Mission Impossible?

Your Mission should you choose to accept it is......

Well sort of.

Not espionage in Estonia, secrets in Slovakia, or agents in the Aegian, not least because I can't balance on an impossibly long cable lithely dangling in the middle of a top secret establishment (I know, neither can Tom manboobs Cruise, its a body double)

No the Mission I speak tell of is the world famous (in New Zealand) Mission Estate concert, where a global celebrity graces the small city of Napier with his or her presence for 2.5 hours of their greatest hits.
Previous musical luminaries have included Sir Tom Jones, his Holiness Sting, Dame Shirley Bassey, Sir Clifford of Richardness, the ever youthful Beach "Boys", and even little old Lulu, bless her.

 However this year Napier was to be honoured by the celtic geriatric Sir Roderick McStewart!

Now this event is "de rigeur' to the cream of Auckland society, who dress in exquisite finery and guest in the top luxury lodges, vineyards and hotels that dot the suitably lush surroundings of Hawke's Bay.
For the rest of us mere plebeians we scour the internet auction sites to avail ourselves of the prized tickets, in a quest for the NZ equivalent of Wonka's gilded entry passes. Rentals of campervans soar (bear with, important for later), free accommodation gleaned from friends, relatives, and people we once met at a business conference in 1999. The cheaper the better seems to be the epithet of the weekend.

Whilst the suitably prescient amongst the Auckland glitterati have their PA's arrange flights down to Napier on a smug Air New Zealand flight (who having a monopoly on the route, mysteriously increase their prices for that weekend), the rest of us have to make the long journey down via motor vehicle, Napier having lost its train service in 2001.

The wise and the unwise load up their cars, vans, caravans and vanettes, utes, and 4x4's to make the 6 hour trip along the golden mile to Taupo, and thence over the craggy and visually stunning ranges...

(this is of course being New Zealand; land of hobbits, film extras (otherwise known as the population of Wellington) and dramatically Middle Earth-ish scenery)

....down into the vineyards of the Esk Valley  and on into the Art Deco masterpiece of what I call Napier.

Once out on the road on State Highway 5 the fun begins and we wind and twist along the shapely contours of the Kaingaroa Forest road. With the exodus underway a long stream of vehicles stretches back as we climb the hills and sweep over magnificent gorges and bridges.

Now remember those caravans?  Progressing regally on the trail, followed by an adoring processional train of less accommodating vehicles. Cars jostle and nervously scout the road ahead for a passing lane or a conveniently long stretch so they can be unshackled from their driving servitude. Occasionally a car breaks out, and flees away from its master , like an acolyte suddenly released from a lifetime of devoted service.

Wahaaayyyyyyy!!..... We're free! The formerly trapped occupants breathe a sigh of relief, and chortle at their driving prowess. Accelerating they speed on, until another slow moving vehicular behemoth inhibits their progress and they return like East Berliners back behind their barrier.

This is of course to be expected when following a large truck or heavy campervan/caravan.
However what is not expected is to be suddenly overtaken at high speed and then have the offending car sudden rejoin the correct side of the road just in front of you, causing a sudden braking.

So imagine the bewilderment and consternation when faced with this bad driving. Nay, not one, twice, or even thrice, but upwards of 10 cars careered out and piggy jumped along the line of traffic as it climbed the Taupo- Napier Hills. Every time we were presented with an interjection of a pair of red brake lights. we were forced to suddenly brake to avoid colliding.
It was noted that bar one exception the cars were expensive and of a Germanic origin: Audi's, Porsche's, BMW's, Mercs, and a Toyota Landcruiser stuffed to the gills with camping equipment. Obviously the last one was trying to save money on his accommodation due to the huge petrol consumption of his Landcruiser.

Oblivious to the danger they raced on with their rapid and erratic pace. It struck me as enormously ironic that should an accident occur we, in our Peugeot 207 GTI (flash but not too flash) would probably be fatally injured. The generous gift of life that had been entrusted into my care so recently, was in all certainty about to be snatched away. The irony of it all. To lose one kidney may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose 2 kidneys looks like carelessness. Carelessness indeed, other motorists carelessness and impatience.


Would my new kidney be suitable to be re donated? I would happily be an organ donor so pass on the gift of a new life, but so far my diabetes have thwarted that noble intention. Perhaps I was only to be a temporary host, keeping the organ alive until it could find a permanent home?

However, thanks to our alertness and patience we avoided any mishap and made it to Napier.

The venue was green, lush (like me!) and as we were family and friends the company was fantastic.

The concert was marvellous, and Rod Stewart was a great showman, supplying his best known numbers.

I enjoyed it even more as I was able to make the trip in the first place, having previously been manacled to my dialysis machine, not really something you wish to bring to a outdoor music festival!
So the freedom of travel really has opened up my eyes to a whole new world, one that was previously a mission impossible.

Perhaps next time we wont take the car, we will go sailing.....we are sailing....

Home again 'cross the sea.
We are sailing stormy waters, to be near you, to be free

The Look of Love........

Arbitrarily argued the English New Wave pop synth group, ABC, in 1981 as they asked us to aurally entertain an arraignment for that acidic, acerbic, absorbing of all emotions:  Amore!

With Valentine's Day (indeed another song by ABC) now under our belts it seems appropriate to turn my spying eye on the subject of the celebrated day : the killing of early dissenting religious figures in the Roman Empire.

 oops, that should be love.

but hasten ye not, for how has the execution of 2 early Christian martyrs in Rome result in the global phenomenon of yet more commercial excess. Thank the early Christian Church, Chaucer and the introduction of the postal service by those commercially minded Victorians, allowing the mass production and transport of all those luvverly cheesy cards.

February 14 was chosen to usurp the pagan festival of Lupercalia (fragilistic-expiali-dotious?) where it was the practice to slaughter a couple of goats and then daub blood over the gathered throng of initiates, before slicing the goat into ribs and daubing each other with the mutilated flesh and blood
Thank goodness it has evolved, I am not a fan of daubing in general:

and whilst partial to spare ribs, I prefer them to be cooked and a little less goat sourced.

But back to love....sweet love (thanks Burt) which gives me an ideal opportunity to thank my other half, G (Privacy Act  1993 forbids disclosure of personal information....!).

My life on dialysis and post transplant recovery is well documented in this august organ, but rarely does one spare a thought for those others affected by the transplant, the partner, who soon becomes the primary caregiver.

For the first 3-4 weeks I was totally dependent on G for food, cooking (being a Master chef does have it's advantages, thankfully no sign of the bad tempered judges), cleaning, entertainment (please pass the remote dear..) and shopping (How  much?! and the expiry date is tomorrow?.....)

  

Because of the risk of injury to the healing wound and donated organs, housework was also out of the question (still is, I hear G murmuring from the wings)...

 So all in all I was in a pretty piteous state, and enormously grateful of the practical help and emotional support that was being lavished on me.

Not always the best patient in the world (Yes, who would have guessed!), I sometimes appeared less than appreciative of the care and attention that was being lavished on me. All that and still working, what a star! So for all that I say a heartfelt thanks.

 Now there is a condition known to medical staff the world over, which relates specifically to the partner. It simply called caregiver burnout. No sign of immolation here, but rather a collapse of will caused by the extra physical exertion of looking after a sick person, and the mental stresses that roll through like a giant tsunami of emotion; anger, stress, worry, and envy.

Envy? Why yes, Imagine if you will, that every single person you meet and interact with starts their discourse with "How's Andrew doing?", or variations on that theme. This could be a tad annoying, like "Hello? I do actually exist or have you forgotten???" This of course, repeated ad nauseum might build up causing smouldering resentment

Worry: but of course dear chums, the ongoing strain of anxiety. Anxious that the transplant may not be successful, the fear of organ rejection, continued anxiety over the state of the wound and its apparent slow progress of healing?

Stress: Can be manifested in many variants, but usually follow the same pattern. There is the enduring stress and worry of keeping the house maintained, the financial stress of dealing with a reduced income,
the stress of maintaining a mask of sublime happiness all the time to the world, the stress of additional physical tasks that need to be performed for the patient, the burden of being the sole cook and drinks provider (At least gin o'clock was maintained adequately, though to be sure of an uninterrupted
supply, might have the drip fluids replaced by gin, easy on the tonic);

the stress of anxiety, worrying that you haven't done all you can for them to aid their recuperation, and of course the stress of maintaining a cupboard full of UK sweets for the patient to experiment with.....actually I think that one was just me?

The caregiver can also be prone to mounting anger and resentment over the care and in particular the attitude of the patient. Soon the patient appears to gain health and mobility and appears well enough to cope with small taks and so the caregiver begins to wonder how much more can he or she do, when the patient seems capable in so many ways.
Additionally the lack of a physical relationship while wounds heal can lead to a growing sense of frustration and ultimately anger. Though of course the realities of the actual operation ultimately preclude any canoodling. Rather akin to a trussed and stapled chicken, ready for the oven...

Now I am quite fortunate for my G has been excellent ( I might call the agency and have this one kept on), but other patients have seen relationships collapse, homes broken up, partners temporarily move out, and even family violence.

The closest we ever got to such stress was a mild rebuke caused by the perceived tardiness of a cup of tea requested, nay demanded in a suitably imperious tone, for what seemed at the time eons ago.  It is amazing how much raw anger and resentment can be concealed in a vicious and agitated stirring of a teaspoon. Luckily we scraped through this Poison Arrow.

So you see ensuring your partner is included emotionally and practically, and rewarded for being there is really as easy as A B C.  Taking steps to avoid the isolation and solitude felt be some should really be spelled out in the Lexicon of Love. Indeed When Smokey Sings not only should you rush and get the gin and tonic ready but you should offer All of Your Heart (Okey dokey that's All of My Heart, but that wouldn't pun grammatically.....)

Lexically confused? Oh dear , lets start at the very beginning
a very good place to start,

when you read you begin with A - B - C ,
when you sing you begin with Do, re, me.......enough already we're not in Salzburg!

 (But that's another entry)

Three Tiny Ewoks & Minstrel's Cyan Pants?

Goodness gracious me! I seem to be flying a bit solo here today, perhaps some kind reader would offer me a han?  Obviously I should most probably jump into hyperspace on my craft the Aluminum Falcon to make the short trip to Endor to encounter these strange furry bipeds, and allow them to worship me as a living god? Of course I am unquestionably worth it, to paraphrase L'Oreal Paris.

As for the pants....well we shall see, for I sense a disturbance in this blog that needs explanation.

Since we seem to be momentarily trapped on the Death Star, and with pants in the air (so to speak) I cast my cerebrum to matters most trivial.  It is a little known cinematic snippet that during the original filming of the 1977 epic, George Lucas inadvertently wrote the first script containing many instances of the word pants.


This error was discovered during post production and parts had to be re shot in Elstree Studios.
Long thought to be lost forever, I am now fortunate to be able to bring you those original pant lines pulled from that 1977 script....

1 I find your lack of pants disturbing.

 2 Alderan is peaceful, we have no pants!

 3 Governor Tarkin. I recognized your foul pants when I was brought on board.

4 These pants may not look like much, kid, but they've got it where it counts.

5 These aren’t the pants you’re looking for.

6 A tremor in the pants. The last time I felt this was in the presence of my old master.

7 She must have hidden the plans in her pants. Send a detachment down to retrieve them. See to it personally Commander

 8 I cannot teach him. The boy has no pants.

 9 You came in those pants? You're braver than I thought.

 10 I’ve just made a deal that will keep the Empire out of our pants forever.

 11 Governor Tarkin. I should have expected to find you holding Vader’s pants.

 12 Attention. This is Lando Calrissian. The Empire has taken control of my pants, I advise everyone to leave before more troops arrive.

 And so we reach the end, and in true movie style we reveal the answer that has eluded the audience throughout this piece...

What in the galaxy does the title mean?

Ewoks and Minstrels refers to it not. An anagram it is.

Wants to know what it means, does it?

 Three Tiny Ewoks & Minstrel's Cyan Pants, rearranged it can be to

THIRTY ONE WEEKS SINCE MY TRANSPLANT!

Worth celebrating surely?

It is also incidentally 31 years since the release of The Empire Strikes Back, voted best film of all time in a recent British poll......

And finally:

Luke and Obi-Wan Kenobi are in a Chinese restaurant and Luke's having trouble with his chopsticks. Finally, Obi-Wan says, "Use the forks, Luke."