A Christmas Ode to Twitter

I make no apologies for the cloying style of writing, it's Christmas ... and as Andrew Lincoln almost said, in Love Actually, at Christmas you tell the schmaltz. 

2013 has not been great

On the dole and a sad goodbye to my dog

But the future’s looking brighter

Even if that prince turned out to be a mere frog

Throughout all the days of worry

Depression, and fighting not to be bitter

I’ve just about kept my sanity

Thanks in no small part to Twitter

It’s like your favourite bar

Where everyone knows your name

However crap your day is

At least one person feels the same

The simple kindness of strangers

The support never ceasing to amaze

A few well placed words of cheer

Can brighten even the grimmest of days

It may be slated by many

Often portrayed as shallow and trite

 It isn’t always friendly

And definitely isn’t always right

But the good outweigh the bad

And I feel I’ve made new friends

I hope I’ve given as much back

Paid my fair share of dividends

And so because it’s Christmas

The year’s end much better than it’s start

I’d like to thank every one of you

Each tweeter and tweet that played a part

Wishing you all a very merry Christmas

And a happy, healthy and prosperous new year

But even if it should go a little bit pear-shaped

We know we’ve got friends and laughter on here

Gordy - much  loved, greatly missed.

Not perfect, but perfect for me

It’s that time of year again – when the puppy industry gears up for the Christmas rush.  All over the countries, puppies are being bred to meet the annual ‘cutest gift ever’ demand.  Not all of them will be so lucky in the homes they end up in.  Many of them won't be in their new homes for very long - 130,000 dogs are abandoned  in the UK each year, and the post Christmas period bears the brunt of that.  According to the RSPCA, three puppies an hour are abandoned over the Christmas period, just chucked out at a few weeks old (The Guardian's article here). 

So before you buy that very cute, very perfect puppy, please consider adopting or even fostering a dog desperately in need of a loving home.  I promise you, whatever you give, you will get back tenfold.

20 months ago I decided to foster a dog from a rescue shelter, whilst a home was being sought for them.  I had been looking for a while and had contacted one rescue centre about fostering.  My application went ignored for over 6 months, but I still kept looking at their website, drawn to the same dog.  He was a strange looking dog – a big head on a scrawny, under-nourished body, shar pei, but not completely wrinkly, so possibly with a bit of staffie or Labrador in the mix. With hindsight, a poorly socialised Chinese fighting dog was a ridiculous choice for a novice dog-owner, however I am so grateful I don’t possess hindsight.  Caring for him changed both our lives for the better. 

From the beginning, Gordon (as he came to be called due to his resemblance to Gordon Ramsey - same wrinkles on his forehead, and at times the same temper) was a challenge in some ways and an angel in others.  He was quite reticent around people and very aggressive with other dogs.  His eyesight was seriously impaired by cataracts, so even dogs trying to be friendly were greeted with mistrust and fear.  Walking him reduced me almost to tears on many occasions.  He was incredibly strong and completely untrained on the lead.  Other owners were amazingly helpful, considerate and generous with advice and their willingness to take quick detours when we encountered them.  I was constantly thanking them and apologising, feeling like the parent of the ASBO child. 

There were many pluses.  His trust, hard-earned, was complete as was his loyalty.  He wasn’t a cuddly dog, but he loved to lean against you whilst you made a fuss of him and when it was just the two of us at home would roll onto his back to have his tummy rubbed – and then proceed to gently chew on my arm, which I hoped was a sign of affection.  He was very well house-trained.  Although a good guard dog, he never barked unnecessarily.  He was good with people and tolerant of children.  He would stand patiently and allow them to fuss him, moving away if it became too much.  Because he was so well house-trained, he wouldn’t even pee in the garden at first.  This worried me, so he was having four or five walks a day, until I calmed down and he always had two long walks a day, with extra walks when the weather was good and I had the time - which was most days.   He was very quiet, just happy to be near me and very patient.  If he felt he was being ignored for too long, he would destroy one of his toys until he got attention.  On one memorable occasion, after I had been sat at the dining room table immersed in completing an OU assignment, I turned around to discover that Gordon had spent the morning very quietly and very thoroughly destroying every toy he possessed.  CSI Toybox led to a trip to the charity shop for more cheap cuddly toys and also an investment in some more robust chew toys and balls. 

CSI Toybox

He had been on a dry food diet when he arrived.  After taking advice from other dog owners, I tried him on a raw food diet.  The change in the condition of his skin, coat and weight was amazing.  He went from being a skinny dog with skin problems and a greasy coat to being a very healthy animal with a beautiful coat.  He put on 5kg and looked in great condition.  He also became quite fussy - when he went back to the rescue centre for a few days  for his operation, he turned down dry food!  Planning, shopping and preparing his meals became a labour of love for me.   He  had raw dog-meat from the petshop, raw fish scraps from the good chip shop and liver and marrowbone from the butcher’s.  I mixed his food with boiled rice and chopped vegetables.  I added yoghurt and cod liver oil to make sure he was getting everything he needed.  I even bought a small chest-freezer so that I always had sufficient food for him.  I rarely made proper meals for myself, eating cheese or baked beans on toast, pizzas, sandwiches, whatever I could or couldn't be bothered to make, but Gordon's diet was balanced and healthy. When I roasted a chicken, he got more of it than I did, and I didn't add salt to the stock because too much salt was bad for Gordon.   In the same way some parents keep an emergency stash of jars of baby food, I had a few packs of good quality prepared dog food – for when we travelled anywhere or when I had forgotten to defrost his food.

We attended puppy training classes, with Gordon looking remarkably out of place, a 22kg dog amongst the tiny puppies.  He looked like Buddy in the classroom scenes from the film “Elf”.  Gordon didn’t last long in puppy training.  He would do what he wanted and no more.  One  day there was a battle of wills between Gordon and the instructor because Gordon would not lie down.  The instructor pressed down on his head, wrestling Gordon to the ground to make him lie down.   Gordon went from growling and barking to trembling with fear.  I made the instructor stop and we never went back.  I didn’t want him to be that afraid of anyone. 

A few weeks into fostering him, I realised there was something seriously wrong.  He constantly pawed at his right eye and rubbed it on the carpet.  I took him to the vet who said it was glaucoma and he needed to see a veterinary ophthalmologist immediately.  That explained his reaction to the training instructor pressing down on his head, the pain must have been unbearable.  As the rescue charity were responsible for all his veterinary care, I contacted them.  It took an extraordinary long time  and considerable battling on my part for them to agree to treatment, however eventually it was all arranged.  The outcome was not good for Gordon – his right eye had to be removed as soon as possible, and the lens removed from the left eye to stop that eye going the same way.

It took him a while to recover from the eye removal operation, but he was so incredibly brave.  The first day he came home he was clearly in pain, but he just lay down next to me, occasionally whimpering softly.  The other eye needed three different eye drops, three times a day.  At first any eye or ear drops were difficult to administer, he wasn’t keen on medication.  However, he soon associated eye drops with treats and would patiently sit and keep his eye wide open whilst I put the drops in.  Eventually he was so conditioned to getting treats, he started drooling when I picked up a bottle of eye drops.  He had one of each drop last thing at night at ten minute intervals, so I would put them all on the side table.  When I went out, I would come home to find plants moved around and tell-tale signs of drool on the table where Gordon had checked out no treats had been left behind.  

After his eye operation

As his health improved, his wound  healed and his behaviour on the lead became more manageable, we started to go further afield, on the train, by bus and sometimes in the car.  Gordon was never keen on the car, but loved the train and the bus.  He always got lots of attention, even with only one eye, he was still beautiful.  Once at Victoria station, there was such a large crowd of people gathered around him, we had to leave the station to get away from them.  Every single one of them said goodbye to Gordon.  I didn’t even merit a wave!   One very well spoken man on the train to Faversham paid Gordon so much attention and showered him with so many compliments, I was on the verge of leaving the two of them alone with a bottle of wine and a few candles.  On our walks, people would always ask about him and fuss him.  The local drunks adored him - I took Gordon to the post office once, and tethered him outside.  When I came out, one of his inebriated friends was sat on the ground by him, cuddling him, with Gordon bearing the attention with dignity.  If I went out in the evening, I always walked him when I got home, no matter what time.   I was never afraid, I wasn’t sure Gordon’s eyesight was up to protecting us – but to some he looked scary enough that nobody was going to chance it.   He loved the snow and went gambolling around in it, as far as his flexi-lead would allow.  He hated puddles and wet grass though.  When we walked in the early morning, he looked at me reproachfully if I tried to get him to walk on the grass, he was a real sugar paws.  

Not looking at all scary

At Christmas he had an advent calendar – one of the felt ones with pockets for treats.  By 3 December, he was sitting patiently staring at the wall where the calendar was hanging.  By the 5^th, he didn’t need me guiding him towards a treat, he just wolfed down as many as he could reach.  The advent calendar stayed up until the 6 January and the pockets of treats were regularly replenished. On Christmas Day I worked on reception as a volunteer at a local hospice.  I had got permission for Gordon to come with me for the day.  I tethered his lead to the heaviest chair in reception and  left him for one minute when I had to walk down to the ward.  Whilst I was talking to the ward sister, we heard a strange noise – it was Gordon and the chair, dragging behind him. All the staff and guests made a fuss of him, the kitchen staff brought out far too many treats for him and one family asked if he would come  and see their sick relative who missed their shar pei. 

I took him to France in March – we got stuck on the motorway in Operation Stack for 7 hours.  Gordon was an angel.  Sometimes he would refuse to get in a car, I had once spent 20 minutes bribing and cajoling him to get in, then a friend had to build a ramp to get him out, ,but on that day when I walked him up and down the motorway, in the thick snow and we had to dash back to the car as traffic was moving, he obligingly jumped straight in.  

 

Sadly, Gordon could never go off lead.  He was too aggressive with other dogs.  I tried introducing him gradually to familiar dogs, but he had no close-up vision, and seemed to think he was always about to be attacked, which is understandable.  He might seem friendly, but up close they disappeared from his vision and he became wary and aggressive.   So we kept apart from other dogs, with Gordon always straining to join in, which made me sad for him.  He also wanted to join in when we saw groups of young boys playing football.  Once he pulled so hard on the lead, he yanked it out of my hand and he was off, running up to two boys playing.  They froze in terror, with Gordon stood between them, wagging his tail.  I presume his first owners must have had young children of that age.  I taught him to play fetch in the garden and he would race up and down after tennis balls.  I took balls to the park, but there was too much there for him to be interested in fetch. 

Every 3 months we went to the eye specialist, and I was always pleased when Gordon got a clean bill of health.  After about a year, his  behaviour changed drastically.  He started becoming really aggressive towards runners going past us, and occasionally randomly lunging at people on the street, even biting another dog owner who went to fuss him.  He had to be muzzled most of the time, which he hated, but I couldn’t take the chance.  Eventually last month, Gordon went completely blind.  He had a detached retina.  This meant more drops and more trips to the veterinary ophthalmologist.  His behaviour became much worse and he could no longer go on trips with me, we practised getting on and off trains and going up and down steps, but sometimes he would refuse to move.  I was worried the train doors would close on us – with him on the train and me on the platform.  He also became much more aggressive to strangers and there was no pattern to his attacks.  We started creeping round different routes to go on walks, where I could be sure we would never be in close proximity to another dog, weren’t going past any schools and at times when there were less likely to be runners out.  At home, he was as lovable as ever, in his reticent, restrained way.  However friends with small children no longer visited, we couldn’t get about as much and the few friends who I had felt able to ask the odd favour of walking him occasionally no longer felt comfortable walking him, which I could completely understand. 

On his last visit to the eye specialist, the news was bad. He needed emergency surgery to remove the left eye.  On the way home from the vet, he heard another dog bark and went complete berserk, dragging us both into the road and then trying to attack a man who walked past between us and the barking dog.  For 2 days I did nothing but think about a solution for his future.  I knew I couldn’t keep him anymore.  The area I live in is too built up and Gordon was too unpredictable. Finally, I called the vet and spoke with her for over an hour.  I said I was trying to rehome him, and she said this  would not be fair on Gordon who would feel abandoned, nor on a new owner who would not have that level of  trust with a blind and incredibly strong dog who may turn at any time.  She also said that Gordon’s quality of life was now dependent on me not having any quality of life, not working, not going out, not seeing friends or family. 

Gordon was put to sleep a few weeks ago.  I made the decision rather than put him through another eye operation and then resign him to a life in kennels.  I discussed it with the manager of the rescue centre, Gordon's vet, my family, my friends, the other dog owners.  I tried to think of alternatives, but the decision was mine and mine alone.  It was heart-breaking to make and horrendous to go through.  He was showing signs of arthritis, was completely blind and extremely anti-social.  I nearly halted the euthanasia just before they started, but knew I couldn’t manage him for much longer, creeping round the neighbourhood, with me tense and him wary because of his lack of socialisation.  I also couldn't bear for him to hurt another dog or a small child out of fear or confusion resulting from his blindness.  After he was gone, I couldn’t talk for days.  The pain was almost unbearable.  I knew I would be upset, but I had not realised how much it would hurt.  Along with the pain is a mountain of guilt.  He had been such a loving and loyal friend, and I feel that in return I had betrayed him because I made the decision and I held him whilst he was put down. 

For a novice dog owner, Gordon had been a significant challenge.  He was also rewarding, loving and great company, he kept me from going mad with the boredom and depression of long-term unemployment.  When I walked home from the vet after he was put down, my grief was like a leaden weight inside me.  But the instant I put my key in the front door, I still looked through the glass – expecting to see him there, wagging his tail.   The next morning, I stayed upstairs for 3 hours after I got up, because I couldn’t bear to walk downstairs, knowing he wasn’t there.  Whenever I am out, I keep on looking at the time, wanting to say ‘I have to go now, Gordon is at home’.  When I cook, I keep turning round, expecting to see him sitting on the step by the dining room door, hoping for scraps.  I cut the grass last week and ended up sitting in the middle of the garden, sobbing, because normally he would have been walking up and down the garden in front of the mower, making me go slower and slower. 

I didn’t mean this blog to be this sad.  I wanted to make it clear how adopting Gordon changed me and changed my life, how rewarding it can be to take on an adult dog who may not be as perfect as you might think you wish, but can be perfect for you.   Every tiny step of progress was  a huge triumph.  The first time he played fetch, the destroyed toys, the first train journey, each successful check up at the ophthalmologist.  Gordon had 20 months of a loving home that he wouldn’t have had, he also had the medical attention he so desperately needed.  I had so much more.  I couldn’t take my time making the decision, because he had to have that operation, and it seemed so needlessly cruel to put him through it, get him recovered then have him put to sleep anyway.  I just wanted to take him home, spend more time with him, try everything possible to make his life better, but the risk to others was too great. 

Before I got Gordon, I had thought about getting a dog – maybe a Norfolk terrier.  I had even contacted a reputable breeder.  I only fostered a dog to see if owning a dog was right for me and I could take on the required commitment.  Once I got him, I couldn’t give him up, even with all the issues that came with him.  I had never envisaged owning a one-eyed, untrained, poorly socialised shar pei.  With all his problems, none of his  own making, Gordon brought so much happiness to me.  He was loved by everyone, my family, friends and neighbours sent him get well cards and gifts, Christmas cards, treats, toys.  Everyone wanted to meet him (nobody ever wanted to walk him though!). 

Neighbourhood Watch

This Christmas when I get out my decorations, I know he will be the first thing I think of.  At the very top of the box are his advent calendar, his ‘Santa paws’ Christmas stocking and a tree decoration ‘love me, love my dog’ that my cousins bought for me.  I will donate money to a dog’s charity instead of buying him presents, but his tree decoration will still be hung up.  Gordon was the best present I could have had, I wish he could have been with me for longer.  If I could turn back time, I would go back to October 2011 and insist that I fostered him from them rather than wait until March.  I would get him all the medical treatment he needed from the start and, maybe, if everything had been caught earlier, he wouldn’t have become so completely blind or so anti-social.   Possibly it would make no difference.  I might still be here alone, in this much pain.  But the pain of losing him is a small price for the gift of having him in my life. 

Even a dog as challenging as Gordon can bring so much love and happiness, possibly more so because every forward step brings so much triumph and pride at their achievements.  There are so many abandoned puppies and adult dogs in need of a loving home, and the changes in them over time are all the gratitude you could want.  If I or anyone else had taken Gordon on earlier, he may have had many more years.  All I am saying, as John Lennon really should have said,  is give rescue dogs a chance.

Being fair to those who pay in

Yesterday the Chancellor announced that today he would be announcing plans for his colleague, the work and pensions secretary to announce a change to benefits provisions for the long-term unemployed.
I am not sure I am comfortable with the announcing of announcements about announcements, but I know I am very uncomfortable with the ever growing demonisation of the unemployed. Under the new programme, the long-term unemployed will be enrolled onto Work Programmes - which, as has been discussed at length by Commons Select Committees, don't work for the unemployed or the taxpayer, but do give large corporations free labour. There is also mention of the long-term unemployed also doing community work - picking up litter etc. We have street cleaners, do they lose their jobs? Are we taking a living wage away from some people to get others working for virtually nothing? Community work was brought in as a punishment for petty criminals. So are we also sanctioning treating the unemployed as petty criminals? Maybe we could give them different coloured visibility jackets emblazoned with a handy slogan, e.g. 'I'm not a petty criminal, I just can't get work. I'm down. Kick me'.

The ranks of the long-term unemployed are increasingly more likely to be swelled by older jobseekers - as DWP itself has highlighted (here). Older jobseekers are quite often also people who have spent several decades paying tax and national insurance. When the government repeatedly say that 'we need to be fair to those who pay in' are they suggesting that they and we forget the amount many have paid in? How is that at all fair?

The changes don't stop there. If any long-term unemployed have been through Work Programmes and yet still do not find work, together with those suspected of working whilst claiming, they will be required to attend their JobCentrePlus (JCP) daily to sign on, in an attempt to get them to either give up claiming benefits or give up their black economy work and attempt to find legitimate employment. The Daily Telegraph (here) suggests that the daily attendees will run into tens of thousands.

These tens of thousands of claimants will have to sign on every day - how many extra staff will DWP have to employ? My calculations are very basic - and very rough estimates, however I suspect the Chancellor's may be about as accurate. I have asked my MP for an estimate of the costs of setting up these programmes. Personally, I would much rather the money was spent on health, education or housing. However, I don't live in the Westminster bubble, what do I know? If there are 2.5 million unemployed and 800 JobCentrePlus branches for claimants to sign on, that is approximately 3120 claimants per JCP. Every claimant signs on once every 10 working days - so on any given day each JCP has an average of 312 claimants signing on. If 30,000 are signing on daily (which is half of the Telegraph's suggestion of 60,000), that is an extra 37 each day per JCP - an extra 12%. How will DWP meet this demand? If they hire extra staff to cope with the extra workload, that will require some 8,000 staff. A member of staff being paid £18,000 per annum costs the employer around £20,000 a year. The annual cost of this approach to combatting potential benefits fraud is £160 million a year in staff salaries alone - without taking into account further costs such as the pension burden of an extra 8,000 staff, recruiting and training costs, travel costs for many of the unemployed, the accompanying bureacracy, etc. This figure is just for those signing on daily and doesn't include the cost to the taxpayer for Work Programmes or of setting up and managing community services for the non-criminal. Nobody seems to have taken into account what happens to those community services if the unemployed person has an interview or gets a job. Under the current system, unemployed people don't have to give notice to sign-off. How can a viable community service be provided if the workforce can be dragged away to someone else's employment at no notice?

The annual cost of Benefit Fraud is around £1.2 billion per annum, so I am not arguing against the concept that something should be done. However the cost of DWP's own errors is over £2 billion a year (hardly surprising when they have constantly fluctuating 'customer base', ever changing policies and targets). Both benefits fraud and benefits errors together are less than a quarter of the total cost of tax fraud. Should we expect more from an organisation which is set up to collect money, and is owed some £14 billion before we further demonise the rule-abiding 97% of the 2.5 million unemployed? If the organisation which is set up to pay out money is currently more likely to lose money through errors than fraud, should we be adding to their administrative burden or easing it to reduce the errors? If we want to be fair to those who pay in, can we acknowledge everything they have ever paid in, rather than penalise them if they have not been fortunate enough to be earning income and 'paying in' for the last few years? Equally if we really want to be fair to those who pay in, why not get everyone paying their taxes, including the private equity bankers, ageing rockers, the premier league footballers and the multi-national corporations. The long-term unemployed are made up of an extremely diverse group of people. But I would take a guess that we have a few things in common, not least the demoralising, depressing and frustrating nature of being on the scrap heap. The government can't have a lower opinion of me than I do of myself, but I do wish they would stop trying to achieve that and to set the employed against me and the other long-term unemployed. We are so far from the root cause of this recession, how can any fair government justify constantly holding us to account for it?

Parking. Problem?

"Nothing will get done until there is a serious accident" 

That is what a neighbour of mine was allegedly told when she asked a member of our local council if something could be done about cars speeding down our road.   Added  to the speeding problem is the now common practice of parking across the pavement, thereby forcing pedestrians into the road at greater risk from the speeding vehicles.  The comment wasn't said directly to me, nor did the neighbour tell me who had made the comment, so it may seem somewhat unfair of me to repeat it.   However, the problem of speeding vehicles is raised again and again at our meetings with the council.  I have even raised it with the local police commissioner and little is done.  

At the last meeting between residents, local councillors and representatives from Kent police, we were told that the police couldn't afford to monitor speeding down our road more than "at present" - the previous occasion having been seven months prior to that meeting.  We can't have fixed speed cameras, and therefore I assume parking cameras either, because the cost 'can't be justified'.  But nobody could tell me what the cost was.  Our road has become a virtual by-pass for traffic wishing to avoid the traffic-light hell of the town, particularly at peak times.  It is a long road of Victorian terraces, built long before car ownership became commonplace, let alone the the rise of two-car households, people carriers and vans.  For much of the road, parking is permitted on one side, with the other side being allegedly protected from parking by double yellow lines.  There are two traffic islands.  These have completely failed to stop speeding, but have become a breeding ground for the lesser-spotted fly-tipper.  

For car owners in our road, I admit that parking is a problem.  Residents find themselves having to park in neighbouring streets, thereby exacerbating the parking problem in those roads.  For some car owners and, more commonly, for visitors to the road or to the shops on Delce Road, parking on the pavement is seen as a 'handy' alternative.  If you are lazy, selfish and completely devoid of any social spirit at all, parking on the pavement will save you a few seconds, whilst you load up with newspapers, cigarettes or kebabs.  In the quick run from your car to the shop / take-away, it is so much easier to avert your gaze from the parent struggling to negotiate around you car with a pushchair, the dog walker having to cross the road, the disabled person in a motorised wheelchair who has to ride into the road on a dark night, the elderly person with a stick or a frame who has to cross the road and cross back again because of your car, when every step for them is a struggle.  Just avert your gaze, jump into your car, get on your mobile and chat away whilst you stuff chips in your mouth. It is an unmissable dining experience.  If your phone battery is dying, you can always entertain yourself watching the number of pedestrians who have to walk into the road whilst your car blocks the pavement.     

Yesterday, I pointed out to a van driver that he regularly parks across the pavement.  His response was  to smirk at me and tell me that he had 'heard' I had taken a photo of his van, as if somehow I am the one with the problem.  The smirk annoyed me, not least because I do feel judgmental and as if I have very quickly turned into Mrs Mangle, but every day I see at least one person with a dog, toddler or wheelchair forced into the road by parked cars, whilst cars speed pass.  I pointed out to him that there is sheltered accommodation at one end of the road, and many of the road's residents are either elderly or parents of young children - all of these pedestrians are forced to negotiate the obstacle of his van by walking in the road to get to the shops, the health centre, nursery, kindergarten etc.   They all have a need and a right to walk safely on the pavement.  He explained that it was "only for a short time" whilst they were finishing work on the house.  He really didn't want to have the conversation - however since I took a photo of his van, he hasn't parked on the pavement.  

At least he was civil and seems to be making an effort to park legally.  I hesitate to challenge many of the drivers.  I might walk everywhere with a shar pei who looks as though he has been in a battle or two, but doubt that would stop some of those drivers from punching me in the face.    

The parking and speeding problems have been exacerbated in recent years and I am wondering if it is just because more people own cars or do we have less traffic wardens on foot? Have traffic wardens been mostly been replaced by "CCTV Approved Device Vehicles"?   I haven't seen the car with the camera for months and I can't remember the last time I saw a traffic warden.  Yet every single evening there are at least four vehicles parked across the pavement by Delce Road.  I have never seen any of them moved on or parking tickets issued.  Park too long across the top of the road and you get a ticket.  Park on double yellow lines overnight along the street or in a disabled bay without a disabled badge and you get a ticket - and  rightly so.  Park across the pavement every single day - and nothing is done.  As residents, what do we have to do to alleviate these problems?  Do Medway council really think it is better to wait for a disabled person or a toddler to be hit by a speeding car whilst they are walking in the road around an illegally parked car?  It isn't the council's fault that people park across the pavement, but it is a problem for everyone that they seem to do so little about it.  

I'm  fed  up of vehicles speeding down here, not caring about the potential consequences if they can save a few seconds,  I'm fed up of having to walk in the road to avoid parked cars and I'm even more fed up of waiting on the pavement whilst motorists drive along it to get past other vehicles.  I don't know what the ideal solution is, but I do know that little is said and even less is done.   I have requested a 20mph parking limit for the road, as advised by the police commissioner.   I will continue to ask for the parking and speeding problems to be monitored.  I get more like Mrs Mangle every day, but I don't want to wait for a serious accident to have this issue resolved.   

Dog Blog II

My dog suddenly went completely blind on Tuesday.

He only has one eye - the other one had to be removed last year, the sight was completely gone and he had glaucoma, which was causing him intense pain.  He also had the lens removed from the 'good' eye, his left eye, to retain what little sight he had and prevent glaucoma occurring in that eye too, so he has long been used to limited vision and no close-up vision.  The pressure in the remaining eye has remained normal since the operation and his check-ups are now only every 6 months.

Over the weekend I suspected that his sight was gradually getting worse and wondered if I should bring forward his next check-up with the ophthalmologist, but on Tuesday the decision was made for me.  I got him ready for his evening walk, and he didn't want to leave the house.  It was raining slightly, and he is a bit of a baby about going out in the rain, so I assumed it was just that.  However, when we got outside the house, he just stood in the street trembling.  I still wasn't aware it was total blindness.  He seemed healthy and there was nothing wrong with his appetite.

Eventually I coaxed him up the road and it became obvious there was something wrong, he stayed much closer to me, almost under my feet and he kept on falling off the pavement.  In the woods he walked right through the middle of the large puddles.  Gordon has 'sugar paws', he can't stand wet grass or puddles, he skirts round them, no matter how awkward it is to do so, so tramping right through a large puddle was a sure sign he couldn't see.  When we got home, he didn't flinch when I flicked my hand towards his eye, suggesting there was no vision.  The next day I got him an emergency appointment with the ophthalmologist.  He struggled down the steps to the vet's, and it took three of us to get him into their door.  When we took him into the surgery, he was even worse, just refusing to move, we virtually had to carry him in, his terror was heart-wrenching.  He was good, as ever, when the vet examined his eye, but terrified when he was taken away for the ultra-sound scan.

We now know his retina has detached - which caused the sudden blindness.  He has steroid drops along with his normal eye drops and I regular trips back  to the vet to check progress.  They will know in two weeks how permanent the damage is and whether the retina can be reattached.

In the meantime, he gets very confused and anxious.  When he wakes up from a snooze he has had panic attacks and pawed frantically at his eye, in an attempt to clear it.  But he is also very brave.  For two days I have been coaxing him round the house, banging the wall, doorways and the floor so he can hear where everything is, because he didn't want to leave his bed, and he has been trusting enough to follow me.  In the park,  I keep him on a shorter lead to guide him away from any objects he might bump into and I spent ages coaxing him to go down and then up a set of stairs.  He has never gone up and down stairs inside the house or anywhere we have visited, but has been good with steps outside.  If he loses that, it really restricts where we can go, I don't have a car, so trains are our main form of transport.

Even though, this only happened a few days ago, Gordon is less anxious, braver on walks and in the house.  For two days he wouldn't step down into the utility room without me helping him.  This morning he has quite happily gone up and down that step a few times - stumbling every time, but he did it.  I realise I had under-estimated how much vision he must have had before the retina became detached.  He doesn't go straight to his food and water bowls or to his bed.  He knows the area they are, but he has to feel and sniff his way cautiously.

He is a very brave and trusting dog and very resilient.  He had a rough few years before he was re-homed.  He overcame that and if he is blind, he will adapt and overcome that as well.  In the meantime, I will continue crawling round the house and crouching/walking with him in the park until he is accustomed to his own habitat and all his favourite haunts on our walks.  I don't care how stupid I may look to others, Gordon, who can no longer see me, thinks I look amazing.

Another bonus has been the number of friends who have contacted me offering to help with the vets bills.  The charity I adopted him from had vowed to always pay for his eye treatment, however this now appears not to be the case, so just the detached retina diagnosis and ultra-sound cost £180.  My dad immediately sent me the money, insisting I allow him to help if the charity won't.  But it does make me realise just how fortunate I am with the support I get from my dad and from friends at times like this.  I am overwhelmed with such offers, so a huge thank you to those who so generously came to my rescue.

Brick walls

For those of you looking for the cheesy pun in the blog title, I am sorry to disappoint!

The dog and I have both hit brick walls in the past two days - him literally, he has suddenly gone completely blind and we have an appointment with the veterinary opthalmologist tomorrow.  He is quite distressed by it - he doesn't get out of his bed until I guide him around, he stays much closer to me when we go for a walk, and won't attempt the step down into the kitchen without me patting the floor to show him through sound how far down it is.  I doubt there is anything that can be done to help him, but hopefully he will come to terms with it.  By the end of last night's walk he had progressed from trembling outside the house to venturing a few feet from me with his tail wagging.

My encounter was more literal and, being me, I will take far longer to bounce back.  After months of looking, applying for jobs and networking - at which I am hopeless, a former colleague put me forward for a role and I got an interview.

It was an interview I should have walked.  Instead I froze, stumbled, tripped and dived headlong in the abyss of cringe.   It was so bad that I am not yet ready to relate all the cringing details.  It left me, however, with a dilemma.  This is the second interview in 3 months that I have thrown through fear and panic-attacks.  If I can't get through an interview, what kind of jobs or earning activities are available to me that don't require them?   Most of the answers for that have been dismissed as unattractive - the clientele would not be attractive to me, and now fast approaching 50 I doubt very much that I would be attractive to them either.

This left me with either a life of crime or writing Mills & Boon novels - more and more people are turning to reading and writing this kind of fiction.  The average author makes around £4,000 a year.  It's not a living, but it is more than I get on the dole.  If I am writing full time, I might work my way up to £8,000 a year, which is as much as many part-time jobs.   I know "they" say there is a book in everyone, but I am yet to be convinced that applies to me.  But I did come up with a further plan - write a novel.

I have written the first 1,000 words and quite a few people very kindly gave me some really helpful feedback. My aim now is to continue working on it for at least one hour each day.  I will occasionally post excerpts to bore you all with.  Huge thank you to everyone who contributed.

The Food Bank

Yesterday, I had my first experience of a food bank.

It was my first day shadowing an advisor at a local Community Project, with a view to eventually joining the advice drop-in team as a volunteer.  I took a message to the food bank team, busy selecting goods for a customer.  I know food banks are on the rise.  I have read articles asking for donations, articles citing the increasing numbers using food banks and articles criticising the food that is given out, but up until yesterday I hadn't seen one first hand. 

Seeing the shelves of tea bags, pasta, rice, tinned vegetables and meats, toiletries, baby products etc. really brought poverty home to me.  I don't know what I had expected from a food bank and doubt I had given them in-depth thought.  Most of the items on the shelves, apart from the baby products, I generally always have in the cupboard.  People who use food banks are not going there for high cost items to supplement a staple diet, they are there for the staple diet.  Their cupboards are well and truly bare.  They can't make a cup of tea or have a bowl of cereal, they can't afford even that. 

The team didn't interrupt my reverie as I stood in the doorway, gazing in awe at the contents.  They were busy, but I also wondered if they were accustomed to this reaction from the uninitiated.  Poverty is much talked about in the media, much of the rhetoric seeming like the unwanted child batted backwards and forwards between the warring, separated parents of the political parties. I may be naive and I suspect that I lack imagination, but I hadn't given that much heed to the many shades of poverty that clearly exist between people like me - unemployed, on minimum benefits and the homeless.  

"There is nothing in the cupboards" takes on a far more literal meaning than the hackneyed phrase we often employ.  What we actually mean is that there are staple goods, but nothing that whets our over-indulged appetites.  Most of us will have tea, coffee, cereal, rice, pasta, herbs, spices, sugar, various pulses bought in anticipation of trying out the latest favourite TV chef's recipe and abandoned at the first hurdle of not being able to find sun-dried, sicilian-ripened cherry tomato puree.   We have cupboards and freezers bursting with food.  A friend started an exercise of planning meals that would use up this bounty rather than constantly over-spending at the supermarket.  Once she got to the back of the cupboards and the bottom of the freezer, the menus became "interesting".  When we talk about food waste, I presume it is fresh foods such as meats, fruit and vegetables that get thrown out unused.  I tend to forget about the amount of items I keep in my cupboards.  For myself, particularly in my current situation, I need to use or lose this otherwise it just becomes waste,  I could find that I eat more healthily and definitely more frugally.

I also want to look behind the headlines and the sound bites and really see how some people are living.  I thought I was struggling, but I have a home, my health, family, friends, food, a social life, the dog, a purpose,  a television, phone, internet.  I am not struggling by any means, I just have a different standard of living to the one I had a few years ago.  It isn't a lower standard of living, in many ways it is much richer, for one thing I am a time millionaire, it is just different from the over-indulgent, pampered life I lead for so long - and to which I may possibly return, to some degree, in the future.  I have wondered if I am in a repetitive cycle, as in the film 'Groundhog Day' and my situation won't change until I have learned the right lessons.  I am a long way from  aware, but I am optimistic that I am getting there.  When I get a job and the worry of how to pay the bills is replaced with idle contemplation of what to spend money on, I will keep these lessons in mind and focus on just how fortunate I am. A man on the news yesterday was asking for understanding for society's needy.  Even whilst asking for understanding, he actually said  "they've got themselves into a mess".  How often do you hear cancer sufferers being blamed for their own situation?  Poverty is everybody's problem, if we did more to really understand what it is like, possibly we would find better ways  to genuinely improve the lot of those who suffer from it.  

The main cause of stress is .... people

Last night I had a really good night's sleep - for 2 hours, then I was awoke and couldn't get back to sleep.  Today will be mostly a glazed expression and bags under my eyes, both of which look really good on me!

At around 3.30 I gave up with sleep, made a cup of tea and turned on the telly.  It was grim and  I ended  up trying to doze off again whilst watching Food Network on the telly.  Dull as it was, it didn't prove soporific.  As with every reality show nowadays (such a middle-aged word there .... 'nowadays') nothing could be achieved calmly and in good time.  Both shows I watched were about cupcakes.  I would have imagined one cupcake show to be more than sufficient, but if you have little imagination, there is always mimicry, so there are at least two.  If I could steel myself to watch more Food Network telly, I may discover 5 or 6. One was following the owners of a cupcake business and the other was four different cupcake companies "battling" to provide their product to some premiere event.  As seems to be the case with most reality TV shows, the point was to take on ridiculous burdens, then repeat every cliche ever uttered about time being tight and the amount of pressure they have chosen to take on.  This is what I hate most about reality TV.  Everything is a big deal, everyone is under so much pressure, time is always critical.  

If you run your own cupcake business, how can you suddenly "find" that you have 24 hours and several thousand cupcakes to produce?  Did the cupcake order fairy visit in the night and dump this massive order from her icing shimmered buttocks?  No.  If the workload is unachievable or extremely difficult because of the time and staff available that may make your reality TV show more appealing to a certain kind of audience, but it can't be good business sense.  In the real world, it smacks of bad planning and poor customer service.  We don't need constant stress in our lives, now and again is more than sufficient, more than that is either someone desperate to show how busy or important they are; or someone unable to say no.  Piling work on your employees until they reach breaking point is much to be frowned on in employment tribunals.  In television production, however, it is assumed to lead to compulsive viewing.  For all producers out there, a word to the wise - it doesn't.  

Reality TV bears little resemblance to the real world, but it is worryingly the case that the real world is increasingly becoming like reality TV.  Are they turning us into a society obsessed with creating stressful situations?  Shows like Eastenders led the way in suggesting it is acceptable to scream at everyone all of the time, no marriage can have a happy ending, it is perfectly acceptable to walk up to someone in the street and thump them and you can work a few hours a week in the local pub and yet have a good standard of living - apart from the 3 months in which you descended  into drug addiction and prostitution, but you've cleaned up now, disappeared, been on a celebrity reality show and now you are back with a new contract, a slimmer figure, different hairstyle and a miraculously repaired soap life.  Already people talk as if they are under constant pressure all of the time.  The economy is not great, unemployment is high, the cost of living is high, decent healthcare and education are becoming increasingly out of the reach of the average salary.  These things can and do and cause stress.  But people are starting to talk as if everything causes stress.  Travel on any train - at least one person will be constantly on the phone, emphasising ever other word, insisting that they are not taking it any more, but revelling in calling everyone they know, telling them all about what it is, recounting the minutiae of their daily life as if it were a blockbuster movie.  

Buying a few antiques at a flea-market - you've got one hour, a camera crew and an expert haranguing you and in that hour you have to have a major disagreement with the person you went on the reality show with.  Looking for a new home to buy - you will be shown several by the robots disguises as humans better known as 'Kirsty and Phil'.  Kirsty and Phil wouldn't have much of a show if you had realistic expectations of what you could buy, what you want and if you were happy with the first or second house they showed you.  Therefore you have to have a ridiculous wish list for your new property,  you need to move in the next 3 days because you are expecting a baby, an elderly relative is moving in with you, you are following your dream - reality shows love everyone to have a dream ... not a substantial one, just something fluffy that will bugger up the whole show until, as if my magic, your dream home appears 20 seconds before the show ends.  Equally when you find a house you are happy with, it is touch and go as to whether your offer will be accepted.  Everyone is on tenterhooks.  You can't talk to the estate agent - because you aren't a celebrity, Kirsty and Phil have to do that for you and then keep a straight face so that the audience doesn't guess what the reply is.  The audience, meanwhile, has probably died of boredom and is better occupied sniffing sugar through a rolled up TV guide.  At random intervals during the show, the camera finds Kirsty and Phil alone discussing how stressful it all is for them.  What is stressful about showing someone round a house? Open the front door, walk round, leave.  That is all.  Kirsty and  Phil will get paid regardless.  Where is their actual stress?  Do we believe they are under stress? Do they think we believe it?  The mad thing about Kirsty and Phil land is that their clearly is no stress involved, they tell us there is, but there clearly isn't.  No clocks are ticking, no food is burning, no hungry customers are waiting whilst in-need-of-cash michelin-starred chefs vomit obscenities in every other shot, no over-the-hill businessmen are waiting in the boardroom/staged loft to fire, hire or throw money at the contestants.   

In many of these shows, arguments abound - which goes back to the Eastenders model of interaction.  Nobody gets taken aside and warned about their explosive temper, because that is what makes 'good telly'.  It doesn't make good commuting, a pleasant walk through the park or a good night out at your local, but we've seen it on the telly, we see it on the street.  

Everything comes good  before the end of the show - nothing is actually resolved, it was all staged anyway, so we don't see anyone tackling real issues, we just see a miraculous turnaround and then at least one person, if not everyone in front of the camera, will cry.  I blame Little House on the Prairie for this and Charles Bloody Landon.  Not an episode went by without Pa crying, and Ma looking on, her face glowing with pride and her eyes wet with unshed tears.  The real Ingalls were Pioneers!  They had travelled for weeks in all weathers, across unexplored territories with their entire home in a wagon, taking their young children with them.  But no, Pa cries at the drop of a hat, and Ma is about as tough as a wet tissue.  He was the first crybaby, and now everyone is at it.  The positive outcome is less easy to replicate in real-life.  If from the start your project is poorly planned,  your team is argumentative and non-productive and you don't work steadily  towards your goal, chances are you won't get there. Reality TV does show us this - the "Apprentice" teams regularly screw up, but I suspect the producers prefer that, it makes better viewing.  

Modern life is in danger of becoming an unplanned, mismanaged nightmare where everyone rows for hours, resolution appears as if dropped from the heavens and without any actual intervention by anyone involved and then at least one person will sob as if they were Gwyneth Paltrow accepting an Oscar.  The inference is always that the 'stress' was caused by time or by the nature of the task, or the pressure of being before a camera.  The programmes lull us into forgetting that stress is caused by people.  Whether the workload is imposed upon you, or you have taken on, a person or group of people brought about that situation.   It isn't a good model for running a life, a business or even making a cupcake.  But by far the worst of  all the modern reality crimes is that is poor television and yet it is still taking over from decent dramas or documentaries in all the schedules. Shame on the television networks for doing it, but most of all, shame on us for providing the demand.  

Nit Nurse

With children returning to school, parents are apparently rushing to the shops to buy nit combs - Boots was completely sold out.  They are not the only ones buying them.  I had a busy and heavily scented weekend – not quite roses and perfume, more your local chippy.

On Saturday I defrosted a huge bag of fish scraps for the dog – yes, my life really is that rock and roll.   I spent an hour or so poaching and deboning the fish, filling the house with eau de fishing vessel.  It’s a bit fiddly, but I don’t like to give him tinned dog food and even with the frozen meat I buy at the pet shop, I wonder exactly what is in there.  With the fish scraps mixed with rice and vegetables, I know exactly what he is being fed.   I say all this as if he has a rigidly controlled diet, when the reality is he also gets spoilt with dog treats and scraps from what I eat – which is nowhere near as healthy as his food. 

Sunday finished with a very strong smell of vinegar.  I decided that the garden had been neglected long enough and I should spend an hour or so tidying it up.  An hour or so became 8 hours, much to the dog’s delight.  His favourite places in the garden are behind the shed, waiting in vain to catch next door’s cat; and standing at the back gate, wagging his tail every time someone walks past.  I wonder if his little doggy brain has worked out that they can’t see him through the wooden gate, or if he is so used to not seeing anything, he just assumes that everyone can see him all of the time. 

Whilst relaxing after my mammoth gardening session, I realised that my scalp felt as if it was burning.   I had tied it in a ponytail to keep it out of the way, but it was more a loosely gathered than a Croydon facelift taut style of ponytail, so I couldn’t see how that could make my scalp burn.  It hadn't been that hot and my hair is quite thick, so I ruled out sunburn.  At a loss to explain the burnin, I had a quick look on Google.  GPs must absolutely rue the day Google was invented.  Before it came along, you’d have to be a really dedicated hypochondriac and invest in a medical dictionary to look up random symptoms and jump to extreme conclusions over a few sniffles.  Now we can all indulge in Munchhausen Syndrome, just by tapping into Google.  It would cost the NHS a fortune, if they still had any money left to treat us all. 

According to Google, it could be trichodynia resulting from iron deficiency, thyroid problems or stress.  Stress would make sense, I am under a lot of stress at the moment – possibly because I keep looking too many things up on Google.  Once I starting thinking about it all, the burning seemed to get worse.   My imagination ran riot.  I wondered if my hair would fall out and if so would I opt for baldness or wear a wig?  I am far from being a hypochondriac, if anything I avoid the doctors and can go for a couple of years without a visit.  I moved back to Kent nearly 2 years ago, and it is only 1 month since I registered with the GP again.  It is Google that does this to me, Google and too much time on my hands.   When I say ‘it is Google’, clearly I mean that it is me.  Google does many things, but it doesn’t yet control our thoughts and actions – although I suspect somewhere in a basement, they have someone working on that.

An unwelcome thought popped into my head as I rubbed my burning scalp, it occurred to me that it might not be ‘burning’, it might be ‘itching’.  There could be THINGS living in my hair.  I don’t have children.  I have many friends and relatives with children, and they all seem very blasé about hair lice.  I have never had hair lice.  When I first went backpacking, I inspected for head lice regularly, convinced that lice, bed bugs and scabies were just lying in wait in every hostel.   But in all my travels, I only ever got stomach bugs.  No creepy crawly flesh eaters, cadging a free ride.  I Googled head-lice.  ( I am quite tempted to remove Google from my laptop, it could be far better for my long-term sanity). I racked by brain as to how I could have got headlice – I live alone.  It is a couple of weeks since I had visited anyone with children, had my scalp just started burning today, or had I been ignoring it for days?

I went in search of a fine toothed comb.  It was a plastic one, but it was 10 p.m. on a Sunday night, and needs must when your head is  full of nonsense.  I spent some time combing sections of my dry hair and inspecting the comb against a dark flannel.  Google had advised me to look for small white eggs, the size of a pin head, and beige/grey nits the size of a sesame seed.  Every fleck was carefully examined.  There was definitely nothing that looked like a louse, but I worried over every fleck – was it an egg, was it a flake of skin, was it a scrap of garden debris. 

Google had assured me that headlice did not mean I was dirty and they could be eradicated.  But I was still in favour of thyroid problem or stress over lice living off my scalp (not iron deficiency, I don’t like the tablets).  There is no logic there.  If the choice is that you can be on medication for the rest of your life, or you can have a few bugs which a disgusting smelling shampoo and a fine-toothed comb will get rid of, why would anyone plump for a thyroid problem?  

By the time I had dragged the comb through every strand of my hair several times, my scalp was not just burning, it was also very sore.  I had dug the comb in as near to the scalp as possible “to pick up the eggs”.  I wasn’t sure I had actually picked up any, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.  The sensible thing to do at this point would have been to go to bed and visit the pharmacy or the doctor in the morning.  The really stupid thing to do would have been to consult Google for a home remedy that could be administered straight away to combat the headlice that may not actually be there.  It was gone 11, bed and a trip to the pharmacy was definitely the wise option.  However the home remedy was normal hair conditioner and vinegar – and what do you know, I have those things!  I spent a ridiculous amount of time combing conditioner through my hair and checking the comb again after every section.   I rinsed with water as hot as I could stand it – on the basis that if it hurt me, surely it must kill the teeny tiny little buggers that might be there?  Nowhere on Google had it said ‘parboil your own scalp, but with my extensive medical knowledge garnered from drooling over George Clooney in ER, I decided a scalding was called for.  By now my scalp was quite literally burning.  The final rinse of vinegar was to stay on overnight – because that kills the eggs.  I hadn’t found any evidence of eggs that could be relied upon, let alone a living, munching louse, but the terror of having of headlice drove me on. 

The vinegar rinse was quite painful on my now very tender scalp.  Even worse, it got in my eyes.  Vinegar descales kettles, and here I was virtually using it as an eyewash.   I have wondered all day if they look clearer and brighter to everyone else – or just bloodshot and acid burnt? I towel dried my hair and, having disinfected the comb with vinegar, I combed it through again.  This time I found three or four little brown blobs.  I rushed to Google, dripping wet, reeking of vinegar.  They were too dark for eggs or lice, but they could be lice droppings – lice are the size of a pin, how the hell can they have droppings visible to the human eye, let alone the acid-washed human eye?  Then common sense turned up – how welcome that would have been a few hours earlier, but better late than never – I had got dark brown towels out (to see the eggs more clearly!) so it could very likely be towel lint.  I took a pin to the lice droppings / towel lint – definitely towel lint.  It was nearly 1 in the morning, I had found no evidence of any infestation, but neither of those facts deterred me from a clean-up operation that would put a brain-surgery operating room to shame.    I scoured the sink and the bath.  I bagged up any hair, tissues, hair pins, etc. and sealed the bag (lice cannot jump, I had found no evidence of them anyway, but just in case my hair had harboured a super-species, I was taking no risks).  I gathered up the towels and flannels and put them on a hot wash.  I put my hairbrush, comb and hair slides in a vinegar solution to ‘kill the eggs’ just in case a few invisible ones were lurking. 

Before getting into bed, I inspected my pillow carefully.   It was spotless.   I would check it again in the morning.  Looking back, I can’t believe I didn’t take photos of it for forensic level comparison.  As I drifted off to sleep, I could just about detect the scent of tea tree oil condition under the overwhelming whiff of vinegar.

This morning I went to the pharmacy.  Amazingly my poor, battered, scalded scalp no longer hurt.  Less amazingly, due to the complete lack of evidence, I had it confirmed that I don’t have head lice, and as my scalp no longer burns, I very probably don’t have a thyroid problem either.  The vinegar smell has been with me all day, to remind me of my late-night lunacy.  I bought a proper lice comb anyway – just in case I have another late night desire to administer self-torture.   I am almost tempted to hire myself out as a nit nurse.  I would quite like to find eggs and a few lice - in someone else's hair of course, just to make the hours of researching on Google and forensic inspection of my own head seem worthwhile. 

A Nice Pot of Tea

This morning, I awoke before 5 a.m. On a Sunday morning, a hangover free Sunday morning, without a flight to catch, with no requirement for a mad bout of pre-visitor housework and undisturbed by the dog, I awoke before 5 of my own accord.

There was the usual 15 minutes battle between the need to pee and the desire to go back to sleep. I knew that once I got out of bed, I would be awake for the day. If I wake up at around 3 in the morning in need of the loo, I get up instantly and within 1 minute I am back in bed and straight back to sleep – and that includes the time it takes to wash my hands. If I wake up later, I dither.  The delay is a false economy, because once the bladder has won, it then plays hard to get. You’ve given in and gone to the loo, but the bladder then does its spiteful little trick of taking its own good time to empty. I googled this, Google suggested a urinary infection. I didn’t like this suggestion, so I decided that it was caused by slow-to-wake-up bladder or possibly sulking because I wouldn’t get up immediately bladder. Both of these little known medical predicaments are, of course, entirely made up by me. I have based my diagnosis on the fact that it only happens around this time of the morning and to make my diagnosis more accurate I am completely overlooking the efficiency of the bladder should a 3 a.m. call to the bathroom be required.  

Bladder control regained, I reclaimed my bed, but there was no going back to sleep, even though it was more than an hour before sunrise. I dithered with the idea of treating the dog to a very early walk and picking blackberries whilst the park was free of other dogs. They wouldn’t be competition for the bramble bounty, but it is quite difficult to pick fruit when 25 kg of shar pei is straining to kill all other small mammals. The idea of leaving the bed at that hour, let alone the house, was abandoned due to a slight chill in the air and lethargy.  

What I really wanted was a cup of tea, preferably a pot. What I didn’t want was to go downstairs, risk waking the dog and brave the cold kitchen. The battle lasted 14 minutes less than the bladder battle. If I wanted tea, I needed to move. Whilst I was waiting for the kettle to boil, which takes seconds in the day, but at least 23 minutes at 5 in the morning  I remembered my mum’s Goblin Teasmade. At 13, I thought this the most ridiculous, self-indulgent affectation. We didn’t live in a mansion, why couldn’t they just get up and boil the kettle? However 35 years on, I understand. Is this yet another sign of middle-age? I console myself with the fact that I am 7 years older than my mother would have been when she went through her ‘must have a Teasmade’ phase.  

I am now on my second cup of tea. The dog has been fed and is snorting away at the bottom of the stairs, which is his way of encouraging me to get up. If I had a Teasmade, he would still be in his bed, fast asleep. I looked on Amazon. Teasmades now are very sleek, they are also around £70. £70 for a kettle with a clock or a clock with a kettle, whichever way you wish to view it, seems a lot. I am not that bothered about the tea being made when I wake up, it is more having to venture downstairs for the tea that bothers me. I could keep a tin of tea and a travel kettle in the bedroom, but that seems a bit grim, I might as well go back to living in a studio flat. I could get a one cup tea maker for around £20, without the clock. Or I could get a “tea tool” for less than £6, although that does look like an instrument of torture and I don’t like the idea of putting an electrical item in water. A kettle is an electrical item containing water – how is that any less scary? Where is my logic? It just boils down to choice (no pun intended at all).  

I want a Teasmade, and for some reason, it has to be Goblin, a Swan just won’t do. Swan do quite a nice new one, but it has cups, not the much-desired pot, and the front clock is luminous blue. I like to sleep in as much darkness as possible, so luminous bue just won’t do.  In general, I am against too many electrical items in a bedroom.  I am convinced they interfere with my sleep pattern.  However, now that I want tea, a machine that fills a pot with boiling water, has a clock, lights, an alarm and a radio is suddenly acceptable in the bedroom. I suspect that I will go off it after a week. I don’t usually lay in bed once I am awake in the morning. As soon as the bladder battle is out of the way, I get up and feed the dog, then potter about with a cup of tea for an hour before walking him. Also, it might hum. Electrical items hum (NOT the kind you are thinking of, it isn’t that kind of blog). It would keep me awake.  

It is possible that I want a 1970s retro Teasmade because so much of me is clearly stuck in the 1970s. However I am not spending £70 on something I will use for a week. Furthermore, one of my new year’s resolutions was to get rid of the clutter that I have, not to add to it by paying for other people’s clutter. The Teasmade will have to wait a little longer.