Away in a Manger

31 years ago I was a mere 10 years old. However, even by 1984 the fickle nature of fame had meant that my celebrity status was already on the wane. I’d already featured in at least two school nativity plays, once as a shepherd and then on to the dizzy heights of Joseph himself. Having said that, Joseph does very little throughout the nativity, it’s the opening speech on the way to Bethlehem that maketh the man.

However time had moved on, I was becoming middle aged in school years and smaller, cuter children had arrived, which meant that casting directors (in this case, the music teacher, Mrs Roberts) were quick to dump us old timers on the scrapheap and put the youthful faces up front.

Like all mature actors, I had to resort to character parts and so I was lumbered with the small role of the Innkeeper. Now he (I called him Isaac) has even less to do than that gullible sap, Joseph, but in the words of the famous theatre practitioner Konstantin Stanislavski, “There are no small parts, only small actors”, so I was determined that I would not go unnoticed.

Suffice to say that dear old Isaac was the most belligerent, petty, and loud-mouthed 10-year-old Innkeeper in all of Bethlehem. He wasn’t keen at all on this beardy weirdy and his pregnant concubine on their tatty, smelly donkey staying at his luxury Inn (4 out of 5 on Trip Advisor) as they’d totally spoil the ambience, but it was Christmas (yes, I know) and there was money to be made. Therefore he was happy for them to stay in his manky old cow shed out the back, although he sold it to them as a unique bijou property with a rustic feel so as to get a fair price. To be fair to Isaac, there are some Londoners who dream of such magnificent floor space at such a reasonable price.

Needless to say Isaac was incensed when he checked on his latest visitors some hours later to find that not only had the woman gone and given birth to a screaming brat but they’d also been joined by three farmers and some other gentleman who he could only presume from their gaudy clothes and obvious ill-gotten wealth were drug dealers.

Therefore Isaac made one last appearance at the end of the nativity and with no lines on the page he still managed to convey to the entire school hall his abject horror at the situation. It really is a mystery how I never ended up as a professional actor.

However, Old Isaac’s temperament towards visitors is one that I share. Some would call me anti-social, some would say I’m introvert, but those who know me well would probably disagree with both assessments. People are much more complex than that.

You see, as I’ve got older I’ve realised that I don’t need constant company, even if I like the company. In fact, I think that I actually tire of it more quickly than others. If I found myself trapped in a confined space with people for a long period of time I would actually go quite insane.

I’m suspecting that this comes from my childhood. For the first 12 years of my life we always seemed to live in houses that were miles away from civilisation. Whilst in the summer months that was no problem as I could get on my trusty Raleigh Strika and seek out friends, during the inclement months I spent many long hours on my own, in an age before mobile phones, all-day children’s TV channels, games consoles or the internet. Heaven only knows what I used to do but it would have involved using my imagination. If nothing else it left me with a degree of creativity and an independent streak, which is no bad thing.

So, these days when we have visitors I’m always keen to know when they’re going to be leaving. Sounds terrible doesn’t it? That doesn’t mean that as soon as they arrive I greet them with “Welcome, good to see you, when will you be going?” I’m not that socially inept. Well, not quite.

What I mean is I have boundaries (as do we all) but whereas normal functioning British people grit their teeth and smile through, I seem to find that a little more difficult.

You see, a one or two night stay by friends is just fine. That’s manageable. I’m pleased to see them, we have a good time, I can be the perfect mein host. A three night stay raises my eyebrows (“have they not got homes to go to?”) and my host-like qualities subside on the run up to that third night to help acclimatise our guests to the cold, hard reality that they will soon be turfed out and have to fend for themselves again.

Anything beyond a three-night stay therefore is when I’ve decided that enough is enough and that really by now our visitors should be paying rent. I withdraw all congenial host qualities and curl up in a foetal ball in the corner of a room and play dead in the hope that they will get bored and go home.

If the visitors don’t leave after a fourth night, then I book a hotel and bugger off to Sheffield. Don’t think I’m joking, this has happened.

The same applies to when I visit friends. As I’ve reached middle age I realise that I don’t really enjoy staying at other people’s houses for more than a night or two. After that, I’m done. I can’t leave quickly enough. My preference if I’m visiting people at all is to book into a hotel as I can go out, be as sociable as the next party animal, but then I can go and close the hotel room door and just chill, without the need to communicate to anyone.

So now I probably seem to you just like Isaac, a belligerent, socially bereft ignoramus, but I assure you I’m not. I like people visiting, I welcome them into my home with open beers, but I also enjoy waving them off whilst I still have the energy.

Having said that, visitors are more than welcome to stay in my cow shed. There are no cows in it but there is a lawn mower and a barbecue. £20 a night per person. It’s a bargain.

No farmers, new born babies or drug dealers allowed.

Return to Oddthorpe

A few months ago I wrote about a small village in the middle of nowhere that I’ve happened to walk through on several occasions. It’s called Obthorpe, and the strange part about it is that despite the many houses, cars, and usual signs of life, it seems to have nobody living within it. Stranger than that, it seems to exist within its own bubble that birdsong and extraneous noises cannot penetrate. Seriously, it’s a weird old place.

My uninformed assumptions are that it is either a government experiment or the lair of a supervillain. Deep underground there is a base of operations where scientific bods in white coats are working earnestly at complicated machines whilst others monitor maps of the world. The village above is just a cover for the deep machinations beneath the idyllic Lincolnshire countryside.

So, just a few weeks ago I decided to walk that away again upon my usual route towards Stamford. It was a wild, wet and windy day but I was covered from head to toe in waterproofs with my cap on and hood over the top. The even terrain exposed me to the elements as the rain and gales lashed at me as I headed towards Obthorpe. I kept my head dopwn as I trudged ever onwards.

As I’d been staring intently at the ground I hadn’t initially realised that I had entered the boundaries of Obthorpe. In fact the first time I noticed was when it occurred to me that the rain had suddenly stopped and the wind had abated. I removed my hood, glad to have some respite from the inclement conditions.

As I passed through the village I chuckled to myself. As ever, there were signs that people lived in Obthorpe, such as lights on, a window half open, a car in the drive, but no people.  My own internal monologue was challenging me to look hard to see if I could see anyone behind those windows, but my natural good manners prevented me from staring.

Two-thirds of the way through the single tracked lane that runs through the village I was startled from my private reverie when, out of nowhere, I saw two people walking towards me, a man and a woman, both walking large dogs on leads.

At last, I thought, residents of Obthorpe. There had to be some in this mysterious location and there they were at last, albeit I didn’t see which house they had come from. They walked purposefully down the middle of the lane, the hounds straining at the leash. As we passed the man made eye contact, smiled and said “good morning” but the woman didn’t. She eyed me up and down suspiciously as if I’d just climbed out the back of a lorry in Dover.

I responded in a polite manner and continued walking. Delighted that I had finally bust the myth of Obthorpe I began to exit the village, but not before looking around behind me to see where the dog walkers were headed. They were nowhere to be seen. I stopped in my tracks and surveyed the flat landscape around me but there was absolutely no-one there. They had vanished as swiftly as they’d appeared.

I was briefly tempted to retrace my steps in an attempt to convince myself that I wasn’t going mad, but then I remembered my theories of this place. What if this really was a villain’s lair? What if they weren’t just casual residents walking their (large and ferocious) dogs around the village, but in fact, they were guards, just checking me out to see if I’m an innocent passer-by or someone they may have to assassinate on the spot? Maybe this was a warning – 'Stay away and stop writing about us on your ridiculous blog. Stick to whinging about your various ailments instead'.

I hurried on and just as I exited past the village sign a gust of wind almost knocked me sideways and the rain resumed its aggressive downpour as if someone had just switched a tap on. Obthorpe’s peculiar local climate strikes again.

So, my advice to you is this. Don’t get curious. Don’t visit Obthorpe. If you value your life then stay away from a village that is odder than anything you’ve ever encountered or read about before.

Tell no-one about it, it’s our secret. Because, I tell you what, I think they just might be on to us, and I for one don’t want to be strapped to a missile and shot towards the moon.

There’s nothing to see in Obthorpe. Keep out.

Stuck In The Middle With You

I do like a long dramatic gap between posts, especially after I’ve been under the knife. It allows the more hopeful to think that I’ve expired and so they are free from stumbling across any more of my aimless meanderings. Sorry folks, I am still here and the latest surgery passed off without incident. In fact I was sat up in a hospital bed watching Fifteen to One and chowing down on a tuna sandwich just two hours after waking from my anaesthetic induced slumber.

This was one thing that was different from last time. My hernia operation did not render me cautious around food, which was dangerous when immobile. Last year I managed to lose loads of weight, this time I sat and munched away which has meant that some of my trousers are currently out of service.

The medical experts advised me that I needed to stay hydrated and to drink loads of water in the first few days after the operation. In my defence I did my best and downed as much water as I could lay my hands on, or so I thought.

After 3 days it occurred to me that the one thing I hadn’t done since the operation was to have what is known in polite circles as a number two. It hadn’t occurred to me to do so as the urge had not taken me, but come that third day I awoke sensing movement down below. I headed to the toilet and settled myself in for what I always expected to be a big one.

After 10 minutes of inactivity I realised that I might have a problem. Don’t get me wrong, something was moving south but I sensed there was going to be an issue. Whatever it was making a bid for freedom it was much larger, and far more solid, that one usually expects.

I began to experience the associated pains that come with attempting to pass what felt like a solid, and somewhat jagged, boulder through a tiny gap. After considerable squirming and whimpering I came to the conclusion that things had gone too far to back away from the inevitable. Whatever was trying to leave my body was making a bid for freedom and I needed to help it on its passage, so as to preserve mine.

Some Googling of symptoms occurred and thanks to the ladies of Mumsnet I discovered that I had constipation, which, they all concluded, was far more painful than childbirth (their controversial words, not mine). Their solution was simple; I needed to get my hands on a suppository. The only problem was that I could barely stand up without weeping in pain so walking to a shop would be an excruciating experience for all concerned.

I heard a noise from outside the toilet door and realised that the present Mrs Hayward was nearby, loading up the washing machine. I opened the door very slightly and, in a weak and despairing voice, asked for her assistance. I explained my predicament which I sensed was far too graphic for a lady of her sensitive nature and asked her nicely, if slightly pathetically, if she would go to a local pharmacy and purchase me the required item.

Quite rightly she questioned my assumptions and I explained that the Internet had told me that suppositorys would resolve my immediate issues, which caused her to become even more suspicious. Even so, my whimpering and whining had the desired effect and she departed for the local Tesco Pharmacy.

As I’d got myself to my feet I spent the next 15 minutes clutched to the sink as waves of pain from my derriere engulfed me. After what seemed like a much longer time I heard the door open and I excitedly realised that my suffering was soon to end.

I once again peered out from behind the toilet door to be greeted with the present Mrs Hayward clutching a carrier bag.

“You have two options”, she proudly declared, and from the bag she first produced some sort of medicine. I appreciated this, as I was sure that it would help me to avoid any further painful episodes but I was also aware that it would not provide me with the instant relief I was seeking.

Excitedly I saw her reach in to the bag to pull out the desired suppositories, so imagine my surprise when from the bag the present Mrs Hayward produced a carton of prune juice.

I stared disbelievingly. As far as I had been aware I’d made a very specific request, none of which involved any form of fruit based beverage. She explained, quite reasonably, that she’d discussed my symptoms with the pharmacist and they had recommended this as a solution.

Now I’m not questioning the expertise or professionalism of the pharmacist and I’m sure prune juice has many bowel relieving benefits but they probably provide relief after, say, a couple of weeks, rather than the more urgent timescale I was working to. In essence I think the pharmacist was, in colloquial parlance, having a laugh.

In total shock I stared at the prune juice, and then at my wife, and then back at the prune juice again. I wasn’t sure at that exact moment whether to laugh, get angry, or cry, so I did a combination of all three at the same time.

I have to confess that we had a slight disagreement over her purchases from Tesco and after an exchange of words, some of which were accompanied by me banging my head against the bathroom door crying “no, no, no” in an overdramatic display of pained frustration, the present Mrs Hayward kindly left the house once more, this time heading to Boots with a plea to ignore the advice of mischievous pharmacists.

Another excruciating 15 minutes passed, as the spiky rock from hell made a few more goes at ripping open my sphincter.

When my wife returned I flung open the door of the bathroom with excitement. She handed me the box and said, rather nervously, “Do you need any help with that?”

I must have looked a little confused, albeit not as confused as when I was presented with the prune juice, and politely refused this kind offer. Our marriage vows were broad in nature but didn’t, in my view, stretch to the application of suppositories. Especially as there was enough stretching going on without a third party intervention.

In retrospect I realise that this may have been why she’d been reluctant to purchase the desired items in the first place, and was relieved with the pharmacist’s recommendation, if she’d thought that she would have to be actively involved in the endeavour, however this was never on the cards.

As it was, I’ve never had to use a suppository before, and certainly never expected to blog about it, but when in dire need they are fairly amazing. Up they go with little effort and very soon relief was on its way. The rock melted away and my posterior had been saved from having stitches.

I left the bathroom in jubilant fashion. I’d been trapped there for 90 minutes by this point so it felt like I’d been released from prison. The present Mrs Hayward was less impressed and really couldn’t understand what all the fuss had been about.

As it was, I never needed any more suppositories or medicine; everything started to function just fine. As for the prune juice, I gave it a go. It was, unsurprisingly, fairly disgusting. Mind you, I’m regular as clockwork now.

Normal service has been resumed.

Stitched Up

I’m sure if you go back and look at this blog from 18 months ago (although quite why anyone would choose to undertake such a thankless task is beyond me) I am sure that I made a prophecy. When I crossed the threshold of 40, albeit gracelessly and with much anger, I believe I declared to anyone who’d listen that no good would come of it. It turns out that I was right.

Other than having my wisdom teeth removed when I was 16 I’d never been given general anaesthetic for a medical procedure. I only opted for it with the wisdom teeth because they were buried deep within my gums and heading off course towards my existing teeth that such drastic measures for removal were even considered.

Then last year you may recall that I ended up having my gall bladder taken away from me, due to it developing a fault and being out of warranty. It serves no useful purpose these days anyway, much like a cassette player or a Liberal Democrat MP.

Now, another part of my wretched cadaver is suffering from wear and tear and needs surgical intervention.  To be honest, I had assumed that the recent stomach pain I’d experienced was a touch of trapped wind, however on the third or fourth bout of excruciating pain I decided to seek medical advice.

I visited a GP who asked me a few questions and then she got me to stand behind the curtain and drop my trousers. Having spent a couple of nights in hospital last year I’ve lost any embarrassment about such requests and will now merrily drop my trousers at will, whether people want me to or not.

In fact I’m not entirely sure the GP wanted to see quite what I was exposing to her but she didn’t scream or point and laugh, and following a quick prod around my lower stomach she concluded that I probably had a couple of inguinal hernias. To be honest I thought they’d be more noticeable but a subsequent ultrasound confirmed her diagnosis.

So the other week I was back at the hospital in front of a very cheerful surgeon (that’s private healthcare for you I suppose) who gladly signed me up to be cut open and have my hernias repaired and sealed. I asked if this was all really necessary as, despite what the present Mrs Hayward would tell you, I am not addicted to surgery.  In fact I am deeply suspicious of the whole thing.

The surgeon said that it’s best to get them done while I’m still young and fit as hernias can cause problems in later life. Notwithstanding his apparent short sightedness I’m not sure if later life is going to be much of a problem if parts of my anatomy keep packing up or falling apart. Unless this is some long term experiment to turn me into the Bionic Man, which could be advantageous; the special eye thing will be most useful to see if there’s a new guest ale on at the bar without me leaving my seat.

Mind you, if I were a caveman I’d probably be dead by now so perhaps I need to take the hernia on the chin (not literally) and behave in a much more stoic way, rather than whining on the internet. After all, it’s a miracle of modern technology that they can patch me up like I’m a rusty Ford Escort (Mk 2 of course) and send me on my way.

Oh well, it's only a few hours now until I have to show my face at the hospital at the ungodly hour of 7:15am, but that's still plenty of time for me to run through all the potential worst case scenarios, including but not limited to, the surgeon leaving implements inside my body, waking up during the operation, and the whole hospital being staffed by lunatics masquerading as medical staff.

Actually that last one may have happened on the previous occasion. He was called Dr Bob, but that’s another story.    

If I Had The Wings Of A Sparrow...

The last time I tapped out words for this blog, like a chimp trying to compose Hamlet, I made reference to the fact that I was about to take flight in a helicopter. I was nervous but exhilarated by the opportunity to take to the air in such a machine.

Having now done so I can tell you that it’s the only way to fly. None of this malarkey of charging at high speed down a runway in the vain hope of gaining enough momentum and lift so that a tin tube full of eager holidaymakers will be catapulted into the sky. Oh no, this was a gentle rise off the ground and away.

Equally there was no hurtling ourselves at the ground and braking like a maniac, it was a gentle touch down, like a feather dropping gracefully to the floor. The more I consider how elegant helicopter travel is I’m wondering why it hasn’t caught on and why we have opted for the flying metal bird approach.

The manoeuvrability and view is also a factor of why this is a magnificent way to travel. No peering through a tiny porthole to try and see the world below, there’s windows all around, big ones at that. If you want to turn round or fly lower it can be done very easily. The helicopter is therefore the black cab of air travel, whilst the aeroplane is the bendy bus.

My trip took me over Portsmouth, partly so that I could get a view of the place of my birth – the Isle of Wight (hereafter known as the Motherland). It was a clear day so I had a cracking view as we swept over Lee-on-Solent, up towards Portsdown Hill and then back over the Historic Dockyard.

Thankfully we didn’t suffer any bombardment from the ground as the locals below were blissfully unaware that a supporter of Southampton FC was swooping around above them like an emperor in a flying chariot.

The window of the helicopter was open and I was briefly reminded of a football chant, the sentiments of which involve dropping untold excrement upon the poor unfortunates on the ground, but as I’d reduced my solids intake to lettuce leaves and dust to ensure I was below the required flying weight I had nothing to offer in that department.

As it was, no-one weighed me from start to finish. In fact I was heartened to see passengers on earlier flights carrying much more in the way of additional baggage than I. It turns out that I may not have been the one to have eaten all the pies after all, although in my defence I would have made a substantial dent on them given the chance.

So, before I tail off onto another topic altogether, I can conclude that helicopter travel is the future. 

As I look proudly at the souvenir photo of me stood grinning next to this mighty machine with its rotor blades whirling furiously above my head, I can tick another thing off the list and pretend that I am not a middle aged man who works in an office, but I’m in fact the pilot of Airwolf.

Or I’m Noel Edmonds. One of those.

   

Chopper Hayward

Some blogs ago I wrote about how I’d compiled a ‘bucket list’ of sorts, although I’d not called it that for fear of jinxing my existence and hastening my inevitable demise. Looking through the list of 21 items I’d accumulated (so far) I realise that I’d only achieved one and a half of them. The one I did complete and have repeated several times since is to drink Sloe Gin. Let’s face it, that wasn’t too difficult to accomplish but who said they had to be? It was a very pleasant experience so a big tick on the list there.

The half achievement was in relation to visiting Edinburgh. Technically I have spent time in Edinburgh but mostly changing trains at Waverley station. I say mostly, there was a hectic taxi journey against time down Princes Street one day but I was too busy watching the clock to take in the sights and sounds of the Scottish capital, but that’s another story. After careful consideration I don’t feel that I’ve fully met the criteria of visiting Edinburgh so that’s still resolutely unticked.

However, this weekend I should get the opportunity to give a great big tick to a more challenging item on the list, and that is to fly in a helicopter. I say ‘should’ as there is a slight area of doubt in my mind. It’s not directly to do with the thought of plummeting out of the sky like a rock falling to earth but that also weighs heavy on my mind.

You see, helicopters like all flying transportation have a weight limit. It’s not that relevant when we’re jetting off to Torremelinos on our holidays as we fly on great big planes so no-one mentions it and no flight attendant is stood at the airport guiding hapless holidaymakers onto a set of bathroom scales prior to boarding. However, with a small helicopter carrying a handful of passengers it creates an issue if one occupant has eaten far too many of their fair share of pies and other assorted savoury pastries.

I was well aware of the weight limit of 16 stone when I booked this excursion and I can quite confidently say that I am below that weight……by a few pounds. Actually, whilst wearing nothing apart from a smile I am well under, but with the addition of the obligatory clothes and footwear the weight starts creeping on and I find myself edging ever closer to that limit.

Logic dictates that I should have nothing to worry about as I’m irrefutably under the limit as of right now but the panicky side of my brain is just worried that I’m a mere sausage roll away from being declared too fat to fly.

With that in mind I have reduced my calorie intake this week so that I may become airborne. Water, vegetables and certain fruit have become my friends; all types of carbohydrates my mortal enemy. I had a complete eye opener yesterday when I established the calories in just one slice of seeded bread (130 if you’re interested, so two Bertolli-moistened slices embracing some ham would have taken me somewhere near 400 calories). Next week I won’t care a jot about any of this but, for now, I am determined to remain well under 16 stone come hell or high water.

Failing that I may have to paint clothes on me, although that may be dangerous what with all those sharp blades twirling around. Either that or I’ll just have to ensure that my bowels are working to maximum efficiency on the day. That should lighten me up a bit. I’m told that all I need to consume is a couple of Avocadoes and several boxes of Tic Tacs and the job’s a good ‘un.

Heaven help the other passengers though. Things could get messy.