Sub Par

 On February the twelfth the headache appeared on the horizon like a small cloud no bigger than a man's hand.

However, let's rewind to December 23rd...

I lay at the side of the road the "clonk" of my helmet's connection with the tarmac striking various chords along a theme of "lucky" in my noggin. The sprain of my wrist, the pull tag of my trouser pocket and my keys were all striking chords along a theme of "Ouch!" everywhere else. I achieved the vertical and took stock; everything worked, nothing graunched, no flashing lights, lost moments, dizziness or headache.

Cor!

I was on the way to Coz Buggins for Christmas on the newly-electrified bike, I had been distracted from the right-hander by a lane coming in from the left that I intended to return on, the assisted speed of the bike, being about double my normal pace, meant that I was on the bend before I knew it, touched the brakes, and  felt the rear wheel slide eel-like from underneath me on the leaf mould.

Having checked out myself, I checked the bike, both of us were intact, so I carried on, admiring the pallid blue of the bruise that formed where the tendons on my wrist had been overstretched.

Moving forward.

The headache did not respond very well to painkillers, however, stalwart that I am, I carried on.

On Sunday I was volunteering at Ashridge, post-shower my good knee, the left one had complained mildly, "How unusual." I thought. Halfway there my left leg started not to be able to keep up with my right, in other words my cadence was off, "How unusual." I thought. Arriving at Ashridge, I attempted to dismount and discovered that my left leg didn't seem to be there, "How unusual." I thought, getting up. I left early, falling into a muddy verge on the way home when I was forced to stop to let a car through, "Fucking typical!" I thought.

At this point I must have lost my presence of mind, because it was the next day after falling over while getting up, that I finally phoned for an ambulance via 111.

"It's four hours at the moment."

"Ok, is it Watford I'm going to?"

"Yes."

Reflection...

"Steve, can you take me to Hospital?"

And what a star he was, we arrived at three and he left at about nine, when my transport had been fixed.

Triage One A&E: 

"Probably a meniscus problem."

Note to self, do not lead with the graunch in the bath.

Triage Two Ambulatory Disorders:

"OK, a Doctor will see you shortly"

Steve and I both, "Shortly?"

"90 minutes?"

Triage Three Doctor Luke (Imperial - I forgive him):

Chorus, "We think Neuronal. We think he/I should have a CT scan."

"Alright then."

I am removed to a freezing basement and bundled into a machine, I am then put back onto a bed, this time removed from the demented lady screaming about being lost, but next to the drunk late-twenties bloke who has been done over outside the pub (after a couple of hours I come to believe that he has probably been done over by his mates - and quite right too).

Luke, "You've got a sub-dural haematoma, you're going to London."

"Where?"

"Queen's Square or Mary's"

"When?"

Slight evasion - "Tonight."

As we now have action, Steve departs to the bosom of his family after 5 hours in hospital, I am eternally grateful.

Nick and Tim hove to at the end of the bed with a trolley at about 11, an hour after done-over boy has discovered (loudly and profanely) that spicy chicken wings are not the best thing to order with a mouthful of exposed nerves. Forty minutes later we arrive at Queen's Square, Tim basking in the reflected glory of having set off three speed cameras in Camden.

I am transferred to a bed in the Bernard Sunley Ward, Bernard was a property developer in the fifties and later on, a philanthropist, when cousin-in-law Clive comes to visit later, we will have a round of speculation as to whether Bernard was assuaging guilt or the tax office. Someone arrives with a consent form to point out that if I die it's not their fault - regardless! 

Midnight, Michael in the bay next door starts into a round of night terrors.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hello Mr Hayes I'm just going to draw on your arm to make sure we go in the correct side."

"Hello Mr Hayes, you're second on the list, should be going in just before midday."

"Hello Mr Hayes, there's been an emergency, but you should be done today."

"Hello Mr Hayes, you used to teach here?"

"I ran the labs."

"That'll do, can I have some Medical Students examine you?"

"Hello Mr Hayes I'm Renee and this is Destiny. May we examine you?"

My second brush with Destiny in two days.

In my demi-moribundity my ego is massaged by two registrars who stick their heads round the corner of my bay and ask,

"Are you really seventy one?"

Cousin Deborah appears bearing gifts, Clive and bonhomie, later her sister Lydia will come. Lydia appears as promised, I have warned all I can think of that I'm being visited by a scary Consultant, after a few minutes she goes to the Nursing Station and talks to Hannah, one of the juniors, it is like watching a balloon deflate, her head sinks, her spine curves, the corners of her mouth invert, after this I never see her again.

"Still got it."

"Hi Nick, you're still on the list.

At 10 pm a trolley and anaesthetist appear, I ask them to make sure that I'm the only one asleep on the table.

I come to, to find a man pressing a mask over my face urging me to "Breathe in, it's oxygen." I consent. The next time I come to, I find myself in a barn of a room with several bays full of wall-racked machinery and a human-shaped pile of blankets in a corner. There are two small Chinese girls flitting round the place in blue fleeces, at least I think there were, it might have been one moving fast. I decide to absent myself for some moments, and am woken up by my blood pressure cuff inflating. This happens several times while I remain firmly convinced that this is all a swizz, and that I'm dreaming. After another inflation I decide that this is too stupid a detail to put in a dream and that perhaps I'm not dreaming. At 4am I arrive back on the Ward (or do I?).

The next morning I decide to give it a go, and am amazed to see my left leg ascend towards the ceiling as if nothing had happened, I even get a round of applause from the nurses. I'm wearing a very natty headpiece consisting of a tube and a bag, in  the bag there's two hundred cc's of brain fluid, and presumably all my memories from the previous ten hours. If I hold the bag over my head will I get them back? I decide that this should be a thought thought experiment - a Gedanken Gedankenexperiment if you will.

I can now eat which, up to a point, is a great relief, that point being lunchtime. 

The cousins return (causing the Nursing Station to mysteriously empty) and wax enthusiastic about my returned mobility, I wax enthusiastically back, demonstrating my dexterity by moving from the bed to the chair by the bed, muted applause all round.

Tonight Michael does not have night terrors, instead he is woken up passed midnight for a wash, this does not wake me up for the simple reason that Garry opposite has been whiling away the time before his transport arrives to take him to Watford General by watching footy on his phone with his overbed light on. The transport due at five pm arrives at two am and Garry is (eventually) carted away, his light however continues to shine (a beacon of outrage to the somnolent, particularly those opposite) until I manage to get Nurse Sunday to turn it off.

The next day Steve visits, Dean visits, and the nurses start to agitate for my release, I can stay another night if I want, but I feel I'd rather sleep. Eventually the junior surgeon appears, to remove the drain and staple my scalp back together. At this point I must have lost my presence of mind, for, as the poor man prepared his tools with a modicum of ill temper, I said light-heartedly,

"My cousin who is a Haematology Consultant says that you shouldn't discharge me without a full physio assessment including a stairs assessment." at this point I think my jokey we're-best-mates intonation must have been a bit off.

"Can you walk?" He snarled. I assented.

"Well then. Lie on your left side.

STINGING ANTISEPTIC!

SHARP SCRATCH!"

"whimper"

"STINGING ANTISEPTIC!"

Upholstery done, I was given an envelope with the wherewithal for destapling and a potted summary of "Your hospital life - so far!"

Steve and I headed out into the 5pm calm of a London Thursday. The Metropolitan Line broke down as we approached it meaning that we stood all the way to Amersham, not one seat was offered, despite my demi-startled haircut, stick and institutional pastiness such is the charity of the average Londoner. I began to regret that I'd wet-wiped away the hospital funk earlier in the day.

There now follows at least four weeks of doing nowt - tis dull.

Death and the Midden.

  "Ping". You would have thought that a death knell would have a little more umph, but no, not several tons of bronze being man-hauled by a bunch of  Dominicans, but no, "Ping" not even "Ping!". I retrieved the phone, "Bowel Cancer Screening Program. Following the results of your test a pre-investigation interview has been set up with you on Monday at..." There was a slight lurch as the others round the breakfast table lost focus for a bit. I was finishing a week in the Peaks with the Coniston crowd, having indulged in a novelty game of Pooh Sticks with the BCRS about 10 days ago, consequently none of the bumf  (apt huh?), had caught up with me. So no handy leaflets and emollient statistics, just, "You've got cancer, you're going to die!"

The leaflets did something to soothe my troubled breast, I had the pre-investigation interview, genial persuasion to allow a colonoscopy, and was booked in for the following Monday (less than 2 weeks, who'd a thunk it). The following week was not the best, I was still determined to die - though reluctantly. I stopped watching Talking Pictures TV afrighted by the constant adverts for Funeral Plans. I bought the recommended zinc oxide to protect my tender parts from the inevitable results of drinking two and a half litres of Polyethylene glycol the night before. I consulted those who had undergone the process, "Terrible, the worst thing ever!" and "pah!". I got up at 5.00 to drink my final dose, hoping for a particularly difficult "Wordle" for the next 45 minutes, and had a final chat with myself on the merits of cycling to the hospital, or, to be more accurate, the merits, indeed the possibility, of cycling back! A small discursion on comparative anatomy persuaded me to continue on the bike, it would after all, be a spectacular miss on their part.

Hemel Hempstead has 11 rooms dedicated to colonoscopy for the BCSP, which I thought staggering, but then rationalised "money saved now vs money spent later". After donning my paper pants complete with rear entrance, I tried to chat to the gent in the next bed but he was too terrified, that put things in perspective! I was wheeled in to meet Scott Vigor - colonoscope-wielder extraordinaire and his team of two nurses, Gen and Aisha. 

"Do you want to watch?" Well, why not, I was always a fan of "Fantastic Voyage", though I doubted we'd find Raquel Welch up there, and hopefully not Donald Pleasance.

Let's begin:

Entonox 50% to get round the first bend, after that plain-sailing, that's blokes for you.

A series of black discs on the roof led me to despondency, I was dead, or colostomized.

"Got a few diverticulii there."

Aha, shadows, not dead yet, just moving past my gut sell-by date.

"There's a polyp, we'll get that and any others on the way back. There's another one, bit of a tiddler, we'll have that."

The polyp is lassooed, cut and sucked away down the tube. Cripes! But wait, there's more. The first polyp is big, 12mm, 

"That's not going to fit down the tube, we'll use the net..."

?

"and diathermy"

!!

A patch is slapped on my arse - the earth. A purple dye is injected into the base of the polyp to provide insulation and a marker, and then... and then, like a Mali fisherman casting from his dugout a net appears enveloping the polyp.

"Cutting now - that's it."

Gen disappears from my periphery, legging it across the room, at first puzzled, I realise that she is retrieving the net from however far up the bowel it is! Within seconds she is waving a specimen jar in front of me with glee,

"Here it is!"

I am wheeled back to the pre-op, where I am fed cake and squash and have my superfluous venflon removed. When I don't die, leak or vomit copious amounts of blood, I am released, I got to Iceland and buy Liquorice Flyers to celebrate. 

The pathology comes in the next day - benign. I will have another colonoscopy in 3 years and, if negative will be (appropriately) discharged.

It was the best daytime tv I've seen for ages.

A day in the life of a litter picker.

 

A man is standing in his garden, the summer breeze riffles his grizzled locks like a friendly grandfather, the zephyr slips round the hairs on his manly thews and exposed chest. Who is it? It is me, the Captain, starting the day with a breakfast peach in the garden, there are several reasons for this: I like peaches; it enables me to discern the temperature and pollen count; it avoids dribbling peach juice on the carpet or my shirt. I then retrieve the bike from the shed, strap on the grabber (the litter picker’s friend, an extension to the arm that avoids bending and the direct handling of festering rubbish, both of which are essential to the picker of a certain age) making sure it doesn’t grab anything important or compromise the steering, then I hit the road and start up the hill to Potten End.

Aha, the Pinot Grigio dumper has been back, there are now seven empty wine bottles scattered along the verge, now with the added bonus of a broken Vladivar bottle, why remains a mystery, teenagers on the raz, overflowing bins … SHAME? Who knows? Still this gives me a chance to hone my litter-spotting skills.

As I cross the golf course, I stop to pull some Himalayan Balsam, trying to ignore the half-acre I know is hiding just over the bank, and also trying to ignore the nettles that have discovered I’m wearing shorts. As I return to the bike, brambles wrap me in their spiky embrace like lovers spurned. Then, cross-country to Coldharbour, followed by Lady’s Ride, I pull up to the gate to check the Old Dairy field for deer, none, flippin’ wild animals never about when you want to see them!

There then follows a quick wheeze up Monument Drive, to strap the bike to the bike stand and a pop into the office to demonstrate my presence, and to check the “out-of-date" box for goodies, becoming mildly depressed when it reveals a welter of fruit jellies and nothing else. I then head purposefully out to the start of my run along Duncombe Terrace, I say purposefully, I actually head over to the PMV (Personal Mobility Vehicles) guys so that they can take the Michael out of my hi-viz, grabber, and monster plastic bag ensemble, then I head purposefully out.

Behind the gate there is a baby wipe, then another... and another, consulting my inner Sherlock and disdaining the prospect of examining said wipes in detail, I plump for: the devastation caused by exposing small children to ice cream! This is reinforced by the fact that the baby wipes stop after 500 metres, where they are replaced by tissues, as used and discarded by serious walkers. Tissues that give me time for introspection, two years ago at this time, I was in the Dolomites, battling my way up a black dotted path (those of you familiar with Alpine maps will know what this means, for those of you not familiar it’s a path that, if you fall forward onto, there may be a slight abrasion of the nose, backwards, and there may be a slight abrasion to the path, when you hit it - on the bounces), there, at every turn there is a tissue discarded by the “serious walkers”, personally I use a handkerchief and pockets.

I continue, more tissues, a banana skin, some cigarette butts. But, behind the “Observe-a-tree" bench there is a cornucopia of filth: first a tangerine skin (Pink Floyd – St Tropez pings unrequested into noggin*), tissues, a coffee cup and finally a plastic bag. Eyes glassy with fulfilment I continue: a packet of cigarette papers – empty, a packet of cigarette papers with the corner torn off (Ping! PF- Grantchester Meadows**), the front of a bicycle light, a bank card (is there anything I need from Amazon?), two Red Bull cans. There are, of course, the inevitable dog poo bags, this is new psychology, a bloody annoying meme. “I’ll pick it up, but then I can’t be bothered to do anything else so I’ll hide it. No, even better, I’ll hang it from this tree so people will see how responsible I’ve been!”

Then the breeze sends me a signal, I am within nose-shot of the septic tank at Clipperdown, my turn round point. On the return I head off–piste, disappearing into Hazel Copse to admire the clandestine off-road MTB track, and returning through the gorse to emerge near the Observe-a-tree again. I then head back to the Visitor Centre via the backs of trees (always good for tissues – I never study these closely, and always hope for a decent amount of rain the day before I pick) and climb the tumulus at Moneybury Hill, on the top I find – nothing(!), perhaps a respect for the dead, or more likely respect for the brambles? Ancient burial sites have always fascinated me, I find I always seem to lose a piece of myself there, this time a piece of my calf.

Back at the Visitor Centre I dump the bag, wash the gear, sanitise myself – liberally, and head back to the bikestand...

”You know you told us to tell you if we found any rubbish?”

I gurn assent.

“Well we’ve found a lot, a hundred yards down there by the meadow.”

“Umm, thanks, that’s not actually my pat... I’ll sort it!”

Emma gives me a new bag. I find a fish and chip supper with extra chips, 14” pizza box, plates for 6, spoons, napkins, and tomato ketchup – 2 pots, plus assorted detritus.

Back at the Visitor Centre I dump the bag, wash the gear, sanitise myself – liberally, and head back to the bikestand.

On the way back, I pass the apple tree in the back garden of Woodyard Cottage, I contemplate my grabber and wonder if there’s a way in.

 

*

“As I reach for a peach,

Slide a rind down behind,

The sofa in St Tropez.”

 

**

Nothing specific just being stoned in the countryside.

Vertically challenged.

There is a soundtrack that accompanies ageing, the first one you probably notice is the orgasmic yelp accompanying any sort rising from a low position, ascent rather than assent. Then there are brief bouts of tinnitus, where you stop your ears to check if it's the radio - or a mosquito - disappointingly it isn't, though in the case of the mosquito this could be a good thing. Later your joints pop, growl and crackle like breakfast cereal, small explosions accompany the mundane, the click of a wrist when picking up a cup, tennis -watching can be metronomic. Later arthritis lends its peculiar sticking agony to the mix.
So then, imagine my horror as I went upstairs accompanied by a new sound, a graunchy rattling every time I raised my right leg. The sort of noise that suggests the frayed ends of gristle going through some sort of mincer, a cthonic resonance of pending catastrophic failure, should I turn round and descend to make it easier for the ambulance crew? First things first, let's investigate.
Which leg?
Right.
Put hand in pocket, hold change and keys, raise leg.
Rocks fall distantly in a cave, possibly into a Deep, Dark pool.
Get to a flat area to reduce the distance of gravity-induced travel should the worst happen. WHAT'S THE WORST? I dunno knee-cap going for a meander, joints misaligning like a five year old's Meccano, detached h... SHUT UP!
Take off trousers to avoid any pocket-induced noise, raise leg.
Concorde reaches Mach1 about 15 miles away.
Unsettled, my balance shifts.
Death plays boney dice with the Devil for the souls of the damne...
Wait a minute. The heel of my shoe has worn through, it is hollow, inside there is a pebble, that rattles in a synovially-challenged way as I walk.
I laugh, and, as I sink to the bed in relief my neck creaks!

Courting trouble

Today is International Women's Day (IWD, only a v away from a contraceptive device, what irony? I was going to go on about patriarchal imposition and phallocentric  irresponsibility, but I thought better of it).
What better way to celebrate IWD than by making a lemon meringue pie?
"Wha...?" I hear you expostulate, let me explain:-

Lemon meringue pie (LMP) was one of my favourites when I was little, well, smaller, the best LMP was made by my mother's Auntie May (whose recipe I appear to have lost), and it would be this recipe that Mum would use. She detested making LMP as it takes time, patience ... and luck, and would then inevitably be declared as "Not as good as Auntie May's", so why did she bother? Because she loved me, and would selflessly grate, squeeze, shell, whip and stir to deliver the goods (and cos it was a lot nicer than Steve's favourite Queen of Puddings".

So then, I celebrate IWD with LMP to remind me of the selflessness of my mother,  a woman, and to get rid of the inordinate amount of lemons I got on the market the other day.

Domestic blis(ters)

A grey-haired man is standing in the garden next to a green bin, a pair of secateurs is grasped in his tanned, muscular hand, and with them he is calmly shredding the shrubbery that he has so far removed into 4" (10cm) lengths, so as not to fill the green bin too quickly. Occasionally a look of concern will eclipse his ruggedly masculine features as he contemplates whether it is the shrubbery that is actually holding the fence up.
The unnatural February sun is warm on his hands as they ply the secateurs, the rueful smile that plays across his lips as he encounters a particularly reluctant twig is prompted by the knowledge that the arthritis in his hands is going to play merry hell, unnatural sun or no. Smaller twigs he leaves on the ground as a boon to nesting birds (expect new posting soon, called "Bloody Birds").
Soon it will be time to go in and press his tofu, but for the moment he passes an hour in sylvan slicing, while trying to incorporate "O tempura, o mores" into something about Japanese health professionals. Later he will discover that "o mores" has nothing to do with death and will therefore give up the idea.

God's in his heaven ...

Yesterday, I decided to go on a hunt for yet more bluebells; bluebells, those merry harbingers of Spring, though actually the native bluebell is a bit more dispirited than its Iberian cousin, that's one of the ways you tell them apart - Spanish, perky - English, droopy (there's some sort of metaphor here).
Anyway, it was lunchtime, or in retirement parlance, just after breakfast, so the forest was deserted apart from me and about twenty deer, as I pedalled along in the sunshine the coconutty smell of gorse wafted over me, causing great angst. Why? Let me pontificate.
Surely in colonial or maritime circles the coconut was discovered by said settlers or shipmen familiar with the smell of gorse, so why isn't it the  gorsey smell of the coconut?
Over the past three days the oak had produced new leaf, so that the bare trees of Thursday were now covered in brilliant lime green (Goddamit, there's another one, surely it should be new oak green) foliage. Thus buoyed by the sun, the trees, the turning wheel of the seasons, and the azure undergrowth, I continued on my way, only stopping to berate some children intent on making a foray off-piste, irrevocably damaging my droopy blue friends. Yes, I was happy!