Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Monday, 12 May 2008
Thursday, 20 March 2008
Why I hate the NHS
I know that there are people throughout the world are green with envy that the British Public has a National Health Service that is "free". "You mean you don't have to pay when you have to go to hospital?" No. "You don't need medical insurance? And how about co-payments?" No, theoretically we don't need medical insurance and no, no co-payments.
So, here's a bit of history: The NHS, unveiled by Aneurin Bevan in the summer of 1948 was, pretty much, what Labour had promised the Brits in their bid to oust Churchill's Conservative government. And it worked. Everything was absolutely free, until the NHS ran out of money three years later and people had to pay for prescriptions, and half the cost of any dental work and optical aids. As of April 1. this year, the prescription charge is £7.10 in England, compared to Scotland where it is £5 and Wales where it is free... this is the start of the disparity.
My neighbour is a lovely lady. About three years ago she started suffering from terrible, excruciating abdominal pains. Her GP sent her away with the advice that she should take paracetamol, and a week later the pain was so intense that she had to go to hospital. In the Emergency Department they did an x-ray and a colonoscopy which showed nothing. It was not until over a year later that she was finally diagnosed with a rare for of bowel cancer that grows on the outer wall of the bowel. Operating was not possible because the tumour was attached to major blood vessels, and after many months of chemo- and radiotherapy at the Royal Marsden in Fulham, (a specialist cancer hospital) it had gone. Tri-monthly checks for the last year or so have all been clear. Until last week. In the three months since her last appointment, the cancer is back, more aggressive than ever and is approximately three inches in diameter. And the first thing the hospital said to her? "Now we need to send off the paper work to see if your NHS Trust will fund your treatment." That's right... if our local NHS Trust decides that she is too old, (she's nearly 60, I think) or that it is not cost effective (because this is the second time she has had this cancer) or even because that particular trust has spent all of the money it had allocated to the treatment of cancer (because they obviously do not know how to spend money effectively) then she will probably die. This is after she has been paying in to the NHS for the last 43 years. It is emphatically NOT free. In fact, it is compulsory to pay for it, with no guarantee that you will be given medical help when you need it most. Had she paid that money in to a private medical insurance policy instead, there would be no question over her treatment.
My local NHS Trust has been terrible for as long as I can remember. In 1997 my father was admitted after being told he was riddled with incurable cancer. It had started in his kidneys and by the time he was diagnosed it was in his bowel, his lungs and had eaten through some of his ribs. He spent some time at home because he hated the hospital, and yet was refused an oxygen canister to take with him. I was sent away to boarding school so that I didn't have to see him so sick. My brothers, fortunately, were too young to remember. I was not allowed home on the exeats, and instead went to stay with my grandmother. My father just didn't want me to see him looking so sick. I remember how this big, strong man withered away to almost nothing, his arms and legs so thin and frail that he was unable to stand or hold himself up. In hospital he started to develop terrible bedsores which got infected. My mother spent every moment at the hospital, bathing him, turning him over, making sure his bed clothes were clean, ensuring that he took his medication and ate when he was able. All things that the hospital staff should have been doing, but weren't.
In September 1997, when my brother was old enough, he was sent to school with me. My father had developed a huge abscess, the size of about four golf balls, on his back. Whatever it was, meant that his left lung could not inflate, he was unable to lie on his back and he was in terrible pain. Tests were done, and it was discovered that he had contracted MRSA. This surprised no-one - the hospital was filthy, God only knows when the last time was that the floors had been mopped; my mother had to clean dried blood from the bed, left by a previous patient. She's sure she never once saw the medical staff washing their hands. On October 28, 2007, my father died in my mother's arms. It was the MRSA in the end, although had it been up to the cancer he may have only had another month.
My point is this: the NHS may look, to an outsider, a service that is so fantastic and should not be knocked. But I have experienced just how fatally flawed it is, and the damage that a badly run health service can do. Now, people are so desperate that they are paying for medical insurance on top of paying for the NHS - although it provides sub-standard health care, no tax payer can opt out of funding it, yet the Trusts are allowed to pick and choose who they treat.
It makes you proud to be British.
So, here's a bit of history: The NHS, unveiled by Aneurin Bevan in the summer of 1948 was, pretty much, what Labour had promised the Brits in their bid to oust Churchill's Conservative government. And it worked. Everything was absolutely free, until the NHS ran out of money three years later and people had to pay for prescriptions, and half the cost of any dental work and optical aids. As of April 1. this year, the prescription charge is £7.10 in England, compared to Scotland where it is £5 and Wales where it is free... this is the start of the disparity.
My neighbour is a lovely lady. About three years ago she started suffering from terrible, excruciating abdominal pains. Her GP sent her away with the advice that she should take paracetamol, and a week later the pain was so intense that she had to go to hospital. In the Emergency Department they did an x-ray and a colonoscopy which showed nothing. It was not until over a year later that she was finally diagnosed with a rare for of bowel cancer that grows on the outer wall of the bowel. Operating was not possible because the tumour was attached to major blood vessels, and after many months of chemo- and radiotherapy at the Royal Marsden in Fulham, (a specialist cancer hospital) it had gone. Tri-monthly checks for the last year or so have all been clear. Until last week. In the three months since her last appointment, the cancer is back, more aggressive than ever and is approximately three inches in diameter. And the first thing the hospital said to her? "Now we need to send off the paper work to see if your NHS Trust will fund your treatment." That's right... if our local NHS Trust decides that she is too old, (she's nearly 60, I think) or that it is not cost effective (because this is the second time she has had this cancer) or even because that particular trust has spent all of the money it had allocated to the treatment of cancer (because they obviously do not know how to spend money effectively) then she will probably die. This is after she has been paying in to the NHS for the last 43 years. It is emphatically NOT free. In fact, it is compulsory to pay for it, with no guarantee that you will be given medical help when you need it most. Had she paid that money in to a private medical insurance policy instead, there would be no question over her treatment.
My local NHS Trust has been terrible for as long as I can remember. In 1997 my father was admitted after being told he was riddled with incurable cancer. It had started in his kidneys and by the time he was diagnosed it was in his bowel, his lungs and had eaten through some of his ribs. He spent some time at home because he hated the hospital, and yet was refused an oxygen canister to take with him. I was sent away to boarding school so that I didn't have to see him so sick. My brothers, fortunately, were too young to remember. I was not allowed home on the exeats, and instead went to stay with my grandmother. My father just didn't want me to see him looking so sick. I remember how this big, strong man withered away to almost nothing, his arms and legs so thin and frail that he was unable to stand or hold himself up. In hospital he started to develop terrible bedsores which got infected. My mother spent every moment at the hospital, bathing him, turning him over, making sure his bed clothes were clean, ensuring that he took his medication and ate when he was able. All things that the hospital staff should have been doing, but weren't.
In September 1997, when my brother was old enough, he was sent to school with me. My father had developed a huge abscess, the size of about four golf balls, on his back. Whatever it was, meant that his left lung could not inflate, he was unable to lie on his back and he was in terrible pain. Tests were done, and it was discovered that he had contracted MRSA. This surprised no-one - the hospital was filthy, God only knows when the last time was that the floors had been mopped; my mother had to clean dried blood from the bed, left by a previous patient. She's sure she never once saw the medical staff washing their hands. On October 28, 2007, my father died in my mother's arms. It was the MRSA in the end, although had it been up to the cancer he may have only had another month.
My point is this: the NHS may look, to an outsider, a service that is so fantastic and should not be knocked. But I have experienced just how fatally flawed it is, and the damage that a badly run health service can do. Now, people are so desperate that they are paying for medical insurance on top of paying for the NHS - although it provides sub-standard health care, no tax payer can opt out of funding it, yet the Trusts are allowed to pick and choose who they treat.
It makes you proud to be British.
Monday, 19 November 2007
So, I blew NaBloPoMo.
Really, really blew it. Thursday was my downfall. Work was pretty quiet in the morning/early afternoon and then just before I was going to leave, shit hit the fan and my 7.30am-6pm day was extended by an extra 4 and a half hours. I make that a 15 hour day and, trust me, it really felt like a 15 hour day. Friday was spent clearing up leftover crap (although not literally crap, that's how it felt) and I raced out of the door at 5.30pm with a splitting headache, amidst cries of "aren't you coming for a beer?" I forewent the beer and was home before 7 when I took the dogs out and then curled up in a very dark room and went to sleep.
On Saturday, I drove to Walthamstow. For those who don't know London, it has a post(zip) code of E17. That means, that it is east London, and pretty far out east London. I live in The South West, so getting to Walthamstow meant taking the M25 (nightmare) to junction 29 and then all these stupid little A roads that take you through roundabout city. I don't know what it is about roundabouts that the Brits love so much. You have huge ones connecting motorways with something like"Welcome to Essex!" written in pansies; you have the medium sized ones connecting A or large B roads which are covered in sign posts telling you just how very, very sharp this turn is, and you have mini ones, which look like someone has spilled a blob of white paint in the middle of a crossing. As if people are going to drive AROUND this blob of white paint. Ay, Dios mio. Anyhow, I drove to Walthamstow to pick up the latest member of the family:
His name is Sunny (no, I did not name him). He is an 8 month old Labrador Retriever with the most incredible green eyes. This picture is rather deceptive. Sunny has been spoiled rotten, and is ROTUND. His name should be Dyson, because he doesn't just eat, he inhales food. On Saturday night I put all 3 dogs' food down at the same time and Sunny, sneaky monster, decided he was going to try and eat both HRH's and Sam's food, before his own. HRH growled at him and he backed away, but Sam is such a pussy that when the baby pushed him out of the way, (which is not difficult - we're talking at least 30 kilos of puppy here) Sam just let him do it. Sunny needs to be physically restrained from eating Sam's food, and on Saturday I think that Sunny must have left some slobber in the bowl, because Sam just was not interested after that. Instead, I wound up feeding him raw chicken wings. On Sunday morning, Sunny was following me around, wagging his tail. I didn't have a clue what he was after - he'd already been out for a walk that morning, where he strained so much doing a poop that I thought he was going to give himself a hernia. When I went over to pick the poop up, I found the reason for such straining - at some stage in the last 3 days, he had managed to eat part of a leash. In the crap was a leather strap about 2cm wide and almost 15cm long. This dog will snarf down anything. ANYTHING. Look, you left your book on the floor for a second while you picked up your cup of coffee - let me eat it for you. And that sweater on the sofa with the arm dangling down? Let me eat that for you too. But he is a lovely dog and with some (a lot) of training, he will be even more so.
To top it all off, my brother made dinner on Sunday evening. That is twice in one week. I think there's something very, very wrong with him. But I'm not complaining.
On Saturday, I drove to Walthamstow. For those who don't know London, it has a post(zip) code of E17. That means, that it is east London, and pretty far out east London. I live in The South West, so getting to Walthamstow meant taking the M25 (nightmare) to junction 29 and then all these stupid little A roads that take you through roundabout city. I don't know what it is about roundabouts that the Brits love so much. You have huge ones connecting motorways with something like"Welcome to Essex!" written in pansies; you have the medium sized ones connecting A or large B roads which are covered in sign posts telling you just how very, very sharp this turn is, and you have mini ones, which look like someone has spilled a blob of white paint in the middle of a crossing. As if people are going to drive AROUND this blob of white paint. Ay, Dios mio. Anyhow, I drove to Walthamstow to pick up the latest member of the family:
His name is Sunny (no, I did not name him). He is an 8 month old Labrador Retriever with the most incredible green eyes. This picture is rather deceptive. Sunny has been spoiled rotten, and is ROTUND. His name should be Dyson, because he doesn't just eat, he inhales food. On Saturday night I put all 3 dogs' food down at the same time and Sunny, sneaky monster, decided he was going to try and eat both HRH's and Sam's food, before his own. HRH growled at him and he backed away, but Sam is such a pussy that when the baby pushed him out of the way, (which is not difficult - we're talking at least 30 kilos of puppy here) Sam just let him do it. Sunny needs to be physically restrained from eating Sam's food, and on Saturday I think that Sunny must have left some slobber in the bowl, because Sam just was not interested after that. Instead, I wound up feeding him raw chicken wings. On Sunday morning, Sunny was following me around, wagging his tail. I didn't have a clue what he was after - he'd already been out for a walk that morning, where he strained so much doing a poop that I thought he was going to give himself a hernia. When I went over to pick the poop up, I found the reason for such straining - at some stage in the last 3 days, he had managed to eat part of a leash. In the crap was a leather strap about 2cm wide and almost 15cm long. This dog will snarf down anything. ANYTHING. Look, you left your book on the floor for a second while you picked up your cup of coffee - let me eat it for you. And that sweater on the sofa with the arm dangling down? Let me eat that for you too. But he is a lovely dog and with some (a lot) of training, he will be even more so.
To top it all off, my brother made dinner on Sunday evening. That is twice in one week. I think there's something very, very wrong with him. But I'm not complaining.
Saturday, 3 November 2007
Lacking
This weekend is going to be rather short on the blog front. I have a head full of thoughts of anaesthesia and have had a bad argument with my brother.
Will try and find something more interesting to say tomorrow.
Night.
Will try and find something more interesting to say tomorrow.
Night.
Monday, 22 October 2007
Where I send a wish to the sky up above that I can now start to gain a bit of normality... Please?
Things have gotten way out of hand. This whole slipped disc thing? Not once did the surgeon explain just what it would mean. How it would affect me daily. How it would make even the most mundane tasks seem as if I am climbing Everest or something. Walking Sam around the park takes almost 2 hours when it would normally take one. I have to give myself extra time when I have a bath because, hell, you try getting out of one of a bath tub with a prolapsed disc. And then the drugs. Oh, the drugs. If I didn't have to work, I'd be happy as Larry. Only on the odd occasion do they do nothing for the pain - the rest of the time I'm in a bit of a chemical-induced haze. I almost wish I'd told the surgeon to whip (what's left of) the disc out straight away. Anyhoo - it seems that I'm getting used to having to make all these changes - which I hope will not have to last for too long. I see the dude again on Thursday so hopefully he can just do the injections and I can get back to normal. Fingers crossed.
Friday evening was fantastic - after work we went out for a couple of drinks and watched the game for 3rd place in the Rugby World Cup. My boys in sky blue managed to trounce France once again, placing them 3rd in the world rankings with a final score of 34-10. The match was like a pressure cooker, and Honiss and his touch judges had their work cut out trying to keep a lid on the game as passion rose and tempers flared. Contepomi was incredible, sparking the whole team, and even the cave man wasn't able to douse the fire. The weekend was pretty dire for English sport. England lost the rugby, which was bound to happen, although I was rather surprised at how well they played. Unfortunately, the Springboks gave England no space whatsoever and Johnny had no room to try for any goal kicks. It was a shame, but the mistakes England made were amateurish which, to be honest, is not really what people expect from such a mature team. I put £5 on South Africa to win a couple of weeks ago when the odds were 5/2 - they were looking so strong, right from the start.
Things at work have been crazy busy, too. Although I was not able to go on my holiday because of my back, there's been so much to do, I have been running around like a hamster on speed. I have had to spend some time in Europe checking out tanks, sorting out VAT and other highly exciting stuff. Now, though, I really am back. I have no travel plans and things seem to be quieting down a bit on the Western Front, which means I should definitely have more blogging time. This weekend seems to have reflected the wind down nicely. On Saturday I visited a friend who's just recently had a baby. He's 8 weeks old now and weighs 12 lbs. This may not seem monstrous to people who know anything about babies, but when you look at the size of his parents, (all of 5 foot nothing) it makes you wonder just what part of their gene pool that little thing was pulled from. She is tiny - when I say 5 foot nothing I mean it - and yet she managed to push an 8lb baby out. All I can say is that she must have one stretchy cervix. So, baby Milton (do NOT ask) is a healthy, happy little boy. He has all 10 fingers and toes, is growing at a speed of knots, has these huge blue eyes and shock of dark hair (which seems to extend to his shoulders, the edge of his ears and his thighs - is this baby fluff? Or has she given birth to a chimpanzee?) and is simply beautiful. And makes me broody.
HRH has taken to walking most of the time now, instead of scooting along on her behind. She actually gets herself up, walks around and can even take herself outside to pee and poop (which, by the way, is SUCH GOOD NEWS). Her balance isn't so great, so when she gets over excited and tries to turn too quickly she ends up falling. We even took her out for a (very short) proper walk on Friday last week. She didn't poop for the whole of Saturday, so then we took her out to the park briefly where she promptly did 7. I have a feeling her colon must have been at breaking point - she lost about 3 lbs in as many minutes. Fortunately enough between us we had enough nappy sacks for the mess both dogs made. I think that's her way of saying that she wants to start going out again. We have to be very careful with her still, and she will be going back to the vet next week to have a check up, but things are definitely on the up. To those of you who donated, thank you so, very much.
By the way, has anyone seen this movie? Or this one? Are they any good?
Friday evening was fantastic - after work we went out for a couple of drinks and watched the game for 3rd place in the Rugby World Cup. My boys in sky blue managed to trounce France once again, placing them 3rd in the world rankings with a final score of 34-10. The match was like a pressure cooker, and Honiss and his touch judges had their work cut out trying to keep a lid on the game as passion rose and tempers flared. Contepomi was incredible, sparking the whole team, and even the cave man wasn't able to douse the fire. The weekend was pretty dire for English sport. England lost the rugby, which was bound to happen, although I was rather surprised at how well they played. Unfortunately, the Springboks gave England no space whatsoever and Johnny had no room to try for any goal kicks. It was a shame, but the mistakes England made were amateurish which, to be honest, is not really what people expect from such a mature team. I put £5 on South Africa to win a couple of weeks ago when the odds were 5/2 - they were looking so strong, right from the start.
Things at work have been crazy busy, too. Although I was not able to go on my holiday because of my back, there's been so much to do, I have been running around like a hamster on speed. I have had to spend some time in Europe checking out tanks, sorting out VAT and other highly exciting stuff. Now, though, I really am back. I have no travel plans and things seem to be quieting down a bit on the Western Front, which means I should definitely have more blogging time. This weekend seems to have reflected the wind down nicely. On Saturday I visited a friend who's just recently had a baby. He's 8 weeks old now and weighs 12 lbs. This may not seem monstrous to people who know anything about babies, but when you look at the size of his parents, (all of 5 foot nothing) it makes you wonder just what part of their gene pool that little thing was pulled from. She is tiny - when I say 5 foot nothing I mean it - and yet she managed to push an 8lb baby out. All I can say is that she must have one stretchy cervix. So, baby Milton (do NOT ask) is a healthy, happy little boy. He has all 10 fingers and toes, is growing at a speed of knots, has these huge blue eyes and shock of dark hair (which seems to extend to his shoulders, the edge of his ears and his thighs - is this baby fluff? Or has she given birth to a chimpanzee?) and is simply beautiful. And makes me broody.
HRH has taken to walking most of the time now, instead of scooting along on her behind. She actually gets herself up, walks around and can even take herself outside to pee and poop (which, by the way, is SUCH GOOD NEWS). Her balance isn't so great, so when she gets over excited and tries to turn too quickly she ends up falling. We even took her out for a (very short) proper walk on Friday last week. She didn't poop for the whole of Saturday, so then we took her out to the park briefly where she promptly did 7. I have a feeling her colon must have been at breaking point - she lost about 3 lbs in as many minutes. Fortunately enough between us we had enough nappy sacks for the mess both dogs made. I think that's her way of saying that she wants to start going out again. We have to be very careful with her still, and she will be going back to the vet next week to have a check up, but things are definitely on the up. To those of you who donated, thank you so, very much.
By the way, has anyone seen this movie? Or this one? Are they any good?
Monday, 10 September 2007
So, I drove to Newmarket on Saturday
as the vet said it was OK to visit HRH. We went to the neurological 'ward', where she has the biggest cage, equipped with a heat lamp for colder nights and and a fan for when she's too warm. She lies atop a vast amount of blankets, a mattress and has pillows all around her. In a vein in her front right leg, wrapped in a bright red bandage, is her IV which is administering the sedative, saline and Ketamine, and she also has a catheter and a pee bag, as she still cannot go herself. She was very sedated when we got there, but as soon as we opened the door to her cage, and she realised who we were, her eyes brightened, her ears pricked up and she started crying, trying to drag herself closer to us. I climbed in to her cage to try and calm her, and sat with her for about an hour. The nurse asked if I would like to feed her, as she has been quite fussy, refusing to eat when they offer her food, so I was passed a bowl with some canned food and some cooked chicken and I fed her the chicken by hand and then she finished what was in her bowl. She has a huge shaved patch and wound with loads of stitches running about half the length of her back. By the time it heals, she'll probably look like a Rhodesian Ridgeback. We left at about 4, (visiting hours were only 2-4pm) and made the 2.5 hour journey home. It was terrible leaving her - but at least we know she's in the most ideal place. The staff are so kind and they are specialists in animal neurology so there really is nothing more that we can do.
On Sunday I drove to see my mum and brother to see my youngest brother at school, because it was his 18th birthday. We took him out for some lunch and left him with a huge cake and some beers for him to have with his friends on Sunday evening. I cannot believe that my little brother (who's actually nearly a head taller than me and built like a brick sh*t house from playing rugby) is already 18. He makes me feel so old.
On Sunday I drove to see my mum and brother to see my youngest brother at school, because it was his 18th birthday. We took him out for some lunch and left him with a huge cake and some beers for him to have with his friends on Sunday evening. I cannot believe that my little brother (who's actually nearly a head taller than me and built like a brick sh*t house from playing rugby) is already 18. He makes me feel so old.
Monday, 6 August 2007
Creature of the night
So, I was out walking HRH on Saturday, soon after midnight, (it was a quiet weekend, ok?) when she suddenly saw something crossing the road. Disobeying me, she ran over to it until I shouted at her. I walked over to see what it was that what it was she was staring at so intently. It was one of these little critters:
That's it. A hog of the hedge. They don't always curl up in to a ball when they feel threatened. Sometimes they simply freeze. The one I saw had stopped, mid-stride with his front left leg up and ready to move ahead, right in the middle of the road. I was worried he might get run over by a car so I picked him up and put him under the gate that leads to the allotments. He was a real fatty.
That's it. A hog of the hedge. They don't always curl up in to a ball when they feel threatened. Sometimes they simply freeze. The one I saw had stopped, mid-stride with his front left leg up and ready to move ahead, right in the middle of the road. I was worried he might get run over by a car so I picked him up and put him under the gate that leads to the allotments. He was a real fatty.
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
Pee pee time?
So, I wasn't going to write about this but I am still so pissed that I feel it is better to vent in to the abyss that is the blogosphere than it is in real life. I will not be seen as a WHINER by real human beans.
It took me 40 minutes to get home last night. Not the longest amount of time by all means but, still, longer than the journey should take. And I'm tired (having been at work since 0730). And the train was HOT. And the guy sat next to me had a SERIOUS BODY ODOUR PROBLEM. Like, muy apestado. I mean, he obviously feels that deodorant isn't a necessity. LISTEN DUDE, IT REALLY IS. And I'm sure that everyone in the carriage (and probably as far away as, I don't know, Illinois - and that's really far) would agree with me. I nearly went so far as to offer him the Givenchy in my handbag before I realised that he'd probably end up using the whole bottle AND WE'D STILL BE ABLE TO SMELL HIM.
And then I get home. I leave the back door open all day for HRH, so that she can go and mess in the garden when she needs to. Thing is, it rained a bit in the afternoon (she doesn't like the rain, it messes up her hair) - and it was obviously the EXACT SAME TIME that she needed a pee. She couldn't wait for the cloud to pass and go outside, so she went right there on the floor. What made me mad was the fact that my brother, who, by the way is NOT HUMAN, was so busy playing WWE Smackdown vs. RAW that he "didn't see" her squat, and "didn't hear" the sound track to Niagara Falls going on 2 METRES FROM WHERE HE WAS SITTING. And guess who had to clean it up?
Now THAT is why i am mad.
It took me 40 minutes to get home last night. Not the longest amount of time by all means but, still, longer than the journey should take. And I'm tired (having been at work since 0730). And the train was HOT. And the guy sat next to me had a SERIOUS BODY ODOUR PROBLEM. Like, muy apestado. I mean, he obviously feels that deodorant isn't a necessity. LISTEN DUDE, IT REALLY IS. And I'm sure that everyone in the carriage (and probably as far away as, I don't know, Illinois - and that's really far) would agree with me. I nearly went so far as to offer him the Givenchy in my handbag before I realised that he'd probably end up using the whole bottle AND WE'D STILL BE ABLE TO SMELL HIM.
And then I get home. I leave the back door open all day for HRH, so that she can go and mess in the garden when she needs to. Thing is, it rained a bit in the afternoon (she doesn't like the rain, it messes up her hair) - and it was obviously the EXACT SAME TIME that she needed a pee. She couldn't wait for the cloud to pass and go outside, so she went right there on the floor. What made me mad was the fact that my brother, who, by the way is NOT HUMAN, was so busy playing WWE Smackdown vs. RAW that he "didn't see" her squat, and "didn't hear" the sound track to Niagara Falls going on 2 METRES FROM WHERE HE WAS SITTING. And guess who had to clean it up?
Now THAT is why i am mad.
Thursday, 12 July 2007
Tuesday, 8 May 2007
Unproductivity
is the name of the game. Or, at east, the name of the weekend. I had booked Friday off work so that I could prepare the house so that this weekend coming we can lay the new floor. So, no, I did not skive off work because I hit my head. I do, however, still have a bruise on my forehead, although the one on my cheek is almost gone. Anyhow, I did loads of clearing, cleaning, preparing, pulling up carpet, and only just finished. I wore my crocs for the whole of Friday. My feet love them. I love them. So does my dog who likes to chew them. Fortunately, crocs are sturdy and withstand chewing. Good crocs.
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