tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-329989892024-03-13T11:53:55.582+00:00Chairwoman of the boredChairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-34011953343014042252008-01-03T16:52:00.000+00:002008-01-03T17:16:31.330+00:00All or NothingIt was Katy who inspired this post. <br /><br />In a comment on her blog, Everything is Electric (sorry, not clever enough to make a link), she mentions the late Chairman's friendship with the late Small Face, Stevie Marriott, and the good times she remembers playing with his children/step children when we visited him.<br /><br />One of these afore-mentioned Happy Memories concern his habit of staggering in to the room where the children were playing, and telling them all to 'Fuck off' when things became too rowdy. In fact the first time this happened, Katy rose to her 10 year old feet and said 'We're not allowed to use the F word Mr. Marriott'.<br /><br />I know this happened because 'The Midget'. Marriott's own name for himself, then staggered into the kitchen, and told me. We were alone in the room at the time, and when the hilarity had subsided, he turned to me and said 'How about coming upstairs for a fuck?'. I was a bit surprised, apart from the fact that I had thought that I was past the date when former superstars propositioned me, the Chairman and Mrs Marriott were both only a stone's throw away. <br /><br />But still, you never want to insult your husband's friends do you, even when they're trying to have their way with you? He might have thought he was being polite. So I went for the soft option, no pun intended. 'You should have asked me years ago' I said 'When I was still young and lovely, and you were still rich and famous'. That appeared to save face on both sides.<br /><br />I never did tell the Chairman.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-13545679676914850082007-12-24T14:10:00.000+00:002007-12-24T14:44:36.886+00:00You Better Watch OutYup. Santa Claus. or at least his nominated substitute, is indeed visiting North London shortly.<br /><br />I wish you all a happy and peaceful Christmas,and a wonderful healthy and trouble-free 2008.<br /><br />Thanks to all of who supported me through my long, and relatively ineffectual sojourn in hospital, and to all who've visited this occasional blog, and in particular the regular commentators.<br /><br />And the contents of the envelope in my handbag that I won't let Katy see is...Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-46110566165234992812007-12-20T16:48:00.000+00:002007-12-20T17:02:27.453+00:00And Here It Is ...Merry Christmas, of course, but what is here <i>today</i> is <b>my new car</b>.<br /><br />It's sitting outside my house! Katy says it's so high-tec she doesn't know why she had to take a driving test in the first place, and Dmitri, who usually despises everything that doesn't have a BMW or VW badge on it called it 'sophisticated'.<br /><br />So, over the weekend, hopefully, I will take it for a little drive round the back streets of North London, and start to regain a little of my lost independence.<br /><br />Tomorrow, major present wrapping will take place, and that will include what's in the envelope in my handbag that I will neither discuss with, nor show to Katy.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-39190995866932454602007-12-07T07:22:00.000+00:002007-12-07T07:55:24.362+00:00No Money Down`I know. And I'm sorry.<br /><br />I did promise to tell the story of my long incarceration in Stalag NHS, but there is an Official Complaint in the offing, and, therefore, the whole thing is currently <i>sub judice</i>. And as I am still in the chair, and waiting to go into another NHS establishment for a prolonged stay in the new year, I am somewhat pissed off.<br /><br />But I am getting (all digits crossed) a <i>NEW CAR</i>, courtesy of Motability, because I am 'in receipt of the Higher Rate Mobility Component' part of my Disabled Living Allowance. This is incredibly exciting. It is a brand new Citroen Grand C4 Picasso. I am having this model because it will take my huge knees as the controls are on the steering wheel and there is no central console, and because it is automatic, and I will only have to use one foot, I will be able to drive myself again.<br /><br />I had no idea that I was entitled to this, until the Motability people contacted me, and have gee'd me up, until I made the phone call, and literally put the wheels in motion.<br /><br />Anyway, a nice man from Citroen brought one for me to look at yesterday, inspected my driving licence, Katy's driving licence, my papers from the DWP and my telephone bill, gave me a couple of brochures and after trying unsuccessfully to coax La Fluffita from the sofa, left. I perused the brochures, telephoned his boss, and, hopefully, early next week will hear when the Chairmobile will arrive.<br /><br /><br />Now, I know I have called this post 'No Money Down', but because of the model I have chosen (every available extra except Satnav - come on, I can (a) read a map and (b) built in Satnav is about £1,400 extra. Yes, you did read it correctly), I do actually have to make a modest financial contribution, and by the way, lose the Mobility Component of my DLA, but it will give me some independence back, even if, for the moment I will still need someone with me, it will still be me behind the wheel!Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-23593662579842008482007-10-06T09:17:00.000+01:002007-10-06T09:22:44.077+01:00Spidey News from NewtoniaWell the arachnid welcoming committee called this morning.<br /><br />My eight legged nemesis crawled over the arm of my magic chair at approximately 7.30 this morning. My feeble screams eventually brought Katy, spider catcher in hand to my rescue. Will post about hospital experiences when shaking has stopped.<br /><br />To paraphrase Travis, why do they always walk on me?...Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-25445003410011553472007-10-04T19:22:00.000+01:002007-10-04T19:30:12.219+01:00And I'm Home....Starting shortly, my NHS adventures, a series to be entitled "The Chair at Poo Corner".<br /><br />Watch this space.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-17422408868222519432007-07-23T06:29:00.000+01:002007-07-23T06:37:49.842+01:00Oh Fare Thee Well, I Must Be GoneAnd leave you for a while.<br /><br />Actually, it appears that I've already left you for a while, but that was sheer apathy, lethargy, and misery.<br /><br />Well, today I am off to the hospital for a 5 to 8 weeks sojourn, it's such a long time that it's almost Biblical.<br /><br />When I come back, if all has gone according to plan, I hope to be not so much of a Chair woman, and not so bored.<br /><br />I'm not anticipating surgery, just a long drawn out medical procedure.<br /><br />If I can connect to the net, then I will get Katy to bring my laptop in, and hopefully post occasionally, but that is in the lap of gods.<br /><br />Toodle pip!Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-47018555870028676492007-05-16T13:13:00.000+01:002007-05-16T14:39:04.861+01:00Voices From the PastThe other day, I followed a chain of comments from a post on another blog, the way one does, and I thought, from the comment, that I'd found a like minded person. As it happens, I was incorrect, but I was interested to find that this blogger (who's name I can't remember, nor how and where I found him) named 'Stimmung' by Karlheinz Stockhausen as one of his favourite pieces of music.<br /><br />Now, Herr Stockhausen, for the odd one amongst you unfamiliar with his work, has perpetrated one of the 20th Century's greatest frauds upon the the cognisanti of classical music. He has convinced a whole group of people that random chords played discordantly, or voices intoning sounds ('mwh mwh mww mwh mwh, kommittt') for a very long period of time is great music. Or that is what I was given to understand when I was first introduced to it.<br /><br />When the Chairman and I were first married, we were unable to get a flat that we could both like and afford in North London, and were forced to move south of the river for a couple of years. At that time, I was working in advertising, and the Chairman was auditioning for various rock 'n' roll bands. At one audition, hearing where he lived, another audionee said to him, 'Do you know Dudley Road?'. The Chairman was astonished, it was the road we lived in. 'Well, you must know my friend Sergei then. He's a ballet dancer, and he lives with his girlfriend and toddler at number 56'. More astonishment took place. Although we didn't know Sergei and/or his family, we lived virtually opposite him at number 53.<br /><br />That evening, there was a knock on the door, and a tall, slim young man with dark, wavy, almost waist length hair, wearing bright orange 'loons' (extremely bell-bottomed trousers) and white pumps, stood on the step. <br /><br />It was the mysterious Sergei. He was thrilled to find another artiste living in this very 'straight' suburban road in South West London, and invited us to cross the road and meet his family. Of course, we went. All our friends were in Hampstead and Kensington, and it would be great to meet some like minded people out in the boon-docks.<br /><br />His girlfriend, Siobhan, was also wearing bright orange loons, and their 2 year old daughter, Yasmin, was precociously cute. The house was lit by candles, there was incense burning, and strange sounds were eminating from the stereo. <br /><br />'What's that music, Man?' asked the Chairman. 'It's 'Stimmung' by Stockhausen.' piped Yasmin, 'It's my favourite music'. Well, it may have been her favourite music, but to me, pleb that I am, it was just boring. But I knew the rule. At no time must one appear uncool. So I assumed the position. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, head nodding slowly. And I 'enjoyed' the piece.<br /><br />The Chairman, however, was riveted, and I had to endure Stockhausen, not to mention the Chairman's own 'modern' compositions for some time.<br /><br />About 18 months later, I came home from work to find an almost overwrought Chairman waiting for me. He had <i>wonderful</i> news. Not only was there going to be a live performance of 'Stimmung' at the Roundhouse at Chalk Farm, but he had bought tickets for us to go and see it. 'Are we all going?' I asked. I had discovered that Siobhan was a kindred spirit. She too hated Stockhausen and was cravenly pretending she loved it so as not to appear uncool. So if we all went, it would be OK, because we'd be able to giggle about it later. But no, it was just us. That meant that I would have to look rapt for 1 1/2 hours (and no laughing or yawning).<br /><br />Anyway, we went. And I must confess that live, it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Six people sitting on the floor with microphones and torches making weird, but strangely harmonic noises.<br /><br />On the drive home, we made stimmung-like noises in the car. Then the Chairman had an idea. We'd go straight to Sergei and Siobhan's, and start doing our own version on their doorstep, to surprise them when they opened the door.<br /><br />We got out the car, walked up the path, and stood on the doorstep. 'Mwh mwh mwh mwh mwh' I sung 'Ycon ycon ycon ycon' went the Chairman. We knocked on the door. Footsteps in the hall, the door started to open, we increased the decibels. '<b>'Mwh mwh mwh mwh mwh'. 'Ycon ycon ycon ycon'</b>. The door opened, and standing in the doorway was their 75 year old stern Russian landlord, Mickail Alexandervich.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-21651865381340662872007-03-22T16:25:00.000+00:002007-03-22T17:15:29.396+00:00The Electric Unkoolaid Acid TestIt has to be admitted, that in my youth, I have been known to indulge in what the press used to euphemistically call 'certain substances'. It also has to be admitted that I had no great revelations, and that once I'd stopped indulging, I didn't miss them.<br /><br />The much missed Chairman, however, indulged almost until the minute of his departure from this mortal coil, and his life genuinely appeared enhanced by them. Admittedly for the last 20 years of his life, this had been restriced to what are known as Class C drugs, but earlier he had been quite enthusiastic about the use of hallucenogenics.<br /><br />Sometime in 1969, before we'd met, and when he had only been in London a very short time, he met up with other friends from the North West, and was very excited to learn that one of them had 'scored some acid'.<br /><br />Now, this was a first for all of them, and I suppose there must have been some trepidation mixed with the curiosity as they swallowed their LSD impregnated squares of blotting paper, but swallow them they did, and then they wandered around Central London, waiting for something to happen.<br /><br />I don't know how, but then probably neither did they, but they found themselves on the Victoria Line bound for Walthamstow, a place that not only had none of them visited previously, but they had never heard of either. Anyway, sometime around midnight they found themselves wandering down a street with early Edwardian terraced houses on one side, and a park on the other. In those days, Swinging London had not yet reached the outer suburbs, and a crowd of noisy, long haired northerners wearing brightly coloured kaftans and beads were bound to attract attention.<br /><br />It wasn't long before the attention they attracted was of the uniformed and helmeted variety. A dark van drew up next to them, and several burly officers tumbled out, searched them and began to ask them questions. When they'd established that nobody was in possession of 'certain substances' - mainly because they'd already consumed them - they tried to establish what they were doing wandering in E17 in the middle of the night. One of the quickest witted of them said they'd been visiting someone in a house in the road. 'Which road?' asked PC number 1. 'This one' another bright spark added 'What's it called?' asked PC number 2. Nobody knew. 'OK' said number 1, 'What number is it?' 'We came back with our mate who lives there' said bright spark. 'OK then', said Number 2 'Which house is it then?'. At which point they all helpfully pointed at different houses in different directions.<br /><br />I think the Police must have realised that though they were under the influence of a substance of an hallucinogenic nature, they weren't actually committing any offences, but they went through the motions of asking for their names and addresses, and asking for proof of identity. Most of them did in fact have driving licences or other proofs of identity on them except for one chap. 'So how can you prove who you are?' asked they by now bored young policeman. There was what seemed like a long pause, but it was probably only a couple of seconds.<br /><br />'Look at me, Man' said the Chairman's friend 'That's who I am'.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-88496447556767952202007-03-10T11:37:00.000+00:002007-03-10T12:34:14.620+00:00Secrets and LiesI don't think I'd realised how bad it had actually become. I knew that somewhere in N W London The Tezter had been a little over exuberant recently, but I hadn't realised exactly how over exuberant that had been.<br /><br />But there he was, at 9 in the morning, standing on the threshold of my sitting room, screaming excitedly at Dani, my Romanian cleaner 'Tell me about him! Tell me about Prince Vlad Dracul! Tell me about the saviour of Europe!'. And he was wearing the dog lead.<br /><br />The whole trademark manic-depressive-chic look was in evidence; the religious medals, the black t-shirt worn inside out, the waistcoat, the dog lead worn in the fashion of a Mexican bandelero, and I noticed a new addition to the ensemble - a large black and silver rosary draped around his neck. I also noticed how large and sparkley his eyes appeared behind his spectacles. Almost maniacal one could say.<br /><br />Dani grinned appeasingly at him, and said that she wasn't very good at history, but she could ask her serious-Romanian-man husband. 'BUT YOU MUST KNOW!!' he shouted as he bounced up and down on the spot 'HE'S YOUR NATIONAL HERO!! THE SAVIOUR OF EUROPE!!'.<br /><br />I mouthed 'You may as well go now' at poor Dani, while I tried to encourage The Tezter to leave, or sit down, or anything. She managed to sidle out unnoticed, while The Tezter decided to continue the conversation in cod German. This consisted of him speaking in one of those 'Ve haf vays of making you tork' accents so beloved of British and American film actors after WW2. I let him ramble on a bit.<br /><br />'Where's Dmitri?' he suddenly roared. He rushed to the bottom of the stairs. 'Dimitri where are you, you idle ----er?'. Silence. The sensible Dmitri had probably hidden under the duvet. I heard The Tezter clumping up the stairs. 'Dmitri! Get out of bed you blank!'. 'You're the blank' came a muffled voice from the small bedroom. The Tezter then stood outside Dmitri's room shouting at him in cod French. Imagine a poor imitation of Gerard Depardieu in 'Green Card' and you'll be on the right path. There was no further response. Dmitri had wisely gone to ground.<br /><br />Clump, clump, clump, clump. And he was back. There was some desultory chat about the esteemed Prince Vlad, ravening hordes etc., and I was able to persuade him to leave.<br /><br />I heard the front door open. I didn't hear it close. I heard breathing. The Tezter was standing beside me again. 'There's something I must tell you' he said 'Something nobody else knows'. I waited with baited breath. 'The people who brought me up. They weren't my real parents.' he paused, time passed. He took a deep breath, 'My real parents' another pause 'Were' and yet another 'Adolph Hitler and his secretary Traudle Junge'.<br /><br />And then he was gone.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-49391610202671689812007-03-08T07:34:00.000+00:002007-03-08T08:33:34.484+00:00A Gift for my MotherToday is my mother's birthday. <br /><br />Of course it isn't really, as she died more than eight years ago, it's actually the anniversary of my mother's birthday. I wonder if the French would call it the 'anniversaire de la anniversaire'. <br /><br />Still, this is the day when I tried to please her more than other days. Generally I had mixed success.<br /><br />My mother was a notoriously difficult receivee. The fact that she had expressed a liking for, or a desire to have certain items in the recent past did not mean that she actually wanted them, so my father and I spent weeks trying to work out what she would actually like to own.<br /><br />She was a small, immaculately groomed lady. She had weighed 7 stone 4 lbs (102 lbs) when she got married, and pretty much the same when she died, although most of her later years saw her at 8 stone 2 lbs (114 lbs), she said she was 5ft 3ins, but became smaller. Nobody was EVER allowed to see her without lipstick. This was such a fetish, that when my cousins went to visit her during her final hours in hospital, when she was unconcious, one of them said that she had to leave the room immediately as 'Auntie would never forgive me for seeing her without lipstick'.<br /><br /> As a young woman in the '30s, she had been a showroom model (or mannequin as they then said), modelling costumes (suits) and mantels (coats) for shop buyers, and she 'modelled' every item she wore for the rest of her life. Her clothes weren't necessarily expensive, but they always looked as thought they were. In her latter years she took to wearing her silver hair in an immaculte and sophisticated French pleat, and, because of an eye condition, dark glasses indoors and out. She turned what would have been a trial to most people into a 'look'. She had chic.<br /><br />Anyway, back to the gift giving. A gift for my mother should combine the following ingredients. It should be, useful, durable, fashionable, and, unexpected. No problem there. In the past I had bought her bijoux crystal ware from Libertys, gloves from Fenwicks, and new and exciting kitchen equipment from John Lewis. None of these had been a resounding success.<br /><br />So eventually I hit upon what I suppose was my own holy trinity. Perfume, chocolates, and a plant (she considered flowers to be a disappointment as they faded too soon). I will digress for a minute to tell you a little more about her. She didn't like alcohol and she had a small appetite. Her idea of a large meal was a smoked salmon sandwich on wholemeal bread (crusts removed), 6 black olives, and 2 or 3 dark chocolates. So, her birthday gift would consist of a bottle of perfume, something 30s and powdery like Coty L'aimant, or more sophisticated like Madame Rochas, a box of dark, dark chocolates, and a shiny, leafy, pot plant.<br /><br />Anyway, today her present consists of the mixed memories we all have of those who have gone ahead.<br /><br />So, happy birthday, mum, with love from me and Katy.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-21407413835515766782007-02-27T20:44:00.000+00:002007-02-27T20:57:56.674+00:00Tumbling TumbleweedI'm afraid that the tumbleweed is still blowing across my brain.<br /><br />There really isn't a lot to talk about just now.<br /><br />I suppose I could go on at length about my trials with the NHS, but that just tends to be tedious. Suffice to say I have (what appears to be) a non-life threatening condition that could be managed but without management is literally crippling. There is one (count it, one) treatment centre in London, if not the UK. There are centres in Europe. To send me for treatment at one of these European centres for about one month would cost in the region of £10,000. My local health authority is highly unlikely to fund this. Meanwhile I get around £5,000 a year in disability benefits. My father lived to 76, my mother to 86, and my grandfather to 98. My other grandparents, aunts and uncles all died within these parameters. I am 61. Do the maths.<br /><br />So, apart from that, life continues apace. I wake, I watch television, I surf the net, I post on other peoples blogs, I do Sudoku, I read.<br /><br />So, this time, I just popped in to say 'Hello'. and I will try to be less morose next time.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1169310746629218902007-01-20T16:27:00.000+00:002007-01-20T16:32:26.646+00:00Tagged 2 - The SequelAs I haven't actually got a clue who reads me, apart from my kind commenters, I am inviting anyone who cares to to tell us five things that we didn't know about them.<br /><br />To make this even more exciting, you have a choice of telling us here, in my comments box, or on your own blog, just, please, direct us to it.<br /><br />I now sit back in eager anticipation!Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1168889306936654042007-01-15T18:57:00.000+00:002007-01-15T19:29:38.580+00:00Tagged!Oh dear, my daughter has tagged me.<br /><br />Five things you don't know about me.<br /><br />My much missed Scottie dog was a gift from the late Stevie Marriott of the iconic 60s band The Small Faces.<br /><br />I am addicted to Extreme Makeover, the plastic surgery television show.<br /><br />I adore elephants.<br /><br />If Escargots are on the menu, I find them hard to resist.<br /><br />When I was 5, Annette Roberts locked me in the toilet at school and nobody noticed I was missing till hometime, when my mother heard me screaming, and released me.<br /><br />I will be back to tag 5 people later!Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1167060616268642972006-12-25T15:17:00.000+00:002006-12-25T15:30:16.280+00:00Santa Claus Was Coming to TownYesterday afternoon I received a call from my ward, Dmitri (aka Little Brother). "Can diabetics have chocolates?" "Only if they're special chocolates for diabetics." "What can I get for Eleanor (his stepmother) then?" "Dmitri, Eleanor isn't diabetic, she's epileptic." "But I've already bought them." "Well if you've already bought them.."<br /><br />Katy's voice from the kitchen "Cross out diabetic, and write in epileptic!".<br /><br />And may all your Christmases be .......<br /><br />Ho Ho Ho to anyone bored enough to be reading this today.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1166875127004957042006-12-23T11:53:00.000+00:002006-12-23T11:58:47.020+00:00Have Yourselves a Merry LittleYule!<br /><br />Have a wonderful Yule. It's a festival that can be shared by believers and non-believers of every sphere.<br /><br />May the Lord of Mis-rule bring fun and happiness to your homes.<br /><br />And if nothing inspires me to post again before January,<br /><br />Happy New Year to All!Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1165230940684760952006-12-04T11:06:00.000+00:002006-12-04T11:15:40.696+00:00A Rush of Blood to the HeadYesterday, over at Pickled Politics, I had what the Chairman used to call A Rush of Blood to the Head. <br /><br />I was almost indiscreet.<br /><br />I revealed more about myself and my life than I normally do. I also promised more.<br /><br />I am not about to renege, but I am going to give some thought to what I say and how to say it, so not a great deal today.<br /><br />As a teaser however, I will say that just before they went on stage at Live Aid, an over-excited Freddie Mercury was heard to offer a bj to the first man to drop his trousers.<br /><br />And as someone who hasn't taken anything recreational for over 20 years (when I stubbed out my last Gitane, it was the last non-prescribed drug I took), I had my first spliff with a pre-Led Zep Pagey in the back of a Transit on the way to a gig. <br /><br />More tomorrow.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1162134096374152502006-10-29T14:47:00.000+00:002006-10-29T18:45:40.023+00:00Mother of All Government Think TanksFor years I have been irritated (flattered, but irritated) by my friends asking me for advice. There have been several reasons for this: I am bothered by the responsibility; it gave my husband an opportunity to poke fun at my friends (at one stage a certain friend of mine had a disorder of the nether regions, the details of which she regaled me with at length. Every time the phone rang and it was she, said husband would say 'Oh Christ, it's the daily c--- check'); and the phone calls invariably came whilst I was doing something really important like watching 'Friends'.<br /><br />Since I have been confined to the chair, however, I have, sometimes, welcomed the diversion. Now that there is nobody to laugh at the conversation, and as I have grown in what could be termed either confidence, or more accurately, foolhardiness, I have dispensed erudite half-baked off the wall wisdom at length over the telecommunications network.<br /><br />How pride cometh before a fall.<br /><br />I don't know whether this is a precursor to senility, or whether it is time to bow out gracefully, but I just looked at the comments on my daughter's blog (Everything is Electric. Sorry, don't have the technical know-how to link to it), and one of her commenters has described her as being better than a government think tank.<br /><br />Oracle to Cassandra in one smooth move.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1159638283894270222006-09-30T17:08:00.000+01:002006-09-30T18:46:07.500+01:00Chickening OutBack in 1988 the UK property market went into hyperdrive. For those unfamiliar with the scenario, tax laws regarding mortgages were changing, and if a mortgage hadn't been arranged by August of that year, one would be at a disadvantage. This meant that everyone who didn't have a property was desperate to buy one, and everyone who had one, wanted a more expensive one. Anyway, the price of property rocketed, and there weren't enough properties to meet the demand, and new developments started springing up everywhere.<br /><br />It was during this highly- charged period that the first letter arrived. It was from an Estate Agent (Realtor), to cut a long story short, he suggested that he held a meeting with all the property owners on our block, there were 16 of us, with a view to buying all our properties, at a premium, pulling them down, and putting up a large block of flats. They gave us the figure their client was prepared to pay. and told us to divide it among themselves. Our block was unusual in as much as the houses weren't uniform, they'd gone up at different times. There were big houses with fairly big gardens (ours), a big house with a big garden, medium houses with medium gardens, and smallish houses with big gardens. Sort it out amongst ourselves, you've got to be joking. Everybody agreed that the big house with the big garden should get the most, but apart from that, everybody thought their house, or at least their type of house, was entitled to more than the other types. Things were getting a little fraught, when Estate Agent 2's letter arrived. He too wanted to have a meeting with all of us. So we met with him. The developer he was representing was extremely well-known, reputable, and offering considerably more money than the first people. All things being equal, and all people being greedy, we unanimously agreed to go with number 2. They appeared altogether more serious. One of their directors came to meet with us, I remember noticing that he was wearing Gucci loafers, he put the deal to us, he mentioned the total figure, and then said that he would make individual offers to each householder, from that amount. He stood up, and we filed past him. It was like the receiving line at a wedding in reverse. We shook his hand, and he gave us each a white envelope with our names on it.<br /><br />I would like you to imagine what went on afterwards. I'll give you a brief rundown of the occupants of the houses, there was one Chinese family, five British/Jewish, two Indian/Jewish, one Indian/Hindu, one Indian/Muslim and six indigenous British. We didn't have Bhutros Bhutros Galli, but, goodness, we needed him. We quickly formed splinter groups. Our alliances were diverse. They weren't split along ethnic lines, nor was the divide house-size related. All I know is that there were meetings going on in all of the houses, all of the time. At least that's how it seemed. During that time, the group our house was in actually remained constant. There was the Chairman and I (Large house fairly large garden), our best friends and near neighbours Colin and Lizzie (large house very large garden), elderly market traders Frank and Eva and retired solicitor Laurence (medium houses medium gardens). We considered ourselves to be the pragmatic ones, who were prepared to compromise to let the deal go through. The offer was so good, that we agreed amongst ourselves that if the money was divided equally between all houses, it would still be a fantastic offer. The others weren't so agreeable. People started arguing in the street. One hot summers day, I had the pleasure of seeing two Jewish men in their late sixties pushing and swearing at each other outside my house. It was a time of extreme tension. It seemed to me nobody slept for weeks. People would be knocking on peoples doors at all hours of the day and night. Plans were hatched and discarded, suggestions were made and rejected. Frankly it was hell.<br /><br />And then, one Saturday morning, while the plotting went on around me, I opened the front door. I have always been an early riser, and before the supermarkets opened 24 hours a day (and obviously, before the chair), I liked to be at the supermarket when it opened at 8 am. Anyway, I opened the front door, and there, on the doormat, were a pair of crossed chicken feet. This both surprised and baffled me. Now I must confess that I have always been a bit squeamish about chicken feet when they were not actually attached to a living chicken. My grandmother always included them in her chicken soup. and I hated to see them bobbing away in the pan next to the kneidlach (matzo balls) and carrots. So when I saw them outside my house, I was, frankly, disgusted. I woke up the Chairman, and dragged him to the door to inspect them. He was also baffled (actually, he spent a lot of time being baffled, apparently it's a Newtonian trait), and phoned Colin. Colin came up the road, and we all stood and looked at the feet. 'Isn't this some sort of Jewish warning?', said Colin. He and the Chairman looked at me expectantly. I was the Jewish one, but I didn't know. I had always lived in North West London, not in the East End or the Shteitl in Poland. These things were as alien to me as to them. So I consulted the oracle, or Mum, as I called her. She cast her mind back to her childhood, and decided that Colin might be right.<br /><br />We sat and drank coffee, and pondered (Tesco would have to wait). Who could it be? The obvious culprit was the Estate Agent who was (a) fed up with the time we were taking to arrive at a solution and (b) Jewish. As I was a bit of a mover and shaker in the deal, being the only person who was talking to everyone all the time, he obviously thought it was time to give the protaganists a proverbial kick in the rear. Then the Chairman and Colin went to have a further look on the front step, and discovered that that the chicken feet had been wrapped in an old utility bill from a flat a couple of streets away. <br /><br />They decided to investigate.<br /><br />I want you to imagine two broad, youngish men over six feet tall, with beards and sunglasses. Off they went to the block of flats a couple of streets away, where they rifled through the communal rubbish bins for signs of chicken innards or carcases. Now this was a bit of a no-brainer, for this was a very Jewish block, on a Saturday morning, where most people had eaten chicken the night before.<br /><br />So they knocked on the door of the flat where the utility bill had been sent.<br /><br />At this point I would like to remind you that we were all demented.<br /><br />A small Jewish woman looked through the peephole. She could see two large men with beards and sunglasses. She didn't open the door. 'Yes?' she said 'Can I help you?'. ' We're investigating an incident of intimidation by chicken feet' said Colin. 'Are you the police' asked the small Jewish woman. 'No' said Colin. 'Well then' she said, 'Who are you?' they looked at each other, got out their Visa cards, and solemnly passed them under the door.<br /><br />Three weeks later, the property market nose-dived, and the deal fell through.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1158929369416658182006-09-22T13:05:00.000+01:002006-09-22T13:49:29.446+01:00Occupational HazardI really have no intention of turning this into a medical- related blog, but I have been concerned with medical matters over the past couple of weeks.<br /><br />Now that I am getting active treatment for my condition, it's all systems go on the medical front. There's physiotherapy, exercise, minor weight training, regular visits to the Consultant, and of course the Special Compression Stockings made to measure somewhere in Germany. Added to all of this, may I introduce, Occupational Therapy.<br /><br />It's a strange thing. I have struggled, and Katy has struggled with me (with mini accompanying struggles from Little Brother), virtually unaided by any official medical agency, apart of course, for my heroic GP, who has indeed been a brick, and almost as demented as the rest of us, for 3 years. Now that there is an extremely small glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, all this help has miraculously appeared. <br /><br />This week brought a visit from the Occupational Therapist.<br /><br />I had already had a telephone interview with the Duty OT last week, where I had supplied all my personal and medical details, so that there would be no forms to fill in when she arrived, she would just make an assessment as to what the Local Authority could do to help me around the house. So basically, I will now be getting help as I become more mobile, but when I was getting less mobile every day, there was no help. <br /><br />But as usual, I digress. I had asked The Tezter and his LSW to be here at the same time as the OT, as I am not keen on turning my house into 'Holby City', and wanted someone else to hear her suggestions, and to discuss them after she'd left. Anyway, true to form, they arrived about 2 minutes before the OT, and I shunted them off with Little Brother into the dining rooom, so that I could initially have a brief private conversation with her. Little Brother, who has a mild Autistic Spectrum Disorder, really communicates with The Tezter despite the 35 years age difference, but their friendship is somewhat bizarre, and much of their communication consists of The Tezter lecturing Little Brother on the exploits of various SS Panzer Divisions in WW2, or them calling each other lewd names amongst much raucous giggling. <br /><br />Well, I, and the extremely proper young lady from The Local Authority discussed my 'condition', while from the dining room, I could hear whispers of 'You're a ----', 'No, you're a ----', followed by muffled male laughter, and exasperated sighs from the LSW. Then I called The Tezter in while we discussed what could be done for me, a chairlift and a leglift (means tested) so that I could go to bed again, but not before April as the Local Authority has no money until then, or I could have them fitted now, at my own expense, and be re-imbursed in the next financial year, if I was entitled to a grant. And that was that.<br /><br />Or rather, it wasn't. Having been with me for the best part of an hour, she said that there were a couple of things she needed to know, and then she proceeded to ask me all the questions I'd answered previously over the phone, And then some. I put my hands above my head, I wiggled my toes, I answered questions about my previous illnesses (none), stays in hospital (childbirth), incontinence (no), and washing ability (Look at me. I'm clean!). Then she asked me if I knew my date of birth, the same one I'd given her 5 minutes previously, and who the Prime Minister is.<br /><br />I turned my head extremely slowly, and fixed her with what best may be described as an icy stare. She stood up 'Well, that'll be all thank you Mrs. Newton.' <br /><br />Indeed.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1158145066599451452006-09-13T11:11:00.000+01:002006-09-13T11:57:46.676+01:00Non ERLists are extremely popular these days. We have lists of the best performing schools and hospitals, least/most expensive towns to buy a house in the UK, smallest/largest immigrant populations in the UK, best/worst rubbish collection. Frankly, the list of lists seems endless.<br /><br />A list that has not yet been compiled, probably because it's a minority interest, is a list of The Best Public Places to Get a Large Wheelchair. Here is my list:<br /><br />1) JFK Airport, NY, NY<br />2) London Heathrow Airport<br />3) London Stanstead Airport<br /><br />Here is my list of The Worst Public Places to Get a Large Wheelchair:<br /><br />A Certain World Famous Teaching Hospital In North West London<br /><br />Let me digress. I have a medical condition called Lymphodoema. for me, this means that my knees are extremely swollen, and I can't walk very far. this also means that, together, my knees are bigger than my body. So, although my bottom fits comfortably into a standard wheel chair, my legs are over the wheels, and the chair cannot move. I am receiving excellent medical attention at a Certain World Famous Teaching Hospital In North West London, and I have to attend not only my Consultant's (all bow down and worship him. He is not only clever and charming, but also gorgeous) clinic, but also Physiotherapy. Now, Katy usually takes me to my Consultant's appointments, as they are only about once every six weeks, but I have to attend Physio rather more often. As Katy has a Very Important Job, and is often Very Busy Indeed, alternative arrangements have to be made.<br /><br />The CWFTHinNWL has a service where ambulances, with attendants, more like coaches actually, who will collect raddled old cripples like myself from their homes, wheel them to the vehicle in a wheelchair, deposit them at the appropriate clinic, collect them after their appointments, and drop them home again afterwards. It was decided that that was the road which I would travel. Arrangements were made, and a note was placed on my file to tell transport that I needed the large wheelchair. We all knew it existed, because I was sitting in it in the CWFTHinNWL as the arrangements were being made. It was also suggested that I telephone Transport the day previous to the appointment to remind them about the chair. Which I did. I was assured that they knew everything, and that I was to be ready at 11.30am. <br /><br />Do you remember the story of the Three Little Pigs, and how they got up earlier and earlier to beat the Big Bad Wolf? This was obviously the premis on which the Transport service works, for they arrived at 9.30am. Anyway, they agreed to wait while I got ready, a long and tedious process, but eventually, ready I was, and the smiling attendant came in with THE STANDARD WHEELCHAIR. Of course, this was no good to woman nor beast, so he phoned his Despatcher, and I phoned my Physiotherapist, who changed the appointment for another day, and I put my feet back up, and though a little put out, thought no more of it.<br /><br />The next day the Physiotherapist telephoned me. Transport had told her that the CWFTHinNWL didn't have a large wheelchair. This was ridiculous for 2 reasons, firstly the hospital sees people my size and larger all the time, I have seen them there. I have also seen some of them in wheelchairs. Secondly, as mentioned earlier, I have, myself, sat, and been seen sitting, in the large wheelchair. More to-ing and fro-ing continued, until eventually Transport came up with this solution. It went like this, 'If we can find the large wheelchair, we will put it on an ambulance, but we can't guarantee that the ambulance that goes to the Chairwoman's house, will be the one with the large wheelchair on it'.<br /><br />I have made alternative arrangements. My friend's husband comes here early in the morning,<br />he then switches to my car, drives me and my mobility scooter to the CWFTHinNWL, I then switch from car to scooter and zoom (!!) off to my appointment with a cheery wave, and at lunchtime he collects me and we reverse the procedure. It may be a little clumsy, but it works.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1157111525745716352006-09-01T12:21:00.000+01:002006-09-01T12:59:31.356+01:00The North West London Chainsaw MassacreMost of the time The Tezter could pass as almost normal. There are his little eccentricities, the way he always wears his t-shirts inside out, the way he stands with his hands turned back to front, the fact that he always paints the frames of his glasses with blackboard paint, and his obsession with the Waffen SS. Little things that just hint that what you see isn't exactly what you're going to get.<br /><br />There are, however, other 'special' times, for The Tezter is bi-polar, not a phrase he likes. He prefers the older 'manic depressive', as indeed he should, because when The Tezter is 'up', manic hardly starts to describe his personality. Apart from the drinking and ranting, there's the cleaning and bathing, and of course the wearing of the Special Clothes. When he's being manic, The Tezter dresses in black. Black trousers, black shirt, black waistcoat, his special religious medals (he's a product of a strict RC education and upbringing), and slung across his chest, like a Mexican bandit's cartridge belt, a dog's lead.<br /><br />To go with the clothes, there is, of course, the bizarre behaviour. There are many stories I could tell, but this one, I think is my favourite. The Tezter and his long suffering wife, henceforth known as The LSW live in area that has residents' parking. They have such a permit (£90 per annum and cheap at twice the price), which has to be regulalrly renewed. One time, the renewal time came during one of his episodes, and they forgot to renew the permit. Well, we all know what Parking Attendants are like, and this one was waiting outside Tezter Towers as the controlled hour arrived, and quick as a flash, stuck a ticket on his car. And when The LSW went to take the dog for a walk, there it was, waiting for her to discover it.<br /><br />When she returned from the walk, to find him dressed in his Special Clothes, and washing everything in sight, she foolishly mentioned it to him. Now The Tezter does battle with authority at the best of times, but when he's having an episode, the battling takes on a status that could best be described as monumental. The Local Authority obviously had to be punished, and he was the man for the job. He went in search of his chainsaw. The LSW, obviously in fear that the NW London Chainsaw Massacre was about to take place phoned Katy for some legal advice. While she was advising her, she heard The LSW cry 'Oh no!!' followed by a distant buzzing sound. 'What's happened?', shouted Katy. There was no reply. Then Katy heard the buzzing getting louder. 'Oh Jesus! You haven't!' she heard The LSW exclaim. The buzzing sound had increased.<br /><br />The Tezter was in the house. In the right hand he held the still whirring chainsaw, and in the left, sawn off at ground level, the 'Residents Only' parking sign.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1157017715677985962006-08-31T10:26:00.000+01:002006-08-31T10:50:52.780+01:00Angry Young ManI can't actually remember how it started. I'm not sure if it's because it was a long time ago, or whether it was just one of those marital rows that appear from nowhere and go back to the same place.<br /><br />When we were younger, both the late Chairman and I were pretty volatile. Whether it was youth, stubborness, ego, or the delightful combination of all three, I'm not sure, but anyhow, that's how it was. Anyway, that afternoon, one of those trivial domestics blew into a full-scale shouting match. Ladies, you know the kind; you sit on the sofa trying to get a word in, while a red-faced troll lumbers up and down the sitting room enumerating your faults (and if you don't recognise the situation, you're probably not actually married). After he'd done this for what seemed like a very long time indeed, I managed to get a word in. Obviously the word (I can't remember exactly which one it was) was not the one he wanted to hear. So he was off again, only this time he'd really show me.<br /><br />Really showing me generally consisted of him destroying something that he owned and was fond of. I never actually understood the philosophy behind this, but it was what a young Chairman did. I had recently bought him a large, hardbacked, artbook (appropriately, Surrealism). He triumphantly took it down from the shelf and brandished it. He then proceeded to attempt to rip it in two. It was an expensive and well-made book, and despite his strength, he was able to make very little impression upon it. But he was not to be beaten. Goodness he was going to punish me. He left the room and returned with his electric drill (every home should have one). He plugged it in, picked up the book, and perforated it by drilling very small holes, very close together, through the book, in a straight line. Then he dilligently tore along the dotted line and holding a half in each hand, waved them at me. I said and did nothing.<br /><br />So he ate my rubber plant.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1156367844522830782006-08-23T21:46:00.001+01:002006-08-24T10:45:30.403+01:00Reservoir DogsBefore La Fluffita there were Nefertiti and Ptolomy. Nefertiti was a huge and beautiful Doberman/German Shepherd cross, rescued from a house full of small children somewhere in South London, and Ptolomy was her son, the result of the union between her and an opportunistic, prize winning stud Golden Retriever called Olaf. Olaf's owner was totally horrified when her beloved cash dog leapt upon Nefertiti and ravished her as the late Chairman walked her back to the car. The Chairman then had to engage her in light conversation while her dog ravished ours. I gather it was an interesting walk.<br /><br />Anyway, 9 weeks later, she produced 10 adorable black puppies. One by one they left home to live with new owners. 2 went to train as guard dogs, as we called one of them the Bitey Boy, as he mauled his gentle brothers and sisters, I think it was an appropriate career, but the other one, I am sure, only looked the part. Ptolomy however, never showed any desire to leave home. When people came to see the puppies, the others surged forward enthusiastically. Ptolomy didn't. Ptolomy didn't surge at all. He always hid next to me or the Chairman. We had decided to keep one of the puppies but couldn't choose one. It was fine. Ptolomy chose us.<br /><br />Every morning the Chairman would take them out for an hour around the local reservoir. After he died, my neighbour took them out for a couple of weeks, then I went with them, then it was Katy and I, then Katy. We had avoided the reservoir as the Chairman had enjoyed taking them there so much, but after a couple of months it seemed wrong to deprive them of their favourite place, and Nefi loved to swim. So Katy took them there. They had a lovely time, it was often quiet, actually I suppose it isn't really the place for a girl to walk by herself, but they were big dogs. As she was walking back to the car she passed another dog walker. He stopped her and smiled. 'I know these dogs' he said, 'A tall, bald, guy usually walks them, I haven't seen him for some time.' 'That's my father' said Katy, 'He had a heart attack'. 'How is he?' said the d.w., 'He's dead' said Katy. There was a pause. 'Ah' said the d.w. 'Not too good then'.Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32998989.post-1156334168183123032006-08-23T12:15:00.000+01:002006-08-23T20:44:32.416+01:00The Saturday Night SpecialWhen I was 9 or 10, we got our first television. This, of course, was a very big deal indeed. It was purchased to coincide with the start of commercial television. Oh, how excited I was at the thought of Muffin the Mule being in my very own sitting room. We actually started to sit in the sitting room in the evenings, instead of cosily round the kitchen table, listening to the wireless. This meant that the coal fire would be lit (it was autumn) , and my parents and I (I'm an only child) would sit on the sofa, in front of the fire, gazing at the flickering black and white screen. My grandparents, who lived with us, as was quite common in the fifties, stayed in the kitchen, and talked about old times.<br /><br />Saturday night was my favourite night of the week. The prgrammes were geared more for children then. There was Robin Hood (riding through the glen), followed by the Buccaneers (roving across the ocean), followed by The Strange world of Planet X, which I wasn't allowed to watch alone, and sometimes wasn't allowed to watch at all as my mother considered it too scary for me. Anyway, the Saturday night in question I was sitting by myself in front of the television watching The Buccaneers, eating a pomegranate that my grandfather had brought home from his fruit shop, along with the bananas*, apples and pears, when I heard this tap-tap-tapping in the grate. I looked down, and there was the biggest, hairiest, spider I have ever seen in the flesh, so to speak.<br /><br />It sauntered, eight-leggedly around the fireplace, while I sat, initially petrified with terror. And then I screamed, and then I screamed again. My mother, a woman prone to imagining the worst, came running in. I was standing on the sofa, I was pointing, I was totally hysterical. My mother, despite her fear of most things (especially wasps, which don't actually bother me much unless they're actually bothering me, if you see what I mean), was not bothered by spiders, but this one was a horse of a different colour. This was not a put-a-glass-over-it job. My mother looked at the spider and took off her slipper, and slapped the spider hard with the slipper, the spider turned around, saw my mother, slipper raised, and rather than running for its life, fought her. It was an unequal battle, the spider was no match for my mother and her slipper. In a scene reminiscent of the shower scene in Psycho, my mother beat the spider to death. It was so big, it neither squashed nor shrivelled, it just lay there dead. My mother picked it up with the coal shovel, and threw it on the fire. My goodness those were tough old days.<br /><br />I've been terrified of them ever since. But I don't want them to die either.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">*I forgot to mention that the spider appeared to have come home with the bananas!</span>Chairwoman of the boredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09283126747440830086noreply@blogger.com4