Due to my muscle problems, I have been on the hunt for one of those disabled driver stickers without which almost every driver in this neck of the woods, whether disabled or not,wouldn't dream of taking to the road. At first, I made the usual mistake of thinking that this must be straightforward. A note from the doctor, and for good measure a declaration from the cops, and Jack's your uncle - or so I thought.First off - try finding the relevant phone number to ring. Under Disabled perhaps ? No way.Turn to the HSE for a clue - forget it. Eventually the doctor's receptionist took pity on me and tracked the thing down. An hour after the start of the search, I was on to the right person, hidden away in the wastes of Mayo. The woman seemed almost pleased to hear from me. Perhaps I was the only caller of the day who had actually managed to make contact.I gave her my details and was surprised to hear that she wanted a brief medical run-down on why I needed a sticker.I was surprised. I'd have thought the doctor's word would be enough. However, not so, my claim would wither on the bough unless I wrote a brief note outlining my disabaility. I was surprised to learn that the reason for this is that the Disabled Drivers association can " create a paper trail". Is it any wonder the country is up the proverbial without a paddle, when a jumped up mob can demand medical details from an unqualified person to satisfy their appetite for a paper trail? Supposing I had listed my many neurosis, failing eyesight, tendency to road rage and periodic inattention to other road users, as well as lousy muscles, would they have turned me down or sent me permits for every condition outlined? However life is much too short so I did as I was told and set off in search of some passport photos.Since the last time I did something similar not only has the hair on my head grown but also the beard on my double chin is looking pretty lustrous. The overall effect is not just a picture of a fairly benign example of care in the community, but the slightly manic gleam in the eye, no doubt the result of jousting with the Disabled mob, is just a bit worrying.But the business is done and the application form, complete with cheque, dispatched.Now all that remains is to settle into a deep Zen like trance and wait to see what happens. In the meantime I will concentrate on the newest regime of self-improvement that opens before me. Goaded by my once baby sister, I am about to take to the water. A friend, of proportions almost as generous as my own, asked how I entended to get into the pool. I hadn't thought of this. But on reflection, visions of seals slithering into the waves sprang reassuringly to mind. The only remining problem is how to get out.It may be necessary to install a small crane to hoist me from the depths. I could perhaps open the event to the public - all donations to charity- would red nose day be interested I wonder? Perhaps a quick phone call- so long as they are not as hard to track down as the disabled sticker mob and their paper trail.
ps. an informant tells me that the reason for the paper trail is to eliminate the flourishing blackmarket in fake parking permits. A bit more enterprise like that and we'd solve our financial crises.
Sunday, 8 March 2009
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Since I became a cripple my perspective on life has changed. You might think this is predictable.What has come as a surprise to me is the way in which my new condition has affected me.Of course the extra time I have to lie in bed has brought on waves of lucidity, one of the more revealing of which is how much you still need to know as you clamber up the lower slopes of old age. For instance, through much of my adult life I cherished the notion that I knew pretty well everything, especially when it came to sexy stuff. Yet I was closing on 50 before I came across Auto Erotic Asphyxiation. And even though I had the process explained to me by a doctor, and have heard the CSI's of LV, Miami and NY mention it as casually as they order a coffee, I'm still not entirely sure I've got it right.I mean, why would you bother ?However the new knowledge is a bit surperfluous for persons post menopause.And only last week, while listening to Woman's Hour I heard Jenni Murray mentioning that Nicholas Sarcozy was having a spot of trouble in the perineum region.Do they make cheese there or what ? And if not where the hell is it. The thirst for knowledge was so sharp that I shot to an upright position thereby endangering my many dodgy ligaments.Could I have a perineam ? And more, could that be the source of all my troubles? And finally , horror of horrors, could it be somewhere you should keep to yourself, like pyles, for fear of provoking gales of ribbald laughter.Finally, I inserted myself into my crutches and the clapped-out Corsa, and headed to Ballinasloe. I had three things to be - get petrol - tax the car, and buy a replacement iron. All of these involved manoeurvres that would test me in my new persona as a cripple. But, game to the end I set out and achieved total success. It was while I was driving home that it struck me that the judicious use of a crutch, or a walking stick can elicit all sorts of help, especilly if you pass yourself off as a charming and helpless old biddy.Of yourse its possible to look at my performance as disgracefully manipulative. But surely not. I'm just nicer, that's all.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
A mental work-out, before the crack of noon
The genius in London and I were shooting the breeze.As usual the subject had fast-tracked itself to the contradictions inherent in life in Ireland.On this occasion it was the attempt I am currently making to get the HSE to arrange a temporary Home Help while I'm on crutches. I hadn't mentioned the crutches ? Extraordinary. As readers will know I am not usually given to stoicism. But briefly, they came about when I presented myself to my friendly neighbourhood vet and asked him for a diagnosis of my state - as if I had been a horse.He took a measured look and said I buggered up a tendon somewhere in the groin-thigh area and he unearthed the crutches. Since then, they have been my only method of locomotion.
Now ten days later, the state of the house has deteriorated to the point where even I notice it. Therefore having given my predicament a lot of thought, I decided to call on the Heath Service for help.In theory they should have been chomping at the bit.
In practice I discovered that getting them to act involved filling out a form which asked probing questions about my mental state, the level of incontinence I experience, and finally demnded that I return the completed form by post. And there's the rub. How can I get to a post box when I can neither walk nor drive and a written note specifically denies me permission to email them.
As I was saying, the genius and london and I were tossing this one about when he called a halt to the fun by declaring that I was up to my tonsils in a Kafka-esque situation.
That was enough to launch the morning chat onto a different tack and after only 20 minutes or so, I heard myself using the word " exponentially" , without even blushing.
At this stage the genius pointed out that we had conducted a conversation before the crack of noon, in the course of which the words Kafka-esque and exponential had both cropped up and since it was unlikely that we'd be able to keep that standard up we'd better call it quits while we were ahead.
And still no sign of the revolution.
Now ten days later, the state of the house has deteriorated to the point where even I notice it. Therefore having given my predicament a lot of thought, I decided to call on the Heath Service for help.In theory they should have been chomping at the bit.
In practice I discovered that getting them to act involved filling out a form which asked probing questions about my mental state, the level of incontinence I experience, and finally demnded that I return the completed form by post. And there's the rub. How can I get to a post box when I can neither walk nor drive and a written note specifically denies me permission to email them.
As I was saying, the genius and london and I were tossing this one about when he called a halt to the fun by declaring that I was up to my tonsils in a Kafka-esque situation.
That was enough to launch the morning chat onto a different tack and after only 20 minutes or so, I heard myself using the word " exponentially" , without even blushing.
At this stage the genius pointed out that we had conducted a conversation before the crack of noon, in the course of which the words Kafka-esque and exponential had both cropped up and since it was unlikely that we'd be able to keep that standard up we'd better call it quits while we were ahead.
And still no sign of the revolution.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Waiting for the Revolution
Unaccountably, there is no sign of the revolution - yet. Its possible that this is always the way. Fellow visionaries, having read my last blog, may be mulling over the propositions made in it. It could be that they hesitate to embrace the freedom of anarchy, or that the prospect of all our politicians banished to a dismal island strikes them as too severe. Or maybe not severe enough. All I would say is that the idea of banishment is a well tried method of punishing miscreants. Back in ancient Rome placemen who failed the Emperor were always being banished so there's nothing new there. Of course it could be that people are mulling over the appearance of Balls O'Leary from Dalkey and Andrew Martin in my account of life in Loughrea.
Ballso sounds like the sort of wastrel who would wash up in the west, fleeing from the respectability of life in Dalkey. You can just imagine him fag in mouth,hat at a rakish angle, hiding the thinning strands of hair on his head and the brim shading the glowing red of a bibulous nose. He's be great craic in the pub, full of yarns about the fast life of Dublin and just enough irreverence to endear him to the west. But the clincher, the quality that marked Ballso as one of our own would be an intimate knowledge of the horses.
Andrew Martin, on the other had had something shady about him.Where Ballso had an address of sorts, Martin could have come from anywhere. In fact the name is so anonymous you'd be hard put to place him anywhere. No provenance, that's the fellow's trouble - even though it was said he was related to Dusty Martin - well known to the stewards of every racetrack for using the whip. However there was no question that Andrew Martin's reputation was connected to unspecified shennigans of a sexual nature.
As an example, I would refer to a case that came up before the District Justice lately where a young man was waiting on a window ledge at the West Bridge for a lift home. Having had a drop or two(in other words he was legless)he was letting his mind wander back to happier times when he shared a flat with a young person directly across the street from the window ledge. In the circumstances it seemed to him that the time had come to renew his acquaintanceship with the girl in question, so he popped across and got in a window. Once in the house - which was empty- he realised he had made a mistake and it was while he was climbing out that the squad car came upon him and led to his appearance in the court. There his solicitor Gerry Moylan explained to the judge that his client's behaviour was down to him being carried away by amorous thoughts. Or as my aunt Eilish would have put it, he was up to his Andrew Martins.Or would have been, if he'd got the right house.
Ballso sounds like the sort of wastrel who would wash up in the west, fleeing from the respectability of life in Dalkey. You can just imagine him fag in mouth,hat at a rakish angle, hiding the thinning strands of hair on his head and the brim shading the glowing red of a bibulous nose. He's be great craic in the pub, full of yarns about the fast life of Dublin and just enough irreverence to endear him to the west. But the clincher, the quality that marked Ballso as one of our own would be an intimate knowledge of the horses.
Andrew Martin, on the other had had something shady about him.Where Ballso had an address of sorts, Martin could have come from anywhere. In fact the name is so anonymous you'd be hard put to place him anywhere. No provenance, that's the fellow's trouble - even though it was said he was related to Dusty Martin - well known to the stewards of every racetrack for using the whip. However there was no question that Andrew Martin's reputation was connected to unspecified shennigans of a sexual nature.
As an example, I would refer to a case that came up before the District Justice lately where a young man was waiting on a window ledge at the West Bridge for a lift home. Having had a drop or two(in other words he was legless)he was letting his mind wander back to happier times when he shared a flat with a young person directly across the street from the window ledge. In the circumstances it seemed to him that the time had come to renew his acquaintanceship with the girl in question, so he popped across and got in a window. Once in the house - which was empty- he realised he had made a mistake and it was while he was climbing out that the squad car came upon him and led to his appearance in the court. There his solicitor Gerry Moylan explained to the judge that his client's behaviour was down to him being carried away by amorous thoughts. Or as my aunt Eilish would have put it, he was up to his Andrew Martins.Or would have been, if he'd got the right house.
Thursday, 1 January 2009
Ballso and Andra -and the revolution
I spent Christmas mulling over the responsibility of the serious blogger. At my age, I decided, I HAD to put my thoughts in order. The state of the country demanded no less. As a former hack, I realised the vital importance of a good intro and thus the festive season bubbled along without any definitive sentence coming to my rescue. History repeating itself.
The problem was that every time I peeped into the abyss, I was distracted by - hope?
This may well be a universal trait of humanity. We cling to the hope that something will turn up when, in fact, Corporal Fraser in Dad's Army got it dead on the nail . "We're doomed" he'd bellow, eyes twirling "Doomed". And that's pretty much where we are this first day of 2009. Nothing short of total revolution will do.
I am not one of these blood-thirsty types who fantasise about rivers of blood flowing from the remains of our former rulers. In fact I favour Mao's approach of transporting the lot - FF and FG without exception- to a remote and stony island, lashed by Atlantic gales, there to cultivate the soil . This will be essential because the prospect facing the rest of us is the dismantling of the State as we know it. All office holders, all recipients of permanent and pensionable jobs, all CEOs in semi-state industries, all holders of official credit cards, all the crutches of the corrupt state would be obliterated. This has to happen because if any trace of the patronage of the present continues, the mob will recreate itself.
These were the thoughts that buoyed me up over the last week or so, and highly diverting they were. For hardly had I started on the deep thinking bit than errant strands of thought intruded. Inevitably I'd begin with lists of favourite candidates for the chop. Before I knew it I was forced to introduce a system of alphabetical order in case any bastard escaped in the confusion. Some parts of it were easier than others. The obvious suspects went first, thereafter I racked my memory banks until the B categories were denuded and we moved on to the C's. As a way of lulling yourself to sleep this is infinitely preferrable to counting sheep.
And then , without warning I found myself looking out onto the lake from what used to be Murphy's kitchen window as Phyllis, between paroxysms of cigarette coughing, launched into a tirade against Balls O'Leary from Dalkey. There was no secret who Ballso was. He was her husband, Peter.
My aunt Eilish when goaded by unacceptable behaviour in others, would claim that they were up to their " andra martins". Maybe Andra was really Andrew but noone, to my knowledge, ever attempted to identify him. Both Ballso and Andra have been my companions as I drew up my blueprint for the brave new world of 2009.
Well - you have to have a laugh.
The problem was that every time I peeped into the abyss, I was distracted by - hope?
This may well be a universal trait of humanity. We cling to the hope that something will turn up when, in fact, Corporal Fraser in Dad's Army got it dead on the nail . "We're doomed" he'd bellow, eyes twirling "Doomed". And that's pretty much where we are this first day of 2009. Nothing short of total revolution will do.
I am not one of these blood-thirsty types who fantasise about rivers of blood flowing from the remains of our former rulers. In fact I favour Mao's approach of transporting the lot - FF and FG without exception- to a remote and stony island, lashed by Atlantic gales, there to cultivate the soil . This will be essential because the prospect facing the rest of us is the dismantling of the State as we know it. All office holders, all recipients of permanent and pensionable jobs, all CEOs in semi-state industries, all holders of official credit cards, all the crutches of the corrupt state would be obliterated. This has to happen because if any trace of the patronage of the present continues, the mob will recreate itself.
These were the thoughts that buoyed me up over the last week or so, and highly diverting they were. For hardly had I started on the deep thinking bit than errant strands of thought intruded. Inevitably I'd begin with lists of favourite candidates for the chop. Before I knew it I was forced to introduce a system of alphabetical order in case any bastard escaped in the confusion. Some parts of it were easier than others. The obvious suspects went first, thereafter I racked my memory banks until the B categories were denuded and we moved on to the C's. As a way of lulling yourself to sleep this is infinitely preferrable to counting sheep.
And then , without warning I found myself looking out onto the lake from what used to be Murphy's kitchen window as Phyllis, between paroxysms of cigarette coughing, launched into a tirade against Balls O'Leary from Dalkey. There was no secret who Ballso was. He was her husband, Peter.
My aunt Eilish when goaded by unacceptable behaviour in others, would claim that they were up to their " andra martins". Maybe Andra was really Andrew but noone, to my knowledge, ever attempted to identify him. Both Ballso and Andra have been my companions as I drew up my blueprint for the brave new world of 2009.
Well - you have to have a laugh.
Sunday, 28 December 2008
whatever next -groin strain?
It would be hard to imagine anyone less given to athletic excess than me, so it is with a real sense of grievance that I have named 2008 the Year of the Muscle.
I always thought that to irritate your muscles enough for them to hit back, you had to make excessive demands on them. Runners, or long distance walkers would expect the odd twinge. Lunatics taking to the side of precipitous cliff faces deserve all they get. But not me.Before I even turn in the bed, I check that everything is in order and ready for lift-off. And yet.......In 2008 I have pulled absolutely everything at some stage.My back, my legs, my hands knees and bumpsidaisy have all had their creaky turns. Most spectacular among these was the magic night when levering myself into a standing position I inadvertantly pulled an already damaged part and ended up in the local ER. Ever since I have adopted a furtive air whenever an ambulance passes, in case the paramedics within recognise me.
Then last week, distracted by the joy of Christmas, I hauled myself out of the car, in a movement which, in retrospect may have been a little bit on the balletic side, and did a sort of twirl thing on my right leg while the left one kicked perkily in the air. Whatever. The thing is that this morning I found myself hobbling in a serious manner and after running down the source of the pain I discovered that I must have pulled a muscle, heretofore unknown to me,in my groin area, sort of. I'm being vague here because I've never heard of anyone as sedentary as me getting into this sort of trouble and the problem is, who do I go to to get it fixed ( in view of the rather delicate area of its location I loathe to call on the local physios). Lets hope the Deep Heat works.
Another thing - while attempting, unsuccessfully to get onto my dashdoard, I found myself reading the blog of Chay Eltha 7, written in the most exquisite Arabic script. Needless to say it went over my head but Mr Eltha has had 34 comments to his blog. I've only ever had one. Ever. What's wrong with me.
For those of you interested in world affairs I have plans to close down the year with a definitive rundown on the state of the world - groin permitting . Watch this space.
I always thought that to irritate your muscles enough for them to hit back, you had to make excessive demands on them. Runners, or long distance walkers would expect the odd twinge. Lunatics taking to the side of precipitous cliff faces deserve all they get. But not me.Before I even turn in the bed, I check that everything is in order and ready for lift-off. And yet.......In 2008 I have pulled absolutely everything at some stage.My back, my legs, my hands knees and bumpsidaisy have all had their creaky turns. Most spectacular among these was the magic night when levering myself into a standing position I inadvertantly pulled an already damaged part and ended up in the local ER. Ever since I have adopted a furtive air whenever an ambulance passes, in case the paramedics within recognise me.
Then last week, distracted by the joy of Christmas, I hauled myself out of the car, in a movement which, in retrospect may have been a little bit on the balletic side, and did a sort of twirl thing on my right leg while the left one kicked perkily in the air. Whatever. The thing is that this morning I found myself hobbling in a serious manner and after running down the source of the pain I discovered that I must have pulled a muscle, heretofore unknown to me,in my groin area, sort of. I'm being vague here because I've never heard of anyone as sedentary as me getting into this sort of trouble and the problem is, who do I go to to get it fixed ( in view of the rather delicate area of its location I loathe to call on the local physios). Lets hope the Deep Heat works.
Another thing - while attempting, unsuccessfully to get onto my dashdoard, I found myself reading the blog of Chay Eltha 7, written in the most exquisite Arabic script. Needless to say it went over my head but Mr Eltha has had 34 comments to his blog. I've only ever had one. Ever. What's wrong with me.
For those of you interested in world affairs I have plans to close down the year with a definitive rundown on the state of the world - groin permitting . Watch this space.
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
Season of goodwill
From fifty yards it was hard to say if the figure was human, or say, a beached whale.It was certainly mammalian but since the lakeshore in Loughrea is at least 30 miles from the ocean, it was unlikely to be a creature from the deep. There was another clue. The creature dressed in pants and jacket was waving to attract the attention of the driver of a clapped out red car parked nearby.When this didn't work, the figure started waving a walking stick, vigorously. Sounds that were suspiciously like the word Help were also shouted without result. As the rain fell in a fine steady drizzle, the driver of the red car stayed put while what might have been an emergency unfolded before him. Suddenly another car arrived and glided slowly to a stop under some adjacent trees. This car was driven by a retired local man, well known in the community and to the figure now stretched out on the wet ground. The figure called help but all that happened was that the man opened his car door to release his equally ancient terrier from captivity.
By now the figure had been lying in full view without anyone coming to see what was going on for approximately 20 minutes.
It was a day just before Christmas, the rain was heavy, and the woman for it was a woman,lay on the ground. All things considered, it was unlikely that she was sunbathing.
Then a white car drove in. The driver saw the woman waving. He stopped, came over and after a struggle managed to yank her to her feet, damp but otherwise unharmed.
Little did he know it, this strange young man, not even a local, that on the 10th of December he would become a 21st century Good Samaritan.
Unfortunately the woman was more shocked than she thought and failed to ask his name and having helped her back to her car, he drove off.
All of this happened, just as I've written it, in a country once famous for it warmth and humanity.
This year, once again, Irish people will put their hands in their pockets to contibute to allieviating starvation and poverty in foreign parts and other Irish people will congratulate themselves on their natural goodness to the needy. A headline on the news also flagged up the statistic that this great little country drinks more take-out coffee, eats more take-away food and buys more condoms per capita than any other similar country.
All in all I just can't wait to hear the jingle of Christmas carols announcing the arrival of the season of goodwill.
By now the figure had been lying in full view without anyone coming to see what was going on for approximately 20 minutes.
It was a day just before Christmas, the rain was heavy, and the woman for it was a woman,lay on the ground. All things considered, it was unlikely that she was sunbathing.
Then a white car drove in. The driver saw the woman waving. He stopped, came over and after a struggle managed to yank her to her feet, damp but otherwise unharmed.
Little did he know it, this strange young man, not even a local, that on the 10th of December he would become a 21st century Good Samaritan.
Unfortunately the woman was more shocked than she thought and failed to ask his name and having helped her back to her car, he drove off.
All of this happened, just as I've written it, in a country once famous for it warmth and humanity.
This year, once again, Irish people will put their hands in their pockets to contibute to allieviating starvation and poverty in foreign parts and other Irish people will congratulate themselves on their natural goodness to the needy. A headline on the news also flagged up the statistic that this great little country drinks more take-out coffee, eats more take-away food and buys more condoms per capita than any other similar country.
All in all I just can't wait to hear the jingle of Christmas carols announcing the arrival of the season of goodwill.
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