Warm as a cucumber

For a few weeks now, our milk has mysteriously been going off before the use by date has arrived. Raspberries have been turning mouldy, yoghurt has starting blinking and Babybel cheeses have . . . well, stayed exactly the same because you could put them in a nostalgic time capsule, bury them in tarmac and dig them up to show on Blue peter in twenty years and they wouldn't have changed at all.

But lots of our fresh stuff has been displaying a remarkable grasp of comestible entropy, and I don't like it.

It's like living in the middle ages.

I wonder if they had use by dates in the middle ages?

Turnip. Display until sold. Use prior to decomposition.

Anyway, in this modern, technological world we've been living in since the Year 2000 heralded the arrival of the future, I presumed that the fridge I entrusted my perishables to would've have been able to fulfill it's primary purpose and stopped stuff, you know, rotting and that. Apparently not.

Still, it's a few years old now and, because nothing is built to last anymore, one must expect it to go wrong at some point.

First things first, I ate a space through to the back of the fridge so I could get a good look inside:

After rapidly considering the merits of a ham and cheese toastie, making it, eating it and then hiding my plate, I had a good look round for anything like a badly set temperature control in there that might explain the unseasonably warm innards?

There it is:
A dial labelled 'temperature' and set to 'low'.

Damn. If it's as low as it can go, then it must be broken, and you can bet your bottom salad shelf that it won't be an easy DIY repair, but some tiny, complex mechanism that can only be obtained from the Bupyeong province of Korea, where it is carved from the sternums of Asiatic black bears by artisan monks and costing the best part of fifty quid.

Sighing, I informed Mrs The Jules that, sadly, the refrigerator had packed up and we would need to spend cash that we didn't have on a new one, unless that one we saw dumped in the local Site of Special Scientific Interest was still there in which case I could just empty the badgers out of it, load it on the trailer and bring it home.

"What do the instructions say?" she asked, completely unreasonably.

I shook my head at her and her little ways, smiled gently and informed her that they would presumably tell me to get a qualified electrician in to fit a plug, to put food in it that you want to keep cold and to refrain from shutting children in it, even annoying ones.

"Presumably?" she asked, equally unreasonably.

"Well, I'm not actually going to waste time reading instructions when it's patently obvious that it's not working, that the temperature is set to as low as it can go on the dial and it's still quite balmy inside, am I? What's the point?"

I am suddenly aware that I am talking to nobody, as Mrs The Jules trots off and returns half a minute later with the fridge instruction booklet which I haven't seen for four years since we bought it, and pointlessly begins leafing through it.

I start wondering if I can afford a Smeg fridge, because who wouldn't want smeg in their kitchen. Unfortunately, we would need to take out another mortgage to afford one, and it would be ironic if we did get one and subsequently starved because we couldn't then afford to buy any food to put in it.

A few minutes later, the wife tapped the bottom of one of the pages, reminding me that the dials in the fridge would've been designed by engineers, and so one shouldn't take what's written on them too literally:

Apparently, Temperature Low is the warmest setting.

To make it cold, one must turn the temperature gauge to High.

Obviously.

I gnashed my teeth, shrugged my shoulders and held out my hands with thumbs facing outwards in the universally recognised posture of resigned exasperation, letting the universe at large know about the failings of people other than myself.

"Its a bloody good job they don't make altimeters!" I called to Mrs The Jules as she replaced the instructions back in whatever mysterious realm they came from.

A drawer probably.

Then I went and turned the fridge temperature down. Or up. No, down.

Definitely possibly down.

Flaw and order

September arrives in a flurry of unremarkableness, and I note that I appear to have become one of those bloggers who posts about every week and a half, sometimes even less.

Harrumph.

At present, I feel I have achieved something if, at the end of the day, the children haven't been grievously injured, starved or rounded up by the social services child catcher protection unit.

Blogging has slid down my list of priorities, along with sleeping, socialising and going to the toilet.

I might write to my bosses to suggest they give me paid time off and a laptop so I can get a reasonable shot at spewing my random cerebral diarrhoea onto the internets. They're very understanding and only have our best personal interests at heart, so I can reasonably expect to be pleasantly accommodated.

In fact, it might behove me to write to my MP and ask for my own personal bylaw that says I have to blog, and anyone who stops me is in breach of my civil liberties. Yeah, there's a vote winner.

Thinking about it, having personalised laws might be a tad unwieldy. Every case would be setting a precedent, so there's a possibility of it not working.

How about a spectrum of law though, with each individual allowed to sit on a different part of that spectrum depending on how reliable and sensible they are?

I'm onto something here. Stay with me.

For instance, a particularly competent driver would be allowed to travel at 120 mph on the motorway and not be fined for it, whereas someone driving a Clio with racing cans, widened wheel arches and a fake gear dump valve sound would not be allowed to drive at over 30 mph, and they would have to keep the car in third gear at all times, even when starting off. Rover drivers would be told they must at least try and get up to the speed limit, even if they only get within ten or twelve mph of it. But at least they will have tried.

Someone who does lots of charitable work and donates their free time to the community should totally be allowed to shoplift, but the inveterate, unrepentant pilferer should have those collars they use to stop dogs biting out their stitches after an operation put on their hands whenever they go to Tesco.

Relatively sensible, happy, non-depressive alternative-reality enthusiasts should not be punished for taking drugs (which could be legally produced in government controlled (and taxed) hydroponics centres). Angry drunks should be limited to a glass of room temperature Liebfraumilch every alternate Thursday lunchtime.

Actually, that's probably a bit too draconian. Nobody should be forced to drink that stuff, and anybody who does so voluntarily should be offered free counselling to find out why they like to hurt themselves so.

Anyway, as the voices of reason and unfettered conscience of humanity, bloggers would obviously be placed at the top end of the law spectrum, and be allowed to get away with just about anything as long as they were going to write about it later on, strictly monitored by the Department of Blogging (DoB).

Common sense, really.

This plan could alleviate the overcrowding in prisons that newspapers are constantly haranguing us about whilst simultaneously gnashing their spleens over too short jail sentences. With my plan, someone accused, and indeed guilty, of an offense could be retrospectively promoted to a higher level on the law-scale, and thus instantly become not guilty of breaking the law. Everyone's a winner.

Except, maybe, any victims, but they don't really contribute to society other than to remind us what a bad place the world is, so we'd have to sweep them under the social shag pile. No change there then.

Of course, there is going to need to be sensible discourse on what laws are going to be kept, which ones repealed and how each person is judged as to their merit and where they should be placed on the law-spectrum. The arbiter would have to be a sort of super-judge, and particularly special. Somebody modest, humble and wise beyond their years, someone who can talk with crowds but keep their virtue. One who is able to walk with kings yet not lose the common touch.

A difficult position which should be amply rewarded in terms of fame and remuneration.

Can I reluctantly suggest myself?

This is obvioulsy a rhetorical question.

Of course, I realise that society changes slowly, unless it's gadget related, and thus the laws of the land are unlikely to be completely replaced by a novel approach for a couple of years yet, so I will just have to be patient.

In the meantime, as the old adage adages at us, rules are put there for the guidance of the wise, and the blind obedience of the foolish.

So, mostly blind obedience then.

Bang goes the baby's head

Psst.

Wanna see a hairy baby?

Course you do:

That's Bonobo, and she's 5 and a half months old. Combing her hair is a two person job, and we're getting resigned to the fact that, conversation starter or not, it's going to have to get trimmed soon.

The conversations invariably go something like this:

OLD DEAR: "Ooh pretty, how old?"
ME: "Five months."
OD: "You must be very GOOD GRIEF LOOK AT THAT HAIR!"
ME: "Yes, she has got quite a bi . . ."
OD: "Marge! MARGE! Come and look at this hairy baby!"
OTHER OLD DEAR: "What's that Pru?"
OD: "This baby. It's very very hairy."
ME: "She."
OD (nodding): "She's very very hairy, Marge. Very hairy baby!"
OOD: "Well, babies do seem to have lots of hair these d . . . WHOA!"
OD: "See?"
OOD : "Yes. Yes I do. That really is a very hairy baby."
OD: "Isn't it though?"
OOD: "It really is."
ME: "She."
OD and OOD (both nodding): "She. She's very hairy, isn't it?"

Then they wander off, leaving Bonobo smiling like a loon because she loves the attention.

And so do I, if I'm honest. I don't mind the extra twenty minutes it takes to get round Asda Waitrose because of being stopped every few metres by her adoring public.

The question I find odd is quite a common one.

"Is she good?"

What does that mean?

"Is she good?"
"Well, no, not really. She's already robbed a couple of post offices and I found her crudely drawn plan to poison the water supply unless she's given free access to boobs for the foreseeable future."

Actually, I wonder if that would work?

What I think people really mean by "Is she good" is "Does she sleep a lot?". Personally, I reckon she is a good baby because, whilst she doesn't sleep that much, she's usually happy, giggling and loves human interaction, and only gets upset for good reason (like not having boobs when she wants them, which a lot of us can identify with).

All babies are good. Annoying sometimes, but good.

So, next week, we're going to go to a specially trained lady who knows how to cut childrens hair, including babies, and miraculously leave them with roughly the same number of ears they came in with. Having previously attempted the task myself, I now have no compunction against paying someone else to do it, because it's like trying to shave an angry cat on a roller coaster.

Oddly, it will be a bit of a wrench having some of her womb-grown barnet removed, but we have to be pragmatic. If we leave it any longer, the lugs will get unmanageable and we'll be introducing her as a tiny rasta.

Have no fear though, because, should we regret having Bonobo's locks trimmed, there is an immediate solution, found through the ever-giving magic of the internet. Can I warn you not to click on the link below if you are of a tasteful disposition:

Babybangs

The only way that could be improved is by the addition of gold hoopy earrings and a velour tracksuit with a playboy bunny motif on the arse.

I might book her in for her first tattoo while I'm there. It would have to be something classy and timeless.

Any suggestions?

Training vs reality

To demonstrate the utter glamour of my job as a paramedic, I thought I would break from my usual banal witterings and actually do an ambulance related blog.

I won't subject you to this sort of thing very often, as there are lots of perfectly competent and more serious ambulance blogs out there which do the job much betterer than I could, but you'll forgive the occasional lapse, I hope.

As you can imagine, we attend incidents involving explosions and grenade accidents and helicopters crashing into coaches on the motorway on a daily basis, which can get a bit mundane, so I thought I would relate to you a more exotic scenario, and the possible differences between our training and reality.

Training
Approach scene with care, being aware of dangers both to yourself, your crewmate and the patient.
Reality
Look around for crewmate. On own. Again.
*Door bell*
No answer
*Knock*
No answer
*Heavier knock and doorbell*
No answer.
*Psychotic knock usually heard just prior to someone using axe and poking head through resulting hole in a 'Here's Johnny!' stylee*
No answer.
Check door.
Door open.
Loud telly noises coming from within.
"Hello?"
No answer.
"Hello, ambulance!"
No answer.
"AMBULANCE!"
No answer.
Walk through hallway and into lounge.
Old couple sitting in comfy chairs, watching the One Show with volume turned up to eleven.
"Hello?"
Watch both people jump with fright. Note that the frail looking man clutches chest and goes a bit blue. Make mental note of chest clutching blueness.

Training
Wear appropriate personal protective equipment, including latex gloves.
Reality
Know that old ladies view rubber gloves with the utmost suspicion, and will presume you are wearing them solely to avoid leaving finger prints whilst you steal their Jack Russel and molest their china, so keep them in pocket until really needed, which probably won't be long.

Training
Call for help.
Reality
I am the help.

Training
Assess airway.
Reality
Patients are smoking, so airway's probably patent.

Training
Assess circulation
Reality
Man is blue but waving fag lighter at you, so probably has got a pulse.

Training
Introduce yourself
Reality
Shout "Ambulance!" into his ear five times, point at your badge, then your bag, then the ambulance parked outside his window, point at the telly, ask if you can turn it off as you're turning it off, shout "Ambulance!" again, man points at his ears, eventually go to his bedroom, get his hearing aid off bedside table, blow dust off it, put it in enormous ear, take it out, change the battery, put it back in again, wait for the high pitched scream that tells you it's working, then shout "Hello!". Man says hello back loudly, puts his thumbs up, then asks who you are.

Training
Identify and assess patient as you approach, such as colour, position, and signs of distress.
Reality
Note with quiet alarm at just how ill the man looks. Man coughs from effort of talking to you, goes blue and clutches his chest again.
Then he smiles and says "It's my wife."

Training
Get appropriate patient observations, such as pulse, blood pressure, oxygen saturation levels, ECG etc.
Reality
Look at lady, who looks a lot weller than her husband. Double check that she is definitely the patient. Ask her what the problem is, to which she nods enthusiastically and says "They don't know a good mushroom when they see one, you know!"

Training
Establish medical history of presenting complaint.
Reality
Ask husband what the matter is? Husband shouts that she's gone "all funny" on him.

Training
Identify problem
Reality
Sniff patient. Ask if she's had a wee today. Note that she screws her face up in distaste at the memory of it. Problem identified. Decide to confirm urinary tract infection with urinalysis dipstick.
"Could you do a wee, Muriel?"
"In the war, yes!"
"No, a wee? Could you spend a penny for me? So I can get a sample?"
"Did they!?"
"No, a wee!?"
"Did we?"
"No, A WEE!"
Do mime. Regret doing mime. Look at husband, who is trying not to laugh. Ask husband to help, as maybe exotic accent isn't getting through.
Husband takes sample pot and waves it at his wife.
"PISS!" he shouts at her

She nods, takes the pot and wanders off, coming back with sample and wet hand.

Training
Identify appropriate care pathway for patient
Reality
Home

Training
Give patient appropriate treatment.
Reality
Get antibiotics and go through their use eleven times with both people. Write it down on a sheet of paper and give it the lady, who folds it into a stamp sized cube and puts it in her purse.

Training
Ensure family has appropriate care level in place.
Reality
Ask husband if he's feeling all right. Nod sagely as he proudly tells you he's never had a day sick in his life, and never been to see his GP, despite smoking forty a day for half a century. Help him back into chair after coughing fit dislodges him. Wait for him to go from bluey-grey to pink again and take opportunity of holding his arm to surreptitiously take his pulse.

Pulse goes "Di-di-di-dit dit de-dah di-dah-dit dah di-dah dah dah di-dah dah-di-dah-dit dah-di-dah"

Make concerned face as this spells out HEART ATTACK in Morse code, a late sign of myocardial infarction

Ask if patient has got any chest pain and if so, for how long? Patient answers "Yes, since 1982."

Ask if patient would like an ECG, as I've got it here anyway? Patient asks how much it costs, and agrees when he finds out it's free.

Take eleven layers of clothes off patient. It is July. Patient is hairier than a gibbon in a sweater. Use NHS issue razorless razor to flatten down a couple of the hairs prior to attachment of electrodes.

Print off ECG. Computer informs you that noisy Data means it can't identify the rhythm for you so you've got to do it yourself. Sigh. Read strip. Read strip again. Sigh again.

Put on encouraging smile and get down to eye level with patient before gently informing him he might be having a heart attack and that we should go to hospital immediately to reduce the risks of, you know, dying and that.

Begin calling for back up on radio.

"No ta." says the man, counting his cigarettes.

"Er . . . remember the heart attack thing we talked about."

"Yep." says the man, who then says that, if he's going to go, then this seems like a better way than many, in his own house, and that you're not to tell his wife.

Training
None
Reality
Eventually leave patient in house, having signed a disclaimer and grudgingly accepted the possibility of a doctor's visit at home with an eye on persuading him to go to hospital. Chap waves a cheery goodbye from the door, unlit fag in hand, blue lips smiling contentedly and probably not thinking of quitting smoking.

Return to station.

Training
Reflect on issue, write down reflection and include it in Portfolio of Continuing Professional Development, perhaps with some references on patient autonomy and the cornerstones of medical ethics.
Reality
Have a cup of tea.
Discuss with colleagues, who offer helpful advice like "Ooh, fancy that!" and "Bourbon cream?".

Get call out for elderly lady who has fallen on the floor and is having troubles getting up again.


There you go. Like something out of casualty, innit?

Karen Woo

The news has recently reported the tragic death in Afganistan of a young doctor whilst travelling back from treating patients in outlying regions.

Her name was Dr Karen Woo, and she had a blog, which I've just read.

It's good.

She died along with nine other people in what was either a robbery or a vague politico-religious assault, but was definitely an unjustified and deeply stupid attack showing an utter lack of respect for life by the perpetrators.

I have no supernatural faith, no religion, no belief in an afterlife, and I've never seen or read any evidence that humans have a soul or a spirit or any purpose other than that which we have created for ourselves, or that we are anything more or less than beautifully evolved biological mechanisms.

What we do have is a life.

Whatever happens, and for however long that life is, what can never be taken away is the simple fact that we existed, and will always have existed.

Taking life is far easier than preventing someone dying, and Dr Woo lived on the far side of the moral spectrum from her murderers.

Sometimes, I'm not lighthearted.

No apologies.

Order and chaos

Whilst utilising the ablutionary facilities at our local hospital following a satisfying poo, I couldn't help but notice a noticeable notice informing me that something was Out Of Order.

Having re-read that sentence, two things have just occurred to me. The first is that the provision of such information could be classified as a bit on the "too much" side, and the second is the possibility that I might have given the impression I have to go to hospital to have a poo.

Let me put your feverish minds at rest, because I don't have to. In fact, the finest pooologist in the hospital* has told me, repeatedly, that I don't need to go there any more, and that maybe I shouldn't have been all these years anyway, and furthermore my argument incorporating the outrageous expense of paper and the dearth of dock leaves in my garden isn't considered a medical emergency by even the most eminent gastrointestinal specialists, apparently.

There. Now if, as in modern kid parlance, that is considered "TMI" then so is informing everyone of the most mundane detail of my life, like how I like to slam my willy in the fridge door whilst balancing a frying pan full of eggs on my head.

And that's just a domestic chore essentially.

Ooh, a digression. Did you see that? Just there. Yeah, I know.

Now where was I?

Oh yes, the Out of Order sign. Well, it wasn't the notice itself that prickled my curiosity, but it's location:

It was just taped to the wall.

I prodded the wall, but it seemed to be working. I looked above and below the sign, but there was naught to be seen but a cockroach, and that also seemed to be functioning normally.

Maybe the whole room was Out of Order. If so, a janitor was going to have a nasty surprise in the morning after my visit.

Perhaps it was out of numerical order.

1,2,3,4,toilet,9,10.

Maybe it was angry, that sort of out of order.

"Poo in me would ya! Why I oughta . . ."

Maybe it was misspelled and should have read Out Of Ordure, or possibly Out of Odour?

Well, I certainly fixed either of them possibilities.

Fixed 'em good.

Then it occurred to me that, perhaps, the Out Of Order notice was for a window, which was so out of order it had completely disappeared. You don't get less workable as a window than a solid wall.

That totally makes sense BTW.

After the usual hour or so of contemplation you get sitting on the lav, it occurred to me that the wall was, in fact, simply a storage facility for the Out Of Order sign, rather than out of order itself.

This is quite interesting because it makes one consider the difficulties in placing an unrequired Out of Order sign in an appropriate place, without it causing that place to then be rendered unused.

To conclude, I really shouldn't post after three quarters of a bottle of Vin de Pays d'Oc and an empty stomach.



*Dirty Rosita, in Laundry Services.

Healthy beating

When one is contemplating health issues, the first thing I like to be aware of is my pituitary gland:

Well, not the first thing, obviously.

Like everyone else, the first thing is my adrenal cortex. One should take care of that.

"How ya doin' there little buddy? Kidneys treating you all right? Giving you some support? Good. Very good. Let me know if they give you any gyp, and I'll have a word. They sometimes like to take the piss. Keep up the exciting work."

The above poster, strangely in the toilet at work, is from The Pituitary Foundation, which aims to increase awareness of the functions of the pituitary gland and raise money for people suffering from pituitary disorders.

They've not really chosen the easiest of charities to publicise. With medical issues, like telly and politics, people have limited attention spans and only like or understand a single issue at a time.

Pretty easy if you're going for one of the biggies, like STROKE! Or even something that is wide ranging but can be summed up in one emotive word. Like CANCER! Or a more popular choice, such as HEART ATTACK! All of these benefit from being (relatively) simple to comprehend, and the fact that Uncle Bob's funny turn happened to be one of them, or all of them.

Poor dizzy, lumpy, clutchy Uncle Bob.

The pituitary gland just does too much . . . stuff.

Feeling hungry That'll be the pituitary gland. Horny? Pituitary gland. Angry? A certain P. Gland. Sad? Have a guess. Begins with P. Ends in Ituitary gland. Too tall? Too fat? Diabetic? Blood pressure problems? Too Hot? Too cold? Not lactating when you should be? Lactating when you shouldn't be? And so on and so forth.

Gregory House MD (a fictional medical reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes portrayed by Bertie Wooster off of on the telly) would probably solve most of his cases a bit quicker if he just growled "Pit-oo-it-erry glend" at his underlings, cos it's probably going to have something to do with their problem. Then they could do all the tests and doctoring and what-not in order to find a cure while he does something spectacularly mean to the patient which turns out to be for the patient's own good because, although he's grumpy, deep down he's on the cusp of regaining his faith in human nature, and it's only been five or six series so, you know, early days.

I like House.

It's not Pituitary's fault though. I mean, no self respecting gland would take on all that responsibility when it could just kick back and chillax as a minor endocrine gland, occasionally churning out a hormone when it feels like it, or maybe as a passive sort of tissue which fulfils it's role just by being there. Like hair.

Man, hair has it easy.

But no, the pituitary gland has been around for such a long time, evolutionarily speaking, that it's just got more and more important in controlling so many basic functions of the body. That's the problem with doing your best in any job. If you show you're good at sweeping up, some bugger will come along and give you a bigger broom. Or put you in charge of hydroregulation in the human body.

It's an argument for doing you averagest in any given position.

The only upside is the cool epithet it has earned itself. "The Master Gland". How awesome is that?

That really, was the gist of this quick post. I like to impart some wisdom in my day to day dealings with the world, and today's lesson is; "Never Do Your Best"

Otherwise, you might end up looking like a complete master gland.