Pure Joy

I’ve just returned from a weekend at V2008.

I have learned about MDMA or Methylenedioxymethamphetamine (Methylene-dioxy-meth-amphetamine), otherwise known as Ecstasy.

I’ve heard of Ecstasy, but when the girl in the tutu with the unequal pupils told me she loved me and hoped I wouldn’t tell the police when she said she had taken MDMA, I wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

Mind you, I recognised the euphoria, the obviously enhanced sensory experience she seemed to be having, the rapid eye movements (nystagmus) and the over-the-top intimate behaviour with complete strangers. Miss Tutu was buzzing. She couldn’t focus – “there’s millions of you! You look like a kaleidoscope!” - she wanted to hug everyone in sight, take her clothes off one by one, and was telling me how wonderful everything was. She was somehow talking to me and singing along with the band at the same time, too!

The strange thing about her was that she had such an odd look in her eyes – probably a combination of the unequal pupils, and the spasms in her jaw, accompanied by involuntary teeth-grinding and clenching -so much so that she was biting the insides of her cheeks until they bled. Her temperature was a little high, and her lips were dry and cracked and crusted with blood where she’d bitten her mouth. 

She seemed like she might have been quite a pleasant, outgoing, sensible sort of girl, but she had become a caricature, contorted and gurning, and amusing for all the wrong reasons. It struck me how completely vulnerable this little girl suddenly was. Fearless, confident, attention-seeking, young, pretty, half-undressed……… who knows what the story might have been if we weren’t there to look after her on Sunday evening. 

You make your own choices in the world, and whatever happens you have to live with the consequences.

She was lucky this time. I wonder what happened to the other lost girls and boys who weren’t quite so lucky.

Off to See the…..

No, not the Wizard, the V Festival.

No, I did not buy a ticket! I’m there to do first aid cover.  

Tell you all about it when I get back!

Spaniel xx

Dr Google

I have a vitamin B12 deficiency.

My Dr gave me the results of the blood test:

“Well, everything came back normal, Ms Spaniel, but your B12 levels are lower than they should be.”

“Oh” says I, “What does vitamin B12 do then?”

“Errr. Well, it helps your body absorb stuff, and helps make red blood cells work”. Says the Dr, looking a bit uneasy, like he was rather hoping I wasn’t going to be this intelligent, nor ask him too many probing questions.

“I see. So, what kind of symptoms might I be experiencing with this kind of deficiency?”

“Weeeeellll…..” He says, and reaches forward to his computer keyboard. “What I’d like to do, is get you to have a high B12 diet over the next month, and then undergo another blood test.”

“OK. What foods contain a lot of vitamin B12, then?”

“Let’s have a look” says the Dr, and I realise he’s got the Google search page up on his computer screen!

Yes, Google. I looked at him carefully. Does he look like a proper doctor? I don’t know. He’s fairly young, asian-looking, cool clothes. Not a white coat or a set of elbow-patches in sight. How would I know if he was just a bloke on a work-placement scheme?

I was just about to aske to see his qualifications, when the computer screen came up with the results of the search.

He clicked here and there and gave me the details. I can read off the internet, too, I thought to myself.

Here’s what he told me:

Yeast Extract, Offal (especially Liver), fortified breakfast cereals, dairly products like milk and cheese.

I gave up and went away. I think the Dr learned something though.

“Women’s Trouble”

Don’t glaze over – this won’t be too bad once we get past the embarrassing bit. Let’s face it, menstruation is just part of life, and something everyone needs to get on with. The actual period bit isn’t so much of an issue, really - its just biology; and easy enough to cope with, but I thought it would be worth sharing my ‘Thursday experience’, so that others who might have a similar experience can share, and those who have absolutely no experience at all, can try to understand a little.

The concept of PMT is a comedian’s dream. There are so many gags you can get out of the stereotypical stressed-out maniac who will snap at the slightest thing and start stabbing people. In my experience women like this don’t really exist. For me, the 24 hours before my period is the time when I start to lose my spatial awareness and start crashing into things – yes literally! I’ve got the bruises to prove it! – and is the time when the headache starts. Its the kind of headache you get with a hangover. Everything seems slightly too loud, too fast, too busy. I want people to be quiet and leave me alone. I just want to sleep, but I know that sleep won’t cure this particular hangover feeling.

Next day (which for me is always a Thursday) I will wake up feeling like I have the flu and a hangover at once. I have a fuzzy, woolly head that feels like I’m dehydrated, but no amount of water will fix it. My limbs are heavy and difficult to co-ordinate and I feel a little dizzy. I know I must get up for work, but on such Thursday mornings, I always wonder how on earth I’m ever going to get up and go to work. But I always do. I feel vaguely nauseous, light-headed and incredibly tired. My thoughts seem slower on such Thursdays, and I ache all over. I feel bruised, like I’ve been run-over. I’m much more likely to cry at anything – especially if I stub my toe or walk into the door frame. Making complex decisions is a real struggle. I battle on. Very soon the stomach cramps will start, and I’ll need the painkillers, but I won’t let this stop me from getting on with things, even though I’d love to give in and just sleep, I mustn’t. So I regularly take ibuprofen, perhaps interspersed with paracetamol or even aspirin, and put on a brave face. No-one knows I feel like crap. Keep similing. No-one wants to know, anyway.

Still, it will only be a few hours of hell. Normally by tea-time I start to feel better. By Friday I’ll be OK again.

Its awful. But its a fact of life.

Randoms

In my real life (the one outside the computer – yes, people, there’s a whole world out there!!) I deal with plenty of randoms. Many of these are people.

Here at WordPress, the cyberpixies have started generating suggested other blogs you might like to read based on the content of each post.

This can be interesting, and help to follow a train of thought, but it can generate some random connections, especially with my colourful descriptions and bizarre analogies.

Look at the last post, where I mentioned water nymphs. The random-generator has come up with at least one fishing-related link. Which, of course, is nothing to do with my post.

He He. I could have fun with this……….

No water nymph

With 8 months to go before my wedding to Badger, I went to a wedding dress shop and found the dress I’m going to wear on the day. It went well, but these things are always daunting when you’ve got a large bust and hips and aren’t going to get even one leg into a size 8….

The women in the shop run their expert eyes over your flesh, sizing you up. “What dress size would you normally be?” they ask politely, thinking quietly “Man, you fat”. I tell them I can normally manage a 16 or an 18 depending on the cut, and she says: “Well you’ll probably be a size 22 in wedding dresses then.”

Why is this? Do manufacturers think that only 12-year old girls and water-nymphs get married?

Anyway, she finishes by saying “don’t take it personally, dear – its not your fault these people label their dresses wrong.”

So, she finds some dresses for me that she think I’ll fit and that won’t wipe out my fairly meagre budget, and two of them usher me into a changing room full of mirrors where there’s no getting away from images of my lumpy flesh.

“Right, then.” says one of the women, and clearly this is my clue to take my clothes off. I find it a bit odd that there’s no attempt to shove me behind a curtain to take my kit off, but, what the hell- they’re going to see me in my underwear in a minute, I suppose, so what’s the difference?

Big fluffy socks, greying bra and big pants are quickly hidden by a mass of silk and satin and net – and I look far more presentable. The pair of them pull at the corset-strings and my waist becomes more and more accentuated. I’m not as fat as I thought I was – at least, not in these kind of dresses, where my general shape (bottom-heavy hourglass) is perfect for the style of the traditional wedding gown. The nice cleavage gets shown, while the big bottom gets hidden by the A-line, floor length skirt.

I start smiling.

After about 4 dresses (2 of which were just the wrong shape!) we’re running out of ideas. The one I liked, but seemed a bit fussy is well over twice what I wanted to pay. Then, the second shop lady says “What about that one we got over from storage that the lady cancelled her appointment?” The older woman nods, and says “We’ll try it.”

I put it on (with help from the corset-pullers) and I beam. This is it. Not only does the dress actually fit me, it is ‘The One’. I think it sums me up beautifully: At first glance, fairly plain and straight-forward, with a sensible shape – but on closer examination subtle detail that shows you its classy and expensive. No impractical long train or skimming hem, either. It is perfect.

And, while a little more expensive that I originally budgeted for – its affordable. Especially when I manage to negotiate a bit of a discount, too. So they’ve ordered me a brand new one and I should get it just after Christmas.  

Can’t wait!

I showed a picture of it to Badger, and he likes it too. ;o)

Even if I’m not a water-nymph……..

The Drawer of Sanity

At work, I have a drawer in my desk which is deep and roomy and contains work in progress. A certain amount of detritus builds up, and the more recently visited work finds its way to the top, while the less important finds its way to the bottom. Archaeologists digging in my drawer would notice the various layers of activity which have taken place, and could date the drawer fairly accurately without the need for carbon-dating techniques.

This drawer keeps me sane. I know that seems a bit weird, but let me explain. The drawer contains all the papers I’ve been working on recently, documents for reference, files, snippets of information ‘I might just find useful’, and all of my pending work.  I know that what I need I will find in my drawer. It is my to-do list in 3D format, and if I don’t know what’s in the drawer, my sanity starts to become unravelled.

When I can no longer fit my work back in the drawer at the end of the day. I know it is time to purge, and today was the purge day. I shredded, I threw away and I tidied. I felt cleansed.

There were no monsters lurking, either.

I feel better already.

“I’m a people-person, me”

… No you’re fucking not.

Anyone who says this at an interview should be shot. I should have sent three candidates for execution this afternoon.

Good Lord.

Normally people who say they’re a people-person turn out to be far less sensitive to people’s needs than the ones who keep quiet.

Remember that, folks. A word to the wise.  

Redundancy

I haven’t been here much lately – I don’t suppose many of you have missed me – I’ve never had much of a following here, but I like writing my things, and so I do, whether there’s anyone out there or not.

But things have been tough for a few weeks, not least because I’m processing redundancies again.

Never a good experience. Ushering good people out of jobs they love, simply because we can’t afford to pay them any more. As much as it isn’t about the people, it so is. No matter how many times you tell people it isn’t their fault – that they’ve done nothing wrong, they can’t help but feel its personal. And I understand.

They can’t help thinking that I don’t care, and that somehow I want to make them feel bad.

But I don’t.

I don’t argue with them, because its part of their grief, shouting at me.

But it hurts me too.

It does.

I’m a person too.

Shock

People never cease to amaze me.

I had a call from a lady, G, today. I’d written to G reminding her that her fixed-term contract comes to an end at the end of June because we don’t have the funds or the work to renew her contract. She’s been with us about 8 months.

She rang me to ask me whether she needed to look for another job, then.

Well, Duh !!!!