Heading In The Right Direction

I slept really well on Tuesday night which was a pleasant and most welcome surprise. It wasn’t Storm Sunak, or whatever the Met office had labelled the latest bout of windy weather to hit our shores, that threatened to keep me awake, it was the prospect of seeing the fragrant Dr Westwell early on Wednesday morning to learn the results of my latest MRI brain scan. Normally that means a restless if not sleepless night, with full-on scanxiety, but this time I slept like a baby.

 

Luckily ours was the first appointment, so we didn’t have long to wait. The usual pleasantries, then down to business. I wasn’t surprised to hear that, despite eight days having elapsed since my scan, the radiologist hadn’t produced his report, but Dr Westwell had the “before and after” images up on her screen and pointed at the grey shadow on the left side of my brain. She reminded me she was no radiologist, but I know she’s seen more of these things than I’ve had hot dinners, and she advised that in her professional opinion the oedema that had been seen on the previous scan around the tumour had dissipated, but moreover the tumour itself had ever so slightly reduced in size and had taken on a different triangular shape which in her opinion was an indicator it could be shrinking and that we were “heading in the right direction” particularly as there was no evidence of any new tumours. This was good news, we both agreed, although there is still my next CT/PET body scan, which will be booked for early Feb, to check on the progress of the tumour in my lung which had also shown signs of increased size and activity on the last scan. All in all though, it could have been much worse.

 

Talking of heading in the right direction, and now that I know that I’ll hopefully be clear of any drastic developments or unforeseen medical treatments at least for the next month or so, I would like to take this opportunity to crave your kind indulgence. Again.

 

As part of my fitness regime I’m trying to walk and exercise as much as possible, and I’ve come across an opportunity to put all that pavement pounding to good use, not just for my own personal wellbeing but for others too. The charity Cancer Research UK have set up something called “Walk 100” and I’ve signed up for it. Basically I need to walk 100 miles in the month of February and hopefully attract some sponsorship. I thought of doing it all in one go, maybe by walking to Luton which is apparently 100 miles from our house, but that would involve walking along the hard shoulder of the M23/M25/M1 and anyway I’ve been to Luton before and it’s a s***hole. What I plan to do instead is try to cover the 100 miles in 28 days, starting this Monday 29^th January and finishing on 26^th February. I’ve downloaded the “Strava” app so that my progress can be monitored on Facebook, although I’m struggling with that at the moment and could rather do with a geek or IT-literate teenager to help set it up and link it properly.

 

And where you come in, dear reader, is my request that you consider sponsoring me – not for much, at just 10p a mile. Not too much to ask, I hope you’ll agree; it’ll only cost you an Ayrton, a tenner, ten English Pounds, or Euros, or Dollars, whichever you prefer and I’ve set up a Just Giving page for donations:

 

https://fundraise.cancerresearchuk.org/page/williams-giving-page-638

 

They call me “William” on the webpage for some reason, but it is me and I’d be really grateful if you could help me with this really important cause. As you probably know, one in two of us will develop some form or cancer during their lifetime, and every little helps.

 

Many thanks in advance, and maybe I’ll see some of you on Brighton seafront when I’m clocking up the miles.

Postman Prat

Back when I was a lad, you didn’t dare take a day off school, unless you were proper poorly and had a note from you mum. If you did bump off there was a very good chance your parents would get a visit from the schools’ inspector, which would then result in a clip around the ear and no pocket money that week.

 

Nowadays however, there seems to be a much more relaxed attitude as far as school attendance is concerned. It’s no surprise really, seeing as the schools were all closed down for months on end following the outbreak of a flu-like virus that was of no harm to the kids whatsoever, just a half a centimetre of snow is perceived as a risk to life which also results in school closures, and the lefty lazy teachers are forever on strike or on training days or attending a diversity and inclusivity seminar.

 

Little wonder then that it’s almost accepted that a kid will have the day off lessons if their birthday happens to fall on a school day. A real treat – sitting around in your pyjamas all day, eating chocolate and playing Minecraft on your Xbox (whatever that means).

 

Sadly I didn’t have the chance to sit around in my jim-jams on Tuesday, much as I would like to have done, despite the fact it was my birthday. I guess reaching the ripe old age of 68 isn’t much of a cause for celebration anyway, but maybe it is in my case as I was 59 when That Bloody Doctor told me I shouldn’t bother buying any green bananas. So it was a good chance to give her the proverbial two-fingers if nothing else.

 

In the past we’ve been lucky enough to get away to some wonderful destinations on my birthday, Vietnam and Las Vegas spring to mind as particular favourites, but this year I spent it somewhere much less exotic. Haywards Heath to be precise. The reason being, the NHS finally got around to giving me a date for my urgent brain MRI scan and it was for this Tuesday, and typically despite there being a brand new “state of the art” multi £Billion NHS hospital just 300m from our home, the MRI scanners there are broken, so the Blonde had to drive me to the Princess Royal Hospital in Haywards Heath. The scanning there is operated and managed by a private sub-contracted company called Alliance Medical. No surprise therefore that I was seen bang on time, the whole procedure ran like clockwork, efficiently, courteously and professionally, and I was in and out within an hour. Just goes to show how effective private enterprise can be and what a shitshow some branches of our public services have become.

 

So, thanks to the lovely girls at Haywards Heath, we were back in good time for a couple of pints in the Thomas Kemp and a delicious Ruby Murray (Chicken Jalfezi, Vindaloo hot) served by my good mate Naz at Pavel Restaurant, so a very good day after all.

 

Then it was back home to open my birthday cards, both of them. Yes, just the two, hand-delivered and pushed through our letter box by neighbours. Yet again Postman Prat hasn’t bothered to deliver any post to us for well over a week, so if you were kind enough to send a card, thank you, maybe it’ll turn up one day soon. Here’s a thought, perhaps Alliance Medical could look at taking over operations at the Royal mail, and education too, while they’re at it.

The Dreaded Man Flu

The promised MRI brain scan for the beginning of this month didn’t happen, and is now booked for next Tuesday 16^th, so we thought we’d take the opportunity to avail ourselves of a week or so of winter sun in Portugal. Where better to escape the freezing temperatures in the UK, play a bit of golf and enjoy the out of season peace and quiet on the Algarve.

Well, that was the plan anyway. We are indeed in Portugal, until Sunday, but I’m writing you this missive from my sickbed. I was convinced, after over eight years of immunotherapy treatment, which as the name suggests boosts your body’s immune system to fight disease, that I’d once again ward off all the winter bugs that are going around, but unfortunately I have finally succumbed to the common cold. Not just any old common cold either, this is full on man flu. Yep, the full works – blocked nose, sneezing, chesty cough, the lot.

Luckily of course the Blonde is here with me and has been administering various remedies along with copious amounts of chicken soup. She’s got the lurgy as well, caught it off me, but obviously it’s nothing like as bad as mine as it’s been scientifically proven many times over (as attached for example – https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/man-flu-really-thing-2018010413033) that blokes suffer much worse from this type of ailment than the fairer sex. Don’t talk to me about childbirth or period pain – nothing compares to the trauma us fellas go through when we’ve got a dose of the sniffles.

A dear friend kindly surrendered the supply of Lemsips that she’d brought over from the UK and the Blonde managed to obtain Paracetamol and Portuguese cough mixture from a local pharmacy.  The bottle rather confusingly says “Tosse Seca” on the label – I know that seca means dry in English, the tosse bit was a bit worrying though. Hopefully that means “cough”, or something was lost in translation when explaining to the lovely girl at the pharmacy counter the precise nature of my symptoms. Whatever it is, it seems to be helping.

I’m being very brave though. Fortunately our satellite TV system here includes many English language programmes so I’ve been able wrap myself up in a duvet on the sofa, sip the aforementioned chicken soup and binge on back-to-back editions of A Place In The Sun, Bargain Loving Brits In The Sun, and a new one on me – Escape To The Country. Bloody brilliant it is, but more of that later.

Anyway, never fear, with the special treatment and round-the-clock TLC I’m receiving, I’m sure that like Phoenix rising from the ashes I’ll be fully recovered by the time next Tuesday comes around and I won’t be coughing and spluttering all over the radiographer when she clamps my head into that infernal MRI machine. I’ll let you know next week how that goes, but in the meantime I think I’ll ask the Blonde to pour me a shot or two of brandy, purely for medicinal purposes you understand.

Rishi Sunak’s Trousers

I would like to have told you about my latest MRI brain scan this week, but sadly it never happened, despite earlier promises. I do have a confirmed booking now though, for the 16^th. It’s all about timing I guess. We should learn the results when we see Dr Westwell on 24^th, which will be a real red-letter day.

So, instead of that I’d like to refer you back to a posting I made in July regarding my own personal Room 101, and my invitation for other suggestions. With nothing on the health front to report this week it’s a good opportunity to reveal the top ten replies in no particular order. I’d like to stress that these are not necessarily my views, although I certainly agree with most.

1. Speakerphones. Yes, those people that have their phones on loudspeaker when making a call in a public place. I really don’t care what you had for breakfast or what Barbara said to Colin when she found out he’d been cheating on her. Same goes for kids with iPads – if you can afford to buy your toddler a tablet make sure you get the kid some bloody headphones too.
2. Rishi Sunak’s trousers. I’ve been tall for my height ever since my early teens and struggled to find trousers long enough. It’s not acceptable for a five-foot short arse like Rishi to have trousers that finish halfway up his calf, especially with his money.
3. Millwall FC. Well not so much the team, but their fans. Just because you are decked out in Stone Island, drink Stella and swear a lot doesn’t make you hard.
4. Dustmen. Turn up whenever they like, drop half the contents of your bin on the floor, make a racket, on strike every other week, hit parked cars. Only scaffolders come close in terms of annoyance, arrogance and nuisance.
5. Can I get. Certainly one of my favourites. You’re not American, you were born and raised in Crawley. When you order a coffee or a beer don’t use the phrase “can I get.” It sounds awful, it’s grammatically criminal and makes my blood boil.
6. Electric scooters. Wear a helmet, get insurance and keep off the pavement if you insist on adopting one of these pathetic little machines as your preferred mode of transport.
7. Flip flops. Think I mentioned this before. Totally unacceptable on grown men. Same goes for bushy ginger beards and top knots. You look like a knob.
8. Balsamic vinegar. Don’t really get this one but a couple of people have strong views on this particular condiment. Very partial to it myself.
9. Rolls of cellophane. So bloody annoying. You can never find the end, it rips when you don’t want it to and sticks to everything apart from the food you intend to wrap. Dreadful stuff.
10. Adverts on TV. Fine if you have the IQ of a cheese sandwich and don’t mind the fact that in the world of commercials there’s no such thing as a white middle-aged heterosexual couple.

There were many others, this was just a selection. But there is a last-minute contender to add. Junior doctors, or striking junior doctors to be precise. How dare you go out on strike when the NHS is already so deep in the mire and seven million people are on a waiting list. Your demand for a 35% increase is ridiculous and clearly just a ploy to bring down our pathetic government who certainly don’t need any help with their own self destruction. You knew what you were taking on when you chose your profession and pledged the Hippocratic Oath which you are now ignoring. It’s like an apprenticeship, you start low and if you are worth your salt you’ll eventually earn big bucks as a consultant. I hope you don’t have elderly relatives dying on a trolley or seriously ill small children missing out on emergency medical treatment due to your selfish behaviour, although if you do it would serve you right.