Thursday, 27 April 2017

Spot The Dog.

Yep, still waiting to get my elbow fixed.  Still need surgery.  I've got a vague letter from a nearby hospital that might well be in regards to having surgery or perhaps have some doctor stick a needle in my elbow, yet again.  Only to have the doctor look puzzled and tell me I should get some surgery on my elbow.  I think they should rename the hospital.  "Groundhog Day Hospital", perhaps.

The letter from the hospital is for me to show up on May 26 of this year.  Yes, I will phone them and ask what the hell my appointment is actually for.

In the meantime, I still have the comments section switched off.  If you check your Google + and Twitter accounts, you may note I've been sharing your posts.

For reasons beyond my comprehension, you might be one of those bloggers who's obsessed with the alphabet. This means you might well be posting up some A to Z stuff.

As a bit of a distraction for you, please have a look at the above photo, taken near "The Roaches" in the Staffordshire Moorlands, near Leek.  Spot the dog?  That's not a reference to Spot the dog and the series of books.  Do you notice Penny the Jack Russell dog and modest internet superstar having a right good sniff?

Tuesday, 4 April 2017

Hospital Humour Meets The Comedy Clinic.

You may have noticed I'm still not exactly active in the blogging world.  Yep, I'm lurking in the background sharing your posts via the various social "notworking" sites.  That's about the extent of it because I'm stuck in irony overdrive. Stuck,for now, with the aggravating "tit" on my right elbow aka "tennis elbow" aka bursitis.

I went to the hospital to get it sorted out way back on February 28.  I should of sensed that things weren't going to go well when the doctor asked me if I had a Northern Irish accent.  That's a new one on me.  Sort of refreshing, I guess, when I think about the number of times people have asked me what part of the States I'm from.  I have, well sort of still have, a Canadian accent.  Some might think my accent is "mid-Atlantic".  Which confuses me because I most certainly don't sound Jamaican.  "No way, mon!"

Oh, I've nothing against Northern Irish accents if you like to listen to people who sound pissed off all the time.  Maybe the doctor thought I was pissed off.  He would be correct, especially after what transpired next.

Right then, so this doctor, who probably sees loads of swollen elbows in a day, stuck in needle in the offending right elbow.  He looked puzzled.  "Never seen this happen before." he stated, "I should be getting out fluid but I'm getting out blood."

For the next few minutes he proceeded to squeeze my elbow.  He finally gave up, stuck a plaster on my elbow and suggested I have surgery.  I agreed to that.  He told me I would get a surgery date.

I left the hospital with a sense of irony.  My elbow was now feeling worse than before I went to the hospital.  Yes, irony right up there with the time my car got wiped out by an ambulance.  Note, "irony overdrive", in the first paragraph of this rather disjointed post.

On March 9, I received a letter that I thought would be in regards to my appointment for my surgery. Instead it was for me to make an appointment with a doctor at my health centre for a routine check in regards to my visit to the hospital.  Huh!?

On March 27, I got to see a doctor about the letter I'd received  He was as puzzled as I was about not actually getting a date for my surgery.  He said he'd  contact the hospital to actually get me a real time for my surgery. What a complete screw up.  Thus, I wait and wait and wait...

Here's me
Doing a selfie
What agony
See my elbow
Oh no and woe
Took five days to type this
Not exactly bliss
Elbow, el-boob, on this dude
How very, very crude. 

Tuesday, 21 February 2017

Ten Years After.

Today, February 21, marks the ten year anniversary of what has become a rather sleepy blog.  Yes, ten years to the day, I set out to demonstrate that my mental health issues are only a small part of who I am.

The past year has challenged every fibre of my resolute determination.  I will not, I cannot ever go back to that dark, foreboding place that put me on the brink of death.  I have so much to live for.

Those that bullied me brought me to a profound crossroad in my life.  A broken, shadow of a man who found the way out as I lay dying on a hospital bed.  I clung onto the loving power instilled in me by the hug from my then nine year old son, Tristan.  My son saved my life for he gave me a reason to live.

I choose to live with rather than suffer from my mental illness.  My illness, not a curse.  An ironic blessing that's humbled and inspired me.

While I still struggle with getting any semblance of blogging momentum back, I have, once again, switched off comments.  I know you will understand.  I'm grateful to you.

"Ten Years After" and this song is still so very poignant. 

Penny the Jack Russell dog 
The heart of this blog
Together, we have a visualisation
A blessed realisation
Of the flag of peace unfurled
In an all different, all equal world.  

Tuesday, 14 February 2017

Bungling, Bureaucratic Buffoonery.

I'm sitting here in my living room trying to cope with one ridiculous situation followed by another ridiculous situation.

For the past year, my vital link to the world beyond my computer screen has been sabotaged by a variety of issues that have challenged my right to a peaceful, positive environment.  I miss blogging and the interaction shared within the diverse blogging community.

I have loads of issues, mental and physical.  These issues have been dramatically compounded by the relentless incompetence of the bungling, bureaucratic buffoonery that has gone into sadistic overdrive, especially over the past twelve months.

Yes, in between hospital appointments, doctors appointments and bouts of severe depression, the UK government is now hassling me, yet again, about my claim for benefits.  Benefits, I might add, I wish I didn't need.  I didn't choose to become ill and now, just like all the other times I've been pursued, they are making me feel like a criminal.

Excuse me for swearing, but I've fucking had enough!  I feel terrible for not interacting with you.  I just wish I could focus on the blog and get the positive momentum back.

Please note that the comments section is switched off.  Thank you.

My friend, keep embracing the ideals of the all different, all equal blogging community.  A community that shares.  A community where we learn from each other as we strive to make this fragile, beleaguered planet, a better place for all of us.

Saturday, 28 January 2017

Bucket, Bewildered Brain And Blessing.

Right, that's it!  Enough, already.  It seemed that every time I was about to formulate a blog post, something else would happen that meant that I would suddenly find myself not formulating a blog post.

I've been so much in the blogging background and lacking in interaction that getting the momentum back has been a most daunting task.

I started writing this post over a week ago.  Then I heard this dripping noise.  I should add that the dripping noise had nothing to do with me or Penny the Jack Russell dog.  I looked over at the light fixture on my living room ceiling where drips of water were plopping down onto the carpet.

My bewildered brain realised that water coming from a light fixture was not a good idea.  Yes, my brain had a lightbulb moment.  I started feeling a bit pale because I needed a pail. Off to the kitchen to find the bucket.  "Ah bucket!", I mumbled.  "Ah, there's the bucket under the kitchen counter!"

Bucket lined up below the drip.  Make emergency phone call.  Two guys stared at the stains on my ceiling, noted the drips from the lighting and concluded that I had a leak. As in the ceiling had a leak and not me.  Brilliant and what observational skills.

Ceiling is now fixed but the bucket remains for a little longer.

So, after more than a week, here I am back to finish this post.

The last few months have challenged my vulnerable mental health well being.  Then a small moment of magic happened that more than made up for the torment I've been experiencing.  Paula, a dear friend of mine who lives in south Wales, was checking out the loft in her house.  She discovered some photo negatives.  Yes, remember the days before digital cameras.  When she realised what the subject of the negatives were, she contacted me and sent the developed photos.

My son, Tristan, Penny and I, are most grateful for Paula taking the effort to bring back some cherished memories of the past.  Thank you, Paula.

I'm guessing that these three photos are from around early 2001.  My son is 12 and Penny is about 3 months old.  Oh and the old dude would have been 46.

Tuesday, 10 January 2017

At This Rate..

At this rate
Oh, how grate
Um, great
Never too late
To soon do a post
From this lazy host
I'm almost back
Been ever so slack
Get back on track
My interaction gets better
With every letter
That I right
Um, write
Yep, I'll soon be in site, sorry, sight
Aint that write, doh, right
Comments not on
But it wont be long
Watch out for the next post
From this baffling host.