciting visit. I really would like to stay there overnight, but I don't think I'd find anyone to come with me!

Flea markets, cockroaches, prawns and alsations

While I was living in Paris my brother Stephen met the woman he was destined to marry. What better way to woo her than whisk her away for a romantic weekend in the City of Light? Unfortunately for her, his pay didn't quite run to the George V hotel, or any other for that matter, but he could afford the coach/ferry fare for both of them, and he asked if I would put them up. I warned him it wouldn't be romantic, as I lived in a studio and we'd all have to sleep in the same room.

My mother was delighted. She didn't approve of sex before marriage (or after it, according to my father) so she was confident that there would be no 'hanky-panky' with me sleeping mere feet away.

'Tell her I have cockroaches, if you're really worried,' I said. 'That'll make sure she keeps her knickers on.'

Of course, I didn't expect my mother to tell my future sister-in-law this, but mothers never do what you expect them to, do they?

Wanting to make a good impression and ensure they had a good time, I took them to the flea market at the Porte de Clignancourt on day one. We had a great time rummaging around the stalls and stands and after a happy couple of hours decided it was time for lunch. This is when the trouble started. The café we chose was a very popular one and they had run out of tables outside in the sun, but I appealed to the owner's national pride: it was the first time I had met my brother's girlfriend - the only time I'd met one of his girlfriends, so I knew she was special to him. I wanted them both to enjoy their brief visit to Paris and I'd selected his café and we'd all be just devastated if we couldn't have lunch on the terrace.

My plan worked. The owner carried another table and three chairs outside. Unfortunately he put it down where his huge alsation used to relax in the sun. The alsation was not happy at being ousted, and sat by Sarah's leg, glaring at her and salivating. Sarah is afraid of alsations ...

To her credit, she only whimpered a bit, and after another word with the café owner, the dog was dragged inside and Sarah relaxed and ordered her first course. Being British, she ordered prawn cocktail. Being France, the prawns were shell-on. The dish was placed in front of her with several pairs of beady eyes staring at her and she went white. Sarah is afraid of shell-on prawns ... it's the eyes and antennae that freak her out.

While she went to the bathroom, my brother and I started to peel the prawns for her but she was back before we had finished. She was holding her hand in the air, blood dripping from her palm. She slumped into her chair and told us that she wasn't used to 'squattez-vous', or toilettes à la Turque (the squat-and-drop holes in the ground) and had put her hands on the walls on either side to brace herself. This was a big mistake as her hand slipped on a broken tile and gashed her palm open.

Smelling blood, the alsation came and sat by her again while I went and asked the café owner, who was beginning to regret ever putting the table outside for us, if he had a first aid kit.

'No,' he said. 'We only took over last week and we haven't got around to that yet. Here, have some paper napkins.'

Poor Sarah ate her (peeled) prawn cocktail with her fork in one hand, and the other hand clenching a dozen or so white paper napkins that were slowly turning red.

What else could go wrong? Well, we had the main course to get through. Steak frites, you can't go wrong with that, surely? Especially when I told the waiter that Sarah wanted her steak bien cuit, no, more than well done, absolutely cremated. Not a drop of blood, thank you. In fact, not even pink in the middle. Brown to the point of being black all the way through, please. I could not have been clearer. The steaks arrived: Sarah cut into hers and moved back just in time to avoid a jet of blood shooting out of the middle. So much for bien cuit! I think the owner wanted to make sure we never came back... I sent her steak back with renewed instructions, even though I could see she was rapidly starting to lose her appetite. It came back, cooked to Sarah's exact specification, but the chips were cold. We gave up. We went back to my flat, Sarah's hand still swathed in bloody napkins.

After a few drinks in a local bar later that evening, Sarah started to see the funny side of it, much to my brother's relief, but when we were all tucked up in bed that night I heard Sarah whisper, 'Is it true, what your Mum said, about the cockroaches?'

'I don't know,' Stephen whispered back.

'I'm not taking any chances,' Sarah replied firmly. 'I'm keeping my pants on!'

Sarah and Stephen celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary at the end of August this year. I asked them if they fancied going back to Paris for the occasion. The answer, in perfect unison, was a resounding No!

Just in case you didn't believe me ...

... here I am with my medal for finishing!

Phew, what a scorcher!

I love the hot weather - under the right circumstances. These include sea in close proximity, a lack of clothing save for a sarong or a tankini, fresh air and a jug of something ice-cold. Sangria springs to mind.

I do not love the hot weather when I have to go to work in an office where you can't open the windows ('Why would you want to open a window? We have aircon!) especially when the AIRCON IS BROKEN! Sorry, was I shouting?

Only one area of the building is without functioning aircon at the moment - yes, you've guessed, the area where my desk is situated. About 10 of us are affected. We've managed to find one decent sized fan and one little one, but all they seem to do is move the hot air around. The huge windows radiate every calorie of heat into the offices: it's like working in a sauna.

The back of my neck perspires, my face looks like a tomato that's just been rinsed under a tap. I kicked my shoes off under the desk for a few minutes and couldn't get them back on again. I swear I left damp footprints on the carpet!

The Factories Act (1961) states that it's not reasonable to have to work in temperatures below 16°C, but there is no upper limit. The thermometer on my desk was next to the fan, and it still showed almost 30°C today.

The least my boss could do is go out and buy us all an ice-cream! But if I suggested it, I'd be the one getting into a hot car and going to the shop. Maybe, for once, I'll keep my mouth shut!

Race for Life

I did it!

For the fourth year running I completed the Race for Life. It was touch and go whether I would take part - when I enrolled in February my operation was supposed to be eight weeks off, giving me about 15 weeks to recover before the race. Due to NHS 'procedures', though, I had only 7 weeks between operation and race and the cardiac nurse roared, 'Oh no you're not!' when I told her I was doing the Race for Life ... Having promised to walk (I'm built for comfort, not for speed; it was never my intention to run) and not push myself to do it in under an hour, cardiac nurse said OK but after my first cardiac group rehab session I have been soooo depressed it's been a struggle to get out of bed in the morning to go to work, let alone to hike 5km round the Common. Yesterday I got up early, pottered around a bit, but feeling desperately fed up after a couple of hours I went back to bed for the rest of the day, only able to drag myself up in time for Casualty at 8.50pm.

Anyway, I did it, I'm glad I did, and I'm proud of myself. I don't know if I'll do it next year, though.

Barking, not biting ...

This is one of the photos that came up in an email entitled 'special moments'. It wasn't my favourite, by any means, but as soon as I saw it, I thought, 'Hmmm, I've seen that startled look before.' A colleague had received the same email and when she got to this photo she looked up and said, 'Look, that's a picture of you and me!'

Now, I do agree that I tend to explode with rage from time to time, but nobody takes me seriously, they think I'm just exaggerating for comic effect (which can be frustrating at times). It seems, though, that my original roar (or bark, to keep the canine theme) does startle them.

For the record, my bark may be a bit scary, but I never bite. I'm too afraid I'll leave my teeth behind ...

La Vie en Rose

Sitting in the surprisingly modern foyer of the health clinic, waiting for my cardiac rehab appointment, I leafed through a magazine (another surprise, it was in date!) and found a small article on Petit [sic] Anglaise. I immediately went into an internal rant about how it should be Petite with an e if it was Anglaise, but fortunately there was no-one to hear my tutting, and it was a mistake on the part of the journalist, not the writer herself of Petite Anglaise, first a blog, now a novel. I spent the next few days catching up on her blog, and, through it, remembering all the things I loved about Paris when I lived there. Do take a look at her blog - it's a wonderful slice of Parisian life and a great unfolding story of a young Englishwoman's life.

I'm sure I can't have been deliriously happy for the whole of the six years I was there but, looking back through the inevitable rose-tinted glasses, I loved my time in Paris. Most of my friends and family have heard all my anecdotes and incidents a dozen times before and I don't often get the chance to tell my tales these days, so I thought I'd commit some of them to the blogosphere before they fade from my memory.

Every day for 6 years I walked along the Rue de la Folie Régnault, turned onto the Rue de la Roquette and walked to Place Léon Blum. I made my way down the steps of this metro station, Voltaire. I'd travel two stops to Oberkampf, change lines, travel to Place d'Italie, change lines again for another two stops and get off at Maison Blanche on the Avenue d'Italie. I worked as a PA in a company that made photographic accessories - flash guns, tripods, lens filters - and the reels that were used in the good old days of movie and audio tape, before things went digital.

Every now and again, in between my rants about my current life in England, there will be the odd reminiscence about 'the good old days' in Paris, so do stop by from time to time!

What did you do in rehab today?

This morning I found myself sitting in the bar of a rather run-down 5-a-side football club beside a dual carriageway, watching in dismay as a handful of old men dribbled in and sat down. One of the men seemed younger than the others, but the taut, slightly startled expression was a bit of a giveaway. I think he may have succumbed to the pastic surgeon's knife. Certainly he looked and sounded like a man who spent a lot of time moisturising.I was the only woman there. Apart from face-lift man, I was younger than all the others in the group by at least 15 years, 25 years in some cases.

It was obvious that nobody there (except face-lift man) understood what was meant by, 'wear something you can exercise in.' They were all wearing old-man trousers pulled up to their armpits and buttoned-up shirts, socks and highly polished leather lace-up shoes. I was in a loose T-shirt, cropped trousers and trainers.

Imagine, if you can, three women aged between 19 and 45, all on the chunky side, extolling the virtues of exercise in voices that are normally used in a play-group. A powerpoint slide show presentation was given and, in case any of us couldn't read, it was read out to us. Very slowly. I spent the time looking at the spelling, punctuation and layout mistakes and trying to remind myself that two of these women were nurses, not secretaries, and the 19-year-old was ... well, she was probably good at PE at school and ended up being 'an exercise professional'. Whatever that is.

The more I thought about being there, the more depressed I became. When we'd listened to the presentation and been asked questions about it ('So, can any of you tell me what the benefits are of exercise?' 'Yes,' laughed one old geezer. 'It gets me away from the wife.') we then went into our exercise programme. Walking on the spot. Swinging our arms. Walking around the room. Bending our knees.

'Come along, get those knees up!' one of the jolly nurses said. 'Try a little jogging on the spot!'

With size H boobs? In front of 7 elderly men with heart disease? I did them all a favour and refused. I didn't want the shock to kill them.

By the time we broke for a drink of water I was so angry at being there I was close to tears. Oldest nurse asked me how I was. Well, I'm nothing if not honest.

'I really resent being here, having to be here. Everyone else is retired and treating this like an outing. I have to go to work after this. I feel better and fitter than I have done for at least two years but I've been told I can't go back to the gym before I've completed this ... this ... programme and all I want to do is get back to a normal life, not waste my time here.'

To her credit, she didn't try and jolly me along (or I think I'd have walked out there and then) and did seem sympathetic. I guess she was surprised to see someone my age in a cardiac rehab group, and she did say that I could probably leave after week 6 instead of waiting until week 8.

I might have felt a little better if there had been some other women in the group, or at least someone my own age. As it was, I spent two hours surrounded by elderly men, most of whom didn't appear to have heard of deoderant. To add insult to injury, the showers were out of order.

It's going to be a very, very long five weeks.

They tried to make me go to rehab ...

I went for my 'Cardiac Rehab' session a couple of weeks ago. I thought it would just be a question of,

'How are you feeling?'
'Fine, thanks.'
'Good, on your way then, and try to cut down on the cholesterol.'

Turns out it was a lot more serious than that. Instead of carrying on as normal (after all, the statins I'm taking now combat the cholesterol, so where's the problem?) I've got to make some major life-style changes and complete an eight-week cardiac rehab programme - every Tuesday morning from 8 July onwards I have to attend a gym where I will exercise under the close scrutiny of cardiac nurses to check I'm actually as well as I now feel. I'm too young to have heart disease but as every member of my Dad's side of the family has/had it, I guess I wasn't ever going to escape. I resent the lifestyle changes I am going to have to make, but hey, it's better than the alternative of dying young, isn't it? Isn't it?

Although the good old NHS has had almost 2 weeks to send me details of this enforced activity (whilst forbidding me to go back to my regular gym - which I have to carry on paying for) I have had no letter from them. I 'phoned them last week at 4pm only to be told that there was no-one there. The person who answered the 'phone did take my number and promise that the cardiac nurse would call me back the next day. She didn't.

So, I still don't know where I'm supposed to go, what time I'm supposed to turn up, whether I should wear loose clothing for the exercise, if there are showers there and if should I bring my own towel? My boss has said not to worry, that we'd work around it, but to be honest, if I were the employer, I'd expect to see some kind of official document about the fact I'm going to have to take off every Tuesday morning until the end of August.

When I had the angiogram earlier this year I was told that I could go back to the gym 10 days later. At that time I still had a severely blocked artery and angina pains. Now that I've had the op I am fitter than I have been in at least 2 years, so why have I been told I can't go back to the gym? It makes no sense. If I haven't had my letter by Monday night, I'm not going to their bloody rehab.

So there.

Hut decoration ... the next stage

Having seen a hut neighbour make a bit of a pig's ear of her stencilling (fortunately on the inside, and not the outside) I was determined to do a better job of mine. Instead of holding the stencil in place and using the paint straight onto it - which I did a few years ago: the 'low-tack' tape to hold the stencil in place stuck like fury to the paintwork and I never managed to get it off - I drew the shape of the stencil with a pencil and then in-filled with a very fine paintbrush. I hope you'll agree that the results are pretty good!

The painting at the top of the hut (above the door) still has to be done, but I need someone taller than me on the ladder to be able to reach. I'm hoping my next-door hut neighbour will lend a hand this coming weekend, and then it will be finished!

It's just as well I had something to distract me from what was going on on the beach ... and just as well I've had my heart op, otherwise I may well have blown a blood vessel. Not one, not two, but eight kite-surfers descended on the beach and decided to set up their rigs in front of my hut. It made even contemplating swimming suicidal - they hurtle along the water at such speeds and with so little control of their boards that they'd never be able to avoid someone in the water, so I was unable to go for a swim all day. Photos below to give you an idea of the size of the rigs - which range from 6 - 12m2. The lines from kite to harness are up to 27m long, so you can imagine how much space they take up on the beach - in front of my hut. I did ask the 'ring leader' a couple of years ago why he couldn't just walk about 50 yards further along the beach, where there are no huts and no swimmers, so as not to be in the way, and I got a torrent of abuse back. Now I'm sure they do it on purpose. Anyway, a series of photos and a letter is going off to the local council suggesting they ban the use of kite-boards in front of the huts, and set up a designated area further along the beach, out of the way.

I'll let you know if I get anywhere with the council. I have a strong feeling that I won't even get a reply ...

The Naming of the Hut

Springtime is repair and repaint time. I've always referred to the hut simply as 'the hut' but as it now has a new roof covering and smart new front panels, I thought I might give it a name and what better than The Sand Bar? When the tide is out, you can wander for miles along the sand bar, and when I have visitors, they usually bring a bottle of wine (in fact, it is a requirement of all visitors to contribute something, and chilled white wine is always acceptable!) so it seemed very appropriate.

After trying to think of various ways of getting the font I wanted transferred onto the wood (thought of having a custom-made stencil, or using white carbon paper, or chalk) I finally went for freehand, and I think the results are pretty good. I hope that it looks as good once it's in situ: more photos to come when it's fixed to the hut!

Hut decoration

Last year I tried in vain to find someone to re-roof my hut - I contacted 3 people, one of whom even came down and measured up - but none of them came back to me with a quote or responded to my follow-up calls.


The roofing felt was almost all gone from one side of the roof and when I went down for the first time this year the inside of the hut was very wet and all the towels etc damp and musty. Someone had poked a card through the door offering repair services, so I called him the next day to explian what needed to be done. The following day he called back with a quote, and, on Monday, he did the work! I went down at the weekend and painted the sides (before he'd had a chance to put the new roofing and front on) and the above photo is how I found it when I went down last night - new roof, new front panels either side of the doors, and new fascia to the front. Fantastic! So, I set to work immediately, and this is how it looked by the time I left at 8.30pm :

As you can see I've painted the panels beside the doors in the same blue as the sides of the hut. The lighter stripe you can see (probably only on the left side) is going to be painted white. The panel above the door is going to be white and I can't quite decide if the diagonal pieces are going to be blue with the diamond shape where they meet (see next picture) in white, or vice versa. Decisions, decisions!



I've got a piece of driftwood that I'm going to sand down and paint (blue background, white lettering) with the number of the hut - 10 - and the name. The hut doesn't have an official name, but I've decided I'd quite like one. I shan't tell you what it is, though, until I've finished the project, then I'll post a picture.

Touch wood, weather permitting, I shall go down at the weekend and finish off the painting, sand down the doors and paint them white as well, and put new galvanised bolts on that won't rust and drip ginger stains all down the new paint work! And hopefully, in amongst all that activity, I shall find some time for a swim (if only to get the paint off me!) Oh, and I need to throughly clean out the inside, because when they ripped off the old manky roofing felt and put on the new, lots of horrible lumps of tar and felt of varying sizes fell through the gaps between the planks and covered everything.

I wouldn't have had the energy to do all this last year!

More pictures to come after the weekend!

For the squeamish, don't worry, this is an animation, not an actual person! It does show, however, the procedure I had done on 22 May.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvRtP3wl_AY

The operation was done under local anaesthetic and, they said, a bit of sedation, although I didn't feel at all sedated! They had warned me it may get a 'bit uncomfortable' which is stiff-upper-lip speak for 'really painful and scary'. I had what felt like an angina attack whilst the procedure was being done and felt very panicky, but after about 20 minutes in the recovery suite I was much better and was wheeled back up to the ward. I had to lie flat for 2 hours, then half-lying for another hour before I could finally sit up. People kept coming along and asking, 'May I check your groin?' Had I been feeling up to it, I'd have asked if they were actually hospital staff or just visiting someone, but for once in my life I didn't really feel like joking.

After a more or less sleepless night and a final check on my groin, I was allowed to leave around midday, so I came home and slept. From then on, though, I've been feeling a lot more energetic, less breathless and not so exhaused that I could do with a nap every four hours! So, all in all, it seems to have worked!

I'm now back at work (shame, I was enjoying the time off, the flowers, and the visitors!) feeling ten times better - or possibly more, it's difficult to tell - than before.

I was going to put in photographs of the 'before and after' X-rays, showing where the artery was narrowed, and what it looks like now the stent is in place, but the scanner automatically saves pictures in a format that Blogger doesn't accept, so you're spared the detail!

Differences I've noticed so far :

• I can walk for more than 50 yards without getting a pain in my chest;
• I can climb stairs without having to stop at 30 to get my breath back;
• I can wander around a stately home and gardens for 2 hours without needing to sit down every 20 minutes;
• I can spend a whole weekend awake now, without having to have a 3-4 hour afternoon nap;
• My heartburn/indigestion has improved significantly;
• My feet and ankles are a normal colour - a strange one this. They were quite blotchy, and while I was in hospital I noticed that my feet were almost purple (it wasn't with cold). They are now normal flesh colour;
• I can paint the beach-hut! I did this on Sunday, with lots of bending and stretching from the paint tray on the ground, up to the roof, with no ladder. I did the hut in about an hour and I know that last time I did it - about 3 years ago - I felt really breathless and tired and it took me longer because I had to keep stopping to rest.

All in all, I think I've been poorly for a lot longer than I realised, so I'm looking forward to having more energy and being able to do all the things doctors always recommend, like taking more exercise. We'll see after I've been back to the gym for a few sessions!

I'll keep you posted on my progress!

Dive's Revenge

Those of you who have been with me from the very beginning may recall 'Dive', the next-door neighbour of the Chelsea Flower Show standard front garden (see details of his encounter with Bella here http://lindamusing.blogspot.com/2006_08_01_archive.html). He has now exacted his revenge in a totally unexpected way. He has built an extension.

This may not seem an obvious act of revenge, indeed, digging up and paving over his pristine lawn makes my patch of garden look less like a wasteland. No, the revenge comes in two forms: he rebuilt the garden wall between our two properties and told me proudly he was going to 'finish it off neatly with a trench of pea shingle'. 'Whatever,' I thought. What wasn't clear - until I got home one evening - was that he meant my side of the wall! OK, that means the nettles that were neatly positioned by the driver's door were no longer a threat to my bare summer legs, but it also means I've lost lily of the valley, snowdrops, daffodils, day lilies and valerian. I was not a happy person that day, I can tell you. Fortunately his windows were closed and he didn't hear me cursing, 'Where are my fucking flowers?!?!?!?!?!' in my stage whisper ...

This trench of pea shingle is like one huge outdoor litter tray for the neighbourhood. I can almost hear him thinking as he planned the extension: 'That'll teach her to let her cat piss on my trousers. Every other cat can crap in her garden now.'

And the extension itself? Well, it's been built up to within a gnat's crotchet away from my garage wall and the additional rain water going into my guttering (which he damaged when he moved it) is bouncing off the 'litter tray' and splashing back up the garage wall, causing vast amounts of damp.

Thank goodness Bella only pee'd on him. What would he have done if she'd taken a more, um, solid approach?

Neighbours, eh. Can't live with 'em, not allowed to shoot 'em ...

Time wasting in the NHS ...

The NHS being the NHS, certain procedures have to be followed - even if this delays things ...

When I had my angiogram, I was told that the angioplasty would be 6 - 8 weeks later. I was also asked if I had a preference for which hospital to go to. I said at the time that I preferred the hospital in my home town. They told me that it was all part of 'Patient Choice', and that I would be receiving a letter. The letter arrived 3 weeks later, and I rang the number to say (again) that I preferred the hospital in my home town.

'We'll put you on the waiting list now that we know where you want your procedure done,' trilled the Patient Choice lady.

'So, I didn't immediately go on the waiting list 4 weeks ago when I first said that I wanted to be in Southampton General?' I asked.

'No, we had to send you a letter,' she said. 'It will be 6 - 8 weeks from now.'

And so it is. 22 May is the date for the angioplasty. My angiogram was 29 February, so actually the waiting time has been 12 weeks, all because they had to tick the box marked 'sent letter', even though they had had the information required in that letter on 29 February. I'm wondering why it took them three months to send me the letter in the first place ...

So my bank holiday weekend is buggered up - no beach-hut for me as I'm not allowed to drive for a week - but at least there is a reasonable chance of a week of good weather. I shall have to spend it in the garden instead ...

The revenge of the BCSFH

'Shirley' from EastEnders bears more than a passing resemblance to the BCSFH, in appearance as well as manner and attitude, except that BCSFH is harder.

I thought there must be something in the air because she smiled at me on Monday and I even came back to my desk and said, 'Something's up. She smiled at me!' And I was right. The following day she set me up for a prize fall. I guess I'm just too straightforward and honest and I don't see the devious, twisted, malicious plots she hatches until I'm up to my neck in sh*t.

After a horrible night of anxiety and anger dreams, and palpitations, I finally persuaded myself to come to work and face the inevitable music. My boss poured oil on troubled waters and had a word - again - with BCSFH's boss, and that will be that. For now.