Jumbled aLl up fEelinG

In general I’m a person of habit and routine to some degree but also flexible, but I didn’t realise how fragile my usual habits are, how easily things are disrupted and how difficult it can be to get back into the familiar.  I cannot exactly blame anything (like Wimbledon, the weather or such) it all comes down to my own will power, which has been on the wane for sometime.  

My haphazard sleeping has become more erratic, might be because I have not been reading or because I’m too hot or because I am not sufficiently mentally and physically tired; I’m unenthused at meal times, which might be because I’m tired of my often used recipes; I’m not fussed about staying in or going out, whether there are chores or errands to be done or not;  I have almost finished the current crochet project, but it’s been a concerted effort.

I am not really sure how to go about un-diss-ing my combobulation. 

Even this blog post, I started it Friday but cannot get into my creative flow.  *sigh*

Right, it is no good, I just have to, even if the outcome is not a solution, no point procrastinating any further. It’s got to be done. 

 

Jane Eyre Tour

It is a reasonably well known tale, orphaned child reluctantly brought up in disdain by Aunt, sent off to an ‘educational institution’ at the age on ten. Many years later the child as an adult is a teacher in the same institution, working for bed and board, wishing for something better. She secures a post of Governess at an isolated mansion for a child, where Jane for the first time has freedom, warmth from friendship, and a sense of inner contentment. When the master returns from his travels, his aggressive demeanour, their differing stations in life, her straightforwardness, fuel a tender passion. But there is a heavy secret, locked in the attic is his mad first wife. When Jane discovers the truth she runs away from the lies and the liars as well as trying to distance herself from the distress and disappointment, however something draws her back, and when she returns she finds the mansion in ruins and Mr Rochester blinded from injuries. 

Both my sister and I had seen several adaptations of this classic Charlotte Brontë story.  As this was a National Theatre production we knew it was not going to be the traditional theatrical setting, however as we took our seats the stage was set with what looked like a grown-up sized childs playground climbing frame. Slowly the auditorium began to fill but with just five minutes before curtain up, there were still more than half the seats vacant. The complete cast of 12 took up their starting positions.  Whilst the dialogue, accents and costume stayed close to the original story, the staging was contemporary and sometimes difficult to properly grasp its concept and symbolism. The introjection of music and singing sometimes felt disconnected. By the third act seeing the quiet cast move and climb up and down the various ladders and stairs without seemingly purpose, became rather annoying and children climbing in the playground.

This in no way means the performance was bad. The actors did a brilliant job of portraying the various characters, and by far the most enjoyable was a bearded gentleman who played the part of Pilot the dog, who often raised a mild laughter from the audience with his instantly recognisable dog like antics. The actor portraying the arrogant Mr Rochester brought with it a sense of distraction, of brooding resentment of how his life had been mapped out for him by his father without making him evil or wicked.

For us the thing missing from the production was the sense of a sinister secret. In everything we have seen or read there was always a sense of foreboding, of Jane being told not to go into the attic, of sounds and happenings that indicate all is not right. There was absolutely none of this at all throughout the whole performance, only twice was manic laughter heard. For us it was a significant element that was missing.

With a mixture of live music and recorded sound effects these had a tendency to drown out the dialogue of the actors, and on occasion I felt I had missed a vital piece of information that carried an element of the story. This is not unique to this production but something I have experienced at other performances at this Theatre.

 

Game, Set & Housin Duck

It’s taken me two weeks to manage a whole two rows of crochet, and that only happened because of rain delay.  Yes, I am a fan of grass court tennis, Wimbledon especially, with all the various court coverage on the red button, I’ve been quite spoilt. Eight hours a day of no fake or over exaggerated news, no ridiculous dramas, no pathetic storylines, no repeated repeat repeated.  Watching the delight of Henri LeConte in the Senior Invitation Doubles; the heckling audience member pulled out by Kim Clijsters, put in a white skirt and shirt to comply with the dress code and face a couple of her smashing serves; the serious tension of the tie break fifth setters; the speed and reflexes of the doubles matches.  Having a guess at the Hawkeyes challenges, with my best comment ever “Out? That’s so far out its in a cab on its way home!”. The delayed meals as I avidly watch the next point, that Nadal/Muller game resulted in a late night sandwich. It has been wonderful, restful, occupying and different.

What am I going to do now?

Needless to say nothing on my various to-do lists has gotten done, except great-niece’s birthday present ordered, delivered and in hiding (sand/water play table). 

For all those football fanatics who are bemoaning the tennis interrupting schedules – now you know how the rest of us feel when that poxy game dictates schedules for endless weeks and weeks and months!!

 Right then, my last strawberry yoghurt awaits.  Just fifty-weeks to wait, well there is Queens before that and Roland Garos before that.

 

The Great Greenwich Expedition

Drafty and drizzly began the day as we boarded our first train heading to the city passing stranded commuters held up by a traffic incident. Our second train a lot more comfortable, the disabled seating is in first class.  We’d just about left the county before we started on our sausage sandwiches.  Big Sis grabbed a copy of the complimentary local paper for its taxing cryptic crossword and once coffee had been purchased we taxed our brains (more like she exercised hers and I confused mine) only one clue not answered.  Being engrossed we hadn’t noticed the time, our train was speed restricted due to animals on the line earlier, instead of arriving at 10.20 it was 10.45. Hey ho.

Map in hand we three stepped forth to Tower Wharf to catch the river taxi to Greenwich. What an easy, slick, comfy operation! We were listening to a guide inform a group. That’s the downside of independent travel, you don’t discover the tidbits of anecdotes. Seamlessly we were there and before us was the vessel floating on her glass ocean. Prior to coming people had remarked how small the ship seemed, but not so to me. We found our way in and the lift down to the cafe beneath the keel. Hmm, first disappointment of the day, the selection was very limited and rather artisan not to mention a little over priced.  Still it was quite something sitting beneath the copper/zinc coated keel, it was fascinating seeing the shaping and riveting, the rudder was hardly very wide at all, and the prow seemed square not really shaped to cut through the water.  There was an impressive collection of figureheads, on show, such fun colourful characters.

Up a level and into the hold, reading various aspects like the crew numbers, miles travelled, how the tea crates were packed, life at the time and the importance of trade.  Think Tetris on a grand scale.  Did you know she transported more than tea?  The tween deck spacious and informative with artefacts from her glory days and the history of her owner.  Up on deck the livestock was housed, as well as the galley, crew bunks, carpenters workshop, bosun’s, officers and captains quarters, there is even a head! Peering in at the wooden crew bunks they looked a bit more spacious than the tallships I’ve sailed!  The deck was a lot wider and more spacious than expected although one or two of the ropes coiled and fastened to their pegs would not have passed our Bosun’s inspections.  Accessibility was very good, with only the quarter decks inaccessible and I didn’t notice the visual alternatives. It was pleasingly atmospheric being surrounded by the wood, teak and rope, the brain managed to recall names of various elements of rigging, sails and infrastructure. Woohoo!

We moved on to the Royal Maritime Museum, we perused the extensive collection of Nelson related items, the Jutland exhibition, the Royal Barge (the jubilee barge Gloriana was based on her) used my one of the George’s, which had another barge following along the Thames bringing the orchestra who played Handle’s Water Music on loop (18th century iPod, lol), the Miss Britain III speed record vessel. A section about the yachts in the America’s Cup race.  I must admit I find these types of museums detached and a little dis interesting.  I was surprised there was practically nothing about knots and rope work, nothing on how sailing works, how is harnesses the wind and makes it move, what a rudder does. 

We ambled our way back to the gastro pub practically beneath the Cutty’s stern, the Gipsy Moth for dinner, two thick slices of ham off the bone, two mighty fried eggs and triple cooked chips. Drool worthy and the comfortable ambience, pleasant staff and surroundings most welcome.  Before long we were back aboard the water taxi, zooming up river to Tower (at least our stops were pretty noticeable) and meandering back to the station.  Giggle of the day? The staff disabled loo at the train station, parked on the throne taking care of business I looked to my right for the signs of loo paper, none there, maybe behind me standing atop the cistern, nope. I glanced across my wheelchair beside the loo and there level with the wheel was the circular container. No chance of reaching it!

On the return journey Big Sis and I attempted the other cryptic crossword in the paper. How did we fair, erm, well, our words fitted the clues and the space but were wrong.

Collapsed into bed 10.45pm, ready to be flat and still.

 

Catching up with cosiness

Well, things have moved on a pace with “Operation Cosy Cats” my plan to create a number of 12×18 inch (ish) selection of blankets for the homeless kitties. I am working on number four and must say rather enjoying my afternoons of quiz shows and crochet. Some have been done with two strands of double-knit yarn together and they grow quickly, where as the single strand ones, while more compact make for slower progress. Needless to say I have sourced several other patterns to try. I am pleased with the outcome and could have quite a number completed by Christmas, although the recent heatwave made stitching awkward as sweaty hands are not good for the yarn, so I had to take a few days off (did pattern research instead).

As for other ‘to-do’ things, hmmm, well, I guess it’s time to write the list and try my best. So deadline end of August this year.

• Complete two more blankets
• Unravel troll hat hair
• Declutter & sort all three desk draws
• Source office chair suppliers, arrange in-home test
• Buy new microwave
• Source new fridge

As some might have read from previous post, I need to sort a chair so I can work at my desk properly. I like working at my desk and have a number of jobs, projects that need concerted spans of attention.  I don’t know what the solution will be, I cannot use a laptop because of how I type. There has to be an answer.

Grand day out next week, we’re off to Greenwich. Looking forward to the river taxi and exploring the Cutty Sark. I’ll be in all kinds of shattered for a couple of days after, hopefully there will be a couple of photo ops and I’ll blog sometime after.

Back to it….. Tennis to entertain today as I stitch along.

 

FSH awareness – Oh I am so aware

Today is #WorldFSHDay …. I am one of the 2,000+ that has this condition. It dictates everything everyday and every night. There is no treatment, no management and no cure. Also there is little support, understanding or assistance from the people and organisations designed to do otherwise. It’s not photogenic, it’s not compassionate, it’s not escapable.

I pull no punches.  There is nothing remotely comfortable about the constant struggle to just exist.

Since it’s noticeable onset when I was 4 FSH has slowly robbed me of all my achievements, my purpose, my abilities and my pleasures. I can no longer work, drive, or play piano; be spontaneous, be independent, be principal in choices. Things I can do have a strict time limit otherwise there are consequences of energy and strength.  I can only go anywhere, do anything I want, if and when someone else is available.

What are you wearing today? Did you choose it? All my clothes are dictated by FSH, right the way down to my panties and bra. I never choose something because I like it.  Let’s move on to food, what made you decide on your lunch today? Something tasty? Did your decision depend on whether you can lift it to your mouth, or whether you can easily swallow it after chewing, mine did. 

Spend a moment considering this, try making a cuppa without bending your knees, hips, back, standing on tip toes, without reaching higher than your shoulders, using only your thumb and first finger to hold anything. That is the level of concentration and unsteadiness I live everyday, doing everything, anything.

A bad day is when it takes 3-4 attempts to get stood up from the three only places in the world I can (my bed, my toilet and my sofa spot), a struggle is when it takes 5-8 attempts, if it takes more than 8 don’t ask. My reward for the effort? To do it all over again and again and again, after all how many times a day do you stand from sitting?

It is a one way street, once a muscle set degenerates, there is no recovering it, it’s set to get worse. Tomorrow could be the day my muscles no longer support me, the next day could be the day I experience breathing difficulties, the day after that could be the day that……..you don’t want to know. Then again it could be next week, month, year, just one day.

Right now I am having to figure a solution about my desk. I cannot get up from the chair, but I do not know whether I can use a chair that rises. I have to find a local company that has such a chair that they can bring to my abode for me to try insitu. Then I have to decide whether it is worth the £3,500 ($4,500) expenditure, (plus service and maintenance costs).  Did you notice that paragraph said ‘I’? That’s because my needs cannot be met by the standard, limited catalogue of equipment available via my Occupational Health team.

Hey ho, must go, I need a pee and to make the journey productive I’ll put my mug and plate on the chair I use as a frame and hopefully get them as far as the kitchen.

Ain’t life fun!

 

The Play That Goes Wrong

The Comley Polytechnic Am Dram group ‘attempt’ to stage the acclaimed murder mystery, the leaders directorial debut (pronounced day-boo) “The Murder At Haversham Manor” set in the 1920’s. They are excited to bring this to the stage as  their limited cast and tight budgets have somewhat hampered their past productions of James And The Peach, Snow White and a few Tall Broad Fellows, and Cat.  However not everything goes to script!

The fun starts before the start, as the auditorium is filling the stage hands are asking if anyone has seen a dog, a springer spaniel with brown ears called Winston. On stage there is a door that won’t stay closed, every time someone closes, slams it, pushes and holds it closed, it slowly opens, of course at the start of the first act it sticks resolutely shut. The mantle shelf keeps falling down and an audience member is enlisted to hold it while a stagehand gets enthusiastic with sticky tape.

From beginning to end there are numerous mishaps of physical, verbal, set and props. But stoically the play must go on. The split second timing of stunts and interaction is incredible. The whole audience were in fits and waves of laughter throughout, I am sure we drowned out the Take That gig at the football stadium. The dexterity of positioning, the glamorous fiancé of the murdered Lord, the flamboyant over acting of the lord’s Brother in Law, the faithful butler who had the difficult words written on his hand or cuff which he mispronounced (morose, as mo-rose, cyanide as Ki-an-idd, philanthropist as Philand-rope etc). The slap stick antics of trying to move the corpse onto the stretcher, or when trying haul the unconscious fiancé through the window makes you wonder why they are not covered to bruises or marks because dumbies are not used in place. 

Valiantly battling on as the stage collapses around them, we reach the denouement, the Police Inspector did it.

This absolutely is the most hilarious entertainment I’ve ever seen. I’d go again, tonight, to see it and strongly recommend you do too. To this, or any other Mischief Comedy productions, Peter Pan Goes Wrong and The Bank Robbery That Goes Wrong.  But take hankies, or a hand towel, you will be crying with laughter!