I have been intending for several days to write a final post of 2012, summarising my year's major worries and advance-mentioning some upcoming concerns that I predict I shall be worrying about in the New Year. However, it being the season of extreme gluttony, it has been difficult to tear myself away from the temptations of the kitchen to concentrate on the laptop for any real period of time. So I have chosen today, 31st December 2012, to finally cast away the Jaffa Cakes and write some choice words to sum up the year that I have had.
In an uncharacteristic display of optimism I have decided not to focus on the negatives of the year gone by (and believe me they are many and varied) and try instead to remember the wonderful moments and the occasions by which I would prefer to remember 2012.
Firstly, the birth of several nephews and nieces (of the non-genetically linked variety): so many of my friends chose 2012 to be the year to produce offspring (or more offspring) and Christmas has really reminded me of the delight that is to be had from spending time with my friends and family and their progeny, safe in the knowledge that I can give them back afterwards. Ten years ago I would have imagined that I would be sharing the early years of their childrens' lives with children of my own, but this has not been the way my life has panned out thus far. I'm sure that I will not always be the barren Aunty who visits and dotes upon everyone elses' children for want of children of her own, but for the time being it is a joy to see others' little ones and know that I am glad to be a part of their lives.
Secondly, the awesomeness that was a summer of British sporting success with the Olympics and Paralympics. I have written in earlier blogs of the life-changing experiences London 2012 brought to me, and I hope that for the rest of my life remembering the year 2012 will induce memories of the warmth, togetherness and healthy patriotism that the Olympics and Paralympics instilled.
Thirdly, the rediscovery of my love of swimming and the personal challenge I undertook to raise money and awareness for Rheumatoid Arthritis. I refuse to let RA become the bane of my life - it is something that I have and will have forever so why let it ruin things? Sure, some things just aren't the same and never will be, but I am proud of the fears that I have overcome this year through swimming. Our final total raised for NRAS is a few pennies short of £1,400 (+ Gift Aid) which is a truly staggering sum for a very normal 29 year old girl and her family to raise by swimming a mile each. It shows the overwhelming generosity and love of our friends and families and, believe me, every minute that I was swimming I was thinking of all the donations we had received and how this was my chance to show that peoples' faith and support in me was well placed. (OK, every other minute I was thinking about this. In the other minutes I was thinking about how stupid I was to have EVER suggested such an idiotic idea, and how was I ever going to get to the end?).
Fourthly, this blog. It may not yet have reached the dizzy heights of other more well known, more highly favoured blogs, but it is my personal triumph. I love to write it, even if the subject matter is at times a little sketchy, and I love to know that people are enjoying my writing. If I could just find a way to generate enough income from sitting at home with a cuppa and my slippers on while tap-tap-tapping away at a keyboard I would be a truly happy person. True, I may find myself a little starved of human contact if that situation were to arise, but I'm sure people would point it out to me if I started to take on too many cat-like characteristics, or lost the ability to string a sentence together in conversation (though some of you may argue that I struggle with this already at times...)
My Dad shared a letter with us over Christmas from his consultant - in two lines saying the best news I had heard in a long time - that he has beaten the myeloma cancer cells that had invaded him. I managed not to cry in his face - after all it is a happy letter, and one that I feel could be framed, or brought out to cheer up a particularly depressing evening of rubbish TV. But I think that might be the biggest success of 2012 and puts all and any minor moments of misery that I may have experienced into perspective.
So on that note, I wish you all a Happy New Year! May 2013 bring you all the joy and happiness that you deserve. Please be assured that I shall resume my normal worrying and cynicism soon and put all this nostlagic cheerfulness behind me.
K x
Monday 31 December 2012
Tuesday 18 December 2012
Writer's Block
Believe me, I do not suffer from writer's block in the classic sense: I can write/talk at any time of day or night at length on almost any subject. Neither have I been short of subjects worthy of my worry these past few weeks. The reason for my relative inactivity for the past few weeks has been a combination of a) job hunting and interviewing (so far to no avail, but I have hope) and b) the inability to discuss the most pressing worries in public. Not, you understand, because I don't know what to say, but because they are not my business to be sharing.
Over the past few weeks I have been deeply involved in some very fraught and upsetting troubles and on many occasions I have wished I could vent my worries and fears on here. But the Jeremy Kyle-esque temptation to broadcast the woes of others is not my style and not, ultimately, the purpose of this blog.
I have read with interest and revulsion about a US judge who stated that the woman who was raped 'couldn't have protested hard enough' because the female body would stop sex from happening if it really didnt want it. He admitted he was no gynaecologist but... NO.. no, you are not... clearly. (idiot)
I have watched with horror the unfolding story of Newtown, Connecticut and the atrocities that happened there; I have read and agreed (or disagreed, depending) on different opinions about what could or would turn the tide of gun crime in the USA in the wake of this horrible tragedy.
I have silently congratulated Wills and Kate on their happy news, actively avoided any involvement in X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing or I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here and indulged my obsession with Homeland. I have cried as I left my job and colleagues for the final time, taking that inevitable step towards my possible future unemployment; I have worried myself to distraction about how I am going to find a new job in this unsettled economic climate, about how I am going to pay my rent and bills next year; I have been through another set of spinal injections and still feel no lasting difference to my daily pain and discomfort.
But for all the petty worries that I may have had, I have been completely unable to write about them as they have been shadowed by something so much more personally troubling. You know who you are, and you know what I am speaking about, and believe me I wish that my writing about it could solve any of the hardships that you are currently suffering. In the past few weeks I have gone from joyful and positive through utterly speechless to appalled, disgusted and heartbroken for you. Somehow today I have found myself able to write, albeit in a guarded way, about this pain and I applaud your strength and hope that a happy resolution will be made quickly for you all.
In the meantime, selfishly, I hope that this temporary 'writer's block' of mine may be eased by this blog and by the catharsis of accepting the reasons for my lack of productivity. I also hope that a work-from-home job paying 40k lands in my inbox tomorrow, begging me to accept.
K x
Over the past few weeks I have been deeply involved in some very fraught and upsetting troubles and on many occasions I have wished I could vent my worries and fears on here. But the Jeremy Kyle-esque temptation to broadcast the woes of others is not my style and not, ultimately, the purpose of this blog.
I have read with interest and revulsion about a US judge who stated that the woman who was raped 'couldn't have protested hard enough' because the female body would stop sex from happening if it really didnt want it. He admitted he was no gynaecologist but... NO.. no, you are not... clearly. (idiot)
I have watched with horror the unfolding story of Newtown, Connecticut and the atrocities that happened there; I have read and agreed (or disagreed, depending) on different opinions about what could or would turn the tide of gun crime in the USA in the wake of this horrible tragedy.
I have silently congratulated Wills and Kate on their happy news, actively avoided any involvement in X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing or I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here and indulged my obsession with Homeland. I have cried as I left my job and colleagues for the final time, taking that inevitable step towards my possible future unemployment; I have worried myself to distraction about how I am going to find a new job in this unsettled economic climate, about how I am going to pay my rent and bills next year; I have been through another set of spinal injections and still feel no lasting difference to my daily pain and discomfort.
But for all the petty worries that I may have had, I have been completely unable to write about them as they have been shadowed by something so much more personally troubling. You know who you are, and you know what I am speaking about, and believe me I wish that my writing about it could solve any of the hardships that you are currently suffering. In the past few weeks I have gone from joyful and positive through utterly speechless to appalled, disgusted and heartbroken for you. Somehow today I have found myself able to write, albeit in a guarded way, about this pain and I applaud your strength and hope that a happy resolution will be made quickly for you all.
In the meantime, selfishly, I hope that this temporary 'writer's block' of mine may be eased by this blog and by the catharsis of accepting the reasons for my lack of productivity. I also hope that a work-from-home job paying 40k lands in my inbox tomorrow, begging me to accept.
K x
Friday 23 November 2012
Actually Finding a Job
I have been accused of being a little "ranty" in my last post. Well, in fairness, I was very ranty and intentionally so as that was how I felt at the time. Now I am more concentrated on worrying about getting a new job than the reasoning behind the loss of the original one.
Nigh on every single job I see online is advertised through an agency, and once you get down to the nitty-gritty of it all there isn't actually a real job at the end of it (or it has mysteriously already been filled, despite the advert only being posted that morning). I have completed several applications directly for jobs that not only fill me with interest and enthusiasm, but seem to fit precisely to my skills and attributes, only to have no response at all, not even a rejection email.
Unless I feel so little self worth as to start applying for jobs which a monkey could do, or joining the ranks of Eurostar call centre staff, it seems like there is so little out there for someone like me who is, ultimately, completely unqualified.
In hindsight I really should have done a different degree, like teaching for example, or physiotherapy. I would then be qualified to be an actual teacher, or an actual physiotherapist. Rather than my very enjoyable Film & Television Studies degree which qualifies me to be absolutely nothing. It doesn't even qualify me to be a film or television critic, because they want people with a journalism degree for those jobs. I really wish I had paid more attention in the 'careers' lessons at school and college, but I doubt they told us anything useful like that; if my likes and dislikes at age 15 can tell anyone what career I should plan for, then I take my hat off to them.
So, with several years of customer service experience, management experience (albeit with small seasonal teams) and a fluent foreign language, I am struggling to find anything much out there that isn't either depressingly badly paid or requires an extra experience that I don't have - like online marketing, or web design. I don't think yell.com's web-builder for small businesses counts as web design.
I have a job interview this week, for a job that seems to fit and they obviously like my CV enough to think that I am not completely unsuited for the job. But in a month of appliations this is the first interview, and as the days tick away leading up to my imminent unemployment, my inbox is not filling up with offers as I had hoped it would.
So I keep plugging away with the applications, in the hope that someone will see me for the wonderful person that I am and the amazing skills and benefits that I could bring to their company. And still keeping my fingers crossed for that lottery win...
K x
Nigh on every single job I see online is advertised through an agency, and once you get down to the nitty-gritty of it all there isn't actually a real job at the end of it (or it has mysteriously already been filled, despite the advert only being posted that morning). I have completed several applications directly for jobs that not only fill me with interest and enthusiasm, but seem to fit precisely to my skills and attributes, only to have no response at all, not even a rejection email.
Unless I feel so little self worth as to start applying for jobs which a monkey could do, or joining the ranks of Eurostar call centre staff, it seems like there is so little out there for someone like me who is, ultimately, completely unqualified.
In hindsight I really should have done a different degree, like teaching for example, or physiotherapy. I would then be qualified to be an actual teacher, or an actual physiotherapist. Rather than my very enjoyable Film & Television Studies degree which qualifies me to be absolutely nothing. It doesn't even qualify me to be a film or television critic, because they want people with a journalism degree for those jobs. I really wish I had paid more attention in the 'careers' lessons at school and college, but I doubt they told us anything useful like that; if my likes and dislikes at age 15 can tell anyone what career I should plan for, then I take my hat off to them.
So, with several years of customer service experience, management experience (albeit with small seasonal teams) and a fluent foreign language, I am struggling to find anything much out there that isn't either depressingly badly paid or requires an extra experience that I don't have - like online marketing, or web design. I don't think yell.com's web-builder for small businesses counts as web design.
I have a job interview this week, for a job that seems to fit and they obviously like my CV enough to think that I am not completely unsuited for the job. But in a month of appliations this is the first interview, and as the days tick away leading up to my imminent unemployment, my inbox is not filling up with offers as I had hoped it would.
So I keep plugging away with the applications, in the hope that someone will see me for the wonderful person that I am and the amazing skills and benefits that I could bring to their company. And still keeping my fingers crossed for that lottery win...
K x
Thursday 8 November 2012
My Imminent Unemployment
Hi there campers. Sorry its been a while since I last updated you all on the delights of my neuroses, I am afraid I have been somewhat sidetracked.
First of all there was the charity swim - for some reason I said I would swim a mile for Rheumatoid Arthritis charity NRAS, then suddenly it was a few months later and I had to fundraise, not to mention practice swimming. Both were done succesfully (raised £1,400 and managed to swim a mile without causing serious physical damage to myself or others) but the build-up to the event did rather monopolise my evenings for a while.
Then, of course, there was the self-imposed rest period following the great event: I shall just eat this takeaway because I did do something great for charity last week; I shall just leave the washing up today because I did raise loads of money last week and I am quite tired etc etc.
And now there is a whole other something which is taking over my mental capacities - job hunting. My current employment was always billed as 'temporary': a 12 month maternity cover contract, then a 6-month extension to help on a project, then a 6 month extension to cover someone's secondment to a different department.... it goes on. But, because every time the "end of contract" date loomed closer the company extended it by another stretch, I had never really truly prepared myself that one day I really would run out of job. But here I am, preparing to leave a job that, although of course I am biased, I do rather well. Being a generally modest and unassuming type, I don't like to blow my own trumpet, but I am good at my job and I can think of several people in the same office who truly are not. There is something terribly soul destroying about the unfairness of incompetent idiots being gainfully employed in a job I can do better than them, more efficiently than them and, importantly, more quietly than them, without the need to broadcast my every action to my colleagues (if you work in my office you know exactly who I mean).
I don't mean this to become a childish tantrum, my cheeks reddening as I stomp my feet and declare angrily how unfair everything is, no doubt blaming my parents for ruining my life and then slamming a few doors for good measure (my bedroom door in my teens wouldn't slam... it was such an enormous disappointment). But the economy and the job market at the moment are not in the best of health, and desperately seeking employment is not a happy place to be. I am disappointed in an employer who recognises my worth and my abilities but resolutely manages NOT to "talent manage" in any kind of effective way. I now dread every day: not because I dislike my job, but because every day I am reminded that however hard I work, however efficient, organised or exceptional I might be, in four weeks time I will not have that job anymore.
And so I trawl the job boards for possible alternatives, delaying the inevitable calls and emails to the agencies who will then bombard me daily with vacancies which almost completely do not meet my requirements. All the while keeping my chin up, my upper lip resolutely stiff, telling myself its 'onward and upward'...
K x
First of all there was the charity swim - for some reason I said I would swim a mile for Rheumatoid Arthritis charity NRAS, then suddenly it was a few months later and I had to fundraise, not to mention practice swimming. Both were done succesfully (raised £1,400 and managed to swim a mile without causing serious physical damage to myself or others) but the build-up to the event did rather monopolise my evenings for a while.
Then, of course, there was the self-imposed rest period following the great event: I shall just eat this takeaway because I did do something great for charity last week; I shall just leave the washing up today because I did raise loads of money last week and I am quite tired etc etc.
And now there is a whole other something which is taking over my mental capacities - job hunting. My current employment was always billed as 'temporary': a 12 month maternity cover contract, then a 6-month extension to help on a project, then a 6 month extension to cover someone's secondment to a different department.... it goes on. But, because every time the "end of contract" date loomed closer the company extended it by another stretch, I had never really truly prepared myself that one day I really would run out of job. But here I am, preparing to leave a job that, although of course I am biased, I do rather well. Being a generally modest and unassuming type, I don't like to blow my own trumpet, but I am good at my job and I can think of several people in the same office who truly are not. There is something terribly soul destroying about the unfairness of incompetent idiots being gainfully employed in a job I can do better than them, more efficiently than them and, importantly, more quietly than them, without the need to broadcast my every action to my colleagues (if you work in my office you know exactly who I mean).
I don't mean this to become a childish tantrum, my cheeks reddening as I stomp my feet and declare angrily how unfair everything is, no doubt blaming my parents for ruining my life and then slamming a few doors for good measure (my bedroom door in my teens wouldn't slam... it was such an enormous disappointment). But the economy and the job market at the moment are not in the best of health, and desperately seeking employment is not a happy place to be. I am disappointed in an employer who recognises my worth and my abilities but resolutely manages NOT to "talent manage" in any kind of effective way. I now dread every day: not because I dislike my job, but because every day I am reminded that however hard I work, however efficient, organised or exceptional I might be, in four weeks time I will not have that job anymore.
And so I trawl the job boards for possible alternatives, delaying the inevitable calls and emails to the agencies who will then bombard me daily with vacancies which almost completely do not meet my requirements. All the while keeping my chin up, my upper lip resolutely stiff, telling myself its 'onward and upward'...
K x
Saturday 13 October 2012
Vulgarity
As an aside before I start this post I should mention that I did have the epidural anti-inflammatory injection, a 2 foot needle was inserted into my actual spine for approximately 17 hours. OK, thats an exaggeration but it was one of the least pleasant medical procedures I have ever experienced, not helped by the fact that I had to listen to the elderly gentleman in the next bed have his before me. (It comes a close second to the electrical nerve testing, which basically amounts to being electrocuted over and over again.) I heard his every groan, every yelp, every cry of discomfort. All good solid preparation for my turn. So far, after a week, I can report no discernible change to my own physical situation which does make me feel a little cheated after such a long wait and such an unpleasant experience. I had acupuncture again, and again no change. As far as I am concerned, medical professionals just feel the need to stick needles in me at the moment (speaking of which, flu jab this week, joy!) and no-one seems to be able to fix the problem. Maybe one day one of the needles will actually make a difference...
So, vulgarity. Not other people's vulgarity, my own. There are certain people with whom I am able to speak frankly and use whatever language I feel is necessary, if not always wholly appropriate. My problem is remembering which friends are which, which friends would not take kindly to me discussing certain topics or using certain words at the dinner table.
A few weeks ago myself, A & M went for dinner in a very exclusive "the place to be right now" type restaurant. It was beautiful, it was tastefully decorated and subtly lit; the waiting staff were attentive yet conversational and the food was mmmmmm yummity yum yum. We began with cocktails, then a nice cold bottle of dry white wine; we delved into the menu and chose several delightfully delicious sounding plates to share in a 'modern south-east Asian tapas style'. I mentally prepared the perfectly worded opening sentence of my restaurant review and politely enjoyed the first few plates and the first few glasses of wine. I do not know at which point it became appropriate for us to start discussing the relative hotness of our waitress, which foods were most arousing or for me to turn my laundered linen napkin into a crude interpretation of a penis. I truly hope that the couple on the next table who ordered the tempura vegetable dish that we had originally scorned (vegetables on sticks? who wants those?) didnt hear us when we bemoaned how good they looked and said something along the lines of "why didn't we order that shiz? For fucks sake those veg look fucking amazing. Bastards". Needless to say I didn't ever write the eloquent, descriptive restaurant review that I had planned; it was all over after the first bottle went upside down into the ice bucket.
Then, the evening descended into what can only be called a wine-fuelled furore. We went to a wine tasting... except we weren't really tasting. We were nodding and smiling as the wine purveyors earnestly described the grape variety and taste of the wine; and helping ourselves to as much as possible whilst literally tearing lumps of cheese from the cheese table. We visited the Venerable Association of Bordeaux Wine Fanatics (not their real name) table, had a few tastes and then I asked the Lord High Venerable Wine Taster for his wine afficionado medal, wore it, posed for a photo in it, told him it was the shit and I wanted a medal. I am so surprised they didn't ask us to leave.
I spoke French to the only Frenchman there, and told him I wanted to 'degouter' his wine. Degouter = to disgust, Degustation = tasting. I then had an argument with the cheese man about whether his cheese was ewes milk or cows milk; good god surely he would know?
All in all, it was one of the best nights out I have had in a really long time, with people who I can be as vulgar and debauched as I wish without feeling like they are judging me. The trouble is toning it down when with other people, who may not appreciate my line of humour or constant swearing, like at work for example. When something goes wrong it seems only natural to exclaim 'oh cock' or complain quietly about a rude colleague as being a bit of a 'cunty bastard'. A friend of mine works in an office with her mother, which can only be a swearer's kind of torture: not only may the words be inappropriate but to say one of them accidentally infront of one's mother must be horrific.
So I apologise in advance if my language ever offends you, it is never meant to be intentionally offensive or hurtful (unless I am looking directly at you and trying to insult you, in which case I am probably drunk so just ignore me until I go away). I just like to use our wonderful language in all its colourful beauty, and sometimes those words are a little bit more colourful than might be your preference. But remember, if a word can be used by Chaucer, then it can be used by me (and I have one, which he didn't).
K x
So, vulgarity. Not other people's vulgarity, my own. There are certain people with whom I am able to speak frankly and use whatever language I feel is necessary, if not always wholly appropriate. My problem is remembering which friends are which, which friends would not take kindly to me discussing certain topics or using certain words at the dinner table.
A few weeks ago myself, A & M went for dinner in a very exclusive "the place to be right now" type restaurant. It was beautiful, it was tastefully decorated and subtly lit; the waiting staff were attentive yet conversational and the food was mmmmmm yummity yum yum. We began with cocktails, then a nice cold bottle of dry white wine; we delved into the menu and chose several delightfully delicious sounding plates to share in a 'modern south-east Asian tapas style'. I mentally prepared the perfectly worded opening sentence of my restaurant review and politely enjoyed the first few plates and the first few glasses of wine. I do not know at which point it became appropriate for us to start discussing the relative hotness of our waitress, which foods were most arousing or for me to turn my laundered linen napkin into a crude interpretation of a penis. I truly hope that the couple on the next table who ordered the tempura vegetable dish that we had originally scorned (vegetables on sticks? who wants those?) didnt hear us when we bemoaned how good they looked and said something along the lines of "why didn't we order that shiz? For fucks sake those veg look fucking amazing. Bastards". Needless to say I didn't ever write the eloquent, descriptive restaurant review that I had planned; it was all over after the first bottle went upside down into the ice bucket.
Then, the evening descended into what can only be called a wine-fuelled furore. We went to a wine tasting... except we weren't really tasting. We were nodding and smiling as the wine purveyors earnestly described the grape variety and taste of the wine; and helping ourselves to as much as possible whilst literally tearing lumps of cheese from the cheese table. We visited the Venerable Association of Bordeaux Wine Fanatics (not their real name) table, had a few tastes and then I asked the Lord High Venerable Wine Taster for his wine afficionado medal, wore it, posed for a photo in it, told him it was the shit and I wanted a medal. I am so surprised they didn't ask us to leave.
I spoke French to the only Frenchman there, and told him I wanted to 'degouter' his wine. Degouter = to disgust, Degustation = tasting. I then had an argument with the cheese man about whether his cheese was ewes milk or cows milk; good god surely he would know?
All in all, it was one of the best nights out I have had in a really long time, with people who I can be as vulgar and debauched as I wish without feeling like they are judging me. The trouble is toning it down when with other people, who may not appreciate my line of humour or constant swearing, like at work for example. When something goes wrong it seems only natural to exclaim 'oh cock' or complain quietly about a rude colleague as being a bit of a 'cunty bastard'. A friend of mine works in an office with her mother, which can only be a swearer's kind of torture: not only may the words be inappropriate but to say one of them accidentally infront of one's mother must be horrific.
So I apologise in advance if my language ever offends you, it is never meant to be intentionally offensive or hurtful (unless I am looking directly at you and trying to insult you, in which case I am probably drunk so just ignore me until I go away). I just like to use our wonderful language in all its colourful beauty, and sometimes those words are a little bit more colourful than might be your preference. But remember, if a word can be used by Chaucer, then it can be used by me (and I have one, which he didn't).
K x
Tuesday 25 September 2012
HealthCare
I have more opportunity than most to worry about healthcare; not because I am particularly accident prone or sickly, but because I suffer from a chronic immune disease. This is not a "wah wah, poor me" blog post, I have no room for sympathy in my relationship with my unruly immune system. If I'm having a shitty day and all I want to do is curl up and feel sorry for myself, chances are that what I actually need is a large glass of wine and some cheerful company, or failing that an early night and a snuggle with the cat; what I really don't need is to sit down and think/discuss how shitty my day is. I am not really one to revel in my misfortune and dwell on all the misery it may cause. To borrow someone else's favourite turn of phrase: I prefer to "man up" and get on with it.
Anyway, what got me started worrying on the healthcare issue today, was a visit to a new physiotherapist. The occupational health department at my work decided to trial a visiting physiotherapist over the next few weeks, and as I have some mobility issues I thought I'd sign myself up. Several months ago (like, May) I started getting some really nasty back pain. Floored me for a week or two, I could barely move. My rheumatologist, and rheumatology physiotherapist agreed that it was down to inflammation in the small joints at the base of the spine, and irritation to the nerves caused by a disc prolapse (not the first time). I saw a second rheumatology physiotherapist after several months of waiting, who agreed with the above and arranged to carry out a spinal epidural to ease the pain and swelling and get me back on my feet, so to speak. I had waited 3 months to get to this stage and the epidural was booked for next week.
So I went to see this new physio through work and he announed (after 2 mins of looking at me and a quick prod) that its not the disc, its not the joints, its just muscular; he proceeded to acupuncture me in several places and declare that I "probably won't be needing that epidural after all".
WT actual F? I will have waited the best part of four months for something I don't need, when your two little needle pricks could have fixed this months ago? Obviously I didn't say that, I politely agreed that I hoped the acupuncture would make a difference and would be pleased if the pain eased.
Sadly, the pain hasn't eased much and I will still be having the epidural as planned. But it worries me that healthcare professionals can come to such hugely varying diagnoses of the same set of symptoms. Would it be cynical of me to suggest that the first person agreed with the second's diagnosis because it meant the problem would not be their's to solve? Or that the third person based their's on the notes of the second, rather than on a thorough investigation of their own? And did the new physio, who clearly is a acupuncture enthusiast, tweak his diagnosis in favour of something that could be helped with acupuncture, as opposed to the disc prolapse, which couldn't.
I am often accused of being too cynical for my own good, but I can't help but wonder who is right and who is wrong in this story - because they can't all be right! And just imagine if this was the American insurance system, and my treatment was based on what my non-medically qualified insurance broker would agree to allow me to have? Thank goodness that the grand old NHS is in safe hands, or who know's where I'd be going to next....
K x
Anyway, what got me started worrying on the healthcare issue today, was a visit to a new physiotherapist. The occupational health department at my work decided to trial a visiting physiotherapist over the next few weeks, and as I have some mobility issues I thought I'd sign myself up. Several months ago (like, May) I started getting some really nasty back pain. Floored me for a week or two, I could barely move. My rheumatologist, and rheumatology physiotherapist agreed that it was down to inflammation in the small joints at the base of the spine, and irritation to the nerves caused by a disc prolapse (not the first time). I saw a second rheumatology physiotherapist after several months of waiting, who agreed with the above and arranged to carry out a spinal epidural to ease the pain and swelling and get me back on my feet, so to speak. I had waited 3 months to get to this stage and the epidural was booked for next week.
So I went to see this new physio through work and he announed (after 2 mins of looking at me and a quick prod) that its not the disc, its not the joints, its just muscular; he proceeded to acupuncture me in several places and declare that I "probably won't be needing that epidural after all".
WT actual F? I will have waited the best part of four months for something I don't need, when your two little needle pricks could have fixed this months ago? Obviously I didn't say that, I politely agreed that I hoped the acupuncture would make a difference and would be pleased if the pain eased.
Sadly, the pain hasn't eased much and I will still be having the epidural as planned. But it worries me that healthcare professionals can come to such hugely varying diagnoses of the same set of symptoms. Would it be cynical of me to suggest that the first person agreed with the second's diagnosis because it meant the problem would not be their's to solve? Or that the third person based their's on the notes of the second, rather than on a thorough investigation of their own? And did the new physio, who clearly is a acupuncture enthusiast, tweak his diagnosis in favour of something that could be helped with acupuncture, as opposed to the disc prolapse, which couldn't.
I am often accused of being too cynical for my own good, but I can't help but wonder who is right and who is wrong in this story - because they can't all be right! And just imagine if this was the American insurance system, and my treatment was based on what my non-medically qualified insurance broker would agree to allow me to have? Thank goodness that the grand old NHS is in safe hands, or who know's where I'd be going to next....
K x
Sunday 9 September 2012
Disability
I have been a little quiet of late - I can assure you this does not mean I have not had anything to worry about. Anybody who has any kind of contact with current affairs can see that there are plenty of things to be worrying about: questionable cabinet re-shuffles; continuing desecration of our social welfare system; the appalling choices of presidential candidate in the US (more on this to follow, I am currently unable to put into words my concern over some of the men chosen by one of the most powerful nations in the world to represent them on an international level).
This week, however, I have been basking in the most glorious after-glow of a day at the London Paralypic Games. Not only is the Olympic Park awesome and the venues well designed and attractive, but the atmosphere of the athletics stadium was one of the most intensely exciting and indescribable experiences I have ever had. We sung the National Anthem patriotically (and politely stood to all the other nations' anthems too), we cheered on every race and every throw and every jump, and we yelled and screamed and jumped about as David Weir came storming home to win gold in the final race of the night. It was an absolutely unforgettable experience, and one which I am very glad to have been able to share with someone very special to me.
In the lead-up to the Games I was excited to discover that there would be athletes taking part that suffer from the same chronic immune disease as I do - specifically Leigh Walmsey for Team GB archery. I started to realise that although suffering from RA does not make me look different to other people - I have all my limbs and my mental faculties (most of the time) - as a sufferer myself I didn't truly consider it a disability - I had never before truly considered myself disabled.
The Paralympics has shown Great Britain and the world that people with disabilities can be superhuman, showing incredible strength, courage, grit and determination to achieve their goals. I hope that one legacy of London 2012 will be greater understanding and compassion towards people with disabilities, and I am proud to stand up (gently) and be counted as one of them. I may not be comparable to the stars of the Paralympics, but in my own small way I hope that I might be part of the legacy and help keep the spirit and overwhelming positivity of the last ten days alive in myself and those around me.
K x
This week, however, I have been basking in the most glorious after-glow of a day at the London Paralypic Games. Not only is the Olympic Park awesome and the venues well designed and attractive, but the atmosphere of the athletics stadium was one of the most intensely exciting and indescribable experiences I have ever had. We sung the National Anthem patriotically (and politely stood to all the other nations' anthems too), we cheered on every race and every throw and every jump, and we yelled and screamed and jumped about as David Weir came storming home to win gold in the final race of the night. It was an absolutely unforgettable experience, and one which I am very glad to have been able to share with someone very special to me.
In the lead-up to the Games I was excited to discover that there would be athletes taking part that suffer from the same chronic immune disease as I do - specifically Leigh Walmsey for Team GB archery. I started to realise that although suffering from RA does not make me look different to other people - I have all my limbs and my mental faculties (most of the time) - as a sufferer myself I didn't truly consider it a disability - I had never before truly considered myself disabled.
The Paralympics has shown Great Britain and the world that people with disabilities can be superhuman, showing incredible strength, courage, grit and determination to achieve their goals. I hope that one legacy of London 2012 will be greater understanding and compassion towards people with disabilities, and I am proud to stand up (gently) and be counted as one of them. I may not be comparable to the stars of the Paralympics, but in my own small way I hope that I might be part of the legacy and help keep the spirit and overwhelming positivity of the last ten days alive in myself and those around me.
K x
Monday 27 August 2012
What to Eat
Or, more accurately, what not to eat. Because it seems like every food is potentially evil. I've recently been upping my fruit intake, after keeping a food diary for a fortnight and realising that one orange does not a healthy diet make. But then the man at the gym said to me 'oh, be careful not to eat too much fruit, I mean, too many apples will still make you fat.' Right. Great. Christ, what is OK to eat then?
Not being particularly well off, I don't dine mid-week on roasted grouse or poach up a side of salmon for dinner. But I can't abide the pre-packaged ready meals that you can get - a plate of fresh cooked food, frozen for your convenience, ready for the microwave to nuke the last few vitamins and flavour molecules away. Somewhere in the middle must surely be the safe ground, where a healthy balanced diet is easily achievable?
Well, not if you ever read a womens' magazine its not. Eating bread, of course, is pretty much equivalent to eating lard and any form of potato is just asking for bingo wings and flabby thighs. We should all be able to subsist on quinoa, cottage cheese and wheatgrass through the day, with a fruit and bran based breakfast. Every time I see a "14 day bikini diet" advertised on a magazine, I can predict that salmon, skinless chicken breast and cottage cheese will feature heavily - and I am very rarely wrong. But when theres not a whole lot of cash to spare on luxuries like eating, its quite natural to need to eat things that fill you up and don't cost half your salary: pasta; baked potatoes; bread. All the foods that we women are told will pile on the pounds and result in you becoming a bed-bound whale that has to have the living room wall removed by firemen to get you out of the house and into hospital for the inevitable gastric band surgery.
And the horror that is WeightWatchers... I don't even know where to start. I think the company is dangerously irresponsible, taking money from vulnerable and unhappy women and shaming them into thinking that losing those few pounds will change their lives, without taking any responsibility for educating them on balance and variety of diet. My friend came home one day and was preparing her WeightWatchers ready-meal in the microwave - the fridge was stocked with salad, cucumber, tomatoes - and when I asked did WeightWatchers not encourage you to eat salads, she said "well, yes they are point-free". Point free?! Where is the encouragement to eat a varied healthy mix of foods? Why do these weekly meetings not include discussions on how much more delicious a plastic pre-packaged meal with the WeightWatchers trademark would taste if you had some fresh salad or vegetables on the side? Because then you might actually get involved in preparing the food yourself and then the marketing of the branded products would all be wasted because you wouldn't need it anymore - you could buy ingredients and cook with them.
SlimFast... another horrific slap in the face for anyone over a size 8 and feeling the need to conform to the picture perfect images in the adverts - here you go, lets remove all the nutrients, vitamins and fresh food from your diet and replace it with this synthetic milk mixture. You can buy our "snacks" too.. though you might find they are actually higher in calories than most other snacks available on the market. This will mean you won't lose too much weight or suffer any unfortunate side affects (malnutrition or scurvy, for example) but you will carry on buying our weight loss products and filling our pockets with your lovely money, thank you very much. This brings to mind one of the most wonderful books ever written, 'Good Omens' by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. In it, they reinvent the Four Horseman of the Apocalyspe as modern interpretations of the original - War, Famine, Pollution & Death. This quote reminds me so very much of SlimFast:
Two years of Newtrition investment and research had produced CHOW (TM). CHOW (TM) contained spun, plaited, and woven protein molecules, capped and coded, carefully designed to be ignored by even the most ravenous digestive tract enzymes; no-cal sweetener, mineral oils replacing vegetable oils; fibrous materials, coloring, and flavorings. The end result was a foodstuff almost indistinguishable from any other except for two things. Firstly, the price, which was slightly higher, and secondly the nutritional content, which was roughly equivalent to that of a Sony Walkman. It didn’t matter how much you ate, you lost weight.
…
He followed CHOW (TM) with SNACKS (TM) — junk food made from real junk.
MEALS (TM) was Sable’s latest brainwave.
MEALS (TM) was CHOW (TM) with added sugar and fat. The theory was that if you ate enough MEALS (TM) you would a) get very fat, and b) die of malnutrition.
Good Omens Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett C 1990
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Good-Omens-Neil-Gaiman/dp/0552137030/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1346082134&sr=8-1
As a woman I am expected to want to be slim - the magazines marketed directly at my demographic assume that as I weigh more than the average eight-year old child, then I must want to lose weight (and if not the natural way, then theres always cosmetic surgery! more to follow on that subject no doubt). I want to be healthy, I want to be fit enough to climb the stairs without risking coronary, I dont want to take to my bed with a packet of digestives and cry the weekend away in misery because I am not what the magazines think I should want to be. But I do want to be allowed to have a sandwich for my lunch every day without this being considered tantamount to self-harm, and if I want to eat cheesecake then I bloody well will.
K x
Not being particularly well off, I don't dine mid-week on roasted grouse or poach up a side of salmon for dinner. But I can't abide the pre-packaged ready meals that you can get - a plate of fresh cooked food, frozen for your convenience, ready for the microwave to nuke the last few vitamins and flavour molecules away. Somewhere in the middle must surely be the safe ground, where a healthy balanced diet is easily achievable?
Well, not if you ever read a womens' magazine its not. Eating bread, of course, is pretty much equivalent to eating lard and any form of potato is just asking for bingo wings and flabby thighs. We should all be able to subsist on quinoa, cottage cheese and wheatgrass through the day, with a fruit and bran based breakfast. Every time I see a "14 day bikini diet" advertised on a magazine, I can predict that salmon, skinless chicken breast and cottage cheese will feature heavily - and I am very rarely wrong. But when theres not a whole lot of cash to spare on luxuries like eating, its quite natural to need to eat things that fill you up and don't cost half your salary: pasta; baked potatoes; bread. All the foods that we women are told will pile on the pounds and result in you becoming a bed-bound whale that has to have the living room wall removed by firemen to get you out of the house and into hospital for the inevitable gastric band surgery.
And the horror that is WeightWatchers... I don't even know where to start. I think the company is dangerously irresponsible, taking money from vulnerable and unhappy women and shaming them into thinking that losing those few pounds will change their lives, without taking any responsibility for educating them on balance and variety of diet. My friend came home one day and was preparing her WeightWatchers ready-meal in the microwave - the fridge was stocked with salad, cucumber, tomatoes - and when I asked did WeightWatchers not encourage you to eat salads, she said "well, yes they are point-free". Point free?! Where is the encouragement to eat a varied healthy mix of foods? Why do these weekly meetings not include discussions on how much more delicious a plastic pre-packaged meal with the WeightWatchers trademark would taste if you had some fresh salad or vegetables on the side? Because then you might actually get involved in preparing the food yourself and then the marketing of the branded products would all be wasted because you wouldn't need it anymore - you could buy ingredients and cook with them.
SlimFast... another horrific slap in the face for anyone over a size 8 and feeling the need to conform to the picture perfect images in the adverts - here you go, lets remove all the nutrients, vitamins and fresh food from your diet and replace it with this synthetic milk mixture. You can buy our "snacks" too.. though you might find they are actually higher in calories than most other snacks available on the market. This will mean you won't lose too much weight or suffer any unfortunate side affects (malnutrition or scurvy, for example) but you will carry on buying our weight loss products and filling our pockets with your lovely money, thank you very much. This brings to mind one of the most wonderful books ever written, 'Good Omens' by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. In it, they reinvent the Four Horseman of the Apocalyspe as modern interpretations of the original - War, Famine, Pollution & Death. This quote reminds me so very much of SlimFast:
Two years of Newtrition investment and research had produced CHOW (TM). CHOW (TM) contained spun, plaited, and woven protein molecules, capped and coded, carefully designed to be ignored by even the most ravenous digestive tract enzymes; no-cal sweetener, mineral oils replacing vegetable oils; fibrous materials, coloring, and flavorings. The end result was a foodstuff almost indistinguishable from any other except for two things. Firstly, the price, which was slightly higher, and secondly the nutritional content, which was roughly equivalent to that of a Sony Walkman. It didn’t matter how much you ate, you lost weight.
…
He followed CHOW (TM) with SNACKS (TM) — junk food made from real junk.
MEALS (TM) was Sable’s latest brainwave.
MEALS (TM) was CHOW (TM) with added sugar and fat. The theory was that if you ate enough MEALS (TM) you would a) get very fat, and b) die of malnutrition.
Good Omens Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett C 1990
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Good-Omens-Neil-Gaiman/dp/0552137030/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1346082134&sr=8-1
As a woman I am expected to want to be slim - the magazines marketed directly at my demographic assume that as I weigh more than the average eight-year old child, then I must want to lose weight (and if not the natural way, then theres always cosmetic surgery! more to follow on that subject no doubt). I want to be healthy, I want to be fit enough to climb the stairs without risking coronary, I dont want to take to my bed with a packet of digestives and cry the weekend away in misery because I am not what the magazines think I should want to be. But I do want to be allowed to have a sandwich for my lunch every day without this being considered tantamount to self-harm, and if I want to eat cheesecake then I bloody well will.
K x
Monday 20 August 2012
WikiRape?
I had a rape alarm for a while, bought for me after a girl was raped at the end of my street. It turned out, after two days of forensics in white suits and police tape, that the girl had "made it up" and there was actually no "rape". I kept the rape alarm for the next eighteen months or so, certain that the day I took it off my key chain would be the day I got punched in the face and dragged down an alley way. The bloody thing would always come off at the worst possible moment (for example when letting myself in to the house quietly at 2am...) and make a blinding noise and eventually I got sick of it and left it at home. I am glad to say that the worst case scenario hasn't happened and I'm still OK.
I wish I knew more about the girl at the end of my street - was she just a bit drunk and went further than she had hoped to with a lad she met in a club and made a false claim? Or was she really taken advantage of, but with little or no solid evidence no arrest was made?
I still can't justify to myself exactly what counts as rape and what doesn't. There was no formal invitation from my ex boyfriend, for me to either accept or decline. Had I pushed him away and said 'NO' I would have expected him to stop (which of course he would have done), but at no point did I say 'YES' either. We were both in a position to assume consent on the part of the other.
I am by no means promiscuous, but I have had experiences of the one night variety. Had I woken up one morning and regretted my decisions, thats a shame but no rape occurred. From what I have read about the Julian Assange case, it seems very far from clear cut. One of the claimants went to bed with him, and had fully consensual sex. She allowed him to stay the night, and says she awoke to him having sex with her. So, this second time would be 'unconsenting', but in all honesty, its not unusual is it? It was not a huge leap on his part to 'assume consent' after the night before; yes of course if she was asleep it did not give her the opportunity to say 'NO', but I'm sure she wasnt asleep throughout and could (should?) have said no at first opportunity, which would have made it very clearly unconsensual and definitely rape. She has not, as far as I know, claimed that he used violence in this instance to coerce or force her. I don't know what I think about it, and ultimately, my opinion doesn't really matter.
My small amount of knowledge of the Assange case wasn't really what I have been worrying about - more that the case has brought into question the legitimacy of the rape claims from the two ladies in Sweden, even by myself and I consider myself a pretty well intentioned, well informed kinda lady. Why are we all (including me) tearing apart the claims of A and B and wondering whether it was or wasn't rape or whether he should be tried or not? The truth is, under Swedish law he has been accused of rape and sexual assault and should be interviewed and tried for these accusations. It is not up to the general public to decide whether or not he is guilty of the crimes of which he has been accused.
Too often rape goes unreported and too often the perpetrator/s are not made to face any punishment for their crime. Also, more often than we would like (because we would like it to be NEVER), some girls 'cry rape' maybe because they are ashamed of themselves, or perhaps on purpose to get the man they had sex with in trouble. The impetus really does lie with the male of the species to NOT ever assume consent, that raping women is not an OK thing to do, and the fact that she was so shit-faced she couldn't remember her own name does not mean that 'nnnnnugh...' followed by her passing out constitutes consent .
There is an easy way to not get raped - never leave the house and wear iron knickers - but lets face it thats not particularly tempting, and why should women have to spend their lives practicing rape-avoidance techniques when the victim of a rape is not the guilty party? The other way would be for men (and women) everywhere, Assange included, to realise that sex is something that both sexes should give to eachother - it should not be taken, EVER.
K x
I wish I knew more about the girl at the end of my street - was she just a bit drunk and went further than she had hoped to with a lad she met in a club and made a false claim? Or was she really taken advantage of, but with little or no solid evidence no arrest was made?
I still can't justify to myself exactly what counts as rape and what doesn't. There was no formal invitation from my ex boyfriend, for me to either accept or decline. Had I pushed him away and said 'NO' I would have expected him to stop (which of course he would have done), but at no point did I say 'YES' either. We were both in a position to assume consent on the part of the other.
I am by no means promiscuous, but I have had experiences of the one night variety. Had I woken up one morning and regretted my decisions, thats a shame but no rape occurred. From what I have read about the Julian Assange case, it seems very far from clear cut. One of the claimants went to bed with him, and had fully consensual sex. She allowed him to stay the night, and says she awoke to him having sex with her. So, this second time would be 'unconsenting', but in all honesty, its not unusual is it? It was not a huge leap on his part to 'assume consent' after the night before; yes of course if she was asleep it did not give her the opportunity to say 'NO', but I'm sure she wasnt asleep throughout and could (should?) have said no at first opportunity, which would have made it very clearly unconsensual and definitely rape. She has not, as far as I know, claimed that he used violence in this instance to coerce or force her. I don't know what I think about it, and ultimately, my opinion doesn't really matter.
My small amount of knowledge of the Assange case wasn't really what I have been worrying about - more that the case has brought into question the legitimacy of the rape claims from the two ladies in Sweden, even by myself and I consider myself a pretty well intentioned, well informed kinda lady. Why are we all (including me) tearing apart the claims of A and B and wondering whether it was or wasn't rape or whether he should be tried or not? The truth is, under Swedish law he has been accused of rape and sexual assault and should be interviewed and tried for these accusations. It is not up to the general public to decide whether or not he is guilty of the crimes of which he has been accused.
Too often rape goes unreported and too often the perpetrator/s are not made to face any punishment for their crime. Also, more often than we would like (because we would like it to be NEVER), some girls 'cry rape' maybe because they are ashamed of themselves, or perhaps on purpose to get the man they had sex with in trouble. The impetus really does lie with the male of the species to NOT ever assume consent, that raping women is not an OK thing to do, and the fact that she was so shit-faced she couldn't remember her own name does not mean that 'nnnnnugh...' followed by her passing out constitutes consent .
There is an easy way to not get raped - never leave the house and wear iron knickers - but lets face it thats not particularly tempting, and why should women have to spend their lives practicing rape-avoidance techniques when the victim of a rape is not the guilty party? The other way would be for men (and women) everywhere, Assange included, to realise that sex is something that both sexes should give to eachother - it should not be taken, EVER.
K x
Monday 13 August 2012
Being Exceptional
In recent weeks I, and no doubt a significant proportion of the population of Great Britain, have been obsessively watching the London Olympic Games. I cannot put in to words the admiration I have for the organisers, the volunteers and the athletes themselves for putting on such an incredible show. It has been exciting, nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat stuff for 16 days, showing the world not only can Great Britain host an exciting event, but that our athletes can compete and win a staggering number of medals. But if what we have seen is the cream of the British crop, then what is to come in another fortnight can only be considered the clotted cream... for the Paralympics is coming! Another swathe of incredible athletes trained to their peak, to show us superhuman feats of strength, speed, flexibility, control and general amazingness.
My self-confidence has definitely taken a bashing over the past few years, and the Olympics has made this significantly more pointed - if Jessica Ennis and her team-mates are the poster children of the generation, honed to physical perfection and excelling at their particular sport, then what am I in comparison? Distinctly average. What do I excel at? What will I be remembered for in ten or twenty years time? I swam forty lengths today - but it's unlikely I'll be called up to represent my country any time soon in the 1,000m gentle breast-stroke final, coming in with a new world record at 43 minutes.
And my heart goes out to those that didn't win - the swimmers apologising to the country for 'only' coming 3rd, or for not winning a medal at all. What on earth is there to apologise for? Jeez, you are such a let down to your country, only being one of the top ten at your sport in the whole world! You might as well just jack it in now and become a BBC Sports presenter. To represent your country at the Olympic Games (or similar) means that you are the best in the country. I think that's something to be ridiculously proud of, not to apologise for. So, the massive American power-house went faster than you? Trust me, you went faster than ANY OF US could have done. You are exceptional.
Life is not a competition, I know this. And yet we are always bombarded by competition in the media - be it sporting as in the Olympics, or 'music' with the X-factor, or dancing dogs with Britains Got Talent. It's all about who can do what best, or fastest, or least annoyingly in the case of the dancing dogs. Because of the distinct lack of employment opportunities in this country at the moment, I am finding myself writing applications as "The Best Admin / Customer Service Superstar Extraordinaire Ever Known" in an attempt to stand out from the other 6,000 applicants for the same post. More than ever I feel the need to have some extra special quality, something that I would win the gold medal for if it were an Olympic event.
So, thankyou Team GB for being so amazing, filling us all with pride and love for our little country on the international stage. And good luck Paralympic Team GB I hope you win all the medals and royally stuff the Americans and the Chinese. But equally, can we all remember that its the taking part that counts?
K x
My self-confidence has definitely taken a bashing over the past few years, and the Olympics has made this significantly more pointed - if Jessica Ennis and her team-mates are the poster children of the generation, honed to physical perfection and excelling at their particular sport, then what am I in comparison? Distinctly average. What do I excel at? What will I be remembered for in ten or twenty years time? I swam forty lengths today - but it's unlikely I'll be called up to represent my country any time soon in the 1,000m gentle breast-stroke final, coming in with a new world record at 43 minutes.
And my heart goes out to those that didn't win - the swimmers apologising to the country for 'only' coming 3rd, or for not winning a medal at all. What on earth is there to apologise for? Jeez, you are such a let down to your country, only being one of the top ten at your sport in the whole world! You might as well just jack it in now and become a BBC Sports presenter. To represent your country at the Olympic Games (or similar) means that you are the best in the country. I think that's something to be ridiculously proud of, not to apologise for. So, the massive American power-house went faster than you? Trust me, you went faster than ANY OF US could have done. You are exceptional.
Life is not a competition, I know this. And yet we are always bombarded by competition in the media - be it sporting as in the Olympics, or 'music' with the X-factor, or dancing dogs with Britains Got Talent. It's all about who can do what best, or fastest, or least annoyingly in the case of the dancing dogs. Because of the distinct lack of employment opportunities in this country at the moment, I am finding myself writing applications as "The Best Admin / Customer Service Superstar Extraordinaire Ever Known" in an attempt to stand out from the other 6,000 applicants for the same post. More than ever I feel the need to have some extra special quality, something that I would win the gold medal for if it were an Olympic event.
So, thankyou Team GB for being so amazing, filling us all with pride and love for our little country on the international stage. And good luck Paralympic Team GB I hope you win all the medals and royally stuff the Americans and the Chinese. But equally, can we all remember that its the taking part that counts?
K x
Sunday 5 August 2012
Old Age
Yes, yes, I am only 29, my own old age is quite a way off (though there are days when I feel like I'm 90 already...). But this week my grandad has been admitted to hospital after falling at home and cutting his head open; they have run tests and it turns out he also has a chest infection along with Type 2 diabetes and at 80-something that means he is pretty poorly.
It struck me that we sort of expect our grandparents to become ill and eventually die, as is the natural run of things: although it would make me very, very sad, I do expect my grandad to die at some point in the (hopefully distant) future. My parents, however, are a totally different ball game. My parents are invincible, they will always be there to help me out when my car breaks down unexpectedly, or to give advice, or to help with big decisions. My dad went through some pretty serious treatments for cancer last year, but at no point did it seriously cross my mind that my dad might actually die; I was just waiting for the "all-clear, you are free to go home", which thankfully came. So is my Mum currently thinking of my Grandad in this same way? Or does there come a point in adult life where you realise that your parents are mortal just like everyone else?
I have often said that I would hate to grow old and infirm, that I would rather die at 60 than lapse into a state of constant reliance, to lose my faculties and need assistance with daily tasks. That I would rather go out on a high than dribbling and wearing a pair of incontinence pants. When I told my mum this she hesitated, and said that I would feel different when I had children and grandchildren; that every day would be a chance to see them grow up and grow older and that I wouldnt want to miss that for the world. And maybe she is right, that when you create a second generation to follow after you perhaps your perspective changes. Even if I never have children or grandchildren of my own, I know that every chance I get to see my 2 year old niece is like a gift, and who doesn't like getting presents? If that's how it feels when you are old and weary, that seeing young members of your family growing up makes every day like Christmas, then it can't be so bad after all.
K x
It struck me that we sort of expect our grandparents to become ill and eventually die, as is the natural run of things: although it would make me very, very sad, I do expect my grandad to die at some point in the (hopefully distant) future. My parents, however, are a totally different ball game. My parents are invincible, they will always be there to help me out when my car breaks down unexpectedly, or to give advice, or to help with big decisions. My dad went through some pretty serious treatments for cancer last year, but at no point did it seriously cross my mind that my dad might actually die; I was just waiting for the "all-clear, you are free to go home", which thankfully came. So is my Mum currently thinking of my Grandad in this same way? Or does there come a point in adult life where you realise that your parents are mortal just like everyone else?
I have often said that I would hate to grow old and infirm, that I would rather die at 60 than lapse into a state of constant reliance, to lose my faculties and need assistance with daily tasks. That I would rather go out on a high than dribbling and wearing a pair of incontinence pants. When I told my mum this she hesitated, and said that I would feel different when I had children and grandchildren; that every day would be a chance to see them grow up and grow older and that I wouldnt want to miss that for the world. And maybe she is right, that when you create a second generation to follow after you perhaps your perspective changes. Even if I never have children or grandchildren of my own, I know that every chance I get to see my 2 year old niece is like a gift, and who doesn't like getting presents? If that's how it feels when you are old and weary, that seeing young members of your family growing up makes every day like Christmas, then it can't be so bad after all.
K x
Tuesday 31 July 2012
How to Become a Millionaire
OK, so there are several ways that people become rich: firstly, by inheritance or trust fund. Much as I love my family, they have let me down here by not making me a millionaire in advance. Neither was I born into nobility or royalty, so there is no country pile or rooms full of antiques to flog.
Secondly, by inventing something truly incredible that the world didn't even knew they needed until I invented it - eg. Facebook or the car. I did once invent a "roll of teabags" (not unlike kitchen roll, perforated together) designs for which I sent to the makers of PG Tips as a child but it didnt catch on. Thirdly, by working really bastard hard and fighting your way to the top of the career ladder and becoming CEO of succesful company X. I can do hard work, I will fight tooth and nail for the things that I want, but I refuse to devote my every waking hour to work. As the saying goes one should work to live, not live to work.
A very good friend of mine is, as we speak, launching a new company (more in later blogs no doubt). She works 16 hour days and most of the weekend, even working when I went to visit her (which meant I could read Game of Thrones in peace, at least!). Currently, her income from this enormous amount of work is zero. I am so disproportionately proud of her achievements, from an idea she had a couple of years ago this is now becoming a reality and she is working ridiculously hard to make it a success. I truly hope that the business will soon pay her a good salary and she can start to enjoy the fruits of her labour, which will be richly deserved.
But, I'll be honest, I just dont think I have it in me to be that dogged, that determined, and that willing to work myself to exhaustion with no guaranteed return. I have always considered myself hardworking and committed, but I have always worked for someone else, on a wage or salary. Maybe somewhere in the subconcious this tempers my willingness to tip that work/life balance out of equilibrium. Maybe I have just never had a job that really fulfilled me or set the challenges that would encourage me to achieve more than I had previously expected.
Which leaves the only viable option open to me: lottery win. I do at least play the lottery, on Wednesdays and Saturdays by direct debit. I have as much chance as the next man or woman of winning the jackpot, which is precisely one in 13,983,816. So, lets be honest, not great odds. But apparently you just dont get six figure salaries for writing blogs in your bedroom wearing a sarong, so it is currently my best shot.
Although, I heard that the president of a small country had promised his Olympic athletes 700,000 USD for every gold medal they bring back. Thats the best part of 450,000 pounds sterling. So I just need to change nationality and get really really good at some kind of sport...
K x
Secondly, by inventing something truly incredible that the world didn't even knew they needed until I invented it - eg. Facebook or the car. I did once invent a "roll of teabags" (not unlike kitchen roll, perforated together) designs for which I sent to the makers of PG Tips as a child but it didnt catch on. Thirdly, by working really bastard hard and fighting your way to the top of the career ladder and becoming CEO of succesful company X. I can do hard work, I will fight tooth and nail for the things that I want, but I refuse to devote my every waking hour to work. As the saying goes one should work to live, not live to work.
A very good friend of mine is, as we speak, launching a new company (more in later blogs no doubt). She works 16 hour days and most of the weekend, even working when I went to visit her (which meant I could read Game of Thrones in peace, at least!). Currently, her income from this enormous amount of work is zero. I am so disproportionately proud of her achievements, from an idea she had a couple of years ago this is now becoming a reality and she is working ridiculously hard to make it a success. I truly hope that the business will soon pay her a good salary and she can start to enjoy the fruits of her labour, which will be richly deserved.
But, I'll be honest, I just dont think I have it in me to be that dogged, that determined, and that willing to work myself to exhaustion with no guaranteed return. I have always considered myself hardworking and committed, but I have always worked for someone else, on a wage or salary. Maybe somewhere in the subconcious this tempers my willingness to tip that work/life balance out of equilibrium. Maybe I have just never had a job that really fulfilled me or set the challenges that would encourage me to achieve more than I had previously expected.
Which leaves the only viable option open to me: lottery win. I do at least play the lottery, on Wednesdays and Saturdays by direct debit. I have as much chance as the next man or woman of winning the jackpot, which is precisely one in 13,983,816. So, lets be honest, not great odds. But apparently you just dont get six figure salaries for writing blogs in your bedroom wearing a sarong, so it is currently my best shot.
Although, I heard that the president of a small country had promised his Olympic athletes 700,000 USD for every gold medal they bring back. Thats the best part of 450,000 pounds sterling. So I just need to change nationality and get really really good at some kind of sport...
K x
Tuesday 24 July 2012
Saturday 21 July 2012
What to Read Next
Today I took possesion of two wonderful items - the next installment of George R R Martin's Game of Thrones series - Book 5 "A Dance With Dragons", so lengthy with description, intrigue and anticipation that it is split into two parts. This book is the last of the series, so far, though the author is anticipating two more installments before the series is completed. I am looking at the two new novels now, shiny and unbreached on the bed beside me, urging me to lift that front page and dive back into the story. But I just cant bring myself to start it.
I have been reading the series steadily since Christmas, when my then boyfriend bought me the first 4 as a boxed set, carefully interspersing Game of Thrones with other reading material, lest I be left with no more of them to read. For those of you who haven't read them (or watched the TV version on Sky) first of all I suggest you do so RIGHT NOW. The characters are wonderful, the plot intricately detailed and utterly gripping. I disappear into Westeros when I read, and have become so seriously involved with the (perilously short) lives of the protagonists that I found myself once texting my friend in the middle of the night to say "W T actual F... things are not well in GoT. I can't speak about it. Its too awful".
Game of Thrones has developed quite a following, and not only with the slightly geeky role playing, comic book types, but with well-rounded socialites such as myself and my good friend Alex, who lead fairly normal daily lives and then descend into this dark book-porn world of an evening. I could happily shut my bedroom door and read for days (as long as someone fed the cat from time to time and let me out to go to the loo). So why can't I bring myself to start to read A Dance With Dragons? Because after I finish it, there is no more. And then what will I do? It is very much like I imagine crack addiction to be: I need to know where my next fix is coming from. All the time the book is here, I know there is more for me to read. After I finished reading Lord of the Rings, at 4am in my first year at university (sure I should probably have been out drinking meths or something, but I never claimed to be exciting), as I finished that final chapter I cried. Real actual tears of loss. I had fought through the chapters of dross at the beginning with Tom Bombadil and his bloody songs, I had travelled with the hobbits, I had triumphed with them at Mount Doom, I had mourned the losses. I read the appendices - every word - to squeeze every last minutae of Middle Earth from those pages. And then I was lost with no more to read, certain that nothing would ever be so wonderful again.
So, here I find myself yet again, on the brink of a very similar situation, desperately trying to stave off that final moment, that ending. And the worst of it is that George R R Martin is still writing, albeit very very slowly. I could be waiting at this precipice of misery for years and years to come. I wonder if he thinks it is fun, keeping all his loyal fans (who buy his books and watch his TV series and spunk money on "House of Stark" hoodies from the HBO website) waiting and waiting for the next installment. Or if he really is just a very slow writer. To which end I would direct him to the hilarious YouTube video made by some fans, a song entitled "Write Like the Wind" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7lp3RhzfgI - where they beg the author "please write and write faster". Because, ultimately, the author has some responsibility to the reader to complete the tale, does he not? And as the writers of "Write Like the Wind" pointed out, he's not getting any younger, you know?
K x
I have been reading the series steadily since Christmas, when my then boyfriend bought me the first 4 as a boxed set, carefully interspersing Game of Thrones with other reading material, lest I be left with no more of them to read. For those of you who haven't read them (or watched the TV version on Sky) first of all I suggest you do so RIGHT NOW. The characters are wonderful, the plot intricately detailed and utterly gripping. I disappear into Westeros when I read, and have become so seriously involved with the (perilously short) lives of the protagonists that I found myself once texting my friend in the middle of the night to say "W T actual F... things are not well in GoT. I can't speak about it. Its too awful".
Game of Thrones has developed quite a following, and not only with the slightly geeky role playing, comic book types, but with well-rounded socialites such as myself and my good friend Alex, who lead fairly normal daily lives and then descend into this dark book-porn world of an evening. I could happily shut my bedroom door and read for days (as long as someone fed the cat from time to time and let me out to go to the loo). So why can't I bring myself to start to read A Dance With Dragons? Because after I finish it, there is no more. And then what will I do? It is very much like I imagine crack addiction to be: I need to know where my next fix is coming from. All the time the book is here, I know there is more for me to read. After I finished reading Lord of the Rings, at 4am in my first year at university (sure I should probably have been out drinking meths or something, but I never claimed to be exciting), as I finished that final chapter I cried. Real actual tears of loss. I had fought through the chapters of dross at the beginning with Tom Bombadil and his bloody songs, I had travelled with the hobbits, I had triumphed with them at Mount Doom, I had mourned the losses. I read the appendices - every word - to squeeze every last minutae of Middle Earth from those pages. And then I was lost with no more to read, certain that nothing would ever be so wonderful again.
So, here I find myself yet again, on the brink of a very similar situation, desperately trying to stave off that final moment, that ending. And the worst of it is that George R R Martin is still writing, albeit very very slowly. I could be waiting at this precipice of misery for years and years to come. I wonder if he thinks it is fun, keeping all his loyal fans (who buy his books and watch his TV series and spunk money on "House of Stark" hoodies from the HBO website) waiting and waiting for the next installment. Or if he really is just a very slow writer. To which end I would direct him to the hilarious YouTube video made by some fans, a song entitled "Write Like the Wind" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7lp3RhzfgI - where they beg the author "please write and write faster". Because, ultimately, the author has some responsibility to the reader to complete the tale, does he not? And as the writers of "Write Like the Wind" pointed out, he's not getting any younger, you know?
K x
Thursday 19 July 2012
Being a Woman
This may seem like an odd topic to be worried about - I would appear to have managed it so far for 29 years without any major difficulties. But it struck me over the past few days just how much pressure us women are constantly under. I read a very interesting article in the New Statesman about young women and their fear of attack - the author had experienced a traumatising episode herself and mentioned others. First of all, I realised that I have been very lucky in my life to have rarely found myself in a situation where I truly felt at risk of being attacked; then I began to consider that perhaps I should be more worried about it than I am. I reflected over past experiences where I had definitely been out of control of the situation, and that perhaps it was more a case of luck than judgement that I had escaped more or less unscathed all these years. Other than the sheer physical difference between the average male and the average female, what is it that makes a woman walking alone more frightened or wary than a man walking alone would do? It boils down, in my mind, to the basic objectification of women and the attitudes of both men and women to this. My example being: When I go to the gym I brush my hair, I wear clean clothes, I check that my top isnt tucked into my tracksuit bottoms or my bra poking out. I don't wear makeup (what a waste!) and I don't set out to "look hot" but I consider my appearance and ensure that I am not looking like an idiot. I walk through the gym safe in the knowledge that anyone who looked at me would have the best possible impression of me at first glance. Although not a conscious thought, I reckon the majority of women in the gym do the same - its rare to see a lady with her shorts tucked in her big pants or wearing a stained t-shirt. But I cannot imagine a man having the same thought processes or the same concerns before starting their workout - they're not there to pick up ladies, they're there to lift weights and sweat. And this isn't an argument for or against vanity or suggesting that women are parading peacocks for the male of the species - simply that we are programmed in some way to know that we are going to be looked at and considered by the opposite sex - positively, negatively or neutrally. And this is surely a pre-cursor to the fear of attack - we walk alone knowing somehow that we will be appraised visually, and objectified. And an object that is wanted can be taken and possessed, can be used for whatever purpose you see fit. Now that gets me onto worrying about domestic violence but thats a whole other subject.
We women, on the whole, spend a significant part of our time waxing, brushing, washing, filing, polishing, buffing and generally preening to meet with, or try to look the way we think we want to look. And I fail to be convinced by anyone who tells me this is truly the way they want to live - I would much rather be enjoying a glass of wine with my friends than having my pubes ripped out, trust me. I want to look nice, and be proud of my appearance, but so much of my expectation or hopes in relation to the way I look are based on the totally unrealistic vision presented to us by the media. And kids are subjected to these pictures of "women" from such a young age, that it becomes normal for teenagers to expect to see a porn-star perfect foo at their first sexual encounter, or that all women should be as thin as Victoria Beckham, or have mahoosive boobs like Katie Price. So the pressure is there from the get-go for girls to live up to an impossible norm, and we make such a good go of it that we perpetuate the fallacy. I know this is nothing new, Im not making ground breaking realisations - I read Caitlin Moran, The Vagenda - this has all been said before. But it worries me, more and more, that I will never be perfect enough, never be thin enough, never be smooth enough to meet this expectation of me that I place on myself. And that the expectation is grounded in the fact that everywhere I go I know I'm being sized up by viewing eyes (not in a Samantha Brick-esque self-congratulatory way, and no doubt more often than not in an entirely neutral and inoffensive manner).
I worry that as now my generation of young women are beginning to notice the total unfairness and lunacy of the body beautiful rituals that are expected of us, whole new generations after us are starting it themselves, and at even younger ages. How can we possibly keep up? If I consider defoliating my bikini area as a chore, will our kids consider getting their vajazzle re-jazzled as "just one of those things you gotta do?". And so we perpetuate the objectification by succumbing to it.
Oh god, and I havent even mentioned career, money, meeting a life partner, childbirth and rearing, periods, menopause, old age, wrinkles and the other million things that worry me about Being a Woman. K x
We women, on the whole, spend a significant part of our time waxing, brushing, washing, filing, polishing, buffing and generally preening to meet with, or try to look the way we think we want to look. And I fail to be convinced by anyone who tells me this is truly the way they want to live - I would much rather be enjoying a glass of wine with my friends than having my pubes ripped out, trust me. I want to look nice, and be proud of my appearance, but so much of my expectation or hopes in relation to the way I look are based on the totally unrealistic vision presented to us by the media. And kids are subjected to these pictures of "women" from such a young age, that it becomes normal for teenagers to expect to see a porn-star perfect foo at their first sexual encounter, or that all women should be as thin as Victoria Beckham, or have mahoosive boobs like Katie Price. So the pressure is there from the get-go for girls to live up to an impossible norm, and we make such a good go of it that we perpetuate the fallacy. I know this is nothing new, Im not making ground breaking realisations - I read Caitlin Moran, The Vagenda - this has all been said before. But it worries me, more and more, that I will never be perfect enough, never be thin enough, never be smooth enough to meet this expectation of me that I place on myself. And that the expectation is grounded in the fact that everywhere I go I know I'm being sized up by viewing eyes (not in a Samantha Brick-esque self-congratulatory way, and no doubt more often than not in an entirely neutral and inoffensive manner).
I worry that as now my generation of young women are beginning to notice the total unfairness and lunacy of the body beautiful rituals that are expected of us, whole new generations after us are starting it themselves, and at even younger ages. How can we possibly keep up? If I consider defoliating my bikini area as a chore, will our kids consider getting their vajazzle re-jazzled as "just one of those things you gotta do?". And so we perpetuate the objectification by succumbing to it.
Oh god, and I havent even mentioned career, money, meeting a life partner, childbirth and rearing, periods, menopause, old age, wrinkles and the other million things that worry me about Being a Woman. K x
Sunday 15 July 2012
What to Call My Blog!
I have been thinking about writing a blog for a very long time. A good friend of mine writes a very succesful blog about diabetes, but I dont have diabetes so I can't write about that. I considered writing a food blog, but there are so many hundreds of those already. Then I thought I could write a film blog (I did do a degree in that subject, after all) but again, the market is somewhat saturated. What could I write about that hadn't already been covered ten times over by better, more well known writers, I asked myself. I could write a blog about coping with RA, but I'm not doing a terribly good job of that at the moment, so I put that idea to one side. The more I thought about it the more worried I became at the whole prospect until I put the idea out of my head once and for all. And then it struck me: the thing that I am really good at and could do regularly and without pressure is worry. I can write copious amounts about things that I am currently worrying about and hopefully manage to make it vaguely entertaining and hopefully instructive and/or informative to some degree. Hooray!
And then I started to worry about what to call The Blog. You can't entitle it "The Blog" after all, and after several weeks of semi-constant worrying about it I fell upon the title that you see before you. This way I can find something new to worry about on a regular basis and share it joyfully with you. Subject of worry is unlimited and non-specific, and any suggestions of useful or interesting topics for me to concern myself with would be very much appreciated! (also, I fear, I may need to widen my vocabulary of words related to or meaning the same as 'worry' as I am now worried that the 'w' of my keyboard may wear out).
For those of you that know me well, you know that my capacity to worry, and through doing so worry about how much I am worrying, is beyond normal. I truly hope to be able through the medium of this blog to turn that into something postive and practical and less mentally damaging (for all of us). K x
And then I started to worry about what to call The Blog. You can't entitle it "The Blog" after all, and after several weeks of semi-constant worrying about it I fell upon the title that you see before you. This way I can find something new to worry about on a regular basis and share it joyfully with you. Subject of worry is unlimited and non-specific, and any suggestions of useful or interesting topics for me to concern myself with would be very much appreciated! (also, I fear, I may need to widen my vocabulary of words related to or meaning the same as 'worry' as I am now worried that the 'w' of my keyboard may wear out).
For those of you that know me well, you know that my capacity to worry, and through doing so worry about how much I am worrying, is beyond normal. I truly hope to be able through the medium of this blog to turn that into something postive and practical and less mentally damaging (for all of us). K x
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