149. Out of the mouths of babes…
“It was normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their children. And with good reason…”
(Orwell – Nineteen Eighty-Four)
“Time for our news books – I want you to draw me a picture of something that you did at the weekend and then – using your sounds – to have a go at writing a sentence or two underneath.”
(Every teacher of young children, everywhere.)
147. And I didn’t even get a sticker…
In truth, I’m rather dreading today.
I’m writing this blog on the train heading up to Imperial College where, in the name of scientific research, I’m due to have a couple of brain scans. One is a regular CT jobby, which will be fine. It will last about half an hour in all but they do it in short blasts – ten minutes at the most – so you can wriggle in between. There are pretty good headphones and cleverly placed mirrors so that it’s not claustrophobic. I’ll adopt Ma’s trick of trying to think of people with a particular first name. In honour of Wolf Hall, I’m going to start with famous Anns; and then Henrys.
The other is a vastly expensive PET scan which involves being injected with some radioactive stuff and then having to lie still for an hour and a half while they attempt to locate your brain. I’ve done it once before, you might remember, and attempted to make the time pass by listening to an Agatha Christie, though I did drift off to sleep in the middle and woke up as Hercule was revealing who had dunnit, though what they had dunn is a mystery to this day.
I did eventually get sent a photo of my brain with all the radioactive bits glowing. InfantPhenomenon suggested I took it into school and asked my class for suggestions about how to fix it, as a D and T project. I can’t say I’m actually looking forward to the PET scan but I guess this, too, will pass.
No, the thing that is making me anxious about today is being given levodopa – that’s the dopamine substitute – which is going to happen part way through the day, as they need to measure some things before and after taking the drug. Until recently, I took a small dose of levodopa three times a day, in the form of a drug called Sinemet. It stopped my tremor but at the expense of feeling a bit grotty during the period when the drug kicks in. So I decided to see how I was without it, and found that – at the moment, at least –the symptoms are less troublesome than the side-effects.
However, as part of last week’s assessment for this trial, I was given a substantial dose of the stuff and it hit me hard, especially on the journey home. I’ll spare you the details but if you’ve ever felt nauseous on the Central Line in the rush hour, you’ll share my pain. Just to say that I am in mourning for my hat. I loved that hat.
Everyone ignored me, of course. It reminded me a bit of the time when, sitting in a rather hot Quaker Meeting House, I saw the elderly lady opposite gently slide to the floor. Her neighbour rested her head on a nearby hassock and we all continued to seek the Inner Light.
I’m at East Acton now. Deep breaths. Ann of Cleeves. My Aunty Ann. Ann Widdecombe…
***
I am now on my way home, pecking out this paragraph with one hand; the other being rather dramatically bandaged up where I had an arterial cannula put in it. The remaining wound will, I am assured, be no trouble at all. Unless the clot gets knocked, in which case I’m under instructions to raise it in the air whilst pushing down hard on the wound and getting myself to A and E.
ActorLaddie came up to meet me and has brought with him a plastic bag, as a hat substitute. It’s a little loose round the ears.
146. Your suite’s too big…. (with apologies to George Melly)
I called into the nursery on my way home from work, full of end of term good-will. I’d get a Christmas tree up and ready for when ActorLaddie got back and we could start the holidays in piney perfection. The chosen tree had a lovely shape; plenty of needles, smelt of Christmas.
The kids helped me lug it up the stairs to the living room – this being when we had GrannyBorders installed on the ground floor. Decorations ready, festive ginger wine poured. We just needed to put the tree in its stand, take off the netting – and that’s when I found that it was too big for the bay.
145. It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears…
Most people don’t feel nauseous until part way round the Small World ride at EuroDisney. InfantPhenomenon proved what an exceptionally advanced child she was by throwing up the minute we sat in the float; embarrassing but classy, in its own way. So off we went to the Poste de Premiers Secours, and she rested while I read her “The Bed and Breakfast Star”. It was rather peaceful, as I recall.
141. Waugh and peace…
Unable to sleep the other night, I started listening to a wireless programme about Evelyn Waugh and the writing of his first novel – “Decline and Fall.” He was a strange cove to be sure – and, of course, married someone who was also called Evelyn. It must have made the arrangement of Secret Santa presents a complete nightmare.
138. And on the pink cards: Downing Street, number ten…
I’ve been invited to take part in other research study.
Long-term readers – those who haven’t left me in a huff because I missed last weekend’s blog – what can I say? – I was in bed a-coughing and a-sneezing and a-feeling vastly sorry for myself – you wouldn’t have wanted to read it, anyway; it was probably infectious – tell you what, I’ll get a note from my Ma who kept sending around lemons – anyway, those readers who are still with me, despite my punctuation and tendency to digress – those readers might remember that last year, I had a very expensive brain scan.
134. Four legs bad…
“So your first task is to design a classroom – something you’ll be doing for real before you know it!”
We glance nervously at each other; the thought of actually having our own classrooms is both awe-inspiring and terrifying in equal measure. Us? Teachers? Cripes!
129. Daisy, Daisy, put some wellie into it…
I’ve told you before about my Great Uncle Stan. Mind, it was two years ago, and you’ve had a lot on, so let me jog your memory.
Great Uncle Stan kept a fruit and veg barrow on the Northcote Road. During the war, he spent a lot of time at my Nan’s; once managing to sleep right through an air-raid and waking up to find himself covered in glass from the shattered window beside him. He had a glass eye which he used to take out at night and put in a jar besides his bed, terrifying my Ma – a child at the time.
Equally terrifying is my memory of him, sitting in the corner of a mental institution in the 1970s. He shook uncontrollably; had no idea who we were; couldn’t communicate. He has Parkinson’s, the nurses told us.
128. Is this a wedding cake I see before me?
“He’s is going to be studying Macbeth for the literature exam,” Fred’s mum says, as I pack away my highlighters. I’ve started tutoring Fred, who is resitting his English GCSE next month. It’s a learning experience for us both.
125. I know my place…
Everyone was looking at me as I reached for the nappies. What on earth was I doing here, now? I skulked around the baby wipes, trying to ignore the frowns. Would I need a bottle steriliser? The NCT lady said no, but my cousin, Young Bessie, had said yes and she is a woman of infinite resource and sagacity. I tried to ignore them all tutting as I picked up the Milton, but I could smell the disapproval.
The Jelly Chronicles 