Mar 25 2013
16 Comments
My Ramblings

It’s Only A Number. Isn’t It?

Oh joy. I will be forty 39 plus 1 in less than half a year. I won’t be celebrating, but rather I shall be holding a memorial service to my first 40 years, along with lashings of wine and copious amounts of cake.

To help me feel even more inadequate than usual, The Sunday Times Style magazine thoughtfully published a list of ’40 Things To Do Before You’re 40.’Here’s some of the ones I haven’t done and have no hope of doing before August:

  • Get an accountant – ha ha thud. That’s me laughing my head off.
  • Bin all your tights and replace the lot with Falke – unfashionable me has no idea what/who Falke is. Hopeless.
  • Have a kinky dream about a colleague – the builder? Seriously?
  • Go to Glastonbury – nope.
  • Host an afterparty that people still talk about years later – what the heck’s an afterparty and why have I never been to one?
  • Stop wearing lycra – never.
  • Spend a year with an incredibly flat stomach – and give up Maltesers and toast? Crazy.
  • Unwrap a diamond – not unless it’s a Diamond White cider party pack.
  • Grow your hair so long that it covers your nipples – one word – why?

But here’s some I have done:

  • Decide whether you want children – yup, I’m keeping the Teenager.
  • Be able to order wine confidently – ‘Cheapest bottle of your house white, and make it snappy, my good man.’
  • Pull an all-nighter, drink sambuca, dance on the tables, then go straight to work – too many times to mention.
  • Live abroad long enough to get a taste for the local breakfast – those were the days. Sigh.
  • Witness a birth – I was definitely there when The Teenager was born.
  • Perfect your signature roast chicken – Waitrose, I love you.

Don’t you just hate these lists? Here’s my kind of list – recently-announced top 5 snacks in the UK (drum roll….) bacon butties came out top, no doubt helped along by my recent alarming consumption of them. They were closely followed by cheese on toast, sausage rolls, Cornish pasties and Scotch eggs. Now that’s a list you can get your teeth into…

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Mar 23 2013
12 Comments
Symptoms and Treatment

Tripping All Over The Place

Did you know twice as many people die in trips and falls at home than in car crashes? No, me neither until I read the cheery news over breakfast yesterday. Now I have another thing to add to my list of worries that keep me awake in the wee small hours.

Foot drop is the bane of my life. I trip over flat surfaces, the cat, pavements, dust balls and just about anything else in my way.

At Christmas I tripped up the stairs, then fell backwards, smashing into my bookcase and landing like a squashed spider on the floor, books raining down on me. The bruising was spectacular, but I did find a book I’d given up as lost.

There’s no way of knowing when foot drop will strike. One day it leaves you in peace, the next it’s shoving you around the high street with abandon. People give me a wide berth, as hey, I could be drunk. At 9.30 am. Kerbs taunt me, potholes are a logistical nightmare when crossing the road and cobble-stones are pure evil.

Sorry Shakespeare, but I am never, ever going to Stratford-upon-Avon ever again. A lovely little day trip turned into a day from hell when I got out the car and saw cobble-stones stretched out in every direction. I clung to my friend for dear life and quite possibly looked as if I was being taken out from a secure unit for the weekend as I muttered, ‘evil, evil things, I hate you’ under my breath every few minutes as he dragged me up the road.

Then there was the Gastro Pub Incident, when a friend took me out for dinner. A short stumble to the bathroom led to disaster as I cartwheeled across the floor in front of six bemused diners, ending up halfway under their table. To compound my misery, my friend hadn’t even noticed as he was too busy scrolling through his phone. I limped back to our table, face burning, sniveling with pain and embarrassment.

Anyway, the good news is, the sixth most common way to die at home is by drowning in the bath. Thank you, MS heat intolerance for making baths a thing of the past. At least you’re good for something…

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Mar 21 2013
10 Comments
Daily Life

Make Mine A Large One

With pleasure comes pain. The bacon butties and biscuits I have happily munched on since working for the builder have wreaked havoc on my figure, my muffin top morphing from a skinny raspberry into a full-blown, full-fat double chocolate chip with whipped cream on the side.

I had to face the awful reality that it was time for one of the most humiliating and sad events in any woman’s life.

Nope, I wasn’t going to join a slimming club, I was going jeans shopping. Guaranteed to strike fear into the heart, I was going to be very brave and thank my lucky stars that communal changing-rooms had been outlawed in the 1990’s, along with shoulder pads, dodgy perms and ra-ra skirts.

And so I found myself wandering around shops where the sales assistants were young, hip and terrifyingly thin, showcasing the latest hot-off-the press fashion looks. I furtively flicked through the rails, depressingly starting at the back where the larger sizes huddled in shame. A quick glance round and I shoved a couple of pairs over my arm, cleverly tucking the size labels inwards.

Off to the changing room where a tiny sylph-like creature smirked as she slowly counted my items, handed me a plastic disc and waved me off to a cubicle towards the back. Half an hour later, I was red-faced, exhausted and depressed. Whoever said skinny jeans suit everyone clearly lied.

My MS balance (or lack of it) turned trying on five pairs of jeans into a farce. One leg in and I was pinballing off the sides of the cubicle. Two legs in and I was jumping around like a demented person on a pogo-stick.

When I could finally stand still, I was lucky enough to see my sorry figure from numerous angles, many of which I had never seen before, thanks to the eight different mirrors. I really do need to pick up that kettlebell for longer than three minutes at a time.

I found a pair I could live with, handed it over at the cash desk, not fooling the girl at all when I announced, ‘Oh, I’m sure my friend will love these!’ I left the store, turned a sharp right and headed for sanctuary. A coffee shop, where I ordered a large latte with an extra shot and the biggest muffin I could find…

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Mar 19 2013
6 Comments
Work and Studying

It’s Not Working….

When The Teenager was six, his class had to present a short talk about what their parents worked as.

According to reports, he proudly announced to the class that ‘My mummy studied for four years to become a psychopath and she has her own clinic where she sees people.’ A quick call from the school later, and I had reassured them that I was actually a homeopath.

Some would say they’re not dissimilar. Telling people you’re a homeopath is akin to confessing you boil up frog skins and sulphur under a full moon, whilst chanting naked, trusted cat by your side. According to the media, we are a bunch of charlatans and confidence-tricksters who prey on the vulnerable and disenfranchised.

The recession and ill-health forced me to take a sabbatical from my clinic and I miss it. Homeopathy never felt like work, it was a passion and for me, it was always complementary, never an alternative to orthodox medicine.

I am currently in the middle of looking for a new job. The builder can’t employ me forever and much as I like stomping around in my Caterpillar boots, eating bacon sarnies, slurping tea and reading The Sun, it’ll be time to move on soon.

Hours and hours of scrolling through countless job sites has left me shell-shocked and disheartened though. After putting in my location, the hours I want to work and my skill-set, I’m left with chambermaid, cleaner, carer and security guard jobs. I know there’s a recession on, but c’mon guys.

So a little idea is slowly taking shape in my mind. I finish my degree in October, my head will be clear(ish) and I could possibly re-open my clinic. MS has altered my planned career-path, so why not combine the homeopathy with the knowledge gleaned from this degree in health and social care? Hmm. If I had a brain, I’d be dangerous.

I’d like to have a job where I could make a difference, however small. Not just working for the sake of it.  Anyway, it’s just a thought for now. Who knows, my dream job may be just around the corner. Now excuse me while I light some incense sticks and pluck snails from my garden…

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Mar 15 2013
10 Comments
Daily Life

Put Yourself In My Place, Why Don’t You…?

I’ve been working from home for the builder most of this week and drive to the shops each morning. A new primary school has opened across from the car park and every day, a procession of parents blithely park in disabled spaces and walk their children round the corner, the disabled parking saving little Rosie and Johnnie a couple of metres of walking, even though at that time in the morning, there are plenty of other spaces.

I have a blue badge. MS is a variable condition for most people, myself included. I don’t always use the badge, but when I need to, it’s a lifeline. The days when foot-drop, nerve pain or muscle spasms make walking difficult and painful, or my balance is shot to pieces, knowing I have a few more parking options makes it worth leaving the safety of my house, even for a short time.

The flip-side to this is that when I do park in a disabled space, I am met with tuts, hostility and anger from others, whether they have a blue badge or not. They closely examine me getting out my car, whisper to each other, glare at me and sigh loudly, shaking their heads.

So far, I haven’t been openly confronted, and I’m relishing the opportunity, building up the courage to go over to them and challenge their attitude and press a leaflet about MS into their hands before I stumble off.

Disabled spaces are treated with as much scorn and disregard as parent and baby spaces – how many of us have seen a car drive up to designated parent parking and a couple of teenagers jump out? Or worse, no kids at all. So rather than silently fume, I am going to take action.

The point is not that these parents only use the spaces for ten minutes, it is that they use them at all. Disabled people are generally treated as second class people at the best of times, so perhaps it is understandable that people wilfully abuse one of our few concessions without a thought.

Is this the only time they put themselves in our place?

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