Rip it up and start again.

The sound of Glasgow's finest from early 1982 recently popped unexpectedly into my head the other day. From nowhere came this bouncy fusion of pop and reggae, not to mention a damn fine piece of warbling, all pulsing through my head as I recuperated last weekend.

It may have been the orange juice consumed for breakfast, or the vibrant orange dressings witnessed on the ward, or even a wandering musical muse of Scottish retro, but it's in my head now, and won't go away.

Rip it up and start again.....I said......
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Meanwhile, in recent events; I have had to return to my GP in order to get some antibiotics for the wound of last week. Alas, it has been slow to heal so compounded by my reduced immunity, it was felt that it needed some assistance. 
I glanced at the name of the signatory physician and was surprised to see one Dr McKay, a fine Scottish name if ever there was. Incidentally Big Mac Macmac is also an outstanding name, together with Iona Macdonalds.

Had I know that at the beginning of this post it may have turned out differently. Maybe I should Rip it Up and Start Again...

The Case of the Curiously Coloured Codpiece.

You would be forgiven for thinking that the pain from a femoral to femoral graft would be slightly lower than a full on kidney transplant, or other major organ surgery.

 For in this deluded knowledge you would be in august company, namely me. 

Just before the operation, I remember talking with both the consultant surgeon and the anaesthetist about what to expect after the procedure in the days to come. Don't worry, you'll be fine, plus we'll give you plenty of pain killers to help.

Three hours later and after the op, unbeknownst to a still drugged patient, I was wheeled from the theatre and taken to the Intensive Care Unit for observation. 

Dreamily I reacted to the prodding from my nurse, a rather stern lady called Sam. Exuding none of the warm encouragements usually associated with the kind nursing practitioner, Sam set about her observations in a swift perfunctory manner. Temperature, blood pressure, oxygen and wound dressing, check. 

She steered at my wound, her face evolving from a mask, to a slight creasing to her brow. Hannah, she called, come here...What's that, she said, pointing at my groin, where the surgeon had made his incisions. Why is that blue? I never seen one that colour.

Her colleague stared helplessly hard into my recent wounds, presumably aware of my acute embarrassment. It must be the surgeons pen, she kindly offered. 

But blue Hannah? It's blue. And the scrotum? She hissed loudly.

I looked for a third member of the medical team, called scrotum, but then realized she meant my member. 

To say I was profoundly self conscious at this point misses the point. 

They stared a while longer, whilst I continued to feign death.

It was only later as the angel of mercy removed my urinary catheter that I saw the deep bruising that had caused such concern. Blue was indeed rather a bland adjective to have chosen. The colouration of the traumatised area was now sufficiently vivid that it had gone beyond mere blue, and now had taken on the visual personification of the black adder.

Helen Rice

Let me introduce you to Helen Rice.

Blondie were number one in the charts, Mrs Thatcher had just been voted in to Number 10 Downing Street, and Saturday morning  TV was dominated by Noel Edmunds and his Multi Coloured Swap Shop. Spacedust was very cool at school, and we loved Look-in and all things Star Wars and Abba.

The year was 1979, May in fact, and Helen?
Helen was first ever date.

A friend though my Dad's regular Sunday morning churchiness, she was a sweet, funny, slightly ungainly creature, taller than me, but fun to be with. Helen was the first object of my early teenage crushes, and I summoned up courage to ask here on a date. Our parents agreed, as she was clearly a suitable girl. Time would tell whether she was indeed a match.

Saturday arrived, Helen's parents came over for a drink and a canape or two, allowing the two lovebirds the opportunity to go for a walk together. We strolled off into the dusky Saturday night, holding hands and chirping away like feathered friends

We ended up at my middle school, Bective, where the 1930's exterior loomed ahead in the dark, amply surrounded by shrubs and conifers. This raised the exiting prospect of a kiss. Soon the moment of contact arrived. Lodged behind the art room, screened by a wallflower, I angled my head in the optimum smooch position, or so I thought, from watching Grease. Helen leant forward, puckered up and swooped down like a falcon rushing down on it's prey.  Our lips missed and teeth knocked together, with a sudden jarring. Was this really passion? Yikes, more like pain and embarrassment. A quick fumble was now out of the question as Helen groaned. Nothing quells the teenage flames of desire than jarred teeth  and a cut lip. We giggled and scampered away from the art room in the dark, Helen holding her jumper, me holding my Idiots guide to dating...

That then was my first date, an important event in my life. Another date arrives this week, as I finally get word from the hospital that the vein graft is scheduled for this coming Wednesday.
Wonderful news.

Helen and I drifted apart soon after our date, and the last I heard she had become a nurse. Lets hope she has not moved to New Zealand and now works in the vascular surgery ward in Auckland, rostered to work next Wednesday to Friday..............

Little Bird

Warbled the demur Scottish lassie, once part of the late lamented Eurythmics. After jetting skywards into her own brief career, she gave us this petite feathered offering....

It is therefore with trills and chirps that this post is directed towards our ornithological friends, in particular the members of species Turdus Merula. (I kid you not)

The common or garden blackbird has developed a recent obsession with flying into our windows and knocking itself unconscious. One particular pane, near the sweet smelling herb garden, causes much confusion and pain. Once inert on the garden path it risks the very real threat of being discovered by each or all of the 2 small dogs and 2 large cats that we share our home with.. So far this particular variety has escaped being consumed, but it must surely only be a matter of thyme.

So listen up Turdus Merula, try to aim a meter higher and you will fly over the clear and present danger of the window next to the garage.

Please try to memorise this picture, or else the more bird brained of you will end up as carrion, not really a fate worth crowing about.