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.  

Oddthorpe

A week ago my feet hurt. Despite following the wisdom of a certain old wives’ tale to wear two pairs of socks when undertaking a walk of any considerable length to avoid my feet rubbing against the inside of my walking boots, I was becoming increasingly aware that I was growing a blister the size and colour of a fully ripened plum on my little toe. Being a brave little soldier I carried on trekking over hills and cliff edges as I ventured unabashed towards The Needles Pleasure Park on the Isle of Wight. Never has a man been so keen to see those coloured sands.

The reason for my yomp was that I was participating in the annual Walk the Wight event, now in its 25^th year, for the third time. I didn’t feel that I had particularly trained well for this.  A wander round Nottinghamshire the other weekend was a nice little walk but it didn’t prepare me for the deceptively challenging inclines that the Isle of Wight’s topography throws up at certain points. However, I completed the thing without making my feet bleed. Having said that, I was walking a little gingerly for a couple of days and my late application of headwear meant that I resembled a man who had spent the afternoon lightly grilling his face. I’ve now entered the peeling stage which is particularly attractive. When I get up from the sofa I leave the outline of my body in skin behind me, like the residue from a disintegrating ray.

Undeterred I decided yesterday that it was just too clement to hide myself away indoors and so I retrieved my walking boots and headed out on a modest 10 mile walk to Stamford, this time applying liberal amounts of sun cream before I left the house and donning an appropriate hat.

It was glorious; a lovely day in mid-May is the ideal time for a walk. The fields are awash with fragrant yellow flowers, the birds are singing, and the paths underfoot are dry and welcoming, not slippy and squishy like they were when I was out a couple of months ago. Spring has peaked and summer is just around the corner. The whole world just seemed so alive.

Well, I say that, except there was one place on my route where time appeared to have stopped completely. This place is a small hamlet on a narrow country lane just south of Bourne. It’s called Obthorpe and I always approach it with some amusement mixed with trepidation. I’ve walked through Obthorpe on two occasions before and I’d noted that, despite signs of life, I’d never actually seen anyone there. I hadn’t even heard voices of people chatting, no keen homeowner  beavering away in their garden, no TV or radio idly burbling along in the background, no dog barking, nothing. My recollections of walking through Obthorpe was of the wind whistling through the telephone wires and the strange feeling that everyone had left suddenly.

There are cars on the drives, the occasional light on in a house, but no people. As I approached I wondered if this time it would be any different. Would I finally get to see a living, breathing resident of Obthorpe? I was almost excited as I passed the lonely sign just before the first house. I reached the first home, a small bungalow and I scanned it for signs of life. Apart from a car on the drive, there was nothing. Next door there’s a second bungalow. Another car on the drive, a window open but, again, nothing.

I continued past the larger houses, and a farm building but yet again nothing. It was a nice, sunny day for heavens sake but no-one was out in their vast gardens and no farmer could be seen, despite a tractor parked next to a barn. No farmer, no pigs, cows, horses, chickens, alpacas, nothing.

It was then that I became aware of something else that was peculiar. It was just so quiet. Apart from the aforementioned breeze there was no birdsong. I’d not noticed that before. There are trees but nothing chirping away within them. It’s May. My garden is alive with birds of all different shapes and sizes but in Obthorpe they’ve all flown the nest.

I bravely took a few photos of this ghost town before carrying on my way, looking behind me in case someone, anyone, suddenly appeared. After about a mile or two I reached the next village along, Wilsthorpe. I was immediately aware of birdsong, people in their gardens, a baby rabbit hopping about in the hedgerow and, well, just life.

I would like to think that Obthorpe isn’t as unsettling as it appears. I’m sure there must be people that live there. You may even know someone, but I suspect you don’t. Obthorpe is an enigma, a façade if you will, most likely for something sinister. I noticed this time that up a short track in the middle of Obthorpe, about half a mile away, marked with ‘Keep Out’ and ‘Private’ signs are two black barns. I’ll repeat that, black barns. Who paints their barns black, apart from some kind of comic book super villain?

Mark my words, something odd is afoot in Obthorpe. The conspiracy theory starts here. 

TerryVision

I know very little about Andy Warhol other than knowing that he was a prime mover in the world of pop art, he painted a picture of a tin of soup, and that he once said something about everyone having their fifteen minutes of fame, which, having not even bothered to look him up on Wikipedia is probably more than I know about Ladybirds for instance despite having met more of them than I have famous artists. None became good friends. Ladybirds are quite fickle and soon fly away when spooked and, like leopards, they never change their spots.

Where I’m getting to, albeit by the scenic route, is that most people have at some point had a brush with the bright lights of fame (or in some cases, notoriety). For most of us it can be quite a small and insignificant moment but for others it can be the start of a journey towards bona fide celebrity status. Our destiny is in the stars.

The most common route to fame and fortune these days is via the medium of television, however it can devour the unwary in its relentless demand for entertainment. I have had encounters with this cut-throat world on a few occasions.

Firstly, I appeared in the audience of a 1980s mid-morning talking shop called ‘The Time The Place’ along with some fellow associates of mine, when we were all about 14. The subject of the show was the perennial concern of ‘the youth of today’. Loads of kids from schools in the Southampton area were bussed in to defend ourselves to house bound and unemployed daytime television viewers across the country. Some actors from popular kids show ‘Grange Hill’ were also present, although in the flesh they appeared to be closer to middle age than their on-screen characters were.

I don’t remember much about this programme other than being intimidated by the seemingly giant pedestal cameras in use at the time and being sat in the wrong place at the end of the show as the host, the late Mike Scott, leant in to the camera to wish the great unwashed at home farewell, thereby positioning his backside about an inch away from my face. I must stress however that this was an unfortunate incident and Operation Yewtree do not need to be informed.

The second time I found myself in front of the lens was a year later whilst browsing in WHSmiths. I was approached by a camera crew and was asked to peruse the rack of Mills & Boon books, without any explanation. Being keen to please I did so, only to discover some days later that I was on the local news during their Valentines Day feature where a cheesy reporter was trying to demonstrate that even men read romantic fiction. Needless to say, I kept my head down at school for quite a while after that.

Then things went quiet for a few decades, until last Tuesday. I’d been in Manchester for work and had arrived at a chilly Oxford Road station to find that my train home was not going to arrive for another 30 minutes. As I was seeking somewhere warm to shelter I noticed a camera crew lurking about. Assuming that this was some sort of A-level media studies project (they looked so young) I paid them little attention and tried to keep out of their way.

Whilst trying to work out on my phone if there was some elaborate alternative route available to me that would mean I could board a nice warm train rather than catch my death on Northern Rail premises I was approached by one of the young fellows from the crew. He explained that they were recording a piece for The One Show, that smorgasbord of early evening celebrity chat, serious features about the likes of terminal illness, great historical moments, and the threat of terrorism to pensioners in Oldham, and lightweight pieces about dogs in hats.

On this occasion they were filming a feature following a mature gentleman called Geoff who was trying to seek new employment by handing out free coffees to commuters with his contact details on the cup.  Interested in the prospect of a free warming beverage I agreed to partake in this televisual opportunity. I pretended that Geoff and I had never met and that this was all a surprise. I then went on to tell Geoff in this fairy-tale world that I would be able to help him due to all the connections that I have within the business world.

To be honest, I do know people, some in quite senior and important jobs that help to keep the wheels of industry turning, but I’m not sure they want to be introduced to a chap who thinks that his best option for employment is to hand out coffee to random passers by on the off chance they might secure him a role as a non-executive director. Naturally I didn’t explain this to Geoff as I was cold and I wanted a coffee, which I have to say was disappointingly tepid, but that’s the artifice of television for you.

My moment in front of the camera over, I went on my way on the assumption that there were many more televisual commuters around and that this was the end of the matter. I tweeted that I’d met Geoff and used the hashtag from the coffee cup, #GiveGeoffaJob.

Fast forward a couple of days and as I was heading home from work my phone began vibrating furiously as earnest tweeters found my message and shared it with their followers. I reasoned that Geoff must have appeared on TV but that I’d sadly missed his moment.

The next morning however I got curious as to who had made the final cut so I downloaded it. Sure enough, in amongst the hapless punters on screen came a cheery soul in specs who was promising Geoff his unmitigated support on prime time television.

Assuming that as no-one I know watches The One Show I’d gotten away with it and so I went to work with no concerns. However, after being in the office about 30 seconds I quickly realised that my brief appearance had not gone unnoticed, mostly by startled colleagues who’d had their domestic situations disrupted when I showed up unexpectedly on their televisions, in high definition.

Others who wisely don’t watch The One Show (no-one ever owns up to being a regular viewer, as I discovered) have threatened to download it via the BBC iPlayer to see how I fared. Hopefully they, like TV producers across the land, will see my natural charm and charisma bursting through the screen and that the calls for future TV appearances will soon come my way.

I’m currently eyeing up the opportunity to replace Nick Hewar on the Apprentice. I think I can just about muster the wit to lurk behind some useless graduates and pull faces as they make unwise and downright stupid decisions whilst trying to sell fish or doughnuts to the people of Guildford.

In fact I may even set up my own hashtag, #GiveTerryaJobOnTheTelly. I’ll get myself down the local railway station and hand out coffees with it on, just in case I bump into a passing media mogul.

Spread the word and when fame comes calling you can say you were there at the beginning. You can say you made me who I am. Then you can slag me off to the papers.

Fame is a cruel mistress.