» Blood

(Warning: this is gross...). My father
was on a flight from the UK to Germany to do some work, when he developed a nosebleed mind-flight. Which didn't stop. He spent two days working over there, giving lectures and doing research, with tissue stuffed up his nose. The bleeding didn't stop.

He fell asleep on the flight back, and the tissue had become so sodden through that it plopped out; he was only alerted to this when the man next to him woke him up to point out that the front of his shirt was drenched in blood. The bleeding hadn't stopped.

After a day of dripping blood through the house, my mother finally persuaded him to go to the hospital to have it checked out. 8 hours later, with his wife and daughter nearly falling asleep in the waiting room, the doctors came out to tell us that they'd tried cauterising him twice, but the bleeding wouldn't stop. By this point, he'd been feeling rather shit for quite a while, so they decided to keep him in overnight, give him a transfusion, and work out what was happening.

3 days and another transfusion later (the bleeding hadn't stopped), they finally discovered that he'd had an aneurism (sp?) in his brain, caused by the change in pressure as his plane took off. It was pure luck that it was in his frontal lobe, and that the blood was able to escape down his sinuses; if it hadn't been able to escape, it would have built up in his brain, and he would have died. I thank God for the wonderful doctors and nurses in Addenbrookes ENT department, because as soon as it was diagnosed, they knew what to do. It was just going to take some time to do it.

They shifted him over to a private room so he could do some work, and gave him a bucket to spit the blood running down the back of his throat into every 5 minutes or so. Apparently they were also giving him some rather good cocaine, which helped to lessen the bleeding (and stop him feeling quite so shit, I suspect).

Finally, having taken scan after scan of his face, they got to work: they cut the skin of his face around the chin and up to the ears, and peeled it back until his face was skinless (I can visualise it now: a flayed head, with his face lying in folds on his forehead till they were ready to lay it back down again like some fleshy turf).
They then chiselled away the cartilage of his nose (to this day, he has no structure to his nose and can squash it flat against his face in all directions with phenomenal ease) to give easier access to the sinuses. Then they basically just poked a large stapler up there and liberally stapled the bleeding bits of his brain back together. They relaid his face and stiched it back down, and sent him into recovery. He woke up, and for the first time in 2 months, didn't feel sick from having swallowed a load of blood in his sleep. Finally, the bleeding had stopped.
(Tue 12th Aug 2008, 13:28, More)

» Pet Peeves

A letter from me.
Dear everyone,

I've got a few things I'd like to get off my chest, and I think a letter is the best way to do it. I'm not entirely sure where to start, so I'll just address various concerns in a concise, and yet clear manner. These are not all the things that annoy me, but the ones that just spring to mind without thinking too hard.

Let's begin with the basics: manners. The words "please" and "thank you" were not invented merely to be said in old-fashioned costume dramas. They are still relevant today. Please use them.

Please do not spit in public. If you've been for a run, kindly contain your phlegm until you reach a bin. Do not simply hawk it onto the ground just where someone is walking. It's disgusting, and one day, if you do it in front of me, you might find yourself being vomited on.

Gentlemen: if you leer at a young lady on the underground, making various salacious remarks about her very audibly, do not call her a "fucking dyke" when she tells you to be quiet. Unbelievable as it is, not every single woman on the planet gets the urge to jump into bed with a middle-aged sweaty pervert.

Ladies: your children might be the centre of your universe, but they are not the centre of mine. You may talk about them for a maximum of 3 minutes to me, before I forcefully change the subject.

Moreover, your pram/pushchair is not a siege weapon. It does not exist for the sole purpose of running over peasants/old people/other children. If you have it in a cafe, and the child is not sitting in it, collapse the fucking thing and store it under the table. If your child is old enough to walk, and looks like it's too big for the pushchair, then make it walk. No wonder kids are getting fat these days, if their parents push them around in a buggy until they're 10 years old.

For all you people who hate cyclists: for every one cyclist who jumps a red light, there will be 9 who cycle carefully and considerately, stopping at lights, making clear signals, and not doing illegal turns. Just because a cyclist is able to weave through traffic jams, and you're jealous of the fact that they are (a) going faster than you, (b) don't pay road tax/petrol etc and (c) are potentially going to live longer than you, it is no reason to shout abuse at them, deliberately force them off the road or drive through the puddles next to them to get them wet. You cunts.

Cyclists: do not run red lights. Wear a helmet and lights. If there is a cycle track, which is in a decent condition, use it. You idiots.

Sensationalist reporting: yes, I'm looking at you, the Daily Mail/Express/Mirror. Diana is very dead, so probably is Madeleine McCann. Heather Mills is batshit insane. Get over it. Do some real reporting.

To the small middle-ages ladies with sharp elbows who constantly try to push onto the tube ahead of me in the mornings: don't give me deathstares when I refuse to let you on before me. I WAS THERE FIRST.

To the small old ladies who can't sit in their usual seats on the bus, because I'm there with my rucksack: don't mutter about how young people these days have no respect. There are 40 empty seats just behind mine. Get over it.

Female colleagues. Just because I am a woman, it does not mean that I will share your obsession for all things wedding-related. If my friends are getting married, fine, good for them, I hope they'll be very happy. Indeed, I hope to get married myself one day. However, just because we are getting closer to summer, please do not show me every single celebrity wedding dress article in Hello/OK!/Heat. I don't care. I find your inane burblings tedious and shallow. And on that note, stop asking me when it's going to be "my turn". I will get married when I want. The more you ask, the more you start sounding like wizened old spinsters, trying to live vicariously through your colleague's lives. If you like weddings so much, go off and have one yourself. I'll bet there are hundreds of men needing UK visas who'll marry you.

Green issues. Our planet is buggered. What do we do about it? Bang on about buying energy saving lightbulbs, and then leave the lights on all day. Obsess about using renewable energy, then turn all the heating up instead of wearing an extra jumper. Agree that we are all flying too much, and then find that the rail companies are charging an arm and a leg to go 50 miles away.

These are a few things that really get my goat. However, while I've found that it is easy to list things that annoy me, a list of things that I like would stretch to the moon and back. I can say with all honesty that I'm pretty fucking happy with life. It would do us all a lot of good if we were to concentrate on the things that make life worthwhile, as opposed to focussing solely on irritating things.

Anyway, hope you're well, and have a lovely Bank Holiday.

Love,

BobFossil
(Fri 2nd May 2008, 13:51, More)

» I'm going to Hell...

Just remembered this...
I was waiting in Cambs to get on the train down to London, with my mother. I was about 21 at the time. Just as the train arrived, this little old-ish lady (probably mid-60s) tried to barge in front of us, and then gave us evils when we held our ground and refused to let her force her way onto the train before us.

Anyway, she sat down near us in the (otherwise completely empty) carriage, and stared at us, all the while muttering under her breath (I've no idea what about, but am guessing it concerned the lack of moral fibre and politeness of young people these days, they've got no respect, oooh my hip's playing up again, look at her, sitting there all young and carefree, what's the world coming to).

This pissed my mother and I off, so I randomly started swearing ("fuck! cunt! shitty spunkbung!"), and twitching. The woman stopped looking narked, and started looking slightly worried.
My mother, bless her, played along, leaning forward with a look of concern and saying "oh dear, is it playing up again? Did you take your medication? Shall I call the police?
At this, the woman abruptly stood up and left, casting fearsome glances over her shoulder at me.

I'm not going to hell for impersonating a mentalist, but for the warm self-righteous glow it gave me to see her looking so scared of me.


(Please excuse spelling mistakes. Been for long and boozy lunch, yay!)
(Wed 17th Dec 2008, 15:19, More)

» Food sex

Custard puddings in the Algarve.
A couple of years back, I was on holiday in the Algarve, mostly kicking about looking at old churches and having a culinary tour of the region. Well, trying to, anyway. I'd spunked most of my cash on transport, and didn't have that much left over, certainly not enough to sample the finest delights of Portuguese cooking whenever I wanted. I like fish as much as the next person, but when you're eating cheap salted cod every day for breakfast, it soon starts to pall. After a week of fish, vegetables, nice architecture and vinegary wine, I was getting desperate for something new, something nice.

And, by god, I found it. The holiest of holies. In Praia da Luz. The Pasteis de Nata.

They're basically custard tarts, and widely available throughout the country, but it was the first time I'd come across them; after a week of salty fish, they were a revelation. I was grabbing a coffee in some random cafe, and the waitress brought me a free one. It looked fairly unassuming on the outside, but when I bit into it, it was an almost orgasmic pleasure. And immediately (my mind ever working thus) I wanted an orgasm. A custardy, flaky-pastry orgasm. I bought half a dozen and went back to my hotel room, shuffling awkwardly to hide my arousal.

As soon as I'd locked the door, I flung myself onto the narrow bed, wriggling out of my clothes, gasping in anticipation. With trembling fingers I pulled open the little paper bag, shaking cinnamon powder over my thighs, bits of pastry settling into my damp pubic hair. I brought the first one to my lips, slid my tongue over the smooth face of the custard, before forcing it through the slight resistance of the surface, enveloping my tastebuds in that cool, creamy flood of taste. My groin tingled as I got another little piece of ecstasy from the bag; with a sudden movement, I clenched my fist, crushing the pastry and watching the yellow filling spurt out from my fingers. As I rubbed a further two tartlets onto my erect nipples, my custardy finger played with my groin, taking me to the edge of orgasm, and I stuffed a fifth pudding up my warm, welcoming arsecleft. My climax hit, and as I surrendered to wave after wave of warm, throbbing bliss, I stuffed the last tart in my mouth, savouring the sweetness as I writhed over the bed, leaving eggy stains on the sheets.

As I cleaned myself up, I regretted having only bought 6 of these little delights, having made all but two of them inedible. I was still hungry, but had spent the last of my cash. So I stole a small child from a neighbouring hotel and ate her raw. Yum.
(Tue 11th Aug 2009, 22:04, More)

» Bullies

Bullied.
I, along with most of the population of b3ta, was bullied at school, by both pupils and teachers. I don't particularly want to think too much about it, so here's a story my mother told me about one of her experiences with bullying:

My maternal grandfather died when my mother was 10 years old. She's always talked of him in the best possible terms: a loving father, someone who would never discourage my mother and aunt from exploring and experimenting, who taught them how a car engine worked, how to break into a car if you've locked your keys inside (sadly it won't work these days), how to read, draw, play rugby, and generally lead a happy childhood. Most importantly, he taught them very early on how to defend themselves: if they're being bullied, hit back and harder. If a man attacks them, go for the balls, use your hands, feet and teeth to hurt your attacker, and run away the first chance you get.

My mother was devastated when he died. The other children at her school didn't know how to talk to someone who'd been bereaved, so opted not to talk to her at all. She was, and is, very shy, but has the most volatile temper I've ever seen.

So when, one day not long after her father died, she was enjoying a day tobogganing about on her sled, an older boy (let's called him John Smith) took it from her, she saw red. She was 11, he was 13, and much bigger than her. She asked Smith to give it back. He said no. She balled her hand into a fist and made a movement with her foot as if she were going to kick him. Smith instinctively put his hands down to deflect her kick, whereupon she hit him as hard as she physically could in the nose, breaking it. His blood fountained out, splattering into the snow in warm spurts. She grabbed her sled as he clutched at his shattered nose, and went home.

Later that afternoon, there was a knock at the door. It was Mr Smith, who had known my grandfather slightly. He asked to speak to my grandma, and told her that my mother had attacked his son John without provocation. My grandma asked my mother to explain herself, and therefore my mother expained exactly what had happened, and that she was just defending herself as her father had taught her. Mr Smith looked at her, a small, defiant girl, and nodded. He left. He went home, explained to his son that (a) his lie had been found out, (b) he should never try to take things that weren't his, (c) how dare he bully a girl who'd just lost her father, and (d) wasn't he ashamed that he'd been beaten up by a girl younger and smaller than him? He gave him four strokes with the cane, and then marched him over to my mother's house, and made him apologise personally in front of my grandma and aunt, completing his humiliation.
(Mon 18th May 2009, 13:03, More)