Tuesday, 16 October 2018

Finally got my arm back...

Sort of.

    Due to the curious ramblings of the National Health Service, I first went for a CT scan. Nothing. Bugger all in fact after waiting for over an hour gaffer taped to a trolley.
    'Wear and tear," muttered the overworked doctor before shambling away to deal with another of the hundred cases he was working on simultaneously.

  Then I had an Xray.
    'Don't see nothing,' I was told in a version of English I didn't expect from a doctor.

    Then I had some physiotherapy which nearly killed me, and nearly  caused the death of the chief torturer, a pretty young woman with incredible strength belied by her slim arms and murderous glare in those cobalt eye.

    Last Friday I had to lie, motionless, for 6,384 seconds as the MRI screeched in my ears - the headphones had fallen off with my attempts not to writhe in agony as being immobile for so long.

    Tomorrow I'm going for a test to determine which if any of my nerves have been destroyed, but judging by the agony I'm still feeling, every one of the little buggers is alive and well.

    Next week I'm going for some more physiotherapy. I'll be prepared this time; I'm taking a cricket bat with me.

    Yet all that aside, I am feeling better enough to use my arm, even if it was only to salute the bloke who nearly ran me down yesterday while I was dangerously marauding down the pavement - almost ten feet from the road.

    The general consensus is that I've got one or more nerves trapped in my cervical spine (whatever that is). I've been doing some hideously painful exercises demonstrated by the doc and finally the pain is lessening. But if someone else tells me it's because I'm old, I'll demonstrate that I'm not some old codger by throwing them to the ground and doing a war dance on their head.

So to take my mind of it, I've done another painting. It's rubbish but at least some sensation other than agony has returned to my upper torso.



Friday, 14 September 2018

Don't need an excuse at the moment

 I think I've displayed my undying love for my daughter by donating one of my favourite possessions to her moving house fund.

    This won't mean anything to those that don't know or care about guitars, but I gave her my 70's Fender Stratocaster. The American model and not the Japanese. That's important to those who know such things; although not to me, really, since all I could ever get out of it were the aggrieved shrieks of a strangled cat. 










I haven't had to invent an excuse not to write for the past two weeks because my right arm doesn't work.

    I still believe that the National Health Service of Britain is a great thing but waiting three weeks for an orthopedic appointment does seem a little long - especially as I haven't had two hours uninterrupted sleep in all that time. My near total immunity to painkillers of any kind doesn't really help the situation either. The hospital gave me Tramadol, which everyone says would turn me into a zombie. I would have done better to beat myself senseless with the box for all the good they did. What has saved me from almost certain insanity is the hot water bottle which has lived for all that time on my shoulder. Roll on next week. If they don't find out what's wrong, or even better, fix it, I may have to take matters into my own hand.

    Another thing. Using a mouse with my left hand is really difficult - and I'm left handed.



Friday, 24 August 2018

just a way of avoiding writing.

I don't know why I keep painting such terrible dross. Well actually I do. It's to avoid writing.



    That in itself is a mystery. I love writing. It's just that my next book keeps changing in my head. I know, it should keep changing on the MS. I think I'll let it roil around for a few more weeks before I put finger to keyboard (as it were). Maybe by then it will have sorted itself out and I'll be one of those mythical writers who can write the first draft and just send it off secure in the knowledge that it's perfect.

  Fat chance!!

    Notice how I messed up one of the layers I was so recklessly boasting about the other week.

Friday, 17 August 2018

Ellie's got diabetes

It never would have occurred to me.

    Ellie has not been in the best of health for a week or two. A little unsteady on her feet and generally unwell, hence her less than warm greeting last time I saw her.

    I did suspect that she had laminitis, which always makes horses grumpy. I would be too if my neck was as hard as rock and my hooves crumbling. 

    But no, it's not the plentiful supply of grass, which for a Shetland pony is a bad thing, since they apparently spend their lives leaping around searching for the odd blade of grass to nibble on in the wild. And I know there's not that much grass in the Shetland Isles, because I once did an exercise there whilst in the Royal Marines - awful drafty place.

    Apparently she has to be starved of all the things she loves the most - and of which she's probably had far too much.

    If she was grumpy before she's going to be a real pain from now on.

    She may only be the size of a mutant Labrador but she's got the impact velocity of a small car.

Monday, 13 August 2018

Changed the picture again.


I'm bored with it now, painting that is. Time to find something else to do.

    I'm sitting in my writing room, cringing at the noise from above. Two men (although it sounds like fifty) are replacing my roof. 

    I bought my house from a man, who first bought it from the council. And following all councils' historical meanness when it comes comes to housing their tax payers, it has a flat roof. Just because my fifteen year warranty ran out last year the insurance company has levied a £5000 excess on any payment they (hopefully) won't have to pay for should I make a claim.

    Even getting an insurance company to insure me is difficult. I'd have more luck if I lived in an area prone to...no, perhaps I shouldn't tempt fate. I don't believe in fate but there'e's no point in pushing my luck, which I don't believe in either. Maybe I'm just getting old and frightened. I was sixty one a few days ago.

    What really bugs me about becoming ancient, is that I still feel like an eighteen year old in my head. Somebody once told me this would happen but I laughed them away, just like all immortal teenagers do.

    Time for another book I think. I know I've been saying that for weeks but I had an especially good idea last night while all my ancient insides were all grumbling in harmony. And since I sold a novel the other day, and am now rejoining the best sellers I'll keep at it.

Sunday, 12 August 2018

My painting's still rubbish but I'm getting the hang of the layers.

 
  I might have gone a little overboard this time as there were about forty layers. No matter, it's the thought that counts.

    Although I wish the newest version of Gimp were a little more stable. It crashes an awful lot - usually when I haven't saved for a while.

Wednesday, 1 August 2018

Always time for a silly picture.

I heard a muttering sound this morning as I was going to work way too early.

    I don't speak peacock, or any kind of bird language to be honest. But I'm pretty sure it was saying
    Where are those sodding keys? It's been a long night.

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