26 hours

Two weeks ago at this precise time I was engaged in a polite conversation with a beautiful older woman as I lay on my bed, my heart rate a little high at 99 beats per minute. She was telling me about a programme that she had watched on TV the previous night featuring people's fat pets. She had a well meaning and attentive young guy with her who was nowhere near as relaxed as she was. The conversation switched around a bit; house prices and other TV stuff before settling on socks......surgical socks and the fact that mine had fallen down. They were pulled up before I was fitted out with kind of throbbing leg warmers. "It's like you're walking," they kept telling me.

Then we got on to food, I mentioned that I wasn't as peckish as I would have expected, not having eaten anything since about 6 the previous evening. The lovely lady said the she would give me some nutritious stuff whilst I was asleep; it was all going to be happening whilst I was out, food, excercise, "what else", I asked. She admitted that the anaesthetist had not arrived because he was getting a sandwich himself. A moment later he walked in and everyone was on best behaviour. For the nth time I confirmed who I was and that I had not eaten since.......and that I didn't know if I was allergic to any drugs. The needle was inserted into a vein on the back of my hand, and a tube plugged in. No count down as I had expected, instead the sleep maker said that I would be starting to feel a bit more relaxed, he had given me something for the purpose. He then put a mask over my nose and mouth, not as unpleasant as those I had experienced in the dentists of my youth. Then I was dreaming, a nice dream I seem to remember. I was thinking, "I am waking now, hey, I wonder if I am waking from the operation or just from an ordinary sleep; I hope it is the operation, it would be good it if it is over.......actually I think I am, it is quite bright in here, there's a nurse". I had overheard a conversation earlier in the day about how entertainng people coming round from an anaesthetic can be, how they giggle and enjoy the lack of inhibition the drugs leave them with. Determined to stay cool, I just wink at my nurse.

By 7.30 that morning I had been sitting on my bed in a ward where a number of the beds were empty, but several had groaning old blokes in them; it was a little melancholy and it was obviously not going down well with Gemma who looked to be counting down the minutes before she could leave politely. We hardly said anything to each other then the man in the bed opposite helpfully broke the ice by releasing a fairly prolonged burbly fart. He looked like a baddy from a Tintin cartoon, intense, scrawny and swarthy. His neighbour had only just arrived and I decided that he was here in preference to taking his rightful place along side Saddam Hussein, accused of being his main henchman. The other two guys had established a bit of a connection with each other; they looked like slightly bonkers librarians.

Can you guess what it is yet?

A little while later and I was on my own reading my copy of the excellent Moon Dust when a medical man turned up and drew on my abdomen. Then the surgeon arrived, his features appeared to be exaggerated today. Sharp suited he is in his mid 40's with a strong chin but soft looking, slightly floppy skin. He listened to my questions. I noticed that his main reason for being in the room seemed to be to witness his victims signing their consent forms, it reminded me of getting the customer's signature on the order form. He certainly seemed better disposed to communication than some of the other staff though. At about 11.30 that night a nurse arrived at my bed and said she wanted to give me some antibiotics. Looking at the back of my hand she noticed that I no longer had a needle in it and seemed confused. A little more than an hour later I woke from drowsing to the unmistakeable smell of freshly popping pop-corn. A young girl who described herself as a "doctor, well physician actually" announced whilst removing popcorn from her back molars with her tongue, that I did in fact need the antibiotics and the nurse would be back presently. I waited twenty minutes and as I wanted to go back to sleep decided to go and find my nurse. I found her sipping her tea, she would be along when she had finished; you can't really argue with your arse hanging out of one of those gowns, (I don't understand why they need to be like that). Back in my bed and Florence Nightingale has arrived with her kidney-shaped bowl of kit. After she has fumbled about in the dark a bit, I reach up and put on the anglepoise. She hooks me up to a bag of clear fluid and two seconds later the room is spinning, I am covered in sweat and ready to throw up. "Can you get me something to be sick in please"? "Do you want some medecine to stop you feeling sick"? "No, I need something to be sick in". She went off and came back with one of those papier mache bowls and then disappeared. I wondered if this was one I was allergic too, I certainly didn't seem to be enjoying it. I sat on the edge of my bed ready to pull out the tube if I carried on feeling shite, but the feeling went and I lay down and went back to sleep.

Next morning the day nurse greets the ward with a cheery "morning everyone". She is unbelievable, I can't begin to understand where she gets her energy to be so generous to all of us. Bad enough cocky me, but there are all sorts of weird noises eminating from people down the corridor just the sound of which depress me and I don't have to wipe their dirty arses. Several people come to look at me and give me conflicting answers to my questions. Gemma arrives to take me home and is obviously disappointed that as I am still connected to a drip it may be a few minutes till we can go. Soon enough I am dressed and shuffling along the corridor like I've just been shot. All in all it's not been too bad.

Whilst I was sleeping.

The world's fastest Indian ****

Gentle, funny, moving, inspiring and only occasionally a little cheesy. Mr Hopkins pulls off an acceptable (to a person born in Scotland and has lived in Yorkshire and London) accent portraying the slightly aged, penurious New Zealander, Burt Munro, who went after the motor bike land speed record on the Bonneville Salt Flats in the sixties. Bit of a feel good movie and some great sequences. At one point we see the hero testing his low slung bike, haring along a straight bit of rural Utah tarmac, passing a sedantry traffic cop in his car at the side of the road like a bullet. Sparked into life, the policeman sets off and eventually tracks down Mr Munro standing by his bike scratching his chin reflectively.

"Can you tell me how fast you think you were going when you past me back there?" asks the cop.
"About 160?" suggests the old man, disappointed

Digestive biscuits

I mentioned that I am going for an operation on a hernia soon and so (because I am over 40) they get you to go along so that they can check you out and establish that the probablility of you expiring on the operating table is acceptable.

There was a small wait required before they started doing things to me. The waiting area of the digestive diseases department was nondescript except for the fact that there was an old man there who could, if he chose, make a living mimicking the noise a water cooler makes when you pour yourself a glass. It was such a perfect imitation that I had to look up several times. I suspect that only flaw in my plan might be that he is probably unable to control it. That big gurgle is the sort of thing you would supress until you'd left a very small room full of people sitting in silence, if you could.

I had and ECG, was weighed, height checked, blood sample taken, blood pressure tested, and questioned thoroughly (one of the questions was: do I have any loose teeth?) I forgot to take a sample with me. My ECG looked nice and regular, I weigh 84kg (13 stone 2), am 180 cm tall, don't know about my blood, I have slightly high blood pressure (148 over 90).

I have probably watched too much ER over the years but I quite fancy the idea of being extremely taken care of; a room of people all looking after moi. (Of the current crop) I reckon I would go with Kovac assisted by Abby, Abby would get the job of telling me how it went afterwards before going for a snog with Kovac in the supplies cupboard. (Poor Kovac, it is always so dark in his apartment, although he does get to drive the best cars). Ideally (although he has been written out after two attempts on his life by wayward helicopters, the second of which was successful) I would also like to be entertained by a Doctor Romano outburst, though preferably not at my expense.

In the afternoon I went to a different hospital’s digestive diseases department, to accompany my dad who was going to learn about the constitution of a biopsy of part of his tummy. The news was good although I can't help thinking that there could have been a better way of delivering it. The fast speaking Indian doctor and the octogenarian from the planet Tharg and me (trying to be helpful):

Doc, "has anyone in your family ever had any diseases affecting their abdomen?"
Dad, "no."
Me," your mother was killed by a massive malignant tumour in her stomach."
Dad, "ah but she's dead."

And so it went on. After a while the doc stared longingly at a half eaten packet of crisps on his desk. He is a digestive diseases specialist working in the department of digestive diseases which is positively plastered with posters advising on what to eat to prevent digestive diseases. The only thing on his desk apart from a tired looking pc screen is a half eaten packet of crisps. It was so conspicuous, all shiny, sitting there scratching its chin, half paying attention, examining its finger nails, thinking; I love my job.

I have no loose teeth by the way (well not in my mouth, I do have the tooth of a wild boar, untethered on a shelf at home, I suppose I could take it along on the day).

Old dog, new tricks

Met my 82 year old dad for a cup of mint tea in town today. He had just been to his acupuncture session. He has had a mobile phone for several years but it is rarely if ever that you can get through to him on it and rarer still that he calls you. He produced it in the cafe as he was telling me about the fact that he was checking his missed calls with someone who wanted to arrange a meeting with him! I was handed the phone where I found unviewed text messages from 2001. His call register included many recent calls to odd numbers that included asteriscs and hashes and that more often than not did not start with a zero. When I asked about the conversation with the missed call person he was indignant that he calls a number to ask about his missed calls.......he is never wring by the way.

When it came time to leave, we rose from the table and he set off with a paper bag with Chinese writing on it. "What's in there?" I asked. "My anti ageing pills", he said confidently.

There are people dying of poverty all over the place, meanwhile.......

...... I have been trying out new cars, culminating in a short trip in a BMW1 earlier this month. When I arrived at the garage I was greeted by a middle aged woman revealing a noticeable amount of cleavage; considering the level of BMW corporate detail that I was about to be exposed to, this was certainly a missed branding opportunity. I was duly met by a gangly inchoate salesman who took me through a precise process in a very efficient way, resulting in my sitting behind the wheel of a very clean car on the forecourt. As I set off I asked him how long he had been selling BMWs. He revealed that this was his first week. I went with; "So you haven't heard about me then?" This caused a momentary interruption in the smooth flow of things but soon we were back on track making small talk and I caused my passenger to make a rigid straight line between the headrest of his seat and the footwell with his body; whilst the car coming straight for us seemed to have its horn jammed on.

Back at the dealership I was installed in my seat at new boy's desk (the one in the far corner by the coffee machine) with my mint tea. Periodically he would disappear to find the answer to some question or other, leaving me to soak up the ambiance. Car showrooms can be pleasant places indeed and this is a nice one. Everything was in its place. Just two feet from me a woman was sitting on the floor cleaning the model cars in a glass case. In due course a suited man arrived and the cleaner explained what she had been cleaning and how she had done it before going on to say that next time she would be using a cotton bud on a currently inaccessible bit. The grey man walked off. It occurred to me that I would be paying for that cotton bud if I purchased a car here.

The first test drive (of five) had been of an Audi A3 in December. The salesman there had been in the job for a month. Next I drove a Golf GTi accompanied by a diminutive blond girl with a little head that popped out from the collar of a massive Volkswagen all weather jacket. Then to another A3, htis time (different garage) I was met by a man who said he was the general manager. Having already driven one, I didn't particularly feel the need to try another A3 but in due course caved in. After twenty minutes of trying to manoeuvre the motor off the forecourt we headed off towards the M4. My passenger's response to my first question was that he knew nothing about this car or indeed any in the range. Several times he suggested that when we got back to his office he would log on to his website and be able to answer any question I could come up with. We spent the rest of the trip discussing what we would each be doing that evening (it was New Year's Eve). Every so often, despite my lack of interest, he would try to persuade me about a certain aspect of financing. Back at his office, I helped him log on and we found the car on the site; but no details.

Test driving a car is quite an odd social event. Two people who don't know each other locked in a small space together for half an hour. The first BMW I tried was with a young girl, who had been only doing the job for that month, (bit of a theme, I know). I don't remember much about that conversation except that she attempted to break the ice by telling a risqué story. However, she left out the risqué bit and I was left to make up my own. I didn't come up with much.

So back to the second BWM place; I had already made up my mind before going to this garage that I wanted this particular model; but that I didn't want the ES which might as well stand for Equipment Scarce and go for either the SE (Some Equipment) or Sport (different shaped seats). I had noticed that one difference between the SE and the Sport was that the SE had an armrest which I liked (ok so I am getting older) but otherwise I would prefer a Sport. I had chosen this garage because they had a Sport that seemed a good buy. When I discovered that this particular Sport had an arm rest fitted, I wrote a cheque that would have fed three African villages for several years.

Questions for cash

The thing is that apparently you can’t do much with £50m cash these days. I bought a car earlier this month and when the payment method was discussed it was as though, if you propose using any reasonable amount of cash to purchase your BMW, then you must have a part time job importing crack dope dragon or the like. They told me it is all about the money laundering laws. But there are two sides to this coin. Why have cash at all? I suppose it is a bit like the arms business in that the very fact that it is there, creates jobs and more money. It is a healthy and natural feeling to go out with a bit of cash in your pocket; like having a satisfactory dump. But surely we are not far away from a world where I walk into a pub and the chip just beneath the skin somewhere in my left arm, lets the barman know that I usually spend a lot of money in places like his (on vodka and lime). By the time I ask him for a drink he can make a polite comment about the new jacket that he knows I bought earlier in the week. I am free to leave the bar without handing over cash or producing a card as the bill will appear on my personal statement in due course and goodness knows whether it will be correct; the bosses of boozers like Easypub will be loving it and I’ll be even less in control of my life. A gizmo that you can charge up over some kind of network and debit in shops, that shows what credit is left would be nice; something else my phone could do except that I can’t even tell how much my phone bill is going to be.

See prism specs........

So I am supposed to be going to have an operation on 16 March to remove a kind of hernia thing which I have had since I was about 12 but which has become a bit bigger lately; it is just below my sternum, right here by the edge of my desk. They say that unless it is incised it will go on becoming bigger and apart from not being one of my most attractive features it seems to be weakening the area around it, so it is probably best out of here. I also sometimes wonder if it might be a kind of a pararsite that I feed with my various worries and which, it would appear, my various attempts to starve have failed.

I am not afraid of the process but I would really like to be able to see what goes on when they cut me open; instead I will waken in some mild discomfort not knowing if they found an alien in there and what exactly they did to sort out some unforeseen problem they encountered. I feel uncomfortable enough about taking my car for a service; who knows what has gone on during the day, what abuse it has suffered in the hands of the mechanic whose wife is sleeping with his best mate.

My dad mentioned that he saw a programme on TV recently featuring a woman who was having heart surgery without anaesthetic, she had had a number of strategically placed acupuncture needles inserted about her body and was able to chat to the surgeon during the operation. This is what I would like to do. In fact I could wear my prism glasses and observe proceedings without having to have my head lifted up. Have I mentioned my prism glasses?

I think so but in case you don’t know about them, here is a photo. I wear them most nights to read or watch TV.

My friend Ralph made a rather good suggestion the other day. Why don’t those lugers wear them. The commentators are always reporting how some competitor or other has thrown his medal chances in the bin because he or she lifted their head to have a look where they were going. I think I will approach the manufacturers of those super smooth helmets they wear to suggest that a couple of carefully positioned prisms should be glued to the inside of the racers’ visors.

There is a difference between Yoda-esquely feeling your way down the course and being happy to have the lights switched off to avoid the truth.

More of Friday's Loch Fynne Photies

Otter Ferry

Bridge at Invereray

Two Birds....for Paolo ;)

From Port Ann Woods

Operation Goldfrapp

Day 1: I am sitting in Edinburgh Airport where I expect to be collected by Dom in an hour or so. The concert isn’t till tomorrow so I will have a day in Edinburgh. The trip here has been uneventful; I got the train to the Crawley Arndale Centre (Gatwick Airport) from where I flew in a shiny new Easyjet plane. They seem to be trying to brush up their act, the pilot sounded like a British Airways one; he called me “sir” as I disembarked.

Behind me on the flight were two middle aged Americans, they were next to an elderly English chap. They kept asking him questions about Scotland; various things including its currency and whether it was still England out the window when old boy was pointing out the Forth Bridge to them. The septuagenarian made my day, apparently he couldn’t hear very well or he just felt like telling them whatever he fancied and provided them with all sorts of duff or irrelevant info. The Pittsburgers revealed that they were on a fourteen day tour which started in London, then on to Edinboroe, Paris, Rome, Barcelona and Denmark (the city of). Sounds like two weeks in airports, planes, taxis and hotels.

Day 2: So I am now sitting in the living room of the flat that Dom uses during the week in a place called East Calder. When I ventured out earlier, I discovered two café’s one furnished with old lounge furniture and old people, a Co-op, two sun tan places (one spray-on called Peely Wally, which if you are not Scottish means kind of off colour), the East Calder Electronics Centre; a tiny shop with old TVs, a newsagent called Jimmy’s Pay-n-take, proprietors A& J Ahmed and a handsome church.

Having been up and down the street I settled for the second café. There I experienced an emotional hour as I tasted a breakfast the like of which I would have enjoyed at my grandma’s when I was a kid. I looked at the menu and wanted everything. I settled for the standard breakfast (having to give up the Scotch Pie) and despite my not getting on with wheat ordered a roll which, with sausage and tea hit the button. It must be the water, but tea in Scotland tastes delicious.














At about half 5, Paulo and Paul collected us and took us to the Blue Blazer pub where we met up with everyone. Three pints of Baltica (Russian beer) later we headed for the Usher Hall to watch Ms Goldfrapp doing her thing. A good gig despite the bass player’s hat. The rest of the evening zoomed by at two or three drinking and dancing places. I notice that at this age my ability to remember what goes on this type of evening is rubbish, although I am confident I had fun and am looking forward to the opportunity to go back and do it all again. I particularly enjoyed meeting people whom I had only met via email previously. The evening came to a close after Dom and I had a couple of Pot Noodles at about 2.30; it might be 20 years since I had a Pot Noodle; we used to enjoy them at school, particularly during a post Sunday evening service episode of Hart to Hart. Thanks to all concerned.

Day 3: up reasonably early, Dom dropped me at Livingston South railway station, where I set off for Glasgow. What a beautiful day; clear skies.

The pier at Invereray (where the bus stopped for a pee break)







From Glasgow I got the bus to Castleton near Lochgilphead. There I spent a couple of nights at my Mum’s; I ate some nice food, had a good walk and enjoyed a Hopi Ear Candle treatment.

Captions welcome....

Two fours are eight

Some time ago my brother and sister in law asked me if I was buying Gemma any CDs for Christmas. Basically they wanted to get her a couple and wanted to get in first so I'd have to think of something else. Well, I knew that Gemma wanted the Madonna CD, that was their first idea and so I conceeded. Then they came up with Robbie Williams. I said, "Please don't get ther that". "Why?" they asked. "Because then I'll have to listen to it". Anyway they did and after dinner just now, Gemma announced that she was going to try it for the first time and hence I am upstairs typing this. The good news is that Mr Williams has only lasted a couple of tracks and I can hear that she has switched to the X&Y which she bought me for Christmas along with Emimem and Gorillaz , When I was maybe thirteen I was played F*** Off by the Electric Chairs by Debbie Jarvis and I have to say I was a little embarrassed at the language (particularly in the company of a lady) but the Eminem chap could wipe the f***ing big ass mother floor with them on the rude words front I reckon. At least I don't seem to be as easy to embarrass as I was, although for it to be a like for like test, I would need to track down Ms Jarvis.

Match Point ***

A film of two halves. I suggest that you find out when it is showing at your local cinema and turn up about half way through. I can fill you in on the first half; ex tennis pro meets nobby English family starts a relationship with the daughter and has a fling with the son's bird, played by Scarlett Johanssen (whose presence, in my opinion, would redeem the first half of any rubbish film). There you are, saved an excrutiating hour of your life. The problem is about pace but more about plausibility. The patriarch mega wealthy businessman is played in the style of a beige buffoon; I could not accept that such a person exists. His son, who is the best actor in the film would, in real life, have spotted that his brother in law was up to something. No one else is particularly believeable, Mr Allen needs to get out more (in Britain).

I was deterred from walking out as the beginning of the second half of the film saw the building of some tension. I wanted to find out what would happen and I enjoyed tutting at the fact that the makers of the film were giving American's considering applying for a passport to come to London, the idea that you can get from the Fulham Rd to the City in 5 minutes in a cab (and such like).

Finally Mr Allen pulls a rabbit out of the hat by leaving us with our heads filled with dilemma. He brings to a head the idea of luck, which has been popping up regularly for the past couple of hours, are we lucky to avoid mortal punishment or are we damned, lucky anyway.

The beat that my heart skipped *****

This brilliant film manages to portray a hard man hero’s sensitivity, without softening the gritty violent world the he inhabits.

No effort is required to believe in Thomas Seyr; the main character played by the cool Romain Duris, I found myself liking him despite his flaws. There is no gloss at all in this story, it has the kind of reality that the French seem far better able to achieve than does Hollywood.

It reveals the power of music and the result of having the courage to make big life changes

(The only thing that marred my enjoyment of this movie was the fact that half way through, someone in the row behind me let off with the most gag-inducing effect. One person at least actually complained and moved seats. Fortunately it blew over in a few minutes).