Since passing my driving test, I've had neither the need or inclination to travel by train nearly as much as I used to. However, I recently graced the South West Trains network once again and was reminded of just why I used to love trains so much. Ahem.
Headed home, I found myself at Guildford awaiting a connecting service to Havant. Guildford is on the London-Portsmouth line, along which run both fast and not-so-fast services. Keen to avoid the latter, I approached a flourescent-clad station attendant to ask for advice. Would it be worth my while, I asked, waiting the extra few minutes and boarding the fast service or would the slow train still get me there sooner?
"Next train in seven minutes," came the mindless reply.
I explained that, yes, I had read the overhead electronic display and was aware of the fact, but that I simply wanted to check times of arrival before making my decision.
"This next one gets you there at 21 minutes past," said Mr Helpful.
I decided not to impress upon him the importance of knowing both times of arrival as my frustration was growing, and instead boarded the stopping service, hoping for the best but expecting less. As we approached Haslemere, a tannoy announcement proclaimed, "all those requiring the fast train to Petersfield, Havant and Portsmouth, should change here." Brilliant.
I alighted. Moments later, the fast train pulled into the adjacent platform and I waited to board. The doors opened and off stepped a couple of commuters, before the third slowed almost to a halt in the doorway, speaking intently into his mobile phone and gazing around the confines of the station as if stargazing on a midsummer's night. If you're getting off the train, get off. It really is simple - one foot follows the other and you get out of the way. Have your phone conversation anywhere but in front of me as I wait, increasingly impatiently, to step through the narrow gap which you currently occupy. By the time he had finally planted all ten digits on the platform a large drip of water had collected in the station guttering and dripped neatly down the back of my neck. Yes, I love trains.
Monday, 13 July 2009
Friday, 19 June 2009
June 19
I was sitting in the waiting room at the clinic when a man walked up to the desk. He was wearing overalls and looked like Miles from Home & Away, and was clearly some sort of odd-job man. I didn't know exactly what he was there for so I listened to find out.
The woman on reception said: "Was it dead or alive?"
He said: "It's been coming in and out. You won't keep it out in this weather."
He then left and I got called through for my appointment. I still don't know why he was there.
Rachel bought a peanut butter KitKat chunky. The packaging said 'may contain traces of nuts'.
Weather fronts annoy me. Why do weather men and women go on about hot and cold fronts, and saying "ooh, you know what one of these means." No, we don't. And why talk about them anyway? You don't look out of the window and say, "there's a real warm front out there, put your flip-flops on." All they need to be telling us is the temperature and whether it's going to rain. Weather fronts mean nothing. Get rid of them.
People always describe the quickest route from one place to another by saying 'as the crow flies.' But birds never fly in straight lines. A plane would be better than a crow.
Saturday, 23 May 2009
May 24
Overhead the following conversation:
"I went to a fancy dress party last night."
"Oh yeah, what did you go as?"
"A zebra."
"Wow, what did you make the costume out of?"
"Zebra-type material."
Perfect.
Steve's Diary is off to Wales and will return next week.
"I went to a fancy dress party last night."
"Oh yeah, what did you go as?"
"A zebra."
"Wow, what did you make the costume out of?"
"Zebra-type material."
Perfect.
Steve's Diary is off to Wales and will return next week.
Monday, 18 May 2009
May 18: guest entry
Adam Carroll-Smith says:
Today, I am lucky enough to be covering the Hampshire vs. Ireland day-night cricket match, at Hampshire’s impressive Rose Bowl. While I have visited the ground before, today is my first work-based visit. As such, it is the first time I have graced the Rose Bowl press box. The box itself is pretty spartan (i.e. particularly simple and bare as opposed to being full of bronze shields and helmets) but thankfully the drinks are free.
Anyway, cricket correspondents tend to be quite elderly, and as such, I have just had the pleasure of spending the last half an hour listening to an old man send what must have been a 10,000 character text on his mobile – with the key tones left on. After a while it began to resemble really miminal techno played at about 4 beats per minute. I swear at one point he even pressed the right combination of keys – albeit very slowly – to play the first few notes of ‘Funky Town’.
As he finished texting he said – to no-one in particular: “This texting is brilliant isn’t it; so fast.”
Today, I am lucky enough to be covering the Hampshire vs. Ireland day-night cricket match, at Hampshire’s impressive Rose Bowl. While I have visited the ground before, today is my first work-based visit. As such, it is the first time I have graced the Rose Bowl press box. The box itself is pretty spartan (i.e. particularly simple and bare as opposed to being full of bronze shields and helmets) but thankfully the drinks are free.
Anyway, cricket correspondents tend to be quite elderly, and as such, I have just had the pleasure of spending the last half an hour listening to an old man send what must have been a 10,000 character text on his mobile – with the key tones left on. After a while it began to resemble really miminal techno played at about 4 beats per minute. I swear at one point he even pressed the right combination of keys – albeit very slowly – to play the first few notes of ‘Funky Town’.
As he finished texting he said – to no-one in particular: “This texting is brilliant isn’t it; so fast.”
May 18
Went to visit two friends in London. Last time we were at their place, I had a fever and had to lie down during lunch. I never turn down a Sunday roast so everyone knew it was serious. This time, we went out to the pub and I was feeling in the best of health. Halfway through, I could feel some of the food had gone down the wrong pipe so tried to swallow it down, but with no success. Three or four gulps later, I was getting short of air and covered my face with my hands. I realised there was a bit of a problem but couldn't bring the food up or get it down. Barney noticed I had stopped eating so asked if I was alright. Devoid of the power of speech, I continued choking and Rachel opened the back door so I could go out into the street. Finally, the pipe cleared and I was left crouching over a drain on a London street corner, as the Cambridge United fans in the pub wondered what on earth they were watching. I returned to the pub and finished my meal.
This left me thinking, when else in my life had I had a near-death experience? Probably the closest I came was when Andy Lawrence put a peanut in my Apple VK bottle in the first year of uni, without me noticing. I didn't choke on the peanut - I've just got a nut allergy.
This left me thinking, when else in my life had I had a near-death experience? Probably the closest I came was when Andy Lawrence put a peanut in my Apple VK bottle in the first year of uni, without me noticing. I didn't choke on the peanut - I've just got a nut allergy.
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
May 13
Saw two interesting signs in Tesco Express. The first, in front of a stack of magazines, said 'Latest Issue'. Shouldn't all magazines on sale in shops be the latest issue?
The other sign was by the checkouts. It read: 'cash is regularly taken from these tills'. Didn't say who by.
The other sign was by the checkouts. It read: 'cash is regularly taken from these tills'. Didn't say who by.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
May 12
I went for a haircut today, which provided one positive and two negatives.
The positive was that I got to read Martin Samuel's column in the Daily Mail as I sat in the waiting area. He is the best football writer out there by a mile, although since he left The Times I haven't read his stuff that often. The girl doing the haircuts was incredibly slow but fortunately the column is more like a page-and-a-half, so I passed the time.
When the time came for my haircut, the girl looked at me for ages before asking if I wanted to take a seat. I knew already it wasn't going to be the best cut I'd ever had. Once I'd told her what style I wanted (always the same) I sat in silence for a couple of minutes while she got started. The radio was on and everything seemed to be going well until she asked if I was having a nice day. I never like talking when I'm having my hair cut. I just want a trim, not an interview. There should be something attached to the chair or mirror which you can set to 'I'm happy to talk during this haircut' or 'Just do your job and I'll pay at the end'. Some hairdressers/barbers get the hint if you don't say anything to start with, but this one didn't. I just said I was having a nice day, thanks, that I felt my hair had got a bit too long and that's why I was there. It was the most inane comment but it matched the question. After that the haircut proceeded with only the radio and clippers providing noise.
As the haircut finished I was treated to a blast of hot hairdryer air right in the face. Either she meant to get me back for not talking or she just missed the bit of my head where the hair grows. We walked to the till and she said it would be £9.95. I handed over a £10 note and waited for my change. She looked up and said "Oh, do you want the 5p then?" Yes, I do want the 5p. The haircut does not cost £10. Why would I not want it? Is it a tip? You give a tip as a service charge. The haircut was the service and I paid £9.95 for it. So yes, I do want the 5p back. Because it's mine.
I left and walked to the sandwich shop. I watched as the woman behind the counter cut the bread, filled the sandwich and wrapped it. I gave her the exact money and she said thanks. There was no mention of tips.
The positive was that I got to read Martin Samuel's column in the Daily Mail as I sat in the waiting area. He is the best football writer out there by a mile, although since he left The Times I haven't read his stuff that often. The girl doing the haircuts was incredibly slow but fortunately the column is more like a page-and-a-half, so I passed the time.
When the time came for my haircut, the girl looked at me for ages before asking if I wanted to take a seat. I knew already it wasn't going to be the best cut I'd ever had. Once I'd told her what style I wanted (always the same) I sat in silence for a couple of minutes while she got started. The radio was on and everything seemed to be going well until she asked if I was having a nice day. I never like talking when I'm having my hair cut. I just want a trim, not an interview. There should be something attached to the chair or mirror which you can set to 'I'm happy to talk during this haircut' or 'Just do your job and I'll pay at the end'. Some hairdressers/barbers get the hint if you don't say anything to start with, but this one didn't. I just said I was having a nice day, thanks, that I felt my hair had got a bit too long and that's why I was there. It was the most inane comment but it matched the question. After that the haircut proceeded with only the radio and clippers providing noise.
As the haircut finished I was treated to a blast of hot hairdryer air right in the face. Either she meant to get me back for not talking or she just missed the bit of my head where the hair grows. We walked to the till and she said it would be £9.95. I handed over a £10 note and waited for my change. She looked up and said "Oh, do you want the 5p then?" Yes, I do want the 5p. The haircut does not cost £10. Why would I not want it? Is it a tip? You give a tip as a service charge. The haircut was the service and I paid £9.95 for it. So yes, I do want the 5p back. Because it's mine.
I left and walked to the sandwich shop. I watched as the woman behind the counter cut the bread, filled the sandwich and wrapped it. I gave her the exact money and she said thanks. There was no mention of tips.
Sunday, 10 May 2009
May 10
Things are never as good as you remember them being the first time. Holiday destinations are one example. Chicken and chips at Cote restaurant is another. Having twice visited the Richmond branch and twice been delighted at the quality of the food laid before us, Rachel and I headed to Guildford with high hopes. I guess that when you go somewhere with that attitude, you can only be disappointed, and we were. My chicken was gristly and Rachel's mussles were rubbish too. Maybe I should be a food critic with reviews like that.
Before our main courses arrived, I went to the toilets to inject my pre-meal insulin. There was only one cubicle so I went in and locked the door. As I was sorting out the pen, a bloke rushed in, clearly desperate for the loo. Having tried the door and found it locked, he gasped "Oh sh--" and hastily exited. I wonder where he went next.
We ordered puddings - I went for chocolate mousse while Rach chose iced berries with white chocolate sauce. When the waitress brought our cutlery, Rach was given a dessert spoon and I only got a teaspoon. I wasn't happy as I might want to take just as large spoonfuls of my mousse. Rach said it was fair. As we finished off, Rach went to scrape out the small jug of sauce, only to discover her spoon was too big to fit inside. I said that was fair.
Before our main courses arrived, I went to the toilets to inject my pre-meal insulin. There was only one cubicle so I went in and locked the door. As I was sorting out the pen, a bloke rushed in, clearly desperate for the loo. Having tried the door and found it locked, he gasped "Oh sh--" and hastily exited. I wonder where he went next.
We ordered puddings - I went for chocolate mousse while Rach chose iced berries with white chocolate sauce. When the waitress brought our cutlery, Rach was given a dessert spoon and I only got a teaspoon. I wasn't happy as I might want to take just as large spoonfuls of my mousse. Rach said it was fair. As we finished off, Rach went to scrape out the small jug of sauce, only to discover her spoon was too big to fit inside. I said that was fair.
Friday, 8 May 2009
May 8: Guest entry
Ed Poulton says:
"Was in a cafe for lunch when a middle-aged man came in with his wife and sat down at the table opposite. The waitress came to him and was reading the 'Specials of The Day' to them off a board. When she got to "Chicken curry with rice" the man excitedly proclaimed: "Umm, that sounds lovely!" I queried whether that level of excitement was justifiable, given the purely functional description on the board."
"Was in a cafe for lunch when a middle-aged man came in with his wife and sat down at the table opposite. The waitress came to him and was reading the 'Specials of The Day' to them off a board. When she got to "Chicken curry with rice" the man excitedly proclaimed: "Umm, that sounds lovely!" I queried whether that level of excitement was justifiable, given the purely functional description on the board."
May 8
There were two news stories about faces yesterday. The first was the tale of a woman who was shot by her husband but survived, with serious facial injuries. Thanks to modern medicine and technology, she was able to have a face transplant and The Guardian displayed three pictures of her face - before the 'accident', after, and then with the new face. The story was about how the face transplant had been a success but I'm not so sure. The face is picture three is about twice the size of the original and almost a perfect square. The face was wearing glasses but they were at an angle, so presumably the face wasn't quite straight. If that was stage one, fair enough, but not the final product. There must be another face they can try. And what's happened to the person with a square head who now doesn't have a face?
The second story wasn't a photo - in fact, very far from it. The Madeleine McCann story (yes, it's back) has a new twist - a new suspect is out there and there is an artist's impression of what he looks like. Now, I didn't know Quentin Blake was working alongside the Portuguese Police these days, but the suspect may as well be named Mr Twit. He looks like no human I have ever seen before - a triangular-shaped head and almost all of his hair on the left-hand side of his head. Huge ears and nose, a tiny giraffe neck, and mud down his right cheek. If you see this man, please turn the page of your Roald Dahl book.
The second story wasn't a photo - in fact, very far from it. The Madeleine McCann story (yes, it's back) has a new twist - a new suspect is out there and there is an artist's impression of what he looks like. Now, I didn't know Quentin Blake was working alongside the Portuguese Police these days, but the suspect may as well be named Mr Twit. He looks like no human I have ever seen before - a triangular-shaped head and almost all of his hair on the left-hand side of his head. Huge ears and nose, a tiny giraffe neck, and mud down his right cheek. If you see this man, please turn the page of your Roald Dahl book.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
May 5
Spent the weekend with Rachel's family, as her cousin was getting married. We stopped for lunch at Tesco in Dedworth on Sunday afternoon - Rachel stayed in the car with our nephew while her sister and I went in to get food. The kids in there were mental - I saw one standing up in a trolley to reach the highest milk on the shelf, and another tried to grab my receipt as it came out of the self-service till. I won't be going back there.
We decided to go out for a meal in the evening to celebrate Rachel's mum's birthday. She picked a Chinese all-you-can-eat restaurant she had been to before, so we rang up to book a table. The person on the other end of the phone told us it had shut five years ago and re-opened to sell traditional English food. Maybe the Chinese restaurants don't age well, either.
Driving around near Ascot, we came up behind two horses being ridden in the road, side by side. The rule is that you don't drive fast when overtaking them and as it was a windy road, we couldn't get past for a good three minutes. It amazes me that this is still allowed to go on. Either side of the road were large open fields, perfect for the horses to run around in, leaving the roads clear for their proper use. Horse riders are never made to pick up the horse poo that drops in the road, but if you let your dog do that, you'd get an ASBO before you knew it. I know the horse-and-cart was the main mode of transport in this country years ago, but we've moved on since then. Fields are for horses, roads are for cars. Let's keep it that way.
There is a door at the doctors surgery labelled 'Phlebotomist'. I had never heard of the word before so looked it up when I got home - Wikipedia says a phlebotomist is 'an individual trained to draw blood.' Could be a doctor or a vampire then.
We decided to go out for a meal in the evening to celebrate Rachel's mum's birthday. She picked a Chinese all-you-can-eat restaurant she had been to before, so we rang up to book a table. The person on the other end of the phone told us it had shut five years ago and re-opened to sell traditional English food. Maybe the Chinese restaurants don't age well, either.
Driving around near Ascot, we came up behind two horses being ridden in the road, side by side. The rule is that you don't drive fast when overtaking them and as it was a windy road, we couldn't get past for a good three minutes. It amazes me that this is still allowed to go on. Either side of the road were large open fields, perfect for the horses to run around in, leaving the roads clear for their proper use. Horse riders are never made to pick up the horse poo that drops in the road, but if you let your dog do that, you'd get an ASBO before you knew it. I know the horse-and-cart was the main mode of transport in this country years ago, but we've moved on since then. Fields are for horses, roads are for cars. Let's keep it that way.
There is a door at the doctors surgery labelled 'Phlebotomist'. I had never heard of the word before so looked it up when I got home - Wikipedia says a phlebotomist is 'an individual trained to draw blood.' Could be a doctor or a vampire then.
Friday, 1 May 2009
May 1
Went to the pharmacy to collect my first prescription of 'diabetes stuff' - needles, insulin, testing strips. The woman behind the counter took my name and address and went to the back of the shop to speak to a colleague. While she was gone, the postman came in with some letters for the pharmacy. As there was no-one at the counter, he looked for somewhere secure to leave the post as he had to be on his way. Having looked all round, he eventually lifted up a lightweight biro on the counter, put the post down and replaced the biro on top. That would definitely stop anyone nicking it.
It's been two weeks since I first went to the doctors, and I'm gradually getting the hang of the diabetes. I am Type 1 diabetes mellitus which means I need to inject insulin before every meal - the amount of insulin depending on how much carbohydrate is in the meal. Chocolate and pasta have loads of carbs, bread has a bit, meat pretty much none. Despite the fact that I currently test my blood sugar seven times a day and inject four times (including a background shot before bed), the diabetes is far from controlling my daily routine. In fact, it is possible to forget about it, as proved last night when I got halfway through a plate of spag bol before realising I hadn't injected. If my blood sugar levels get high, I can inject some more insulin. If they get too low, I know straight away as my hands will shake and I have the sensation of being drunk. Obviously you want to avoid getting to this point but I'm glad it's happened a couple of times already - once in church and once at home - as I can recognise the feeling instantly and know what to do. Three Dextro tablets do the trick and boost the sugar levels straight up, they have the consistency of Refreshers but taste nicer. I love stats and the book where I record my sugar levels provides endless opportunities to work out weekly averages, lowest post-breakfast reading, you name it, I can calculate it.
While I was in town, I also had to visit our new dentist to hand in some medical records. I'd never been there before and only knew the road it was on. Eventually I found what I thought was the place and walked inside. There were two people in the waiting room so I asked one of them "Is this Chichester Smiles Dentist?" He thought about it for a few seconds and then said yes, it was upstairs. I went up there and handed the woman my forms. She said it was on the other side of the road. I walked downstairs, past the man to the door. I didn't see but he was probably laughing.
It's been two weeks since I first went to the doctors, and I'm gradually getting the hang of the diabetes. I am Type 1 diabetes mellitus which means I need to inject insulin before every meal - the amount of insulin depending on how much carbohydrate is in the meal. Chocolate and pasta have loads of carbs, bread has a bit, meat pretty much none. Despite the fact that I currently test my blood sugar seven times a day and inject four times (including a background shot before bed), the diabetes is far from controlling my daily routine. In fact, it is possible to forget about it, as proved last night when I got halfway through a plate of spag bol before realising I hadn't injected. If my blood sugar levels get high, I can inject some more insulin. If they get too low, I know straight away as my hands will shake and I have the sensation of being drunk. Obviously you want to avoid getting to this point but I'm glad it's happened a couple of times already - once in church and once at home - as I can recognise the feeling instantly and know what to do. Three Dextro tablets do the trick and boost the sugar levels straight up, they have the consistency of Refreshers but taste nicer. I love stats and the book where I record my sugar levels provides endless opportunities to work out weekly averages, lowest post-breakfast reading, you name it, I can calculate it.
While I was in town, I also had to visit our new dentist to hand in some medical records. I'd never been there before and only knew the road it was on. Eventually I found what I thought was the place and walked inside. There were two people in the waiting room so I asked one of them "Is this Chichester Smiles Dentist?" He thought about it for a few seconds and then said yes, it was upstairs. I went up there and handed the woman my forms. She said it was on the other side of the road. I walked downstairs, past the man to the door. I didn't see but he was probably laughing.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
April 30
Rachel and I were in court all day yesterday as she was a witness to a fight between two parents at her school last year. I sat in the public gallery while Rachel waited in the seating area downstairs. Sitting just along from me was the husband of the defendant. As the charge was being read out, he tried to turn his phone off and it went off noisily - not a great start. All the witnesses seemed to have seen something different, or were just lying through their teeth, and the magistrates ended up aquitting the defendant as the evidence was so convoluted. Rachel sat next to me at the back of the court after giving her evidence and we waited for the magistrates to return their verdict. We tried to guess whether it would be guilty or not guilty, a bit like trying to second-guess Sir Alan in the boardroom. OK, hardly like that at all. The security guard in the entrance to the court was a dead ringer for Ricky Tomlinson. Along with the Sainsbury's one who is Peter Kay in Pheonix Nights, who knows how many more TV comedian lookalikes there are in Chichester.
Went to the Post Office as Rachel needed some stamps. We decided to use the self-service hole-in-the-wall outside, which offers stamps 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I didn't think anyone went out for stamps at 2am.
There was a Filofax in House of Fraser which cost £50. I thought this was excessive, especially as it was for 2008.
Went to the Post Office as Rachel needed some stamps. We decided to use the self-service hole-in-the-wall outside, which offers stamps 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I didn't think anyone went out for stamps at 2am.
There was a Filofax in House of Fraser which cost £50. I thought this was excessive, especially as it was for 2008.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
April 28
Everyone's going mental about swine flu. I don't know that much about it, just that people are dying in Mexico but not the US. Apparently it could reach Britain at some point and the WHO (not the band) are close to declaring a pandemic. That's a new word to me, I might look it up later but for now I'd like to point out it has the word 'panic' hidden at either end. That sums it up really.
Monday, 27 April 2009
April 27
Walked to the Post Office in town. As I made my way to the self-service machines, a woman standing at the parcel window shouted at the top of her voice: "Is there any chance I could get some help here?!" A bemused assistant said she would be over in just a minute, to which the woman replied loudly: "Thank goodness for that, I can't stand here much longer." She was so old she probably meant it literally.
Saturday, 25 April 2009
April 25
Helped a couple of friends move house yesterday. The previous occupant had been a really old woman, who had a big mirror hung on one wall in the lounge. I don't know why an old person would want to look at themselves that much, they should just have loads of photos of themselves from when they were younger. If you look old, don't bother with mirrors. Maybe the Chinese go by this rule too.
Tried to re-assemble an IKEA wardrobe in the main bedroom, with limited success. Managed to attach the sides to the base and then the lid, before deciding to try and turn the whole thing 90 degrees so it lay on its side. With one side only held in place by wood glue and the other decidedly wobbly, the descent began in precarious fashion. Where eight hands were needed, we only had four and the wardrobe began to gain excess momentum. The glue did not hold and the base came unstuck. Then the side I was holding began to bend, there was a loud cracking and most of the wardrobe fell to the floor. The next question was: "which part of the dump do we take this to, wood or non-wood?"
I've never understood the concept of 'Miss Universe'. Miss World, fair enough, but I don't know who else is taking part.
Tried to re-assemble an IKEA wardrobe in the main bedroom, with limited success. Managed to attach the sides to the base and then the lid, before deciding to try and turn the whole thing 90 degrees so it lay on its side. With one side only held in place by wood glue and the other decidedly wobbly, the descent began in precarious fashion. Where eight hands were needed, we only had four and the wardrobe began to gain excess momentum. The glue did not hold and the base came unstuck. Then the side I was holding began to bend, there was a loud cracking and most of the wardrobe fell to the floor. The next question was: "which part of the dump do we take this to, wood or non-wood?"
I've never understood the concept of 'Miss Universe'. Miss World, fair enough, but I don't know who else is taking part.
Friday, 24 April 2009
April 24
Returned to the doctors yesterday to order a repeat prescription. The man at the front of the queue said he urgently needed to make an appointment. The receptionist said there weren't any for two weeks so he said "forget it," and stormed out. Not that urgent, then.
Woke up and tested my blood sugar - a perfect 10.0 to start the day. Well, not perfect as I'm aiming for below seven. Ate two imitation Weetabix (Tesco own brand) for breakfast and set off for the diabetes clinic, where I had an appointment at 8am. We talked about Sir Steve Redgrave, who also has diabetes, and managed to win five Olympic golds. I walked home from the clinic in 15 minutes flat. Got to start somewhere.
Woke up and tested my blood sugar - a perfect 10.0 to start the day. Well, not perfect as I'm aiming for below seven. Ate two imitation Weetabix (Tesco own brand) for breakfast and set off for the diabetes clinic, where I had an appointment at 8am. We talked about Sir Steve Redgrave, who also has diabetes, and managed to win five Olympic golds. I walked home from the clinic in 15 minutes flat. Got to start somewhere.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
April 21
I have diabetes.
Four days ago, I had no idea and was headed to my local GP for an appointment which I thought would be routine. Having tested my blood sugar levels - which showed up as being 23 (ideally it should be between four and seven) - the doctor looked worried and asked if I could provide a urine sample. The toilet was at the other end of the corridor, and if anyone had been walking the other way as I made my return journey, there would have been no place to hide. As it was, the sample served only as further proof that diabetes was the most likely cause of my recent weight loss and extreme thirst, and it was next stop St Richard's Hospital.
As we walked through the corridors of the hospital I spotted two huge stone figures - some sort of artistic sculpture. They looked miserable. No-one smiles in hospitals anyway, so they could have made a bit more of an effort to cheer the patients up a bit. We reached the Medical Assessment Unit (MAU) and I was sat on a bed for blood tests, an ECG and that awful needle in the arm thing, later to be linked to a drip. With my only previous stay in hospital - to have my wisdom teeth removed - occurring eight years ago and lasting just a few hours, I felt I was making up for lost time. A nurse came round to offer hot drinks - I asked for a coffee with one sugar. A bad start. I was wheeled down the corridor for a chest x-ray, and when I returned it was steak pie for dinner. This time I had a sweetener in my coffee.
After spending almost all day in the MAU, I was transferred to Petworth Ward. Again I was in a wheelchair, having to push my drip trolley alongside me. One of its five wheels got stuck every few metres so I felt more like a contestant on Beat The Star than a hospital patient. Several minutes and more than one narrow door later, we reached the ward. There were seven others on the ward, including a bodybuilder with swollen legs. He snored loudly all night which made sleeping - already hindered by having to test my blood sugar every two hours - pretty much impossible. The next morning, the bloke next to him asked him how he was doing. "Hardly slept a wink all night," said the bodybuilder. Brilliant.
I stayed in Petworth for two nights before suddenly being told my bed was needed. I was wheeled off once more, this time to Chilgrove ward, in a much newer, much quieter corner of the hospital. This time there were just six of us on the ward, with all the others awaiting operations and taking all sorts of painkillers and other medication. As I sat in bed No 6, feeling in the best health of my life with only a blood sugar meter telling me otherwise, I felt rather the odd one out, and distinctly resentful of the drip trolley which I had to drag everywhere with me - to the toilet, to the TV room, to the other side of the bed. However, the longer I chatted to the others on the ward - about their kidney disease, their heart attacks, their cancer - the more I realised I was being utterly selfish and that my deal was really not quite so bad after all. I have umpteen routines that I perform unthinkingly every day already - why should a couple of insulin injections inconvenience me any more?
There was a fat man in bed No 3 who did nothing but sleep. He snored loudly most of the day and even more loudly at night - yes, worse than the bodybuilder. As I struggled to get off to sleep, I exchanged exasperated glances with the bloke opposite me in bed No 1. He was in for an operation on his shoulder following a mountain biking injury, and apart from the incessant snoring in bed No 3, he couldn't sleep because of the searing pain running down his arm. I too was wide awake, having drunk yet another cup of coffee not so long ago.
A nurse came round in the morning to take our breakfast orders. I asked for two pieces of brown toast with Marmite. She brought one brown piece and one white, with jam and marmalade.
The fat man finally sat up in bed, having slept for approximately 16 hours. He was reading something so I glanced over to see what it was. It was the lunch menu.
I left hospital on Monday evening. In some senses I felt a totally different person to the one that arrived at the doctors surgery on Friday morning. I will now test my blood sugar and inject insulin every day for the rest of my life. I will read the labels on the back of tins, packets and bottles so I know exactly what I'm putting into my body. I can never drive a minibus. On the other hand, though, diabetes is not a restrictive condition - there are no foods I cannot eat (leaving my nut allergy to one side for the sake of this point), no activities I cannot do, no places I cannot go. I had diabetes before Friday - I just didn't know it. I am now wiser and therefore safer. Bring on the rest of my life.
Four days ago, I had no idea and was headed to my local GP for an appointment which I thought would be routine. Having tested my blood sugar levels - which showed up as being 23 (ideally it should be between four and seven) - the doctor looked worried and asked if I could provide a urine sample. The toilet was at the other end of the corridor, and if anyone had been walking the other way as I made my return journey, there would have been no place to hide. As it was, the sample served only as further proof that diabetes was the most likely cause of my recent weight loss and extreme thirst, and it was next stop St Richard's Hospital.
As we walked through the corridors of the hospital I spotted two huge stone figures - some sort of artistic sculpture. They looked miserable. No-one smiles in hospitals anyway, so they could have made a bit more of an effort to cheer the patients up a bit. We reached the Medical Assessment Unit (MAU) and I was sat on a bed for blood tests, an ECG and that awful needle in the arm thing, later to be linked to a drip. With my only previous stay in hospital - to have my wisdom teeth removed - occurring eight years ago and lasting just a few hours, I felt I was making up for lost time. A nurse came round to offer hot drinks - I asked for a coffee with one sugar. A bad start. I was wheeled down the corridor for a chest x-ray, and when I returned it was steak pie for dinner. This time I had a sweetener in my coffee.
After spending almost all day in the MAU, I was transferred to Petworth Ward. Again I was in a wheelchair, having to push my drip trolley alongside me. One of its five wheels got stuck every few metres so I felt more like a contestant on Beat The Star than a hospital patient. Several minutes and more than one narrow door later, we reached the ward. There were seven others on the ward, including a bodybuilder with swollen legs. He snored loudly all night which made sleeping - already hindered by having to test my blood sugar every two hours - pretty much impossible. The next morning, the bloke next to him asked him how he was doing. "Hardly slept a wink all night," said the bodybuilder. Brilliant.
I stayed in Petworth for two nights before suddenly being told my bed was needed. I was wheeled off once more, this time to Chilgrove ward, in a much newer, much quieter corner of the hospital. This time there were just six of us on the ward, with all the others awaiting operations and taking all sorts of painkillers and other medication. As I sat in bed No 6, feeling in the best health of my life with only a blood sugar meter telling me otherwise, I felt rather the odd one out, and distinctly resentful of the drip trolley which I had to drag everywhere with me - to the toilet, to the TV room, to the other side of the bed. However, the longer I chatted to the others on the ward - about their kidney disease, their heart attacks, their cancer - the more I realised I was being utterly selfish and that my deal was really not quite so bad after all. I have umpteen routines that I perform unthinkingly every day already - why should a couple of insulin injections inconvenience me any more?
There was a fat man in bed No 3 who did nothing but sleep. He snored loudly most of the day and even more loudly at night - yes, worse than the bodybuilder. As I struggled to get off to sleep, I exchanged exasperated glances with the bloke opposite me in bed No 1. He was in for an operation on his shoulder following a mountain biking injury, and apart from the incessant snoring in bed No 3, he couldn't sleep because of the searing pain running down his arm. I too was wide awake, having drunk yet another cup of coffee not so long ago.
A nurse came round in the morning to take our breakfast orders. I asked for two pieces of brown toast with Marmite. She brought one brown piece and one white, with jam and marmalade.
The fat man finally sat up in bed, having slept for approximately 16 hours. He was reading something so I glanced over to see what it was. It was the lunch menu.
I left hospital on Monday evening. In some senses I felt a totally different person to the one that arrived at the doctors surgery on Friday morning. I will now test my blood sugar and inject insulin every day for the rest of my life. I will read the labels on the back of tins, packets and bottles so I know exactly what I'm putting into my body. I can never drive a minibus. On the other hand, though, diabetes is not a restrictive condition - there are no foods I cannot eat (leaving my nut allergy to one side for the sake of this point), no activities I cannot do, no places I cannot go. I had diabetes before Friday - I just didn't know it. I am now wiser and therefore safer. Bring on the rest of my life.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
April 16
Nipped out to Tesco for a few pizza toppings. On the way out, I saw a bloke entering the store, carrying a microwave under one arm. I tried to work out what on earth he was doing, but then gave up.
A woman was power-walking to her car, holding a bunch of flowers. She was holding them upside down and the petals were dropping onto the tarmac as she walked. If the flowers cost £5, she must have lost 50p worth by the time she got to her car.
I needed to book a doctors appointment so walked round to the surgery, which is only ten minutes from the flat. The old woman in front of me was booking a blood test and taking a fairly long time over it. The receptionist asked her if Friday was OK, and she said yes. The receptionist asked if 8.55 was OK, and the old woman said she would prefer a later slot. "How about 9.10?" the receptionist suggested. "That would be great," said the old woman. I wonder what was so important that it was keeping her at home for the extra 15 minutes. Having booked my appointment, I turned to go and saw a traffic warden at the back of the queue. That was the last person I expected to see.
A woman was power-walking to her car, holding a bunch of flowers. She was holding them upside down and the petals were dropping onto the tarmac as she walked. If the flowers cost £5, she must have lost 50p worth by the time she got to her car.
I needed to book a doctors appointment so walked round to the surgery, which is only ten minutes from the flat. The old woman in front of me was booking a blood test and taking a fairly long time over it. The receptionist asked her if Friday was OK, and she said yes. The receptionist asked if 8.55 was OK, and the old woman said she would prefer a later slot. "How about 9.10?" the receptionist suggested. "That would be great," said the old woman. I wonder what was so important that it was keeping her at home for the extra 15 minutes. Having booked my appointment, I turned to go and saw a traffic warden at the back of the queue. That was the last person I expected to see.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
April 15
Made my first ever visit to IKEA. It's massive, and the restaurant is the first thing you come to - it should be the last. In the bathroom department, there was a sink twice the width of a normal one, with two sets of taps and an extra-wide mirror on the wall. Maybe it had been designed especially for conjoined twins.
Monday, 13 April 2009
April 13
For dessert on Easter Sunday, there were two tubs of Häagen-Dazs ice cream on the table alongside a cheesecake. One was labelled 'Dulce de Leche', so I asked why the flavour wasn't written in English. "Because it's a foreign flavour," I was told. Fair enough, except the other tub was labelled 'Belgian Chocolate'. Since then, I've discovered that Dulce de Leche translates as 'milk jam'. I'm glad I didn't have any.
Bumped into Portsmouth FC midfielder Hayden Mullins at a BP petrol station. He was wearing a grey tracksuit and bought a baguette.
Bumped into Portsmouth FC midfielder Hayden Mullins at a BP petrol station. He was wearing a grey tracksuit and bought a baguette.
Saturday, 11 April 2009
April 11
Went to Spring Harvest in Minehead. All the talks were delivered from a big stage, with sign language available for the deaf. This seemed a really good idea, until I noticed that the words for the songs were up on the huge screens at either side of the stage. No need for both.
Watched a TV programme about disabled people who trekked across the Sahara, or something. The group split into those who had been disabled all their lives and those who had become disabled. One of the men had fingers instead of arms and played pool with his feet. The next morning, I was thinking about the programme when I noticed a boy with one arm that ended at the elbow. I was fascinated until I walked past him and saw he was just scratching his back.
A woman was carrying a baby in one of those slings. As she ran, the baby's head rolled from side to side and bounced up and down. I thought that's why pushchairs were invented.
Watched a TV programme about disabled people who trekked across the Sahara, or something. The group split into those who had been disabled all their lives and those who had become disabled. One of the men had fingers instead of arms and played pool with his feet. The next morning, I was thinking about the programme when I noticed a boy with one arm that ended at the elbow. I was fascinated until I walked past him and saw he was just scratching his back.
A woman was carrying a baby in one of those slings. As she ran, the baby's head rolled from side to side and bounced up and down. I thought that's why pushchairs were invented.
Friday, 3 April 2009
April 3
Caught the train up to Putney yesterday, a good opportunity to read the paper - full of the G20 summit (front 12 pages) and World Cup qualifiers (back 11 pages). Spent an enjoyable day watching ESPN Classic, losing the World Cup semi-final as Spain on Pro Evolution Soccer and seeing two bizarres get ejected from the Slug & Lettuce. I did travel up to see a friend, in case you're thinking I did all this alone. My train home was formed of eight coaches, and would divide at Horsham. This reminded me of space shuttles, where the orbiter vehicle makes the useful journey into space while the tank and boosters simply fall away and serve no further purpose once separate from the shuttle. I travelled in the front four coaches, headed for Chichester and Portsmouth. The rear four continued to Bognor Regis.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
April 1
Went for a meal at Las Iguanas last night. Not many restaurants have such a good name, so I began to look into the characteristics of iguanas. Apparently they have excellent eyesight which helps them see through crowded areas as well as finding food. Both good qualities for a waitress to have. They use visual symbols to communicate with members of the same species. This is helpful as restaurants are noisy places. Finally, they are very good at hiding. We waited ages for our table to be cleared, just as our car parking ticket was racking up another hour in the multi-storey.
Saw a bloke in the street selling those bubble guns you fill with washing-up liquid. His sales technique was to stand there looking bored and blow bubbles around, willy-nilly. I assumed that only the stupidest people would be convinced into buying one as they walked through town. Ten seconds later I spotted a fat man in a grubby vest holding one of the bubble guns and blowing bubbles into the face of his baby son from point-blank range. I felt my assumption was justified.
Business was booming at the sandwich shop and the queue was a fair length. Immediately behind me was a very impatient old man who kept tutting and looking through the glass. Eventually the person being served emerged from the shop with his food, only to be accosted by the old fellow. "I've been queueing for 15 minutes," he said. "What are they doing in there?" I don't know what sort of answer he expected. He gave up waiting and walked off.
Saw a bloke in the street selling those bubble guns you fill with washing-up liquid. His sales technique was to stand there looking bored and blow bubbles around, willy-nilly. I assumed that only the stupidest people would be convinced into buying one as they walked through town. Ten seconds later I spotted a fat man in a grubby vest holding one of the bubble guns and blowing bubbles into the face of his baby son from point-blank range. I felt my assumption was justified.
Business was booming at the sandwich shop and the queue was a fair length. Immediately behind me was a very impatient old man who kept tutting and looking through the glass. Eventually the person being served emerged from the shop with his food, only to be accosted by the old fellow. "I've been queueing for 15 minutes," he said. "What are they doing in there?" I don't know what sort of answer he expected. He gave up waiting and walked off.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
March 31
You never see a happy jogger. Whether they're grimacing, perspiring or on the verge of collapsing, they're certainly never grinning, and why should they? Running alone, inhaling traffic fumes and getting splashed with muddy water every time a wide vehicle storms past. You can't 'win' at jogging - there's no finishing tape, only a scrabble for the house keys on finishing a run. At least the running machines in gyms have TVs - comedy, sport and soap operas to bring a smile to the weary athlete's face. A jogger has nothing to watch except the tarmac disappearing beneath them and stretching for miles ahead. Even dustmen are more cheerful.
I saw a girl walk out of the motorbike shop, wearing a t-shirt, tracksuit trousers and carrying two squash rackets. She was looking really confused. I thought nothing of it and continued walking down the road. She then overtook me, alongside an older man I presumed to be her Dad, and they walked into the sports shop. I was listening to my iPod and so couldn't hear what the man was saying to her, but I imagine it was along the lines of "how could you make a mistake like that?"
The numbers of goths seem to have dropped in recent years, but I saw two today. Both were kitted out in all black as you would expect, although one was wearing white trainers with fluorescent green laces. I wondered if he was trying to set a new trend or if he'd just lost his Dr Martens.
I saw a girl walk out of the motorbike shop, wearing a t-shirt, tracksuit trousers and carrying two squash rackets. She was looking really confused. I thought nothing of it and continued walking down the road. She then overtook me, alongside an older man I presumed to be her Dad, and they walked into the sports shop. I was listening to my iPod and so couldn't hear what the man was saying to her, but I imagine it was along the lines of "how could you make a mistake like that?"
The numbers of goths seem to have dropped in recent years, but I saw two today. Both were kitted out in all black as you would expect, although one was wearing white trainers with fluorescent green laces. I wondered if he was trying to set a new trend or if he'd just lost his Dr Martens.
Monday, 30 March 2009
March 30
The clocks went forward on Saturday night. Well, they didn't go forward, we moved them forward. Talk quickly started of how evenings will now be longer. No - the evenings are exactly the same length of time, we have just attributed a different number to the point where daylight slips away. The fact that the sun is still shining while you eat your tea is nothing to do with someone adding an extra hour. The clock is still the same size. There is no extra hour. Fair enough, farmers needed to gain or lose the odd hour years ago but can't we get rid of it these days? Abolish the time changes in March and October and let's just run by the same watch all year round. Come on - we're living in the past. Literally, if you haven't changed your clock yet.
Walked to the sandwich shop at lunchtime. The man at the other counter asked for curry filling only to be told there was none. His second choice was prawn mayo. That surprised me.
Every weekday since Woolworths closed, a man has appeared in North Street, not 50 yards from the now-empty shop, selling Pic 'n' Mix off a trolley. Every cloud...
Walked to the sandwich shop at lunchtime. The man at the other counter asked for curry filling only to be told there was none. His second choice was prawn mayo. That surprised me.
Every weekday since Woolworths closed, a man has appeared in North Street, not 50 yards from the now-empty shop, selling Pic 'n' Mix off a trolley. Every cloud...
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