Grange Hill...

Gracing our TV screens during my formative years in the late seventies and eighties, with school based storylines that both entertained and educated, and featured on screen relationships that mirrored out own teen aged angst ridden years. 

This mythical school set in North London became like a friend to many as we dashed home from school twice a week to catch up on the latest episodes. It was junior soap, like Eastenders, and Corrie, even to the point that some of Britain's finest acting "talent" trod the boards first in Grange Hill (Todd Carty went on to become Mark from Eastenders, whilst Susan Tully morphed into Michelle Fowler of the same soap.

And just as those hapless souls lived out their timetabled lives, so I was due on Monday for the last of my regular monthly clinic checks. I say "was due", for  I was unaware of this fact. I was under the misunderstanding that I was now on three monthly visits. So consequently didn't go to have my bloods tested prior, and then failed to show, in what medical staff term "DNA", Did not attend.

Blissfully ignorant of this planned meeting, I had a perfectly normal (for me) Beginning of the week, with oodles of "stuff" to focus on at work.

Like a calm and dozy afternoon school period,  this pleasant state of affairs was shattered by a text, that burst forth from my phone like some overwound school bell, which having been tightly coiled, sprung forth into action, releasing a rousing shrill blast that pierced the the still corridors and sleepy classrooms, and unleashing a rising sound as chairs scraped, teachers barked, students yelled, doors banged and footsteps reverberated to combine in a sleep shattering cacophony.

"Where were you on Monday? Are you OK" - demanded the concerned clinical nurse.

Oops, I thought, did I get it wrong? Evidently.

And suddenly from nowhere, in it flashed.....the required excuse!  Perhaps the time honoured favourite:

It wasn't my fault Miss....

My appointment letter was eaten by my dog,......or perhaps I could try.....my reminder was accidentally destroyed during whilst my suit was being dry cleaned by Mr Fung Woo, of the Shanghai Imperial Lotus Flower Dry Clean and Key Cutting Shop?

Suddenly I was whisked back to St Ann's Heath Middle School in 1978 Virginia Water, Surrey, and finding myself having to account for my misdemeanors.

I only hope that I dont get a detention when I go back to see the clinic with my rearranged appointment. Left waiting for the consultant as if stuck outside  the headmasters study.

(The 1970's were such a tonsorially cruel decade)

Where are you all coming from...?

"From Smurfland where we belong...."

Way back in the days of childhood yore when we only had 3 Tv channels and the car rego was T,  National Benzole a  brand of petrol station (now part of the ever popular BP) were augmenting their sales with a promotion involving The Smurfs.: These "lovable" fun characters were first introduced in Belgium in the 60's , and quickly spread throughout Western Europe in the seventies.

Aided in this global conspiracy by the "hit" single sung by Father Abraham, and his squeaky petite blue friends  Rather scarily this reached number 2 in 1978, and spawned 2 follow up top ten singles. Their appeal was so great that popular children's magazine Look In produced a weekly Smurf feature to entertain the masses,including me:

For lovers of all things smurf, this was indeed a gilded era, and an abomination for those who did not.

Of course I fell into the smurf fan side of things, and started to collect the tiny plastic figures from National filling stations, especially the one on Kingsthorpe's Harborough Road. This glorious highway, on the outskirts of Northampton, wended its verdant path north through established conifer lined suburbs and quaint ironstone villages en route to Market Harborough and Leicester.

The  journey from my home to the filling station took around twenty minutes. Following in the tradition of fond childhood memories, I recall it always being bright and sunny, and was a pleasant stroll. Just like the Hobbit's adventure, my quest would also involve small people and conclude with the premise of treasure.

On the way back I would often purchase a small packet of sweets (which were strictly verboten to me as a diabetic child) and scoff them merrily on the way home with my newly acquired smurf. Favourite forbidden treats at the time were Fruit Pastilles and Rolos, as they could be swiftly consumed within twenty minutes, yet lasted most of the way home. Unsurprisingly my blood sugars were strangely elevated later on that day....

And so this memory remained just that, a fleeting memory of times past.

Or so I thought.

For one brief moment last week, whilst walking near the beach in the stifling summer heat, I passed a man carrying a jerry-can, full of fuel, for his boat. As he sloshed past I was exposed to the same petrol fumes which when combined with the summer heat conjured up the exact aroma that returned me instantly to that forecourt in 1978.

I was captivated by the smell, and instantly thought of smurfs, 34 years later.

My life has moved on, and the smurfs may have disappeared, but  if the yearning should return there are these....

All Night Long

Observed a Mr Lionel Ritchie way back in 1984, when I was just a pimply spotted small person. (Whoever just said and still are, very rude). The father of the woefully skinny Nicole was dancing all over the 80's, and  we joined in the frenetic activity back then, with jazzy jumpers, metallic shirts and shoulder pads a plenty.

After last nights "sleep" however, I wont be dancing whatsoever, ceiling or not. Allow me to explain...

After a building humidity over Auckland, where simply walking was akin to wading in an Olympic pool, the heat and associated moisture almost led you to believe it was high noon in the Florida Everglades. 
Surely it would rain soon, and bring blessed relief? 

And sure enough the rains began, light spattery drops that instead of clearing the humidity, merely added to it.
Off came the duvet for a few minutes, then back it snuggled. Off it came, and sure enough like a carrier pigeon it returned.

After what seemed like a sleep deprived age, then the old diabetic leg throbbing began.

Now that's just not on, as I take tablets to alleviate that. Not to mention that I am not a diabetic anymore.

And so this miserable night bumbled along, inter spaced with more throbbing of leg, duvet wrestling and continual overbearing heat, all mixed together with a tired but still active mind....

Ahhhh........sleep at last.

I was rudely awoken by my piercing iphone alarm clock.

Hello Mrs Morning, Is it me you're looking for

Zzzzzz....

Would I Lie to You?

Questioned Annie Lennox as the Eurythmics clambered up the charts in 1985, her dulcet Scottish timbre roaring like the motorbike featured in the video. I gather that her coquettish  line of query was intended for her sceptical lover, the lyric doused with heavy sarcasm.

I certainly don't think she was questioning her associate's citizenship.

Unlike the administrator in my local MRI clinic this week.
I was asked to have a MRI scan of my lower limbs to ascertain the cause of some leg ache during walking. The letter duly arrived in the post and I opened it to check the date.
Now, letters from our District Health Board always state that you must be eligible to receive state funded treatment, and that you may be asked to provide some form of proof of that eligibility.

Presumably this is in an effort to restrict services to NZ residents and citizens, whilst charging citizens from other nations for accessing the free services here.
As a Brit living abroad I have already provided my passport and visa and this has been kept on record by my health board.
Fast forward to last week and contained within the DHB's Missive was the usual proof of eligibility clause, but it had been highlighted in yellow.

I thought nothing more of it.

Until of course until the receptionist at the MRI scan asked to see proof of my entitlement.
How galling, I mused. It must be my exclusively UK accent, my Surrey tones entwined with flecks of Northampton. A marvellous vocal brew, in case you haven't heard it, a blend of BBC English and the odd tone from the shires, "me old ducks". All of which could conceivably allow some people to assume I am not normally resident here.
Piffle and a nonsense, or should I say "Would i lie to you"

I explained my long history here, and my transplant in 2011, asking her to check my history on the system.

She appeared peeved and disappointed as she registered me in for my scan, managing to get in that if I had not been eligible I would have been the recipient of a very heft bill in the post.

Of course no demand appeared, and my leg scans were fine.

 In May I shall be eligible to become a New Zealand citizen, should I so desire, but hopefully without any noticeable change to my diction or slang, but will be asked no doubt to provide evidence of my new nationhood.

Annie might have said about the whole episode:

Here comes the rain again, falling on my head like a MRI

Footloose

And fancy free?

Of course nothing is truly free, even Kenny Loggins charged us one pound ninety nine to buy his musical masterpiece, which accompanied the toe tappin’, foot jiving, celluloid creation from 1984. Recently remade, it inspired a generation of plimsoll dancing (I believe they are pumps in the US) and legwarmer toting dancers at every school disco.

Certainly there has been less “toe-tappin” over here on the peninsula, as I have been in need of some podiatry TLC.
Slightly more cracked than a peanut brittle, my  heels have taken to looking tired and forlorn, even downtrodden, especially after 2 weeks at the beach where jandals/flip flops are the mode de rigeur.

Off then I hastened to claim one of my “free” appointments at the local podiatrist. Free due to the long ravaging effects of that ole devil called diabetes and a smidgeon of sympathy from the local health authority.

Provided of course that it has been referred by a G.P.

This simple admin procedure had been overlooked by my doctor, due to his discovering the Lord and moving to Melbourne fairly sharpish. Personally I have never thought of Melbourne as the likely residence of God, but then I might have misheard that at Sunday School.

Or perhaps as an ex-diabetic, my GP felt that my feet would miraculously recover from 40 years of diabetic neuropathy?

In the end I politely waited as  my sparkly new GP rushed through the prior approval to the podiatrist so that I could get a much needed foot scrub. After a thorough buffing, polishing, and a final deep moisturising they were done for another 3 months.

And now my feet are as soft and smooth as a soft and smooth thing entering the annual National Softest and Smoothest Thing competition, where no doubt I would have won after all the care that has been lavished on them. I need to ensure they are moisturised well, though shall probably avoid Bacon fat.

These are my real feet, albeit in 2006 in Fiji.
No feet were harmed in the making of this blog.