A very warm couple of days.
Wednesday
Slept approximately 1.5-2 hours between just after 7am and 9am after a night of being far too hot. Lindsay fucked off to Canada some time during that period.
Got to the foot of the stairs, found a letter from the hospital asking me to confirm my availability for an appointment. Ran back up the stairs. Spent approximately 10 minutes on hold. Was asked if I was free at 8.45am on Friday as they'd "had a cancellation". This seemed rather sudden to me, so I asked whether I needed to bring anything with me (what with this surgery being an inpatient thing and this letter... hrm... advising me to call the OUTPATIENTS department...) and was informed that I wouldn't need to because it was a consultation.
You know, that thing I've already HAD?
So I'm guessing that somewhere in the HOURS I HAVE SPENT PHONING PEOPLE the fact that I have ALREADY BEEN PRE-ASSESSED, which I have mentioned in EVERY SINGLE CONVERSATION, has somehow gone awry.
Nevertheless I am going, at shit o'clock on Friday morning, and I will have some interesting words to offer them regarding preciously what the fuck is going on.
Went to meet Ruthi and Holly in order to look at horrible war medicine for reasons of research and also my abiding interest in WW1, war medicine, and Sad Soldiers. Susanne and Jess baulked at the weather, which may have been sensible as even though I spent little enough time out of doors I successfully acquired heatstroke and was forced to sit in the toilets in the V&A prior to meeting R & H and contemplate my place in the universe and whether or not I was going to vomit. FUN TIMES.
Having got over my sun-induced nausea I meandered around early-medieval Europe. Found a nice Saxon brooch and an entire empire I hadn't previously known existed (the Ottonian - not the Ottoman - from the late 900s to mid 1100s, I think, stretching pretty much from Denmark to Rome, between say, Amiens and Prague. I'm guessing, given where it ends, that it's the Holy Roman Empire under one of its many variations?).
Met Ruthi, armed with a clock-work bunny to make up for the inevitable need to parent me what with my inability to not get heat stroke. Some time later acquired Holly, went inside where the sun wasn't, and bounded up the stairs to go and LOOK AT WOUNDS. (Was manic and unbalanced all day due to: no sleep, minimal food, probably too much caffeine, the entire WTF nature of the NHS, and not doing a morning workout due to aforementioned total lack of sleep).
Many useful and thought-provoking surgery-related developments (even if some of the thoughts they provoked were "oh god what is wrong with us as a species why do we keep DOING THIS" - not greatly helped by watching a lot of footage from Aleppo the other night), example and example, some merely pornographic (if you're me); being sadists they closed the exhibition with a segment on the mind, on the understanding of PTSD, and the role of my dear Rivers in helping to address this in a humane way (some angry conversation in-gallery about the practices preferred by Dr Yealland); and then some updating on how the army deals with field wounds and ptsd now, including a video testimonial from some men helped by Combat Stress, which is exactly the kind of harrowing put-me-down you need following black and white images of men covered from head to toe in mustard gas blisters.
We went for Restorative Tea, then revolved around the museum looking for Babbage's brain and shouting at clocks until Ruthi ran out of go and it was agreed that we should repair to Tombo for early dinner.
Tombo's Soho Branch turns out to be the Poké specialist and the South Kensington one does a larger range of more traditionally Japanese food with its wild array of matcha-based delights; I was surprisingly restrained despite wanting to eat basically every dessert. (They do a temarizushi/sm0l cake afternoon matcha tea; you bet your weeping anal sores I'm going back there).
My dining companions will be relieved to know that my INCREDIBLY TEDIOUS a) shouting about the book I am supposedly working on and b) reading out chunks of the planning document have proven useful and I'm made a certain amount of Progress (as well considering we're 50% of the way through September FUCK). Less pleased to learn that my brain hasn't quite gotten over the "we're out of the house PLEASE NEVER LET US RETURN THERE" and "you cannot possibly just have ONE DRINK" attempts at forced bonhomie/admit you have a problem you asshat.
Did an evening workout. Surprisingly easy. Almost like having eaten food and warmed up have an effect.
Thursday
Slightly more sleep than Wednesday although, tbh, given that I took Night Nurse and was exhausted, approximately 7 hours less sleep than I was expecting or NEEDED. Hallucinatory book-plotting and scene-exploring while lying too groggy to feel bad about it but apparently unable to sleep, then had weird and stressful and vivid dreams, then revisited my book-plotting while in the middle of doing sit-ups.
Achieved before Jess got up:
Workout
Dinner in crock pot for the evening
Boiling/generally doing 1st stage of the clarry/medieval claret. It's sitting overnight and then goes in a bottle after being strained. PS: a cup of honey is a LOT of honey. A LOT A LOT.
A small amount of cleaning.
Aaaaand our living room window is now broken and won't close. Why?
We went to IKEA. It is 30C and we're on a shitting bus. This part - despite Jess being about as communicative as a wooden stool and only interested in Snapchat filters - is not the problem. IKEA is the problem.
Food: not a problem. Diet coke in a wine glass, also not a problem. Even the angry bulldog woman apparently affronted by my mere existence as a human being (Albeit one in a bright red vest/singlet and Lolita sunglasses being conspicuously gay), not a problem.
Problem begins with Jess's new shoes, which are rubbing. This now dictates literally every movement and conversation. I go looking for kitchenware, she vanishes. Reappears while I'm trying to find a latte mug. We have an argument over what a heat-proof tea glass looks like (my point of reference at this point was the Turkish/Moroccan ones because that's where my head's been at recently and it didn't occur to me to say "latte glass"); Jess disappears again. Reappears while I'm looking at candles; we discuss the possibility of buying a) a snake plant (basically unkillable) and b) a fig tree. I profess myself amenable to both eventualities providing actual space can be found for them, and repeat this several times, which apparently is the same as not having acknowledged the point at all.
Somewhere in the midst of trying to eat as many free biscuits as conscience and the physical limits of my mouth will allow "my feet hurt" turns into THIS IS CLEARLY IN SOME WAY YOUR FAULT STOP BEING IN HERE GET OUT NOW, and another row erupts.
Following this particular row it's tacitly decided that further ports of call in the daily itinerary should involve a degree of separation. We draw a little, in which my obviously inferior art skills are hopefully a little mollifying.
In Tesco, I have a conversation with a butcher who speaks very, very little English, as we attempt to navigate the intricacies of the concept of "100g" of oxtail and pork rib, with a lot of hand gestures, "no, smaller", and "teeny tiny! Embarrassingly small! YES THAT'S PERFECT!". At least she thought it was funny.
I come home to find that the correct way to cook baby octopus from frozen is indeed to put it in a low-heat sealed container for 10 hours. TENDER. DELICIOUS. A SMALL BUT IMPORTANT VICTORY AGAINST THE FORCES OF MALNUTRITION.
Abandoning the blithe instruction "type up notes, include photos" as this will take fucking hours now, we catch up with Bake Off. Horrible Tom fails to go home despite doing badly, but also Lovely Rav does not go home despite doing badly. Very Lovely Benjaminia is rewarded for her loveliness and I guess her baking skills. Space Gay Andrew gets so stressed that his face turns into a tomato, as does Jane. Selasi attempts, and fails, to style out the accusation that his churros are burnt.
Tomorrow
INTO THE ARSE CRACK OF DAWN GO I, back to the fucking hospital there to probably catch Norovirus or MRSA while trying to make them book me a fucking surgery date FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST GIVE ME A SURGERY DATE.
And then, straining of clarry, and typing up of notes, and after a bajillion years in a slow-cooker gumbo happens.
Slept approximately 1.5-2 hours between just after 7am and 9am after a night of being far too hot. Lindsay fucked off to Canada some time during that period.
Got to the foot of the stairs, found a letter from the hospital asking me to confirm my availability for an appointment. Ran back up the stairs. Spent approximately 10 minutes on hold. Was asked if I was free at 8.45am on Friday as they'd "had a cancellation". This seemed rather sudden to me, so I asked whether I needed to bring anything with me (what with this surgery being an inpatient thing and this letter... hrm... advising me to call the OUTPATIENTS department...) and was informed that I wouldn't need to because it was a consultation.
You know, that thing I've already HAD?
So I'm guessing that somewhere in the HOURS I HAVE SPENT PHONING PEOPLE the fact that I have ALREADY BEEN PRE-ASSESSED, which I have mentioned in EVERY SINGLE CONVERSATION, has somehow gone awry.
Nevertheless I am going, at shit o'clock on Friday morning, and I will have some interesting words to offer them regarding preciously what the fuck is going on.
Went to meet Ruthi and Holly in order to look at horrible war medicine for reasons of research and also my abiding interest in WW1, war medicine, and Sad Soldiers. Susanne and Jess baulked at the weather, which may have been sensible as even though I spent little enough time out of doors I successfully acquired heatstroke and was forced to sit in the toilets in the V&A prior to meeting R & H and contemplate my place in the universe and whether or not I was going to vomit. FUN TIMES.
Having got over my sun-induced nausea I meandered around early-medieval Europe. Found a nice Saxon brooch and an entire empire I hadn't previously known existed (the Ottonian - not the Ottoman - from the late 900s to mid 1100s, I think, stretching pretty much from Denmark to Rome, between say, Amiens and Prague. I'm guessing, given where it ends, that it's the Holy Roman Empire under one of its many variations?).
Met Ruthi, armed with a clock-work bunny to make up for the inevitable need to parent me what with my inability to not get heat stroke. Some time later acquired Holly, went inside where the sun wasn't, and bounded up the stairs to go and LOOK AT WOUNDS. (Was manic and unbalanced all day due to: no sleep, minimal food, probably too much caffeine, the entire WTF nature of the NHS, and not doing a morning workout due to aforementioned total lack of sleep).
Many useful and thought-provoking surgery-related developments (even if some of the thoughts they provoked were "oh god what is wrong with us as a species why do we keep DOING THIS" - not greatly helped by watching a lot of footage from Aleppo the other night), example and example, some merely pornographic (if you're me); being sadists they closed the exhibition with a segment on the mind, on the understanding of PTSD, and the role of my dear Rivers in helping to address this in a humane way (some angry conversation in-gallery about the practices preferred by Dr Yealland); and then some updating on how the army deals with field wounds and ptsd now, including a video testimonial from some men helped by Combat Stress, which is exactly the kind of harrowing put-me-down you need following black and white images of men covered from head to toe in mustard gas blisters.
We went for Restorative Tea, then revolved around the museum looking for Babbage's brain and shouting at clocks until Ruthi ran out of go and it was agreed that we should repair to Tombo for early dinner.
Tombo's Soho Branch turns out to be the Poké specialist and the South Kensington one does a larger range of more traditionally Japanese food with its wild array of matcha-based delights; I was surprisingly restrained despite wanting to eat basically every dessert. (They do a temarizushi/sm0l cake afternoon matcha tea; you bet your weeping anal sores I'm going back there).
My dining companions will be relieved to know that my INCREDIBLY TEDIOUS a) shouting about the book I am supposedly working on and b) reading out chunks of the planning document have proven useful and I'm made a certain amount of Progress (as well considering we're 50% of the way through September FUCK). Less pleased to learn that my brain hasn't quite gotten over the "we're out of the house PLEASE NEVER LET US RETURN THERE" and "you cannot possibly just have ONE DRINK" attempts at forced bonhomie/admit you have a problem you asshat.
Did an evening workout. Surprisingly easy. Almost like having eaten food and warmed up have an effect.
Thursday
Slightly more sleep than Wednesday although, tbh, given that I took Night Nurse and was exhausted, approximately 7 hours less sleep than I was expecting or NEEDED. Hallucinatory book-plotting and scene-exploring while lying too groggy to feel bad about it but apparently unable to sleep, then had weird and stressful and vivid dreams, then revisited my book-plotting while in the middle of doing sit-ups.
Achieved before Jess got up:
Workout
Dinner in crock pot for the evening
Boiling/generally doing 1st stage of the clarry/medieval claret. It's sitting overnight and then goes in a bottle after being strained. PS: a cup of honey is a LOT of honey. A LOT A LOT.
A small amount of cleaning.
Aaaaand our living room window is now broken and won't close. Why?
We went to IKEA. It is 30C and we're on a shitting bus. This part - despite Jess being about as communicative as a wooden stool and only interested in Snapchat filters - is not the problem. IKEA is the problem.
Food: not a problem. Diet coke in a wine glass, also not a problem. Even the angry bulldog woman apparently affronted by my mere existence as a human being (Albeit one in a bright red vest/singlet and Lolita sunglasses being conspicuously gay), not a problem.
Problem begins with Jess's new shoes, which are rubbing. This now dictates literally every movement and conversation. I go looking for kitchenware, she vanishes. Reappears while I'm trying to find a latte mug. We have an argument over what a heat-proof tea glass looks like (my point of reference at this point was the Turkish/Moroccan ones because that's where my head's been at recently and it didn't occur to me to say "latte glass"); Jess disappears again. Reappears while I'm looking at candles; we discuss the possibility of buying a) a snake plant (basically unkillable) and b) a fig tree. I profess myself amenable to both eventualities providing actual space can be found for them, and repeat this several times, which apparently is the same as not having acknowledged the point at all.
Somewhere in the midst of trying to eat as many free biscuits as conscience and the physical limits of my mouth will allow "my feet hurt" turns into THIS IS CLEARLY IN SOME WAY YOUR FAULT STOP BEING IN HERE GET OUT NOW, and another row erupts.
Following this particular row it's tacitly decided that further ports of call in the daily itinerary should involve a degree of separation. We draw a little, in which my obviously inferior art skills are hopefully a little mollifying.
In Tesco, I have a conversation with a butcher who speaks very, very little English, as we attempt to navigate the intricacies of the concept of "100g" of oxtail and pork rib, with a lot of hand gestures, "no, smaller", and "teeny tiny! Embarrassingly small! YES THAT'S PERFECT!". At least she thought it was funny.
I come home to find that the correct way to cook baby octopus from frozen is indeed to put it in a low-heat sealed container for 10 hours. TENDER. DELICIOUS. A SMALL BUT IMPORTANT VICTORY AGAINST THE FORCES OF MALNUTRITION.
Abandoning the blithe instruction "type up notes, include photos" as this will take fucking hours now, we catch up with Bake Off. Horrible Tom fails to go home despite doing badly, but also Lovely Rav does not go home despite doing badly. Very Lovely Benjaminia is rewarded for her loveliness and I guess her baking skills. Space Gay Andrew gets so stressed that his face turns into a tomato, as does Jane. Selasi attempts, and fails, to style out the accusation that his churros are burnt.
Tomorrow
INTO THE ARSE CRACK OF DAWN GO I, back to the fucking hospital there to probably catch Norovirus or MRSA while trying to make them book me a fucking surgery date FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST GIVE ME A SURGERY DATE.
And then, straining of clarry, and typing up of notes, and after a bajillion years in a slow-cooker gumbo happens.