Image: Kate Ter Haar
This is it; the looming exam season has now arrived. Squeamish Sue would have revised but there’s been a death in the family and an impromptu garden funeral. That’s not why Squeamish Sue’s dressed in black though…
I have been suffering bouts of something called Arrhythmia, which is an intermittent irregular heartbeat. I went to my GP who said it needed capturing on an ECG before any definite diagnosis could be made; seemingly my articulate description of the symptoms was insufficient. So, each and every time this Arrhythmia made itself known, I just ‘popped’ in to the surgery for said ‘capture’.
I have been suffering bouts of something called Arrhythmia, which is an intermittent irregular heartbeat. I went to my GP who said it needed capturing on an ECG before any definite diagnosis could be made; seemingly my articulate description of the symptoms was insufficient. So, each and every time this Arrhythmia made itself known, I just ‘popped’ in to the surgery for said ‘capture’.
By the time they located the machine kept under lock and key, found the Keeper Of The Key, wired me for sound, which can take upwards of 15 minutes, (Babs is not to be hurried in these matters), any ‘trace’ of a problem had disappeared without one. A trace that is! I eventually persuaded my GP to let me see a specialist, where I was fitted with a 24 hour monitor. Showering and sleeping were rendered a distant memory whilst grappling with the octopus of wires which threatened to strangle me that night. Once the monitor was removed, I looked like I had contracted some rare skin condition. I had a reaction to those sticky pads they unceremoniously stuck without a care in the world to my folds, and which leave a neat circle of residue gunk behind as a little reminder of the undignified experience. They became coated with my black clothes fibres which no amount of scrubbing till my skin was raw would remove. (I wear a lot of black; not because I am in mourning but I am under the illusion it makes me look slimmer).
I was still not persuaded all was well although the monitor was telling me otherwise, (my father died of a coronary as did his brothers, so I felt totally justified in being persistent). I was eventually permitted a treadmill test ‘to put my mind at rest’. Better than my heart being at rest I guess! Apparently I will live to see another day and have now been discharged.
On the way home we stopped for lunch in a pub which turned out to be devoid of customers, but for the village idiot in the corner who read the menu aloud to us as we entered. Nonetheless we had been told this pub was very good and so ordered despite the absence of any supporting evidence. The food when it arrived was, it has to be said, very nice. However the staff must have been on a Fawlty Towers obsequious sycophantic customer capturing workshop, because if they asked once ‘is everything OK with your meal?’ they must have asked a hundred times. Some peace and quiet to eat it would be good! Even the chef came out to ask if everything was OK. Customers are obviously a novelty in them there parts.
I recently found myself huddled under the inadequate protection of an umbrella whilst standing in the lashing rain, conducting a ceremony with my son, saying a few words to commemorate the passing of Georgie-the-chameleon-formerly-known-as-George (we were originally under the impression she was a he). She had been a devoted pet and Matt was not a little sad to see her go. As was I. The scene transported us back some 20 years to when we buried Saffie (she was a rat) and rudely reminded me of how the rest of the family were snorting and choking with barely controlled hysteria in the background as we did so. I was a bit worried we would dig her up as we laid this latest animal to rest, but at least this time we could grieve without any interruption or heckling. Matt was not a bit embarrassed to have found Georgie’s replacement before she was even cold. I was at pains to keep this element of the story from his public, only to discover that he had posted it all on Facebook anyway!
So, a warm welcome to Vince, a feisty little bugger with attitude, who thinks he is God’s Gift. He struts about his little house like he owns it, and will take you on if you get too close. He has a certain charm but halitosis that could kill. But then so would you if you ate live crickets for lunch I imagine.
In IT I am currently compiling a presentation to demonstrate my PowerPoint prowess. One of the compulsory inclusions is a video clip, and mine will be on Crystal Palace. Another compulsory inclusion is the automatic timing of slide changes, showing transition and animation (all terribly clever stuff) and when I rehearsed my timings, to my horror the video clip comes complete with a superimposed advert declaring ‘Thousands of lovely Chinese lady for pleasure you best’. I have no idea how to get rid of it and am desperately trying to find a link between Crystal Palace and Chinese ladies of the night. It’s not looking good!
There has been a bit of a bird theme running through my experiences of late. The first and most bizarre of which was courtesy of my son and his cronies. When the munchies struck after a nights drinking, they went to a kebab shop where their meal, if it can be so called, was served in one of those compressed polystyrene, jaundiced yellow coloured take away containers. Apparently there was a dead seagull in the road outside, and after consuming said kebabs, they stuffed the seagull into the empty container, beak and wing feathers protruding at jaunty angles in all directions, and with deadpan expression took it back into the shop and calmly declared: ‘Sorry mate, this isn’t cooked’. They then promptly fell about the place with uncontrollable mirth. By all accounts, Stavros was none too happy and threatened unmentionable retribution, but they were paralysed with laughter and unable to move.
We have crows nesting nearby who swoop down and attack Cyril-the-Squirrel at every opportunity. Poor Cyril can be seen flattening himself against the trunk in a squirrel like attempt at camouflage, but as soon as he moves a muscle the crows are on him. We think counselling is possibly his only hope now after this, and nearly falling to his death after his favourite tree was removed of its extremities.
There were ducks waddling around Warwick Uni when I went on an open day recently. They were very cute and apparently exude a calming influence. Not that I noticed. My timetable was a little erratic, with the result that I was over an hour ahead of schedule by early afternoon. So, being a smart, forward thinking student, I approached one of the yellow people, their phrase not mine; it refers to the colour of their T shirts so they stand out in a crowd. They also wear badges saying ‘Ask me’. So I did. Since I was only one in number, I wanted to sneak into an earlier lecture starting at 1 pm. Sure I can. So I took my place in their impressive tiered auditorium, got comfy, and waited the proceedings to start. Once it did, I quickly realised (not a lot gets past me), that I was in The Wrong Lecture! With a flash of genius inspiration, I grabbed my phone and feigned receipt of some tragic news, offered my apologies to the nine people I had to disturb whilst edging my way along the row, and made my way down the steps to the exit, mouthing an apology to the lecturer as I hastily left.
You may have noticed an absence of mother in law gems recently. This is entirely due to me not having been to see her for a couple of weeks or so. I have so much revision to do, I may have gone completely off the rails if confronted with one of her specials. I have heard through the grapevine that she wants a blind put up at the kitchen window because the bloke across the street parks near said window and ruins her view. (If I remember the view comprises a telegraph pole and a wheelie bin, but there is no accounting for taste). But the one comment she must get full credit for, is regarding the Eurovision contest when she said of the Azerbaijani entry ‘It’ll never take the place of music’.
Exams now loom, June 11th being the first of them. I must get a distinction in sociology and a foundation pass in GCSE maths to qualify. Previously getting a sociology distinction has been a pleasing outcome, but now it’s entirely necessary as is passing Maths, and if I don’t, I won’t meet their criteria and get to go to Warwick. I have my heart set on it so it’s a nerve wracking few weeks coming up.
Wish me luck guys.
Squeamish Sue
I was still not persuaded all was well although the monitor was telling me otherwise, (my father died of a coronary as did his brothers, so I felt totally justified in being persistent). I was eventually permitted a treadmill test ‘to put my mind at rest’. Better than my heart being at rest I guess! Apparently I will live to see another day and have now been discharged.
On the way home we stopped for lunch in a pub which turned out to be devoid of customers, but for the village idiot in the corner who read the menu aloud to us as we entered. Nonetheless we had been told this pub was very good and so ordered despite the absence of any supporting evidence. The food when it arrived was, it has to be said, very nice. However the staff must have been on a Fawlty Towers obsequious sycophantic customer capturing workshop, because if they asked once ‘is everything OK with your meal?’ they must have asked a hundred times. Some peace and quiet to eat it would be good! Even the chef came out to ask if everything was OK. Customers are obviously a novelty in them there parts.
I recently found myself huddled under the inadequate protection of an umbrella whilst standing in the lashing rain, conducting a ceremony with my son, saying a few words to commemorate the passing of Georgie-the-chameleon-formerly-known-as-George (we were originally under the impression she was a he). She had been a devoted pet and Matt was not a little sad to see her go. As was I. The scene transported us back some 20 years to when we buried Saffie (she was a rat) and rudely reminded me of how the rest of the family were snorting and choking with barely controlled hysteria in the background as we did so. I was a bit worried we would dig her up as we laid this latest animal to rest, but at least this time we could grieve without any interruption or heckling. Matt was not a bit embarrassed to have found Georgie’s replacement before she was even cold. I was at pains to keep this element of the story from his public, only to discover that he had posted it all on Facebook anyway!
So, a warm welcome to Vince, a feisty little bugger with attitude, who thinks he is God’s Gift. He struts about his little house like he owns it, and will take you on if you get too close. He has a certain charm but halitosis that could kill. But then so would you if you ate live crickets for lunch I imagine.
In IT I am currently compiling a presentation to demonstrate my PowerPoint prowess. One of the compulsory inclusions is a video clip, and mine will be on Crystal Palace. Another compulsory inclusion is the automatic timing of slide changes, showing transition and animation (all terribly clever stuff) and when I rehearsed my timings, to my horror the video clip comes complete with a superimposed advert declaring ‘Thousands of lovely Chinese lady for pleasure you best’. I have no idea how to get rid of it and am desperately trying to find a link between Crystal Palace and Chinese ladies of the night. It’s not looking good!
There has been a bit of a bird theme running through my experiences of late. The first and most bizarre of which was courtesy of my son and his cronies. When the munchies struck after a nights drinking, they went to a kebab shop where their meal, if it can be so called, was served in one of those compressed polystyrene, jaundiced yellow coloured take away containers. Apparently there was a dead seagull in the road outside, and after consuming said kebabs, they stuffed the seagull into the empty container, beak and wing feathers protruding at jaunty angles in all directions, and with deadpan expression took it back into the shop and calmly declared: ‘Sorry mate, this isn’t cooked’. They then promptly fell about the place with uncontrollable mirth. By all accounts, Stavros was none too happy and threatened unmentionable retribution, but they were paralysed with laughter and unable to move.
We have crows nesting nearby who swoop down and attack Cyril-the-Squirrel at every opportunity. Poor Cyril can be seen flattening himself against the trunk in a squirrel like attempt at camouflage, but as soon as he moves a muscle the crows are on him. We think counselling is possibly his only hope now after this, and nearly falling to his death after his favourite tree was removed of its extremities.
There were ducks waddling around Warwick Uni when I went on an open day recently. They were very cute and apparently exude a calming influence. Not that I noticed. My timetable was a little erratic, with the result that I was over an hour ahead of schedule by early afternoon. So, being a smart, forward thinking student, I approached one of the yellow people, their phrase not mine; it refers to the colour of their T shirts so they stand out in a crowd. They also wear badges saying ‘Ask me’. So I did. Since I was only one in number, I wanted to sneak into an earlier lecture starting at 1 pm. Sure I can. So I took my place in their impressive tiered auditorium, got comfy, and waited the proceedings to start. Once it did, I quickly realised (not a lot gets past me), that I was in The Wrong Lecture! With a flash of genius inspiration, I grabbed my phone and feigned receipt of some tragic news, offered my apologies to the nine people I had to disturb whilst edging my way along the row, and made my way down the steps to the exit, mouthing an apology to the lecturer as I hastily left.
You may have noticed an absence of mother in law gems recently. This is entirely due to me not having been to see her for a couple of weeks or so. I have so much revision to do, I may have gone completely off the rails if confronted with one of her specials. I have heard through the grapevine that she wants a blind put up at the kitchen window because the bloke across the street parks near said window and ruins her view. (If I remember the view comprises a telegraph pole and a wheelie bin, but there is no accounting for taste). But the one comment she must get full credit for, is regarding the Eurovision contest when she said of the Azerbaijani entry ‘It’ll never take the place of music’.
Exams now loom, June 11th being the first of them. I must get a distinction in sociology and a foundation pass in GCSE maths to qualify. Previously getting a sociology distinction has been a pleasing outcome, but now it’s entirely necessary as is passing Maths, and if I don’t, I won’t meet their criteria and get to go to Warwick. I have my heart set on it so it’s a nerve wracking few weeks coming up.
Wish me luck guys.
Squeamish Sue
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