the brilliantly leaping gazelle

As I in no way wish to dampen your festive mood, I present for your delectatation my own Christmas Liffs. Liffs are, as I’m sure you need no reminding words than describe a feeling for which no word yet exists, by using place names (These are all places in the United Kingdom I assure you!)

No doubt you’ll have heard of the phrase “As camp as Christmas and so for your added enjoyment, I suggest reading this while listening to the musical expression of that sentiment here.

A’Chill
What one gets from rashly agreeing to a Chila.

Acha
People on a Chlia clearly having a nauseatingly jolly time, which you think they’re purposely doing to wind people up

Acha Mor
People engaged in Chlia, obviously wearing presents.

Adlestrop
Realising that nobody has picked up hints dropped in the run up to Christmas about what you’d really, really want.

Alcol
When the life and soul of the party has had too much to drink and then becomes thoroughly obnoxious.

Azeley
The worried looks which express concern for the mental state of the teller of a Fanellan after a Fazerley.

Badcall
Leaving it so late that by the time you get to the buffet at a Christmas party, all that remains has been pawed, breathed and touched by everyone else, before they decided they didn’t want it.

Buck’s Green
A feeling of increasing jealousy that occurs when your partner is on the opposite side of a crowded room and watching them enjoying the company of an attractive stranger rather too much for your liking.

Bucks Cross
A Bucks Green that is magnified when, after being distracted by long Maunby, you cannot see either of them.

Chiia
The name given to the post Christmas dinner walk, which is claimed to “Be just the thing we all need!” but seldom is.

Chislet
Duration of the dilemma one feels about the probity of asking if the receipt has been kept for a present that is wholly not what you need, want or ever choose to own. Duration of which is proportionate to relationship with giver.

Chittlehampton
The feeling of nausea that is felt either watching someone sitting opposite you eating their Christmas dinner in messy and off putting way.

Dacre
When an someone experiencing a Alcol proceeds to boorishly holds forth on a subject on which they clearly knows nothing but which you have considered, reasoned and well thought out opinions and which you can defend articulately, so much so all you want to do is punch his lights out.

Edith Weston
The elderly friend of the family whom your never told exactly how and in what capacity they’re a friend of the family, as you only ever see them at Christmas.

Enochdhu
Stony and awkward silence that greets a joke that you found on sickipedia and that everyone else you’ve told it to found hilarious.

Fackenham
Exclamation frequently heard at supermarket checkouts when the grand total of the Christmas food shop is revealed.

Fanellan
An often repeated, interminably long anecdote concerning people whom you don’t know but whom nevertheless you are meant to find fascinating. Sometimes delivered by an aged relative, normally in a very tired and emotional state.

Fazerley
When the thread of the Fanellan has gradually drawn to end, although one isn’t quite certain, on account of increasingly lengthy pauses accompanied by wistful eyes and sudden bursts of laughter.

Feckenham
Frequently heard repeatedly and at full volume by householder one month after Christmas upon opening of a utility bill and realizing that your partner’s relatives had taken the invitation “to treat our house as your own” rather too literally

Foeck
Just before you enter a room, hearing a parent exasperatingly observe to your partner, “But darling, that’s what you say about all of them!” only for them both to become all smiles when you appear.

Freeby
Knowing that the relationship is only being kept alive just so you can get a free holiday, and you will end after Christmas. Until then, and for utterly mercenary reasons, you maintain the fiction of happiness to her them and their family.

Fulking
Moment when the pleasure one gets from an unexpected visit from relatives becomes irritation at them being in your house, and them showing no sign of leaving.

Funzie
A Fulking exacerbated by knowing you have somewhere much more enjoyable to go to and that the longer they stay, the less likely it is you’ll go.

Glamis
A female relative of advanced years that dresses in a manner more befitting someone at least twenty years younger and behaves accordingly.

Glenis
Male equivalent of a Glamis.

Gonalston
Playing Trivial Pursuit with members of your partners family who know rather too much about things you consider irrelevant.

Gospel End
The curious silence that descends on a gathering by osmosis when carol singers can be heard nearby.

Grimmet
Whereby food that really should’ve been thrown away by Boxing Day, mysteriously finds its way into sandwiches.

Gushmere
An awkwardly affectionate and long lasting welcome hug from which there is no extrication from, usually given by a Glamis or a Glenisa to an attractive partner of a much younger relation.

Hasings
Presents wrapped in a ham-fisted and slapdash manner, indicative of a being done in rush, suggestive of a recently being undertaken after Sheet

Herstonceux
A cook who believes that what Christmas dinner lacks is the wow factor. And therefore convinces themselves that condensed milk glaze for the turkey together with balls of stuffing with centers of sherbet is going to achieve this.

Hipswell
The embarrassing dance at Christmas party that a Glenisa does, after which he proclaims “Oh yes, I’ve still got it.” when he just proved the very opposite.

Hurtiso
Accident caused by rather enthusiastic pulling of a Christmas cracker.

Huish Episcopi
Being introduced to your partner’s distant Eastern European relative whose name sounds like a Latin name for an infectious disease.

Hynish
Suppressed rage when exhorted to open something you’d wanted to do either a Worthington or a Littleworth to.

Kippax
Assorted excuses to avoid partaking in a Chlia which conceal the fact that is one is perfectly content to slob out in front of the television in an agreeably comfy chair, where it’s warm, and where one possibly snatch a bit of shut eye.

Lagganlia
Regression common in adults when entering childhood homes

Littleworth
Effusive thanks that conceal the fact that an unwanted present of little financial worth will be re-wrapped and passed on next year

Mark’s Cross
Usually following a gonalston, saying to your partner later that you’d have a far better chance of winning if you’d been playing on your own, and when the conversation becomes an argument, rashly suggesting that they were “mental pygmies who’re as thick as a whale omlette”

Maunby
A pervading sense that you are stuck with the most boring person at a Christmas party.

Memus
The trepidation one feels throughout Christmas dinner when an aged relative repeatedly accepts brussell sprouts and cabbage.

Minnigaff
When the person who made the Terrible Down realises their mistake and brings the call to an end to preserve their own good humour

Morphie
Despite everyone sharing the same opinion of the Dacre, when you cannot take anymore and challenge him on every point, displaying a knowledge they lack, the Dacre inexplicably becomes the recipient of everyone in the rooms’ sympathy.

Nasty
The sudden and almost violent gag reflex one experiences upon entering a toilet which someone has recently done aTrumpington in.

Neaton.
Presents wrapped in an overly elaborate and neat way, suggestive of an O.C.D.

Netherhoy
The cheerily effusive Christmas greeting that one gives to neighbours that one quite happily ignores for the rest of the year.

Nevern
When you meet your partner’s parents for the first time at Christmas and immediately know from looking at them that marriage is so not going to happen.

Patching
The art of decorating a Christmas tree that is twice the size of the one you normally have, using the same decorations.

Patchway
Concealing a Patchway by only decorating the front of the tree.

Phantassie
The Christmas truce between a married couple that are on the brink of divorce agree to in order to maintain the fiction that all is well when out visiting.

Sexhow
Even though they know you live together, your partners’ parents have seen fit to put you in single bedrooms located at the opposite ends of a creaky wooden hallway, of which their bedroom is located in the middle.

Readymoney Cove
A person who notes the disparity between the value of gifts given and those received, causing them to think they’ve been the victim of a Littleworth

Runtaleave
The belief that one can plant this years Christmas tree in the garden when finished with and dig it up and use it again next year.

Raggra
The suppressed anger one feels when, having given individual presents to a married couple and their children, one gets one in return.

Shatterling
The interval between you unwrapping a Christmas present, wearing it, and then it being permanently and prominently stained.

Sheet
Person who leaves it until Christmas Eve to all their Christmas shopping.

Swaffham
Guests to a Christmas party who bring cheap alcohol and then drink much better quality alcohol throughout.

Terrible Down
A phone call made by a caller on Christmas Day, throughout which they have to repeatedly shout in order to be heard over the sound of boisterous party, to wish a Happy Christmas to someone who clearly isn’t having one.

Trashbush
The amount of alcohol required so that a Glamis will permit a Glenis who has earlier done a Hipswell to have sex with her.

Trumpington
The noxious, prolonged and inevitable percussive accompaniment that follows soon thereafter a Memus.

Worthington
Effusive thanks which conceal the fact that an unwanted present of financial worth will be going on eBay, as soon as one can get online.

….and whatever – and whoever – you do, enjoy it….

If you are reading this and are eating, I would advise you to stop now and return when you’ve finished eating.

When I awoke in hospital one of the many things that confronted me, in addition to my body not working as it used to, was that I had suddenly developed a rather nasty gag reflex. I would vomit with little or no warning, and this coupled with my lack of fine motor skills, made for a very messy state of affairs. Over time I got used to recognizing the early warning signal that was an odd taste in the mouth that gave me ten to twenty seconds of an impending Technicolor yawn. Quite why or how this gag reflex happened or what triggered it, and more importantly, what I could not do to prevent it avoid wasn’t clear. Over time I discovered that brushing my teeth acted in someway as a trigger for vomiting. (Not that vomiting happened every time I brushed my teeth. That would be too simple, so to make things interesting my body added an element of jeopardy to proceedings, so it was completely random as to whether I pebble-dashed the porcelain.) Things got progressively worse and it led to a state of affairs where I was understandably reluctant to brush my teeth.

My vomit could be either the rather watery like bile liquid which normally emanated forth from my stomach to herald a new day, or if I had just eaten there would be the sink-plug plugging sludge of undigested food that I would examine for signs of blood. I must point out that I have a small toilet in my room – perfunctory, not palatial – and I sit on the toilet whilst my head rests conveniently for my mouth to give generously to the sink. For despite the smell of vomit being rather unpleasant, this is of minor significance to my overweening fascination with any of my bodily secretions. (A tissue after I’ve blown my nose in can be a  thing of curious wonderment.) Or sometimes for variety when there’s no food or drink in my stomach, it can to be a succession of dry retches that seem to be both never ending and not the sound you’d imagine no human could produce. The one saving grace out of all of this vomiting was that I’ll get the early warning, then be sick and then usually immediately feel much better. I know, weird, right? If you think I’m treating vomiting with a casual disdain, you’d be right.

In my late teens and until a kidney infection was identified, I was prone to bouts of vomiting, which also had an element of jeopardy. There would be some breaks between each outbreak of vomiting, some hours, days or weeks apart – although thankfully not as distant as the gaps between litter bins, drains, and other handy receptacles I’d make use of. I could drink a cup of tea at my house, set of for school feeling fine and then suddenly just know I was going to be sick and the need to find somewhere to evacuate safely was paramount importance. Of course one can be sick, one can’t control that but what you can control is where you are sick. I would argue that one of the signs of a blatant disregard for people and surroundings would just be to selfishly vomit wherever one happened to be. One evening a while ago I had been sick earlier in the evening. Now, fast-forward to later that evening where myself and a my girlfriend are in bed. I sit up suddenly and make frantic gestures. She rushes to get a bin and upon finding one, she places it under my mouth whereupon I deposit some vomit into it. “You held your vomit in your mouth?”, she exclaimed. To which I replied, “Of course.” because it would be bad form to do otherwise and besides which, it was a way of demonstrating my remarkable self-control.

“You’re not normal!”, was all the thanks I got, although she did try to mollify it somewhat by protesting that she wouldn’t have minded changing the sheets and the bedding, but I pointed out that emptying the contents of my stomach into the bin was a lot easier to do.

However this state of affairs was unsustainable. And so I put my name down on a waiting list to see a specialist dental unit at my local hospital, this is when I discovered that the wheels of bureaucracy had brakes on. It was one of my fillings falling out, coupled with the gag reflex which ruled out as wholly impractical anything other course of dental treatment. I mean, most dental surgeries are all about clinical efficiency and I whilst I might be clinical, efficient I’m not. Finally after nine months I got an appointment. The dentist was as competent as the secretarial team were not. He listened to my problem and conducted a precursory examination of my mouth before sending me down for an x-ray. I must tell you I’ve never seen an x-ray machine like it. It was something out of Star Trek. In essence it was a revolving scanner that went around my head and there was a grip to hold the head firmly in place. Upon returning upstairs, five minutes late, I was confronted by my x-ray, which because it was flat made my teeth resemble Wallace’s’ (out of Wallace and Gromit).

I was pleasantly surprised that despite me not having seen a dentist since my accident there was remarkably little work to be done because, as I’m fond of saying, there is a benefit from coming from peasant Irish stock. He outlined the various anaesthetic methods that were available for the treatment. In essence the gas and air mixture was a lot safer, being only a local anaesthetic, but would require a couple of treatments. Whereas general anesthetic carried with it a greater level of risk, but all the work needed could be done in one go. When I asked him about the risk he said that one in every hundred thousand people who had a general anesthetic died as a result. That would be just my luck I thought, to have a general anesthetic and wake up afterwards. Bingo! Fortunately sense prevailed and I opted for the gas and air, which means cleaner, healthier teeth but also means life.

Every silver lining has a cloud!

Next time…you say baseball, I say rounders…..

Last Tuesday – 24th September 2014 – was a fun day, for that was when I met my new therapist for the first time. Some context here might be useful to you. Ever since waking up from the coma to confront a new reality, I have been – understandably – depressed. However it is both the severity and the seeming permanence that is not so understandable. Possibly because the part of the brain I damaged might have some effect on mood. No one, not even my consultant can say for sure.

What can be said with some certainty is that I’ve got myself into a self-perpetuating mood of negativity about my continued reason for existing and my place in the scheme of things generally. I accept that most people at some stage in their lives undergo a re-evaluation of their life, what they’re doing with it and how they’d make changes to it. I get that. Part of being alive is not being entirely pleased with one’s lot. But in my case, certainly now at any rate, the chasm between what I’d like to change and my ability to effect such change on my own is on a scale that would make a before and after photo showing the effects of global warming (and when did that become climate change?) on the polar ice caps seem tame by comparison.

Be that as it may, in 2011 I had forty hour long sessions with a clinical psychologist, but the sessions weren’t as productive as either of us had hoped for, but he left the door open, saying that if I was serious on re-commencing with therapy, I’d first have to provide some tangible proof. This was a euphemism for restarting anti-depressants, which I’m still doing. Having seen my doctor, explained the new situation, he referred me. Some moths later, out of the blue, I got a call. It was from the hospital I’d been referred to, did I have time for some questions? An hour later I felt as lower than I had done in a long time. “On a scale of one to ten, one being the minimum with ten being the maximum, how depressed do you feel right now?” she naively asked. Because anyone with an I.Q larger than their waistline might have thought that answering questions about very dark thoughts one kept buried for good reason – “I have a foolproof suicide plan, but knowing I have it means I can put it to the back of my mind and not think about it.” – and certainly not to a voice on the phone I couldn’t put a feces to their face for being so matter of fact about my mental outlook. Perhaps that’s how they’re trained to do it, to remain detached and not to get emotionally involved. Anyway, answering “Right now? Having spoken to you about things? I’d say about a ten.” wasn’t perhaps the most helpful thing I could have said. But by then I was so beyond caring what she felt, I didn’t give a f*ck. The ‘phone call was, she told me, my assessment interview and she could offer me a counseling place. This being the N.H.S., this could take up to nine months, so best hold those negative thoughts.

So Tuesday, then, was my first meeting with her. She began by explaining that everything I said was confidential, but with the caveat that if I said or intimated anything to suggest a risk of harm to others, or myself and then she was obliged to let relevant professionals know. At this I just nodded. The previous counsellor had trotted out the same thing. It hardly encourages one to be candid; to discuss openly things one doesn’t talk about normally. A neutral space but one surrounded by some oppressive walls, which if you said the wrong thing, might come crashing in around you. I know what she means, that if an immediate and credible threat to harm yourself or others is known it should be communicated, but meanwhile back in the real world which someone with suicidal intent wishes to escape, would they really say something that might set mouths blabbing? Really? Who or what are they are they saving, by which I mean either saving someone’s life or saving their own career.

She later enquired, apropos of my suicide plan what was it that kept me going? “Laxatives.”, was my deadpan reply, quick as a flash. And was there any reaction from her? No. ‘ Go on, smile love, I’ll pay for the stitches’ I thought. Which for some inexplicable reason, bought to mind this saying, used in a another context, yet still applicable to suicide “Has the world turned it’s back on you, or have you turned your back on the world. If one is seriously thinking about ‘turning your back on the world.’ The hospital website also usefully advises that either call 999 or “ Go to your nearest hospital with an Accident and Emergency (A&E) Department. In some hospitals, this will be called the Emergency Department. There are qualified staff on duty 24 hours a day,  seven days a week, who will be able to assess you and give you the appropriate help.” To me at any rate, that’s about as much use a cement lifejacket.

I mean, the last time I was in an A&E, involved me almost having to shout repeatedly to a nurse through a sheet of thick glass. (My nearest A&E is in a busy inner London area, and deals with a high number of drink or drug dependant patients, some just seeking shelter from the elements, others, who have felt the smack of firm government repeatedly, seeking a bed for the night.) Embarrassing enough at the best of times, but when one is facing the worst of times…! That presupposes you’d even think of doing that in the first place. But hey, that’s the advice they give you. They offer assistance, whether people avail themselves of that assistance, or more importantly, if that assistance is a prudent use of resources, is another matter. All I know is that if the laxatives stopped working, the last thing I’d would be to go A&E, broadcast loudly why I was there, take a ticket and wait for a doctor to see me. Can anyone else hear the sound of ass’s being wall papered? No?

”Christmas has often been cited as a time when people who have depression are at high risk of suicide. However, ONS statistics (1995-2005) show this to be an apocryphal story: December has fewer than average suicides compared with the rest of the year, with women in particular being less likely to commit suicide in December than in any other month. The arrival of a new year, however, tells a different tale: January has one of the highest suicide rates compared with other months in the year.”

So, all the more reason to devote more resources (of dubious efficacy) toward the problem. Er, no. New Years Day is, by quite a margin, the day people choose to make their final choice. One can see why. You’re all sentient beings, I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you why, but what I will tell you is that a skeleton staff operates a minimal out of hours crisis intervention team. A skeleton staff of a short-staffed team to start with! See in the New Year in style!

A correction. In my last post I boldly asserted that a personal story was made with the other persons permission. This was as rash as it was untrue. I’d told them I might include it, which was, as was pointed out to me, is not the same thing as I will. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!

Next time…..the secret of eternal youth? Just ask a man, over 30 on a skateboard or a scooter….

A couple of weeks ago I was by the seaside in Dorset. To be more specific I was at Lulworth Cove, which I am reliably informed could easily mistake it as being located in Greece when the weather is right. Unfortunately the day I happened to go there the weather was most decidedly wrong.

Whilst the sun did try to make an appearance, it was a very weak sun against very thick clouds and it’s efforts put me in mind of a very drunk man attempting to have sex. No matter how eager he was, it just wasn’t happening. Repeated attempts to penetrate offered a tantalizingly cruel expectation, which went unfulfilled. This was of less concern than the occasional drizzle, which along with the overcast sky, only added to the typical English seaside experience. So, naturally enough, one did what the English normally do when confronted by conditions such as this at the seaside and prepare for a swim. It wasn’t cold it was but merely bracing and good for me. ‘Not getting hypothermia is good for me!’ I thought but I was persuaded against my better judgment to embark in this folly.

I should mention that one of the side effects of my brain injury is that not only has my ability to walk and talk been affected, but also it would seem, my ability to float. This was forcibly brought home to me a coupe of years ago, when I ventured to my local leisure centre (a leisure centre puts one in mind of a vast space filled with people dozing in deck chairs and other comfy chairs, engaged in a range of sedentary activities, and not involved in vigorous and sweaty exercise!). The first challenge was getting changed. One might think that disabled changing areas had been designed to comfortably admit a wheelchair or similar. Disavow yourself of that foolish notion. My walking aid is narrower than a wheelchair’s width and it just about got into the changing room. That should have been a warning to me, however my carer at the time was an advocate of aqua therapy, the theory being that the water pressure in front and behind me would effectively stabilize and support me. In so doing I’d be able to exercise in a way that would be impossible without the support of the water. That was the theory at least. Mind you, time travel is also theoretically possible and the theory that the water would support me fell as quickly as I did in the water. I wasn’t much like Michael Phelps as more Vanessa Feltz. Despite numerous visits to the leisure centre, the result was always the same. In water I do a good impersonation of a stone.

Meanwhile, back in Dorset, there was no start to the fun. To keep me airside of water I need a buoyancy aid, a waistcoat filled with foam to aid flotation and for added dignity, a strap that goes between my legs to hold it in place. My inability to get to the waters edge unaided necessitated two companions to assist me getting into the water. Despite assurances that the water wasn’t cold and that one would soon get used to it, this proved to be an exercise in optimism over experience. I found myself in water that wasn’t warm and which I had no desire to get used to, all the while doing the doing the King Canute tiptoe. Which gets it name from forlorn belief that when a wave of waist height approaches you, you stand on tiptoes to avoid it touching things which it shouldn’t touch. To soon you’ll discover that you’ve been unsuccessful and the sound of this lack of success will be greeted by a high pitched screech, quickly followed by you stating you want to get out, followed by someone pooh-poohing the very idea and splashing you with cold water in order that you get used to it.

Greece it wasn’t

A few minutes later when I lost all feeling in my lower limbs, one of my companions held onto the front of my lifejacket and the other supported my back, whilst I lay flat and drank a lot of water. This was accompanied by me protesting loudly for comic effect -at some length – and so loud were my cries that an elderly couple on the beach were heard to remark to each other “What on earth are they doing to that poor man?”. After what seemed an eternity of these shenanigans, I returned to dryish land and eventually my teeth stopped chattering. On the walk back to the car I was asked how did I feel?

I replied that I felt on top of the world.

Actually, this was a terminalological inexactitude or a lie, if you prefer. All the while I was in the water was thinking about the last time I’d been in the sea, a couple of months before my accident, snorkeling on The Great Barrier Reef. A month of no one else to please but myself, a month spent at Ningaloo, Australia. Over thirty miles from the nearest town and more than six hundred from the nearest city, where the one hotel in Ningaloo sent a car to the ‘airport’ – more a landing strip attached to a warehouse – to collect you. One had set out purposely to get there. There were no day tippers. It was bliss. Over one hundred and sixty miles of marine national park. Nothing to do but snorkel. And snorkel. You’d get on a boat, it’d take a group of you out to the reef and then you’d be immersed into an underwater carnival of colour, in the clearest, warmest water I’d ever been in.
On one occasion, I was snorkeling on the reef when I spotted a shark. It wasn’t big, maybe five or six feet long. So I did what anyone whose name when turned into an anagram contains ‘sharksemen’, and is armed only with an inquisitive nature and an underwater disposable camera would do – could do. I followed it. Staying well enough away not to scare it – about thirty feet – for fifteen glorious minutes I observed its total indifference to my presence. When I judged it no longer saw me as anything other than to be ignored, I ventured nearer and took a photo. It’s my desktop image now, but then it continued, swimming away from the reef and toward the rest of group, with sadly predictable results –near enough to cause panic and frantic shouts amongst the rest of the boat party. The shark swam away, and naturally I berated them at length and with swearing for scarring the shark away. They were Germans, Swedes and Italians after all….

But now such memories are just that. Memories. Well, you can’t very well snorkel wearing a buoyancy aid, now can you?

Next time….Bored of emotional bingo? Play David Cameron’s political version instead……….