I'm out of sorts lately. Having trouble sleeping, waking, writing, thinking or even functioning on some levels. I'm not sure what the cause is.

My friend Jane thinks I may have swine flu. This is due to the fact I have rashe(r)s, a stye and a pot belly. I must admit it made me snort when she offered her diagnosis on our way to market for some oinkment. We'd pigged out earlier on food and wine so had to dash back to her place for a wee wee wee.

It could be the time of year. Our clocks went back an hour last weekend and it's dark at five now. Soon it will be four and with the grey skies and gloomy weather there's little daylight to be had. Add to that the hype of Halloween, Fireworks and the Humbug madness already manifesting itself and I feel the urge to hibernate until spring.

It might be the aftermath of the drama of my Dad's last stay in hospital. He's back at home with his beer, television and servants at his beck and call, but my last nerve is still raw. Every time the phone rings or I hear a siren I have to be scraped off the ceiling.

Perhaps my age and bad habits are finally catching up with me. Do I have to start wearing pleated skirts, cardigans and brogues? Has the time come for a perm or a blue rinse? Should I start going to bingo and flower arranging classes? Or do I need to sign up to therapy groups to overcome my addictions or possibly join a convent? At least it would be peaceful there.

Maybe I'm short of other things as well as time, money, common sense and excitement. Vitamins and minerals perhaps. Not enough water, exercise, quality sleep or stimulating company. I can't remember the last time I had a really good day out. Well, actually I can but it seems ages ago.

But you know me, never one to complain. I shall endeavour to get my act together, sort myself out and make some new November resolutions.

I dusted off the Wii the other day and timidly stepped on it. It yelled 'Who the hell are you and who have you brought with you?' So it's back on the diet, low booze, more exercise, earlier nights and positive thinking bandwagon.

But, hey it's not November yet. I may change my mind tomorrow and just fly off somewhere on my broomstick.
 

My son and family visited us last weekend and talk turned towards Mey Ling's latest achievements.

First of all she's been assessed for driving and has had her first session in a specially designed automatic car adapted for the disabled. Apparently she did very well and has been told she's a natural. This doesn't surprise me too much as she's confident, bright and keen to learn. However, I think the two weeks she's predicted it will take her to pass her driving test is a little on the optimistic side. Whether she has the staying power or temperament to stick with it remains to be seen.

In the meantime Dylan now has shoes for walking. He keeps sitting down and staring at them as if he's grown some new blue appendages.

Mey Ling is also attending college and taking courses in basic English and Maths. She's already taken a couple of the teachers on one side and pointed out the errors in their teaching methods. She's not overly-thrilled with the classes as most of her fellow students are from Pakistan and other parts of Asia that are not Cambodia.

Without wishing to sound racist I cracked up when she told me many of them don't like England and are always complaining about things here.

'I tell them,' she informed me. 'You no like England, you go back to your own bloody country.'

Sometimes, you gotta love her.
 

Before we set off on our trip to the U.S.A. last May, it seemed sensible to cancel my gym membership. No point paying fees when you're not going to be in the country for weeks on end. The plan was to find a new gym with better facilities on return and get back on the treadmill of exercise routine.

But we all know what happens to plans don't we? I can't remember all the reasons, or maybe excuses, but it still hasn't happened. We did check out a very modern and conveniently located club with a great swimming pool, but viewing was as far as we got.

There's been Wimbledon, birthday outings, holidays, appointments and of course my Dad and his many falls and recent hospitalisation. To be honest, over the last month or so I've felt so exhausted by it all, it takes me all my energy to cope day by day, never mind fit in visits to a gym. But you know me - never one to complain.

So instead of getting fitter, I fear I'm getting fatter and my activity level at the end of the day is about half the level of a couch potato. But I really do miss my swimming and would like to think life may settle down to some sort of manageable chaotic level to allow me a couple of sessions a week at the gym.

Tuesday morning began with a visit from the Physiotherapist at my Dad's house. She asked him many questions, several times due to his refusal to wear his hearing aid and was quite hoarse at the end of the session. She brought along a booklet of around a dozen exercises for the elderly to do at home to build up strength and hopefully avoid more falls. After she'd worked through them with him, she packed her case and headed for the door.

'He needs to do the exercises three or four times a week for them to be beneficial,' she explained to me. 'I know you're probably busy, but if you could supervise him it would really help.'

Fine. I can do that between shopping, cleaning two homes, laundry, babysitting, cooking, arranging appointments, dealing with his bills and finances, sorting out his medication, organising repairs and gardening. In fact if you stick a brush up my backside, I'll sweep the floor while I'm at it.

Over the last few years I have seen professionals from more departments than I can remember. Doctors, nurses, health visitors, specialists, social workers, occupational therapists, care workers, geriatric helpers, financial advisors and physiotherapists to name but a few. But they all seem to have one thing in common.

They get paid for filling in a few forms, ticking some boxes, handing out leaflets and offering verbal advice. Then they go away. leaving me to do their work, single handed and free of charge.

So, now it seems I may not have time to spare to join a gym, but I can get involved in supervising three or four geriatric exercise sessions a week. Better get some practice in.

Up...Down...Up...Down...Now the other eyelid.
 

One thing I always purchase when my sister stays over is a jar of olives. I can’t stand the things, but she’ll eat them anywhere, anytime, in any number. We generally put together a few night time nibbles, including the olives and other pickles.

On Wednesday around midnight, after hubby had decided to go to bed; I prepared the plates and dishes of snacks. I sieved the onions and gherkins, removed them from their respective jars and put them in the appropriate compartmentalised dish. Unfortunately, as I was sieving the olives, the jar caught the side of the sink and shattered. I cleared up all the visible glass, but in order to ensure there was none inside the now jagged–edged olive jar, I emptied them out, rinsed them several times, and then put half in the pickle dish and the rest back in the empty gherkin jar, carefully disposing of the broken olive container.

Next morning, sis got up before me and was given the third degree by hubby. Apparently, the sight of the remaining olives in a gherkin jar had totally bewildered him and his highly-tuned detective skills went into overdrive. Where had I got the olives from? Why hadn’t I used the already open jar of olives in the fridge? What had happened to the olive jar? Why was there half a container of olives in a gherkin jar? He was obviously baffled by this very serious and life-altering occurrence. Sis told him she wasn’t sure, but vaguely remembered me breaking a jar. She also had to hide the smirk threatening to attach itself to her face at the thought of her own husband even noticing a six-foot olive tree appearing in the kitchen, let alone a few stray olives in an alien jar.

When I got up and hubby thought it safe enough to discuss the issue, the interrogation continued.

‘Why didn’t you use the olives already in the fridge?’

‘Well, frankly my dear, I’m not telepathic and didn’t think to look in there as it’s not very often we keep olives. Anyway, I wouldn’t have known how long they’d been in the fridge and wouldn’t want to give my sis past-their-sell-by-date olives.’ A fair explanation wouldn’t you think?

‘Then where did you get the olives from?’

‘Well, much as I’d liked to have nipped over to Greece and picked fresh ones, they actually came out of a jar in the cupboard.’

‘But, I didn’t know there were any in the cupboard. Where did they come from?’

‘’Well, unless it’s a trick question, I’d very much suspect the supermarket.’

‘When did we buy those then?’

‘Believe it or not, I haven’t kept a record of our olive-purchasing habits, but possibly you forgot we had them. It has been known for things to slip your memory when you get over-excited about a bargain on the shelves. Hence the ten cans of baked beans cluttering up the shelf.’

‘So what happened to the jar?’

‘I accidentally broke it in the sink. Don’t worry, I’ve cleared up all the glass, recited my five Hail Mary’s asking for forgiveness and not one olive was harmed in the process.’

‘But why are they in a gherkin jar?’

‘Given the choice of binning them, eating them, putting them in a casserole or safely in a different jar, I chose the latter. Is there a problem with that?’

Hubby gives me a funny look, humphs and shakes his puzzled head. Later in the afternoon, sis and I are quite staggered when he remarks:-

'I still don't understand about those olives in the gherkin jar.'

Virtually the same question and answer session ensues. Whether there’s a hidden agenda behind his line of inquiry or if he maybe suspects some hunky Greek God delivered the olives and more to us after midnight on that sinful night I’m not sure. We should be so lucky.

On Thursday around midnight, after hubby had decided to go to bed; I prepared the plates and dishes of snacks yet again. I emptied all the remaining olives out of the jar in the fridge and from the gherkin jar into the pickle dish and sis scoffed the lot. Much later, feeling a little inebriated and daring, we spied the now empty olive jar. We filled it with the remaining onions and gherkins and then for good measure we popped in a couple of raspberries from the fruit carton in the fridge, screwed on the lid and left it out on the kitchen surface. If Sherlock needed another mystery to solve, then we were quite happy to provide one.

I’m still awaiting the court case, verdict and sentence.

 

I made a terrible mistake last night. Knowing I needed to be up at some unearthly time today in order to meet my sister in Nottingham, I set my cell phone alarm. I put it on the opposite side of the bedroom to ensure I actually forced myself out of bed and vertical, so resisting the temptation to drift back to sleep.

It wasn't until I came downstairs, made a cup of tea and sat at the computer I realised my phone is still set to Greek time and it was actually two hours earlier than I thought.

Still, it gave me a couple of extra hours to faff around on here and now I'm still going to end up dashing about like a blue-arsed fly in order to be ready in time. So, better buzz off and hope the trains are all on time.

I have a feeling tomorrow morning might not see such an early rise or will it be a case of still being up putting the world to rights? Sleep is such a damned waste of time.
 

Our local pharmacist informed me I needed to make an appointment with my doctor about some trivial, yet annoying health conditions. I hate going to the doctors and have seen enough of hospitals and medical environments to last a lifetime. Ostrich syndrome has no cure.

The only way to book an appointment with a doctor is to get up at sunrise ready to dial and redial the surgery in the hope of managing to secure an appointment on that day. Generally you fail, but with no option to book an advance appointment, you have to keep doing the same thing, day after day. After a week of failure you tend to give up and are so exhausted from early rising, you tend not to care either.

But, a friend informed me our local Community Hospital have recently set up a drop-in centre, open to all, where you can go and discuss health probems and receive advice. So, off I trotted there today and I have to say what an excellent service it turned out to be.

Receptionists were human beings and actually smiled. After filling in a short form I took a seat in the waiting area and within a few minutes was invited to see a nurse. She smiled too, admired my handbag and didn't appear to be in a hurry. I spent forty minutes with her, discussing everything from the weather, dementia, family, the meaning of life and the price of carrots.

She was caring, sympathetic, non-judgemental and a breath of fresh air. I've been diagnosed with a stress-induced skin condition with a very long name I can't remember, a stress-associated infection and high blood pressure, probably brought on by stress. Without stress, it seems I may be the picture of health.

She was very concerned about my stress levels and not surprised when I described my circumstances. Questions ensued.

Do I have any help with my Dad from Social Services? HA HA

Do I get any chance to enjoy a holiday? HA HA

Do I have any time to pursue my own interests? HA HA

Have I been offered counselling to discuss my problems? HA HA

Is there anyone who can share the load? HA HA

Well, they say laughter is the best medicine. I walked away with creams, antihistamine tablets, aqueous washing lotion and instructions not to wear perfume, jewellery, cosmetics, make-up or nail varnish. Now, that is NOT funny, although I may be a hit around Halloween without them.

So, it seems I need a prescription to reduce the stresses of life. But until someone comes up with that, I'll keep self-medicating the only way I know how. Cheers...here's to stress...God bless her and all who suffer from her...hic.


 

After all the hectic activity with Dad, you'd think I deserve a little peace and quiet wouldn't you? Well, you better agree, or else. But I'm sure regular readers won't be surprised to read I didn't get it; this is my haphazard life after all.

Straight after Dad returned home, some of hubby's South African relatives came to stay with us. They were very pleasant people and it was good to spend time with them, but added bodies, sightseeing, cooking and entertaining are all tiring, particularly when you're exhausted in the first place. But you know me, never one to complain.

Our visitors were hubby's cousin Margaret and her nephew Justin. Obviously, they needed a bedroom each, so all our three bedrooms were occupied. Normally, if hubby starts his brass band performance I can get up and sleep in another room. If close family stay and there's no spare beds, I can always collect a sleeping bag or spare duvet from one of their rooms and sleep downstairs. My sister and son are night owls too, so it's rare they go to bed before me. Even if they do, it's no problem to creep into one of the rooms and collect the spare bedding. None of them have anything I've not seen before.

But, with these new visitors being early-to-bed types and not knowing them prior to ther stay, I neglected to think about what I'd do if hubby started snoring in the night. Sure enough, five minutes after I got in bed the resident snortler started his concerto and sleep wasn't an option for me. I got up and then realised I couldn't go into the spare rooms for bedding as our guests were snoozing in them. The only thing I could think of was to grab a couple of bath towels and attempt to sleep on the settee downstairs.

I can tell you now, the settee doesn't make a good mattress and bath towels don't make good blankets. Despite feeling tired out, I tossed and turned for ages, then just as I drifted off, hubby thumped down the stairs and announced:-

'How can I sleep knowing you're suffering down here?'

Our guests left on Friday, then guess what we had delivered for the weekend? You got it - the grandkids. If anyone knows how to revert to having the energy of a teenager, please let me know. No amount of Lucozade or Red Bull would replenish my dimished energy reserves at the moment. I think I may attempt to be the first human ever to hibernate for the winter.
 

So, it came to pass, Scarlett and hubby arrive at the hospital on Monday afternoon to collect her Dad. He leaves the hospital with nothing but two bags of laundry and a stonking cold, obviously contracted on the ward.

Half way down the corridor a lone voice from amongst the mulitude of staff hanging around calls after us:-

'Have you got the letters?'

'What letters?' I reply. Searching through the bags reveals nothing but pyjamas, socks, vests, toiletries and someone else's boxer shorts yet again.

A scuffle through paperwork behind the nurse's station and two letters are handed over to me. I ask what they are. I'm told first is a new list of Dad's medication.

'Where's this medication then?' I ask. 'It's not in his bags.' Nurse's heads turn to look at each other, shoulders are shrugged and one goes off on a hunt to find the mislaid items.

I look at the second letter. It's addressed to 'The District Nurse.' Now, it's my turn to look confused.

'Oh,' explains another nurse. 'The district nurse from your Dad's doctor's surgery will be dropping in to see him at home. Hasn't anyone contacted you about it?'

No need to tell you the answer to that one. 'What for?' I ask.

'It's in the letter.' replies the nurse.

Well, have you any idea when?' I continue. 'It's no good anyone calling if I'm not there. He's rather deaf and won't know what's going on if strangers call.

The nurse scuffles through more folders on the desk.

'Oh, here it is,' she smiles. 'Erm...this afternoon.'

'Well, that's very useful seeing as it's afternoon already.'

We wheel Dad, belongings, newly found medication and letters into the lift, take him out to the car and finally manage to strap him in.

Once we arrive at his house, he shuffles in with his stick, draws the curtains, puts the fire on and plonks down to watch the television. The electrician has almost every carpet in the house up, furniture moved into every available crevice and continues to work amongst the flying plaster to secure a light pull switch over Dad's new bed. I go upstairs to unpack his belongings, sort out laundry and new bedding, then the doorbell rings.

I thump down the stairs in a lather and discover the District Nurse.

'Is your Dad in?' she asks.

'Only just,' I reply. 'He's just come out of hospital.'

'Oh, has he been in hospital? I just got a message from the receptionist asking me to call. Do you know what it's about?'

I hand her the letter. It's revealed in writing Dad has a sore bottom. Most serious in the great scheme of things, but she feels an examination is appropriate. I disappear rather quickly and leave the nurse to it. After a few minutes she comes to tell me that it's only a little dry skin, but as the hospital haven't sent any cream and as she hasn't got any with her, there's not much can be done. That was a very useful exercise then.

She leaves, finally the electrics are sorted and we're left to clear up and settle Dad in. We talk him through new arrangements at home, ensure he's comfortable and finally manage to escape to our own house, too exhausted to contemplate doing any necessary work there.

I can only live in hope things will settle down for a while now, but I won't hold my breath. Of course, the God of Perfect Timing has to make sure all this happens when my sister is away on a Mediterranean cruise and there's five family birthdays in the space of three weeks. Better go, I have to put the candles on Angel's cake. Can you believe our little poppet is three today?