We are now a week into 2010 and this is my first post of the new decade. It has been an interesting week, here are some of the highlights.
On new years eve only one carer arrived. Polly had taken the boys to the early part of a party and I was home alone happily catching up with the second part of Day of the Triffids. Kolapo wrangled me into bed alone.
New years day – only one carer arrived. Polly helped Kolapo get me up. There appears to have been some confusion over on which days care was cancelled. This had arisen because the decision had to be taken weeks in advance. Polly was in her run up to Christmas where she dashes from nursery to nursery loaded down with puppets, dressed as a fairy and can barely remember what day of the week it is, let alone decide what care requirements will be needed over the festive period. The care agency seemed to have no clue either but lack the excuse of having to entertain hundreds of children with only the aid of Stella the Star puppet.
On January 2nd we had friends round for dinner. This was great fun. We had cancelled the carers for the evening which was just as well because no one went home until 1.30am. The only problem was that then Polly had to get me to bed alone and we were both very tired.
January 4th, Monday, the last day of the holidays before the boys go back to school and Kolapo arrives in the morning alone. Polly gets a phone call from the agency saying several of their staff are off sick. They make the assumption that Polly will bail them out and act as the second carer. Polly rebels and points out she is not a member of their staff and, besides, she has plans for the morning which do not include lugging me about. She then gathers the boys and takes them over to a friends. I am left in bed until 12.30pm when an irate Carlotte arrives all the way from Lambeth. There is much muttering in French and African dialects about the organizational abilities of the agency management. It also occurs to me that had the agency made fewer assumptions about Polly's willingness to drop everything to become their unpaid emergency backup worker and had asked her nicely rather than just assuming her availability then things would have run a lot more smoothly.
In the afternoon, after I had had a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, we took the boys for a last day of the holidays trip to the cinema to see Avatar. Fabulous. Rush to see it. The plot is blockbuster typical but despite the eco-save the planet-civilization bad/tree hugging natives good-climatic battle scene finale storyline the film is absolutely beautiful to watch. The alien planet Pandora is stunningly realised. We saw it in 3D which literally adds a new dimension to it but I understand that even in 2D the SFX are spectacular. It's the first time I've seen a truly convincing alien world. The film is quite long (161 minutes) but I was immersed totally and so were the boys. (Polly fell asleep for a little while but that is because she was in a warm dark place and had nothing to do with the film.) The film making is genuinely ground breaking and makes me excited about the future of the technology. Go and see it. Now.
January 5th – the boys go back to school.
January 6th – today. 3cm of snow has fallen in our area and so naturally the school is closed. Matty is only slightly aggrieved that he had an appointment at the dental hospital today and would have been off school anyway. Both boys are watching the forecasts keenly in hopeful anticipation of Siberian conditions for the rest of the month.
So, as you can see, 2010 has not ushered in a new era of blissful tranquillity for the writer of this blog. Mind you, if my life was just one long peaceful wheelchair ride you probably wouldn't care enough to read about it. I hope you all enjoyed Christmas and have had a happy new year.
Until next time.
Showing posts with label cinema. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cinema. Show all posts
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Not Just Any Cake
During our foray to the pub on Friday (see last post), Bob and I made a tentative arrangement to go to the cinema this Monday. I remembered this on Monday morning and checked with Polly that this would okay and that she hadn't organized anything exciting, like the weekly food shop, and would need the car. Rather to my surprise she was delighted that I was going out and assured me she could manage, briefly, in my absence. Just as I was checking the listings and choosing between Saw VI and Zombieland she added that the boys would enjoy a trip out with their dad as well. I tried to explain that I thought Sam was a little young for the fiendish puzzles of Jigsaw, but if she was sure. . .
Which is how I ended up seeing Up in 3d with Bob, his wife Antoinette and Matty and Sam. Despite a severe lack of the undead and a complete absence of grotesque killer puzzles Up is a brilliant film and neither Matty or Sam bemoaned the shortage of blood. Instead we all sat entranced, enjoying a rare thing in the two a penny world of CGI animated output, a good story, well drawn characters who ooze humour, charm and warmth, and a whole series of comic set pieces that are both funny and visually pleasing, especially in 3d. I defy anybody not to love Dug, the Golden Retriever.
When I got home with two burger-stuffed boys, way past their bedtime, I found a sightly fractious wife. Polly had been baking a cake. Now it must be said that Polly is an excellent cook and has baked countless cakes over the years. This cake, however, is a cake with baggage, a cake with history. This is the Deal family Christmas cake, a recipe handed down the generations. This is the cake that until this year my mother has made every year for as many Christmases as I can remember. A cake that is so complicated and takes so long to prepare that my mother can no longer stand to bake it. I mean that literally, mum has arthritis. The mantle has now passed to Polly. It had taken her over three and a half hours to mix and prepare. Muttering grimly about 'your family' she told me she would have to set the alarm to go off at 1:30am to take it out of the oven after its five and a half hour baking time. She swears that next year she will make a chocolate log but I'm sure she will have calmed down by next October.
At 1:30am the alarm went off and Polly staggered into the kitchen. I was asleep before she crawled back to bed. I learned in the morning that the cake needed to cool a further 40 minutes before it could be removed from the tin.
All I can say is that it is a VERY nice cake. It has to be decorated in a certain way too, but I'll mention that next time I go to the cinema.
Until next time...
Which is how I ended up seeing Up in 3d with Bob, his wife Antoinette and Matty and Sam. Despite a severe lack of the undead and a complete absence of grotesque killer puzzles Up is a brilliant film and neither Matty or Sam bemoaned the shortage of blood. Instead we all sat entranced, enjoying a rare thing in the two a penny world of CGI animated output, a good story, well drawn characters who ooze humour, charm and warmth, and a whole series of comic set pieces that are both funny and visually pleasing, especially in 3d. I defy anybody not to love Dug, the Golden Retriever.
When I got home with two burger-stuffed boys, way past their bedtime, I found a sightly fractious wife. Polly had been baking a cake. Now it must be said that Polly is an excellent cook and has baked countless cakes over the years. This cake, however, is a cake with baggage, a cake with history. This is the Deal family Christmas cake, a recipe handed down the generations. This is the cake that until this year my mother has made every year for as many Christmases as I can remember. A cake that is so complicated and takes so long to prepare that my mother can no longer stand to bake it. I mean that literally, mum has arthritis. The mantle has now passed to Polly. It had taken her over three and a half hours to mix and prepare. Muttering grimly about 'your family' she told me she would have to set the alarm to go off at 1:30am to take it out of the oven after its five and a half hour baking time. She swears that next year she will make a chocolate log but I'm sure she will have calmed down by next October.
At 1:30am the alarm went off and Polly staggered into the kitchen. I was asleep before she crawled back to bed. I learned in the morning that the cake needed to cool a further 40 minutes before it could be removed from the tin.
All I can say is that it is a VERY nice cake. It has to be decorated in a certain way too, but I'll mention that next time I go to the cinema.
Until next time...
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Still Blogging On
I'm sorry that I appeared to have disappeared from the blogosphere recently, I'm all right, honestly. A combination of annoying difficulties to do with actually typing words, sheer business and a run of good weather have conspired against my blogging duties. Thank you to those who enquired as to my virtual whereabouts During my hiatus various things have been happening.
Polly and I made the trek in to London for one of my regular appointments at the Royal Brompton Hospital. While I waited among the wheelchairs and breathing apparatus Polly went on to her Clown Doctor office in Islington to sort out her expenses form. I read my book and waited, nodding occasionally to nurses, doctors, phlebotomists and sundry support staff I have come to know over the years, and watching the assembled disabled folk wheezing and waiting. Steve, a technician, took blood from my earlobe and tested my blood gasses and eventually I was ushered in to the consultant's consulting room. Dr Simmonds checked me over and pronounced that my carbon dioxide levels are elevated and that they could, in theory, be exacerbating the somewhat unnervingly rapid deterioration in my muscular dystrophy. More time on the BiPap will be required and the various settings will need to be adjusted to compensate. On the plus side, it might help.
By way light relief, and it being half-term, we took the boys to the cinema to see A Night In The Museum 2. It being half-term and raining the cinema was packed full of screaming, overly excited children, all munching vast buckets of popcorn and other noisy comestibles. We had to wait until a later screening than we had intended and had to queue for what seemed like hours by a poster advertising a film called Drag Me To Hell. Enough said.
I've more to tell you but my patience with tapping out one letter at a time has worn thin.
Oh, by the way, we're off to the Mobility Roadshow near Cirencester on Thursday, so if you are intending to go, drop me a line or leave a comment and maybe we can rest our weary wheels and grab a coffee together.
Bye for now. I'll be back soon.
Polly and I made the trek in to London for one of my regular appointments at the Royal Brompton Hospital. While I waited among the wheelchairs and breathing apparatus Polly went on to her Clown Doctor office in Islington to sort out her expenses form. I read my book and waited, nodding occasionally to nurses, doctors, phlebotomists and sundry support staff I have come to know over the years, and watching the assembled disabled folk wheezing and waiting. Steve, a technician, took blood from my earlobe and tested my blood gasses and eventually I was ushered in to the consultant's consulting room. Dr Simmonds checked me over and pronounced that my carbon dioxide levels are elevated and that they could, in theory, be exacerbating the somewhat unnervingly rapid deterioration in my muscular dystrophy. More time on the BiPap will be required and the various settings will need to be adjusted to compensate. On the plus side, it might help.
By way light relief, and it being half-term, we took the boys to the cinema to see A Night In The Museum 2. It being half-term and raining the cinema was packed full of screaming, overly excited children, all munching vast buckets of popcorn and other noisy comestibles. We had to wait until a later screening than we had intended and had to queue for what seemed like hours by a poster advertising a film called Drag Me To Hell. Enough said.
I've more to tell you but my patience with tapping out one letter at a time has worn thin.
Oh, by the way, we're off to the Mobility Roadshow near Cirencester on Thursday, so if you are intending to go, drop me a line or leave a comment and maybe we can rest our weary wheels and grab a coffee together.
Bye for now. I'll be back soon.
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
Grit In The Shoe Of Life
Continuing with the moany old git theme. Disability is rubbish. Let's face it, very very few would decide to opt for it as a lifestyle of choice. Yes, I know that I should accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative and all that, but all in all, I think most of us would agree that we'd forego the advantages of a blue badge in exchange for dropping the dis in disability. However, despite the assurances of Falwell. Bakker, Swaggart, Oral Roberts, et al, faith and an open heart are no match for genetics or a severed spinal cord, and we have to live with the cards we've been dealt. Moaning does no one any good. (Long time readers of this blog are now raising eyebrows and wondering where I'm going with this.) So, in complete acceptance that it will make no difference whatsoever, here are 3, non-medical, things that irritate me about my personal situation. All are minor, all are merely the grit in the shoe of life.
Talking to navels
As a wheelchair user I spend a great deal of time talking to peoples midriffs. This is usually because people stand to close and I am either forced to stare straight ahead and address their waists or crotches depending on their height, or crane my neck and talk to their chins. Step back, or better yet, sit down if you wish to engage me in conversation. Sometimes, when I have the space, I play a little game. I move my chair away from the person a couple of feet or so to make easier eye contact, if for some reason they step forward and close the gap I wait a moment and then move again. If they close the gap I move again, keeping the conversation going. The aim of the game is to move the person from the starting point to the target point, which may be the other side of the room, the buffet or, indeed, the exit. In the past I've managed the full length of a school hall.
Being Grateful
When you are severely disabled you spend a lot of time saying thank you. Because you are reliant on other people for so much you feel obliged to express appreciation. This is because you don't wish to appear to take their assistance for granted, but, just occasionally, you run low on gratitude. I was once working in Madrid when my Spanish host expressed astonishment at how often the British say please and thank you. “You buy a cup of coffee. You say to the waitress 'please may I have a cup of coffee, thank you.' She says yes. You say thank you. She brings the coffee. You say thank you. You say 'how much, please?' She tells you. You say thank you. You give her money and say thank you. She takes the money, you say thank you. She offers you the change, you say thank you. You take the change from her and say thank you. And then you don't say good bye. You say thank you.” Sometimes it feels as if my whole life is a transaction for a cup of coffee. “Please can you move my foot. Thank you.” “Please can you help me cut this steak. Thank you.” “Please can you hurry with the hoist because I'm dying to go to the loo. Thank you.” “Please can I have my computer so I can moan about you. Thank you.” “Oh, and please may I have a cup of coffee. Thank you.” Please don't misunderstand me, I am sincerely grateful and appreciative of the help and support I receive, I couldn't live without it. It's not as if I could make my own coffee with out having to express thanks and gratitude to the staff at the local burns unit. Thank you for reading.
In your own time
This, in many ways, follows on from the last one. I spend a lot of my life waiting for people. I wait each morning for carers to arrive and get me up. They usually arrive at the agreed time but occasionally things beyond their control get in the way. (Damn that elderly man for needing an ambulance.) I wait for it to be convenient for someone to make me coffee. Recently I had to wait for district nurses to come and help me go to the loo. This weekend Polly is going away for a girly weekend. We rang the district nurses to organise them to come in. They said yes, of course they'd come. Once. Once in twelve hours. We've sorted something out but no thanks to them. I wait for carers to help me get to bed. This time they tend to arrive earlier than I would care for them to. Last Monday I went to see Quantum of Solace at the local multiplex. The film ended (with explosions and a can of motor oil) at 8.50pm, not too late for a grown up I think you'll agree, but by the time I got home at just after 9.00 there were 2 carers waiting for me. Then I felt guilty for keeping them waiting. Now I know that we all have responsibilities and are interdependent on others, but sometimes my dependency grates on me. Now, you see? I'm being terribly ungrateful. Next thing you know I'll be talking to your crotch.
Talking to navels
As a wheelchair user I spend a great deal of time talking to peoples midriffs. This is usually because people stand to close and I am either forced to stare straight ahead and address their waists or crotches depending on their height, or crane my neck and talk to their chins. Step back, or better yet, sit down if you wish to engage me in conversation. Sometimes, when I have the space, I play a little game. I move my chair away from the person a couple of feet or so to make easier eye contact, if for some reason they step forward and close the gap I wait a moment and then move again. If they close the gap I move again, keeping the conversation going. The aim of the game is to move the person from the starting point to the target point, which may be the other side of the room, the buffet or, indeed, the exit. In the past I've managed the full length of a school hall.
Being Grateful
When you are severely disabled you spend a lot of time saying thank you. Because you are reliant on other people for so much you feel obliged to express appreciation. This is because you don't wish to appear to take their assistance for granted, but, just occasionally, you run low on gratitude. I was once working in Madrid when my Spanish host expressed astonishment at how often the British say please and thank you. “You buy a cup of coffee. You say to the waitress 'please may I have a cup of coffee, thank you.' She says yes. You say thank you. She brings the coffee. You say thank you. You say 'how much, please?' She tells you. You say thank you. You give her money and say thank you. She takes the money, you say thank you. She offers you the change, you say thank you. You take the change from her and say thank you. And then you don't say good bye. You say thank you.” Sometimes it feels as if my whole life is a transaction for a cup of coffee. “Please can you move my foot. Thank you.” “Please can you help me cut this steak. Thank you.” “Please can you hurry with the hoist because I'm dying to go to the loo. Thank you.” “Please can I have my computer so I can moan about you. Thank you.” “Oh, and please may I have a cup of coffee. Thank you.” Please don't misunderstand me, I am sincerely grateful and appreciative of the help and support I receive, I couldn't live without it. It's not as if I could make my own coffee with out having to express thanks and gratitude to the staff at the local burns unit. Thank you for reading.
In your own time
This, in many ways, follows on from the last one. I spend a lot of my life waiting for people. I wait each morning for carers to arrive and get me up. They usually arrive at the agreed time but occasionally things beyond their control get in the way. (Damn that elderly man for needing an ambulance.) I wait for it to be convenient for someone to make me coffee. Recently I had to wait for district nurses to come and help me go to the loo. This weekend Polly is going away for a girly weekend. We rang the district nurses to organise them to come in. They said yes, of course they'd come. Once. Once in twelve hours. We've sorted something out but no thanks to them. I wait for carers to help me get to bed. This time they tend to arrive earlier than I would care for them to. Last Monday I went to see Quantum of Solace at the local multiplex. The film ended (with explosions and a can of motor oil) at 8.50pm, not too late for a grown up I think you'll agree, but by the time I got home at just after 9.00 there were 2 carers waiting for me. Then I felt guilty for keeping them waiting. Now I know that we all have responsibilities and are interdependent on others, but sometimes my dependency grates on me. Now, you see? I'm being terribly ungrateful. Next thing you know I'll be talking to your crotch.
Saturday, 24 May 2008
Cinema Magic
In the last few weeks I've been asked the same question twice. Or more accurately Polly has been asked. “Does he go anywhere? A day centre perhaps?” No I don't go to a day centre. Nor do I weave baskets, play Whist, or enjoy Bingo. For crying out loud, I'm in a wheelchair not my dotage. I'm even allowed out unsupervised - and that's official. Fiona, from the wheelchair service, came to check that I had the Samba Quickie under control. She wanted to check that I didn't run amok and mow down pedestrians, that I could cross the road safely (using the green cross code), and that I could resist the temptation to race mobility scooters down the High Street. She seemed satisfied but I was disappointed I didn't get a certificate.
Just in case you are worried that I never get out, on Thursday I went with Stewart, who arrived after a hard days crime fighting, to the local Vue cinema multiplex. I love the cinema and try to go at least a couple of times a month. You would probably expect me, with my arts background and esoteric literary tastes, to frequent Portuguese art house films dubbed into French with German subtitles, whereas I actually only go to see movies with lots of explosions. On Thursday it was the new Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull movie, which certainly met with my exacting expectations for big budget action packed mayhem and don't let sneering internet nerds or the occasional world weary film critic put you off, if you enjoyed Indy's previous adventures then you will enjoy this one every bit as much.
Harrison Ford makes no pretence at being as young as he once was and the film makes several references to this, pairing him with the much younger Shia LaBeouf as new sidekick Mutt. Don't worry though, Indiana Jones proves as indestructible as ever as he takes on the Commies in paranoiac 1957 America. The McGuffin for this adventure is the Crystal Skull of the title and we've moved from religious artefacts to an alien one but the winning formula remains the same; lots of perilously narrow escapes, breathlessly frantic chases and wise-cracks and whip-cracking dialogue. There are some wonderful set pieces including an escape from an atomic bomb and a cliff diving amphibious car, as well as genuinely scary scenes such as one involving flesh eating soldier ants.
It's not a perfect film by any means. There are some strange inconsistencies regarding the magnetic properties of crystal that bothered me throughout the film. A cloth seems to have a miraculous dampening effect on a hitherto super magnet. (Watch the film, you'll understand.) But that's a minor quibble; if you can accept that a 65 year old man can be shot at 10,000 times, fall hundreds of feet without being hit or breaking a single bone then the odd breach of the laws of physics shouldn't bother you too much.
If you want to spend a couple of hours watching a well paced, action filled movie featuring an iconic hero then you won't do better than Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Enjoy.
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