Heat and Hatred

 

 

 

It actually had the temerity to rain a few drops when I was in the swimming pool, though the weather now is not marked different from the last few days when it has been hot in a way that is not usual for this time of year.  August is traditionally a time of vague disappointment, when the weather is more variable than one remembers from previous years, ironically, even though one expects to be dissatisfied: Schrodinger’s expectations!

     At the moment we only have two fans working in the living room (out of a possible three) as a desperate attempt to mitigate the heat and since we don’t have air conditioning there is little else that we can do to make the living temperature well, liveable.

     There is something about the quality of heat this year that hasn’t been present in past years and if this is a harbinger of what we can expect as the norm for the summer in future years then we are going to have to do something different to cope with the temperatures.

     In a country that has hot and very hot summers and generally mildish winters, there is no talk of hosepipe bans and, in spite of the hot weather continuing for months, there is not talk of proclaiming a drought.  Whereas in the UK, the situation seems to have reached a crisis point.  Again.

     Trump sneered that the FBI raid on his Floridian swamp was turning the USA in to one of the “shitehole” “third world countries” that he has so often dismissed with contempt in the past as a condescending image to cover his own criminality and the eventual, glacial, movement of the institutions of justice finally catching up with him.  His images, as always, are absurd and insulting, but when I look at the situation of the UK then there appears to be an element of truth in the first world status slowly ebbing away.

     With twelve years of Tory misrule and the callous cutting of health, welfare, education and everything else the grasping Conservatives can get their dirty mitts on, the stories that one hears are more suited to a developing country than one of the richest in the world.

     The position of health services in the USA has always been something that has been beyond the comprehension of Western European nations, who generally do not regard providing health care for their citizens as being akin to rabid Communism.  Many Americans are frightened of ill health because of the financial penalties that treatment will entail.  The concept of healthcare free at the point of need is something far beyond the imagination of many American voters who see such a process as rampant Socialism and a denial of the American Way.

     In the UK, the NHS is something in which we can take a justified pride, but a Health Service that has been hollowed out by 12 years of cuts and austerity and one that has been put under almost intolerable strain by dealing with Covid is struggling to cope and, after the last 12 years of Tory Misrule who could possibly believe that the “NHS is safe in our (Tory) hands”?  Such a quotation from a past (and well hated Tory premier) seems like a sick joke.  Private healthcare is rejoicing in the boost that 12 years of Tory Misrule have given them – as well, of course as the illegal boost to their funds by the corruption of the crooked Tory crony profiteers who milked us in the procurement process geared towards Conservative chums.

     The provision of NHS dental care is a disgrace with whole swathes of the country described as “dental deserts” where 80% of dentists are no longer taking any new patients.  The stories of people travelling for hours to get to any NHS provider, is one of shame.

     Someone once told me that the worth of a country is found in the way that it treats the disadvantaged, the criminal and the sick.  If we use those criteria to judge the present state of Britain then perhaps we are nearer to a third world (in itself that is a condescending term) country than one that uses its wealthy status to ensure that there is provision for all.

     Inequality is rampant in Britain, crystalized by the grotesquery of a chancer like Johnson being (still) Prime Minister, and is unlikely to be mitigated by the lying equivocator lined up to take over, the woman who John Crace in the Guardian characterised as having grown up in “grinding middle class poverty” with her professor father and her sinkhole school only just managing to squeek her into Oxford.

     Nothing that either of the “candidates” have said to the Neanderthals that are going to elect one or other of them, show a concern for the realities of the situation that the majority of the country is experiencing and is indeed dreading in the near wintery future.  They are mired in the reality that allows such creatures as Rees-Mogg to be in government.  They, like the Republican Party in the USA are now far to the right of the general electorate, but Conservative parties are adroit in the manipulation of the processes of power, in pushing institutions to their will, of gerrymandering and obfuscating in plain sight, while their tools in the right wing press present a twisted version of reality to maintain power and wealth in the hands of the very, very, few.

 

Knees Up Mother Brown!

sticks,          

 

Well, I suppose it is something to be told that the x-rays of your knees are “the worst that I have seen” by your doctor, as the opening gambit in a conversation that stopped before the Pandemic made seeing actually speaking face to face with your doctor a thing of the past.  Welcome to the new future.

      

 

My knees have never really been my strong point and a few tumbles while dismounting from my bike, have made them a damn sight worse.

     I can walk unaided, but it is so much better with a stick – and my walking is strictly limited to that which is strictly necessary.  Which sometimes means that I don’t even reach the unambitious target (set by my smartwatch) of 3,000 steps a day.

     The process of my future care is now slotted into The System and that will grind its inexorable way forward, although given the pandemic, the number of untreated cases of wonky knees is probably in the tens of thousands, and the medical mills grind slow.

     My prescriptions have changed, but only to give me better pain killers, which the doctor has suggested I use with caution – which makes you wonder just what drug they are derived from!  I have done without pain killers up until now and I can stumble my way onwards without them.  Hopefully.

     A blood test has been set up for me and another appointment with the doctor to see exactly what is happening and then, who knows?

     There was a horror story of a guy in the UK who needed to have a back tooth taken out and who searched for an NHS dentist to do the job.  He couldn’t find one locally, and after some fifty phone calls to increasingly distant practitioners, he eventually found one who suggested that the earliest appointment he could have would be THREE YEARS DISTANT! 

     Perhaps this is one of those instant urban myths that flourish in straitened times, but I am sure that I read about it in the Guardian, and since I put all of my faith into the probity of that newspaper, it gives you a mighty pause for thought.

     I have to say that the medical treatment that I have had in Catalonia has been exemplary and my doctor has been essential to my well-being.  But there is only so much that a local health centre can do.  Operations on the knee are well outside their remit.

     It is at this point that I remember my father.  He too had problems with his knees, but his problems came after a career as a PE teacher and playing professional Rugby League.  I really have to hunt around to find reasons for my knee problems, and I don’t think that a few nasty tumbles from the bike explains everything.

     Dad was told that he would have to have an operation but, even in those days, there were waiting lists and he would have to go on being in pain, waiting for a bed to become available.

     In spite of his socialist beliefs, he eventually listened to his surgeon who told him, “If you have a private consultation with me, I will be able to recommend you to one of ‘my’ beds in the hospital and then the operation will be done on the National Health.”  My father paid the fifteen guineas for the consultation, with the surgeon, which was obviously just a form of words, he was given a bed and was operated on, basically by jumping the queue.  Dad was in pain, and he couldn’t walk.  The NHS should have been able to deal with his condition but, we do not live in an ideal world, and the fifteen guineas was money well spent.

     When I find out exactly what is wrong with my ‘disaster area’ knees and what the specialist suggests needs to be done about them, then I will have to look at the possibilities and what is going to work for me.

     So far, the Catalan health service has been brilliant and has fully justified my faith in it.  My knees might pose a problem that will need a little more than faith to sort them out.    We will see.

We are all in this together. Really!

 New Lockdown, Day 15?, Friday

 

I thought of entitling this piece ‘Selfish Disaster’ because we have been told in Catalonia that the closure of bars, restaurants, gyms, theatres, opera houses and SWIMMING POOLS etc is to be extended for at least another ten days.  Another ten days without my early morning swim!

     And then I thought that, in the scheme of things, going without a swim for a couple of weeks more is hardly to be compared with the ravages of Covid 19 and the people who are in hospital or are recovering from so-called ‘long Covid’.

     And then I thought again and realized that another ten days could well be the tipping point in the survival of some businesses and, as businesses fail so they set off a sort of chain reaction, dragging in both direct suppliers and those suppliers who are indirectly connected with the enterprises.  In an inter-connected world when one suffers, we all suffer – though I do of course recognize that not taking part in a particular activity (swimming, eating out, watching opera, shopping) is not the same as not keeping your business going.  I don’t swim, I am repaid my monthly membership fee or fraction thereof – the club has something like 2,000 members: it’s a lot of money to pay out and get nothing back, while keeping the buildings and installations in good condition.  The Club is well run and seems to be financially stable, even with the financial blows that Covid gives, but for how long can this continue?  And what is happening to the employees?  And the suppliers?

     Just as Covid respects no boundaries, the financial, social, educational, structural damage being done is not discrete: everything joins to everything else.  My missed swim is inconvenience to me, is a livelihood threatened to others.

     On the other hand, avoiding death is worth a little inconvenience, indeed it is worth a great deal of inconvenience – and one only hopes that we have governments considerate enough to understand that interdependence means generous finance.

 

 

 

My greatest worry (after the destructive effects of Covid) is about the condition of the Heath Service.

     In Catalonia, as I can personally attest from hospitalized personal experience, our Health Service is excellent.  I was lucky enough to have my condition diagnosed and my superb treatment given at a time when the health services were not being overstretched by a pandemic.  I am sure that if I went through what I did a couple of years ago, now – would I be treated in the same way?

     I was taken to hospital in an ambulance that arrived before my consultation with the doctor had actually ended.  I was seen immediately in hospital.  I was treated and given a place on a ward where my treatment continued.  I spent eight days (and longer nights) in hospital.  My aftercare has been exemplary.  Even then I spent some time on a bed in what was a corridor in emergency before I got a bed in a ward.

     Since the Covid pandemic has been in Catalonia, I have had a scheduled appointment for blood extraction and a consultation with the doctor that I have seen throughout my treatment – and my next one is in six months’ time.  I have no complaints.

     But my extraction and consultation were over in minutes, there were no complications, no expensive treatments that needed medical intervention.  What, I ask myself, is happening to those who need more intrusive medical assistance?  For those who need minor operations or who need continuing cancer treatment?

     The answer is perhaps illustrated on television, by the number of adverts that we are now subjected to which urge us to take out private medical insurance.  Even the threat of delay is enough to frighten some into paying now in the hope that they will be able to queue jump some time in the future.

    

In the UK the Conservative ‘government’ has underfunded the NHS and privatized those parts of the organization that it thinks it can get away with.  The Tories disgraceful outsourcing of the Test and Trace shows their dedication to the private sector and their hope that Brexit will merely accelerate the transition from the lie of “The NHS is safe in our hands” to “The NHS is mostly there for those who can’t pay” - and they will get what they do not pay for.  Covid has a fair chance of destroying a meaningful health service free at the point of need with the bunch of self-seeking incompetents that we have in charge.

 

 

What Covid has shown is how weak our public services are after years of Conservative ‘austerity’ and the post-Covid new-normal must be one where those public services are brought up to pre-Covid levels and more autonomy must return to local councils, so people can live.

     There is, of course, an element of hypocrisy in all this: my swimming pool is private, a private club run for profit.  The municipal pool is at the other end of town and up a steep hill which, even with an electric bike, I am not enthusiastic to climb.  I made a choice because I can afford to make that choice and I have gone for the pool nearest my home (leaving aside for the moment the sea which is at the end of the road) and the most convenient.  I have disposable income that I choose to spend on a well-appointed pool and in a cheerful café, I can even say that it is good value: I go there every day to swim and I end up paying about 50p for the privilege.  Money well spent I say!

     The US of A shows us that private medical health care is a nightmare and where a broken leg could be ruinous. 

     I am a fit and well chronically ill person!  I enjoy life but have to take pills every day and periodically go for consultations to check my progress.  It is no hardship; more mild inconvenience, and I know that I am being looked after well and I have no worries about the quality of my care.

     The New Normal is going to be different.  We have a duty to remind the government where its priorities should lie.

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 37 – Tuesday, 21st APRIL

 

It’s still raining.  It has been raining solidly for three days.  This is not what I paid up to join when I moved to Catalonia!  Where is the sun?

     Poor weather merely forces one to take even more notice of the news, and that of course drives one back to the weather once again.

     The scandal of the non-appearing PPE in Britain and the way that statistics are being thrown around concerning testing make me angry.  Politicians seem to equate hopes with hard statistics, as with the Turkish PPE that were talked about as supplying the NHS and they are still waiting.  In exactly the same way the Health Secretary was talking about the availability of tests for Covid-19, but the key question is how many tests have actually been administered?  From Beckett’s answers this evening, it is obvious that he is going to weasel out of resigning when he fails to get to the target for testing at the end of the month.

     While the supply of PPE rumbles on and with of course hospitals and care homes and health workers failing to be adequately supplied, the earlier part of that scandal has come back to haunt the government.

     Some time ago Britain was invited to join other EU countries in uniting forces to source supplies of PPE using the buying power of bulk purchase.  Though invited, Britain did not sign up.  Why?  According to the Conservatives, it was because they didn’t see the email.  According to a senior Civil Servant it was a political decision taken to placate the Brexit idiots.  According to the Conservatives, it was a single email that was missed.  According to other official is was a series of invitations that were not acted upon. 

     I have to say that I am inclined to agree with Philip Pullman who has written that he thinks the entire government front bench should resign at once, and if it can be shown that they ignored the invitation because of Brexit prejudice then they should be charged with manslaughter.  The Conservatives have issued a detailed refutation of the story in the Sunday Times that questioned their record and their motivations – but this story will haunt (as it should) the Government and the way that they played the early stages of the crisis.

Here in Spain and Catalonia there is almost terminal confusion about the government’s plans to loosen the lockdown to allow children to leave the house when accompanied by a parent.  The details of who, what, when, where, how often, how far, how old, how many and on and on are all bubbling up and there is no real authoritative governmental voice giving the sort of clarity that needs to be in place if there is not to be utter chaos when the policy comes into play.

     Like the masks that each citizen is entitled to.  On the first day of the distribution of the masks via the pharmacies the system crashed and so the television news carried stories of chaos rather than the extension of protection for us all!

     There are too many stories of chaos and too few of planned competence.

On the lighter side, I have received my parcel from Pound Shop.  It seemed to me that that could be a way of getting essential supplies through via the UK.  It all depends, of course, on how you define ‘essential’.

     In order to make the delivery charge worthwhile I had to spend about fifty euros and what I ended up with was a positive lucky bag of questionable goodies ranging from ‘chip shop curry granules’ via Cross and Blackwell baked beans to dark chocolate Toblerone. 

     In times of isolation, one needs one’s treats!

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 35 – Sunday, 19th APRIL

It’s raining. 

     I am disinclined to go on my circuits of the communal swimming pool in the pouring rain. 

     I am further depressed by the reading in the Guardian about Goblin Gove’s typically mealy-mouthed, unconvincing response to a series of allegations in The Sunday Times that the Convalescing Clot missed five consecutive emergency meetings of COBRA in the build up to the Covid-19 crisis and that the government shipped PPE to China in February. 

     That would have covered the period when our part-time Prime Minister was hidden away in Chequers, a prime minister who notoriously “didn’t work weekends” according to an unnamed senior adviser!  Once Bullingdon Club always Bullingdon Club: the lazy sense of entitlement of the rich and the privileged; let the lesser breeds without the law do the hard graft while the Johnson jonson sets about adding another child to the unnumbered brood.

     I am more than prepared to believe that the lingering poison of Brexit mixed with the euphoria of the Conservative right wing after the crushing electoral victory led the ‘government’ fatally to mismanage a coherent approach to the Covid-10 crisis. 

     The typical Tory inhumanity of the ‘herd immunity’ approach to dealing with the crisis, complacently accepting hefty deaths will be remembered, together with the astonishing U-Turn when it was suddenly abandoned in favour of approaches that more nearly matched virtually every other government in the world.

     The position of the Health Secretary is becoming more and more untenable – or at least it should be becoming more and more untenable as more and more avoidable deaths will be laid as a memorial to his incompetence.  Yes, efficient supply is difficult in times of crisis, especially in a cash and equipment and personnel starved institution like the NHS that is in its present state because of the cruel austerity practiced by the Tory government for the last decade. 

     The empty platitudes of support that Tory ministers mouth for Health Workers are cruelly ironic given their attitudes towards the NHS over the past years.  These are the same vile folk who cheered after a pay increase for Nurses was defeated in the House of Commons!  They disgust me.

     And, as I typed that last bitter sentence, the rain outside has grown appreciably heavier.  There is nothing like the Pathetic Fallacy to cement misery in place!

In an effort to escape the gnawing resentment contained in the paragraphs above, I have turned to something more creative.  My chapbook of poems written in Holy Week called Coasts of Memory.  I have been working on illustration and made a decision to use only photographs taken within the lockdown confines.  This means that the house, the garden, the communal pool and what I can see from the terrace and windows are all fair game for my camera!

     I spent yesterday evening playing around with the raw material that I had and started placing individual pictures in what I considered to be appropriate places in the chapbook.  I am constantly frustrated by petty mechanical problems with images and sometimes it is a case of printing what fits rather than fitting what I want to print!

     There is also the problem of he disappearing fonts.  I save what I do fairly religiously; I have been caught out too often and too painfully when documents develop a missing life of their own not to remember to save.  But I am often frustrated by the way in which complex documents do not always retain formatting. 

     The latest example of this concerns by choice of a fairly exotic fort used as a title.  This font did not transfer when I sent the document via email rather than copying it onto a memory stick - in spite of my avowal of the very latest in technology, I can be whimsically old-school from time to time!  The font is space greedy, so when it transfers as something altogether more prosaic it means that everything else on the page is out of place and that has a domino effect on all the pages afterwards.  As I was going to use that particular version of the book for detailed editing, it might turn out to be self-defeating if I have to redo everything with the ‘correct’ font in place in the final document.  Such things are sent to try me, and at least I can have a direct effect on what I do there, as opposed to whingeing on about what my government is doing or not doing in this crisis!

In the way in which the petty becomes important: Toni is going out to get bread!  An event for which he dresses up like an Inuit and wings the desolate abyss between our home and the bread shop that is a few streets away.  I enjoy the results of these little excursions as we usually have a little treat from the patisserie as well as mere bread – by which alone, one cannot live!

     This time, as well as the bread, Toni is going to attempt to get some chicken from the pollo a last, this will be our first ‘bought in’ meal since the lockin began.  However, if there is a queue, or there are too many people there then the meal will be called off and we will have to settle for the bread.  And treats.

There are increasing accounts in the media of the possibility of no vaccine being produced in the short term, or even ever.  We have the example of AIDS, where, in spite of extensive research over a number of years, we are still without a vaccine.  Treatment for the disease, yes; vaccine no.  That is a very sobering thought.  It means that we will be dealing with the virus as an ever-present threat well after this initial surge is over and it also means that for people in my age group the restrictions are going to last for the foreseeable future. 

     This is a more than depressing thought!

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 27 – Holy Saturday in Holy Week, 11th APRIL

We are waiting to hear what the traffic flow is like.  Spain and the UK have both emphasised that no one (except of course for Conservative Ministers) should travel during the Easter weekend.  We should all stay at home.  So far a large number of fines have been imposed on those who attempted to make the journey to second homes or to the beach.  The story of a group of people form the UK attempting to go on holiday to France via private jet both shocks and also doesn’t surprise: the rich assuming that rules are only for the poor.  Again.

     As I keep saying, I do realise that I am in a fortunate position being in a spacious home with access to a communal pool for my solitary walk – though today there was an entire family of parents and little girl in the tennis court next to our pool: on parent walking while the other played with the kid.  We even said, ¡Hola! to each other.  At a safe distance.  Such is community: you best show community spirit by shunning it!

The number of deaths reported in the UK continues to horrify and I have little faith in the ability of the government to organize themselves with sufficient efficacy to limit the growth in the numbers.  The distribution of masks and other PPE seems limited and the testing is little short of scandalous.

     In Catalonia we are entitled to a free mask, allegedly waiting for us in our local pharmacy, with the option to buy another mask.  Toni will have to find out if this is true by calling in to the pharmacy when he gets fresh bread.  It will at least be a small step in the right direction in coming to terms with the reality of the virus.

     Some firms in Spain are asking their workers to come back to work after the Easter Bank Holiday.  This is essential for the recovery of the economy, but I do not see how this can be done with any real degree of safety without adequate testing in place.  Some workplaces are simply not conducive to social separation and, with the best will in the world, people forget to be paranoid all the time and allow recently learned essential behaviour to slip.  Wearing a facemask is unpleasant and wearing it with glasses is clumsy and therefore all too likely to be pushed down or up rather than used constantly.

     You can sense, even in isolation, that people have a natural wish to ‘return to normality’ but if that totally understandable wish is allowed too soon, the end results will be deadly.  And, why should we expect or even want previous ‘normality’? 

     This virus and its progress and particularly the way that it has been dealt with by the politicians would seem to me to indicate in a blazingly obvious way that things must not be the same after this crisis.  The measures, financial, social and political that have been brought into play to cope with the crisis illustrate as clearly as possible the inadequacy of the previous financial, social and political measures.  Why should we return to proven, failed ways of life?

     You think of measures like guaranteeing a working wage; of housing the homeless; of supporting the NHS; of protecting people with disabilities – all the things that our austerity government previously said were unaffordable: now funded.  Failing railways renationalized; small businesses supported – no Socialist idea rejected!  If it can be done now, it could have been done then.  If it can be done now, it can go on being done.  If we pay money to keep airlines alive, then we own them.  We have already had the obscenity of Tesco receiving a governmental emergency handout and then paying a dividend to their shareowners.  How long do we go on encouraging with our money (and though I live in Catalonia I pay British taxes too) those who boost the inequalities in our society, giving ever more money to those who already have?  It seems to me that the message of one of the badges that I used to wear god knows how many years ago of “Eat the rich!” is more relevant now than it was then!  And what a condemnation of our political ‘progress’ that is.

     We cannot allow the billionaires and the big companies to pretend that they have nothing to do with the situation in which we find ourselves, not obviously in the making of the virus (though in my more paranoid conspiracy theory moments, I have my doubts!) but in the way that the government was equipped to deal with it.  Private Enterprise does not, essentially, care for us.  It is driven by profit and not by concern.  In times of crisis, it fails and allows government to ride to the rescue, and then, when things are better, it goes back to doing what it does best: exploit!

There is cloud cover, but intermittent sunshine – I’m not sure what this encourages on a population that really wants to get out and about.  Perhaps if it was blazing sunshine it would be more of a temptation, this neither one thing nor the other encourages people to go back indoors and watch something else on Netflix.  Probably.

Well, back to my daily poem.  I have an idea, its now just the working it up to be something that I can call a draft.  Check out what I have already written this Holy Week on smrnewpoems.blogspot.com

    

What now!

One definition of ‘hardship’ is having to use the outdoor community pool rather than my rather more congenial local swimming centre.  I realize that this definition is not one that will be enthusiastically shared by those, for example in the UK, where the number of outdoor community pools for private citizens is somewhat restricted.  And even if they were in greater supply than they are, when would an ‘outdoor’ pool ever be used?

And that brings me to the serial untruthfulness of my friends in Britain.  It is a ‘given’ that any telephone conversation between Catalonia and the UK will touch on the weather.  Even though we have had an indifferent early and late spring with weather that all of us grumbled about, I refuse to believe that the weather in my country of birth is markedly better.  Yet, in every telephone conversation I have to listen to my British friends say (yet again) that “Today” (or more tellingly “yesterday”) has/had been glorious!”  [I know that the quotation marks in that sentence are not exactly correct, but merely thinking about them brings back memories of fiendishly difficult exercises on punctuation in Form 4 or 5 that took sick minds to devise - and certainly created nausea in the stomachs of hapless pupils who were called on to ‘solve’ them]  At first we took such statements on trust, but then the suspicious nature of the consistency of response encouraged us to be a little more circumspect and we started to check up on these statements of nationalistic climate one-upmanship.  And behold! the facts would invariably cast (at the very least) doubt on the assertions of flawless skies and tropical temperatures.

It was refreshingly direct, when my cousin Margaret came to Castelldefels, she sent a selfie by the pool or on the beach to the folk back in Maesteg and, at the same time she checked the weather.  Rain, rain, and more rain.  Or, as one of her correspondents put it, “It’s pissing down here!”

It’s odd, isn’t it - the weather is a topic of national conversation, whose awfulness is bewailed at every opportunity.  We hark back to the ‘Great Summer of 1976’ and somehow seem to ignore the fact that it is a warm experience of over forty years ago!  But let foreign weather attempt to better our (for want of a better word) climate and suddenly we become all protective and start rationalizing ‘light rain’ as something that can be ignored, or ‘a patch of blue’ as a sunny day.  Trump’s alternative facts have a lot to answer for.

I have a simple way of showing the difference between the weather in Cardiff and Catalonia.  Every day I use my bike (admittedly an electric one, but I still have to pedal) to go on an epic journey to my local swimming pool.  I do not use my bike if it is raining.  So far this year, I have had to use the car on four occasions.  I ask you, members of the jury, how many days would the bike have been kept at home in Britain?

Of course, you could say that my continuing concern with the weather is a form of displacement activity to encourage my thinking of something other than my health.

Six months ago I was diagnosed with thrombosis, embolism and strained heart.  Eight days in hospital; two weeks total rest; weeks of gradual exercise; hospital appointments; blood tests; health centre visits, a doctor’s visit to the house (!) {sic.}; twice daily injections etc etc etc.  The six-month period is a time for more evaluative tests to see exactly how I am doing.

The last visit to the hospital doctor (as opposed to my local doctor) was generally positive: blood, pee and heart all passed muster.  Now on to leg and lungs!  And it’s the lungs that are the worry as the damage that the embolisms did might well be permanent and if that is so, Other Things Will Need to be Done.  What these things are, I know not of.  But they will be the thorough irritation of my world.  There are Dark Mutterings about some sort of ‘mask’ that might have to be worn during the nights, but I was told not to worry because the newer ones are almost silent.  If that was meant to comfort me, it did not.  My ever-active imagination has already sketched out some form of modern/medieval form of nocturnal torture instrument!

So, while I get browner, as an actual and real sign that our weather is really quite good, and stride about looking the soul of health, I still have nagging worries that I will have to take my local doctor’s injunction that I will have to “remake my world” and live with the consequences of what happened six months ago.

The visible signs of this remade life are that I now walk with a stick (when I remember to take it) and I wear a pressure stocking (when I am shamed into putting it on) and my pathological hatred of the act of walking is now a sort of medical imperative.  I do not look ill.  I do not feel ill.  My swimming times are the same or better than those before January.  But it is difficult to feel totally at ease when you consider that my basic medication is rat poison.  Admittedly it is packaged in little white tablets that can be easily broken into quarters to match the ever-changing daily dose, but the fact remains that I am ingesting rat poison.  On a daily basis.  You might be interested to know that Warfarin killed the rats by causing internal bleeding, and it is that ability to thin the blood that is supposed to help those with thrombosis etc.  And I hope that it is.  This month will demonstrate exactly how effective the drug has been.

I have also had to change my diet.  I am on a low fat and no salt regime and I haven’t had a drink of alcohol since January.  Admittedly I was told that I could have an occasional small glass of red wine - but I would rather do without than be so glaringly abstemious!  No salt is just about impossible unless you cook all your own food and I have less than no intention of doing that, so I tell the waiters that I need to have a ‘no salt’ dish and believe in their veracity.  Well, don’t knock it, I’m not dead yet!

It is ironic that in the The Guardian today (the on-line version that I read) there is a report that suggests that the NHS could save billions by encouraging doctors not to over prescribe and not to encourage patients to have series of tests and examinations that may not be strictly necessary.  I think that the succession of tests that I have had in Catalonia and the level of medical care that I have received are in marked contrast to the service that I would have had if I had still been living in Cardiff.

As a Baby Boomer (Leading Edge) I am of the generation that is now entering into the age when the availability of medical services are going to be called on with greater regularity.  On the 70^th Anniversary of the NHS now is the time to start funding the service as it should be funded and, incidentally, to be taken out of the hands of a Conservative Party (“lower than vermin”) that did everything in its power to try and halt its foundation.

You see the way my mind works.  I start talking about the weather and end up with the NHS.  But thinking about it, they are both linked, and the more I think about it, the more one appears to be a metaphor for the other!  But such literary niceties are for another post!