Question Asked Isn’t The Question

I was reminded today about incidents where you have to physically stop your sarcasm and sassy-ness coming out of your mouth.

Many life times ago I worked as a Secretary/Admin/Accounts/Cashier type person at a tourist attraction set in a country park on a Baronial estate, somewhere that had hundreds of years of history and secrecy. The thing about Joe Public on his holibobs is you have to be in semi-holiday mode too, rather than stressed, over tired, is it home time yet mode. Despite the attention given to signage, literature and such, you are constantly asked what sound like obvious questions. Often the question asked isn’t really using the correct words to get the correct answer. For example “can I go out?” what the person is really asking is “If I go out to my car, will you let me back in again without repaying?”

Over time, after the hundredth ask, brain goes into sarcasm mode and you find yourself glazing over as the answer you really really shouldn’t say out loud comes to the forefront. Here are a few common questions and the wrong tired answers…..

Do we have to pay? No, I work for free and the animals don't eat.

is this where we come in? No, it's my front room and you're disturbing my siesta.

What's here? (There's a 20 foot information board beside them) ohh nothing, absolutely nothing.

Do I park there? (Point to carpark) No, you go up to the main road, turn east, go 7 miles, park and get on a bus.

If we come in and we go out? Please do, I want to go home at 6.

Is that the lake? No, that's an illusion, you get a train, turn round three times, recite a mantra and come back tomorrow.

Are you open? (Usually this is a bank holiday Monday) Noooo, we've buggered off to Antigua for the day.

There was only ever one question that stopped us in our tracks and made us go “Huh?” That was – How heavy are your heavy horses? – very, they were big burly Shires and Suffolks, did the person think we were running a horse fat camp.

 

March – Poem

March marches boldly
Roars it's way in windily
Creeps out sheepishly

Haiku is a type of short form poetry originally from Japan. Traditional Japanese haiku consist of three phrases composed of 17 phonetic units (called on in Japanese, which are similar to syllables) in a 5, 7, 5 pattern; that include a kireji, or “cutting word”; and a kigo, or seasonal reference. Similar poems that do not adhere to these rules are generally classified as senryū. There is no exact equivalent of kirejiin in English, and its function can be difficult to define. It is said to supply structural support to the verse.

 

Bureaucratic Headaches

I feel the annoyance of things brewing up to a bubbling rant. Those of an easily offended disposition may wish to scroll on by.

There are numerous things that, to be exceedingly frank about, are f**king well pi**ing me off to a boiling a*** of steaming anger – or in other words has one mildly miffed.

Right then – the heating! So far four visits by various engineers. First was an electrician as some beep somewhere mistakenly thought it was electric heating here (nope), he concluded the wireless controller was duff. Second engineer came and concluded that the controller was likely okay it was the valves on the radiators. Third engineer came armed with hammers and valves, he clumped, bashed and clouted it into behaving and voila I had heating that was controlled by the wireless controller. Yes, sorted, that’s done. Then unexpectedly engineer returned again with orders to replace wireless controller with the upgraded one. Yeah, well, within fifteen minutes of him leaving the damn thing lost it’s connection, the radiators were boiling (at one point it was 28°c/82.50f). I did the take the batteries out and put them back but it still didn’t seem to control anything and it drops connection about every 15/20 minutes, so we just turned the radiator valves down to its lowest setting. You see I cannot contact these providers directly, I email person a who forwards it to rep b who gets company c to organise an engineer. Visit five being organised.

Bathroom. Back in early December a carer sat on the toilet seat lid and it cracked. All she did was lean forward to put my foot in the trouser leg and it split. It has been reported but it’s still not cracked. The cistern is a temperamental flush, the sink plug is one you push down to stay down and push to pop up except it doesn’t. The hot/cold indicator on the mixer tap is the wrong way round. The pump for the shower is slurring as slowing.

Care fees – way back way when I was first contacted about a possible flat here I had two immediate questions, can BFF stay for our holibobs together and how much is it. Reasonable enough asks, I thought. Thankfully the answer to a was yes (deffo deal breaker if no) and question b was I’ll get back to you. Eventually after numerous requests a badly photocopied brochure arrived giving pages of details about benefits and financial assessments, deferred payments with property sales, saving and investments limits etc and a line that said the fee was capped at £269 per week. This was the same as I was paying for current care so I could draft a possible budget plan. The County Council are responsible for invoicing and they run about 8 weeks behind, so January fees billed in March, but the buggers want immediate payment or you get a nasty in the post. I moved in the July, it took them until the end of August to change my postal address, despite being emailed weekly as a reminder and to ask for outstanding invoices sent to the wrong address to be emailed. In October I asked again but they said there was nothing outstanding. I chased various sections again and waited. To my surprise a bill arrived for the first 16 weeks (that’s to the first week of November) but the figure charged is £45+ a week more. F-a-r-k!! Emails whizzed off to various people asking the basic question – how much is it – and as yet no reply from anyone. Am I being charged different as a self funder, is this higher rate including kitchen meals I don’t have, or was I simply told the wrong figure or are there extra charges for things I’m unaware of – who knows. It seems those who should know, don’t know.

OT – as per previous rants, I ended up spending £3.5k on a 4ft profiling bed because initially they’d supply a small hospital bed (which I’d roll out of) before attempting to get permission for a better bed, which would be denied as I’m a healthy weight single lady, I’d only qualify for a 3ft bed. This would take approximately 5-6 months, so I ordered my own and got it here in four working days.

Which left the commode issue – I hate having to publicly admit this because it is degrading and personally embarrassing but since dignity etc is now a luxury I’ve just got to get over myself. Back in May 2022 I told OT I would need a different commode, as I would not be able to slide transfer to the porcelain throne. It would need to be a certain height so I can slide transfer onto it. I chased and confirmed over and over to make sure it would be there by the time I moved in, as you know, I’m good at most things but cannot not need the toilet at some point. Commode 1 was two inches higher than the sofa, I had zero choice but to defy gravity and force myself across, pinching my skin, breaking a stay in my brace, bruising in places and scratching myself on its corners. It was intolerable, my carers were appalled, the managers made an urgent call and three weeks later an OT wandered in, said I’d been sent the wrong one, that a right one would arrive. That took another couple of weeks. Again it was wrong, too low and my feet were dragging on the floor but they said they could raise it. Then they said they were waiting for the bits, then they said they were obsolete so it got cancelled without informing me. OT set about finding a different supplier who visited, took and wrote down measurements, as this would be a special request the once a month equipment panel would have to review and approve, this took another two months. Suddenly in December it arrived and was at the wrong height, they returned to adjust it and it’s maximum height again is too low.

Defeat has been called, towel has been thrown down, conceded stubbornness and with three emails one afternoon a commode to my bespoke requirements is being made by the same company who made my current shower chair some 15+ish years ago. Cost £560. As it’s a specific made to measure item delivery no later than end of February possibly sooner. But I know it will be right. Oh deities of all and any choice please let it be right!

Now the observant reader might well be thinking, if none of the supplied commodes work, then how is she……. you know….. draining the radiator or dropping the kids off at the pool, etc. Oh gosh, do I commit this truth to the forever world of the internet. Deep breath old gal. Well, my old shower chair with its aperture does have any commode pan rails to hold the pot, so it has to be stood on the floor, strategically placed to hopefully catch whatever descends. (Sorry if you’re eating your toast). The carers have been epic at making this system such a straightforward no bother method but still, sometimes not everything, you know. So yes, essentially this has been happening three or four times a day, every day since July 18th. *shudder*

Then there are the trifling little niggles that all add up to be frustrating, it is in my care plan, it is on a sign stuck to the wall, there is a sugar bowl next to the coffee jar and yet it is still a roulette game as to whether there will be none/one/two sugars in my coffee. A couple of things sent to the laundry have either gone walkies or been put away somewhere other carers cannot find them. The wardrobe chest of drawers must have a black hole in. Finally being able to attempt to make hospital appointments only to find either the consultant has to get the GP to or vice versa to make the referral, again it will be months before I can begin getting new back braces, or the EEG, or baseline respiratory clinic or…or…or… Oh yes and £50 travel costs to get to the dentist. I’m going to have to have words with them about how we do things, check up, x-rays, clean, done in one visit not spread across three or more.

Every month the care plan, the risk assessment and the moving and handling assessment is reviewed and signed, it comes round so quick. Management or Management’s management have decided to also include the question “Do you wish to review your respect form” that’s the new description for advanced directive or dnar or dnr, the bugger off and let me die choice. They better not ask me after an OT tussle I might say yes!

I’m not like the others here, except maybe one, and there are times I feel like I’ve moved to a care home where control of personal choice has been taken away and everyone is treated as if they’ve compromised mental capacity. It is not what I was lead to believe. Sadly for everyone I have a mouth and I’m not afraid to use it.

All my pictures are still in the box, I am so worn down by the frustrations and chasing I cannot think about what I want hung where. I miss seeing them, I’m connected to all my accumulated stuff. Maybe ‘soon’ the daylight will power up my solar energies mojo and I’ll get on with things.

I feel like I am being very moaning but this ‘independent living’ doesn’t seem to be gaining progress. It is all very deflating and wearing – plus it’s January, dark, dank, dismal…. ::sigh:: still could be worse.

 

January Poem

I’ve decided to set myself a little challenge for the year. Each month I will create a poem relating to that month, different styles, differing contexts. Nothing too too taxing, probably dull and doubtful of proficiency but *blows-raspberry and sticks up two fingers, one finger if you’ve really pissed me off*

January – acrostic

January drags
All bare and dark
Never ending nights
Uninviting and stark
Adverse weather 
Reducing our spark
Yearning for Spring

 

Fluffy Visit(Eye)ore!

It’s not a question you expect to hear, nor is it a typical trick or treat scenario …. would you like a donkey visit on the 31st?

On Monday a knock at my door announced the arrival of Mum Saffy and son Jack, two gorgeous soft mini donkeys from Mini-Donks visiting the complex where I now reside.

Their gorgeous velvety soft lips and fluffy soft coats, their spindly thing legs leading to polished neat hooves looking like they were tip toeing on stiletto heels. They nuzzled as they munched their carrot sticks, while pictures were taken. Enjoying the chin scritches as I admired the long fluttery eyelashes.

Certainly a more welcome visitor than Clive and Clarissa the humongous great chunky spiders who throw their web between the top of my window and the thick garden bushes below. I think they are European Garden Spider or Cross Orb-Weaver, but I haven’t got close enough to get ‘that’ acquainted.

 

Tightrope Controversy

WARNING :: Those of a sensitive or easily riled nature may want to skip this post.

Recently the news, and media in general, have been several stories that have attracted a degree of controversy. I have remained silent because I either feel to voice my thoughts would bring forth degrees of flaming, trolling and hatred, or because I feel the media is trying to stir or has a biased slant, or because in some respects it’s none of my business. But this is my blog, so, I’m just going to blurt it out here. You are welcome to agree, disagree, comment or not, read or not.

Roe v Wade – the most contentious subject on the planet. I’ve always felt that there is no straightforward answer to the subject of terminations. It cannot be an accepted contraception method, a without consequence easily available option. There will always be ways and means of getting terminations and those can be very dangerous, even deadly. There are circumstances where it should to be an available option. But I’m not in a position to dictate the what’s, why’s and wherefores, or intelligent enough to draft a potentially length ‘rule’. Ultimately it is the choice of the pregnant person. There is a quote about The Unborn by Dave Barnhart that’s quite poignant, look it up.

MAiD (medically aided death) – Another contentious matter. There is a movement in the U.K. called Dying With Dignity, who are calling for legislation on this matter. I can see why many are fearful of this, but I also see why people want the option. I have disabled friends who are ardently against and those who can see its place. As a disabled person, with a life limiting condition, I can see a time when I might like to say “okay I’m done, enough”. But how to write a piece of legislation that fits all the variables. It is still a legal requirement to have two doctors signatures for a cremation, a great deal of meticulous thought, planning and specificity needs to take place. We are all going to die of something, likely it won’t be pleasant, to have an element of lucid, considered, discussed, understood control of that, is a big deal. Again it is a personal choice, it isn’t a straightforward yes or no.

Balcony Banning – oh where to begin compiling thoughts on the debacle of how the media report Royal Family issues. When the Duke of York walked with HMQ as she entered the Abbey for the memorial, there was media flamed uproar and they made that their primary report issue. I’d rather he did that short walk (which didn’t include the aisle) than have him process the length of the Abbey as the other family members did when entering and leaving. As for who is on the Balcony, there have been many occasions when fewer members were there. Ten years ago for the diamond jubilee there were just six. HMQ hasn’t ‘banned’ anybody from anything, but the use of such an inflammatory word makes it sound like the family are having duels along the long corridor about it! The Press and the Media will steer the coverage, it’s theme and tone, and by their nature they will twist and inflate the merest hint of scandal, scowl or controversy when they should be pushing the magnitude of the occasion and achievement.

Depp v Heard – when two strong empowered egos with too much wealth and say lock horns! They are both as bad as each other, they’ve both done wrong, said wrong, and been wronged. They are both abused and abuser. A volatile clash of personalities and the only winners are the paid parties (legal teams, pr peeps etc). I don’t need a blow by urinating, smirking, crying, tutting days long account everywhere I turn. Sheesh, when will it end.

What else……

U.K. Politics – party gate, beer gate, long drive eye tests, basic instinct legs, tractor porn, canoodling clenches, there’s better behaviour is a school nursery playground. Politics is a dirty world, where word play, economies with the truth, self important posturing are the name of the day. Once upon a decade ago I used to think I had a reasonable handle on what the policies of the parties (even Monster Raving Loony party) were, but today I have zero idea what they are or how they’d try to achieve them. All I know is that things are a mess, likely to get messier. Answers are not within our nation, global circumstances heavily impact our shores. Nothing can be counted upon, trusted or believed. It’s pitiful.

I think that’s about it. So cruel cruel trolls and keyboard warriors, do your best, I ain’t bovvered.

 

The Attic Scam

It was perfect timing and considering it was before my morning coffee I was rather on the ball.

Picture the scene, Carer was writing up the care book when my phone rang, because holding the thing is tiresome I hit the speakerphone button.

“Good morning, how are things today? Good I hope” announced the overly cheerful voice instantly putting me on guard.

“Well I’ve not had my coffee yet so…..” I cautiously reply

“I am calling because you are on our register as your property still has the old style loft insulation?”

“Oh dear, that doesn’t sound good” I over did the sound of concern

“Can you tell me if you’ve re-insulated your attic at all?”

“I don’t stick my head up there, I couldn’t say”

“Do you know if it is yellow or pink?”

“Like I said, I haven’t stuck my head up there”

“I see, how long have you lived there?”

“Thirty years”

By now my carer is giving me a few odd glances as confusion crosses her face

“Well as I said you might still have the old attic insulation and we can come out and survey to check and the talk through the various options”

“Okay”

“Latest research shows that effective insulation can reduce energy costs considerably”

“That’s very important with all these price increases”

“Our survey costs £170 but the Government will pay for that in certain cases. Can I ask which of these age brackets you fall into, 50-65, 65-85, 85+”

I thought about saying that it’s rude to ask a lady her age but instead I just said the first one.

“Excellent news, the survey will be free. Do you have pen and paper handy I will need to give you a reference number”

I pretended to grab something. Carer had gone from looking confused to thinking I’ve totally lost the plot.

“Okay, I’m ready, can I ask, when they come to survey the property will I need to give this to the Inspector?” it help to sound a little thick at times

“Yes, they will need it”

“Oh…..I better make sure I give it to the person upstairs, I live in a black of flats…….”

Phone went dead.

Carer burst out laughing.

😆

 

Cut outs

It’s curious how you find yourself realising you’re missing something you hadn’t noticed was not there.

An odd statement I know, let me elaborate.

For Christmas I got some lovely gift vouchers and I knew exactly what I would treat myself to, there were three films that I enjoy watching again and again and to avoid the faff of remembering ahead of time to get carer to load the dvd (built into the tv) I decided to ‘buy’ the digital copies. It’s the way things are going, technologically wise, buying a version that you stream (assuming it’s not already included in subscription packages etc) rather than a physical copy.

I aimed the remote at the tv and clicked buttons and settled to be entertained all over again, getting comfortable in re-experiencing the fun of the films. Later one night as I was pondering the mental meanderings of my thoughts I realised one of those thoughts brought about an “oh yeah” type response.

Back in the day of dvd advertising, you’d get inducements of the exciting ‘extras’ (deleted scenes etc) or the ‘Directors Cut’, or a film would be available under two different age classifications – with streaming we no longer get any of that.

Sooo…… dear reader …… how many of you have just gone “Oh yeah” as you never gave it a thought.

 

Suddenly I’m popular!

In my role as international sex symbol and awesome influencer (I saw that smirk!) I am not immune from receiving numerous offers of untold riches and adulation from the social media masses – let’s get real here people, I barely get messages from people I actually honestly know.

I can go days and weeks without receiving a message via a social media message app, usually because my nearest and dearest message me via one medium. So to suddenly get a number of messages saying hi, let’s hook up, nice to meet you, let’s chat, you sound like someone like me – I really do roll my eyes so far back in my head I can see my butt crack.

These attempts do amuse me. Really, you like my profile, it’s bland, uninformative and unhuman. You think my pictures look hot, well I’m not ‘in’ any of the public pictures, my avatar was generated yonks ago, it’s a caricature. Others are either witty sarcastic memes or cats.

Today I received a message from a supposed cabinet minister of UAE, yet he is completely devoid of any punctuation skills. Hmmm, do other languages not have commas and full stops? He called me ‘Dear’, really am I a dear, that’s what a grey haired granny says to her grandchild. It’s a doddery word.

Then I received one from a USA Air Force base person, who thought we had lots in common after reading all my profile had to say about me. I’m no Lycra clad gym bunny with curve and muscles, like her photo, not to mention the twenty year age gap.

I have often wondered what my profile says, what do people (genuine people, not the phishing, bot, scammer kind) deduce about me from what is there? How can I see my public profile as if I were a stranger?

Maybe it is just my cynical superstitious nature that has me going “WotEva” as I hit the block button.

 

Fictional Truth

It is a rare thing these days to have a moment where you are caught and actually laugh out loud. Well it is for me. There may be times when a quick witted quip or a punchy sarcastic one liner raises a chuckle, or a jovial intake of breath ala Dr Sheldon Cooper but an actual physical laugh rarely emits.

Yesterday as I was crocheting a row or two on the next blanket creation I had started a kids animated movie ‘SpyCat’. I enjoy the simplicity of these films and the insight into the oddities of human behaviour that can make you think. Plus they’re just cute, untaxing entertainment. The premise is straightforward, a much pampered indoor house cat who spends her days watching tv ends up outside, meets up with a street wise, much unloved resentful dog. They and their friends must solve a mystery into a spate of burglaries.

The to and fro between Marnie the cat and Elvis the dog was endearing, a kin to put upon elder brother and innocent younger sister type bickering. There is a point where their different backgrounds and experiences causes a squabbling discussion and when Marnie shouted her line, I physically laughed out loud, almost dropped my stitch!

I know all about reality, I’ve seen it in tv!

It struck me because I could hear it being shouted and hurled by kids and teens at their parents, that the “reality” shows that pervade our screens are being eagerly, greedily, devoured by young impressionable minds as truth.

A few months ago a carer told me of a conversation she had with one of her pupils (She teaches 5-6 year olds). The child had asked why a class member from Africa was not starving and had flies all over his face. Teacher was quite perplexed by the statement, it turned out that child spends a lot of time at Granny’s who must watch a lot of a certain tv channel whose adverts are those asking for donations, such as WaterAid, Save The Children, Red Cross etc. All these adverts show extreme poverty and starvation, innocent dark faces with numerous fat flies watching across their sunken cheeks and swollen through malnutrition bellies. These adverts were planting the impression that ‘Africa’ is a dried earth desert of nothingness with lions, elephants and children dying without water and food.

As adults we may not realise to what extent this shinny screen has on young minds, the misinformation formed and clung to as fact. As the world becomes more dependent on screens, the lines between fact and fiction, truth and engineered entertainment, reality and structured realism. More and more there is the notion “It must be true, I read it on the internet”