NHS

Hurrah for free state healthcare. My leg has been freed from its cage, William continues to be kept going, and with a smile on his face. And we have father and son splints. Mine is temporary, and needs to be worn whilst walking around. William's need to be worn overnight, and will most likely be a semi-permanent fixture. But they have tractors and helicopters on them. Which makes them far superior.

It has been a while since my last blog. All sorts of things have happened. Term ended at Tonbridge, and I once again have given up English teaching, to try and return to my old singing job. At the moment, I have approximately four confirmed dates in my diary when I have paying work. Two days after I left paying work, I went to Lille for an audition, where, outside the opera house, I turned down a particularly tenacious beggar, who told me that I was rich, and that I should f-off back to England. Bi-lingual beggar he may have been, but his grasp of the realities of my finances were about as sound as his understanding of the Entente Cordiale. And I didn’t get the part. I did come back with a decent bottle of St. Julien though. Some things are worth dipping into the overdraft for.

Things may temporarily look up on the cash front when Direct Line finally cough up the insurance payment for my last flat flooding. Although they will be unimpressed by the fact that it has flooded again. I have yet to figure out what I have lost, as it is still inches deep in foul smelling South London effluent, and I haven’t been able to get in. Odd that I spent at least a year as an undergraduate living in conditions only slightly less squalid, and never felt so fussy. However, now that my leg-metalwork has been taken off, and I am sporting my plastic open-toed orthopaedic boot, I’m guessing that squelching through raw sewage isn’t the way forward. Especially as I am still sporting open post-surgical wounds. Ideally, I need an NHS wellie. Which hasn’t been forthcoming, so I have been unable to explore. Even so, I do know that my copy of John Humphries' book about English Grammar has bought it – I saw it floating by the front door. I’m not sure I needed my recent career choice illustrated in quite such a graphic fashion.

They may not be able to provide wellies, but the NHS has come up trumps in every other regard this month. 24 hours after my frame had been removed, William had an extremely nasty turn, and I was in casualty again. He toddled over to give me a cuddle, and three minutes later, was shaking uncontrollably, going blue, and showing every symptom of ‘septic shock’. I phoned for an ambulance with my spare hand. It arrived in five minutes, and I was then astonished by just how quickly it is possible to drive from Addiscombe to Mayday hospital. Within the hour, William was sitting on a trolley regaling all who would listen with the intricacies of various Thomas stories. When you hear griping about the length of hip replacement waiting lists, it rather falls into relief when you know how impressively the health service can perform when they need to. Having said that, it did look briefly as if the nearest bed they could offer was going to be in Hampshire. And Dad’s waiting for a hip replacement.

William is home again now, and on familiar form, if a bit weary. He has mastered the phrases “I want,” and “I don’t want,” and is rather good at saying “Please!” However, he rarely, if ever, actually knows what he wants. It’s very confusing, approaching the age of three. It seems to have sparked a sort of mid-life crisis. “I want a cuddle!” “I don’t want a cuddle!” These are difficulties recognisable to all men. It was no surprise to come home yesterday to find him seeking solace in the arms of a nurse. When you’re a toddler, it seems, state healthcare can even stretch that far.

Weddings

I sang at a wedding today in Farm Street, Mayfair. My astonishment at sitting through a sermon delivered by a Jesuit priest on the subject of sex was only compounded by the realisation that the church was dedicated to the immaculate conception. You have to wonder about the church’s authority in some matters.

It has been a good week for weddings. Not only was I told that the Church of the Immaculate Conception had been the venue for four couples deciding to choose such an inappropriate venue to take the plunge this weekend alone, but my brother was married last Saturday. Whilst the family nature of this wedding was rather compromised by the fact that it proved impossible for the family to come with me, it was still a very fine weekend. It was, however, just south of Edinburgh. And I was singing a Magic Flute in Bristol the evening before. And teaching in Kent that morning. Perhaps a little ambitious. When I caught myself in the mirror on Friday evening, after my marathon trip up and down the M4, even I was surprised by the nature of the black rings around my eyes. Until I noticed the triangular eyebrows, and realised that I’d forgotten to remove my stage make-up. No wonder that chap in Reading services had looked at me so oddly. I’d thought it was just because of my limp.

The car was ditched on Saturday morning in favour of a flight to Edinburgh from London City Airport. A revelation. There was not a single queue, and not even the remotest suggestion that the flight wouldn’t take off at its allotted time. Extraordinary. My only disappointment was that Security failed to even raise an eyebrow as I walked through the metal detector. It has been a standing joke since my accident that my leg would set off every possible alarm at airport security. And when I finally tried it out, not a peep. I could have shoved a sawn-off up my trouser leg and got away with it. Doubtless they were aiming not to cause offence. I’m not sure I would have taken any, in the circumstances. The policemen with sub-machine guns do tend to remind the modern airport traveller of current priorities.

The wedding itself went in the usual haze of celebratory boozing. Everyone had a thoroughly decent time, and I left on Sunday morning with a new set of relatives in my phone book. Relatives with fiery red hair, a farm in the lowlands and a collective understanding of the value of a decent night on the tiles. The blood-line is secure.

I didn’t escape the wedding entirely unscathed. I did get a little over-enthusiastic during the ceilidh, and had to eventually retire hurt. Fortunately, the pain settled down after a couple of days, and has left me with nothing more long-lasting than yet another pin-track infection. I attempted to deal with this as discreetly as possible by visiting the Tooting ‘walk-in centre’ and asking for the relevant anti-biotics. Sadly, however, I was referred to the A&E dept, and spent three hours being x-rayed and generally administered to, before finally leaving the hospital with exactly the same box of anti-biotics that I had earlier asked for. On the plus-side, the ‘Orthopods’ (as they are affectionately called by their colleagues) did take the opportunity to realise that I seemed to have dropped off their radar, and so arranged a proper appointment for next week. It clashes horribly with some invigilation, but I plan to move heaven and earth to attend, as I have high hopes that this might be the appointment that marks the loss of my unwelcome appendage. In fact, I’m so eager that I may forgo breakfast just in case they can slot me in there and then. Here’s hoping. And praying. Perhaps the Jesuit fathers can help me out. And give me some advice on my sex life while they’re at it.

Exams

The half term is over, and Tonbridge’s every covered space is full of regimented desks. Exam season proper is here. When I first started teaching, this induced quite a thrill of vicarious nervousness. It had not been that long since my own Finals and A’ levels. The sad truth is that it had also not been that long since my O’ levels. And now that GCSEs are being are being sat by a second generation, it is fair to say that my own exam experience feels like it happened quite a while ago. Now, in fact, the overwhelming thought when the exam tables go out, is how boring invigilation will be.

Invigilation. A bizarre word. It sounds like a medical process. To undergo invigilation should involve something being painfully removed. One’s vigils, perhaps. Whatever they may be. It would certainly be a process resulting in the unfortunate victim being left only able to silently walk up and down, automaton-like, in straight lines.

There are ways to make the time pass more quickly. It is always a joy when candidates – for that’s what your pupils have become – start asking for more paper. The race to provide extra sheets is a glorious form of minority sport. The race participant has to not only arrive at the relevant desk first, but he also has to spot the hand going up, and walk in a dignified fashion, as quickly as possible, in order to beat his fellow dignified competitors to the wire. Dead heats are quite common, at which point seniority comes into play. Undignified walking or any hint of breaking into a bustle result in obvious disqualification. However, at Tonbridge, I have so far been unable to persuade anybody to take part in my favourite invigilation pastime – exam battleships. This really has to be reserved for schools where one’s feet are well and truly under the classroom desk. The game is familiar. Certain lines of desks are designated as a competitor’s frigates, destroyers and battleship. Each invigilator then takes turns to take shots. These are achieved by standing behind a desk and giving the pre-arranged signal. Perhaps a cough. The game can get quite exciting. Lines of candidates can potentially get quite nervous about the extra attention they are receiving. A sunken battleship can be celebrated by a quite fabulously inappropriate display of triumph. A short exam can create almost unbearable tension in a difficult game. All so much better than simply trotting around with a handful of sweaty treasury tags.

Sadly, Tonbridge’s exam season is inducing a different variety of nervousness this summer. My sense of the growing inevitability of a summer of unemployment. Glyndebourne cannot now employ me until March at the earliest, and even my few performances of Barber of Seville are looking ever less likely as I continue to sport my unorthodox leg-wear. The Count’s costume, after all, consists of tights and breeches. One cyberman in search of temporary gainful employment. Isn’t that why we took those exams in the first place?

Tescos. Dame Shirley Porter. And warthogs.

It’s near the end of half-term, and William has had a couple of ‘Daddy days’. Nothing other than Daddy will do, and if I don’t respond to “Daddy!” he will first try “Daddy?” then “DADDY!” and if all else fails, “Paul.” This level of attention is certainly flattering, but fairly exhausting too. And it has been an exciting couple of days for William, so the boy is now so tired and emotional that he is quite literally walking into walls.

Yesterday featured a trip to the zoo, courtesy of William’s hospice. The early signs weren’t positive. We managed to spot a couple of the less reticent animals, William would acknowledge their existence, say bye-bye, and insist on moving on.

“Look, it’s a warthog William!”
“It’s a warthog! Bye-bye warthog!”

Fortunately however, the zoo had a clear idea of where best to really spend their resources, and had laid on some entertainers with similar employment prospects to mine, wearing a variety of unconvincing costumes. These poor unfortunates made William’s day. He said hello to a tiger, a penguin, a monkey, a rabbit and a bumble bee. He insisted on giving them all a cuddle. He is still talking about it. And then we went on a small steam train. So William’s day was complete. Who needs animals at a zoo?

My day had started at a meeting with my lawyer. I was singing at a funeral at lunchtime, so felt quite the city boy, limping through town in a suit, albeit one that was crammed over my frame and showing six inches of ankle impaled with a plastic coated bolt. Apparently, the driver who thoughtfully introduced me to the bumper of his BMW is insured by Tesco, and they are not playing ball. Despite his admission to a magistrate that he had been driving without due care and attention, in the world of Tesco, this does not mean that Mr. BMW driver is at fault. I guess it should be no surprise to me that Tesco would inhabit a world of parallel logic, where normal reasonable thought is warped by considerations of pure, unfettered capitalism. After all, this is a company whose raison d’etre is to become the same company that provides for our every consumer need whilst being the company indelibly linked with one Dame Shirley Porter, gerrymanderer extraordinaire. Was this the heiress to the Tesco fortune? The same Tesco that posted recent annual profits of over £2bn? The same Shirley Porter that pleaded poverty when fined by the courts? Anyway, it is good to see the true face of Tesco behind the mask of friendly high-street grocer. That they are keeping close to the principles of their founding family. And that they can be trusted to look after the pennies in order to keep down the price of their milk. Ridiculous, I know, to think of my own litigation in such a context. Oddly, though, any old-fashioned scruples I ever had about playing my part in a rising tide of personal accident litigation have been thrown to the winds. To be blown about in some dusty corner somewhere with a few Tesco’s carrier bags.

At least William, with his nil-by-mouth existence, will not be beholden to the great supermarket giants. He has been hard work today though, still calling for Daddy an hour after being put to bed. Ideally I should now relax with a beer. I’m sure they’ve got some decent offers on multipacks at that well-known blue-fronted grocer’s store down the road.

A load of kidneys

So, Endemol were making the Dutch kidney transplant programme as a ‘hoax’. Does this make them civic minded rather than a cynically exploitative media company prepared to do anything for viewing figures? I know where I stand.