The changing face of Andrew

Golly Gosh! Its been over a year since I put pen to paper, or more accurately,  finger to Imac?
My excuses are many, and almost as sincere as the barrage of tweets from the White House.

The muse has been somewhat dulled over the intervening months, struck dumb by the sheer lunacy of Brexit, the Trump "maladministration" and a general sense of personal stability. This all bodes rather well from a post kidney perspective.

Perhaps the greatest change in my world has been the reduction in weight and "wobbly bits".
I was, and it can be said quite honestly, a tad on the large size. With my girth  the size of a small European nation,  minus the dress sense, I could barely squeeze into my 36" Large jeans. T shirts had a habit of just rolling over my form, and my pendulous bosoms would have put the cast of Baywatch to shame.

Oh dear, caught helping himself to yet more carbohydrates. 

My weight edged to 86kg, and at only 170cms high,  I was in dire danger of becoming obese.
With the added strain on the heart and on my donated pancreas and kidney, I was in serious need of a little bodily TLC. My doctors advised lifestyle changes, and ignoring this would be potentially perilous.

So diet time and a little moderate exercise was called for. I found this daunting at first, possessing as i did, the athletic ability of a Cadburys Creme Egg.  However I found that just 5kms a day on a treadmill, and a small reduction in sugar, treats and snacks was all that was called for. Incredibly I started to shed weight. Within five months I had lost 16 kgs and felt confident enough to then start at the gym.

 2 years have passed since I started this "new journey" and I now weigh 66 kilos and feel more youthful than ever.  I don't know who is more ecstatic, my doctors or my tailors?
I on the other hand am more than happy with the results!

 

 

Five Years, Cinq Ans, Funf Jahren.

As the Disunited Kingdom shoots itself in the proverbial foot and hesitantly attempts to leave the European Union. this united union of Andrew, his pancreas and a kidney are celebrating the 3rd July as our fifth transplantiversary :)

Yes its five years ago today that the call came through and I was rushed ward-wards for the great event.

Zut Alors how times have changed! Five years ago, I drove a French car to the hospital, whereas now the Eurosceptics will no doubt be reassured, that "Johnny foreigner" was sent packing and a decent sensible English car purchased instead. Actually its a Ford Fiesta, made in Portugal and Germany, but it is still Britain's favourite car. The name is Spanish of course, but why spoil a good tale with facts, it just feels very British!

As British in fact as Windsor Castle itself. Just don't tell anyone though that its a Norman French castle, home to the Saxe-Coburg Gotha/Windsor family.

And you will be further reassured by my continuing to uphold the importance of the English language in all regards.  None of that outdated and interfering Indo-European Latin nonsense.
Now pass me that referendum paper so that I can vote.

The result will have left the winners toasting their success on Champagne, feasting on Caviar and truffles. whilst waving their arms in unison to "God Save the Queen" A tuneful ditty, also known in German as Heil dir im Siegerkranz the former anthems of Prussia, Bavaria, and Saxony, and still used today as Kongesangen in Norway. Liechtenstein too rejoices in the same tune, Oben am jungen Rhein.  Cheeky blighters!

Bon Anniversaire!

I've seen you twice, in a short time...

                   

Only a week since we started..

Wise words from those Swedish poets of yore, and a UK number one in November 1977. The video of the same was an early artistic opportunity for director of note, Lasse Hallstrom. He subsequently went on to to showcase his What's Eating Gilbert Grape (1993), The Cider House Rules (1999) Salmon Fishing in the Yemen (2011) & The Hundred Foot Journey in 2014.

Fia-Spel (or Ludo as it is more commonly known outside the land of IKEA) is featured in several of the shots, with just a few displaying its name. Surely the four participants know exactly the name of the game being enjoyed with such hilarity and a profusion of woollen knitwear?

Heavens to Betsy! Director's artistic licence maybe or I'm a Dutchman.

In the same vein then, I have taken artistic licence with my recent affairs of the heart....

Firstly; I've seen my date just three times, in a relatively a short while, only 5 weeks since we started. 

Close, but I have seriously refrained from the wearing of knitted horrors.

Next time I shall include a small pullover or perhaps a cardigan so that I can wear my heart on a sleeve. Following the split, it does indeed seem to me, that I'm getting more open hearted.

Name and Date Unknown

As I gradually transition into the earthly paradise that is singledom, my attention is drawn to the labelling done by our society. 

We are conveniently packaged into bitesize homogenous groups for ease of consumption. Affronted daily as we are by smug self righteous forms that force us to disclose a marital status of their choosing, not mine.

Luckily the media have been subliminally championing our cause for aeons, thanks to the likes of The Lone Ranger, Valerie Singleton, One Direction and of course our hero Han Solo. 

In a rare moment of conventionality I stepped out onto the baggage reclaim of Single Life and approached the ultimate test of status commitment. Yes folks...I  have entered the Great Domestic Departure Lounge, in readiness to embark on The Dating Game. Making sure any lingering baggage has been stowed away, and carefully selecting inflight entertainment and suitable menu options.

Driving into Auckland, and parking near the futuristic sounding Vulcan Lane, I headed into the city. The meeting was going to take place amongst sprinkle of tourists and coffee shops that litter downtown Auckland.

Needless to say I was charming, witty but slightly accident prone, having overshot the location and therefore my date, by several hundred metres. Soon however, I was rescued by G.P.S. and a visibly loud checkered shirt, and we finally made rendezvous.

Over the next three hours we talked and laughed like teenagers. Well he did, mainly at me as I accidentally threw errant pieces of muffin and hollandaise in the air. Worse was to come as I shifted position and slipped on the newly laid cobbles (Auckland is getting a much needed make-over, the city centre resembles a smart modern European city, albeit without the accents). This action sent yet more muffin in a skywards trajectory. 

Add to that a coughing fit, and a "dead arm" as I struggled to look both casually relaxed and sophisticated whilst maintaining poise, balance and a slim tummy. It all takes effort you know!

Then finally at the end, I forgot where I had parked my car, thus ensuring a mad rambling answer to "where have you parked?"

However none of this seems to have detracted from the experience, for we are meeting again tomorrow for brunch. 

Or shall I call it a breakfast lunch food experience, I do so hate to be pigeonholed by hollandaise.

The Special Relationship

The relationship between my organs and I was at best, complex, and at the worst "extremely prejudicial" to my welfare. But, we endured and rose, like a majestic eagle in triumph over the dastardly setbacks. Through all of this I was blessed to have the support and love of my significant other. I will be forever in debt for the care and attention that was lavished on me throughout our lives together.

So it is with a mix of regret, trepidation and contentment that  we have ended our relationship of 24 years as partners. Sadness at the split, but optimistic too and content that we remain special friends and that our "divorce" was completely amicable. h

We are like the United States and the United Kingdom. We share a common heritage, language (well, NZ English is so very different to that of the Queen!, eh Bro?) and both hold the same ideals, values, history and collective memories. 

We still have many of the same common goals in life, but just have slightly varying ways of getting there. Our lives are still entwined, indeed after that length of time we have a compendium of memories; of treasured holidays, much loved pets departed, pets still present, scores of shared friends and relatives, and the accumulated possessions from 11 homes that we have lived in together. We continue as better friends, ones that understand each other completely, and are richer because of that.

Of course this opens up new blogging possibilities as I settle down to the life of a single man again, exploring the world of dating, single shopping and meals for one. Yet this also too brings freedom and the chance to soar like a bird to heights as yet unexplored. 

Lucky Number

Eh oh eh oh....no not Teletubbies, rather Lene Lovich whisked me through late 1978 as she climbed numerically higher up the charts. Rather than her initial one, it eventually transpired that her aforesaid fortuitous feng shui digit was three.
This turns out to be a huge coincidence as three times the speed of a vinyl album equates to 10, and ten just happens to be the subject matter of this post.

I had of late cause to reflect the direction my life had taken since my transplant. It soon sank home that the direction was outwards. Having undergone both dialysis and that transplant I had put on what we euphemistically call "just a few pounds". After enjoying the sticky embrace of sugar for four years, I ought to lose some weight, or risk the perilous return of diabetes.
A complete snub, in fact, to the brave and generous organ donor family.


So a simple routine developed, that of walking 5 kilometres per day on a garage based treadmill. Our garage, mind you, not the local BP.
To stem the inevitable tedium of staring at a range of domestic tools, storage boxes and the contents of the laundry basket, I downloaded my favourite 70-80s pop videos to watch on a hastily erected TV. Abba, Blondie, Cher, Depeche Mode, Enya (less disco moves for her output), Fleetwood Mac, and so on....
Three months in and like a forgetful bank cashier, I've lost 22 pounds.
That's 10 kilos in modern money, or ten bags of sugar :)

A good start you might think, as that equals my weight before going on dialysis, way back in 2008. We shall see how low I can go, and what turns out to be my lucky number.

That Syncing Feeling..

According to Ford, the voice activated audio system installed in my car allows you to" Stay in touch every second you’re driving, with state-of-the-art Ford SYNC voice control and connectivity technology "

Apparently it lets you make and take mobile phone calls, hands-free, using the simplest voice commands. It can even read out text messages you’ve been sent. :)
This sounds awesome, and would indeed be a sight to behold.

Except that instead of an efficient friendly and helpful voice behind SYNC, mine has been installed with the rude tone of a slightly geriatric Ukrainian pensioner, whose hearing trumpet has been left back in her war ravaged hovel.

I have given her the name Olga. as it sounds nothing like SYNC.

"Call Glenn"
I pause while Olga checks her contact list.....
"Calling Tim"

Which is bizarre as I don't have a Tim in my contacts.

"Call Vets"
"Deleting contact: Vet"
Olga will need a vet when I've finished with her.....

"Play artist New Order"
Olga consults her enormous music reference manual....
"Playing Artist The Artist, formerly known as The Artist Prince"

I attempt to intervene with a touch of the steering wheel Sync button, to override her. Of course this just irritates my Soviet stowaway.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand that word" she petulantly retorts. 

Then promptly goes silent as she knits a sock for the cold Ukrainian winter.

I thought it might be my accent, eccentrically English though it may be, but still fairly well spoken and very BBC. 

Why, even Apple's Siri understands my commands.

Thankfully there is one "advanced" feature that, so far, (fingers and wires crossed) I have yet to have need of. 

It is delightfully called the Ford Emergency Assist.

In the event of an accident and the car is compromised, Sync will call the emergency services automatically using the linked bluetooth phone, and give GPS details of the location and request immediate help.

Though heaven knows how long it takes for a plumber from Kiev to reach New Zealand...

Are you still here?

Visual imperfections come as standard when you open the box marked Diabetes. Like Pandora's but containing not quite as much chocolate, replaced instead by Boots sugar free pastilles. The old eyes can be roundly defeated by the cavalier attitude of the pugnacious condition. 

So it was then then that the "blood" in my eye posed no real concern: it had happened before, and it would leave of it's own volition in due course.

Except it didn't. I noticed after a few days that there was none of the usual signs of departure. No dimming of intensity, no suitcase in the hall, No keys on the sideboard. The bloody thing (literally) had moved in.

It was like the early nineties all over again. Youthful  discoveries and clandestine hookups were rife in my 1990's London. One moment you were getting ready to go out and boogie with friends, the next you were catching the tube or bus home from some far flung outpost of the capital.

That was how it was then, and we all accepted the protocols. 

Now something had broken the traditional rules of engagement.

I could envisage it making breakfast and reading my newspaper. Soon it would be rearranging the furniture and distributing cheap ornaments around the place. No doubt from EYEKEA?? 

After a week of uninvited inconvenience I threatened to break off what had seemingly turned into a relationship. Visions of us growing old together hove into view. A life of garden centres, comfortable slippers, and pensioner coach trips beckoned.

A tense stand off ensued as I waived my insurance policy threateningly in it's face. It merely wafted on by, with a slightly irritated demeanour. 

However, a quick call to Southern Cross later, and I was soon under the knife of a doctor with more letters after his name than Sir Alex Douglas Haig, KT GCB OM GCVO KCIE ADC.....

Then after much eye squelching, it was all over, and our dalliance restored to normality

Swiftly floating away,  no doubt in time to catch the first available N'eye'ght Bus....

And so you're back, from outer space....

 
Why yes, the muse has returned! 

Having popped out for a cigarette break, the creative juices have been replenished.   Some break.

Actually the muse has had plenty of time to walk to Havana, grow it's own tobacco plant, carefully dry the leaf, then employ local Cubans, newly reconciled with Uncle Sam to hand deliver to the US embassy, to be flown via FedEx back to Auckland in time to hail a cab to Whangaparaoa to deliver inspiration!

Of course both I and the muse refrain from the evil weed! (Take note children....smoking = not good) 

Such a lot has prevailed during the last few months "off air", so to speak..

Positives
               :) Became a New Zealand citizen after 11 years!
               :) Bought a holiday home in Lake Rotoiti.
               :) Changed job after 7 years.

Not so Positives, (we like to call them opportunities)

               :) New car rear ended by brakeless nitwit.
               :) Not keen on new job (oh I admit it ...ex new job!) 
               :) No more negatives....ever.

Venturing into the more banal ....left eye developed a haemorrhage, which cost a private insurance co $12,000 to repair, but undoubtedly of more importance, I got to travel on a public train, unable to drive as I was.

Yes they do exist actually here in Auckland. 

The encounter was brief, hushed and illicit. 
A whispered exchange in the dead of night.
"Single to Britomart please"
"$2.50"
Money was hastily exchanged to be followed by a quick fumble in the dark.... Tickets please!

Whoosh, I was transported deliriously to the peak of Auckland and back.
It was all over far too soon, we parted ways, I cast a quick furtive look back. The train seemed to smoke a final goodbye and then was off, again retreating from whence it came.

Since that affair the eye is approaching normality, as indeed am I, back in the blogosphere.

Until our next encounter...

Top Gear?

It's not often that I stray into the realm of Jeremy Clarkson, what with him being a jingoistic petrol maniac amongst other things, but motoring matters have been somewhat foremost in my mind lately....

After owning two Peugeot hatchbacks for the last few years, I have embraced the world of Ford.
My last French motor, Le 207 GTi en noir, was so unpredictable it had to go ....

Our three year relationship was a fractious one.

"Bonjour" I would politely announce as I started the ignition and gently eased it into gear.

 "Hmmmph" (or more accurately L'hmmmmph).. Tyre Pressure warning...Tyre Pressure Warning...curiously, even though the tyres were at the correct PSI.

Attention! Engine Management System Failure! (There was nothing wrong with it, as the garage deduced, but not before charging me several hundred dollars for the pleasure)

One day the front passenger window decided not to open. I had simply depressed the switch, a simple enough request to action for a reasonable car....

Pah! you stuck up toffee nosed Englishman...(echoing the French Knights in Monty Python's Holy Grail)
You are no good, you cannot even say Ouvre la Fenetre....therefore I refuse to cooperate.

So for 2 years the window remained closed, eventually relying on a local mechanic emailing a UK friend of his, acquainted as he was with a contact who worked for Peugeot in Paris, in order get the unlock code for the car's computer.!!!

Yet at times, I worshipped and adored my little Gti: the style, the interior, the equipment, so Chic, so French.

And therein lies the problem. In New Zealand European cars are deemed expensive and not like the normal run of the mill Japanese marques, the armies of Swifts, Mazda 3's, the ....(Yawn.....!) Corolla.
Not such a problem if you own 2 tons of German Vorsprung durch Technik. But un petit Peugeot GTi? Merde!

Consequently Euro car's services are more expensive, as are the mechanics bills, spares, and labour costs. All of which means the ultimate resell figure, like a descending lift on the Eiffel Tower, plummets.

Therefore it was time to buy a NZ trusted Ford, and whilst my Ecosport  is not the most expensive car in the range, to me it is the top Ghia.

What is boohoo in French?

No, I'm fine really.......

In 1992 Opus III would have us believe that it was going to be a fine night tonight, and a fine day tomorrow, as can be evidenced by the fact that people were opening windows. This British house/techno dance tune encapsulated all that's modest and understated about the British mentality.
When stressed or angry, ill, or emotional (quite rare for Brits to get emotional - unless it's during the X factor finals), or just simply don't walk to talk, we Brits will always try to brush things off with "I'm fine", 

I too espouse the cliched vernacular, reassuring people that I'm fine. For example at the renal clinic this week, after being asked "how are things", I replied that things were just fine, thus bringing the conversation to a shuddering halt. 

For in English the phrase I'm fine often can be read as  "I don't want to talk".
On this occasion the answer was intended to keep the conversation as limited as possible, in order to avoid excessive parking charges!  

This leaning towards duplicity can be further seen in the following explanation of "British speak"...

1. “I'm fine” – I am moments away from a devastating mental collapse, so please leave me alone

2. “I’ll bear it in mind” – Let us never mention this again.

3. “I'm sure it’s my fault” – It’s your fault.

4. “Chuffed” – Experiencing heart-racing euphoria.

5. “Not too bad, actually” – I'm possibly the happiest I have ever been.

6. “A bit miffed” – I've been ripped apart by a tsunami of pain and sorrow.

7. “Down in the dumps” – Severe depressive episode.

8. “Under the weather” – Close to death.

9. “Gutted” – Suicidal.

10. “Peeved” – Consumed with rage.

11. “Can’t complain” – But I'm going to anyway.

12. “Oh dear” – A life-altering catastrophe has just occurred.

My particular favourite is number 10......

Short Fat Fannie

Of course not  a personal reference...., although I am not the tallest of persons. Indeed mine would be spelt "Fanny" and would be called a bottom, since I don't speak American.

No this was a 1957 smash hit for blues singer Larry Williams.  This rock n roll number was one of the first "novelty" records and was featured by many other groups in their touring sets, including The Beatles, who played in their cinematic homage to excellence, 1969's Let it Be.

He was also a firm friend of Little Richard....

Since diminutive seems to be the order of the day, it would be appropriate to mention the amount of time spent at my last transplant clinic.....16 minutes. That includes from the electronic ticket barrier opening, parking, walking to the clinic, sitting and waiting in the "waiting" room for the doctor.

My doctor having quickly reviewed my blood tests,was most pleased, and I was soon sent off on my merry little way. I was back at the ticket machine and out of the car park in a flash.

I know this because the ticket machine told me my length of visit and charged me ....zero. Parking for visits of less than 30 minutes are free! 

Which is gratifying to know. many times I have been short changed by that particular little machine.

The Politics of Dancing

Amongst other things 1984 gave us; a George Orwell revival, more Ronald Reagan, and this little songs by Reflex in which the politicians became DJ's playing hits across the nation. A respectable yet lowly entry at number 27 in the charts....
1984 also saw David Lange win the NZ General Election and turned the country into a land of nuclear free hobbits. 

New Zealand went to the polls again last weekend, and the nation was subjected to a bitter campaign of dirty politics and various sideshows. The nation spoke as one however, and the current party was reinstalled like a vague Apple update....No one really understood the point but it doesn't seem to cause any damage to the status quo...

This was only my second general election here, as for the first four years I was prevented nay prohibited from enrolling. Like Emmeline Pankhurst and her merry band of agitated suffragettes, I was like many tax payers in this country, unable to vote.

The reason? In New Zealand you have to be a New Zealand citizen or Permanent Resident to enrol. Due to the damaging nature of long term diabetes and therefore the likelihood of renal failure I was denied a visa, and therefore the right to stay and the the right to vote. This was due to the cost of  my care on the public health system :(

Four years of fighting immigration and various appeals finally worked and in 2008 I was given official residency. Since then I've received a new kidney, a new pancreas, and regular drugs costing at least $25,000 a year to fund.....

Now that sounds like the sort of manifesto I'd vote for, and no dancing whatsoever.

Imagine.

Arguably the best record in the world ever.....

A stellar recording by an influential rock genius, recorded when I was a wee lad in 1971. The disc shot to prominence after Lennon's untimely death in December 1980, just as I was an easily influenced spotty teen. It was soon number 1, deposing The St Winifred's School Choir with Grandma. 

Inviting the listener to ponder on the nature of the world and mankind….(not Grandma..)

Talking of wild imaginings, picture if you can the crippling pain caused by a double migraine attack following a week of stress.

Imagine then, that it struck on the Saturday of a busy weekend, simultaneously emulsifying with a viscious attack of influenza.

Continue to envisage then the painful swallows of rapid onset laryngitis, together with the coughing and tight constriction of a chest infection.. Painful? You bet.

Now conceive of a sudden deterioration resulting in an urgent need for accident and emergency services late Saturday night. Now at this point insert the words “consumed alcohol and therefore unable to drive” and phone the ambulance. Imagine further if you will, being packed off all alone in the ambulance, with no money, shoes, 'phone, in fact just a jolly old dressing gown.

And conjure up the horror of trying to dial home after being discharged at 7am, only to have your calls go unanswered and being forced to pay $100 for a taxi ride home…still in a dressing gown.

Now visualise that all these nasties had happened to you, how would you feel?

Especially if your partner had had a kidney pancreas operation, had been a diabetic all their life, and had been rushed many times to hospital and probably should be a tad more empathetic....

Ono!

Take that to the Bank

There it is, said Shalamar as they scoured the High Streets looking for somewhere to stash their top 40 gold. No doubt hunting in vain for a HSBC or Midland bank. This hit from 1978 added to that vast horde of riches.

On a completely unrelated vein, I was embraced by the warm and friendly glow seeping from the local team of phlebotomists at Labtests on Saturday.
As usual I strayed into the corporately fashioned designer interior, imbued with a warm inviting slick gloss of caring responsibility.....but still sterile none the less. I took a seat, then returned it. After a while an exotic voice called me over and directed me to room 4. I followed her orders and took another chair following the man in front of me as I went....

After the by now well rehearsed pleasantries, we settled into our respective roles. For the her, the ever efficient health professional, for me the slightly squeamish and agliophobic customer.

"Can you please confirm your name and date of  birth please"

Why yes certainly I can, the sight of impending blood doesn't actually cause my memory to fail.

"And for security reasons, your address"

For security reasons !? Was this in fact the SIS, (New Zealand's top intelligence bureau, with more spooks than a haunted house fair ride)

"Sorry, force of habit, I used to work in a bank" she weakly smiled. More embarrassed perhaps by her past employment in these recession hit times, rather than her slightly foolish mistake?

In a bank? I laughingly retorted....Shall I utilise that obvious pun? Yes let's do it...

Was it a blood bank? Ha! A stunning punning victory for me I think!

"No" she replied, flatly "it was Westpac"

Nothing. No smile, no laugh or wink, no acknowledgment of the recent linguistic tool whatsoever.

I felt like a total clot.

Video killed the Radio Star?

Or so Buggles mused in 1979, when the future seemed bright and goggly, more UVF than VHF.
Not so says the radio in the background, frantically waving it's antennae and speakers about in a frankly cheesy manner.

As the world  fast forwarded, we watched the epic cellulose battle between Beta and VHS, and still the the dear old wireless went from strength to strength. Video shops boomed everywhere. Soon every house had a video recorder, complete with enormous cabinets housing huge libraries of bulky rectangular tapes. 
I remember the language firmly asserting itself in our collective consciousness. We started to "tape" stuff, and forgetting to "set the video" became a national sport. How many of us can remember "taping over" a cherished memory with a hastily recorded EastEnders, or Brookside replacing the Royal Wedding.
But now the video is  dead, killed by shiny new plastic discs, and digital downloads are now the norm.

Why then do I still want to "tape" Sky? Or when I press series link, do I then affirm that I have set the video? 

On a similar vein, I occasionally wonder whether I have missed my evening injection, or I forgotten to go to dialysis! So much for 40 years of conditioning and habits.

Oh well, time to eject this thought and get on with playing the programme..

Wot?

Long before "Estuary English" swept our world, we just had Londoners....and Captain Sensible was one of those entertaining capital city dwellers. Wot was his second hit single after 1982's Happy Talk.. No, seriously "Wot" WAS his follow up hit...This former singer from The Damned made an eminently sensible choice to go it alone..
Less sensible were the 'goings on' and machinations of  last Friday. Was there a medical mishap (so oft the muse of these posts?), an amusing but avoidable altercation with a fellow human being? No, This drama was solely the result of my striving for hygienic perfection.

On my way home last week, I stopped at lights, and whilst counting down the seemingly interminable minutes, I decided to clean and refresh my hands. Having reached and secured the hand gel from my cup holder, I deftly flipped open the lid and squeezed. It was if a medicimally minded aseptic llama had suddenly sneezed on my hands.

The resultant wave of liquefied gel engulfed my hands like a hygienic tsunami. Aghast, I looked down at my hands, then the steering wheel, and back again. How to drive without  making the wheel wet and slippery? Time for action, as the lights started to turn to green....I quickly tried to wipe the gel from my hands, leaving a trail of gel like an anti bacterial Gastropod. I gripped the edge of the wheel using my palms, blowing rapidly on the drying digits. A quick hand waggle on the way to the gear stick, and I was dry, safe to resume my journey in accordance with the road code. 

I must remember to move the hand gel from the car so it doesn't heat up and liquefy. That would be rather sensible. Wot?

Sweet Dreams (are made of this)

Who am I to disagree? Standing in a cow field and being "worried" by malevolent looking Frisians was a strange video choice for their breakthrough hit of 1983, but the Eurythmics certainly made their dreams much sweeter after this classic bought them the sweet smell of success.

At that time, my sweet experiences were artificially limited to saccharin.The chemically enhanced and flavoured sugar "substitute" was the nation's tried and tested diabetic/slimmer's beverage sweetener. It was a poor imitation though,with an unpleasant simulated taste, leaving a lingering metallic tang.This was something the manufacturers went to great lengths to disguise. However with unalluring names like Sweet "N" Low, Splenda, Hermesetas and Sucryl it should not have been to hard to spot.

Like a monocular modified pair of spectacles: they do work, but the overall effect is rather odd..

Thankfully those saccharin days are gone....or have they?

The NZ Pharmaceutical Agency (Pharmac) has changed supplier of my tacrolimus anti rejection pills in an effort to save costs on the public purse. The lucky new recipient of the golden contract is Sandoz. Previously Novartis, (a merger of Ciba Geigy snd Sandoz) in 1899, the Swiss chemical giant started to commercially produce .........saccharin!

As I gave up saccharin long ago, (the taste really was excruciatingly bad), I hope my impending reuinion with Sandoz and their lab's products is much sweeter...