Old Jim Crow

I realise that title might be a little offensive to some, but here are a couple of pictures of the two birds that follow my dogs around as they rummage around in the leaf litter of Autumn. They show no fear of the dogs or me, realising that they can fly off at the drop of a shutter. A lot of people don’t like these big black birds. I find them magnificent and fascinating.

These two are fast becoming friends of ours. The dogs have given up chasing them and they follow us through the park picking through anything that the dogs have disturbed. The one with the sun burst markings on the chest is by far the least wary. He was about five yards from me when I photographed him. Enjoy!

 

Out on My Ass Again

I knew today wasn’t going to go well. I got up early, the sky was black with clouds and one of the dogs had thrown up. On the bed. There was nothing but a bill in the post.

Being my cheery self, I put all this aside and headed for the kitchen to get a cup of tea. There is nothing that tea won’t cure. My dear lady wife went out with the dogs and I sat down to enjoy my tea and read the news on the text TV. After this, the morning went as it usually does and at one thirty, I set off for work.

I got to work OK and we all got ourselves organised for the evening shift. There was a lot to get done. We started. My boss appeared out of his office and called me in.

The company is restructuring, he said, he had made a tough decision. Not lightly, he assured me and with deep regret, he fired me. The evening shift is no more. I am allowed to take the next three months off with pay and then I need to find a new job.

I’ve been here before. I’ve worked at several places during the last ten years, all with about two years between start and stop. Two places closed down while I was there, one I quit because it sucked, and one place fired me, but wrongly. I sued the guy and won.

But this one is a bit different. I was happy there. I liked the place and I had a good team working for me.

Ever the optimist, I’m sure something will turn up. We’ll see. In the meantime, I’m going to sort my garden out, explore a few possibilities and generally relax for a month or so. Life has taught me that when you’re at the bottom there’s only one way it can go. Up.

I daresay the dogs will enjoy having me home. I could always become a full time dog walker!

I Pity The Fool..

.. who says the Blues is dead, or all one number. This is a piece of modern Blues that will blow most people’s socks off.

Robert Cray and Shemekia Copeland. Cop this, break down over your coffee and believe. The Blues lives.

 

Now Ear This..

I was off to see my doctor the other day. I have been suffering with a minor irritation in my ear for a while now and decided he should have another look at it. I know it’s a form of eczema and I think I have infected myself around my eyes, having been sticking a finger in my ear to scratch the itch and then using the same digit to rub my eyelids and so on. That appears to be true, but while he was peering into my ear hole, the doc said something along the lines of, “I don’t like the look of that…”. “What?” I asked. “That sore.” he replied. I knew it was not going to be good news.

I was sent to a skin specialist yesterday. He peered into my ear hole too and said pretty much the same as my doctor. I have a skin cancer in my left ear lobe. It isn’t going to be any fun getting that removed. He took a biopsy sample of it. That hurts.

I’ll have to wait fourteen days for a result. The “result” being a confirmation of the type of cancer. I don’t really care what type it is, I just want it removed. The specialist is convinced that I will have to go to an ear hole expert, who will then recommend a plastic surgeon who will finally do the operation. I asked if I couldn’t be sent to a real surgeon instead of a plastic one, but the joke didn’t seem to work on him. This is serious stuff, apparently.

I’m having mixed feelings about this. After the scare we had a couple of months ago with my wife and the possibility of her having cancer in her throat, which luckily it wasn’t, it now appears to be my turn. At least I can see this little bugger. I can see it with the help of a webcam. It isn’t large, but it’s there. I can visually direct my hatred at it. I couldn’t do that in my dear lady wife’s case. Luckily, I suppose, this is external and get-at-able. I have had small skin cancers before. I have had one removed from my left cheek and one from my arm. Both were of the non-aggressive type, small and fairly common by all accounts. I hope this is the same. We shall see.

I suppose now, I will have to give up smoking through my ear.

Oh well. It could be worse. This is only my ear hole.

I could think of far worse holes to have this happen to!

Fat and Happy

We took the dogs for what is becoming the annual check up yesterday. The vet looked at them last year when we first adopted them. They have been with us a year now. The smaller one of the two was the immediate problem for us. She was underweight, depressed, apathetic and not really the happy go lucky young dog she should rightly have been. Months of being moved around from home to home, kennels and goodness only knows what else had really had it’s effect on her.

Her sister, the larger one of them was in somewhat better shape. Weight OK, happy enough, playful and generally in good health. Actually, she weighed a tad too much according to the vet. By about 500 grams.

This year things are different. Both dogs weighed in at 10 kg’s. Which means the little one is as heavy as the big one having gained 2.5 kg’s in a year. They both need to lose a little now. The little one has livened up no end. No longer depressed, curious about everything, lively and sometimes a real little bully. I don’t know why the larger dog doesn’t put her in her place. Maybe it’s sisterly love.

They have come along nicely in the past year. My dear wife treats them like children. They eat very well too. She fries liver, chicken, small steaks and pork chops, lamb chops, chopped meat and who knows what else for them, to compliment the dry food they otherwise get along with all the goodies they get as rewards throughout the day. They have each their own bed, complete with pillows and eiderdowns, not to mention the mattresses. These are abandoned in the middle of the night and they end up on our bed instead, filling the space between my dearest and myself. The sofa is their preferred resting place. They harry us to take them out for the morning, afternoon and evening “walkies”. They have toys to play with. They are getting used to being bathed and combed. We can handle them now without them growling or whining. They trust us now. They defend our property with all the bark they can muster. I rather think they enjoy the barking. They do it a lot. They come when we call them. They greet us when we come home, even if we have only been gone for minutes, with a real concert of bark and squeak and showing of plundered socks and slippers. I have very few socks left. They steal them and chew them up and then proudly present me with the remains.

All in all, I love having them around. They are the perfect distraction, a source of endless amusement and great company. They changed our lives and I wouldn’t be without them now.

I may be barefoot, but I’m happy.

And if you think I’m fat, you should see my dogs!

Nice was Nice

The Cote D’azûr is not quite what I expected. I was looking for golden sand beaches but I found only pebbles the size of footballs peppered with smaller pebbles and gravel. One cannot walk on the beach without some form of footwear to protect the soles of one’s feet. Apart from that, bathing in the Med was a treat and I enjoyed bobbing about in the 26 degree warm water. The weather was glorious and altogether too hot, about 31 in the shade. Even the locals were complaining. Blue skies, cold beer, good food and lots of water. The weekend in Nice was great.
We stayed at the Splendid Hotel, which it was, about 400 meters from the sea front which is known all over the world as Le Promenade D’Anglais. Once on the Promenade, one could easily believe one was in Brighton. The only difference being the huge palm trees and the traffic on the wrong side of the road for the Brits.
Old Nice is a pleasure to wander about in. The streets are narrow and the buildings are high and they protect one from the sun, which was giving everyone a hard time of it while we were there. Luckily, there were numerous places to fall down in a chair and quench the inevitable thirst.

And now a word of warning. I realise that one can’t take a holiday for free and that however you try to figure it, the tourist industry is only granted a certain amount of time each year in which to make it’s money, but how can a small beer possibly cost €10.00, no matter where you drink it? A small bottle of water costs €3.00 in any café. €8.00 for a coffee. Why? Overpricing seemed to be the order of the day. It was certainly so when it came to food. At least I thought so. What I paid for it, was way too high considering the quality, or lack of quality, of what I got. And that is a general observation. After eating at different restaurants for four days, one gathers a certain experience. Too little and too expensive is my own conclusion.

OK, for our last evening we went to the famous Koudou restaurant on the Promenade. The food was exquisite, the wine was to die for, the service was excellent and the price was actually not bad. Certainly not hugely over expensive compared with what we otherwise paid at lesser establishments. I recommend that others going to Nice try it.
Beware of the restaurants on the beach. They will charge you a tariff ranging from €14.00 to €26.00 per person just to sit in their chairs. That price goes on top of the bill. They don’t advertise the fact that they do this, so be bloody careful if you feel you want to eat close to the sea because it looks romantic. It probably is, but damned expensive too. And it could come as a nasty surprise if you eat close to the amount in your wallet. Suddenly finding out that you brought €50.00 too little is hard to explain away.
Nice holds local festivals. We were lucky to be in town on one of those occasions. We knew nothing about it in advance but simply believed that all the extra activity on the Prom was due to it being Saturday night.

Wrong.

We ate at a little restaurant from which we could see down to the beach. At 22:00, music could be heard coming from the beach area and then a 45 minute fireworks display that simply knocks the socks off anything I have ever experienced before, got under way. It was magnificent. I can’t be sure, but perhaps it was Jean Michel Jarre’s music we were hearing. It was a marvellous and totally unexpected event and I feel lucky to have seen it.

All in all, we enjoyed ourselves there. I used, perhaps, a little more money than I would have liked but the whole experience of the South of France was enjoyable. I tried out my broken French, learned a little more and generally had a whale of a time. I may even go back there in the future. If I do, I will probably hire a car and venture off into the area around Nice rather than stay in the town itself.

That will have to wait for another day and will be another story.

Off to Nice

Nice is nice, or so they say. I don’t know, so I’m off to see it for myself. My dearest significant other has booked the flight and the hotel and packed the suitcases, so I only have to enjoy the trip. It’s not that I couldn’t have done any of that myself, but she’s a control freak where this sort of thing is concerned. I get put to other uses. Like distracting the dogs and such.

Talking of the dogs; I gave them a good bath this morning so they’re nice and fresh to go and visit my parents in law while we’re away. I don’t think they’ve quite forgiven me yet, but we’ll see. Tomorrow, I have to drive them about 40 miles up the road and they don’t care much for that either.

See you all again on Tuesday. I’m off to try a little luxury in the South of France.

My Own Reality TV

We went shopping today. The astute and observant among you will perhaps have noticed the date on this post and say “What? On a Sunday?”. Yes. See, there are so many here in this land that have their Sabbath on other days of the week than us normal folks, that Sunday is no longer a day of rest, even for those that don’t work in shops.

We went to the mall (or as I like to call it, “The maul”) and got up close and personal with those of other ethnic origin than Danish. Which actually includes me, because I’m a Brit, but I’m easy to spot in the mall on Sundays. I’m the one not wearing a burkha.
Why would we go to the mall on Sunday? Well, it’s the big store birthday bargain week and the rush started today. There were things we desperately need, according to my dear lady, that were going at half price or less. Say what you like, she knows a bargain when she spots one. And there were one or two to be had.

Fighting our way through the middle eastern Diaspora, we got hold of a couple of pillows, 20 huge bottles of Coke at less than half price (she drinks a lot of coke), some canvasses she can paint on, batteries, bread, a new hose for the shower and some other stuff I forgot. She was happy. I was bored, tired and annoyed at the mêlée that had continued from the moment we set foot in the store. It may be multicultural, but it has no manners at all.

However, one thing good came out of all this. I have been hankering after a camcorder of sorts for quite a while but never really found one that suited my pocket. It’s not that I’m a cheapskate, but I do have my limits and weighing up possible usage against prices, I have erred on the side of not missing what I have never had. That changed today. A small and somewhat inexpensive camcorder, greatly reduced in price, that fits in my hand and appears to be capable of meeting my needs. My wife, ever the good lady she is, encouraged me to buy it. So I did.

Look out world.

Having gotten it home, charged the battery and read the handbook, I realise the full potential of this little electronic toy.

This my license not only to film my comings and goings as I gad about the world on holidays and weekends away, but to spy on my fellow humans doing unspeakable things.

I will mount the thing in my car, for example. I can film all the idiots I meet on the motorway, every day, driving hazardously and dangerously right before me. You bastards are going to be the first. I will be sending the living picture evidence to the police. Weekly. 

Yes, neighbour, it was your dog that crapped right outside my garden gate.

And yes, it was your kids that torched the dumpster up the road from my house.

The possibilities are, as they say, endless. I want a Youtube account.

I will also be filming myself on the toilet. I have always wondered what faces I pull when the going gets tough. I won’t be putting that on Youtube though.
I can see my own back. And armpits. The back of my head.
I can see over those high wooden fences now and film it for my own curiosity’s sake and all posterity.
I can show the dear one what her bum really looks like, from my perspective.

Oh yes. This is reality as it comes. My own Blair Witch Hunt. My own candid camera.

Be afraid. Be very afraid….!

Catching Up

Putting your life on hold for a couple of weeks isn’t really a problem if you’ve planned for it. You know, you’re going on holiday or taking a trip for one reason or another, so you know the dates of departure and arrival back home. You can notify the post office, your friends, your bank. All the people that matter. Having had to do it for all the wrong reasons, mainly my wife being ill, I now find myself playing catch up with all the things I forgot under the duress.

I know I have to get my car off to the bi-annual mechanical fitness check that is mandatory here. The only problem is, that I can’t remember when I should do it or where. Strangely, I can’t find the notification that I know I received in the middle of all this trauma.

I found a bill that I should have paid fourteen days ago. We had to get our drains cleaned out and I forgot the damn bill almost as soon as I was needed to ferry my wife backwards and forwards to the hospital.

I have to go to my second house on the island of Lolland and sort the garden out. Also, I need to clean up and inspect the place after having had the eastern side of the house re-thatched. And get the stables whitewashed and painted.

The garden here has gotten out of control too. That may be due to my being a bit worn out as I’ve been pretty much alone at work this past few weeks, while everyone else has been on holiday, and by Friday, I’m finished and spend a good deal of my weekends nursing a sore back and getting a little extra sleep.

My daughter has moved into her new flat. It’s her first home away from home. A single room bed-sitter. She moved last weekend. I haven’t seen the place yet. I should do that. Maybe this weekend.

There have to be a hundred other things too. I don’t know. The pressures have been a bit much lately. I feel exhausted.

The good news is, that my dear wife is well again. Her voice is back, she’s back at work and all appears to be well with her. My best colleague is back from holiday on Monday next week. That will take some of the workload off me. I have a free day tomorrow, so I can get to Lolland without spoiling  a weekend. All the bills are paid now, or at least, planned for. I have found a place where I can get the car seen to. I’m getting back on top of it.

And best of all, we have booked a long weekend in Nice, in the south of France and I am counting down to a break in a luxury hotel, at a bargain price, close to the middle of the town and the beach.

I can hardly wait!

The Longest Days

Fourteen days ago my dearest was suffering from what appeared to be a sore throat and loss of voice, Laryngitis, I thought. Off to the doctor with her then. Our normal doctor was on holiday, so we had to use the first reserve. He didn’t help much and advised my dear lady to visit an ear, nose and throat specialist. Luckily, we have one at hand.

The message we got there was not good. After having a camera shoved up her nose and down her throat into her voice box, the good doctor said, “I don’t dare say what that is.” She then grabbed the phone and demanded that  my wife should be examined at the county hospital immediately. My wife has a fluid collection, an oedema on one side of her larynx and a lump, a growth, on the other.

By now, alarm bells were ringing in my head. My father died of cancer in the throat and stomach. In fact, he was eaten up by the filthy disease within 3 months of diagnosis.

The chief surgeon at the hospital last thursday was equally vague. Hinting that this was indeed cancer, he offered some encouragement stating that if this was cancer, then we had caught it so early that radiation treatment would clear it up with a 95% certainty. He scheduled an exploratory operation for the next day. That was tuesday.

On wednesday we were again at the hospital. Early. My wife was given some foul stuff to drink and then slid into the CT scanner. The pictures were OK, we were told. No more than that. OK. The pictures were OK. Nobody would tell us what they could see in the pictures, but the bloody pictures were OK. Later that morning, my wife was duly anesthetised and underwent the exploratory op.

I collected her at five in the evening after having been home to take the dogs out and clear up at home. My poor wife was still groggy, unable to speak, hungry, thirsty and not very happy. We were still none the wiser for all this. We now had to wait. A whole week. Biopsies are not to be rushed. We were given very little information. I had not been told anything, as the discharging surgeon had spoken with my wife before I arrived. My wife just wanted to get home.
The sense of being absolutely powerless in these situations was slowly getting me down. There is nothing one can do. No influence, no quick fix, no action one can take. We were doomed to wait again. The longer you wait, the worse it gets.

Yesterday, friday, my wife was back at the hospital. The idea is, that the surgeon needs to take a look at the wound caused by the operation and control the sore for infection and so on. This he did. And then he dropped the bomb.

It isn’t cancer. The “lump” was the remains of a second oedema that had broken and collapsed. We don’t know how they formed. The surgeon had removed both offending objects on tuesday. Which was news to us. Good news, absolutely, but a little late by my reckoning. Now we merely have to wait for the natural healing process to complete itself. She’s going to be alright.

I feel both relieved and elated. This has been the worst and longest fourteen days of my life. I’ve been through the divorces, the loss of my son, disappointment of all kinds and lost comrades in arms. Nothing compares to this. I never want this kind of pain in my life again.

We were lucky this time. I realise how much I love and need my dear wife. To lose her would be to lose myself somewhere along the way.

I’m not religious, so I won’t be thanking god or anyone else. If there was a god, and he gave a hoot about us, then these things wouldn’t happen in the first place. How could an all powerful benevolent being allow this sort of thing when a simple click of his fingers would free us all of disease and other suffering?

But I have to say, for anyone out there who is suffering through anything like this, you have my deepest sympathy and my best wishes. I realise that is of little help, but I have nothing more to offer.

Believe me, I know how it feels.