Xanthe Analyzes The NHS

Sunday, 21st September

Xanthe decided to pick my brains about the state health system tonight.  The conversation went something like this...

'You know that hospital we went to see Pappou in, on Friday?'

'Yes.'

'Was that the NHS?'

'Yes.'

'It's disgusting.  Is it cheap (and there is a distinction here)?'

'Not cheap, but free at the point of use.'

'Well, I suppose some people have to use it.'

We went to Manny's for Ali's birthday, and Xanthe has a new job as a waitress.  Ivo showed her how to fold napkins, and which side to serve people from.   Or rather, from which to serve people.  Sparta Park won 3-2, against arch-rivals Nickel.  Fran and Alex got quite loud, sweaty, and aggressive, in defeat.

Monday, 22nd September

My gorgeous new diary arrived today.  Mustard yellow leather, with Mrs Moore engraved in gold on the front.  I took my carefully prepared selection of sticky photos, and added to birthdays and anniversaries.  Except that I put one of our wedding photos on the 27th June.  Doh!

    

I Could Tell You, But Then I'd Have To Kill You

Thursday, 18th September

Mr Moore and I went to supper with our mate Gary, the England physio.  He told us loads of great stories, which I am sadly unable to divulge, but if he ever needs his autobiography ghosted, I'd love to be first in the queue.

We got back to Battersea and sat, shivering, under the sadly inadequate heating lights in the smoking garden.  The couple on the other half of our table announced their imminent departure.  They had to throw a cover over the parrot.  I had visions of a small green bipedal creature, waddling about with its vision obscured by a tea towel.  Apparently, if you don't, they wander around all night like a Duracell bunny on coke, swearing, and getting the munchies.  'Better go home,' I said, 'before it gets parrotlytic.'  On a roll, I followed this up with - 'At least if you get a hangover, you can't take aspirin - because the parrots-etamol.'  I have never seen anyone vacate a table quite so fast.

Friday, 19th September

We all went to see Dick tonight.  He looked surprisingly well, given the recent surgery.  Then back to Battersea, for tapas, and a visit from American Auntie Michelle.  The children are always delighted to see her, and we had lots of catching up to do since the wedding.

Saturday, 20th September

I took Xanthe to Stagewise this morning, and returned to the excitement of a fire on Bullen Street.  I was told to pull over by the police, and parked up to find the police winding cordon tape around it.  I returned to it a couple of hours later, and the copper on the cordon told me to turn the car round, and drive the wrong way down a one way street.  I questioned the sanity of this.  'Look Love,' he said, 'I've just told you to do something blatantly illegal, so go ahead.'  He was clearly enjoying himself.  I felt quite the VIP as he held up the tape for me to drive under.

Planes, Trains, Hydrofoils, Trains, Planes, Trains and Planes

Monday, September 15th

Daddy went into hospital today, to get prepped for his op tomorrow.  Spent the morning recording some audio and eTV for Univadis, ten went home to crack though the start of the unbelievable backlog of reporting, from not having any internet access until yesterday.  Fortunately there were no patients at either of the hospitals this afternoon, so I caned through nearly 50.

Tuesday, September 16th

Too distracted until Daddy gets out of theatre to be able to concentrate on any work, so I set myself the task of nailing our trip to Sicily, Italy and France.  With intense research on t'iternet, and the back up of not one, but two guide books it is now sorted.

Saturday, 18th October - home to Gatwick, fly to Palermo, overnight at the Palm Beach hotel.   I know it sounds awful, but we're not getting there 'til late.
Sunday, 19th October - train to Milazzo, hydrofoil to Salina, two nightsat the Hotel Signum.
Tuesday, 21st October, sparrow's fart hydrofoil to Reggio Calabria, train to Naples, then overnight at the Villa Claudio Ranieri.  Did you see what I did there?  I added the Claudio.
Wednesday, 22nd October, fly to Milan, overnight at the potty Hotel Spagni.  I wonder if they serve Spanetti Milanese.  I am full of crap jokes today.
Thursday, 23rd October, train to Nice, then hire car to Les Chaumettes for two nights.
Saturday, 25th October, fly back to Gatwick, get shot of the kids, then go with eight friends, (still to be finalised), for what should be an amazing 46th birthday meal, at The Greenhouse, in Mayfair.

Why?  I hear you ask.  I decided it was about time the kids got some experience of proper travel.

At 2.30 the surgeon rings to say that the operation went technically OK, but the tumour was very large and to brace ourselves for future trouble.  Daddy is now residing on ITU.

With the operation safely over, I can concentrate on work, and crack through over 45 scans.

The main excitement of the afternoon, was te arrival of the B&W Zeppelin MP3 speakers.  Only slightly smaller, and possibly heavier than their German namesake, they make our old Bose speakers look like the runt of the family.

Wednesday, 17th September

I rang HDU this morning, and got the usual type of nurse who couldn't understand a word of English, but I could hear Pa talking in the background, which has to be a good thing.  So I decided to devote the day to work, and got through over 99 scans.

Xanthe came home from school announcing that she was on the school council.  This sounds ominously American, child-centric and democratic.  Apparently she was 'picked at random.'  I asked her why her teacher wouldn't choose the most intelligent, charismatic and articulate child in the class, and she said, 'Reuben is obnoxious.'  I think she missed the point.

Despite parading a selection of rugby injuries for me to inspect, Perry has gone to do football training with Troy and the Sparta Park boys tonight.  So I am sitting in the pub alone, catching up on the blog.

Got to go home now to warm up the oven for my chicken, leek and bacon pie. 

Yum.  No, you're not invited.  Maybe next time.

A Famous Victory

Thursday, 11th September


It's so long ago, I can't remember what the hell happened.  Patients in the morning, shopping, ah now it's coming back to me.  Shopping, single handedly trying to keep the credit crunch at bay.  Black sequinned leggings, size extra small ('Wahattt???' I hear you ask), a dark green cashmere cape, and wicked green Luella Wayfarers, so now I nearly have a pair to match every outfit.  Patients in the afternoon, quite a few regulars, which is always fun.


To Manny's in the evening, for moules and steak tartare.  Still no internet access.


Friday, 12th September


Still no internet access.  To Lester's for supper, cottage pie, which you could have cut into an ellipse, and licked like Jonny Wilkinson, and trifle.  Lester then bizarrely left his own dinner party, leaving the guests behind.


Saturday, 13th September


To the Harbour Club, for a massage.  As usual, left behind the dry cleaning, and didn't leave enough time for a sunbed.  I dropped a fortune in the shop, on new kit, a Nike sports band, and new MBTs.  I was all beautifully togged out for my Survivors lap of honour at the Relay for Life.  3 miles walking in MBTs and you soon know about it, I will be suffering tomorrow.  Home, and a trip to the King's Road, where we found serving cutlery to match our dinner service.  Woohoo!  What a rock and roll life I truly lead.


Back to Battersea Park for the Candle of Hope ceremony.  This was started by Leanne, a bone cancer survivor, whom I coincidentally remember as a patient at the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital.  On her remaining leg, she was wearing an extraordinary black satin platform.  'I love your heels.'  I said, not thinking.  'Heel.'  She pointed out.  Fortunately we both saw the funny side.


Here's what I read.

I wrote the following piece about four months after I finished chemotherapy.

The Peacock Feather

If Saint ever had a first name, he mislaid it long ago.  Despite the intense
summer heat, he wore a baseball cap and a navy fleece top.  Every exposed
piece of skin bore crude, amateur tattoos - stars and crosses on his hands
and wrists.  His turquoise eyes wept permanent tears.  The walls of the shop
were plastered with designs, photographs, and newspaper cuttings praising
his exceptional skill. He left her alone, at the front of the shop, as he
went to make a template from her design.  She scoured the walls to find a
similar design, but there was nothing.  She had wanted a tattoo for years,
but was frightened of the pain, and frightened of making a commitment to the
design.

The peacock feather is imbued with mystical layers.  On the face of it a
symbol of male vanity, and sexual prowess, it has come to symbolize beauty
and fidelity.  In alchemy it represents a period of transition,
self-knowledge and harmony.  Most importantly, it is a sign of protection, a
shield for the psychic self.

Saint returned, and took her through to the small back room, with an
alarming array of needles and inks.  It was close, and humid.  There was
paperwork, and a consent form to be signed.  She sat, hunched over, on an
unforgiving stool.  He positioned the template centrally over her upper
spine, and, like the surgeon before him, marked her with a surgical pen.
Silently, he started his art.  The pain was exquisite, especially as the
needle passed over jutting bone.  With the presicion and pain of a scalpel,
he traced the outline.  She felt a trickle down her back, sweat?  Blood?

It started with a buzzing in her ears, then the falling veil of grey that
accompanies a faint.  She asked him to stop, accepted a paper cone of water,
and sat for a while on the scarred lino.  She concentrated on the pain, to make the faint go away.

After 40 minutes it was over.  He took her money with his painted hand.

The chemotherapy had taken away every hair on her body.  Each day she would step from the shower, examine her reflection, and sorrow at her utter nakedness.  However, it could not take away her pride, or her dignity, all it could take was her fear.

Now, thanks to Saint, she would never feel truly naked again.

It's not all true, in fact the chemotherapy fairies came in the night and stole my hair to knit mittens from.   I used to get out of the shower and think, 'Who stuck that fat, bald woman between me and the mirror.

With cancer as a teacher, you learn things prettty fast, and one of those lessons is that life is too short to be scared of making choices, and taking decisions.  When I go, not that I'm planning it in the near future, I don't want to regret the experiences I missed out on.

Don't run away from the difficult questions, as the answers will seek you out in the end.  And in the words of one pop princess, 'While you're here, wear the diamonds, and have another glass of champagne.'

Sunday, 14th September

11-4 to Sparta Park.  Nuff said Mrs Moore.

Going For Gold

Wednesday, 10th September

Mrs Moore was back being 'Dr Sarah - Wellbeing, and lifestyle media doc' - last night, on BBC Radio London.  I arrived at the Marylebone studio at 10.30 pm to do a pre-recorded interview for today's breast cancer promotional gig.  Then I spent an hour answering listeners' medical questions.  It was my first time doing this for non-commercial radio, and it was amazing how much more intense it was, without the benefit of repeated ad, news, and travel breaks.  We covered everything from hair loss to heel pain, incontinence to immunisation, and vaginal bleeding to veruccas.

I threw myself back in the car at just gone midnight, and rushed home to get as much beauty sleep as possible, before my early start today.  Well, early application of make up, and trying to make my hair look like squirrels haven't been nesting in it for the last two months.  Fat chance, it took a couple of glasses of Chardonnay, and quite a lot of Louis Theroux, to wind down from the excitement of being a Z-lister again.

Up and at them with the curling tongs and foundation, as soon as I got back from dropping Fluffy at school.  The make up went surprisingly well, perhaps not being fully awake really does create a smoothly airbrushed effect.  As opposed to my hair, which looked, accurately, as though it hadn't seen an 'airbrush in months.  I am so sorry about that pun.  I must be desperate.

Ten am, and I rendezvous with the pink Routemaster 'Blush Bus,' that is our venue for the morning.  Apparently the edit of last night's pre-record sounded pretty good.  Everyone was swanning around with glasses of champagne (not pink, they missed a trick there), and guzzling chocolates.  Now, however much I might enjoy a glass, or more, in the evening, I am not constitutionally built for early morning quaffing.  I settled for coffee, and a couple of sips for the benefit of the cameras.

We had a photocall with James Degale, who won a Beijing gold, at light heavyweight boxing.  He brought along his trophy.  The medal was remarkably heavy, but, disappointingly, made of glass and gold plate.  How disappointing, still, I suppose it was made in China......    

Soccer Aid 08

Sunday, 7th September.

I know teenagers can easily regress to grunting neolithic styles of communication, but Perry has taken this to an art form.  Last night he went one step further, while MSNing him on the status of the pizza I had ordered for supper, I received single LETTER responses.  And yes, we do communicate electronically even within the house, it saves losing one's voice by shouting all the way upstairs, upstairs.  What Mr Moore and my excuse is, doing that in the living is anybody's guess.  Except that we find it funny, because we are dweebs.

I drove to Wembley with the children tonight to watch Soccer Aid 08.  Sadly, the wildly-expensive-champagne-and seafood-bar wasn't even open.  Not only did this mean that we had to make do with chicken-and-chips in a Wembley box, but there was no opportunity for the children to do a little mouse-hunting.

They simply adored the football, which was admittedly of a much better standard that two years previously.  Unfortunately we forgot my fab new 400mm lens, so I couldn't get any good photos of Gordon Ramsay's legs.  The aforementioned legs were not even on the pitch that long, as his old knee injury flared up.

Meanwhile, a much more important match was taking place.  Sparta Park won the opening match of their season 7-2, and retired to the sponsors for supper.

Monday, 8th September

My Mum's birthday, but she is so worried about my father she is not really in any position to enjoy it.  Xanthe's winter wardrobe arrived, courtesy of Next, but sensibly she wanted to try jeans on before committing to a pair.  Very sensible, buying jeans is worse than deciding to move in with someone.  We went to Gap, where the the age 11-12 jeans looked as though they were designed for an anorexic stick insect.  We then decided to look at clothes for normal humans, and ended up in Oasis.  We found a good pair of straight leg, dark denim ones, in a size 8.  I spotted a cute little waisted jacket, with puff sleeves and a fine pinstripe. Xanthe flatly refused to try it on.  'Just pretend I'm Gok.' I said.  'But you're not.'  She retorted.  After a few minutes of this sort of intellectual debate, I managed to get her to wear it.  I then found a pink tartan tie neck blouse to complete the look.

'Blimey, you look just like your mother,' said Troy when we got home.  'Which one of you two did I actually marry?'  Xanthe pointed a panicky finger at me.

Tuesday, 9th September

I took a leaf out of Xanthe's book today, wearing slimline jeans, a smart jacket, and the new teal satin shirt I bought yesterday at M&S.  I topped, or rather undered, this off with matching teal stilettos.  At PG, an elderly man was being wheeled into CT.  'I do like your shoes,' he said, as he went past.  'Thank you,' I replied, 'they're Louboutins.'  'I can tell.' He said.  'I don't think they do them in your size though..'  He had the good grace to laugh.
                      

Small, Or Perfectly Formed?

Thursday, 4th September

A long, long day.  I spent most of the morning trying to get hold of my father's CT scan results, but my dogged determination, and knowledge of how to buck the system, eventually paid dividends.  The scan was better than I had hoped, which is great news.  Having not slept a wink last night, and using up all my adrenaline this morning, I was shattered this afternoon.  Driving home from work, I heard the radio promoting their latest competition, to win a MacBook Air.  Now, Mr Moore has one of these, and is besotted with it, just as he is with all things Mac, (as opposed to me, who is besotted with all things MAC), but LBC were promoting a peculiar angle of this technical beast.  Apparently, the resoundingly important feature of the laptop is that it is thin.  Indeed, the world's thinnest laptop.  While I am not a big fan of fatty-fat-fats, I don't see that technological excellence is achieved through being a size 0, or 4 as we call it in the UK, which is less of a sound-bite.  Come to think of it, Apple tend to advertise a lot of their products on the basis of their thinness, which for the most obese nation in the world, seems a bit bizarre.  American commentators have even criticized Barack Obama for being too thin to appeal to the general US public, but Apple thrives on the IT anorexia bandwagon.

We went to Manny's tonight, as Mr Moore wanted to show off the Sparta Park shirts, which had finally arrived.  The manufacturers had accidentally placed the team logo on the front, rather than the back, so Troy was terribly disappointed.  So disappointed, in fact, that he wangled three free matching track tops, despite the fact the shirts look excellent.

Friday, 5th September

Slept like a proverbial small piece of chopped wood last night, so I feel much better today.  I had a peaceful afternoon at the Wellie, so I took the chance to nip to Tesco for the ingredients for supper.  In the queue I noticed a sign saying - 'Sorry for the inconvenience, but this till is temporally unavailable.'  So I'm thinking maybe the till has travelled through time, but not space, and is currently confusing mid-Victorian customers, at a small emporium in St John's Wood.  It's remarkable how often people design signs, or phrases, without thinking about their proper meaning.  For example, if you take money out of a Barclay's ATM, it says 'Do you want an advice slip with that?' What?  Like don't spend it all at once.

I was very nearly home after work, when the phone trilled at me, and Wellie Direct flashed up on the screen.  'You left your tagine here...'  Oh shit, I'll have to ring up for 75cm of pizza then.

Saturday, 6th September

Up at 7.20 (am, that is) to take Perry to school for his B rugby match against Caterham.  Back home to bed for half an hour, then out again, with Mr Moore, to take Xanthe to Stagewise.  Home, via the Wellie, to collect the doings for the tagine - then back to Southwark to collect Fluffy.  It looks like it's going to be one of those weekends spent organising the kids social calendars.

At least the lemon tagine was pretty good.