I know that Britain is now a third world country and we have no money to spend on Transport, Law and Order, Education, Medicine viaducts or fine wines, or any of the other things the Romans introduced us to, but I didn't realise things were quite so bad as they seem in the NHS.
Daughter child has picked up a verruca at school, so we went to the doctors expecting him to burn it with acid or freeze it, both treatments being equally painful and something she was not looking forward to. Instead the doctor recommended that we cover up the warty appendage with duct tape. I explained that we had elastoplast in the house, and he needn't worry about the cost of a prescription, but no, he insisted we use Duct tape. Duct tape. Often referred to by a well known brand name of Duck Tape, this has many many uses. It is the tool of the Jedi handyman, having a dark side, a light side and being a force which holds the universe together. But I had never thought of it before as a cosmetic coverall. Covering up the verruca and hoping it would go away just didn't seem like a modern approach to medicine. I thought for a moment the doctor was taking the mickey. Then I thought maybe he was maybe a witch doctor practising traditional remedies, but no he was definitely white European and probably English, although he was clearly talking gibberish.
As it turns out the old treatments of burning and/or freezing only had something like a 40% success rate whilst 80% of verrucas and indeed many other viral warts can be cured simply by covering them with duct tape. It seals them off and starves them of oxygen that they need to survive. It sounds uncomfortable, but girl child reports that it is actually quite cosy and she doesn't notice it after a while. Which is just as well, as the tape has to stay on 24/7 for the next couple of weeks at least. Elastoplast or other types of dressing just don't cut it, it has to be Duct Tape.
So there you go, another use for duct tape. And a good excuse for having it in the boot of the car when plod stops you and thinks you are on your way to kidnap someone - Honestly officer, I've got a verruca.
Wednesday, 19 December 2012
No crocodiles were harmed during this walk.
I have a tradition, which is every year on the last Wednesday before Christmas I walk from my home along a disused railway track about 6 miles each way to the town of Patrington, to see their Christmas lights, which are far superior to the ones that go up in our village. I did it last year and I've done it again this year. I didn't say it was a very old tradition, but they all have to start somewhere. Some might argue that two occasions is simply a co-incidence, but as I plan to did it again next year I maintain it is a tradition.
I know it was a Wednesday last year because Patrington is one of those quaint little towns that still has some shops observing half day closing. This probably made sense back in the year dot, because the market took place on Wednesdays and took all the trade from the shops anyway. Now however it makes no sense at all, particularly if you forget and have walked six miles without any lunch. Finding a shop open eventually I realized I had left my wallet at home.
The walk was pleasant enough though, with some lovely clarty mulch to trod through, and with pheasants, deer, rabbits, a squirrel and countless birds to be seen going about their business.
The purpose of this stroll though, apart from seeing pretty lights, was to test by walking boots for hillworthiness after the Three Peaks tried to kill them in the Autumn. My original boots, which if I recall had their epitaph published on this very blog, were leather, old fashioned and as tough as - well old boots. I bought them when I was 19 and gave them a viking burial after many miles when I was 42. Well used and only disposed of due to the leather splitting in a place that couldn't be easily repaired. The boots that Whernside tried to kill were the replacement modern lightweight gortex and suede jobbies my wife bought me for Christmas two years ago. Basically I think the peaty muddy bog water and the endless rain must have combined to eat the glue holding the soles on. Moorland is acid soil, so there might well be some science to support that theory. Walking boots that are not suitable for use on moors? Well, I suppose when I bought my sons mountain bike it did say in the instruction manual that it was not suitable for off road use - a mountain bike unsuitable for mountains.
Any how as ever I digress. The soles were parting from the boots and they were letting in water as the side seam began to give. I thought I would have to condemn them with barely 200 miles on the clock. But then I had a thought. My workboots had a similar problem from new, and I had, after trial and error found the perfect glue to fix them. Now I don't normally endorse products by name, but I have to say that this stuff is so good I will name it, because you'll never have heard of it and probably won't find it in the shops, as I have only ever seen it for sale in our local builders merchants, and nowhere else. Gator Glue. Why it's called Gator Glue I don't know. I have checked the ingredients, and so far as I can tell it contains no alligators whatsoever. Nor does it attract or repel them so far as I can tell. Well I suppose it might be repelling them as I wouldn't know, I would only know if it failed to repel them. The point being that alligators, and reptiles in general do not usually cause me problems on the walks I do. The bottle has a stylised cartoon of an alligator on it, and says that it "grips like a gator." I expected this to be an American product, but the label proudly boasts it to be made in Great Britain. Great Britain note, not the United Kingdom.
Well, I certainly wouldn't want to be bitten by a gator and I would agree that once in it's jaws you would have little chance of getting out again. But grip? With those poorly developed little legs I doubt it has much grip anywhere other than it's jaws, and that's a bite not a grip. And whilst it has many sharp teeth and a nasty nip, the grip isn't that good, it has to thrash about and wear you down, and beat you into submission against the rocks in the shallows or drag you in to drown you before it finishes you off. I think there's a been a missed opportunity here. The symbol of Britishness always used to be a bulldog. There indeed is a beast with grip. Once a bulldog has you in it's mouth in can actually lock it's jaw and will not let go no matter what. As a name for a strong glue Bulldog is right up there. I can only assume the name was already taken.
Anyway, I can report that not only has the expanding foam like Gator glue restored cohesion twixt sole and shoe but it has also rendered them leak free once more. After a 12 mile road test the are once again fit for purpose and will hopefully last another season.
I can't help wondering though, if it would work on Crocs?
I know it was a Wednesday last year because Patrington is one of those quaint little towns that still has some shops observing half day closing. This probably made sense back in the year dot, because the market took place on Wednesdays and took all the trade from the shops anyway. Now however it makes no sense at all, particularly if you forget and have walked six miles without any lunch. Finding a shop open eventually I realized I had left my wallet at home.
The walk was pleasant enough though, with some lovely clarty mulch to trod through, and with pheasants, deer, rabbits, a squirrel and countless birds to be seen going about their business.
The purpose of this stroll though, apart from seeing pretty lights, was to test by walking boots for hillworthiness after the Three Peaks tried to kill them in the Autumn. My original boots, which if I recall had their epitaph published on this very blog, were leather, old fashioned and as tough as - well old boots. I bought them when I was 19 and gave them a viking burial after many miles when I was 42. Well used and only disposed of due to the leather splitting in a place that couldn't be easily repaired. The boots that Whernside tried to kill were the replacement modern lightweight gortex and suede jobbies my wife bought me for Christmas two years ago. Basically I think the peaty muddy bog water and the endless rain must have combined to eat the glue holding the soles on. Moorland is acid soil, so there might well be some science to support that theory. Walking boots that are not suitable for use on moors? Well, I suppose when I bought my sons mountain bike it did say in the instruction manual that it was not suitable for off road use - a mountain bike unsuitable for mountains.
Any how as ever I digress. The soles were parting from the boots and they were letting in water as the side seam began to give. I thought I would have to condemn them with barely 200 miles on the clock. But then I had a thought. My workboots had a similar problem from new, and I had, after trial and error found the perfect glue to fix them. Now I don't normally endorse products by name, but I have to say that this stuff is so good I will name it, because you'll never have heard of it and probably won't find it in the shops, as I have only ever seen it for sale in our local builders merchants, and nowhere else. Gator Glue. Why it's called Gator Glue I don't know. I have checked the ingredients, and so far as I can tell it contains no alligators whatsoever. Nor does it attract or repel them so far as I can tell. Well I suppose it might be repelling them as I wouldn't know, I would only know if it failed to repel them. The point being that alligators, and reptiles in general do not usually cause me problems on the walks I do. The bottle has a stylised cartoon of an alligator on it, and says that it "grips like a gator." I expected this to be an American product, but the label proudly boasts it to be made in Great Britain. Great Britain note, not the United Kingdom.
Well, I certainly wouldn't want to be bitten by a gator and I would agree that once in it's jaws you would have little chance of getting out again. But grip? With those poorly developed little legs I doubt it has much grip anywhere other than it's jaws, and that's a bite not a grip. And whilst it has many sharp teeth and a nasty nip, the grip isn't that good, it has to thrash about and wear you down, and beat you into submission against the rocks in the shallows or drag you in to drown you before it finishes you off. I think there's a been a missed opportunity here. The symbol of Britishness always used to be a bulldog. There indeed is a beast with grip. Once a bulldog has you in it's mouth in can actually lock it's jaw and will not let go no matter what. As a name for a strong glue Bulldog is right up there. I can only assume the name was already taken.
Anyway, I can report that not only has the expanding foam like Gator glue restored cohesion twixt sole and shoe but it has also rendered them leak free once more. After a 12 mile road test the are once again fit for purpose and will hopefully last another season.
I can't help wondering though, if it would work on Crocs?
Wednesday, 5 December 2012
Toilet humour - not funny.
Around seven years ago I fitted a new bathroom at home. Well strictly that's not true, the room is the same one, it's everything in it that's new. And as it's seven ears old now that's not true either, but it was at the time.
The project was not without it's problems, and if I was to do it again I'd fit the bath differently and move the toilet a little further over to avoid bare legs coming too close to the hot radiator pipes but all in all I was happy with it.
Yesterday however the toilet cistern stopped filling, and investigation showed that the inlet valve had failed. For some reason it wasn't letting water through to refill the tank.
Dismantling the tank to remove the valve meant separating it from the bowl, no mean feat given that seven years in a damp atmosphere had rusted the bolts that hold it together solid. Even the plastic thumbscrews had seized but they soon yielded when challenged with a blowtorch.
A new valve was acquired for £13 and whilst at the plumbers merchant I bought a new set of bolts. I should have got a new seal whilst I was at it, but I knew I had one in stock in my box of plumbing bits, so didn't bother.
Now there's no delicate way of putting this, so if you are squeamish don't read any further. On occasional mornings we would enter the bathroom to find a small puddle of yellow brown water at the foot of the toilet. Having a small boy in the house we had put this down to a certain lack of control - he's always in a hurry and his aim might not be good, particularly at night as he hates the dark, and getting out of bed to use the toilet is a trauma he gets over in short order. It seems however we may have been doing him dis-service. The seal was well past it's best and had been leaking for some time hence the water staining the floor. It picks up it's colour as it drips over the rusty coupling bolts. I might owe a certain young man an apology, and a few weeks pocket money he was fined for his indiscretions.
Anyway, with the valve replaced I put the new old stock seal in place, noting that it was a completely different size and shape to the original, but seemed to fit much better. I put this down to seven years being squashed between pan and cistern, but maybe not. Maybe there is a different size of seal, because after many hours bolting and unbolting the coupling and using plumbers putty I still can't achieve a leak free joint.
The tank is simply not a good fit on the toilet pan. I am beginning to suspect that the two components were made in different factories, possibly in different countries and one in metric whilst the other is in imperial, using the inch as the lowest measure. Having looked at the two parts I would conclude that they were designed by different people, who did not speak to each other during the design process. One of them was possibly blind. The two parts are just not destined to be married together. The pan for example has two stiffening webs in the porcelain which are positioned almost exactly in the right place to prevent a spanner reaching the coupling bolts. The cistern meanwhile is designed so that the coupling bolts are directly under the valve and the siphon. And there are only two bolts to pull the two halves together and achieve a watertight seal - no chance. Four bolts in a square pattern would do it,but not two in line. Basic engineering.
So how to cure it? You can't drill porcelain, so adding a further two bolt holes won't work.
I'll try another size seal tomorrow, but if that doesn't work then a whole new unit might be on the cards.
Because at present I've nothing else to go on.
The project was not without it's problems, and if I was to do it again I'd fit the bath differently and move the toilet a little further over to avoid bare legs coming too close to the hot radiator pipes but all in all I was happy with it.
Yesterday however the toilet cistern stopped filling, and investigation showed that the inlet valve had failed. For some reason it wasn't letting water through to refill the tank.
Dismantling the tank to remove the valve meant separating it from the bowl, no mean feat given that seven years in a damp atmosphere had rusted the bolts that hold it together solid. Even the plastic thumbscrews had seized but they soon yielded when challenged with a blowtorch.
A new valve was acquired for £13 and whilst at the plumbers merchant I bought a new set of bolts. I should have got a new seal whilst I was at it, but I knew I had one in stock in my box of plumbing bits, so didn't bother.
Now there's no delicate way of putting this, so if you are squeamish don't read any further. On occasional mornings we would enter the bathroom to find a small puddle of yellow brown water at the foot of the toilet. Having a small boy in the house we had put this down to a certain lack of control - he's always in a hurry and his aim might not be good, particularly at night as he hates the dark, and getting out of bed to use the toilet is a trauma he gets over in short order. It seems however we may have been doing him dis-service. The seal was well past it's best and had been leaking for some time hence the water staining the floor. It picks up it's colour as it drips over the rusty coupling bolts. I might owe a certain young man an apology, and a few weeks pocket money he was fined for his indiscretions.
Anyway, with the valve replaced I put the new old stock seal in place, noting that it was a completely different size and shape to the original, but seemed to fit much better. I put this down to seven years being squashed between pan and cistern, but maybe not. Maybe there is a different size of seal, because after many hours bolting and unbolting the coupling and using plumbers putty I still can't achieve a leak free joint.
The tank is simply not a good fit on the toilet pan. I am beginning to suspect that the two components were made in different factories, possibly in different countries and one in metric whilst the other is in imperial, using the inch as the lowest measure. Having looked at the two parts I would conclude that they were designed by different people, who did not speak to each other during the design process. One of them was possibly blind. The two parts are just not destined to be married together. The pan for example has two stiffening webs in the porcelain which are positioned almost exactly in the right place to prevent a spanner reaching the coupling bolts. The cistern meanwhile is designed so that the coupling bolts are directly under the valve and the siphon. And there are only two bolts to pull the two halves together and achieve a watertight seal - no chance. Four bolts in a square pattern would do it,but not two in line. Basic engineering.
So how to cure it? You can't drill porcelain, so adding a further two bolt holes won't work.
I'll try another size seal tomorrow, but if that doesn't work then a whole new unit might be on the cards.
Because at present I've nothing else to go on.
Sunday, 2 December 2012
Prescription dashboard
A few years ago we all laughed at the Billy Connelly routine where he related the tale of a neighbour with poor eyesight who they wickedly suggested should buy a prescription windscreen. Well, I have now reached the age where this is not as funny as it once was.
I now need reading glasses.My distance vision is perfect, I can see distant objects, no problem. I mean, the sun is 93 million miles away, and clouds permitting I can see that perfectly. Even my night vision is good, I can see stars even further away than the sun. But give me a copy of the Sun and all I can do is look at the pictures. Sorry, not a good analogy that one is it, all that anybody looks at in the Sun is the pictures. Okay, give me a book and it goes all blurry. I was given a choice - either surgery to lengthen my arms, or reading glasses. I chose the glasses.
Now however I have discovered another issue. I don't need glasses for driving. But then again I do. I can read a number plate at the statutory 20.5 metres, no problem. I can read road signs, no problem. But the dashboard is a ll fuzzy. If I squint for long enough I can read it, but by then I have driven into a bus. So, I know that it is a forty limit, but have no idea how fast I am going. This would not be a problem if I only drove one car all the time, as I would know where 40 was on the dial, even if it is fuzzy. But I don't. I can sometimes drive 7 or 8 different vehicles a day, all of which have different dashboard layouts, and some have km instead or as well as mph. Some even have digital dashes, which make no sense even when I can read them. I have worked out that green dashboard lights are simply information, whilst amber are warnings and red are serious warnings, but without my specs a red amorphous blob means nothing. I might have left the handbrake on, or the engine could be on fire. Which is it? No idea.
With my glasses on, the dash board becomes clear and the road ahead and signs are easily readable, but I find myself leaving about a mile and a half between me and the next car and panicking if someone comes between us because, crikey, that was a close call.
The solution is to wear my reading specs on the end of my nose so the dash board is clear but everything else can be seen over the top of the specs. It's either that, or a prescription dashboard.
I now need reading glasses.My distance vision is perfect, I can see distant objects, no problem. I mean, the sun is 93 million miles away, and clouds permitting I can see that perfectly. Even my night vision is good, I can see stars even further away than the sun. But give me a copy of the Sun and all I can do is look at the pictures. Sorry, not a good analogy that one is it, all that anybody looks at in the Sun is the pictures. Okay, give me a book and it goes all blurry. I was given a choice - either surgery to lengthen my arms, or reading glasses. I chose the glasses.
Now however I have discovered another issue. I don't need glasses for driving. But then again I do. I can read a number plate at the statutory 20.5 metres, no problem. I can read road signs, no problem. But the dashboard is a ll fuzzy. If I squint for long enough I can read it, but by then I have driven into a bus. So, I know that it is a forty limit, but have no idea how fast I am going. This would not be a problem if I only drove one car all the time, as I would know where 40 was on the dial, even if it is fuzzy. But I don't. I can sometimes drive 7 or 8 different vehicles a day, all of which have different dashboard layouts, and some have km instead or as well as mph. Some even have digital dashes, which make no sense even when I can read them. I have worked out that green dashboard lights are simply information, whilst amber are warnings and red are serious warnings, but without my specs a red amorphous blob means nothing. I might have left the handbrake on, or the engine could be on fire. Which is it? No idea.
With my glasses on, the dash board becomes clear and the road ahead and signs are easily readable, but I find myself leaving about a mile and a half between me and the next car and panicking if someone comes between us because, crikey, that was a close call.
The solution is to wear my reading specs on the end of my nose so the dash board is clear but everything else can be seen over the top of the specs. It's either that, or a prescription dashboard.
Tuesday, 27 November 2012
Flooding? No, we're sinking.
We are told by guardian readers that global warming is causing sea levels to rise as the polar ice caps melt. This is of course nonsense. Ice, as we all know from basic science, takes up more room than water. This is why car radiators break in winter when the water inside freezes and you forgot to put antifreeze in them. So when the polar ice caps melt, logically sea levels will fall. Or possibly stay exactly as they are, because a little of the ice (the tip, as it where, of the iceberg) is above water level.
The sandal wearers also tell us that as the polar ice caps melt weather patterns will change and we will get more rain. Again, there is a flaw in their logic. There is only a finite amount of water, which must then evaporate to become rain again. So we must also get more sunshine to balance things out. But that is also nonsense.
I of course have my own theory. We are not seeing rising sea levels, or increased rainfall. In fact rainfall so far this month is below average at 43mm, we could normally expect up to 120mm by now. No the problem is Britain is sinking under the weight of the population. That is why southern England is suffering the worse of the floods.
There is a logical argument to this. We hardly ever hear of flooding in New Zealand, for example. New Zealand has a landmass of 103, 483 square miles and a population of 4.4 million people. That's an average of 42.5 people to every square mile. The country is bouyant and is able to bear the weight of it's people.
Yorkshire, as a county is roughly 6,000 square miles with roughly 5 million residents. That's 833 people to every square mile. A lot more people but the equilibrium holds.
Now compare this with the Greater London Area - 8 million people living in just 609 square miles, or a staggering 13,136 people to every square mile. Their combined weight is surely causing the southern end of the county to tilt and sink into the ocean, with a greater propensity to flooding as a result.
The only solution is to encourage people to migrate north in the hopes of balancing things out. The government know this, but don't want to alarm the public, so they are going about it stealthily. This is why north of the border you get free prescriptions and free places at university. The downside is, it rains all the time, but at least it doesn't flood.
The sandal wearers also tell us that as the polar ice caps melt weather patterns will change and we will get more rain. Again, there is a flaw in their logic. There is only a finite amount of water, which must then evaporate to become rain again. So we must also get more sunshine to balance things out. But that is also nonsense.
I of course have my own theory. We are not seeing rising sea levels, or increased rainfall. In fact rainfall so far this month is below average at 43mm, we could normally expect up to 120mm by now. No the problem is Britain is sinking under the weight of the population. That is why southern England is suffering the worse of the floods.
There is a logical argument to this. We hardly ever hear of flooding in New Zealand, for example. New Zealand has a landmass of 103, 483 square miles and a population of 4.4 million people. That's an average of 42.5 people to every square mile. The country is bouyant and is able to bear the weight of it's people.
Yorkshire, as a county is roughly 6,000 square miles with roughly 5 million residents. That's 833 people to every square mile. A lot more people but the equilibrium holds.
Now compare this with the Greater London Area - 8 million people living in just 609 square miles, or a staggering 13,136 people to every square mile. Their combined weight is surely causing the southern end of the county to tilt and sink into the ocean, with a greater propensity to flooding as a result.
The only solution is to encourage people to migrate north in the hopes of balancing things out. The government know this, but don't want to alarm the public, so they are going about it stealthily. This is why north of the border you get free prescriptions and free places at university. The downside is, it rains all the time, but at least it doesn't flood.
Saturday, 24 November 2012
Diary of a possible diabetic
I am supposed to have an annual medical at work. Recently I had my first annual medical for 8 years. This is not to say that I have been lapse and missed them, it's more a case of my job hasn't been bothered to do them. This has never really concerned me, as despite rapidly approaching middle age I have always considered myself to be in rude health. In fact I last saw my doctor (now retired) in 2001, and that was only to issue him a speeding ticket on the bypass. Before that I saw him in 1997 when I moved house and changed practice and only because he insisted on a well man check before he would accept me. Presumably if I had been ill, he would have rejected me as a patient. That's how the National Health Service works I suppose.
Anyhow, other than visits for a sick note after breaking some ribs (twice) and to arrange a vasectomy I haven't placed too much of a burden on him. I haven't had the need, as I generally feel fine. I don't get headaches, migraines, stress, back pain, football cup finals or anything else that I might need to see the doctor for.
So I was surprised when the medical at work threw up a problem. I live a sort of healthy lifestyle, to a certain value of health. I drink too much but less than most Doctors, I don't smoke and I exercise a little less than I ought too - cycling occasionally and hiking regularly with occasional hours in the gym.If it's a short trip I walk rather than take the car, I use the stairs rather than the lift because I know it's good for my long term knee injury and I carry shopping if it's less than a basketful instead of using a trolley. I also park in the empty farthest recesses of the supermarket car park and walk instead of parking by the door. So, I'm not sedentary but not a gym monster either. I also eat reasonably healthily, with some fruit and veg, chicken and fish and rice and pasta but also enjoy a juicy blood filled steak as well. I often skip meals and if I'm busy I forget to eat all day or just don't have time.
I expected to be told I was overweight, with high blood pressure, stress and the life expectancy of a Mayfly, simply because most of the rest of my team had been told the same.
My weight didn't cause any comment, my eyesight was fine even with my reading glasses on the desk instead of on my face, and my hearing was better than expected for my age. My blood pressure, I was told, was disgustingly healthy. And my resting heart rate was almost undetectable, barely ticking over. I was however dangerously dehydrated and showing excess sugar in my urine. I laughed this off as being down to the two mugs of coffee and the large bacon and mushroom bun I had eaten just prior to going into the medical. Yes, I know, not part of a healthy diet, but it was a 10 a.m. appointment, I'd been up since 5.30 and hadn't eaten breakfast. Besides which, it is part of the image I like to promote, poking fun at authority. Turning up for the medical with a bacon banjo in one hand and a steaming mug of sweet Joe in the other does normally provoke a reaction. And the dehydration thing is down to having little opportunity to stop either for a drink or to use a toilet, combined with working 10 hours wearing a flak jacket that weighs as much as a small child. It makes you sweat a little and you dehydrate.
Anyhow I was told, in no uncertain terms, to go see my doctor. Urgently. I might be diabetic.
The NHS, I discovered, don't do urgent. Well, casualty does, in a fashion, although not like "Casualty" on the TV. No on ever shouts "stand clear" or "Doctor Bon Jovi to Resus" when I'm in there. GP's surgeries certainly don't do urgent. You need to know a fortnight in advance if you are going to be ill so you can arrange an appointment. And then you have to take time off to fit in around all the retired and unemployed patients.
So, a fortnight later I got to speak with a Doctor. A nice girl, but I couldn't help but wonder if her mum knew she was using her office. Anyhow, she arranged for me a fasting blood test and a few days after that I rushed straight in and blood was taken. The results I was told, would be available in a week. Yes, another week. This is urgent of course. Now, my non blood related uncle has been a diabetic all his life. I know for a fact he has a little electronic device on which he pricks his finger and in seconds it tells him his blood sugar levels. He'd be knackered if it took a week. Why should it take a week? I could take it to the laboratory myself, and do the test in a couple minutes.
I was informed that if the test result was high, I would find out sooner, and they would make arrangements for a Glucose Tolerance Test. This I was told, involves another blood test, followed by a drink of Lucozade (other brands of glucose based drinks are available) followed by a two hour wait and another blood test. And the results would be available in a week. Or sooner if they were high. The appointment for this test has been made for next week. So it will be roughly seven weeks before I learn my fate. Urgently. Ha!
I do have a slight problem with this though, Firstly they have arranged the appointment without consulting me for 9 a.m. so that I can fast for 12 hours beforehand, i.e overnight. Very considerate of them, except I am on nightshift and would normally eat between 3 and 4 a.m. Secondly I have to hang around the surgery for two hours between tests. Well, I hope they don't mind me snoring, as I will, because I will have been at work all night. Thirdly, I was given Lucozade once as a kid when I was ill. It made me even more ill, because it makes me vomit. I cannot stomach Lucozade - there is too much sugar in it, which is why I have never drunk it since. I genuinely fear I will embarrass them in their own surgery.
In the meantime I have been reading up a bit about diabetes just in case. All I knew previously was that if a diabetic goes into a coma you give him a barley sugar sweet. Because we all carry barley sugar sweets don't we? What are they living in, an Enid Blyton Novel?
It turns out that if I am diabetic it will be type 2 diabetes. I think this means I cannot eat Volkswagen Camper vans. If I do not adapt to it I can look forward to going blind and deaf, my legs falling off, erectile dysfunction, depression (presumably because of the erectile dysfunction) dementia, strokes, heart attack and eventual death. Damn, and I was so trying to avoid eventual death. These could of course come in any order. Death usually prevents the others taking place though.
I don't mean to make light of diabetes, but what else is there to do? I need to change my diet and loose weight, and exercise more. But we all know that, diabetic or otherwise. It's easy to say on paper, but in reality when the cake hits the fan you can't help yourself. Okay, when my legs do fall off I'll loose weight, but that kind of limits the exercise thereafter.
Hopefully I am "pre-diabetic" and can avert the full blown condition by lifestyle changes. But if I can't I luckily have someone else to blame. Both my parents are type 2 "late onset" diabetics, and the chances of me being the same are about 70%, so it's their fault, not mine. Maybe I can claim compensation.
The one silver lining appears to be that alcohol consumption actually reduces sugar levels in the body. So, I'll drink to that then.
To be continued "urgently," once my results are known.
Anyhow, other than visits for a sick note after breaking some ribs (twice) and to arrange a vasectomy I haven't placed too much of a burden on him. I haven't had the need, as I generally feel fine. I don't get headaches, migraines, stress, back pain, football cup finals or anything else that I might need to see the doctor for.
So I was surprised when the medical at work threw up a problem. I live a sort of healthy lifestyle, to a certain value of health. I drink too much but less than most Doctors, I don't smoke and I exercise a little less than I ought too - cycling occasionally and hiking regularly with occasional hours in the gym.If it's a short trip I walk rather than take the car, I use the stairs rather than the lift because I know it's good for my long term knee injury and I carry shopping if it's less than a basketful instead of using a trolley. I also park in the empty farthest recesses of the supermarket car park and walk instead of parking by the door. So, I'm not sedentary but not a gym monster either. I also eat reasonably healthily, with some fruit and veg, chicken and fish and rice and pasta but also enjoy a juicy blood filled steak as well. I often skip meals and if I'm busy I forget to eat all day or just don't have time.
I expected to be told I was overweight, with high blood pressure, stress and the life expectancy of a Mayfly, simply because most of the rest of my team had been told the same.
My weight didn't cause any comment, my eyesight was fine even with my reading glasses on the desk instead of on my face, and my hearing was better than expected for my age. My blood pressure, I was told, was disgustingly healthy. And my resting heart rate was almost undetectable, barely ticking over. I was however dangerously dehydrated and showing excess sugar in my urine. I laughed this off as being down to the two mugs of coffee and the large bacon and mushroom bun I had eaten just prior to going into the medical. Yes, I know, not part of a healthy diet, but it was a 10 a.m. appointment, I'd been up since 5.30 and hadn't eaten breakfast. Besides which, it is part of the image I like to promote, poking fun at authority. Turning up for the medical with a bacon banjo in one hand and a steaming mug of sweet Joe in the other does normally provoke a reaction. And the dehydration thing is down to having little opportunity to stop either for a drink or to use a toilet, combined with working 10 hours wearing a flak jacket that weighs as much as a small child. It makes you sweat a little and you dehydrate.
Anyhow I was told, in no uncertain terms, to go see my doctor. Urgently. I might be diabetic.
The NHS, I discovered, don't do urgent. Well, casualty does, in a fashion, although not like "Casualty" on the TV. No on ever shouts "stand clear" or "Doctor Bon Jovi to Resus" when I'm in there. GP's surgeries certainly don't do urgent. You need to know a fortnight in advance if you are going to be ill so you can arrange an appointment. And then you have to take time off to fit in around all the retired and unemployed patients.
So, a fortnight later I got to speak with a Doctor. A nice girl, but I couldn't help but wonder if her mum knew she was using her office. Anyhow, she arranged for me a fasting blood test and a few days after that I rushed straight in and blood was taken. The results I was told, would be available in a week. Yes, another week. This is urgent of course. Now, my non blood related uncle has been a diabetic all his life. I know for a fact he has a little electronic device on which he pricks his finger and in seconds it tells him his blood sugar levels. He'd be knackered if it took a week. Why should it take a week? I could take it to the laboratory myself, and do the test in a couple minutes.
I was informed that if the test result was high, I would find out sooner, and they would make arrangements for a Glucose Tolerance Test. This I was told, involves another blood test, followed by a drink of Lucozade (other brands of glucose based drinks are available) followed by a two hour wait and another blood test. And the results would be available in a week. Or sooner if they were high. The appointment for this test has been made for next week. So it will be roughly seven weeks before I learn my fate. Urgently. Ha!
I do have a slight problem with this though, Firstly they have arranged the appointment without consulting me for 9 a.m. so that I can fast for 12 hours beforehand, i.e overnight. Very considerate of them, except I am on nightshift and would normally eat between 3 and 4 a.m. Secondly I have to hang around the surgery for two hours between tests. Well, I hope they don't mind me snoring, as I will, because I will have been at work all night. Thirdly, I was given Lucozade once as a kid when I was ill. It made me even more ill, because it makes me vomit. I cannot stomach Lucozade - there is too much sugar in it, which is why I have never drunk it since. I genuinely fear I will embarrass them in their own surgery.
In the meantime I have been reading up a bit about diabetes just in case. All I knew previously was that if a diabetic goes into a coma you give him a barley sugar sweet. Because we all carry barley sugar sweets don't we? What are they living in, an Enid Blyton Novel?
It turns out that if I am diabetic it will be type 2 diabetes. I think this means I cannot eat Volkswagen Camper vans. If I do not adapt to it I can look forward to going blind and deaf, my legs falling off, erectile dysfunction, depression (presumably because of the erectile dysfunction) dementia, strokes, heart attack and eventual death. Damn, and I was so trying to avoid eventual death. These could of course come in any order. Death usually prevents the others taking place though.
I don't mean to make light of diabetes, but what else is there to do? I need to change my diet and loose weight, and exercise more. But we all know that, diabetic or otherwise. It's easy to say on paper, but in reality when the cake hits the fan you can't help yourself. Okay, when my legs do fall off I'll loose weight, but that kind of limits the exercise thereafter.
Hopefully I am "pre-diabetic" and can avert the full blown condition by lifestyle changes. But if I can't I luckily have someone else to blame. Both my parents are type 2 "late onset" diabetics, and the chances of me being the same are about 70%, so it's their fault, not mine. Maybe I can claim compensation.
The one silver lining appears to be that alcohol consumption actually reduces sugar levels in the body. So, I'll drink to that then.
To be continued "urgently," once my results are known.
Wednesday, 21 November 2012
It's Grim in Grimsby
Okay, it's dull in Hull, buy by God it's grim in Grimsby.
I had to go there yesterday to collect an item I bought on a well known on line auction site which almost rhymes with me-pay.
My first problem came with my SatNav. Well actually it's my wifes SatNav, but she never really got on with it, so it now resides in my glovebox. There's lots of room for it because i don't keep gloves in there. Finding Grimsby was of course no problem for me. A63, A15 over the Humber Bridge, A180 - fall into Grimsby. Not a problem and a journey I have done many times. The street that was my destination however was unfamiliar to me, so I duly typed in Grimsby and was given the choice of little Grimsby or Great Grimsby. Little Grimsby is a tiny village with no streets so far as I could tell, so it had to be Great Grimsby. That's bigging it up. Alright Grimsby, or Passable Grimsby. But hardly Great.
Next I typed in the street name and the SatNav turned itself off. I tried again, suspecting the battery might be weak or the charger lead not plugged in properly. Same happened. As soon as I entered the street name the SatNav switched itself off. I couldn't even get it to accept a nearby street, or indeed any street in Grimsby. It would direct me elsewhere. Hull, Sheffield, Doncaster - no worries. But Grimsby? No it clearly didn't want to go. I tried Cleethorpes, but it didn't want to go there either, presumably because it would have to go through Grimsby to get there. There is a huge black hole in the SatNav memory, like Grimsby doesn't exist. Perhaps it had a bad experience there once?
I resorted to the usual man tactic of driving there and attempting to find the place myself. After all I had worked in Grimsby for a while 22 years ago, and it wasn't that big. (Or Great) After 30 minutes of going around in circles I admitted defeat and knew I needed to ask directions. Normally in these circumstances I will look for someone middle aged walking a dog, on the basis that a dog walker will be local and know his or her way around. It's not without it's flaws, I admit, but generally I win. Just be wary, if you find yourself in this predicament that you do not pick an elderly dog walker. Firstly you will get his life story, followed by directions that include expressions like "turn left where the New Roller Disco used to be" and that's if he can remember at all.
On this occasion however there were no dog walkers about, and this was because due to the depression and mass unemployment they had eaten all the dogs. I thought Hull was suffering in the recession, but Grimsby is just endless rows of boarded up shops. The only thriving businesses appeared to be a boarding up company, betting shops, off licences and funeral directors - presumably they have a high suicide rate. There was the usual brightly lit ASDA, B & Q, Maplins, HALFORDS etc on a shopping estate and even a COMET having a closing down sale, but other than that it was depressingly grey. The only people on the streets either lived there and were drunk, with many carrier bags (Why is that?) or were teenage hoodies who would have stolen my SatNav if I had stopped to ask them directions. Not that it would have been any use to them, with it's Grimsbyphobia. I did find a McDonalds but daren't go in there to ask for directions, because they would have undoubtedly given me fries with them. And in all likelihood they wouldn't have known there own way home in any case.
Fortunately I knew where the main police station was, and found it in semi darkness, presumably saving electricity. Either that or they wished to merge in with the rest of the greyness around them. Swallowing my manly pride I asked directions off a policeman. I was almost there as it turned out, and a minute or so later I had my package.
Strangely, as soon as I got back in the car the SatNav sprang to life with a map showing exactly where I was, and how to get out, quickly. This is intelligent SatNav, it refuses boldly, to no go where man has gone before.
I had to go there yesterday to collect an item I bought on a well known on line auction site which almost rhymes with me-pay.
My first problem came with my SatNav. Well actually it's my wifes SatNav, but she never really got on with it, so it now resides in my glovebox. There's lots of room for it because i don't keep gloves in there. Finding Grimsby was of course no problem for me. A63, A15 over the Humber Bridge, A180 - fall into Grimsby. Not a problem and a journey I have done many times. The street that was my destination however was unfamiliar to me, so I duly typed in Grimsby and was given the choice of little Grimsby or Great Grimsby. Little Grimsby is a tiny village with no streets so far as I could tell, so it had to be Great Grimsby. That's bigging it up. Alright Grimsby, or Passable Grimsby. But hardly Great.
Next I typed in the street name and the SatNav turned itself off. I tried again, suspecting the battery might be weak or the charger lead not plugged in properly. Same happened. As soon as I entered the street name the SatNav switched itself off. I couldn't even get it to accept a nearby street, or indeed any street in Grimsby. It would direct me elsewhere. Hull, Sheffield, Doncaster - no worries. But Grimsby? No it clearly didn't want to go. I tried Cleethorpes, but it didn't want to go there either, presumably because it would have to go through Grimsby to get there. There is a huge black hole in the SatNav memory, like Grimsby doesn't exist. Perhaps it had a bad experience there once?
I resorted to the usual man tactic of driving there and attempting to find the place myself. After all I had worked in Grimsby for a while 22 years ago, and it wasn't that big. (Or Great) After 30 minutes of going around in circles I admitted defeat and knew I needed to ask directions. Normally in these circumstances I will look for someone middle aged walking a dog, on the basis that a dog walker will be local and know his or her way around. It's not without it's flaws, I admit, but generally I win. Just be wary, if you find yourself in this predicament that you do not pick an elderly dog walker. Firstly you will get his life story, followed by directions that include expressions like "turn left where the New Roller Disco used to be" and that's if he can remember at all.
On this occasion however there were no dog walkers about, and this was because due to the depression and mass unemployment they had eaten all the dogs. I thought Hull was suffering in the recession, but Grimsby is just endless rows of boarded up shops. The only thriving businesses appeared to be a boarding up company, betting shops, off licences and funeral directors - presumably they have a high suicide rate. There was the usual brightly lit ASDA, B & Q, Maplins, HALFORDS etc on a shopping estate and even a COMET having a closing down sale, but other than that it was depressingly grey. The only people on the streets either lived there and were drunk, with many carrier bags (Why is that?) or were teenage hoodies who would have stolen my SatNav if I had stopped to ask them directions. Not that it would have been any use to them, with it's Grimsbyphobia. I did find a McDonalds but daren't go in there to ask for directions, because they would have undoubtedly given me fries with them. And in all likelihood they wouldn't have known there own way home in any case.
Fortunately I knew where the main police station was, and found it in semi darkness, presumably saving electricity. Either that or they wished to merge in with the rest of the greyness around them. Swallowing my manly pride I asked directions off a policeman. I was almost there as it turned out, and a minute or so later I had my package.
Strangely, as soon as I got back in the car the SatNav sprang to life with a map showing exactly where I was, and how to get out, quickly. This is intelligent SatNav, it refuses boldly, to no go where man has gone before.
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