Ka has been needing a bit of tlc recently. The mental trials of the last half a year have been tough on Ka, me, not to mention the rest of the family, I suppose. Dad’s heart attack last week also gave us a scare, and it’s all left me rather numb and depressed.
In a vague effort to cheer Ka up, just a little, I left work yesterday to buy her some flowers at the supermarket on my way home.
Now that the newspaper production centre is based in Hamilton we have the joys and inconvenience of being just around the corner from the local Asda. Inconvenience because I now have little excuse when it comes to popping by the shops on the way home to get some cheese or milk missing from the fridge. So nipping into Asda on the way home last night I bought Ka two bunches of flowers, a new set of pyjamas and a new clothes horse.
Okay, a clothes horse is not the most romantic of items or the first thing to go for to cheer your lady up, but, as I'm sure you can guess, I didn't specifically buy it for Ka alone to accompany her colourful bouquet. You certainly wouldn't woo many a woman by buying them a clothes horse (why do they call it a clothes horse anyway? It's nothing like a horse - where's the saddle?). Saying that, would you woo many a woman by buying them pyjamas? Cuddly, cosey pyjamas with Eeyore on the front?
Well, it's better than a clothes horse anyway.
I did suspect coming home with a bunch of flowers together with a folding concertina clothes rack was a risk and could possibly end up with me being concerina’d myself but was confident that the pyjamas would soften the blow.
A new clothes airer, or horse, is something we've been meaning to buy for at least three months now anyway and they were all reduced in the homeware sale, so it was a bargain and would successfully replace the old one, which is now a bloody nuisance.
For the past few months we have had to build the clothes horse with awkward, krypton factor like, precision, involving balancing broken parts against other broken parts and hoping that nobody accidentally hit it on their way by in the hallway, otherwise the thing would shake down into a pile of damp clothing and metal poles with jagged ends. A quick journey through our small hallway, in the past months, has often ended up like a strange version of jenga, involving metallic poles and wet pants instead of the traditional wooden blocks.
It was the ironing board that did it. The ironing board is kept in the same tight corner of the kitchen and at some point in the past year has caused a few breakages to various intersections in the airer's joinings making it the quivering wreck it is today.
Luckily for me, after making it home, the old clothes horse did not end up smashed down over me. Ka liked the flowers and pyjamas and all the hassle at the Asda self service check out was worth it.
No matter how many times I attempt to use those self service checkouts it always takes double the time it should.
After finally getting the scanners to recognise some barcodes I beeped the flowers through and placed them down into a carrier bag, just as the overly patronising animation instructed you to on the monitor, only to be told I had an 'unexpected item in the baggage area'.
I looked round for this mysterious unexpected item to see only the two bunches of flowers sitting there. That couldn't have been right, I thought, as I had scanned both over the glass panels and the machine had beeped it's approval, allowing them passage to the afore mentioned baggage area, so, to my mind, this would make them wholly expected.
Absolutely expected.
Exactly what the machine should have expected.
There was nothing remotely 'unexpected' about them!
Was the baggage area unprepared for such a hefty weight of blossoms?
Was I supposed to keep the flowers in hand as I swept the rest of my items over the scanner?
So, just as all the other times, I had to wait on a 'supervisor' to come over. A young guy, around the age of seven, in an Asda fleece, eventually sauntered over and flashed his badge at the scanner and then pressed the monitor once before giving an abrupt nod and walked off to be useful somewhere else. Perhaps to hold the giant pointing green hand that’s used to tell people which direction to head in once they reach the normal, humanly staffed, checkouts.
Something obviously had to be verified, I thought, as I tried to scan the clotheshorse’s barcode.
Perhaps buying flowers now has an age restriction?
I wondered if I had not moved my item to the baggage area with the correct degree of efficiency?
A clotheshorse through the self service monitor would have been a far worthier contender for an ‘unexpected item’.
Showing posts with label Health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Health. Show all posts
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
Monday, 29 August 2011
An enraged Swedish Chef
Kirkintilloch looked miserable yesterday. The sky was thick with grey. The wind that blew over the hills was bitter cold. The branches on the trees swayed fiercely in the strong breeze and the streets were empty of people. That was until the Reids and the McGarvas arrived.
Yesterday was Dougie’s birthday and Colin and Jillian held a BBQ in my Father In Law’s honour and we all made our way out to Waterside. Colin donned the Chef’s hat, that Ka had found him on Amazon during the week, (she couldn’t find a turban), and got the coals lit with a little help from Dad, an expert BBQ chef himself. Steven soon provided some help with another BBQ, firing on some Chicken Tikka he’d marinated earlier, which everyone soon started munching, raving about, whilst picking the last remaining chicken from their sticks. Colin muttered jealously and then shouted abusively, waving his knives and spatulas around like an enraged Swedish Chef, as apparently we had not praised his own cooking quite so much.
Greasy hamburgers in a buttery roll with cheese and a heavy dollop of tomato sauce. Sausages fresh from the grill. Beef kebabs that nipped at your mouth with their spicy innards as you ate. Pork steaks, pasta bakes, mustards, beers, cake and wine. As Man United scored all those goals, all of the above were happily consumed although none of which were particularly ideal ingredients for a man that’s just had a heart attack.
Dad spent three nights as a guest in Hairmyres hospital last week as a result of the pains he had been experiencing on the Monday morning whilst getting ready for work. It wasn’t until Dad got to work and he was having more than a little difficulty with the short staircase outside the factory’s front doors that he realised something must be wrong. As the pain in his chest continued and he found himself short of breath, more than a little hot under the collar and building up a bit of a sweat on the brow, he googled the symptoms in work and they all gave generally the same answer. A heart attack.
One of Dad’s colleagues flung the phone over the desk towards him and he phoned NHS 24, whose advisors, after passing Dad on a few times to various, different conversationalists, eventually came up with the idea of sending an ambulance out. Gosh, that what quick thinking. Before long Dad was whisked off to Hairmyres.
Of course, once I had got to the hospital on the Monday night I told him that he should have just phoned me. After recently graduating from a three day British Red Cross course I could have told him what the problem was in moments, quickly identifying the symptoms of a heart attack (although I’m not sure if my Dad experienced the ‘sense of impending doom’… I’ll need to ask him that). I could have told him was position to sit in and everything and I certainly wouldn’t have had to hold a committee or pass the phone round my work colleagues to get their ideas on the matter.
Saying that, I may have panicked. I may even have made matters worse. I would probably have rushed out from my work, ran straight into a lamp post, dropping my car keys down a drain and then once having finally retrieved my car keys from under the street drain with the help of a passing burglar who just happened to have a crowbar on him, I would have crashed the car into a Hamilton driver.
Makes me wonder what I’d be like in a real British Red Cross emergency situation. I’m one of three first aiders in our building. I’m also one of two fire wardens for our department?!
The place is doomed.
Yes, it’s probably just as well Dad did not phone me.
Dad has now been prescribed with four pills to take for the rest of his life and a six week recovery programme to help nurse him through the coming weeks. Dad showed the large ring bound book of recovery to Ka and myself when we visited him at home on Thursday after he was eventually released from Hairmyres and Ka immediately started going through the instructions, reading out the various pills’ allowance and side affects, skipping the bit about the possible effects on the sex life.
Dad is now on a morning diet of Aspirins, statins and beta blockers to help thin his blood and keep it flowing properly through his arteries.
As a result of all this I’m now considering my own diet. If my Dad, a generally healthy, fit guy, can have a heart attack, what chance do the rest of us have?
The rest of us being me?
Just for starters, I’ve been mulling over my cholesterol intake today. I came across one list describing the food to avoid online which included all as follows:
Butter – I eat on bread, toast, potatoes, quite a lot really. It was on the rolls I had with my greasy BBQ food yesterday.
Hard cheese – Cheese is great. Brilliant toasted with a tomato on top. In fact, I had loads on my burgers yesterday…
Fatty meat – yep, eat that too. Again, had a fair amount from Colin’s and Jillian’s table last night.
Red and processed meat – yep, again on the BBQ last night.
Biscuits – yep, last night along with…
Cake – well, it was Dougie’s birthday?!
Cream – yep, we had whipped cream with it. Although Dougie kept an eye on Morgan and myself as we squirted from the can (he doesn’t like people nicking his whipped cream).
Dripping – is this grease from your food? If so, yes, again, on the burgers and various meaty products cooked on Colin’s smoking BBQ last night.
Other items on the list included Lard, Ghee (whatever that is) and Coconut oil. These three were the only three not included on Colin and Jillian’s menu last night.
Everything else we ate is on the heart attack list?!
Colin was trying to murder us!?!
Chicken Tikka wasn’t on the Cholesterol list though...
That’s why Colin was so angry at Steven for cooking some of his own recipes.
By cooking some healthy chicken, Steven was foiling his evil plan!
Yesterday was Dougie’s birthday and Colin and Jillian held a BBQ in my Father In Law’s honour and we all made our way out to Waterside. Colin donned the Chef’s hat, that Ka had found him on Amazon during the week, (she couldn’t find a turban), and got the coals lit with a little help from Dad, an expert BBQ chef himself. Steven soon provided some help with another BBQ, firing on some Chicken Tikka he’d marinated earlier, which everyone soon started munching, raving about, whilst picking the last remaining chicken from their sticks. Colin muttered jealously and then shouted abusively, waving his knives and spatulas around like an enraged Swedish Chef, as apparently we had not praised his own cooking quite so much.
Greasy hamburgers in a buttery roll with cheese and a heavy dollop of tomato sauce. Sausages fresh from the grill. Beef kebabs that nipped at your mouth with their spicy innards as you ate. Pork steaks, pasta bakes, mustards, beers, cake and wine. As Man United scored all those goals, all of the above were happily consumed although none of which were particularly ideal ingredients for a man that’s just had a heart attack.
Dad spent three nights as a guest in Hairmyres hospital last week as a result of the pains he had been experiencing on the Monday morning whilst getting ready for work. It wasn’t until Dad got to work and he was having more than a little difficulty with the short staircase outside the factory’s front doors that he realised something must be wrong. As the pain in his chest continued and he found himself short of breath, more than a little hot under the collar and building up a bit of a sweat on the brow, he googled the symptoms in work and they all gave generally the same answer. A heart attack.
One of Dad’s colleagues flung the phone over the desk towards him and he phoned NHS 24, whose advisors, after passing Dad on a few times to various, different conversationalists, eventually came up with the idea of sending an ambulance out. Gosh, that what quick thinking. Before long Dad was whisked off to Hairmyres.
Of course, once I had got to the hospital on the Monday night I told him that he should have just phoned me. After recently graduating from a three day British Red Cross course I could have told him what the problem was in moments, quickly identifying the symptoms of a heart attack (although I’m not sure if my Dad experienced the ‘sense of impending doom’… I’ll need to ask him that). I could have told him was position to sit in and everything and I certainly wouldn’t have had to hold a committee or pass the phone round my work colleagues to get their ideas on the matter.
Saying that, I may have panicked. I may even have made matters worse. I would probably have rushed out from my work, ran straight into a lamp post, dropping my car keys down a drain and then once having finally retrieved my car keys from under the street drain with the help of a passing burglar who just happened to have a crowbar on him, I would have crashed the car into a Hamilton driver.
Makes me wonder what I’d be like in a real British Red Cross emergency situation. I’m one of three first aiders in our building. I’m also one of two fire wardens for our department?!
The place is doomed.
Yes, it’s probably just as well Dad did not phone me.
Dad has now been prescribed with four pills to take for the rest of his life and a six week recovery programme to help nurse him through the coming weeks. Dad showed the large ring bound book of recovery to Ka and myself when we visited him at home on Thursday after he was eventually released from Hairmyres and Ka immediately started going through the instructions, reading out the various pills’ allowance and side affects, skipping the bit about the possible effects on the sex life.
Dad is now on a morning diet of Aspirins, statins and beta blockers to help thin his blood and keep it flowing properly through his arteries.
As a result of all this I’m now considering my own diet. If my Dad, a generally healthy, fit guy, can have a heart attack, what chance do the rest of us have?
The rest of us being me?
Just for starters, I’ve been mulling over my cholesterol intake today. I came across one list describing the food to avoid online which included all as follows:
Butter – I eat on bread, toast, potatoes, quite a lot really. It was on the rolls I had with my greasy BBQ food yesterday.
Hard cheese – Cheese is great. Brilliant toasted with a tomato on top. In fact, I had loads on my burgers yesterday…
Fatty meat – yep, eat that too. Again, had a fair amount from Colin’s and Jillian’s table last night.
Red and processed meat – yep, again on the BBQ last night.
Biscuits – yep, last night along with…
Cake – well, it was Dougie’s birthday?!
Cream – yep, we had whipped cream with it. Although Dougie kept an eye on Morgan and myself as we squirted from the can (he doesn’t like people nicking his whipped cream).
Dripping – is this grease from your food? If so, yes, again, on the burgers and various meaty products cooked on Colin’s smoking BBQ last night.
Other items on the list included Lard, Ghee (whatever that is) and Coconut oil. These three were the only three not included on Colin and Jillian’s menu last night.
Everything else we ate is on the heart attack list?!
Colin was trying to murder us!?!
Chicken Tikka wasn’t on the Cholesterol list though...
That’s why Colin was so angry at Steven for cooking some of his own recipes.
By cooking some healthy chicken, Steven was foiling his evil plan!
Sunday, 27 February 2011
We're doomed
It's been a strange week. I spent the first half of the week lying on my back, on some occasions with my legs in the air. Various positions included lying, legs in the air, clutching the head, the cradling of an arm, holding a thigh, shaking, shivering, collapsing and keeling over in various different ways, all of which required a certain amount of acting. Perhaps not Oscar worthy acting but acting all the same. This was First Aid Training for the British Red Cross. An acting class with a difference.
Based in a smelly YMCA building in Bellshill, myself, along with another ten lucky contenders, battled through the three day course involving demos and quizzes (more quizzes!) in order to gain the nod, pin badge and certificate from the British Red Cross to say we could aid in a work emergency situation involving bandaging, the recovery position, the ever reliable comfortable position and even with moments involving an overall sense of impending doom.
This sense of impending doom cropped up in more than one occasion in the three day course, the number of instances matched only perhaps by C-3PO in the Star Wars films or the googly eyed doofer from Dad's Army. In fact, as a kid I, sadly, used to quote C-3P0's "We're doomed" quite a lot, especially if there was a Maths test coming up. Heart attacks are one thing but Maths tests... they're different.
This sense of impending doom was only one of the main symptoms of a heart attack, of course, along with the more traditional clutching of the chest, grimacing and collapsing to the ground. To illustrate the heart attack we were shown a past advert by the British Heart Foundation starring Steven Berkoff which, whilst giving all the symptoms of the attack, managed to scare the bejeezus into you as a viewer. The bejeezus was especially scared out of me as I myself had woken up with chest pains, sweat on the brow and a sense of impending doom during the night a few weeks back. Thankfully Steven Berkoff had not been standing in the dark of the bedroom battering the crap out of me as I had slept. That would have been even scarier. Still at least I'd have known how to put myself in the recovery position.
For the three days I was in a team consisting of another two people. Margaret and Irene, from a bank somewhere in Motherwell, who spent their time heckling opposing teams during the quiz sessions, like a female Statler and Waldorf. They also spent considerable time complaining about aches and pains and shoving me forward whenever a volunteer was needed for all the demonstrations, overseen by Dale, the instructor. Arthritis, sore legs, dodgy elbows, low cut tops, all were excuses for these bankers. Irene also seemed to suffer from that strange condition of appearing deaf whenever I made suggestions or gave answers to the quiz questions which more often than not turned out to be the correct answer whenever her wonderful written response gained nil points. Another I would add to the list would be bone idleness, a condition not mentioned in the extensive First Aid manual we were given upon arrival, but then I'm not sure First Aid manuals should be made available for bankers.
Once that was all over with Kenny, Chaz and myself drove into town on Wednesday night to see 'True Grit', the Coen Brothers latest flick based on Charles Portis' 1968 book. The movie was brilliant with great performances from Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon and the lead female, Hailee Steinfeld. It's been broadly complimented for it's cinematography and you can see why with the sweeping, western landscapes with their varying colour, atmosphere and detail.
Even with trips to the cinema, there was still that sense of impending doom with me and it was not any heart attack. Ka and myself had our follow up appointment at the hospital on Friday, following the passing of Baby Lucy. Rather thoughtfully, the hospital thought it was a great idea for this meeting to take place in the same offices where we went for the first joyful scans of Baby Reid. Gawd knows why.
We were meeting the Head Consultant from Wishaw General and Ka's home midwife, both of whom were not involved in any way with the birth and eventual death of our baby. Thankfully they'd listened to our earlier concerns regarding this matter and asked Doctor Yelisetti, the Registrar, along too, someone who was actually present during the ordeal. Doctor Yelisetti was excellent, providing some answers to our questions and was a familiar, reassuring presence in the stressful, upsetting situation whilst the Consultant and midwife seemed generally flummoxed.
Some minor questions were answered, other larger questions remain unanswered. Lucy's passing remains somewhat of an enigma to us and to the hospital. The Consultant informed us there had been one similar instance, with similar symptoms, in an Edinburgh hospital two years ago and that a new protocol had been introduced over there to try and ensure the same events did not happen again. One question that immediately sprung to our mind was if this protocol had been introduced in Edinburgh, then why not, at the same time, in Wishaw General?
So, after a rather depressive day on Friday, we got up on Saturday morning to nothing in particular and as we got ready for the unplanned day ahead a knock on the front door disturbed us. As Ka was in the bathtub at the time, it was down to me to answer the door as I struggled with the fastening of a belt. Swinging the front door open, I found myself staring into a giant bouquet of flowers.
"Mr Reid?" the flowers said.
"Erm... yes?" my reply was more of a question, as I looked over the bouquet in the floating glass bowl before me.
"These are for you". A pair of hands finally came into view below the glass bowl and the flowers moved over into my unprepared, receiving hands. As I heard the flower delivery man take his leave behind the foliage I retreated back into the flat immediately showing Ka the new bouquet and plucked the card from the small plastic stick among the lillies and leaves. They were from Pauline. She'd known about the meeting the day before. Suddenly that sense of impending doom did not seem quite so doom-laden.
Based in a smelly YMCA building in Bellshill, myself, along with another ten lucky contenders, battled through the three day course involving demos and quizzes (more quizzes!) in order to gain the nod, pin badge and certificate from the British Red Cross to say we could aid in a work emergency situation involving bandaging, the recovery position, the ever reliable comfortable position and even with moments involving an overall sense of impending doom.
This sense of impending doom cropped up in more than one occasion in the three day course, the number of instances matched only perhaps by C-3PO in the Star Wars films or the googly eyed doofer from Dad's Army. In fact, as a kid I, sadly, used to quote C-3P0's "We're doomed" quite a lot, especially if there was a Maths test coming up. Heart attacks are one thing but Maths tests... they're different.This sense of impending doom was only one of the main symptoms of a heart attack, of course, along with the more traditional clutching of the chest, grimacing and collapsing to the ground. To illustrate the heart attack we were shown a past advert by the British Heart Foundation starring Steven Berkoff which, whilst giving all the symptoms of the attack, managed to scare the bejeezus into you as a viewer. The bejeezus was especially scared out of me as I myself had woken up with chest pains, sweat on the brow and a sense of impending doom during the night a few weeks back. Thankfully Steven Berkoff had not been standing in the dark of the bedroom battering the crap out of me as I had slept. That would have been even scarier. Still at least I'd have known how to put myself in the recovery position.
For the three days I was in a team consisting of another two people. Margaret and Irene, from a bank somewhere in Motherwell, who spent their time heckling opposing teams during the quiz sessions, like a female Statler and Waldorf. They also spent considerable time complaining about aches and pains and shoving me forward whenever a volunteer was needed for all the demonstrations, overseen by Dale, the instructor. Arthritis, sore legs, dodgy elbows, low cut tops, all were excuses for these bankers. Irene also seemed to suffer from that strange condition of appearing deaf whenever I made suggestions or gave answers to the quiz questions which more often than not turned out to be the correct answer whenever her wonderful written response gained nil points. Another I would add to the list would be bone idleness, a condition not mentioned in the extensive First Aid manual we were given upon arrival, but then I'm not sure First Aid manuals should be made available for bankers.
Once that was all over with Kenny, Chaz and myself drove into town on Wednesday night to see 'True Grit', the Coen Brothers latest flick based on Charles Portis' 1968 book. The movie was brilliant with great performances from Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon and the lead female, Hailee Steinfeld. It's been broadly complimented for it's cinematography and you can see why with the sweeping, western landscapes with their varying colour, atmosphere and detail.
Even with trips to the cinema, there was still that sense of impending doom with me and it was not any heart attack. Ka and myself had our follow up appointment at the hospital on Friday, following the passing of Baby Lucy. Rather thoughtfully, the hospital thought it was a great idea for this meeting to take place in the same offices where we went for the first joyful scans of Baby Reid. Gawd knows why.
We were meeting the Head Consultant from Wishaw General and Ka's home midwife, both of whom were not involved in any way with the birth and eventual death of our baby. Thankfully they'd listened to our earlier concerns regarding this matter and asked Doctor Yelisetti, the Registrar, along too, someone who was actually present during the ordeal. Doctor Yelisetti was excellent, providing some answers to our questions and was a familiar, reassuring presence in the stressful, upsetting situation whilst the Consultant and midwife seemed generally flummoxed.
Some minor questions were answered, other larger questions remain unanswered. Lucy's passing remains somewhat of an enigma to us and to the hospital. The Consultant informed us there had been one similar instance, with similar symptoms, in an Edinburgh hospital two years ago and that a new protocol had been introduced over there to try and ensure the same events did not happen again. One question that immediately sprung to our mind was if this protocol had been introduced in Edinburgh, then why not, at the same time, in Wishaw General?
So, after a rather depressive day on Friday, we got up on Saturday morning to nothing in particular and as we got ready for the unplanned day ahead a knock on the front door disturbed us. As Ka was in the bathtub at the time, it was down to me to answer the door as I struggled with the fastening of a belt. Swinging the front door open, I found myself staring into a giant bouquet of flowers.
"Mr Reid?" the flowers said.
"Erm... yes?" my reply was more of a question, as I looked over the bouquet in the floating glass bowl before me.
"These are for you". A pair of hands finally came into view below the glass bowl and the flowers moved over into my unprepared, receiving hands. As I heard the flower delivery man take his leave behind the foliage I retreated back into the flat immediately showing Ka the new bouquet and plucked the card from the small plastic stick among the lillies and leaves. They were from Pauline. She'd known about the meeting the day before. Suddenly that sense of impending doom did not seem quite so doom-laden.
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