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.