Christmas

In the midst of all the festivities, and the TV specials, and the tinsel and the turkey, it's easy to overlook the true meaning of Christmas. Presents, of course. I got some pretty good ones this year. A couple of good books. Not the Good Book, you understand. A presentation set of Lagers Of The World - which begs the question, 'as opposed to Lagers Of... where else, exactly?'. Well, it does to me, anyway. Oh yeah. And some socks. Always with the socks.

The kids* fared better though. iPods, robot dogs, battery-powered monkeys (and by the way, you don't want to know where they had to insert the batteries). And what the hell has happened to Lego? I know they have a lot to compete with, but Jeeeeeeezzzzzz. Wasn't like that in my day. I was impressed when I managed to build a wall out of Lego.

*My cousins' kids, that is. There are no Little Big Al's**
**As far as I'm aware.

Bruce and Melissa

For no particular reason, except that it's great...

Hair

Christmas shopping all but done. I blitzed it in just under an hour, which is pretty good going really. I also took the opportunity to get a haircut - which, somewhat disappointingly, took a very short amount of time. I'm sure it used to take the best part of hour for a haircut. Now it's done and dusted in about six minutes. It takes more time now to tidy up the hair growing out of my ears than to trim the hair on my head.

I wish my body would expend as much effort in growing hair in my bald spot as it does in growing hair down my nose and out of my ears. Hell, I'd happily lose all my pubic hair if it could replace some of the hair on my head. Provided, of course, that it didn't grow in quite so curly. Or so ginger.

Yule Be Sorry*

Hurrah. I'm now officially on holiday - right up until the 9th of January, in fact. Not bad going, I reckon. Today was also the end of my three-month probationary period at work, and just for good measure, my three-month appraisal. Which went OK. Other than the fact that it cut into time when I was supposed to working, thereby somewhat buggering up my planned half-day.

Anyway, I'm not too bothered. Just looking forward to the next three weeks or so. I don't have any major plans for Christmas or New Year yet, but I'm pretty damn sure it has to be better than last year and the year before that. It wouldn't be difficult though. Christmas 2004: In prison. Christmas 2005: In prison. Christmas 2006: Not in prison. It would have to be a real stinker to be worse than the last two.

First things first. Tomorrow I'm considering making a start on the Christmas shopping. And if I get around to starting to tomorrow, with any luck I'll finish it tomorrow too. I hate when these things drag on too long**. My original plan had been to buy a lot of stuff online, but in true Big Al style, I put it off until it was way too late - as a consequence, I find myself in the dreaded position of actually having to go into a shop. Or perhaps even more than one shop. Good grief.

* I know I am.
** Generally speaking, any longer than an hour is 'too long'.

Peter Boyle

There goes another one. Peter Boyle died a couple of days ago. I guess he was best known as the cranky father in 'Everybody Loves Raymond'.

He appeared in two of my all-time favourite movies. In Taxi Driver, he played the character 'Wizard'. He also appeared, to glorious effect, as the monster in Mel Brooks' Young Frankenstein.

Most recently he was the gleefully obnoxious Frank Barone on ELR. A show that I have a particular fondness for. It got me through some rough times, while I was in chokey. 'Raymond' was, and still is, on Channel 4 most mornings. There wasn't much incentive to stay awake after the insanely early wake-up, but a half-hour in the company of Ray, Debra, Robert, Marie and Frank made it a little easier.

Anti-Social Club

Friday night was the company's official Christmas night out. There was also an unofficial night out, attended by a group of eight of us who fancied doing our own thing.

First port of call for the Anti-Social Club was the Republic Bier Halle, for some tasty lagers and equally tasty (not to mention jaw-droppingly overpriced) pizza. Fortunately we had reserved a table in advance - turned out this was a wise move, as a group the size of ours would have been hard-pressed to get in otherwise. After that it was round the corner to Buzzy Wares in Princes Square, until chucking-out time.

From there, the remaining four of us headed over to the casino where the official night out was taking place. We got there around 1am, just in time to see most of them leaving while we were standing in line to get in. I think they were a little surprised - and in some cases, possibly a tad miffed - to see us there. Anyhow, we had a few drinks at the bar before heading downstairs to where to the action is. 'Action' being the usual casino stuff. Blackjack, roulette, slot machines, hookers. You know the kind of thing.

I didn't take much to do with the gambling - after all, I'm not the kind of guy to let gambling stand in the way of some serious drinking. Somehow we managed to pass the time until about 5am before going our separate ways. If I'd known I was going to be out until that time, I might not have bothered booking a hotel room for the night. I'd checked into the hotel at Central Station. By the time I got back there it was almost 5:30am - another half hour or so and I could have taken the first train home. But I figured that since the room was already paid for, I may as well use it, even if it was only for a few hours. Three and a half hours, as it turned out. Still, at least I managed to sleep for most of that time.

Big Al

A propos of nothing, but us Big Al's have to stick together.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

Beware the casual rail traveller. The everyday commuters I don't mind quite so much. Obviously, I'd prefer to have the train to myself. Actually, I'd prefer to be in a car, but that's not really an option. Anyhow, the people who get the train day in, day out - I don't mind them so much. They get on the train, sit down, and either put their earphones in their ears* or go to sleep. Personally, I fall into the latter category in the morning, and the former category on the return journey. If I have to get out of bed an hour or more before I'm ready to, I figure 45 minutes shut-eye on the train shouldn't be too much to ask.

And on a good day, I'd get it. On a good day when everyone in the carriage knows the rules. You get on the train. You shut the hell up. You do not sit right next to people** who are trying to get some much-needed sleep, and talk in the loudest possible voice for the whole frickin' journey about a whole lot of crap that no-one else is even vaguely interested in.

Sorry to sound grouchy. I'm just not a morning person.

* Best place for them, really.
** i.e. me

Mr Mercury

It's hard to believe that it's fifteen years since you left us. We think about you all the time. We miss you. Rock on.

Ramblin' Man

I'm slipping badly. It's been over two weeks since I last posted anything here. To be fair, though, I have been quite busy.

Yet another hospital appointment yesterday, but a very encouraging one. It was the first time I'd been back since the frame was removed from my leg, and the x-rays are looking good. There's a little bit of movement in my ankle, which is also a good sign. The swelling in my leg has gone down a lot too - also good. I've to keep wearing the boot for a while longer - at least until mid-January, but that's hardly a problem.

Something happened at work that I wasn't expecting. Bear in mind that I went back to work in mid-September. And before that, the last time I set foot in the office was March 2004. And that, between those dates the company moved offices. So I wasn't really expecting any of my old stuff to still be around. But, whilst clearing out some old crap that was lying around the office, someone found a bunch of stuff that used to live on my desk. Mostly irrelevant now - some client files that are well out of date and other assorted odds and ends. A pair of earphones I bought about a week before the accident. I was just slightly amazed that none of the stuff had been tossed out, and had instead been carted halfway across town to wait for me to come back to it. Weird.

Rambling again, I think.

Work Is A Four-Letter Word

I have to do something about my working hours. Starting at 10am seemed, at first, like a great idea. The trains would be quieter at that time of day, I thought. No fighting over seats, I thought. Well, for the most part I was right. And not having to be up at some ridiculous time of the morning is also quite appealing.

Less appealing, though, is hanging around the office until 6:30pm, when most sensible people are at home watching the end credits on The Simpsons (and changing channel rapidly before Hollyoaks starts). Most people leave at 5:30, a few at 5:00, others at 4:30, and even a couple at 4:00.

If I got up a bit earlier, I guess I could the 7:55am train, which would mean (on a good day) getting into Glasgow at about 8:40, starting work at 9, finishing at 5:30, getting the 6:00 train home, and being home at about 6:50pm. I'd still have missed The Simpsons, but it's an improvement all the same.

Good Riddance

Today I officially escaped the evil clutches of the World's Worst ISP, and switched over to what appears to be one of the best. It's still early days, but I'm already noticing the difference. Massively improved download speeds, helpful customer support and no need to stay offline during 'peak hours' for fear of overstepping the miserly download limit imposed by that other bunch of shysters with their draconian 'Fair Use' policy.

OK, it's quite a bit more expensive, but I have a habit to feed here. So it's worth it.

Happy November

On account of my having been back at work for just over a month, this week I'm due for my one-month appraisal. Joy. Not too big a deal, though - the one-month appraisal is usually a fairly informal chat. After all, a month in a new job* isn't really long enough to have seriously screwed anything up.

The timing could have been better, though. My previous line manager is in the process of moving to another team within the company, and another guy from the project development team (i.e. my lot) is taking her place as team leader. This means that the next few weeks will be a sort of handover period from one to the other. Which, in turn, means that they'll both be doing my appraisal. Sigh.

I bet it's the usual questions though. Where do you see you yourself in the next 3, 6, 12 months? "Uh, how the bleedin' hell should I know" being the obvious riposte to that one. If I've learned anything** over the last few years, it's that things rarely work out the way you plan.

Am I rambling?

*OK, it's technically not a new job, but when you've been away from it for this long it might as well be.
**And I couldn't guarantee that I have.

Take Your Fair Use Policy, And Stick It Where The Sun Don't Shine

Guess what? A couple of days ago, I received my third and final email from my ISP regarding my allegedly excessive internet usage. This in spite of the fact that they don't actually say what constitutes 'excessive' anywhere. As a result, they have taken it upon themselves to throttle my access, with everything going along at a crawl, if I could connect at all. Time for a call to Customer Services, methinks. So, I spent over an hour on the phone to a call centre in India (actually, I was on hold for most of the time). Despite ranting furiously at the poor sap on the other end of the line, I got precisely nowhere.

I told them that I'd had a final email from them regarding their so-called "Fair Use Policy" (hah!), and the email also said that I could request a MAC code (the code which would allow me to take my custom to another provider). Surprise, surprise, the guy couldn't find any trace of this email, and it was obviously more than his life - let alone his job - was worth, to dish out a MAC code without proof. Not only that, he couldn't even see any evidence of me having exceeded their limits. Grrrrr.

Anyway. He gave me an email address to write to. So I did. I sent a somewhat caustic email demanding a MAC code, so I could get the hell away from this bunch of shysters as quickly as humanly possible. Much to my surprise, they complied.

So, I've now signed up to a new ISP, with no download limits, so no need to worry about that in future. And a helpful customer service department for a change. It'll take about a week for the migration to take effect, and it's a bit more expensive than the other lot, but I guess you get what you pay for. Pay peanuts, get monkeys, as they say.

Funny thing though. Even though I'm still with the old ISP for another week or so, the speed has gone back up. In fact, it seems faster than ever. How peculiar!

Free Lunch

...and they say there's no such thing. Well, they're wrong. I got one today. The occasion was one of the company's annual(ish) discussion days, where our department talks about what we do, how well we do it, and how we could do it better.

I've only been back a few weeks (and only three days a week, at that) so I felt I didn't have much to contribute to the proceedings, not having been there long enough to make any judgment. I was, however, quite happy to go along for a day out of the office, and the aforementioned free lunch (including one alcoholic beverage of my choice - drinking on the job, shocking behaviour).

Tomorrow though, it's back to normal. I'm getting my first crack at doing some project development work for a client since my return to work. And a chance to find out just how much I've forgotten while I've been away. Should be interesting.

Hello again

On my way into the station for my train home from work last night, a guy spots me (I guess I cut a fairly recognisable figure) and starts coming towards me. He says hi, and it takes me a moment before I twig where I know him from. Frequent readers (both of you) will probably have guessed where this is heading. That's right. He was one of the guys I know from the slammer. One of my close neighbours from D-Hall. I was Cell 8, he was Cell 6. Just a couple of (locked) doors along.

I guess it was bound to happen sometime. He's the first of the gang I've met since I got out. Wonder if I'll run into any more?

The Boot

The frame may be gone, but in its place I have one of these to give my leg a bit of support over the next few weeks. It's what they refer to around the hospital as a 'moon boot'. You can see why.

The good news is that it's considerably more comfortable than the Ilizarov (not difficult), making walking a whole lot easier. Also it's removable - so I don't have to sleep on my back anymore. It's a lot less scary looking than the frame too.


I'll probably have to wear this for about six weeks, after which, perhaps I'll be able to wear a normal shoe (which I haven't done in 2-and-a-half years).

And another thing. I noticed in my notes that the orthotist at the hospital who fitted me for the boot wrote that I had been 'instructed in donning and doffing of the boot'. Until then, I'd never realised that 'doff' was the opposite of 'don'. I suppose it's obvious when you think about it... don/doff... on/off... I just never made the connection. Wow. You really do learn something every day. Not always anything useful, but still...

...Gone

This morning I had the op to remove the Ilizarov frame which has been my constant companion for the last thirteen months. It was a pretty quick procedure, taking less than an hour. At the moment my leg is bandaged up, although they might put a cast or a support boot on later. With any luck they'll do that quite soon, as I still hope to get out of here no later than tomorrow. More good news: for a limited time, hospital internet access is free. Wish I spotted that before I forked out for a £10 PatientLine card. Ho hum.

Going... going...

Hurrah. Finally, after thirteen months, I'm getting the Ilizarov frame removed next week. This news put me in the best mood I've been in for a long time. So good, in fact, that not even another snotty email from my ISP could spoil it. These guys, incidentally, are obviously taking the piss. But that's another story.

The plan is for me to go into hospital next Monday, have the frame removed on Tuesday, and get sent packing on Wednesday. No hanging around, then. Suits me - it was a different matter a few months ago, when I would have been leaving hospital and going straight back to you-know-where. But it's a different story - I don't want to have to be cooped up in hospital for a second more than is strictly necessary.

Now That's Service

About three weeks ago, I placed an order online for some perfume. As a present for my mum's birthday, you understand. This was a whole week before her birthday, thereby allowing - or so I thought - plenty of time for delivery. One week passed. No sign of the perfume. The order tracking page on the website still showed the order as 'Being Processed', whatever the hell that means. My mum's birthday came and went, the order was still 'Being Processed'. A further two weeks passed. Still the order was 'Being Processed'. WTF do these guys have to do to process an order, that takes three frickin' weeks?

In desperation this morning I phoned them. It turns out the perfume I ordered is out of stock, but should be back on their shelves in 'about three weeks', although they couldn't make any promises. Jeez, thanks for frickin' telling me, guys. The guy on the phone offered to cancel the order for a full refund, which I promptly accepted.

So I Google the name of the perfume (well, to be more accurate, I Froogle it). And top of the search results is a stockist, right here in the town where I live. Who knew? At approximately 10:20am I placed the order. When I got home from physio, just before 4:30pm, I checked my email. There's a message from the stockist saying that the stuff is out of stock in the size of bottle I ordered, but they could offer me a different size of bottle. And for the inconvenience, they'd waive the delivery fee, and deliver in person. Wow. I emailed back to say that would be fine. I sent the email at 4:31pm. At 5:20pm they turned up at my door, with the perfume. How's that for service?

The Same, But Different

So my first day back at work went pretty much as I expected. A mix of the familiar and the not-so-familiar. The job itself is the same - the same products, more or less the same development tools. On the other hand, there's a new office full of new people along with a smattering of old faces. It was a bit strange, but I guess after a few days I'll be back in the saddle.

I started at 10am today, which meant I was able to get a later - and considerably less busy - train than I would have otherwise have had to take. Tomorrow, I'm starting at 10 again, but working an hour later to compensate for that. Still, it beats being crammed like a sardine on the early train. I think.

Last Night of Freedom

Can't quite believe I'm going back to work tomorrow. It's been two and a half years since I last did a day's work in the office. Technically, I've never done a day's work in the office, because they've moved since the last time I worked for them.

Anyway, starting at 10am tomorrow, so at least I don't have to get up just at the crack of dawn. Just an hour after the crack of dawn. Incidentally, I used to know a girl called Dawn. But I never.... ah, forget it.

More Hospital Fun

Another trip to see the orthopaedic consultant in Edinburgh today. Once again the x-rays are looking good, and it looks likely that the Ilizarov will be removed sometime mid-October. In the meantime though, I had the final remaining wire removed from my foot, along with the bottom ring of the frame. It hurt a bit at the time (more so than the last one), but what a difference now. For the first time in ages I can climb stairs without any discomfort. Well, in my foot anyway. The pins through my foot were always the most troublesome of the lot, so I'm glad to be rid of them.

I go back in three weeks time, when hopefully they'll confirm the date for removing the rest of the frame.

Back At It

It's official, then. On Saturday morning I received the letter I had been waiting for - the one offering my me job back. There was a gap of over two weeks between the 'interview' and the arrival of the letter, and although I'd been verbally offered the job, the amount of time was starting to concern me. All being well, I start again on Tuesday.

But, oddly, they asked for the names and addresses of two people who could provide references. This is a company I worked with for nearly four years, FFS. Ah well, I guess it's just standard procedure.

It's a gym, Jim

Had one of my twice-weekly sessions of physioterrorism at the hospital this afternoon. For the last couple of weeks, instead of having a fixed appointment time, I've been attending the gym class held each Monday and Thursday afternoon. The advantage being that as soon as I arrive at the hospital, I can go straight through to the gym without any hanging around in the waiting room, thereby minimising the size of the chunk of the day taken up by the whole process.

The other advantage is that being a gym 'class', there are a number of other people present. Get a reasonable number of people present, and statistically there's a chance of there being some eye candy to take my mind off the pain/boredom. Today, the law of averages worked in my favour. Although being a red-faced, sweaty lump probably did not.

Freddie

Just been watching a rerun of the 1992 Freddie Mercury tribute concert on VH1. Today, believe it or not, would have been Freddie's 60th birthday. Another one who went too soon.

It's A Library Thing...

This is possibly a little bit sad, but I couldn't stop myself from checking out the LibraryThing website after reading a write-up in one of the Sunday papers. It basically allows you to catalog your own book collection, write reviews, and compare your collection with those of other users. So far I've added 89 books from my collection, with loads more to go. If you're one of those obsessive types, it's fascinating to see which other users share your taste in books (and to what extent). Er, told you it was sad.

MiPod

Hurrah! Big Al steps smartly into the 20th century with the arrival of his brand-new 60GB video iPod (in black, don't you know). This should make the 40 minute each-way commute to work a little more tolerable. So far I've put over 3000 songs onto it, plus about 100 photos. Oh, and Pulp Fiction. And it's still not even 1/4 full. Quite an impressive bit of gadgetry, really.

Welcome To Pedantics Corner

Actually, that should probably be "Pedants Corner". Or "Pedant's Corner". Or perhaps "Pedants' Corner". Erm, anyway, I noticed that the "All-Day Breakfast" sign in the pub has been amended to read "All-Day Brunch", which is at least slightly closer to the truth.

Isn't it amazing what can be achieved with a bit of whinging over minute details?

User Error

Joy upon joy. The folks next door have bought themselves a laptop PC, meaning I'm likely to be returning to work sooner than I expected - in an unpaid tech support role. They've already phoned twice for assistance with the complicated and taxing task of, er, sending an email. Apparently the next purchase is going to be a printer; can't wait to see how that turns out.

I bought one of these t-shirts a while ago - maybe this is a good time to start wearing it again.

All Day Breakfast

Mmmmm.... All... Day... Breakfast. Was there ever a sweeter combination of three words? Well, probably. But anyway, the hotel/pub across the road has started serving this tasty dish to hungry patrons. The full works - sausages, bacon, fried egg, tomato, hash brown, beans, and tea or coffee. Well, they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so it might as well be something artery-clogging and delicious. And just the job after a hard day's boozing.

But wait a minute, though. The All Day Breakfast is only available between 12pm and 9:30pm. So, uh, how exactly does that qualify as All-Day? Or, for that matter, breakfast?

The 200th Post Special

Fairly special, anyway.

Today went as well as I could have hoped for, and possibly better. The good news is that I have a job to go back to, pretty much as soon as I want to. Despite the length of time since I last worked there, and all the management changes, they said that based on my previous work record they'd be glad to have me back. I don't know if they got the records mixed up, but I didn't feel like arguing.

At first I'd probably only be working three days a week, as I'm still going for physio twice a week. To make things even sweeter, there's a pretty good chance of my being able to work from home, at least some of the time, which would certainly make life a lot easier. We've set a provisional (re-)start date of September 19th, so I still have a few more weeks of, er, whatever it is I've been doing for the past two months...

Gulp

Big day ahead. Tomorrow morning I'm going into the office to discuss the possibility of returning to work for the company I was with before everything went tits-up. It's quite encouraging that they're at least taking the time to see me. They've moved office since the last time I was there, and there have been a lot of personnel changes, but a few of the old team are still there. I figure this is probably my best bet for getting back into work, so fingers crossed...

Unlimited broadband, my ass

It doesn't seem like a week since I last posted anything, but dates don't lie. I've been a tad distracted of late, mainly due to a new toy I found, by the name of Camfrog. It's more addictive than heroin. And unfortunately, I have an addictive personality*, a fact borne out by a rather snotty email from my ISP**, informing me that I'm in danger of breaching their Fair Use Policy.

Furthermore, if I persist in using this software during peak times (6pm-11pm every day) they will start 'managing' my account, effectively meaning I would share bandwidth with other 'extremely heavy' users during those times, leading, almost inevitably, to a much slower connection.

So much for their claim of 'unlimited broadband'. OK, there probably was something in the small print about fair use, but hey, who reads the small print?

The good news, if you can call it that, is that I guess I now have more time for blogging. Let joy be unconfined.

* By which I mean that I become addicted easily, not that people find my personality addictive.
** I'm not going to name them. Bastards aint getting a free advert from me.

Back To School

That used to bug the crap out of me when I was a kid. School's out for summer, and only a couple of days later all the shops would be full of 'Back To School' advertising posters. Gimme a break, I would think, I've only just got away from the frickin' place, and you're telling me to go back already. The clothes shops would use them to advertise their new uniforms, and the stationers would use them to plug their latest range of, er, pencil cases and protractors*. Or perhaps advertising was merely a front for an evil ploy to crush the spirit of the young.

The schools here start again in just over a week, after the fastest six weeks I can remember. It's funny how, when you're young, six weeks can seem like an eternity, but when you reach adulthood** a summer can pass in the blink of an eye***. I still remember my surprise one when I thought the summer holiday had been cut to a measly six weeks, until it was pointed out to me that it had only ever been six weeks. It just seemed longer at the time.

* Has anyone used a protractor since leaving school?
** Which I hope to do any day now.
*** Of course, if you live in Scotland, it's quite normal for summer to pass in the blink of an eye.

Did Someone Mention...

...Werewolves?

Even if they didn't, it's still a great song, by an exceptional singer/songwriter who went way too soon.

Pants

I just had a thought (it was bound to happen sooner or later). For the best part of a year, the only major clothing decision I've had to make has been whether to wear shorts or sweat pants. Nothing else, you see, will fit over the Ilizarov. When that comes off, I'll be able to wear normal trousers again, which will make life a bit easier, particularly on those rare occasions when I decide to dress in the style of someone who hasn't just fallen off the back of the scruffy truck. I mean, there's not much point wearing a shirt and tie* with sweat pants.

Probably means I'll have to buy some new clothes, too. The only pair of jeans in my wardrobe are a size 38 waist, from my fat days. Fortunately, I don't occupy quite that much space anymore. Might hang on to them though. Well, you never know, do you?

* Not that I wear a tie all that often. Weddings and funerals is pretty much it.

Pinhead

Some good news from the orthopaedic consultant today. The x-rays of my leg are looking encouraging, and hopefully they'll be able to remove the Ilizarov in about six weeks' time. They made a bit of a start today by removing one of the pins - the one through my foot, which is the one that's been causing all the trouble lately. Quite glad to see the back of that one.

Having the pin removed wasn't painful exactly, but it was an 'interesting' experience all the same. It's somewhat alarming when someone starts wielding wirecutters in the general vicinity of your foot.

Still not as scary as the dentist though.

Orange

Had a bit of an incident at physio this afternoon. One of the exercises they have me doing involves having me lying on my back, with my leg in a harness - a bit like being in traction - and me stretching my leg out to the side, with the aim of strengthening my hip up a bit.

This afternoon, to give me something to aim for, the therapist placed a 5-litre bottle of orange juice at the point where my leg should be when stretched right out. So, I did a few of the exercises, just gently nudging the bottle each time. Then on the fifth attempt, I got slightly over-enthusiastic, knocking the bottle onto the floor. Being a plastic bottle, you might think it wouldn't break - but it hit the floor hard enough to cause it to burst. Just a small hole in the bottom of the bottle, but big enough to send orange juice all over the place. Quite embarrassing, really.

Have an appointment in the morning with the orthopaedic team. Hope they're going to have some good news about removing the Ilizarov soon - that's almost 11 months I've had it now.

Driller

Here's one I didn't expect. Pain-free dentistry. Huh? When did that start? I had my final visit to the dentist today, to have one tooth filled* and another yanked. Didn't feel a thing, not even when the novocaine wore off. The bottle of Jack Daniels I downed before I went probably helped though. Only joking, although it did cross my mind.

Even so, the dentist's drill still scares the crap out of me. Literally. I've had three dentist appointments in the last 2 weeks, and about 20 minutes before each of them, I've had to go poopoo on a fairly urgent basis. Er, you probably didn't need to know that. Sorry.

I think part of it goes back to a story I heard when I was younger about this kid who was having a tooth drilled, until the drill slipped. After which, he was having a gum drilled. Which would not, let's face it, have been pleasant.

* The x-rays showed up another one that needed work. Bastard.

A Day Down The Drain

Yesterday was probably the most fruitless day since Little Jack Horner buggered off with all the plums. In the morning, a nurse came in to change the dressing on my leg, and noticed that one of the Ilizarov pin-sites looked as if it was infected. Also, my leg was really badly swollen, even worse than usual. It's been swollen ever since the frame went on, but the heat recently has made it even worse. And the fact that I had been up until 5am yakking online (instead of going to bed and keeping the leg elevated like a sensible person would have done) didn't help matters.

So she decided that I should go to the local hospital and get it checked out, and arranged for transport* to get me there. I pointed out that I'm due to see the consultant who fitted the Ilizarov next week anyway, so I might as well wait until then, but to no avail. In the meantime, a doctor came in and put me on a course of antibiotics. Fine. Six hours later, there's still no sign of the transport. So I call them to ask what's happening - it turns out that they have a load of emergencies to deal with, and are running way behind schedule. By this point it's early evening, so I figure I'd be quicker to cancel the ambulance and try and cadge a lift to hospital from one of my neighbours, who by this point has arrived home and who very kindly agrees to drive me there. After waiting a while - not too long, to be fair - I get seen by a nurse who tells me that, gosh, that leg's awfully swollen. Yes, I knew that, thanks. I've known that for ten months, but thanks for pointing it out again.

Then a doctor comes along, gives me the once-over, and tells me exactly what I expected to hear, namely...

1. None of the consultants at this hospital work with Ilizarovs, so they probably wouldn't do much about it.
2. I should take the prescribed course of antiobiotics.
3. I should attend my appointment with the consultant next week.
   
4. I should f*ck off home (although considerably more politely, but that was what it boiled down to).

So, I duly f*ck off home, in a taxi, at the cost of around £17. A day down the drain.

* I can't drive at the moment (a) because of the state of my leg, and (b) because I'm not allowed to, for a few more years. And there was no-one available to give me a lift into hospital at the time.

Smokin'

Four months into the smoking ban, and what a difference it makes. No more waking up the morning after a night out, to the puke-inducing stench of stale cigarette smoke clinging to last night's clothes. One thing most of us hadn't predicted, but have now come to realise, is that the smoke - foul and noxious though it may have been - was in fact doing us a bit of a favour, by masking a few other odours best left unsniffed. Most of them traceable back to you*.

First up, the obvious - plain old sweat. Well, it has been an usually warm summer, so perhaps that shouldn't be a total shock. Then there's beer breath. I'd never noticed that before. Oh, and don't forget farts. Lotsa farts. Personally, I never fart, but other people seem to do it a heck of a lot. And it doesn't get any better when you go through to the toilets. Blimey, if that's how pub toilets smell, they should all be fitted with smoke machines as standard.

* Not you personally, you understand. People in general.

God's Own Television

British TV is about to become a much better place*. From today, the FilmFour channel is free. This means there is now officially** no reason to ever watch the BBC or ITV ever ever again. They're kicking off tonight with Lost In Translation, followed sharply by Sexy Beast (possibly the sweariest film of all time, with the possible exception of the South Park movie). And then a whole bunch of Marx Brothers movies on the next few weekdays. If there's a god - or even a God - this is his TV channel.

* Not difficult.
** Unofficially, there has been no reason for some quite considerable length of time.

Summer? This is Scotland, dammit!

Don't think I could have picked a worse day for a physio appointment. It was an insanely hot day - that's right, even here in Scotland. WTF is going on with the weather this week? And getting to the hospital in a patient transport vehicle didn't help. Obviously, there's no aircon, but would it have been to much to ask for someone to think of fitting windows that open? Well, yes, apparently it would. By the time I arrived for my appointment I was already sweating them* off, without even having done a stroke of exercise.

And then the real fun began. By the time I got home, my shirt was 20% cotton, 80% body fluids. Just to clarify, that would be mostly sweat, and probably some tears. No blood though. And certainly none of the others.

* You know of what I speak.

Teeth (again)

The dentist appointment this afternoon was surprisingly painless, both dentally and financially. Almost miraculously so, considering the somewhat lengthy gap since my last visit. I was expecting to be told I'd need a mouthful of fillings, but I got away with just one (unless anything else shows up in the x-rays). There's some other work to be done in the form of extracting what's left of a tooth* I broke while I was in chokey - disappointingly not as the result of an outbreak of prison violence, but rather due to my overenthusiastic crunching of a Polo mint. All this is costing me an estimated £50. Fifty quid? A bargain really, fifty quid for six years' worth of of dental treatment.

* What's left? Not much.

TV Go Home

Proof, as if it were needed, that the BBC aren't even trying anymore comes with the news that, as from next week, they'll be fouling up our Saturday nights with yet another dance-related pile of crap. We've already had Strictly Come Dancing, Strictly Dance Fever, Strictly African Dancing and over on ITV, Dancing on Ice. Starting next week, it's Dancing in the Street. Make it stop. Somebody, please, make the bad TV go away.

And while I'm on the subject... Strictly Come Dancing? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Years ago there was a show called Come Dancing, which was tres mucho crapola, but at least the title made sense. Recently though, they stuck the word Strictly on the front of it, for some reason or other, presumably to make it seem more contemporary or relevant or something. Whatever the reason, it doesn't alter the fact that it's still about as much fun as being shot in the face. And, to add insult to injury, the title doesn't make any damn sense.

So, BBC, if you must do another dance show (and apparently you must), here's a suggestion. BBC Execs Dancing On Fire. Form an orderly queue.

American Idol

Woody Guthrie
born 14th July 1912

The Great Indoors

You'd think, after 18 months of being cooped up indoors for at least 23 hours a day, I'd want to spend as much time outdoors as possible. Especially now that we're enjoying a spell of unScottishly good weather. Well, I gave it a shot. Really I did. But the trouble with The Outdoors is, it doesn't have all the great stuff that makes indoors so much more interesting. TV, computers, music - all that kind of thing*.

I used to love The Outdoors, but now it leaves me with a hankering for distractions. I tried reading a book, but I kept getting paper-blindness. Y'know... like snow-blindness, only with paper instead of snow. And don't suggest wearing sunglasses - all they do is give you sunglass-shaped tan-lines, giving you the appearance of a - for want of a better word - twat. To add insult to injury, it was a really bad book. Unfortunately, I can't blame The Outdoors for that**.

Even worse, The Outdoors has wasps. Lots and lots of the bastards. I wouldn't mind quite so much if I could at least run away from them, but in my present condition that's not an option. Just so you know, my fear of wasps is second only to my fear of dentists, but not by much. I have tried, on numerous occasions, screaming 'f*ck off!' at them, but they never listen. The wasps that is, not dentists. It's quite difficult to scream anything at someone when they have your mouth forced wide open whilst they poke around in there with their terrifying-looking apparatus, and then ask you to spit. I am still talking about dentists, lest there be any doubt.

In short, I'm staying indoors from now on.

* Conveniently ignoring laptops and iPods, as they bugger up the whole argument.
** At least not yet. But if I think of anything, I might give it a try later.

Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Drill Me

Woke up this morning with a strange sense of dread that I couldn't quite account for. Until I remembered about my dentist appointment on Monday of next week. To say that I'm not all that keen on dentists would be the understatement of the millennium. I avoided any form of dental treatment the whole time I was in chokey; somehow prison dentistry seemed a less than attractive proposition. Incidentally, I hadn't realised that prisoners don't have access to dental floss, presumably to prevent them from using it do unspeakable things* to themselves and each other.

Anyhow, that's 18 months without seeing a dentist. Plus the month since I came home, which makes 19 months. Oh, and then there was a little while before chokey in which I didn't see a dentist, so I'd better include that as well. In total that makes somewhere in the region of, er, six years. Which means Monday afternoon should be 'interesting'.

* Like what? I can't imagine.

I Hate When That Happens, #7452(b)

When you're in the pub, and someone you don't recognise or remember from anywhere, all of a sudden sidles up and starts talking to you. And they address you by name, so they clearly know who you are. But you haven't a clue who they are. So you let them keep talking, in the hope that something they say will give your memory a helpful jolt. But it just doesn't happen. And then, slowly, it starts to come back to you. You've met this person just once before. Once. And what's more, it was about four years ago. So you wonder, when you can't remember this person at all, what must you have done to make yourself so memorable to them? And just how much alcohol was involved? And are there photographs?

Tombstone

Three possible inscriptions for my headstone*.

1. It was worth a try
   
2. You're kidding, that was it?
3. I want my money back

*Apart from the fact that I'll probably be cremated.

Prison Blog

I'm thinking that, at some point, I might put my prison diaries into blog form. Probably not for a while though - I don't quite feel ready to go back over all that just yet. For now I'd rather try to return to some sort of 'normal' life. To this end, I got in touch with my most recent employer to discuss the possibility of my returning to work sometime in the (hopefully) near future. They were, after all, very supportive through all the time I spent in hospital after the accident, and right up until I was sent to the slammer. Also, I figure I have a better chance with them than trying to get a job elsewhere; I'm guessing the criminal record might make me a less than ideal candidate to many employers. I didn't get a definite answer today, but at least I didn't get a definite 'no' either. Just have to wait and see what happens next week.

Yet More 4

Hurrah. Channel 4 is now available on the internet, thanks to a simulcast available* from its website. At the moment it's only on a trial basis, but hopefully it'll become permanent soon. I watched Deal Or No Deal this afternoon and was well impressed by the picture quality. It's not HD or anything, but it's good enough for watching daytime game shows**. Even on full screen, as long as you don't get too close to the screen, it looks really good. Unless you're looking at Noel Edmonds, of course.

On the downside, due to broadcasting rights issues, certain shows can't be shown on the simulcast. Most notably (wouldn't you just know it) The Simpsons. An annoyance that can be summed up by only one word... altogether now... D'oh!

* To UK-based punters, although why anyone else should care is beyond me.
** Not that I make a habit of doing this.

Random Excess

In a moment of boredom this afternoon, I changed the title of this blog. Just on a whim, like. Not for any particular reason or nuffin. I just felt like it. Sometimes I like to live life on the edge.

So, would you say the new title - compared to the old one - is:

a. Less crap
b. More crap
c. Equally crap
d. All of the above*

*If so, please explain how. I'd love to hear it.

Screw This

In the mail this morning, I received a schedule of yet more adjustments for me to make to the Ilizarov frame. Oh happy day.

There are six adjustable struts near the top of the frame - one of them shows up pretty clearly in the pic. The struts at the front are reasonably easy to adjust; the fact that I can see them makes for a significant advantage. The rear struts are slightly more awkward, and require either assistance from a second person, or the skilful use of a mirror.* While I was in chokey, and neither of these were available, I had to make do with the underside of a CD as a makeshift mirror. Lots of fun.

*And no small amount of patience. So I'm screwed, basically.

It's a leg, Jim...

This, in case you hadn't already guessed, is my leg, complete with Ilizarov fixator. Pretty, aint it? The photo was taken in March during a week-and-a-half stay in hospital, during which various adjustments were made to the frame, and a skin graft was performed (underneath where that weird blue dressing is). Oh, and my leg isn't really that colour - it's iodine, or betadine, or something. It washed off, when I was eventually allowed into the shower. At the time of these operations, I was still accompanied by two guards from those infamous providers of custodial services, Reliance*. I was cuffed to one of them, right up to the point when I was under a general anaesthetic, at which point they decided that the chances of my running away were sufficiently minute for them to remove the cuffs.

Anyhow, the frame is still in place, hopefully not for too much longer. Still, it's a talking point, if nothing else.

*Although a more appropriate name would be 'Fuckups-R-Us'.

Busy Doing Nothing

Here comes a surprising statement from someone living on the west coast of Scotland. Damn, it's hot. Just as well I had nothing planned for today, because it would almost certainly have been too hot to do it. I've been back home for three weeks now, and have done approximately nothing, other than going back and forth to one hospital or another. Currently I go to one hospital for orthopaedic appointments, another to see the plastic surgeons*, and from this week I'll be attending a third for physiotherapy. Gulp. I've never been one for exercise, least of all the brutal, painful sort favoured by those sadistic, and frighteningly healthy, blonde women** who call themselves physiotherapists.

Apart from that, a nurse comes to the house two or three times a week to change the dressing on a slow-healing leg wound, which means I can't really stray too far until that's done. And that's pretty much all I've been doing for the last three weeks.

Work? Who has time for work?

* Relating to the skin graft on my leg. I still look exactly like me, more's the pity.
** Almost all of them fit this description, in my experience.

Huh?

If, as They keep telling us, there's an exception to every rule, then doesn't that mean that somewhere there must exist a rule to which there is no exception, in order to prove the rule that there is an exception to every rule?

Or should I just lay off the alcohol?

Jules Rimet still gleaming?

This must be a mistake, surely? England aren't going to win the World Cup? That's not possible. They have to win it, they're England for heaven's sakes. And as such they have a divine right to win it merely by turning up. In fact, why should they even have to turn up? How dare some other country win it? The nerve of these foreign types!

Gloating Jock? Moi? Damn right.

Well, duhhhh...

It goes without saying* that it is good to be back. It's also a little bit weird. So much has changed in 18 months, when what I really wanted was to come back to the familiar. Even the pub is different. Different staff, different decor, different prices.** At least the customers and the piss-poor beer are still the same. I feel like a stranger now, instead of the fat-ass Norm character at the corner of the bar. Only less fat. No, really. I'm approximately 5 stones lighter than I was in the Good Old Days. That's 70 pounds, I believe. Or 31.75kg, if you must.

While I'm at it, how can people be bothered to measure their weight in pounds? Isn't that just too damn fiddly? If you tell me your weight in pounds, I spend the next 37 minutes dividing by 14 to get to a figure I can understand. 10 stone = skinny bastard, 20 stone = fat bastard. Easy.

*But I'm saying it anyway.
**It's a good thing I was sitting down.

And we're back...

...finally. Actually, I've been back for about 2 weeks, but it's taken until now to get an internet connection sorted out. It's good to be back.

The Other Place

It's been a nice little break, but it looks like I'll be returning to The Other Place on Friday. Maybe it's just as well - the longer I stay here, the harder it gets to go back. They only kept me here this long in order to make sure the skin graft was going to take (long story). I was hoping to be kept here over the weekend, as that's when the food in The Other Place is at its very worst. Also, nurses are much more fun to be around than prison officers. Anyhow, for the record, the contraption on my leg is an Ilizarov frame, which not only (hopefully) fixes the leg, but lengthens it too. The surgery on my ankle left the leg significantly shorter than it used to be, but the frame has given me at least a couple of inches in length. Too bad it only works on legs.

An update

Just to bring it all up to date... I've been in prison since December 2004. I was given a 3-year sentence - under Scottish law, this means serving 18 months. 15 down, 3 to go. Currently in hospital for a few days, not sure how much longer. The surgery seems to have gone OK, and I still have the frame attached to my leg - took photos today, but can't post them from here, unfortunately. With any luck, the frame will be off by the time I'm released.

And we're back...

...in hospital for a while. still nothing cut off, but have been shaved in a few (uninteresting) places.