Chocolate surfing

Happily, after yesterday’s exertions, all is back to normal on the sofa. It was glorious to be out, was good for the soul, and great to see so many familiar faces at the pub. Andy – whose intact return from the land of unexploded ordinance we were celebrating - is back off to Angola shortly, but has said he will look in on the blog. Prove it Andy! (I shall be looking for comments…) There has been little action on the proofreading front, and I am happy to give my new walking habit a rest for the day, as it is pretty chilly out, and my masonic trousers only provide warmth to one leg. William is being kept out of trouble by a nurse, who seems tuned-in to his Thomas obsession and ability to spend 45minutes building towers and knocking them down again. So, it’s back to the nest, and time for a bit more aimless surfing.

It is difficult to imagine what I could have done before the world-wide web was at my fingertips. I can only assume that I read books. After all, I did end up with an English degree. But I can’t seem to remember a time when I didn’t spend my free moments researching the yacht that I’m going to buy and moor next to my beachfront property on a Scottish island. The fantasy shopping that can be done strolling down Burlington arcade is nothing compared to that which can be done from the comfort of the sofa. Recent highlights have included endlessly researching the possibilities of selling my apparently permanently flooded flat and buying a barn to convert in Brittany. I’ve also looked into the practicalities of keeping chickens.

There are clear patterns to be discerned from a ‘history folder’. Today, even the most amateur of psychologists would have worked out that I had run out of chocolate. Hence the visits to Montezumas, Hotel du Chocolat, and Choccywoccydodah. And, immensely gratifyingly, Google spotted a spelling mistake in the latter, and suggested ‘Did you mean Choccywoccydoodah? It’s great to know that even American search engines know their way to a decent chocolate shop. I know, too, that Andy shares my enthusiasm for fine chocolate. I wonder if they deliver to Angola?

To my mind though, what makes the web so annoyingly addictive is its ability to draw you off in all sorts of unpredictable directions. And so it was that a trip to an online chocolate shop led me to a link to the LPO’s website. I have attached a screenshot. I had no idea that they had branched out.

Expedition

I really got quite ambitious today, and went for the big one – an excursion into the big smoke. In fact, I’m technically still there, as I’m writing this in a coffee shop. Very metro-sexual; blogging in a branch of Starbuck’s. In fact, though, I’m not online, as their wifi ‘hotspot’ is not progressive enough to accept my debit card. So my cunning plan of killing a few hours doing some proofreading whilst attempting to spin a latte out for five hours has come to nothing. And there are probably urgent things in my inbox that I don’t know about.

Hang on. This sounds like work anxiety. Aren’t I supposed to be warming the sofa, and having cups of tea brought to me? Isn’t the extent of my stress supposed to be about whether to watch Neighbours or aimlessly surf ebay? Surely something has gone wrong? This process of healing and normalisation is not all it is cracked up to be.

The other stress-raising factor has been negotiating London’s public transport system whilst trying to avoid large flights of stairs and any escalators. Trust me, this is no easy task. I now believe that everybody should try this once, just as a form of research. At least it would stop people from rushing to the ‘priority seats’ because they are feeling a little jaded, or because they need both hands to turn the pages of ‘Heat’ magazine. I had to stand for the duration of a long tram journey, not because it was particularly busy, but because the seats were always pinched by the passengers who had already proved their politeness credentials by getting on before anybody had a chance to leave. I resisted the temptation to say anything, not least because it is not pleasant having to spend a thirty-minute journey with somebody who is trying to give you the ‘evil eye’ every time you look up from your crossword. So I stood, and was pretty jaded by the time I even got to Covent Garden, where I had an audition. But for the busking slot. Pride has to be swallowed a good deal when the chips are down in my job. And it didn’t help that I saw that a soprano I duetted with at college is about to sing Mimi at the ROH. Them’s the breaks though, and she’s good, so I suppose that’s alright. I’ll let her off the personal slight that she has unknowingly dealt me.

A fortunate coincidence of my first trip into town has been that this audition coincided with a night out planned with a crowd of my friends. Andy Moore is back in town, fresh from defusing landmines in Angola. And the bugger has two working legs, so there is no justice. A decent evening looms though, but left me quite a few hours to kill in the West End. So I did what I always do in these circumstances, which was head for the National Gallery. Never before has it seemed so far away, or so echoingly large. But I bumped into two singing pals en-route, which just proves that it is actually a small world; it just feels like a large one when you’re having to negotiate it on crutches.

My cup of tea was finished some time ago. I would feel slightly more guilty about hogging the table if the kind assistant hadn’t taken my drink to the table without putting any milk in it first. And I'm sure I've added to Starbuck’s chic image by sitting here in my corduroy jacket, blogging away. In fact, I’ve even managed to get some product placement on the photo.

Freedom! ish.

My physio set me a task last week. To raise my leg to the horizontal from a sitting position. He gave me a month. I did it in a week. (I haven’t figured out how to get it back down again, but that wasn’t part of deal.) Then the bugger went and cancelled the next appointment, so I can’t show off to him. Sarah failed to fake the correct amount of excitement, so I’m blogging about it instead. Unfortunately, I’m guessing that few other than myself would be hugely impressed by me being able to stick my leg out. So I shall just have to bathe in my own glory. It's about the only bathing I shall be doing. Things are clearly improving on the leg front, but as you can see from the picture, the closest I get to the bath is still having to spend some time every morning cleaning all the pins. I still can’t shower or bath the rest of me, so I remain a dab hand with a flannel. Other annoyances remain too. I can’t turn over in my sleep. I'm still on antibiotics. I can't bend down and pick up my son. But, and this is a huge step forward, I can now hobble as far as the tram stop, which means freedom!

It is a little unfortunate that my new-found ability to escape the confines of the front room has coincided with a temporary job that glues me to my computer. However, I am making time to escape, and it is good for the soul. I managed to re-acquaint myself with the delights of the Macdonald’s quarterpounder. I have perused the rails of gaudy shirts on offer at TKMaxx. I have bought a corduroy jacket that makes me look like an American novelist. All is well with the world.

There are unfortunate consequences to my public outings. There is nothing subtle about my right leg, and the pins are too long to fit under the most spectacular pair of flares. Even the ones on sale at TKMaxx. The skin grafts still seem to cause passers-by to wince involuntarily. But far more annoying than this, is the fact that a significant proportion of the Croydon populace feel that they have to pass comment. I suppose it is good that they feel they can. Maybe.

There are two varieties of commenting stranger. The first is reasonably harmless. They are the ones who simply want to know what happened, through sheer insatiable curiosity. In time, I will invent a suitable story about a shark attack to cope with this variety of comment. However, the second variety of chatty stranger is the sort who actually wants to tell you about their own woes. My favourite so far, and there are quite a few to choose from, is the man who bounded up to me and went, “Snap!” “Oh,” I said, “have you had one of these frames?” “No, but I have terrible trouble with my knee…” Etc. Etc. I can only hope that the trouble was caused by somebody kneecapping him.

On the whole though, things are seriously looking up. I was even able to right myself after slipping on a piece of budget knitwear in Alders, so I know I’m ready to be let loose. The only other slight downside to my new ability to roam is the fact that I am getting blisters on my hands. I looked up ‘rowing blisters’ on Google to see if I could gain any insight into remedies, and discovered that you should let them harden into callouses. Which is frustrating, because I spent some time in the House of Fraser liberally applying free samples of Molton and Brown hand cream. Serves me right, I suppose.

Haircut

A glance at the photo on the last entry reveals what looks like a scary comb-over. A particularly unfortunate feature, given the admission of my previous English teaching past. Perhaps I should also have dusted off my tweed jacket for the photo shoot? I think it's time I got the clippers out again. Their last outing was to cruelly rid William of his flowing locks... (And doesn't he look happy about it?!)

Working for a living

In a strange moment of synchronicity, the last week brought a terrifying tax bill and the possible means to pay some of it. In fact, my enforced sofa-time has come into its own, as my friend has passed some proofreading my way, and where better to do it than the sofa? This has been an income-supplementing plan of mine for some time, as I reckon an English teaching CV featuring Eton College has got to be worth something more tangible than a lingering sense of republicanism, an instinctive distrust of David Cameron and a sock drawer full of starched wing collars. So, rather than spending hours on my computer researching the nether regions of e-bay, I have set to work on proofreading hundreds of management consultancy reports.

It is, naturally, in the nature of anyone working for the arts that they have a distrust of the world of business. It is a world that the proper aesthete aims to avoid at all costs; a world full of sordid cash, shady deals and precious little else. A world I have fully embraced in the interests of paying my tax bill. Bring it on.

What has struck me most about the nature of this work is the clear sense that the report writers are all keen to sound as impressive as possible. This means, unfortunately, that jargon is thick on the ground, and the full stop is conspicuous by its absence. Everything needs to be restated in as many complex ways as possible. There has been an obvious collective decision to treat the word ‘data’ as plural, which would be fine, were it not for the fact that it comes so unnaturally that almost every writer treats it as singular too. Americanisms and coinages are everywhere. There are ‘business-speak’ phrases abounding, that I simply don’t remember encountering in my degree specialism on Arthurian literature. In short, it has proved quite hard work, and not the skim-through for typos that I expected. Which is good, because it allows me to use my brain for something other than working out how best to take that tricky corner in ‘Burnout Legends’ on my PSP. And I will be able to pay my tax bill.

In the meantime, William continues to test Daddy in his own special way. ‘Old Macdonald had a wheels on the bus go round and round’. Charles Ives would be proud. And I’m hoping that by working until 1am last night in order to clear the decks a little today, I won’t simply have freed up my computer for William to demand a go on the Thomas the Tank Engine website. I’m hoping that it’s freed it up for surfing the nether regions of ebay. I want to fantasise about spending my new city salary on Hi-Fi.

More singing practice

It seems as though I’m wanted back at Glyndebourne next year, but that they want to audition me, as that’s the form. I’m already quite concerned about the marble steps outside the audition venue. If I remember rightly, they polish the varnished floor too. Still, I needn’t worry too much about the fact that I’m out of practice, as, in order to keep William entertained, I’m currently singing everyday. In fact, if I were to choose any of the ‘Balamory’ theme tunes for my audition piece, I’d be away. Perhaps I should postulate ‘Balamory – the Opera’ to the music staff. I’m thinking the Miss Hoolie/PC Plum/Archie the Inventor love triangle holds some pretty fruity possibilities, even to the uninitiated.

At least the discovery of the ‘Balamory Karaoke’ has briefly distracted the boy from the delights of the Teletubby website. For a short time, the repetition of Archie’s song was a small price to pay for the demise of Tinky Winky grooving to a distinctly shaky rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. However, one of the many legacies of William’s Teletubby obsession is his use of the phrase ‘Again’. And even Archie’s song starts to pale the fourteenth time round. There are others that pale considerably more quickly.

William’s new game however, is imagining what Old Macdonald might have in his farm. The pattern goes – ‘Owd deedonnol ad dee edidant, Ee Ay Ee Ay O!’ An expectant look. Cue daddy doing elephant noises. You would imagine that this points to a fairly impressive menagerie for Old Macdonald. Elephants, however, are only the beginnings of Old Macdonald’s branching out. William’s imaginings of this farm include tigers, Teletubbies, Thomas, Bertie, cars, buses and, naturally, his sisters. This is all quite a test for my repertoire of sound effects. Where the imagination is really stretched, however, is when he decides that there are pens, nappies and panda books there too. I admit to the odd failure of inspiration, but quite enjoyed the nappy verse.

Perhaps this is the answer for the impending Glyndebourne audition. Rather than totter in and clatter my way through a bit of Mozart, I could suggest an interactive experience. Members of the panel could suggest farm animals for Old Macdonald, and I could incorporate them into the verses. I’d love to see what they came up with. I have a sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t hear my panda book impression though, which is a shame, as I’m quite proud of it really.

Daytime tv

Daytime television gold. For moments like this, it is surely even worth being patronised by adverts recognising your invalid debtor status. Yesterday and today, Diagnosis Murder met Matlock in a glorious moment of synergy. It was beautiful to behold. I could only imagine the moment at the Beverly Hills golf club when the two old pros chatted over an exotic salad, and decided to indulge themselves in this way. But thank goodness they did, as it doubtless brightened up the life of more than one sofa squatter.

In fact, I can’t say I’ve ever seen Matlock, but I knew it must have been a significant moment, as Dick van Dyke first addressed the back of the guest star’s head, before he slowly turned to an almost audible drumroll. The scene was Shakespearian in scope, and must have caused many a twinkie to drop from the shocked fingers of a corpulent American TV addict. Fortunately for me, the doorbell went halfway through the first episode, and my friends Tim and Emily arrived, bearing jam tarts. Which I’m sure are nicer than ‘twinkies’, whatever they are.

Emily is nine months and a few days pregnant. Her normal good company was enhanced by the fact that she, too, has spent a good deal of time on the sofa recently. We were able to swap stories about backache caused by being forced to sleep in one position all night. A moment of empathy I can’t say I had ever envisaged. As a student, I had spent many an hour with Tim doing very little during the hours of daylight, but he is clearly less accustomed to advanced loafing now. I don’t think the thought of a Diagnosis Murder/Matlock love-in was in any way going to win him over, though I was proud to hear that he had spent a good deal of his new found time battering on the doors of bureaucracy, so he is clearly learning quickly. Emily’s decision to turn to baking jam tarts is possibly a boredom-avoidance tactic that I shall eschew. One-legged baking is a skill I feel I can probably manage without.

At least I was able to watch today’s second part uninterrupted. Which was a shame. I’m hanging out for the next great daytime tv event though. Perhaps Raymond Burr hurtling out of control as he seeks to flee a white balloon in a Prisoner/Ironside crossover. Or Top Gear meets Traffic Cops.

Croydon's latest road user

Having blogged on the state of Croydon's road users, I thought I should introduce the most recent wheeled danger to the tarmac of South London. William has a new push chair. It is, in fact, a proper wheel chair, and he is being encouraged to propel himself. So far, he has taken most delight in his ability to operate the brakes... Be very afraid!

Fast cars

This is my dream car. A Caterham Seven. I have always been determined to own a sports car before I lost all my hair, and looked like the sort of sad, mid-life crisis wracked male who is generally the only sort of person who can afford one. The last car I actually owned was a Renault 5. And my hairline is rapidly receding past the equinox.

I should at least be a good insurance bet. After the age of 17, I have never made a claim. I think I am a safe driver. Which is a little difficult to square with wanting a car that is known for its track performance. I have, however, always done my best to avoid breaking pedestrians' legs. Which is more than some drivers I have encountered. I know that insurance companies don't like insuring musicians though. I think they imagine that we all pile out of gigs in a drug-induced frenzy, wild on tequila and Mojitos, and impressing the groupies on our arms. I can't say that this accurately describes my experiences of leaving such glorious venues as the Coliseum in Aberdare, glad to have finished the twenty fourth performance of the Barber of Seville, and having polished off a night’s work with a cup of tea.

All of which brings me to my point. My brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law came around yesterday for a cup of tea. He is a difficult brother for the penniless car enthusiast to have, as his job involves testing new cars. He is about to start work on a new TVR, which is apparently capable of 0-60 in under 4 seconds. I don’t think I actually went visibly green with envy… It at least meant that he could help get me to the park with the kids, as getting there and back is still a little too far on crutches, and Sarah finds using the wheelchair too hefty.

On route, we were able to encounter the weekend road users of Croydon. Oh dear. Having given up a (minor) smoking habit, I had always managed to avoid becoming one of those annoying anti-smoking vigilantes. The same level of post-trauma understanding does not seem to distinguish my attitude after having been flattened by an RTA. It is particularly galling to see somebody safely cross the road through the tried and tested method of holding out their hand to stop traffic, whilst stepping off the kerb and not looking. Why aren’t these people hobbling around with scaffolding nailed to their legs? Is there no justice? Why can’t the speeding twits doing wheelies on mopeds through residential areas simply take themselves quietly out of the gene pool, without threatening any of the rest of us? And why do they build in safety features to the design of BMWs, when all it means is that the prats who drive them will kill somebody other than themselves when they thoughtfully test the acceleration in a crowded suburb. I’d put the airbags on the bumpers, and make the BMW logo on the steering wheel spiky. Not that I’m bitter. Much.

I wonder if my annoying road safety awareness will continue once I can drive again? The family car is visible from the sofa. I very much suspect that the battery is flat. In the meantime, I shall continue to fantasise about my fast car. I just have to wait until I’m completely bald. It can’t be too long now…

Incidentally...

I found this on a genuine academic website about the uses of the Ilizarov frame. Imagine what the world wide web would have looked like if it was around during the reign of Queen Victoria...

Physiotherapain

It’s funny how physiotherapy diagrams always manage to avoid showing the face. If they did, there would be a particular sort of grimace that the patient would need to achieve at the end of any ‘stretch’. The sort of expression that is generally reserved for watching a car crash in its early stages. If any medical textbook illustrators needed to know the sort of thing, I now have it down pat.

The illustration above is from a booklet I found on the web. I couldn’t do this with my good leg. On a good day. Clearly, I have discovered the Ilazarov physiotherapy textbook for ballet dancers. However, I do now have some of my own exercises to do. Perhaps not quite as impressive as the picture, but pretty spectacular for a chap who walks as if he has a rod up his bottom even when he is fit and well.

These exercises were the positives that I brought away from my visit to St. George’s yesterday. The negatives were a little frustrating. My release date has been knocked back another 6 weeks at least, as my leg is healing, but not desperately quickly. My consultant was extremely helpful, confidence inspiring in his obvious expertise, and supportive. Yesterday I would happily have traded all of this for a fly-by-night scalpel-jockey who was prepared to tell me that I would have the frame taken off within hours, and would be playing football by the end of the week. Even though I don’t really play football.

Physiotherapy is the way forward though. I don’t know if it will really make enough of a difference to justify the pain of trying to do aerobics with sputnik screwed to my leg, but I’m going to have to assume that it will. It does, of course, allow me to believe that I can play a part in my own recovery. Because after a while, it’s difficult to believe that the best way you can improve yourself is by sitting with your foot up in front of daytime television. Especially when an hour of the current morning schedule is filled with the hard luck stories of other poor buggers who have found themselves flung at the mercy of the medical profession.

In the meantime, Sarah has come back from her evening jog. She took up running at roughly the same time that I arrived on her doorstep with little functioning from the knee down. My evening will be taken up with fielding Sarah’s chatter about her running hobby, whilst a documentary about ballet dancers is on in the background. I might go into the kitchen to try a bit more physio. And there’s an open bottle of wine in there.