TESTING TIMES AHEAD

And whilst I’m on the subject of seasons, other than all that Yule time malarkey ‘tis also the season for medical testing.  You know, that time of year when the postman delivers more letters from the hospital than Christmas cards.

So many of these, I could paper the lounge walls

My last lot of blood tests revealed I still had a pulse so I’m off for another round of scans and tests courtesy of the NHS.  At the mo, I feel like I’m living at the doctor’s surgery and I could tell by one look at the receptionist this morning (fake chiselled smile on a granite-like cliff of a face) that she was thinking ‘oh no, not you again!’, adding to my growing sense of paranoia that I’m slowly becoming a hypochondriac. 

You'll only feel a little prick 

After all these visits, surely by now I’ve qualified for one of those neat little bronze plaques you see on the back of chairs or benches?

I’ve developed my own surgery etiquette for these visits since waiting rooms harbour more germs than Salisbury so if you’ve got an appointment coming up then here’s the drill:

     Wear gloves.  For those audacious enough also wear a surgical mask.  If it’s good enough for the doctor, it’s good enough for you.  Keep those hands to yourself.  Don’t touch any surfaces unless absolutely necessary and above all, don’t be tempted to reach out for a magazine.  Not only are they usually full of Chavvy trash but they’ve been handled by every other contagious bugger passing through.

Breathe sparingly or better still, wait outside in the fresh air until 5 minutes before it’s your turn.  Most infections are spread via airborne particles hacked out by said contagious buggers (or diesel cars if you believe the media) so the less time you’re exposed to the waiting room atmosphere the better.
    

     Avoid children.  I always pick the chair furthest away from any under 5’s.  Children are a magnet for just about any bug going.  Other than poor reports, the only other thing children regularly bring home from school is everyone else’s germs.

Create your own personal force field.  I do this by frequently fake coughing, panting or furiously scratching whilst waiting which generally results in all the surrounding chairs being given a wide berth by everyone else.

Lastly, let’s not forget the most important thing of all - bring an electronic device with you.  Not only does this help to pass the time as let’s face it, punctuality is not something rigidly observed by the NHS but it means you can sneakily consult Dr Google about your condition whilst waiting.  

I expect that once the results of all my various tests have been collated, I’ll be called back for a chat with the doctor that’ll probably go something like this:  ‘Ah, Mrs C, so nice to see you again.  I’ve checked your results and it pains me to say…’  Or put in more festive terms ‘It’s beginning to look a lot like …..’  

'TIS THE SEASON

Theatre-goers of the world unite against the scoffers, snafflers and noisy drink slurpers.  Death to the crunchers, munchers and scrunchers of plastic sweetie wrappers or crisp packets.  Why do you always have to do this during the most intense, dramatic scenes?  Behold the clickers, the texters, sniffers and whiffers.  Yes, some people brazenly ‘lift the cheek’ during plays.  There’s no escaping these stinkers in the dark, stuffy confines of even the plushest venues.

The pen is mightier than the sword especially when rammed into the eyeball of anyone guilty of these audience transgressions.  Why pay all that cash for a ticket to then selfishly spoil the atmosphere for yourself and everyone else?  Or am I missing the point here?  Perhaps there are people secretly masquerading as avid Shakespeare lovers when really they’re performance saboteurs, purposely annoying to get one over on every fee paying punter in the posh seats.

A couple of weeks ago at Poole’s Lighthouse concert hall, you could have heard a pin drop as the audience collectively held their breath at the closing of an exquisitely played piano concerto.  Musically divine, that is until some idiot in the front row dropped their mobile phone.  If looks could kill, the conductor’s eye roll death ray would have melted him on the spot.  I was almost on the verge of garrotting him from behind with my scarf but it just wasn’t long enough from Row E.  I was forced to remind myself that it’s not illegal for inconsiderate bastards to buy concert tickets.

Come on theatrical and concert venues across the land, let’s put a stop to these shenanigans once and for all.  Strategically positioned signs banning all food, drinks and mobile phones from auditoriums punishable by instant eviction might do the trick.  There was a time back in the old days when people were considerate and could actually sit through a performance without thinking of their stomachs but those days are well and truly gone.

And so I dedicate my less than Christmassy spirit to the person in the balcony at the Regent Centre, Christchurch on Thursday night who proceeded to loudly chomp their way through a Twix during the second half of Antony and Cleopatra.  

Here are two Christmas crackers for you to pull – firstly, please remember to feast during the interval.  Fifteen minutes should be more than enough time for a quick pee and to stuff your face full of chocolate.  Secondly – next time I’ll be waiting for you in the car park after the performance to force feed you a bag of wire wool so large you’ll be shitting brillo pads for weeks.

Bah Humbug!  Tis the season ….

FOR FOX SAKE

As a keen knitter, I was much bemused to read an article in this week’s Times newspaper relating to an alleged racial offence committed at Rochester’s Christmas Market where someone had the audacity to be selling knitted Mo Farah dolls.  How a knitted doll could be any more offensive than either a photograph, carving or oil painting of Sir Mo is beyond me and I’m sure Sir Mo would be more than chuffed to be considered worthy of this handcrafted homage but clearly to the good people of Kent it’s a crime worthy of punishment.

Knitting and crocheting is in itself an art form, a medium of woolly self-expression showcasing patience, dexterity and imagination.  It is not a weapon of racialism or any other ‘ism’, it’s merely a relaxing way of passing the time. 

Thus taking the view of the good people of Kent and looking at all the items I’ve recently knitted for our fundraising Christmas Fair then it looks like half my stock is now destined for the scrapheap on the basis that it would not be PC compliant as follows:

Foxes – considered vermin and frequently found scavenging in smelly bins or biting toddlers, not deemed to be cute or cuddly.

Promise I don't bite

Snowmen – contain the word ‘man’ which is now considered sexist. Should be referred to as ‘snowperson’ or ‘snow+’ and made less masculine in appearance.

Snowballs!

Gingerbread Men and Christmas puddings – depict sugary food items thus banned for encouraging obesity and see previous point on sexism.  Re-naming them ‘ginger person’ instantly brings to mind Prince Harry. 

Low calorie tree decorations

Toy Soldiers – a definite NO as deemed to be condoning warfare or violence and too much of a reminder that a huge chunk of the British economy centres round the manufacture or selling of arms to just about anyone with a cheque book.

Nutcrackered

Nativity figures – blatant religious imagery so offensive to just about everyone except Christians even though Christmas is technically all about the birth of Jesus.

Peace and goodwill to all 'person' kind

Of course if vegans had their way, knitting/crocheting would also be added to the list of capital offences since both these crafts use wool which according to them is ‘stolen’ from sheep.  So I guess this makes me and every other knitting biddy out there guilty of fencing stolen goods every time we knock up a pair of socks or an Argyle sweater. 

Stealing from sheep - punishable by death

Knitted racialism and wool ‘stolen’ from sheep, I mean have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?  This time the PC brigade has clearly overstepped the bounds of sense and sensibility.