The doctor's letter

I received a letter from my GP's practice during the week. It read, "In view of recent changes in clinical guidelines your Doctor would like to discuss your condition.

"Please can you make an appointment with Dr X or Dr Y."

It so happens that neither Dr X nor Dr Y are "my" doctor.  I am registered with Dr C, although it matters not which doctor I actually see when I need one.  All the same, I have been seeing Dr C reasonably frequently - and exclusively - over the last couple of years and have come to both like him and, far more importantly, trust him.  On phoning the surgery, it was explained that Drs X and Y are dealing with the reviews of all patients with rheumatoid arthritis - I expect they have been on a course or attended a seminar at the very least - and I was offered (and accepted) an appointment with Dr X the following afternoon.

"Oh no!" exclaimed the Old Bat when I told her.  "Not Dr X!  He's useless.  You saw him when you had that cough."  (The old duck is a little prone to hyperbole.)

I tried to calm her fears.  "Perhaps he knows more about RA than he does about coughs."

When I saw him the following day, Dr X explained that it has become apparent that people with RA are more likely than others to suffer heart conditions or osteoporosis so all patients should be examined once a year.  "Have you had your cholesterol checked?" I was asked.

I was astounded.  I didn't think anybody at this practice had even heard of cholesterol as It has never been mentioned before.  Anyway, I have to have it checked next time I have a blood test and I am to be sent for a bone scan.

My doctor's (or doctors') surgery is opposite Preston Park so as it was a sunny afternoon I took the opportunity to wander through the park and the gardens of Preston Manor.  This is the 13th or 14th century church of St Peter, Preston Park.  (One source says it dates from the 13th century, another says the 14th.  Either way, it's pretty old.)

That's another one I missed

Another anniversary, I mean.  Thursday just gone, 16th May, was the 70th anniversary of one of the most daring bombing raids of World War II - the dambusters raid.  It was on that day back in 1943 that 19 Lancaster bombers of 617 Squadron took off from RAF Scampton, Lincolnshire, on their mission to break the dams on reservoirs in the Ruhr industrial heartland of Germany.  To achieve their objective, the planes had to be flown at exactly 60 feet above the water and at precisely 230 miles per hour - and in darkness.  Throw in the anti-aircraft defences with which they had to contend, and one can only marvel at the bravery of those airmen.  53 of the 133 airmen who took part never returned.



By coincidence, it was in 1943 also that The Magic Faraway Tree by children's author Enid Blyton was published.  Both the Old Bat and I remember it from our childhoods, along with so many other books by Miss Blyton:  Noddy, the Famous Five and the Secret Seven series in particular.  Her books were later banned by many public libraries as they were considered racist (some Noddy stories featured a golliwog) but she merely wrote in line with the thinking of her day.  Fortunately, good sense has subsequently prevailed - although some changes have been made in later editions.  One example being the change of name from one character in The Magic Faraway Tree from Dick to Rick!  We have bought a copy of this book - as well as a kite in the form of a seagull - as a 6th birthday present for our granddaughter.  I hope I have time to read it before her birthday!

Respec', innit?

It's not really an indicator of my increasing anno domini, although I suppose that since the anno are mine thay should not be described as domini.  But I expect you know what I mean.  I'm getting old.  Correction: I have got old.  I know that because I can no longer run up the stairs two at a time and I no longer balance on one leg while I put a sock on the other foot.  I sit down to do that now, so I must be getting old.  But then, I am but a few days shy of my 71st birthday so I should expect not to be able to do all the things I used to.  Oh heck, I'm going off target again!

We've all done it, I'm sure.  Sometime after somebody has said something to us we have suddenly thought of the most apt rejoinder.  Of course, it is by then far too late, usually by several hours in my case.  But what I am talking about here takes the process a little further on.  I had to see one of the nurses at our surgery the other day for a blood test and it was not until several hours later that I realised she had, throughout the short session, always referred to me as Mr Slater.

"Hey," I thought (and remember, this was several hours later), "she called me Mr Slater."  Granted, she is young enough to be my daughter, but having read not so very long ago of all the elderly people who felt demeaned and disrespected by nurses calling them by their Christian names when in hospital, it came as something of a surprise.

(Oops! I should, I suppose, have written "forenames" or "given names" rather than Christian names now we are living in a multi-cultural society.)

Later that same day - in fact, it was before I had that enlightening thought - I had occasion to call at the pharmacy in our local supermarket to collect a prescription for the Old Bat.  (She was queuing to buy postage stamps at the customer service desk: I didn't even know they sold postage stamps.)  The young lady at the pharmacy - young enough to be my granddaughter - greeted me with the words, "Hello, Brian".  I only know her as a result of calling at the pharmacy quite a lot over the last couple of years.  Honest, guv!

I really cannot see a problem - or, necessarily, disrespect - in calling somebody older than oneself by their Christian name.  I well remember an incoming manager at the branch of the bank I worked at asking all the staff to call him by his Christian name.  That they did so showed no disrespect.  Indeed, he was probably more respected than many other mangers who wanted to be addressed as "sir" or "Mr Mainwaring".

As usual, my old granny had the right idea.  She always said she didn't mind what people called her as long as it wasn't late for her dinner.  It's not what people say that shows lack of respect, but how they say it.

~~~~~

I don't have many new pictures at the moment so here is one taken several years ago.  This shows Patcham mill caught in a moment when the late afternoon sun was shining on it on a dismal day.  The original was a 35mm slide which I copied - regrettably without cleaning it of dust!

Tempting

I find myself becoming increasingly irritated by my car.  I have had it nearly five years now, which is quite a long time for me to go without changing, and I find it a delight to drive.  It's comfortable, reasonably economic as far as fuel is concerned, and has as much oomph as I need either around town or on those long, nearly empty stretches of French motorways.  But... And isn't there always a but?  But it has developed an irritating, intermittent fault.  The electric parking brake sometimes comes on when I press the button but more often it just causes a "beep" and a message on the screen telling me there's something wrong.  The old style lever handbrake was so much more reliable.

There are times, times that seem to me to be coming along more and more frequently, when I hark back to the unsophisticated cars of 50 years ago like the Morris Minor.  When you lifted the bonnet (hood) of one of those cars you could see and reach just about every part of the engine.  When I lift the bonnet of my VW Passat all I see is the windscreen washer filler and the oil filler cap.   Just changing a bulb is a garage job!  Part of the trouble is that cars have been "improved" by adding more and more gadgets and gizmos.  I grant you that some of them, like cruise control and electrically adjustable exterior mirrors, are actually worthwhile, but all these extras just mean something else to go wrong.  Like my parking brake.  There was a letter in the motoring section of the paper the other weekend about the VW parking brake from a driver who had been quoted £119 by his local dealer just to look at the problem.  Putting it right would cost even more.

And that's another gripe I have with the Passat.  The timing belt should be changed every 4 years or 40,000 miles - at a cost of approaching £500 at a specialist garage or more at a franchised dealer.  That adds £2 a week to the running costs.

So I've been thinking about changing.  I've always hankered after a Volvo estate (and I definitely need/want an estate car) but quite honestly I think they are overpriced for what they provide - and I can't bring myself to pay that sort of money anyway.  The Ford Mondeo looks good but the equivalent Vauxhall/Opel is out.  The Skoda Octavia has had rave reviews, including one from a taxi driver when I took a cab a few weeks back and found myself in just such a car.  Skoda was at one time a marque that caused great hilarity - a bit like the Trabant - but is now much improved - and part of the VW/Audi group.  The Skoda is almost on a par with the Passat but is much cheaper.  As is the Toyota Avensis.  I have had Toyotas in the past and was much impressed - but that was long ago.  All the same, this is definitely in the frame.

But I don't suppose I will actually do anything except soldier on for another year or two.

~~~~~

I posted a picture of one of our pear trees yesterday.  The apple (we have just the one) is still quite tightly in bud but should burst forth quite soon.  We got no apples at all last year so are hoping for better this.

What's in a name?

Nothing much, really.  After all, as somebody once said (or wrote), a rose by any other name would simply pong the same.  Yes, all right, clever clogs.  I know it was Shakespeare who gave Juliet the line, "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet".  Of course, that's quite true: the name of the flower has no effect on the scent.  Except...

Just imagine that you have in your garden a prickly shrub which bears red flowers (or pink or yellow).  This plant is called hogspittle.  Maybe it's just me, but changing the name from rose to hogspittle rather puts me off.  I just can't imagine a flower with the name hogspittle as being sweet smelling.

I'm sure I'm not alone - indeed, I know I'm not - in assigning certain traits of character to people according to their names.  Very often this happens because of characteristics of the first person we knew by that name.  For example, I was at school with a rather pugnacious boy called Roderick.  As a result, all my adult life I have tended to give a wide berth to anybody pf that name.  Probably quite unfairly!

On the other hand, when I was about 10 I had a crush on a cousin called Beverley, then later there was a girl called Jennifer lived next door.  Had she and her family not moved away I might have become close to her.  But any girls (or women) called Beverley of Jennifer are off to a good start as far as I am concerned.

Dawn is another name I find attractive, simply because the first Dawn I ever knew was good looking, petite and with long, dark hair.  (Somehow dark hair and the name Dawn seem a contradiction, but there you are.)  The Old Bat, on the other hand, knew a Dawn at school and disliked her, so...

By a strange coincidence I have heard from both a Beverley and a Jenny in the last few days.  My cousin Beverley rang to tell me of the death of an uncle.  During our conversation I told her of my crush, which she found highly amusing.  Then I had a call to tell me that Jenny's husband Ivan had died.  Strangely, Ivan had been suffering much the same symptoms as the Old Bat when I first met him and Jenny a few years ago.  He was put through the same tests but the final diagnosis was different.  He had already gone blind and became pretty much paralysed.  His death will be a huge relief to both himself and to Jenny.

I shall try to get to Uncle Geoff's funeral but I am not close enough to Jenny to bother with Ivan's.

~~~~~

There is plenty of blossom on the top pear tree this year.  I just hope the jackdaws leave us some fruit!

All change

This is the picture of the Punch & Judy show that I was trying to upload yesterday.  I finally got there by shutting down the computer and rebooting, so it was presumably my computer causing the problem rather than Blogger.  There are even smaller children at the front of the audience, hidden from our view.

I think it is great that we are able to help keep this old English tradition going, although given the level of gratuitous violence involved I am slightly surprised that somebody hasn't tried to ban the show.  This picture was taken at the point soon after Judy has asked Mr Punch to look after the baby.  The Devil has just appeared and is trying to persuade Punch to throw the baby downstairs so as to avoid all the problems involved in looking after the baby.

We also had Morris dancers at the Lilac Lark, another old English tradition I'm happy to support.  Provided they don't impinge too much on my attention!  All the dances look much the same to me, either waving handkerchiefs or banging sticks, and all the tunes sound the same.  I find it all gets a bit boring after about three minutes.  But others enjoy it.

~~~~~

I had expected that this would be another day when I didn't manage to post until late afternoon but things have changed (hence the title).  I've been to the surgery for one of the practice nurses to take a blood sample for testing, currently a regular fortnightly procedure.  Then I expected to be called upon to drive to the butcher's but that has been deferred until after I have walked the dog this afternoon and will be combined with a leisurely stroll round the supermarket aisles.  And I really should cut the grass again - but it's started raining so I might well be able to put that off for a day or two.

Did it have to rain on my parade?

Rather to my surprise, when I opened the bedroom curtains yesterday morning, it was on a bright, sunny day.  This augured very well for the Lilac Lark, the fete organised jointly by Brighton Lions and the Friends of Withdean Park.  I am the lead Lion in this and I had drawn up and distributed a duty list allocating two or three Lions to each stall and sideshow we planned to run.  These included sweets, coconut shy, jewellery, plants, books, pig racing and bowling for a pig.  Obviously, there were a number of Lions who for reasons of age, infirmity, holiday or work whom I had not included - as well as several who never show up for anything - but I was extremely disappointed when no fewer than 5 members failed to appear.  Only one had had the courtesy to get in touch and explain why he would not be there, and I had been with one of the others only on Friday evening when we spoke about the event!  This meant that we could not reasonably run the bowling for a pig, but at least all the other stalls and sideshows seemed to be doing well in the sun - and wind.  And boy, was it windy!  The pig racing was as popular as ever with the youngsters.

And the first house of the Punch and Judy attracted a good audience.

(This post should have been put up on Monday morning and there should be a picture of Punch and Judy right here.  Whether it is down to Blogger or my computer I know not, but I have been quite unable to upload the picture.  It didn't help that I was off out to lunch today, a valedictory lunch for the retiring General Manager of the Lions Housing Society.  Rest assured that neither she nor her successor have been or will be on the sort of salary level expected by managers of football clubs.  I read that David Moyes, who is to succeed Sir Alex Wotsit at Manchester United and has been manager of Everton for 11 years, is leaving on a salary of £4 million.  £4 million!  And although Everton is a Premiership club, they have won no trophies for years.  Ridiculous.)

But at four o'clock the rain started and the crowds drifted away.  We got soaked clearing up.  Surprisingly, when I glanced in the mirror at bedtime I saw a red face peering back at me.  I had really caught the sun - or the wind.