Mm, that's better

Praline pecan and honeycomb. Uh-mm.

Natural born something but not a housewife

When walking George I saw a woman cleaning her fascias with soapy water and a mop on a stick.

If I lived to be 99 the idea that I should do such a thing would never enter my head.

I used to give a lift to a young woman who lived with her parents. One day she told me that they were on holiday so she was cleaning the skirting boards as a surprise for them.

Clean the skirting boards?

I'm suffering from post traumatic stress

I'm not really and I'm not belittling the severity of the condition, it's just that when I was walking George after work it occurred to me that it was an apt description for what I was feeling.

Through Husband's first pains, the diagnosis, hospital admission, the will-he won't-he have an operation, the operation and the immediate recovery period I was fine; in fact I wasn't even worried, which maybe I should have been according to the report mentioned in my previous post. But this afternoon it feels as if I've been holding my breath for two weeks and someone has suddenly said, 'You can let it out now,' and it's foul and cumbersome.

I know people have to suffer much worse and for longer periods but, tough, this is my blog so I'm entitled to have a little grumble. Anyway this is all just so I can justify buying more chocolate. Or, oh yes, we'll drive to Verdi's this evening, and eat ice cream sitting on the prom!

I feel better already.

Never on a Sunday - or a Saturday

If Husband has any fault to find with his medical treatment it's the fact that the GP who saw him in the early hours of the first Saturday morning didn't admit him to hospital straightaway. However, having heard a report on the BBC news last night, he's rethinking that complaint.

According to the Royal College of Surgeons of the 170,000 people who undergo emergency non-cardiac operations in a year, 25,000 will die, and if it's emergency abdominal surgery then you're talking highest mortality rates. The report also says that 'the chance of a patient dying in a UK hospital is 10% higher if they are admitted at a weekend rather than during the week.'

So maybe it's a good thing that the first GP just gave him paracetamol and sent him home.

ABC Wednesday - K

Swansea marina with Kilvey Hill in the background.

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Parlez-vous Francais?

Younger Son has started his new job in Devon. It's not an ideal job but it's work and he gets paid so it's fine. Trouble is the job is full-time and he's only just heard from the university that he needs to do 2 taught modules during the first year of his PhD. He could have coped with doing his own research in the evenings and at weekends but he won't be able to attend regular university lectures. As a result he's decided to postpone starting his PhD until next year in the hope that he can get funding that will enable him to give up his job. He's being very sensible even though he's disappointed.

I was telling someone this and their response made me think about education and its value.

Husband and I both went to university as did all three of our children. We took it for granted that they would want to. On the whole the people we mix with have done some sort of further education and the question that gets asked is not, 'is your child applying to university?' which goes without saying, but rather, 'is your child applying for Oxbridge?'

We still like to think that a degree helps you get a better job in your chosen subject although that's a bit of a fallacy these days with just getting a job being a struggle, but a university - or other - education is more than that.

Education and learning for the sake of it is equally valid I believe. Not just for those who will go on to make a tremendous difference in the world through their invention or their art, but just because. It's the reason old age pensioners learn how to send emails or get degrees in their 80s; it's why adult evening classes in French, art history and flower-arranging are so well-attended.

So when someone says to me, 'It'll do him good to join the real world,' I bite my tongue and pray that Younger Son clings onto his dream and brings it to fruition.

The end of the world

Outnumbered is one of the few television programmes we watch and it's usually on on a Friday evening. This week it's on tonight. I said to Husband, 'Why is it on tonight? Is it the end of the world tomorrow and no-one's told me?'

'No, that's not until 20th December, 2012,' he said.

'What?! How do you know?'

'It says in Wikipedia and, more importantly, Dan Brown says so.'

'And his credibility rating after The Da Vinci Code is sky-high so it must be true!'

But I can't allow it to happen and for a very good reason.

My friend, Carol, who reads this blog, was born the same year as me but not until late in December. If the world ends on 20th December, 2012, we shall go through eternity with her as 59 and me as 60. I cannot have that. Who do I have to apply to to have it changed?

We could be in the south of France

If it weren't for Swansea docks in the distance. Husband decided he could manage a short stroll along the prom and back through the marina this afternoon, en route to the library. Although the promenade looks empty here there were lots of people enjoying the late sunshine on the sandy beach. I can't help feeling these fishermen have a long wait ahead of them though ...

What good news?

We've started looking at the gospel of Mark in the tribal gathering at Zac's on Tuesday evenings. I missed the first one (had to go hospital visiting for some reason) but was there this week. We take our time going through the study so we'd reached chapter 1, verse 14, where Mark talks about the calling of the first disciples. Sean suggested that Mark's would be the equivalent of the tabloid version of the gospel; he tells short snappy stories and doesn't mess around with analysis.

The thing that struck me most about this reading was in the first verse, which said that Jesus went into Galilee 'proclaiming the good news of God'.

Good news can be a hackneyed or clichéd phrase in Christian circles. It's one that we standardly use but I don't think the sense of it had really struck me before. The good news of God. That was Jesus' mission on earth: to proclaim the good news of God. Not to threaten or terrify with tales of a angry unforgiving god but to demonstrate the loving forgiveness of God.

But if the news is so good why is it that the message is roundly scorned by millions? Why are the messengers mocked, abused and still today tortured and killed? (Actually I think the reason for state persecution is rather different from the reasons why your average Christian in Britain is avoided or laughed at by the man in the street.) Why does the mention of Christianity stir up strong emotions, sarcastic argument and even downright rudeness?

Sadly, I fear it's because of the messengers.

My first thoughts on Tuesday evening were that it's because of the ones in power who misuse that power or who give out the wrong message, sometimes in what they preach, more often in how they live. Too many church leaders don't demonstrate Jesus; but then again, too many Christians don't. It's not just the fault of the ones who appear in the media when they screw up big time; it's the responsibility of all of us who claim to be followers of Jesus to live up to what we proclaim, to demonstrate the good news of God.

Later in that paragraph in Mark's gospel Jesus tells the first disciples to 'follow me'. Not believe in me or pray to me or use my name as an excuse, but follow me. In other words, copy me, do what you will see me do. Which was, take the side of the underdog, defend the poor, feed the hungry, love the unlovely, and stand up to hypocrisy. (The only time Jesus used harsh words was to the hypocrites.)

But it's flipping hard. We're human and imperfect. There are so many times I've wished I hadn't done something or hadn't said something, or I've regretted not saying or doing what I knew I could have, should have. I hesitated about writing 'should have' then as God isn't about shoulds or shouldn'ts. He knows my weaknesses better than I do myself - and I think I'm pretty honest with myself - and hopes for our best but forgives our less-than.

So I suppose what I took from the study was not something new but a different perspective on it. I'll continue to try - and often fail - but I don't want to be someone's excuse for not even looking at Jesus.

Man recuperating

A 'love'ly worm cast

Gower in late September

If you enlarge this photo you'll see the bikini-ed sunbathers on Langland.

I just realised that I haven't told you that Husband came home from hospital yesterday. He's very fragile but happy to be home. I tried to persuade him to come for a walk with us this morning - meaning he could sit outside the cafe while we walked around the cliffs - but he decided he'd rather sit in the sun in the garden.

Not entirely a duff decision as it was like Debenhams on a sale day around the cliffs. I've said it before but I'll say it again: you get a much nicer class of person walking the cliffs when it's a miserable day. Best of all is when it's wet, wild and windy. Then you get the loopy ones who grin while saying, 'better batten down the hatches,' and 'lovely weather for ducks,' and the like. I kept smiling cheerily and greeting fellow walkers and only poked my tongue out at those who ignored me.

What was slightly perplexing is that some who blanked me said hello to George. It's not as if I were looking particularly scruffy: I could even have shown them my knickers matching my t-shirt if they'd asked. But nobody asked.

As it's still September George wasn't allowed on Langland but when we got back to Limeslade and it was empty we decided we'd risk law-breaking so George could cool down in the sea. A decision that George agreed with wholeheartedly.

Liz's Lovelies

Wales had a convincing win over Namibia this morning. I use the word 'convincing' in the way that commentators use it meaning they whopped them.

I was a little confused when I started watching the game - it was 7.30 am - as all the Namibian players were white. Isn't Namibia in Africa? I had to google it at half time. It is but just next to South Africa so I suppose there is the same Boer influence. Wales had more black players. (Is black p.c.? I can't remember.)

Anyway almost all the Welsh players managed to get onto the score sheet - except the ones in my Fantasy team. By the way, I should explain that I don't mean these are the players about whom I fantasise (Dan Carter excepted) but players who feature in my team in the Fantasy Rugby League (current position of Liz's Lovelies in the league: 43,854th).

Overheard in Mens' Surgical

Visiting Husband in the mens' surgical ward it's almost impossible not to overhear snippets of conversation.

'He's got a rectum but no intestine. Just a rectum.' (I'm still puzzling over this one: why not sew it up? Otherwise things could go ... oh, I think I won't dwell on this.)

'I've got thrush on the end of my penis.'

'Oh look! There's a little bit of poo coming into the bag now!'

'No, he hasn't farted yet so he has to have soup.'

Really, there are some things that should be kept between a man and his doctor. As I'm leaving the ward I make a point of studying the floor: I don't want eye contact with Gutless Man. (Fortunately Thrushman was discharged the next day.)

Husband is much improved in that he's sitting in the chair and eating a little. I got it wrong when I said he'd had a bit of intestine removed. What happened - and I may have got this wrong too - was that the scar tissue from his appendectomy 30 years ago gradually grew, creeper-like, and entwined itself around his intestine, causing it be squeezed. The surgeon was able to remove this without cutting into the intestine itself.

I'm not entirely happy with this idea of alien life spreading thus inside Husband. It sounds altogether too Hollywood. If his head starts spinning I will not be amused.

Can you hear my teeth being ground?

Remember how I got up at 6 am to record the rugby for Husband?

Well, it turned out that he watched it from his bed in hospital.

It's fine. I am not in the least put out. Honestly.

This could be why I can never find anything in my handbag

So I've sorted it out and only put back the stuff I really need. Like my glasses. And a spare old pair in case I forget my glasses. And a pen. And a spare in case. And a notebook and my purse. And some paracetamol in case, as well as my prayer pebble, to remind me to pray. Not that I need much reminding at the moment. And GrandDaughter's book for emergencies.

I probably don't need the Springsteen cd, conkers, a tape measure, doggy bags or several pay slips. Not to mention numerous out-of-date Sainsburys vouchers, nail strengthener, Husband's MP3 player or empty mint packets.

I love technology

Nine o'clock and I'm on my third pot of tea of the morning.

Husband had his operation yesterday morning. A big incision running down his abdomen and a chunk of intestine removed, but it appears that nothing nasty or suspicious was found. When I saw him last night his eyesight was blurry; the young doctor seemed to think it was a side effect of the anaesthetic, so, hopefully, it will quickly right itself. The doctor also said that he could hear a heart murmur. But he was quite young and nervous-looking so, again hopefully, if there was one it will right itself soon.

Husband was still a little groggy and high on morphine but he managed to tell me what changes I had to make to his Fantasy rugby team before this morning's games. And give me strict instructions to make sure I recorded the England game.

So, wouldn't you know it, last night was the night the digibox decided not to work. Elder Son suggested switching it off and on again, which I did. Several times. It stuttered into life but still wouldn't let me set it to record.

Thus I was up at 6 this morning to manually set it, and hence my three pots of tea.

Such love. It's a good job I have these lovely sunny sunflowers - a gift from Sean and Jayne - to cheer me up. They also gave me a large bar of chocolate - that I ate last night. All of it. And delicious it was too.

Call the ball engineer!

A number of goal kickers, including stars like Dan Carter and Johnny Wilkinson, in the rugby world cup have missed what would normally be, for them, routine kicks and as a result there've been complaints about the balls. A new type of ball is being used but it's not completely new to the players: it was used in both the Six and Tri Nations tournaments.

The Rugby Board has announced itself satisfied with the new ball. They said, 'Every ball sent over for the tournament has been hand checked by our Ball Engineer.'

Ball Engineer? They have Ball Engineers?

'What do you do for a living?'

'Oh I'm a ball engineer.'

I wonder if they do degree courses in ball engineering.

* * * * * * * * *

Officials are being labelled 'kiltjoys' for their refusal to allow bagpipes to be played at Scotland's games.

* * * * * * * * *

A painting of Jesus as an All Black was sold almost as soon as it went on display in St. Paul's Anglican Cathedral in Wellington.

And a man who erected 15 flagpoles in his garden to support the All Blacks caused a power cut when he damaged cables.

Medical updates

Husband is worse again today. As I write this, at 10.00 pm on Thursday night, I'm waiting to hear if the surgeon has decided to operate tonight or tomorrow or not.

On the positive side, Daughter had her 20-week scan today and all is well and growing as it should. They decided not to find out the sex of the baby and I'm pleased about that.

On a less pleasant side, tomorrow I go for my routine mammogram. Boobs squeezed between 2 metal plates until you think they can't can't squeeze them any more. And then they do. Joy.

Shall phone the hospital now. No reply. Will try again later.

ABC Wednesday - J

One of the surnames you'll hear most often in Wales is Jones, Tom Jones for example. Duncan Jones, Wales and Ospreys rugby player, is another. We spotted him bowling and I asked him to pose with Younger Son (right).
The particularly interesting thing about this is that the traditional Welsh alphabet doesn't include the letter J. It has 28 letters and, yes, the double letters count as one in crosswords for example:

a, b, c, ch, d, dd, e, f, ff, g, ng, h, i, l, ll, m, n, o, p, ph, r, rh, s, t, th, u, w, y

J is sometimes included in Welsh dictionaries now because it's used in words that we have 'borrowed' from English, such as jam or jar or garej.

So if there's no J in the alphabet how come there are so many Joneses in Wales?

Jones isn't of Welsh origin so to solve this mystery we have to go back through the centuries.

In 1536 England and Wales were united politically and the Acts of Union prohibited the use of the Welsh language and required all official documents to be written in English. Common Welsh names like Ioan or Ieuan or Sion were sometimes written down as John or Jones, those being the English names that sounded most similar.

So that's why we have so many Joneses without a J.

But, tell me, now are you surprised that there is some antipathy between the Welsh and their English invaders?

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