Liverpool Loo

My first memory of being ill goes back to when I was four. I can still remember the sound of the ambulance bell as it sped me to Alder Hey hospital in Liverpool. My temperature was 104F, I’d been sick and had stomach ache and was being admitted with suspected appendicitis. I can remember the 13-year-old girl in the bed next to mine. Her nightdress had caught fire and she was badly burned. I can remember being washed and prepared for an operation, then being told the x-ray results had come through and I didn’t have to have one after all as it wasn’t appendicitis.

The next thing I recall is being on an isolation ward. For a month. In a glass cubicle. Seeing my parents’ faces gurning at me through the window pane. And the cruelty of the nurses. Forcing me to drink scalding hot Ovaltine that would have burned my mouth and slapping me when I strained it through my cloth serviette to try and cool it down – very resourceful for a four-year-old, I think now. But they just punished me for my intelligent solution. Warning a nurse in advance that I was going to throw up and then being shouted at and slapped because they didn’t bring me a receiver and I chucked up all over the bed. I was four years old, for God’s sake! (I hear and feel that inner wail of, ‘It’s not fair!’ again.) I had dysentery. The bug was sweeping the hospital and I had been unfortunate enough to catch it while they were keeping me in for ‘observation’.

My month included the Christmas period. Father Christmas visited the wards. I was given a dolls’ tea set, tiny red plastic cups, saucers and plates. I hated dolls. I loved stuffed animals. I had brought my favourite with me, a nightdress case called Spot, a threadbarehand-me-down with one ear and one eye and half a nose and mouth, as he’d only been embroidered on one side. He was flat when not encasing a nightie, and he had a zip up his middle. Spot was my first real love, but they took him off me and burned him in case he carried germs. A few years ago, I read an article by Beryl Bainbridge in which she recounted a very similar experience, having her favourite toy burnt in Alder Hey because of germs. I wrote to her, commiserating, and she wrote back. I still have her letter.

When I was released from hospital, I was brought home and proudly shown a sparkly tree, tinsel and presents. My parents, sad that I’d missed Christmas, had staged a late one for me. Apparently (and I don’t remember this), I threw a tantrum and shrieked, “I want to go back to hospital!” My mother never forgave me. It was a wound she carried till her dying day. Thinking about it now, I suppose I was just disorientated. A four-year-old doesn’t use logic and reason, so Mum was being a bit hard on me there.

Could this attack of dysentery have been the start of all my stomach trouble? Or was it an inflamed stomach that landed me in hospital in the first place? Who knows? I had been diagnosed with acidosis as a child and my mother had been told that my stomach glands were producing too much acid. By the time I was a teenager, I was chugging Milk of Magnesia like an alkie on Special Brew. Curries upset me even back then. On Fridays, it was our habit to meet up in the pub and then go to the chipshop for a ‘six of chips’ (sixpence went a long way in those days) and curry sauce. That used to upset me but I loved the taste. Then when I got to university, I encountered my first Chinese and Indian dishes. More stomach ache. Especially when the owner of the Chinese was arrested for passing off Alsatian dog as chicken! Lord only knows what was in the curry. Students, probably. That would pay us lot back from diving out with a pocketful of poppadums and not paying the bill.

IBS

Today, I was supposed to travel to North London, which takes an hour and a half on various tubes and buses from where I live, to meet a friend who is 70 tomorrow and take him for lunch, but, once again, my stomach put the kibosh on my arrangements.

I blame it on the egg and cress sandwich I had for lunch yesterday. The crusts was so hard they were inedible and the filling tasted stale, but as a friend had bought it for me, I chewed (wo)manfully on. By the evening I was feeling queasy and couldn’t face dinner. This morning I awoke to turbulent rumblings as the Very Irritable Bowel reminded me of its presence. Several trips to the loo later, with a stomach that felt as if it had been kicked by a particularly bad-tempered mule, from the inside, I reached for the phone and disappointed yet another person. Of course, a couple of hours later and Dr Collis Brown's Mixture and a Yogi tea had done the trick, but by then it was far too late to set out.

This has happened too many times to count during the course of my life, though not always because of my disagreeable stomach. When I was seven, I was chosen from all the little girls at my infants school, to be Rose Queen in the Spring parade. How I was looking forward to it. My mother had made a beautiful dress in satin and lace and sewn it all by hand. Finally, the day of my stardom dawned. I woke up and was instantly aware that all was not well. In fact, that I was not well. Overnight, I had either been attacked by a mosquito – rare in Liverpool, especially in those days, although my dad brought back various strange things from the cargo ships he worked on, including fleas and a praying mantis – or I had developed…. Yes, it was indeed measles.

Crying bitterly, I was left in my bed while another little girl, Gillian, who was acknowleded to be the prettiest girl at school, wore my special dress and got all the glory. (The photo was taken the day after I returned to school. I think I look washed out, wistful and altogether disappointed by life.) Booker Avenue County Primary never did get a red-haired Rose Queen – though when I was chosen to play the Angel Gabriel in the Nativity play, my mother overheard another mother, whose offspring was disguised as the donkey, say: “Nonsense! Who ever heard of a red-haired angel?”

For my tenth birthday, a party was planned. I had looked forward for ages to the fun, the food and the presents then, lo and behold, I woke up to discover that either my bed had been infested with bedbugs in the night, or I had chicken pox. Guess which it was? All my guests were turned away at the door; I could hear the voices issuing up the stairs as I sobbed into my pillow. My wail of, “It’s not fair!” seemed more and more like a motto that had adopted me for life.

There have been taxis sent away at the door because I was too ill to go to the airport (stomach again), dinner parties where I wrecked the numbers by not turning up (stomach or migraine), and I few things that I have struggled to get to, only to have to lie down in a quiet, dark room while everyone else enjoyed themselves without me. Now, tomorrow, I have an appointment with the personal trainer at the gym. I can guarantee that I won’t be ill for that. No such luck!

P.S. This morning my dear boyfriend announced, “I suffer from IBS too.” “Really?” I replied. “I’ve never known you to have stomach problems.” “No, I don’t,” he said. “I suffer from Irritable Bastard Syndrome.” Oh, how true!

Mange

Despite telling myself to go to sleep last night, I couldn't I had too much on my mind, notably the house that is failing to sell. So around 1.20am, I got up and switched on the computer and began to investigate fox mange to see if there was anything I could do to help the little chap. To my amazement, I found http://www.nfws.org.uk/mange which is the National Fox Welfare Society. They use homoeopathy to help cure the mange as, without treatment they say, mangy foxes won't survive more than four or five months. They supply Arsen. Alb in jelly form, to be spread on bread and put out for the fox in a sandwich. Can't wait to get it. I'll let you know of the fox's progress.

Apparently, one side effect of mange is that the fox is so distracted by the terrible itch (caused by a mite of the same family as that which causes scabies in humans) that it loses its natural fear of humans. That isn't true of 'my' little fox yet. They can also gnaw off part of their tails and inflict horrible injuries on themselves with their biting. Again, I can't see signs of this on this fox yet. So perhaps there is hope. He's such a game little guy. He had a field day last night with a bag ful of semi-thawed chicken legs left over from a barbecue. Thank heaven foxes can't get salmonella poisoning.

Food Orgasms

My surname rhymes with ‘greed’. When I was little, my mother used to say that Greed was what it should have been as I was famous for scoffing everything put before me, then, not surprisingly, getting a stomach ache. I can never resist the lure of seconds, or even thirds. It’s the taste and texture of food that appeals to me. The crunch of a well roasted potato, then the glorious breaking through to the soft, floury interior, gives me an orgasm of the teeth. The combined flavours of salt (Lo-Salt, naturally, though I crave sea salt and give in on occasions) and the juice of the chicken, lamb or beef that they were based in gives me an orgasm of the tastebuds. Thus one might conclude that food is often better than sex.

Two nights ago I was laid low by the very last roast potato. Five were left on the roasting tray and they were about to be slung onto the lawn for the delectation of the mangy fox. Even his brush is devoid of hair and his sorry condition makes him resemble that ghastly breed of furless cat, with a length of pink cartilage for a tail. He won’t survive the winter without fur so I am determined to feed him well and give him a good summer. However, my generosity didn’t amount to five roast potatoes, so I ate two more. Then one more. The fox got two and I hope he was grateful. Maybe it was his accusatory vibes that kept me awake all night, groaning and rubbing my tum.

In the morning, I had a coffee date I didn’t want to break as I had cried off last time when my ulcer was playing up. Scrabbling in the cuboard, I found a box containing one Yogi Stomach Ease tea. I drank it before going out and as I journeyed, I felt the discomfort gradually easing so that by the time my friend arrived, I was bright eyed and bushy-tailed (compared to that poor fox, anyway), if somewhat tired from having all of three hours’ sleep. I originally tracked down Yogi Teas on-line, after discovering a sachet in my sister’s kitchen in the Lake District. It had been there so long that she didn’t have a clue where she’d bought it. You can, however, find them in larger health food stores and I bought a new packet in a shop in Ealing, West London. I’m sure that they’re better for you than Ranitidine. Next time I need one, I’m going to try grating raw ginger into it and seeing if that makes it act faster, or produces a stronger effect.

By the way, I forgot to programme my brain to wake me at a certain time, so having woken once in a sweat because I fell asleep under two duvets, then again at 5.26 am when the damned blackbird started, I finally surfaced properly at 9.10. Having taken no sleep aids whatsoever, not even alcohol, last night, this was a veritable miracle.

I did it!

Success! I woke at 8.30 on the dot and here is the evidence, taken four minutes later, which is how long it took for me to switch on my mobile and take the pic. Of course, one good result doth not a successful experiment make, any more than one swallow makes a summer or the need for a Heimlich manouevre, so I shall try again tonight and hope to have more good news tomorrow. As for the previous night, perhaps my lack of success was down to a bad stomach. Which is now better. Hooray!

What did Flad the Impaler drag in and demolish last night? The guts left on the kitchen floor were huge; the liver was bigger, in fact, than most of the mice he catches. Was it a very big rat? There was no fur left in evidence. A squirrel? He usually leaves everything from the bum and tail down, having a penchant for squirrel brains and ears. I have refrained from photographing the remains. It is Sunday after all and I have no desire to make you spew up your bacon and eggs all over your copy of the Observer or the Sunday Telegraph. If you’re reading the News of the World or the Sunday Sport, spew away, you won’t notice the difference.

Mention of the NOTW takes me right back to a distant summer holiday in Wales. I was about 10 and my family were sharing a cottage with stuffy ex teacher and magistrate Auntie Edie and lecherous Uncle Ste who was always groping my mum. The Sunday newspapers were brought to the village by van and Dad gave me a coin and asked me to get a Sunday Times or, failing that, the Express. The van man, very Welsh, had sold out of both. “I haff the People or the News of the World, cariad,” he told me, singing the words like a baritone in a male voice choir. News? World? That sounded intellectual enough for me, so I handed over the coin and got a few pennies in change.

I skipped happily back and presented my booty but the reception was not as happy as I’d expected. In vain did I protest that they’d sold out of their favourites and I’d used my intelligence to buy something that sounded a bit dry and boring, perhaps, but would nevertheless match the intellect of my relatives. “How could you bring that disgusting rag into this house? What will your Auntie Edie think of us?” chided my father.

“But it’s a NEWS paper,” I protested.

“Yes,” said my mother, “it’s all news about convicted vicars and pictures of naked women.” Uncle Ste would love it then, I thought bitterly. The whole experience only added fuel to the protest that, according to my mother, had been on my lips since I was born and has been my leitmotif ever since: “It’s not fair!”

P.S. Vesuvius is not quite so glowing this morning. I spent an hour in the sun yesterday and the rest of my nose has caught up with it.

Of Birds and Biliousness...

Oh God. Oh bad! Oh woe! Oh no… So much for the internal clock. Rather than waking at 8.30 am, I woke at 5.06 precisely and knew straight away that something was wrong. It wasn’t the lack of ear-splitting blackbird on the branch outside the window. It wasn’t even the crow having a row with the magpies who were tap-dancing on the roof. It was my stomach.

I’d woken from a nightmare in which my brother (in the dream, I haven’t one in real life) had ripped the front door from my flat which, rather improbably, was a council flat in a tower block overlooking the beach. I must have looked at too many of those websites recently showing horrid concrete beach developments in Spain and Bulgaria. With no door, I was invaded by surly hoodies and painted bimbettes who started having a party and stealing everything in sight including (ultimate horror) my mobile phone. Then fire engines rolled up. There was a fire in a higher flat. Scorched people with smoking clothes came whooshing down a thing that was a cross between a bouncy castle and an aeroplane emergency chute, to crash-land on the beach as the chute ended about ten feet from the ground.

It was a classic anxiety dream and I awoke with heart pounding and stomach churning. The heartbeat calmed down but the stomach went on churning, and still does, in ever more bilious heaves, as I write. The cause for my discomfort might just be the fact that, last night, in the space of a couple of hours, I introduced my stomach ulcers to a veggie pasta with roasted pine nuts and lots of cheese, two glasses of red wine, some chocolates, a brandy and a banana, not necessarily in that order. When will I ever learn?

I shall keep trying to set my internal alarm clock though. Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for the ballets being performed on my roof and in my stomach, I might have first seen the light at 8.30, who knows? Oh, and the spot on the end of my nose is worse. It’s getting a head on it. Or should that be, my head is getting a nose on it? Oh Lord. Pass the Prozac.

Talking of birds, if you're an ornithologist, the outer city suburbs is the place to be. As well as the usual suspects, there was a heron on a tree, 22 parakeets on the same one a few days later, a green woodpecker attacking an ant heap three days ago and last summer I saw my first ever spotted flycatcher. Bill Oddie has nothing on me. I used to live near him and Hampstead Heath is a great place for twitchers. I was walking down a woodland path, just off the main road, when a kestrel swooped down and snatched a small rodent almost from under my feet. I was far more scared at the thought of a vole beneath my sole than a 'falco tinnunculus' round my ankles.

Experiment #1

I thought you might like to know how it went. Book down, specs off, earplugs in at around 12.03am. "I am going to sleep now," I told myself. "I will wake up at 8am."

It took a while, twenty minutes perhaps, but I did fall asleep with no artificial help other than a glass of red wine during the evening. Then I woke up. It was light. Took my earplugs out. The birds were singing. Looked at the clock. 5.26am. Damn!

Earplus in, sleep mask on and next time I awoke it was quarter to nine. I missed my target on both sides with quite a large margin. But never fear, I shall try again tonight. Anyway, perhaps I am naturally aligned to the time of another country. Turkey, perhaps...