Month: Jul 2021

Changeable Weather

The other day I was struck at how changeable British weather is. I know, I am a genius and should be awarded The Nobel Prize.  Perhaps you could nominate me. I’m sure no one has ever noticed this before. It’s like the observation that British people like to talk about the weather or that we often have fish and chips on a Friday. These are all unique observations I have made. “Well blow me down with a feather!” I can hear you say, or as my Granma used to say, “I’ll go to the foot of our stairs.” You are all so astounded at my observations you can hardly contain yourselves. Perhaps I should turn the comments off on social media. I don’t want to be inundated with praise.

I made this earth shattering observation, because one minute the sun was shining, the next we had a thunderstorm with hail, the next such heavy rain I could barely see over the road out of our window. Then it was back to sunshine, then overcast. Typical British summer really. In fact when you see the average British holiday maker going away in summer, they will have a huge lot of gear with them. If you are from another country you probably assumed us Brits were carrying sandwiches or swimwear. Perhaps you thought we just had a beach tent or wet suit? Maybe you thought we were carrying a tent ready to stop the night somewhere? Well, no, you see when us Brits go on holiday in summer we understand the weather over here. So we pack: A change of clothes, an umbrella (essential all year round), a waterproof mac, wellington boots and sandals (you have to cover all possibilities), a sun hat and a rain hat, a waterproof bag to put things in, then all the normal beach things, sun cream, towels (to lie on, wrap around and dry with), wet suits (this is the UK), water shoes, bucket and spade, beach tent (wind proof, storm force), ground sheet and pegs, food and drink for the whole day (possibly a kettle), football or beach ball, of course all this is too big for a bag. Someone came up with a brilliant invention, I wish they had them when our kids were young. A wheeled trolley to carry all your necessary beach gear; essential UK beach gear. It’s the size of a small truck, 7.5 tonne probably, and it looks brilliant, six wheeled and articulated.

I didn’t write this blog to advertise push along HGV’s though; as brilliant as they are. All this changeable weather, don’t forget I noticed it first, has another implication. When you are in the midst of troubles, when things seem dark and impossible to bear. When life feels like a very dark and forbidding place. Remember, light will come again. It doesn’t feel like it; I know. If anyone has a right to say this it’s me. I do understand what it is to have everything pulled from under you. Not just the rug of your life; but the floor itself. I do know what it feels like to lose the life you were living. To have your job, your health and what feels like all hope and future snatched away. Read some of my biography blogs if you want to see what happened. But the sun is still behind the clouds. The weather keeps changing. Life is like that too. We have terrible things happen to us, illness, bereavement, job loss, family break up, all sorts of things cause us pain and heartache. That darkness feels like it will never end; but it is like the storms we keep going through, the sun comes back.

There is hope and a future.

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Crash, Bang, Wallop

I’m sure you’ve all seen ‘Half a sixpence’ and if you haven’t, will now be rushing off to look it up. “Crash, bang, wallop, what a picture, what a photograph,” is a line from one of the songs in it. Which has absolutely nothing to do with building work. Although, they do have a house built; well beginning to be built.

What am I talking about? I have spent the last two weeks in a room below and beside a lot of building noise. Crashing and banging and walloping. Builders seem to find it easier to drop their tools than put them down. To throw things rather than place things. They are hard of hearing and need radios blaring. For some reason van engines often need to be left running. They trip over all the stuff they leave lying around and then off course they have the actual building work. Drilling, sawing, banging, angle grinders and general building noise.

We have been having DFG (Disabled Facilities Grant) adaptations done on our house to make it more accessible and generally much better for me. The garage has become a room, mainly to house the through floor lift which will go into the bedroom above; my bedroom. But as a result of being adapted it gives me a room to put my excess stuff into. My bedroom is already one of the smaller ones. By the time you have to leave room for the lift, a hospital bed, two doors (entrance and wet-room), wheelchair, wheeled shower chair, small wardrobe, and bedside table there isn’t room to swing a cat or for the rest of my stuff; if cat swinging isn’t allowed. Where will my collection of teddy bears go? What about my collection of antique sports cars? Then their all my suits of armour and my extensive collection of old phone boxes. I am of course kidding, but I do have more things than just clothes. So those things will be in the room below, it’s on the sunny side of the house; should be a nice place to sit as well, when you visit for coffee. You’ve not had an invite? It’s in the post.

I have already hinted at the other part of the building work; directly above my head. I am currently sleeping in the lounge. That’s a very appropriate name for our front room/sitting room, because I lunge around in my hospital bed. Anyway, something was happening directly above my head; what was it? The ceiling hoist? No, that just sits there until used. Ah yes, the wet-room conversion. They have taken a small en suite from the larger bedroom, swapped its entrance into my bedroom. Then extended it into the larger bedroom, which is now smaller. Are you still with me? I wish I was; I’ve only seen photos so it’s hard to really grasp what it looks like yet. The result is that I will have a large enough wet room for two carers and me; sounds like there ought to be a song there. Apparently due to my condition, care companies in this area will only give me a shower with two carers. No, not because I am so large, that’s just rude of you. It’s because I can suddenly go like a rag doll and even though I have a reclining shower chair with seat belts, its best to be safe. Shower time is therefore going to be crowded. Don’t worry, I know we don’t all have a shower. Not unless I happen to splash them, accidentally; which I would never do. Having said that most of the time it will be Mary giving me a shower, we haven’t got a rule about two carers, Mary knows the signs well enough to see ‘rag doll’ time coming on.

Back to these really quiet builders crashing about above my head. I appreciate what they are doing and I am looking forward to getting upstairs to my bedroom. I’m especially looking forward to the sea views from our balcony room upstairs. I just wish that they had learnt to be a bit more careful with their tools. Is it really necessary to throw a hammer on the floor after use? When I was on my feet and doing houses up, I had a tool belt and a work bench. My tool box was on the work bench and I put, not threw, tools back in that. Tools I was using all the time went on my tool belt. As for tripping over everything, that is just bad practice. The HSE would not be happy; mind you they often look unhappy. An HSE (Health & Safety Executive) Inspector doesn’t smile a lot, but then I guess they have little to smile about. If they came to see what our builders are doing, they might giggle on the inside, but they would have to be stern on the outside. A clean work area is a safe work area, no I have never been an HSE inspector.

Oh, the joy, the deep, deep joy, when 3.30pm comes and the working day ends. Yes, you read the time right; 9am to 3.30pm. I was in the wrong job when I used to work in an office. Anyway, the deep joy at the end of a long working day when the crashing, banging, walloping and general noise ends. The end is now in sight. Friday we are told, most of the work will be finished. Then all we have to wait for is the glass for the windows. Apparently, Brexit, Covid and Suez all worked together to hold that up, very co-ordinated of them all. Then we have to wait on the through floor lift; that was on an 8–12-week delivery from 24th June. The same three well co-ordinated suspects may be holding that up too though.

Crash, bang, wallop, what a picture the finished project will be. Well, it will be once we can get it decorated. The builders leave it with bare plaster walls; apart from the part tiled we-room of course. But once it is all done, it will be amazing.

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I Married A Good’Un

I have had many times to consider that I married a good’un. What a lucky guy I am. I remember all those years ago; obviously not that many years, because I’m only young. Back in the early 1980’s, when I first met Mary. There was this thunderbolt; no that was just in my mind. I never wanted to be apart from her again.

Well, today, a landscape gardener was round looking at putting in a base for the shed and a path for my wheelchair. He looked at what Mary had already done and he was gobsmacked. In fact, he was saying she works harder than most of his staff. He texted me later, this time tongue in cheek, saying can he offer her a job. Looking after me is Mary’s full-time job.

Earlier in the week the builders carrying out the adaptations on our house, to make it suitable for me, made a similar observation. They couldn’t believe all the physical work Mary had already done in the garden.

The point is, that she is amazing at transforming a garden. Laying out a lawn, cutting borders and planning, are things Mary has done in each of our houses. Some, I have been able to contribute to; not this one. So, I watch in wonder at the things she does. All this on top of being my main carer and doing the standard things of cooking and cleaning; none of which I can help with. I most certainly married a good’un.

In case you think my judgement of what makes a wife good or bad is based on physical strength, or cooking and cleaning; let me clarify. Mary is brilliant because she is kind, generous, loving, a woman of God, a great wife and mother. Mary is gentle, understanding, long suffering; that goes without saying having me as a husband. Mary is clever, inventive and strong, both in spirit and mind. Mary knows how to overcome difficulty and she is the one who comes up with all my best ideas. She is my strength and my right hand. I have most certainly married a good’un.

There are many unpaid carers out there and my hat goes off to you all. I also realise that for many of you, the person you care for is unable or unwilling to recognise your help. Sometimes that’s the illness affecting their mind. For some it’s the frustration of wanting to do it themselves, blinding them to gratitude. For others it is just ignorance; they have never thought about it. Their character gets in the way. So, I want to say to all of you who care do unpaid for others: Thank you, you are doing an amazing job. Without the great army of friends and family who sacrifice their lives to care for others, we would not have a life. (I have separately blogged about paid carers.)

I can and do say that to Mary. If you are someone who receives care from a family or friend; stop and think. I realise that you want to do things yourself; of course, you do. But, recognise that the person helping you is giving up a lot to do that. Say thank you, realise that they are putting their life on hold, to help you.

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The New Hoisting Diet

I have discovered an amazing new diet. But, let’s not rush into my world changing revelation. Let me not spoil the moment. I don’t want to jump the gun and get you all placing orders for my miracle diet before I have even told you about it’s wonders.

But where do I even begin? Well, I was a poor lad, born long ago without a penny to my name… too far back? OK, let’s jump on a bit. The winter was harsh and cold, help just wasn’t in sight… still too long ago? You are a hard bunch to please. Straight to the point it is then. Speaking of which… alright, straight to the point.

Have you ever noticed ‘middle aged spread?’ It’s not a type of margarine. It’s when your middle decides that it wants to spread beyond your waste band. I consider that to be a betrayal of trust. After all, you have nurtured that belly all your life. Kept it hidden and tucked up cosy in a belt. You looked after it, never let it down or said anything bad about it. Then one day, without any notice, it just decides to burst out of your trousers and make an embarrassing show of itself to all and sundry. I wouldn’t mind, but it’s so undignified. It doesn’t even respect the outfit you’re wearing, trousers, shorts, PJ’s, skirt (not me of course), kilt (not me either, slacks (if you’re one of my American readers) or joggers. Whatever you are wearing it overspills them like a waterfall of flubber.

This ‘middle aged spread,’ flab to you and I, after all we can speak straight, can’t we? We can be honest with one another? This fat! Well, it just hangs there, wobbling and generally being silly. Not behaving itself at all.
Today an OT (Occupational Therapist) visited. You didn’t know they did diets; well, they don’t. She was here to bring me a new sling for use with my ceiling hoist. A toileting sling; I will leave it to you to decide what that is for. Mind after I had tried it on, she said, “do you want to use the commode?” That’s a mobile toilet by the way. I said, “not with an audience.” Actually, I only thought that, I was just embarrassed, after all there were three people present. I’m not in the habit of using a toilet in public, even a public convenience. Being disabled is embarrassing, but there are limits.

Back to the sling, it has a Velcro strap around the middle, it goes around your ‘middle aged spread.’ The OT had brought two sizes, medium; I know, I laughed too, and large. Hang on, why did you laugh at medium? Well, the large was tight. But the OT said, “don’t worry, they are always tight, until you are hoisted.” We are coming in fast on the point of my blog now. Get your credit card ready to buy this almost unbelievable diet.

As I was hoisted into the air a miracle occurred. My ‘middle aged spread’ disappeared! Will wonders never cease? Something about being hoisted, gravity, physics, bottoms hanging out of slings; even covered bottoms. Whatever the logic, your belly becomes slim. It’s a wonder diet; instant and reliable. We won’t mention it reappearing on being lowered; let’s gloss over that. There are slight down sides to everything.

So, if you are suffering from ‘middle aged spread’ all you need is a sling and a hoist; hey presto, a slim tummy. Simple, eh? They should package it up as ‘The New Hoisting Diet’. Then in small print, “Only effective while in the hoist.” Aren’t you glad that you stuck it out till the end?

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Flipper

“OK Flipper, show us where he is.” When I was growing up, in the early 2000’s, sorry that just slipped in there, 1970’s, animals on TV were really clever. Lassie, Flipper, Silver, Black Beauty, pretty much any animal could talk to humans either in English or at least be understood. They so loved humans, especially the kids, that they spent all their time playing with them and rescuing them. You’d have thought they would have had better things to do. Leap around in the water, run in a field, chase sheep.

Reality on the streets was often very different, of course. Any animals I spoke to said, “yeah, hang loose man, be cool.” Rather than offering to help. Actually, that’s not true, they never said, “be cool,” I added that bit. In fact, as a child my mates and I formed an animal rescue group. I say we, but I had a bit part. We all had a medical kit on our bicycles and we road around our village looking for wounded animals to rescue. Just as well we never discovered one, as none of us would know what to do with them. We didn’t have any veterinary training. Looking back (I was only about 8 or 9, no wonder I wasn’t a vet) I realise that the founder of this group was not exactly ecologically sound. He had a draw full of blown birds’ eggs!! Oh yes, reality on the streets was different, most kids hurt wild animals rather than played with them.

What got me thinking about Flipper was events of yesterday. No, I wasn’t drowning and a Dolphin rescued me. Nor was my motor boat stolen by thieves and Flipper directed the police after them. Mary was out for a walk on the beach and phoned me. Where does Flipper come in? Be patient; she saw a flock of, is that the word, gathering, group, pod, is it a pod like whales, a pod of dolphins. They were a way out to sea. Mind you they were having a rare old time, leaping and swimming and generally cavorting around; do dolphins cavort? She phoned me to say… I was at home in my hospital bed… to say, look at the cameras in the upstairs bedroom. Well, not look at the cameras you understand, but look at the images of the sea on them. I’m not sure if you have used Wi-Fi HD cameras, but the HD bit is a misnomer. The image of the sea and pier were a bit grainy. By bit I mean, very. So, all I could see was the sea. A very poor image of the same. Mary was describing amazing images of leaping dolphins next to a fishing boat. I have a good imagination; you may have noticed. Which meant that I was able to see Flipper leaping out of the water, over the boat. I heard him clicking and whistling, saw him waving his fins. It was all very exciting; almost unbelievable. Anyone looking at the camera image would have been forgiven for thinking all I could see was a blurry dot where the fishing boat was bobbing on the water.

Fellow Marine Pointers, did you know I lived on an estate called Marine Point? Well I do, fellow MPer’s have seen dolphins much closer; as has Mary. I guess I shall have to wait till Lassie tells me that they are back, leap onto Silver, shout Hi, Ho, and away to the beach to catch Flipper as he performs.

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Getting To Know You

‘Getting to know you…’ Any fans of ‘The King and I’ will be in full voice by now. I of course have not reached, ‘…your cup of tea.’ There is a purpose behind the lyrics of course; Anna was introducing herself… no I mean in this blog. Mary and I have recently moved to Hartlepool; how did you miss that one? Go and sit in the corner. Which means, everything is new. Well, not quite everything. But I have to get used to a new house, new area, new equipment, new doctor, new OT and new carers. I am getting to know them.

Fortunately, I already understand the local dialect. Which reminds me, when we last lived here many years ago, I didn’t understand it. One of our sons went to a new school here and after school, went home with a friend. He rang me to say that he would need collecting later from the friends house. So, I needed an address and directions. You’re a clever lot, so you already know what’s coming. The friends mum took the phone and gave me the address. Well, I couldn’t find it on the map, not the way she said it. I am not going to give their address out here, but there are some ways things are said up here, that take getting used to and her accent confused me. The road name did not sound the way it looked to me on a map, when she spelt it out. A couple of examples of local dialect that I have come to love are: moower (elongate the first part), is a moor, and twoast (say it as one word quickly) is toast. But I am assured by many locals, that they don’t have an accent in Hartlepool. Anyway, our lass was seeying, away with ya hinny, they don’t talk like that, flower.

You do realise I am going to be in trouble now. I probably will upset all my carers. Actually, they are a lovely group and have a wonderful sense of humour. Just as well really; with me as a client.

I was thinking the other day. A very good habit pooh bear. Imagine, walking in to meet me for the first time. After getting over the shear joy of meeting me and the wonderment at my muscular physique and taut svelte body. They then have to deal with my humility. How do they keep from fainting? I’ve known me for years and I can’t stand in my presence; no, wait, I just can’t stand.

Being serious for a moment… that’s long enough. Let’s have another try. It’s always difficult getting to know new people. Both for me and them. Carers are a whole other case. I won’t go into all the reasons now, but if you read my blog “Care, a unique relationship.” You will understand more about why. In brief a care to client relationship is both professional and personal, distant and yet somehow close. It’s hard to quantify, because when someone gets to know you well over time, they can’t help but understand you well. Of course, what makes it unique is that understanding is one sided. In most relationships where you are known intimately, you know the other person just as intimately; not so with care. Carers are like friends and yet not friends, a strangely intimate, yet not intimate, professional, yet close relationship. I don’t know of any comparable relationship. It is not like your doctor or a nurse, not like family or friends.

Here we are again… I’ll resist ending that ‘happy as can be.’ Starting that process over again, getting to know a new set of carers. Eeee, I’ll be off now flower, our lass is bringing me a stottie.

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Where’s It Been?


I gather the football is coming home. But, where has it been and why didn’t the neighbours throw it over the wall a long time ago. When we used to play football as kids and kick the ball over the wall; something that happened a lot. Either they threw it back with a shout of, “oi, don’t do that again.” Or, if they were out, we would nip round, scout out the neighbours house and run like the billy-oh to fetch our ball back.


So my question remains. Why has it taken so long for our neighbours to throw the ball back? Is it to do with Brexit? Now that we are leaving Europe have they decided there is no point hanging onto our ball any longer? Or is the ball so old and deflated that they think we might as well have it back?


Somebody please explain. I just don’t get all this singing. “Footballs coming home, it’s coming.” Where from? Why, How? While we are on the subject how do people know it’s coming back? Have our neighbours given us a heads up? Did the German’s say, “Vee have finished vith it now.” Or the Danes say, “pay us some geld and you can have your ball back?” Is it even up to them, haven’t those Italian’s got it? I’m sure I saw an ice cream seller singing, “just one balleto. Keep it for me.” Was he just teasing? Will he have a say in the matter?


Anyway, you know me, I would never step on any holy cows, nor tackle any thorny issues. I certainly wouldn’t upset any football fans. Football is far too important. One thing is obvious to me; the football is coming home, whatever that means. Watch out Italy, England are going to win on Sunday.

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