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.

Time flies like a banana.

I can't believe it's the end of June already and this month I've done a grand total of two posts.

Two?

Nothing wrong with two. As an amount, it is often perfectly adequate. Two scoops of ice cream, great. Two athletic lingerie models in bed, no argument from me there. As a euphemism, a number two is very hand for talking to old people about bowel movements. As a number, it's quite useful as a segregation between one and three, who have to be kept separate as they are a bit odd.

As a quantity of blog posts over a month though - unacceptable. Before the Department of Blogging demands I commit seppuku, I really should get another one in.

So, what else have I been doing to make bloggaging such a rare event? Something exciting, and awesome, maybe involving ninjas and pirates and bears and T. rexes with laser beams coming out of their freaking eyes, possibly?

Well, there's . . . er . . . work, obviously, and overtime, which is also work, and there's chores, and parenting duties such as playschool and swimming for my son, and letting the baby Bonobo gnaw on my finger with her gums, whilst she presumably tries to cover her entire body in some sort of spit cocoon to protect herself against predators and I wonder if my finger will ever revert back to an unwrinkled state.

Other than that . . ?

Well, that appears to be everything.

Looks like I can safely hang up my Cloak of Fun and the Spangly Top Hat of Adult Orientated Entertainment, because I'm now sporting the Beige Slacks of Parental Encumbrance and the Sensible Cardigan of Steadfast Culpability.

I expect one day, when I've done my ninth Sudoku in a row and am just about to spend some hours deciding whether to have semolina or rice pudding for dessert before Nurse notices I'm out of bed again, I'll look back on this hectic period as the halcyon days, as my prime, maybe as some of the happiest times of my life.

At the moment though, I just feel knackered.

Still, famous for my rock-like stoicism, I understand that harping on about not having enough hours in the day is ungrateful, so I will never mention it or complain about it, and I definitely won't do something as needy and self-serving as moan about it in a blog or something.

But that's only because I don't have time to write the damn thing.

Moving on.

I walked into town a few days ago to visit the supermarket (yawn), the post office (double yawn) and the bank (gaping, Herculean yawn seen just prior to descent into vegetative state from sheer lack of interest in the subject at hand), and remembered that, once, I took pleasure from taking random photos in order to post them on The Gravel Farm.

It occurred to me that I hadn't done that for a while, and now I am more likely to simply power walk my way to a destination, head down to avoid distraction so I can calculate the most efficient route from start to finish that will enable me to complete the journey ahead as effectively as possible, much like a German tourist in a particularly beautiful location.

Well, not today, I thought, rebelling. Just like when I was a teenager and rebelled against my strict hierarchical upbringing by trying a lager rather than a bitter, and not caring if my Dad found out and threatened to disown me.

Turns out he's tried lager too, although it was when he was young and impressionable.

On this walk, I would revert to earlier days, when I was blogging more frequently and could go out with the sole purpose of looking around for pictographic opportunities.

So, head up, phone out, camera on!

Ooh, a kitty!

Cats are usually good for a laugh, gambolling playfully on the pavement and often rolling over to show you their fluffy tummies, ready for some hard core petting action. What with the popularity of lolcats and their ilk, a cute pussy pic would be just the tonic for this blog.

I drew closer, and photographed my very own lolcat:

Ew . . .

Trust me to find possibly the most depressed looking feline this side of Korea.

It blinked at me, first the left eye then, a couple of seconds later, the right eye, and through pitiful cat tears it tried bravely to meow, but all that came out was "heehurgh." Like a tiny, overworked donkey.

Not wanting to lower my mood, I hastily left Waitingtodiecat on it's driveway, dreaming of past glories and a healthy if long gone youth, back in the day before it began to look like one of it's own fur balls, and I made my way to town with a forced cheery grin.

My town (which is essentially a large village) is famous round these parts for having a sizable population of people whose primary choice of locomotion is the mobility scooter. There is even a mobility scooter parade at christmas.

Seriously.

Scooters get dressed up in tinsel and reindeer antlers and are allowed to weave their unsteady way up the high street, occasionally having to be unstuck from drain covers by bemused onlookers, the usual questionable quality of driving being exacerbated by seasonal advocaat and sherry consumption.

Anyway, today, it was sunny and, parade or not, there were still a lot of them about. Usually piloted by elderly folk enjoying the sunshine by wearing their flimsiest raincoats and least padded woolly hats, their only concession to the heat of June being gigantic plastic sunglasses that are designed to go over their usual spectacles and hinder their view even further as they trace a sinuous track on road and path.

You take your life in your hands wandering along the High Street when such scooter gangs are on the prowl.

Like Hell's Angels, they also individualise their mounts. A sticker here, a novelty toy there, maybe a silver skull with red LEDs in the eye sockets, that sort of thing.

One in particular caught my eye, as it denoted not only a modification that made it instantly recognisable to its owner, but it was a cheap, practical application as well:

That, friends, is a wooden bread bin nailed on the front.

I have to tell you that it took all of my resolve not to open it and see what he kept in there. I was presuming bread, for duck-feeding purposes, but I wouldn't have been as surprised as perhaps I should have been had it contained a human head. I resisted, on grounds of not wanting to be seen by one of the owner's homies and made a target for scooter revenge. A man can die from repeated shin-knocks you know. My Nan told me.

Ancient cats and mobility scooters brought the ephemerality of life starkly into focus, and I mused on the fact that, that if we're very lucky, we have a few years of vigour and youth, before all too soon the ravages of time take away everything that is good and everything that is bad.

*Heavy sigh*

Still, not to worry. As the old and undoubtedly wise proverb goes, this too shall pass.

Useful for helping one keep perspective is that. Suffering mightily? It'll pass. Overly elated? This too shall pass.

From such, one can draw the deepest, most philosophical and meaningful of conclusions about existence, and life in general.

"This too shall pass."

Life is like . . . a colon?

That'll do.

Lies, damn lies, and blogs.

The dedicated blogsmith Argentum Vulgaris over at Life is Just Like That, decided that I deserved a meme, although I don't know what I ever did to him.

To add insult to injury, this meme is called Creative Blogger, and indicates that I am full of lies and falsehoods.

Fair enough.

It's got a picture and everything, so it's all legit and official, probably approved by the Dept of Blogging (DoB), one of the few governmental bodies that will not face any spending cuts over the next few years of austerity due to it's inherent importance to the country and world in general:

See.

Unfortunately, I had a warning letter from the DoB saying I was being lax in responding to memes and, should I wish to avoid "penalties", then I'd better get on with it. I dread to think what those penalties might be, what with the awesome and almost infinite autonomy granted to the DoB, so it was a threat I took seriously.

So, apologies to AV for the delay, and here goes.

There are some rules that one must obey when responding to this meme, and I shall copy and paste them here:

She swooned at the very sight of his length, rising before her eyes like a tantalising promise, expanding towards her so she could see nothing else, think of nothing else, even smell nothing else. She moistened immediately, the gush so intense that surely he must have heard it, could see the need advertised in her flushed cheeks. She didn't care. She parted her lips in anticipation as she locked her gaze on to his. No more waiting, she thought. No more good behaviour. No more self-restraint. She wanted it in her, now. A man of considerable experience, he knew it instinctively, and without being told, slid the baguette into a bag and passed it over the counter to her. Wantonly, she took a bite before she'd even left the shop.

Hang on. Wrong window. That was bakery porn.

Here we go:

• Thank the person who gave this to you.
• Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
• Link to the person who nominated you.
• Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth – or – switch it around and tell six outrageous truths and one outrageous lie.
• Nominate seven “Creative Writers” who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies.
• Post links to the seven blogs you nominate.
• Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.

So, a big, unmitigated Thank You I Suppose goes out to our Brazilian sponsor Mr Argentum Vulgaris, blogger extraordinaire.

Second requirement, done and dusted at the top there.

Third. Okay, six porkies and one truth, or vice versa.

1) I've published a number of bakery porn novels under the nom de plume Sir V. Ette.

2) My middle name is Danger. And my other middle name is Mouse.

3) Sometimes I do not never use no double negatives.

4) I invented the moon. The orbiting satellite, not the method by which one exposes one's nether regions to motorists from the back of a bus, because that would be just silly.

5) I once spent three months killing rats on the Galapagos islands.

6) I have had a number one classical hit on both sides of the Atlantic with a rendition of all four Ring of the Neibelung pieces played entirely on kazoo. It's how Dickie Wagner would've envisaged it had kazoos been more available to composers in his day.

7) I thought Deathpoof by Quentin Tarantino was a good, original example of film-making and completely not a self-absorbed, badly-written piece of cinematic self-pleasuring with dialogue and acting more suited to a sixth form play than the big screen, and that the director completely wasn't resting on his laurels and relying on past glories to get it funded. Definitely.

There you go.

I've carefully crafted the lie(s) so you'll find it hard to tell which is truth and which is the opposite of truth. I feel that the tortuousness of the task will increase the satisfaction you will feel when you unravel the untruths and filter out the fiction, allowing you to bask in the positively Holmesian machinations your brain will have undertaken to solve this mystery.

You can then move on to one of those daytime telly quiz questions where they ask equally fiendish brain teasers with multiple choice solutions. Like "What is your name? Is it A) your name, B) someone elses name, or C) a pizza?"

The Gravel Farm is all about self-improvement see.

Personally, I quite enjoy doing the odd meme, but I feel like I've pressured enough of my valuable blog chums just by making them read mine, so I think I'll renege on the last part of the meme and take the punishment from the Dept of Blogging.

I understand they have powers not seen since the inquisition, so I'm being ever so brave really.