Lost in Music....

Well Manukau City actually.
Unlike Sister Sledge who managed to find their way to the higher reaches of the charts in 79, 84 and 92, yours truly was misplaced in south Auckland this time last year.
Allow me to explain the significance....

Exactly 1 year ago, on this very Saturday I was going down to see a house renovation project that my family were undertaking in Manurewa (It is pronounced Man You Ree Wah, not manure wa, apparently), and was invited to come down for tea.
Off I set late afternoon, in time for me to arrive for dinner, as the trip notionally takes about 45 mins at the weekend, according to Google.
So using my GPS on the iPhone, I traversed across our lengthy city using the conduit of the Bipolar Motorway. It starts as the Northern Motorway, even if you are travelling South, and then half way becomes the Southern Motorway, without ever changing lane.....Quaint.

All was well until I duly took the signposted exit for Manukau and Manurewa, which lead me to a new road system. News of this development had obviously yet to reach Google HQ which now showed me in the middle a muddy expanse of nothingness. I pulled over and checked my maps app, but alas I was still in terra nova limbo land.

Perhaps Shackleton, Cook and Livingstone had all had that familiar sense of panic which now gripped me. I do so hate being lost.
The road stretched on and on, a non ending crisply fresh stretch of new tarmac. Clearly not a road yet, as Google would have mapped it, but the presence of other vehicles seemed to decry Google's stance.

So off I pootled, slowly multi tasking as I steered, peered, and merged the two diverse realities, that which I could see, and that as represented by the folk in Santa Clara, California.

After half an hour of fruitless searching I seemed no nearer to Manurewa. Happily my partner rang and was able to guide me in like some stricken 747, rescued by a kiwi Bruce Willis.

I finally reached the safety of the renovation property, and settled in for a night of feasting, conversation and family fun with the whanau.

Until THAT phone call, which I didn't actually hear, as I was nattering with my nephew:

"Andrew, It's the hospital...."
After a brief but exciting conversation, in which the doctor asked me to drive in to central Auckland Hospital as soon as possible, so that they could start the prep work for the op.
"Where are you", he asked,
"In Manukau" I replied,
"Great, just head up on the Motorway and well see you soon"

Not if Google had anything to do with it.

So using my knowledge of the suburbs I navigated a longer circuitous route that steered me safely to the city centre, avoiding any new motorway on ramp surprises and spacial google voids.

Not long to go now. . The organs were a match and the operation was scheduled for next morning at 8am Sunday.

Later that night I fell asleep, nervous and anxious, yet thrilled and excited at the the events of the past 4 hours.

Tomorrow was going to be a very special day!

Happy Birthday?

Sang Scottish New wave band Altered Images in September 1981, with a watery tale about a birthday in a hot bath, not really practical cake wise. In the glorious 80's there was less of a strict adherence to health and safety principles. Presumably if this was to performed today, then there would be some regulation about the perils of mixing baked confectionery  and tepid water with aerated perfumed surfactant product. Of course the bathwater would be handy to extinguish the multitude of lighted wicks.

No wicks. not wigs... and 1 is hardly a multitude anyway.
But what of the of the July birthday I hear you cry, surely you are a Saggitarian?  Well no actually, I dont believe in such claptrap, failing as I do to see how 580 million people can be having the same day as me?) 

Well observed my little bloghoppers, but this weekend marks the anniversary of my transplant, that life changing momentous event of July 2011. It is my rebirthday weekend!

As I scribe these words, this time last year, I was still on dialysis and a diabetic.

Unbeknownst to me, Friday 1st July was my last time leaving work  early to drive though rush hour traffic to the dialysis unit, the last time I became entwined with the dialysis machine, the last time spent 4 hours dialysing in a stiff plastic covered recliner, left feeling drawn and drained, and the last time another late night finish and final drive home for 45 minutes feeling tired and weak......zzzzzzz

It was also the final time I was to see my regular dialysing companions at Carrington Road Dialysis unit and the caring haemo nurses and unit managers.

As I got home that tired and exhausted Friday evening, I was looking forward to a weekend free of dialysis,  2 days off until the whole thrice weekly schedule commenced anew the following Monday.
How my world was about to be altered...

This is.......Jinsy.

Attention all residents!
The twiceley annual "Secure a squirrel to your shoulder" compfest scheduled for Gushday the fifth has had to be postponed due to a severe shortage of shouldering staples. The Jinsey Squirrel League has authorised the use of dingle forks, which are available from Mr Snooks, Purveyor of Island Wide Forkery. "If it s a spoon you want, dont come to Snooks, we are for forks.

And now Joon Boolay"s island wide Punishment Roundup:

Daily greet everyone, and welcome to Punishment Round Up.

Yesterwold at 5 past dump o clock, Gretchen Oosterwhipple of Chalet 369 did overcook her ocelot sponge by some 5 moons and a handbag, upsetting Mrs Gumbley of chalet 370, so much her hair exploded, so that not good.

Punishment: 1 night to be spent cleaning Arbiter Maven's wossett pouch with a scrimging cloth.     and a mild electrical. 

And now Organ News. 


In the parish of Arkles, where we call a doglet a doglet and a half, arrangingments are underway for the annual first coming of the Organ of Magnificence. It is nigh 12 nogs since the Great Operation descended upon Arkles and Andrew's Dialysis, chalet 224 was summoned hencelyforth to the Agnes Doon Hagg Brumptin's Treatment Rooms for an audience with the Great Organ.
Residents are reminded that the Great He (Jinsy Praise Him) is justly wise in his selection of recipients for the Organ, and are urged to avoid the Self Organating Insertion Applicator on sale at Fooks the Vet:
"Resident or Animal, we fix your manimal."
Islanders wishing to enter the Kidney Lottery must wear Muriel Munt's patented Mammary Hat, available from the Cranial Lodge gift shop, price 3 yellows.

Should your winning lottery wombat be drawn from the wombat barrel, hurry to Mrs Goadian at the Tower Information Kiosk for further instructions. The Ambulance Goat will collect between noon tide and driply o'clock.

What was all that about then?
That was indicative of an obscure TV comedy on BBC3 and Sky, a weird inbred island with many a strange custom, its own language and peculiar technology.
What's it called then this TV show?
This is Jinsy.
Cant be
Why not?
Because THIS is Jinsy.....Chalet 224's new Pussmog.

Thank you Jeeves....

Sometimes I wonder whether I had been born in an erroneous decade, where the2 dollar/poundshop and the Kardashians are held more dear than etiquette and panache.

Whilst those around me "scull" enormous quantities of beer and lager, I prefer to imbibe a Pimms or a Gordons....As others wirelessly stream ghastly digital tracks by ever increasingly weird groups, I enjoy a spin on the vinyl by Fleetwood Mac and Abba.....and whilst waistlines and trouser tops seem to become ever more detached from each other, I yearn for the decorum of the plus fours and a stout Oxford brogue..

Just like Bertie Wooster in Pelham Grenvill Wodehouse classic novels, a manservant/valet would compliment my domestic arrangements...

Bertie, being the delightfully eccentric typically English foolish forgetful fop, has many character defects that alas I couldn't even attempt to replicate, at least not without involving half the British aristocracy, various aged aunts, the foreign office and a pig or two thrown in for good measure.

However one trait which we unfortunately share is our complete lack of memory retention. Whether addled by a profusion of pink gins or having the ever reliable back up of Jeeves allowing him to be prompted just in time, usually by a discreet cough into ones hand, Bertiekins would fail miserably on any quiz show.

Bertie's repertoire of faux de memoire include Aunt Agatha's birthday party, forgetting the address of his second niece's house in the country, and how to put on a bow tie by himself.

Mine on the other hand mainly revolve around the taking of my regular medicines at the prescribed times.

Whoopsie and golly gosh! I need to take my morning dose of rejection tablets at about 10am, after my 7am consumption of steroids, anti ulcer and blood thinners. Another dose of rejection pills is scheduled for 5pm, followed by a whole repetition of the 10am medicinal smorgasbord at 10pm!

Often I am left wondering whether I  had the 10am dose, as this falls right in the middle of my mid morning travails and coffee. So I try to remember the morning so far....

The anti rejection tablets have a nasty side effect if their dosage is enhanced, hence the need for blood tests every fortnight to check the levels. Ergo it would be quite risk therefore to take extra tablets "just in case"

If only I had Jeeves to remind me, and present them on a silver platter at the appointed hour!

But of course I do have the answer in front of me....my iphone! This techno bewildering device of many functions comes with alerts that can sound at anytime, and with any of my many music tracks by way of alert.
So at 10.15am and 10.15pm an alert sounds out loud and clear, time to take your tablets!
Currently set at the first 15 seconds of a suitably retro "Heart of Glass" by Blondie.
So as I hear the drums and beat of the classic vintage opening followed by the words
"Once I had a love and it was a gas, Soon turned out had a a heart of glass......"

I now instinctively stop what I'm doing and go to my tablets either at home or at work and count out the dose and swallow. No more missed doses!

Easy, simple and reliable. Now if only I had someone to answer it for me....Thank you Jeeves

One last word from Jeeves to his master on the vagaries of the English language:

Bertie was reading his latest book in the library.
On the very first page he came across an unfamiliar word. So he called out to Jeeves.
"Jeeves, what is this 'fox pass'?"
"This what, sir?"
"'Fox pass', Jeeves."
"Oh, that would be 'faux pas': a French phrase, sir, pronounced 'foe pa'; which literally means a 'false step'
but is equivalent to 'putting your foot in your mouth' in English.
"Yes, dash it, whatever."
"Well sir, let me explain it this way. Do you remember last weekend when Miss Plushbottom came to stay for the weekend?"
"Yes."
"And do you remember how on Sunday morning you pricked your finger on a rose?"
"Yes."
"And do you remember how, later, at breakfast, Miss Plushbottom asked you, 'Is your prick still throbbing, Bertie?', and you dropped a pot of marmalade?"
"Yes, Jeeves."

"Well, that, sir, was a faux pas . . . ."

The Sign.....

I saw the sign....Ace of Base Connived to Damage our Ears with their sugary helping of Scandinavian pop. An international hit, this peaked at the dizzy heights of the UK charts at number 2, kept off the top spot by Mariah Carey and some forgettable ballady lullaby.
The sign in question was depicted as the Egypytian Ankh, the ancient symbol of life, a favourable portent often displayed alongside innumerable Egyptian deities as they shone down their radiance upon mankind.

Another portent radiantly beaming into our collective consciousness are the food gradings of the Auckland Council. Based on a system of inspection and compliance to legislation and best practice, these gradings are awarded to food establishments so that the public can be informed before purchase.. They range from A Gold star (excellent in every conceivable way) through A, B , D and then E (yikes!). Oddly there is no C grade, to avoid it being thought of as a passing grade.

So this weekend, feeling somewhat inspired by the Queens's Jubilee I decided to venture out and celebrate with a cake, of the cream variety. My good efforts towards weight loss have been progressing well and seen a minor reduction in overall mass. After 2 weeks of salad a spot of indulgence was needed.

So off I trotted to my favourite bakery in our seaside suburb, safe and secure in the knowledge that this particular establishment had a respectable A grade. From a transplant point of view, it is imperative to only frequent A graded businesses and we are under strict instructions from our renal doctors.
In order to prevent organ rejection, we take immuno suppression tablets, which basically reduce the body's own defence system so it tolerates the new parts, instead of sending attack cells to kill off the foreign invasion.
This means that we are more susceptible to infection and disease, including food poisoning which recent studies suggest cause 10-12,000 deaths per year in the US alone. Figures for the more vulnerable, including transplant recipients are much higher.

Because of this we take care in choosing A rated food outlets, and sticking with them.

Thus it was with a sense of surprise that my usual A rated eatery was now displaying a B sign!!

Bother and Confustication! What on earth had happened?
Instead of pristine fresh ingredients carefully and lovingly hand-crafted under hermetically sealed hospital-like hygienic conditions had they now cut corners and were using cuts of rancid possum, marinated in cat vomit, slowly heated under a hot light bulb, and served up in a couple of pig troughs?

Well no actually, it seems the ownership had changed and during the last council inspection some of the established practices were undergoing familiarisation and transition.

The food looked the same, the serving staff and uniforms were the same, all aspects remained unchanged, bar the food rating sign. I was tempted by the moist fancies seductively displayed and even went so far as to fumble in pocket  for some spare change, just like the Greek government.

But rules are rules for a reason, and 40 years of diabetic obedience to rules resurged and I had to force myself  to walk away.

I am sure their cakes remain hygienic and fit for consumption, but alas until their rating changes upwards this eatery will stay on my banned list. Better err on the side of caution. Hospital food is not nearly as tempting....

So I went home instead celebrated the jubilee with a nice cup of Tetley's and a Marmite butty, a little mouthful of England down here in the colonies. After all I've never heard of anyone being injuriously affected by England's favourite spread and the national cuppa!

What a Carry On....

   Oooooh Matron!

After publicly extolling the virtues of our health system last week, irony has gatecrashed the party wearing a huge "I AM IRONIC" tee shirt, screaming "Make way for some Irony!" whilst galloping past humming Alanis Morrisette......

'Twas 2 weeks hence when upon returning from my daily occupational servitude, fawning and scraping as one does, the following letter was waiting at home for me:

I googled the procedure and observed that participants in this test were of high risk factor groups, i.e long time diabetics. So I duly confirmed the appointment and booked in a days leave to cope with the onerous stress to be placed on my cardio system.

The appointed day dawned, just as surely as a Sid James lecherous guffaw.

I set off early, careering through stalled traffic, hurtling to the hospital, keen to deliver its precious cargo without any delay.

Oooh no.......watch out......ooohh  nurse...

I arrived in time and checked in at reception where my details were double checked and verified that I was here for the Stress Echo test.

                                        

Furtively I scanned the room around me, eager to see how many others were waiting for the procedure.

The waiting room appeared to be replete with geriatrics, not a single patient appeared to be under 65, excluding moi obviously....

The minutes flitted by, and soon became an hour, but I was content observing the nursing staff go about their interaction with the fascinating receptionists. A breed of creature divorced from mankind by the surgical removal of their senses of humour

Torn away from this thought, I was finally greeted by my nurse, who in order to secure her privacy, I shall name Gerald. .

She took the usual measurements, height, weight, blood pressure (both sitting and standing) and ensured that I had not partaken of any liquids or food since midnight " of course as a diabetic you are excused to have your breakfast". I gave her an odd stare, but agreed that I had indeed fasted as instructed

She lead me in to the testing chamber, which contained another nurse, who looked strangely familiar, but I could not place her.

A treadmill was adjacent to the bed, next to it,a large monitor attached to a machine, protruding from which a host of tentacles spread.

"Gerald" asked me to disrobe whilst she proceeded to attach the tentacled sensors to my chest, until I resembled a small regional squid processing plant. 

The other nurse asked for me to lay down and she started to check the electrical equipment. She pointed to the treadmill and asked whether I could walk. Clearly since I had made it without incident to the department unaided, I affirmed that I could indeed walk. Excellent she replied, some of our patients have difficulty with the treadmill and we therefore have to artificially  increase their heart rate with drugs. I assured her that that was not the case with me.

She then turned to face me and noticing my operation scar asked what that was from. Clearly she had not read her notes otherwise she would have been privy to my medical history. I therefore flippantly replied voice laced with sarcasm that it was from  my appendix removal.

Gosh, thats rather large for an appendix, it must have been the size of a herring, she jocularly supposed.

This was turning into a most peculiar morning I postulated.

Matters were about to turn odder still......

Gerald disappeared, and a doctor entered, holding my notes. 

Good morning Andrew, Im Doctor XXXX, and will be looking after you this morning. Very soon we will administer the dobutamine and wait for it to circulate. Then we will ask you to perform some light exercises to get your heart rate increased for us to monitor. It is important to make sure that your cardio system can take the stress of a major operation. He said all this as if I was a 12 year old.

Ho hum, what operation I asked?

His face looked puzzled and looked again at his chart, then at Nurse Barbara. 

Your kidney trasplant, he replied.

But I had one last year.

Ah that will be that scar then, we did wonder. So that kidney failed?

Err no actually, its fine and dandy thank you.

Out he hurried frowning as he scoured my notes, as he dug his mobile from his coat pocket.

Gerald returned and smiled wanly. So not an appendix scar then?

After a few moments the doc came back and apologised but the test had been booked in June last year as part of the work up to the transplant.

There had alas, been an administrative error, and this appointment had been booked just before my actual transplant.

I was free to go, and he again apologised for the inconvenience.

Carry on at your IN Convenience I think the doctor meant..