Nearly as long a a life sentence.....

Just a quick blog this evening, folks, to share with you my amazing new discovery. I do believe I have found the longest sentence in the world – not the prison variety, but the written type.

I thought Anthony Powell and Aphra Behn were bad enough for long sentences, but this one takes the biscuit. Or should that be coconut…..?

For my OU module, I have to read Sam Selvedon’s “The Lonely Londoners” which is written from the narrator’s viewpoint. The narrator in this book comes from Trinidad, therefore this book is written in both first and third person in Creole – so at the best of times, it is quite hard to “get” (especially for a grammar snob like me!).

Well, I was going great guns until I reached page 92. Then something happened. Either the narrator (via the author) had swallowed some oral laxative, or there had been an error in publishing (I have the Penguin Modern Classics version) but a sentence started which went on and on and on and on and on, without punctuation or paragraph breaks, and on and on for TEN pages! So not only was I craving a strong dose of caffeine, but I was having to decipher a constant stream of Creole, trying to get it to make sense by inserting full-stops etc into the appropriate places. Phew!

Excuse the poor quality of the photo – my dinosaur iphone 3GS has a rubbish set of cameras – but these are pages 2 and 3 of the neverending sentence. It’s like a game – “Make the next ten pages make sense – extreme edition featuring Creole English”.

Hmmm, methinks it won’t catch on.

PC Christmas carols

A friend sent me this a couple of years ago. Since then, I haven't been able to listen to these carols/songs the same way.......... Enjoy!

The Rocking Song

Little Jesus, sweetly sleep, do not stir;

We will lend a coat of fur.

We will rock you, rock you, rock you,

We will rock you, rock you, rock you.

Fur is no longer appropriate wear for small infants, both due to risk of allergy to animal fur, and for ethical reasons. Therefore faux fur, a nice cellular blanket or perhaps micro-fleece material should be considered a suitable alternative.

Please note, only persons who have been subject to a Criminal Records Bureau check and have enhanced clearance will be permitted to rock baby Jesus. Persons must carry their CRB disclosure with them at all times and be prepared to provide three forms of identification before rocking commences.

Jingle Bells

Dashing through the snow

In a one horse open sleigh

O'er the fields we go

Laughing all the way...

A risk assessment must be submitted before an open sleigh is considered safe for members of the public to travel on. The risk assessment must also consider whether it is appropriate to use only one horse for such a venture, particularly if passengers are of larger proportions. 

Please note, permission must be gained from landowners before entering their fields. To avoid offending those not participating in celebrations, we would request that laughter is moderate only and not loud enough to be considered a noise nuisance.

While Shepherds Watched

While shepherds watched their flocks by night

All seated on the ground

The angel of the Lord came down

And glory shone around.

The Union of Shepherds has complained that it breaches Health and Safety regulations to insist that shepherds watch their flocks without appropriate seating arrangements being provided, therefore benches, stools and orthopaedic chairs are now available. Shepherds have also requested that due to the inclement weather conditions at this time of year, that they should watch their flocks via CCTV cameras from centrally-heated shepherd observation huts.

Please note, the angel of the Lord is reminded that before shining his/her glory all around. he/she must ascertain that all shepherds have been issued with glasses capable of filtering out the harmful effects of UVA, UVB and Glory.

Little Donkey

Little donkey, little donkey, on the dusty road,

Got to keep on plodding onwards

With your precious load.

The RSPCA have issued strict guidelines with regard to how heavy a load that a donkey of small stature is permitted to carry. Also included in the guidelines is guidance regarding how often to feed the donkey, and how many rest breaks are required over a four hour plodding period.

Please note, that due to the increased risk of pollution from the dusty road, Mary and Joseph are required to wear face-masks to prevent inhalation of any airborne particles. The donkey has expressed his discomfort at being labelled “little” and would prefer just to be simply referred to as “Mr Donkey”. To comment upon his height, or lack thereof, may be considered an infringement of his equine rights.

We Three Kings

We three Kings of Orient are

Bearing gifts we traverse afar,

Field and fountain, moor and mountain,

Following yonder star.

Whilst the gift of gold is still considered acceptable – as it may be redeemed at a later date through such organisations as “Cash for Gold” etc., gifts of frankincense and myrrh are not appropriate due to the potential risk of oils and fragrances causing allergic reactions. A suggested gift alternative would be to make a donation to a worthy cause in the recipient's name or perhaps give a gift voucher. We would not advise that the traversing Kings rely on navigation by stars in order to reach their destinations, and suggest the use of RAC Routefinder or Satellite Navigation, which will provide the quickest route and advice regarding fuel consumption.

Please note, as per the guidelines from the RSPCA for Mr Donkey, the camels carrying the three Kings of Orient, will require regular food and rest breaks.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer

Had a very shiny nose.

And if you ever saw it,

You would even say it glows.

You are advised that under the Equal Opportunities for All policy, it is inappropriate for persons to make comment with regard to the ruddiness of any part of Mr R Reindeer. Further to this, exclusion of Mr R Reindeer from the Reindeer Games will be considered discriminatory and disciplinary action will be taken against those found guilty of this offence. A full investigation will be implemented, and sanctions – including suspension on full pay – will be considered whilst this investigation takes place.

It's Simply Not Opera......

I went to the opera at the weekend. It's my idea of a perfect night out. I have never been one for pubs and clubs, and so I relish my nights of culture a lot.

Now, I will admit to being a bit of an opera snob – in music appreciation at school we were taught the rules about what you don't do at classical concerts/opera, and what you do. With this training in mind you kind of expect everyone else who is attending such a concert with you to do conform to the “cultural norms” and behave similarly. Well, I'm afraid it doesn't appear so.

Take my night out last weekend. Hubby and I had booked to see “The Barber of Seville” - a very well-known comic opera by Rossini. The evening arrived and the first dilemma hit me. What to wear? On the previous visit to such an occasion I had worn my black cocktail dress with a shawl around my shoulders, but on arriving at the theatre, I felt completely overdressed. Whilst most people were smart-ish, some folks were there in jeans (some of them very scruffy), and logo t-shirts – some of which had decidedly dodgy language on them. I know opera is trying to rid itself of its elitist “stuffy” image, but this seemed a little too far. I scurried to my seat and stayed there all evening! I thought people dressed up for nights out, especially such a traditional one as going to the opera.....they do, don't they?

With this in mind, I was in a bit of a dilemma last weekend, however “it's MY night out”, I thought, and decided to put on my sparkly cocktail dress. If I was overdressed – tough!

Well, granted the torn jeans and scruffy shoes brigade were there, but fortunately this time I didn't feel quite as obvious. I got to think about how sad it is that standards in this country have slipped to such a level that actually dressing oneself up for special occasions doesn't happen any more. Soon “putting on one's gladrags” will be a thing of the past I reckon.....

We find our seats on the lower stalls and within a few minutes the orchestra strikes up with the overture, from the almost subterranean orchestra pit, to a full house. The stage scenery is mind-blowing, and with the aid of optical illusions, the stage looks even more vast than it is. Or at least, what I can see of it. An overly tall female plonked herself and her mammoth hairdo down right in front of me, so I had to peek around her. Darn. I had paid good money for these seats and now I had a view of a back of a head. And who IS that wearing the “claggy” perfume? Phew it is strong!

Act 1 starts, as does my next irritant. For anybody reading this blog who isn't an opera “nut” then within one Act are a number of arias (songs sung by the performers). Now, if the audience had done their research (yes, there are websites about opera etiquette for the uninitiated) they wouldn't have bugged me nor the die-hard opera-goers off. What is SUPPOSED to happen is that the audience are only supposed to applaud after the overture and then at the end of each Act. NOT after every single aria. That would be like applauding after every scene change on a soap opera!!! It interferes with the flow of the performance and it just gets really really bugging. Well, this audience obviously had very cold hands as clapping they did. A lot. Sometimes even DURING the arias. The person beside me even decided to accompany their applause with a seal-like bark, which made me wonder if they were choking on their Pimms that they had smuggled in from the bar with them.

The interval. Ah yes, time to move about. The elderly person next to me asks their friend, “where's the band? Is the music pre-recorded, as I can't see the man waving the stick”. Oh dear. Time for more Pimms. Sounds like it is needed. And it seems that the woman in the claggy perfume has vanished to the bar too as the air is decidedly clearer,

temporarily.

After 15 minutes the bell rings to call people back to their seats. Back comes claggy-perfume-lady (you could tell she had returned even though we couldn't see her), and my seal-barking neighbour, voicebox no doubt lubricated by a Pimms or two. Skyscraper woman returns too, and I resume the job of looking round her to see what is happening. Act 3 starts – the final Act. Aside from the never-ceasing clapping (this was getting tiresome!) there was also another opera faux-pas. Foot stamping. My seal-barking, clapping neighbour decided to show their appreciation by almost running on the spot whilst sitting in their seat, probably causing a minor tsunami in Japan in the effort. This was soon taken up by a percentage of the audience, and I feared that the Grand Circle and the gods were going to fall on top of us! Meanwhile my seal-barking, clapping neighbour was getting quite breathless with the exertion of their foot-stamping, so much so that I was getting a little concerned for their welfare.

The performance ends amidst a cacophony of applause (have to say it was well deserved), stamping (shudder), some yelling (noooooo!) and the odd whistle (no no NOOOOO!!!). The response this opera got equalled that to the last rock concert I went to! The curtain fell, eventually, and people of all ages scuttled exitwards at a lethal rate, clutching programmes and discussing what a “jolly good show” it was – which I have to agree with.

Maybe next time I will take a cushion.........

Ward Whoppers

Ward Whoppers

I have recently decided to take a career break from the profession I worked hard at for 16 years. After working in areas as diverse as psychogeriatrics to Pharmacological research, earlier this year I decided to hang up my virtual “nurse's cap” (they did away with these items of uniform along with the shocking electric blue dresses when I finished my training) and graze on pastures new. I'm not yet sure what these pastures will be, but I know they will be something completely different from what I have done.

Looking back over the years, there have been – as with any job – good days and horrendous days. Days when patients who were at death's door improve so much that they are able to go home to continue their rehabilitation; and days when patients unexpectedly and suddenly pass away leaving devastation among both staff and families. As I have been reflecting over the years I have worked in the nursing profession, some of the funnier stories have come to mind – and I thought I would share them with you.

 When I left school I took a Gap Year before Uni, as I had changed my mind from studying English to applying for a place on a Nursing Degree, and I wanted to make sure I was doing the right thing before I started on the course. For this year, I worked in a psychogeriatric ward, where all the patients either had Alzheimers or Dementia. My job was that of a nursing assistant – and coming straight from a very strictly disciplined and elitist girls' school, it was a real eye opener. It was during this year that I saw my first naked person, and I was embarrassed in bathing people and helping them to the toilet.

Mr and Mrs

One of the patients had been a hospital matron in her day – and she liked to help the nursing staff out with little jobs. Except that this lady was suffering from dementia, and really thought she was still back in her hospital ward ordering people about. One morning I went into one of the bedrooms to open the curtains, and I was met with a lot of even more confused women (they were confused enough to start with) trying to beat some of the very confused male patients out of their beds. Apparently our matron patient had believed they were married couples and had insisted that they shared beds.

Dent-Your Pride

Our matron patient also liked to clear all the dentures off the lockers by the beds, tip them into a communal bowl, wash them and return them back to the dishes on the lockers. The problem was, she was so confused that she didn't match names to teeth, nor sets of dentures. So one morning, when I did my usual walking into the room and asking how patients were, I had a bit of a surprise when one old lady opened her mouth to answer. I thought I was talking to Mr Ed in a nightdress. The poor soul had been given two top sets of dentures from our matron patient and had been “ordered” by her to put them in, the result being that all one could see was teeth. Her neighbour in the next bed was having major difficulty talking without one set of teeth falling down, until I realised she had two bottom sets! It took a long time for a colleague and I to fetch back all the teeth, wash them thoroughly again and return them to their rightful owners.

Amateur Dram-atics

The next story was a goof up by me. By this time I was a student nurse and I was in one of my first ward placements. I think I was about 19 years old. I was working a late shift and we were trying to get the surgical patients comfortable for bed, as it was coming up to 9.30pm, and the night staff were due on. One of the staff nurses had done the drug round and got called away to give report. She turned to me as she headed to the office and said, “oh Mr So-and-so needs his nightly dram. It helps him sleep. Could you sort that for him please?” and disappeared. She had told me where the whisky was kept, so I got the bottle and then.......wait a minute.....how much IS a dram? I should make it known that I have never been a pub/club fan, and my parents never drank whisky. I knew there was such a thing as a dram, but not how much it was in volume. I walked down the ward to see if anyone else was about I could ask, but the others were either handing over to the night staff, or were busy with patients. So, I was going to have to guess. Now, at this point I should say that now I believe a dram is about 30mls. Student nurse me decided to fill a glass ¾ full of whisky....surely that is a dram? Not too much, but yet not too little. Yeah....I'm sure that's about right.....and I took this liquid nectar to its expectant recipient – an elderly man with Friar Tuck hair, and no legs. Well, the patient took the glass, seemed VERY happy with his portion, thanked me and I went out of the bedroom.

A few minutes later a call-bell from this six-bedded room was sounded and I went to answer it. On entering the room, I was met with loud raucous singing and laughing; as well as five other baffled male patients. My invalid patient had got so merry on the “dram” I had given him, he had rolled off the bed, and was rolling about the floor like a Weeble toy, singing his heart out. We had to put him in the ward sitting room, with glassfuls of water, until he sobered up. After that, he asked for me to give him his nightly “dram”, but I avoided it like the plague! The other members of staff found it highly amusing.

Verbal Diahorrea

Three years later, I am about to finish my nursing degree and I am doing my management/senior student placement in a gynaecology ward. Students in these environments are nearly always given the enemas to do, and I was always glad when more junior students to me were working my shifts.

On the occasion in question, I was working with a second year student. I had worked with her a lot, and taught her a few things – including how to give enemas and suppositories. On this shift, I was exceptionally busy; I had dressings upon dressings to do and I was also conscious that one of the women needed a pre-op suppository given to her. The student was at a loose end, so I asked her if she would be happy to do the “pre-op supp” for me – she had watched me doing it enough times after all. Or I thought she had. Yes, she said she was fine to do it, and scurried off to get the necessary item.

About ten minutes later, I was doing an amputation stump dressing, when a face peeked around the curtain. “June”, said the student. “Mrs So-and-so is refusing her pre-op medication. Could you maybe try?” I waited until the dressing I was helping with was done, and then I went to attend to Mrs So-and-so, expecting her to be a bit “Bolshy”. Quite the opposite, I had a chat with her, gave her the pre-op supp, left her to it, washed my hands and got on with my duties. A short time afterwards the student cautiously approached me. “Did you manage to get Mrs So-and-so to have her medication?” she asked. I replied, “Yes I did; and for future reference – patients don't normally agree to swallow suppositories!”

A day in the Theatre

Another tale from my student days – this time in my Operating Theatre placement. It was my second day, the awe of the hallowed static-free room where you see bits of people you don't normally see, was still pretty potent. The surgeons were some sort of gods who could perform miraculous healing surgery, and it involved a lot of standing. We had been warned at Uni that Theatre placements are notorious for staff winding up students, and had been told about the “Long Stand” trick, so we thought we were prepared for everything. On this day, I was just an observer. After the two surgeons had argued about which music should accompany the operation, the hacking began. I had been told that I was in to watch a varicose vein operation, it was apparently one of the bloodiest, and you had to be careful to dodge the blood when the vein was removed. At least, that was what I was told. So I was concentrating on waiting for the blood gush and trying not to feel faint, when the main surgeon turned to me and said, “You. Stripper!”. I looked round, not sure if he was talking to me. On blankly looking back at him he repeated, “you. Stripper”. I shyly replied that no I wasn't that cheap kind of girl. “I need a stripper NOW! Go and get me a stripper!” he bellowed, and out that operating room I ran, trying to work out WHY a surgeon would want some floozy stripping in the theatre when he was meant to be doing an operation. The operating suite was busy that day, so I made a bee-line for the Recovery room and told the staff there what the surgeon had asked for. “Oh, he is wanting a new vein stripper, my dear”, said one of the nurses, who then showed me exactly where to find them. It was a very sheepish me who crept back into the Operating Room with the words, “the stripper is now ready for you”. A lot of hilarity ensued.

A cutting question

A year or two later, I was working in a large General Hospital as a Staff Nurse. One day, during my lunch break I went down to the WRVS to buy a newspaper for one of the patients who had missed the paper trolley on its visit to the ward. On my way back to the ward, along the main corridor, I was stopped by an elderly man who seemed a bit perplexed. “Excuse me nurse”, he said. “I wonder if you could point me in the direction of the Lawnmower ward? “ (He actually was meaning the Longmore Ward – the name of which was taken from the hospital from which the patients were transferred, when it shut down; a ward that dealt with breast cancer chiefly). I told him the correct name, and he seemed relieved. “Ah, that explains things,” he said. “I couldn't understand why they had put her in Lawnmower ward when she doesn't like gardening!”

High standards

My last humorous tale occurred in Recovery, just before I left to go on maternity leave. A patient had come out of Theatre after having had a Hickman Line inserted, and it was routine that they had an xray, in Recovery, to ensure that the line was in the right place. This particular patient was a very frail, elderly man, and he was on a new-fangled profile bed, to prevent pressure sores. This bed was quite broad, so we put some extra mobile screens around it for privacy. The radiographer wheeled in the xray machine and set it all up for the man to get his film. There were no other patients in at the time, and the staff were all ushered out of the room whilst the xray was in progress; but we could watch the still sleeping man through the window in the doors.

The radiographer was all set and ready to start the xray, when all of a sudden, the bed started heading heavenwards. The patient was hooked up to drips and monitors which all started alarming as the tension on the tubing and cables got too tight. Still the bed went upwards, and the patient remained asleep. Then, suddenly, the bed started going down, down, down, down.......and just as it was about to start its ascent for the second time, we all went in to find out what was going on. In actual fact, the radiographer had accidentally knocked a “demo” button on the bed as she was leaving it, after setting up the xray!

Eventually the xray was taken, the line was fitted properly, and the man woke up – unaware that his care in recovery had been of an unusually high quality......

Then of course, there WAS that surgeon who was the double of Mr Bean, who used to scare the patients rigid on his pre-op visits, especially when he told them he would be doing their surgery.......

I'm going to miss nursing, there is no doubt about it. As it is an extremely stressful job, and is getting more so, finding the humour in the smallest things is important. I hope you have enjoyed a few of the gems I have shared with you.

Turning 40

Turning 40

The day has come, the time is here,

The occasion filled with dread.

The next zero birthday has arrived,

My heart feels just like lead.

A brand new decade, scary stuff,

I'm no longer a "young pup",

'Cos from today I'm expected to

Act like a real grown-up.

The clothes shop now will be a 'mare,

My wardrobe is a sham

As all the trendy stuff I own

Screams "mutton dressed as lamb".

Apparently life begins at it - 

At least that's what is said;

But my visions of being 40

Involve grey hair and mid-life spread.

Others say it's "over the hill"; 

A lot of sense that makes.

But in this car on life's short journey

They've not fitted the brakes.

I will try to forget all this

And face things with a smile,

But truthfully, deep down in my heart

I'm totally in denial.

I guess I'm still the same old me

Who likes to have much fun.

Ach, forget being an ageing forty,

I'll always be twenty-one!

A Parody on an Election Speech, written for the 2010 General Election

Parody on an Election Speech

Friends, Britons, countrymen, lend me your beers, 

I come to suffer Clegg, not to praise him.

The voting that men do lives after them;

The MPs are oft destroyed by their decisions;

So let it be with the Lib Dems. The noble Cameron

Hath told you Clegg was ambitious;

If it were so, it was an unfortunate fault,

And badly Clegg hath borne it.

Here, under leave of the electorate and the rest - 

For the electorate are honourable beings;

So are they all, relatively normal people - 

Come I to speak at Clegg's demise.

He was charismatic, vocal in the coalition;

But Cameron said he was ambitious;

And the electorate are honourable folks.

They hath brought many candidates to the polls

Whose votes did they of the public seek;

Did this in Clegg seem ambitious?

When the AV vote fails, Clegg will weep;

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff;

Yet Cameron said he was ambitious;

And the electorate are moderately reliable folks.

You all did see that on the television

Cameron once offered him a depute PMship

Which he did accept; was this ambition?

Yet Cameron said he was ambitious;

And sure, the electorate are so-so.

I speak not to disprove what the electorate have shown

But I am here to speak what I do know.

You all did like him once, after the Leaders' Debates:

What cause withholds you then, to be upset for him?

O judgement! Thou are fled along with the referendum

And men have lost their faith. Bear with me;

My votes are in the bucket, there with my hopes,

And I must pause 'til I can find them.

(originally written 29-05-10)

An Ode to Network Sites

An Ode To Network Sites in the style of Rabbie Burns

(best read in a broad Scottish accent)

Oh the byspale joys of Facebook and Twitter,

The maist addictive things ohn ma compitter.

Ye mak me smile, ye mak me laugh,

But aince ahm ohn, ah cannae git aff.

 Ah, the bletheration that aboonds,

The bletherskates aa doin their roonds,

They really are a cantie bunch,

Taukin aboot wha they are hawin fir lunch.

Or mibby they're feelin a bit peelie-wallie,

Or they're haein a nicht oot at the ballet.

They post up their photies wi' a peerie wee tag

Fir aithers to "like", or jist tae brag.

Ah should hae been aff here a long while sin

But the clashmaclavers keep drawin me in.

Ma hoose is a midden, the dishes need done,

But time spent netwurkin' is much mair fun.