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...

Three is the Magic Number

Three is the magic number! Did the late eighties rap band De La Soul have a psychic premonition? Were they perhaps privy to some medical secret known only to themselves and Nostradamus? 

For did the soothsayer scribe "in the year 2014, cometh the third year of passing by the new part for the once afflicted sugary one”

Had he done so this may have been inaccurately predicted as a foretelling of the appearance of the iPhone phenomenon, the sinking of the Costa Concordia or some such unrelated malarkey. 

Demonstrably fact beyond doubt is the anniversary of my recycled kidney and pancreas.

For indeed it is three years since my shrivelled and frankly useless organs were given a palpable boost by the transplant this very week! In sugar terms, three years is a wealth of new cakes, biscuits and curious confections to discover, and I have the waistline to prove that as well.

Three years with no diabetic hypos, no further eye damage, no damaging daily dialysis, no 45 minutes trips to dialysis there and back three time s a week, no more injections, or daily blood tests. And no more ghastly laxative diabetic chocolate and low-cal drinks.

Three is a magic number, and may there be many more of them, or so I predict.

We are Detective.

In 1983 the Thompson Twins were on the lookout, perhaps for the missing plural consonant at the end of their UK number 7 hit. This alphabet catastrophe was just the latest in a set of misdemeanours for the group. None of their members were alas called Thompson, they were not by any means twins (3?) and to top it all, were not even related. 

Such intrigues! What better way however, to introduce the peculiar happenings in Whangaparaoa this afternoon.

Having performed a swift "mini-vacuum", (just like a thorough spring clean, but quicker and less exhaustive), it was time for a spot of lunch. As the autumn sun's rays filtered  through the clouds, the garden provided an enticing haven to enjoy a sandwich. As I tucked in heartily, I noticed from the corner of my eye a glimpse of gingery orange from nearby. It appeared to be our enormous ginger cat, Jinsy, sitting in foliage and silently staring at me.  This is not new, for he often hides and stares, like one of Emil's detectives....

Lunch was soon over, followed by a nap, but there was no movement from the Orange Overseer hidden in the foliage. 

"Jinsy" I called. No affectionate mew in retort, just quiet immobility.

He had become the silent sentinel. 

This was most odd, and quite un-Jinsylike. This warranted investigation.

There was similarly no movement as I approached... "Jinsy" I called again.

Perhaps he was stuck, but then why no movement?

As I grew nearer and my eyes focused better I first gasped, and then giggled..

Instead of a noble feline warrior stalking his prey, I had been the unwitting victim of a newly placed terracotta pot.

 Next time I must remember to take my glasses into the garden.

Together Forever

As I sped to the chemist this weekend, Bluetooth blaring out Rick Astley's 1988 dance hit, the sun, like the audio, was streaming in. I think it would only to be fair to say that given the evidence in his videos, Rick was not one of the worlds greatest dancers.

 Indeed many pop kings and queens have been the inspiration for dances;  Michael Jackson’s Moonwalk, Madonna’s Vogue, and Mud’s Tiger Feet for example. Rick alas was not blessed with such cavorting excellence.

On the other hand, I prided myself on being a bit of a disco dolly,like a toe tapping Happy Footed penguin.

In these halcyon days of the late 80’s London, the hot summer nights were boogie night. If there was ever a Kool, I was in his gang.

As I climbed from the car and bopped into the chemist, I spied my reflection….checked shirt, slim jeans.. Eighties fashion has come full circle and is now in Vogue again.  I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky.

Bursting forth like a new Stock Aitken and Waterman record, memories came flooding back. The combination of the warm autumn sun, the clothes and the efforts of Mr Astley sent me straight back to the summer of 1988….Dance music, parties, pub “sessions” and falling asleep on the underground. Young, single, living in the capital and enjoying life to the full.

I think it’s no exaggeration to say I was a “bad” diabetic then…Sugary drinks, crisps, missed meals and some rather dubious parties may all have contributed to the neuropathy and related problems culminating in renal failure in 2009.

But unlike the eighties some things do not return, the Filofax, printed London A-Z’s,  and my diabetes.

I truly thought we would be together forever.