Some of my internals have gone

After cultivating appendicitis and subsequent life threatening peritonitis during the last five days of  April, followed by ten days in hospital with instructions 'nil by mouth except water', ( in Dutch, 'aleen water, nul te eten'), intraveinously pumped full of antibiotics and pain killer, sent home on a course of antibiotic pills the size of small friggin' house bricks - I swear you could've built a small bungalow with the amount I had forced upon me - they finally took out my appendix Wednesday 18th May and let me leave hospital on Friday afternoon the 20th, probably thinking I had somebody picking me up.
         No friends answering their phones. No buses without waiting for two more hours. No wedge to pay for a taxi. Nobody available so I hoofed it. Not the best idea I've ever given fruit to. I twice threw up some green liquid with white lumps ( no tomato skins or chunks of carrot )  on the walk to the bus station. Normally a ten minute walk but  this time it took me thirty-five minutes. Pain and walking sit on opposite ends of the subs bench apparently. Then I threw up the same sort of green slime four times outside the door to the building where I live. Needless to say, it was a little while before I plucked up the courage of a geriatric moggy and dragged myself, very, very slowly, up the 58 steps to my apartment. I think they may well have let me out a day or two too early.
         Still, it saved putting more money into a greedy, expensive hospital system. Mind you, I did have my bits shaved by a pretty nurse before the op, while another two spectated. Shame I couldn't read their minds or perhaps it's just as well I couldn't. Of course that's small (maybe that's what they were thinking )  consolation for the pain afterwards. Seems the only time my bits get handled by a woman these days is either during a bed bath or having the bloody things shaved. So, looking back, now I feel somewhat better, I suppose hospitals do have their good side.
         Of course, appendectomies aren't what they used to be. There's no bloody great scar to brag about and show off down at the local. Nowadays it's done through three small holes in the abdomen. One apparently is to blow air in which I presume is to enlarge the workspace, so to speak, one to shove a camera in so the surgeon gets a clear shot of what he's ripping out and one for, well, the knife and needle I suppose. Whatever. When the plasters ( see below and I make no appologies for flashing my belly on the net ) are removed, there won't be a lot to show for the pain and suffering. At least in some countries you can earn some wedge for flogging a kidney. Naturally not if you're a newspaper hack or a detective. It takes too many whiskies to learn their trades. Probably written in their contracts somewhere.

Not a pretty sight

Requiem for a TV

For five years my TV (second hand I must admit) gave valliant service. Switched on when I pressed the button, changed channels when required and went to sleep whenever I decided to go horizontal for the night. Okay, so the picture wasn't digital or high definition. With my eyesight it wouldn't have made much difference anyway.
     This evening, however, my purveyor of entertainment and information decided it was time to self destruct, and no amount of CPR managed to resuscitate the damn thing. It didn't matter whether I thumped it on the top or on both sides. One handed or two, it made little difference. Just a box of defunct electrical bits and pieces collecting dust is what it is now.
      There is however, a good side to the demise of said telly. I no longer have to put up with the pathetic patriotic fervour that rocks the world whenever some balding geezer, who might be King one day, (if the UK doesn't become a republic first) decides it's a good idea to get wed.
      I'll bet he's got a TV that works though.
      Still, if he gets a spare one as a wedding gift he can send a chauffeur in a Rolls over to Zoutleeuw with it, being as I never got the Queen's shilling when I joined the Army in '64. Inflation should make that shilling worth a flat screen TV in today's money.

New face

While checking in I see a new face on my followers list. Well when I say new face, it's actually a disconcerting blue eye, surrounded by blue skin. I have no idea who this Smurf look-alike is but if the other eye is as pretty as the first there could well be a beautiful woman keeping tabs on my occasional ramblings. As beautiful people of the female persuasion don't normally take an interest in what goes on in my head - you only have to ask the four ex wives and the ex girlfriend ( mother of my little muppet ) I don't hold out any hope of being turned from a frog into a Prince on a white horse. Actually I'd prefer a Palomino but I'd spray paint a donkey if I thought it would work.
         Still, this could possibly lead to me having to iron my jeans and a clean t-shirt and slap some polish on my sandals. Damn it, I may have to tune my guitar and write a love song to a stranger. Not so bad though. At least I'll look clean and tidy while I sing ( most probably ) to myself.
         And the elaborate miraculous cullinary creation will most likely end up with half of it in the freezer as the guest didn't turn up and thereby won't realise what she's missed. Mind you, as I'm purely a busker and rather experimental ( or is that just mental ) in the kitchen it could simply be another disaster averted.
         Now I fear I shall always wonder if the feet start directly under the georgeous blue eye or would there be a magnificent specimen of the female form twixt eye and toes.
          What ever. Welcome L. Carol to the world of my moronic mumbles where sometimes by a freak of nature I may write something sensible. Don't hold your breath on that one though. Sense and me don't always bat for the same side but I have high hopes of a gold medal or two in the severely retarded Olympics.

Temperatures or the lack there of.

Today I had to do my usual once a week cycle ride to the doctors. The purpose of this heart pounding ( well half a heart pounding ) excursion is to give a blood sample to test for the safety of one of my medicinal neccessaries.
         A wrong dose can cause internal bleeding, which to my mind seems to make sense. Where else should your friggin' blood be but on the inside. Not much use if it springs a leak and you look like a breakdancing claret fountain. Anyway it was bloody cold this morning but the weather man said it would get warmer. Where? In the friggin' Caribbean?
         Technically I suppose he was right. Just. It rose from -6°C to -3°C . Problem being, coming back is more downhill thereby adding a wind chill factor of three crates worth of iced lager and a semi intelligent word from the ex who learned her entire vocabulary in the last ice age. About the same time she learned her sexual prowess or lack of too.
         My ears, sticking out as they do ( not at 90°, wind breaks they are not. Well not quite ) caught the brunt of the chill but the bike and I survived. Tomorrow I'll have to do a similar distance to go to the stables to watch the Muppet riding her horse. At least she's worth the effort. Gotta love the huge grin she sports while trying to get a 17 hand stallion to do what she wants.
          I used to be a bass player with rock and blues bands on podiums all over Europe and East Africa.Now it's time to concede the spotlight to a ten year old girl and become a frozen spectator cheering her on while being ready to stick her straight back on the nag if she falls off.
           Only happened twice in the last four and a half years. Hasn't daunted her in the slightest. I'm proud of her and love her to pieces.

Good news for a change

My sister is now out of intensive care. Apparently they'll move her soon to a hospital nearer where she lives. At least this time she'll remember the ride in the ambulance.

My little one will also be happy this weekend. She'll be back on a horse for the first time since before Christmas.
Last saturday she went to a horse show in Antwerp. Spanish Riding School and their very special horses. When I asked her what was the best thing about it she said the costumes. "They were really glittery and sparkly, Daddy."
Bit like a bloke going to a pole dancing club and coming out saying, "wow, you should have seen how shiny the pole was."
Ah, well.
And I'm happy 'cos she'll be with me this weekend.

How to make the most of not a lot

I woke up at 07.30 this morning with a thought threatening to do serious renovations to parts of my brain I probably wouldn't consider using at that time in the chronological order of the day. Normally the first thought I have when I wake up is to do maximum damage to a cup of coffee and to swallow the first ten pills of the day the cardiologist assures me will do wonders for my longevity, while not doing a great deal for my abililty to attempt arduous and possibly heavy tasks.
      Not known for my rash decision making it took me til 10.45 to decide the coffee and pills would be the better option. By this time the original thought had long since ceased to have recieved any thing but a cursory appraisal. Of course the one or two moments of slipping back into a semi state of  Zzzz bashing may well have helped in the temporary misplacement of the aforementioned thought, not that I actually aforementioned the content of the thought. Only that I had one.
        Anyway, after chucking some java and hot water in a mug and troffing the medications I checked a site I'm a member of. (there is life after Litopia) There was a debate going on about the use of the word 'nigger' and whether it should be edited out of books. Seems strange when my experience shows that 'niggers' use the word 'nigger' more than white people.
        Maybe there's a case to ban the use of words like 'honky', 'white trash', 'dago', 'greaser', spick', 'wop', 'limey', 'pomme', 'abbo', 'kraut', 'frog or kermit', and 'rag head', to name a few derogatory terms for people most folks don't take the trouble to learn about. And we're supposed to be civilised. Yeah right.
        Somewhere there's an amoeba thinking ,"shit we were more sensible when we only had one cell."
        Nobody ever told Picasso " best get rid of the red in that picture, it might get you accused of being a communist." So why take the colour out of our language?
         Diversity of insult is what makes life more interesting. That and being able to take an insult without breaking out the AK 47's and killing kids who can't think or run so fast.And it's the kids who suffer most. Not the troops who signed a piece of paper, put on a uniform and knew exactly what they were getting into. Truck drivers and motorists get killed, police and other emergency service personel get killed and an nobody bats a friggin' eyelid, but if one of 'our brave boys' gets wasted, it's all hue and cry. They didn't have to buy a ticket to Iraq or Afghanistan. There is no glory in war. Just blood, snot, stink and mix and match body parts.

Happy New Year?

Yeah right. Not if Merry Christmas was anything of a benchmark.
      The week before Christmas, my mother, and four of the younger members of the family managed a 2000 mile round trip to Spain to visit my sister in hospital. How they managed to get a flight while hundreds of miserable would be travellers were sleeping on airport floors will remain a mystery.
       Here in Belgium, on Christmas Eve, we couldn't even get my little Muppet ten miles from her mother's place to mine. No buses, no trains, no taxis and not a friendly Eskimo with a snowmobile any where in sight. Finally got her to my place on Monday morning 27th and she had to go back on the Wednesday afternoon.
       We did have one special moment though. While taking a walk in the snow covered countryside outside the town, a male Hen Harrier flew directly over our heads. Twenty feet above us. A beautiful hawk. White underside with black wing tips. First time I've ever seen one in the wild. Jessica-Marie's reaction to my enthusing about this event?
       "It's just a bird, Daddy."

        Anyway. Apparently my sister is recovering slowly. Can't be too bad now. She's fit enough to complain about the hospital food. Makes me wonder if the chef from the hospital where I lost 10kgs in 2009 has emigrated to Granada.

        Well, I digress. This was supposed to be about Happy New Year but 2011 has begun where 2010 left off. I'm on my own, it's nearly lunch time and no one has called. Maybe I'll call the hospital in Granada and check on my sister. Perhaps I'll get a good paella recipe at the same time. Oh no, wait up. Almost forgot. Hospital paella?

         Still, let's hope 2011 brings a bit of luck to everyone who needs it.

         Happy New Year to one and all.