pic of the day - nerve conduction test

Horrible. Horrible. Horrible.

I went for my nerve conduction test today. Fortunately John decided to drive me there, because it would have been a while before I was in a fit state to drive back.

First, this very sweet little rheumatologist man attached some electrodes to various parts of my arm and hand and asked me to say when I could feel the current passing through the muscles. That bit was prickly but not really painful.

Then, when I thought we were done, he stuck a needle right into my deltoid muscle and asked me to flex it. Slightly painful. Next he stuck the needle into a tiny little muscle right next to my thumb. Ouch! He did tell me the name of the muscle, but I was in no mood to pay attention. He asked me to flex that muscle, too, which was very painful... and it remains painful now. After that came the tricep. Slightly painful. Then came the bicep. Sore enough when the needle went in, but when I had to flex it ("as hard as you can, please"), it was too much.

I passed out.

This has obviously happened before, because I distinctly remember the doctor whipping the needle out as I slid sideways onto the bed. Thank goodness, because I landed on that side! I was only out for moments, I'm sure. But when I came 'round, the doctor and the nurse had each raised one of my legs above the level of my head.

The good news is that it seems there is no need for surgery.

Apparently, the orthopod will advise me as to exercises I can do, and what positions to adopt when sleeping, etc. I can't help feeling that this sort of advice should have been given several months ago when I first hurt myself.

But I'm too thrilled at the 'no surgery' prognosis to be upset about it.

On a more serious note... UGC

UGC= user generated content. I don't think I need to say any more than that.

Smile!

Cynics move along. Nothing to see here.

I like TJ Thyne's work, being a Bones fan. But this little video says so much. Yes it's cheesy. But what the heck? It's Saturday and I'll be cheesy if I want to.

Smile!

On confidentiality and trust

So I get this phone call today. Some guy with a strong accent, obviously based in an off-shore call centre asks for me by name. When I say that he already is already speaking to me, he says he believes I recently got injured in an accident that wasn't my fault. I tell him that this is not the case. "Oh?" he says. "No slips or falls, then, in the past few months?"

So what I want to know is this - do they just work their way through the phone records and make these same overtures to everyone? Or has the call centre some how got their hands on my NHS records?

Because, yes. I did have a fall several months ago. I slipped on the stairs and grabbed the rail to stop myself from falling. In the process, I injured my neck really badly. I am only just beginning to recover from it.

But it happened in my home... so who would I sue? And it was (kind of) my own fault. I was wearing new glasses and misjudged the top step. Should I sue the opticians?

Sometimes things happen and we just have to accept that it was unfortunate and move on with our lives. All this suing and litigating... it's no way to live.

But I digress.

Some years ago, my husband was a partner in a printing bureau. They printed what amounts to junkmail. Of the kind that is addressed to you personally. Various sources were available for this information: TV licence data, voters' roll data, telephone lists, etc. While even this is a bit of a grey area for me in terms of ethics, at least it is only my name and address that is being made available.

But when someone in India knows about a fall I had... well, I thought medical records were supposed to be confidential.

Or is it indeed just a co-inky-dink, and I'm just reading too much into it?

On customer service

I reported a few days ago that our boiler had gone on the blink. I contacted one gas engineer chap about it and he identified the problem over the phone as being a faulty/damaged diverter valve. He made a call to the supplier and came back with a quote for £290 for the job.

Since money is tight, I thought I'd do some homework to see whether this was a reasonable quote. I phoned the supplier to get a price on the diverter valve (£112). I also made enquiries as to the usual hourly rate for gas engineers (£50-60), and the estimated length of time a job like this would take (1 hour). According to my calculations, that comes to about £170 give or take.

A friend gave me another number to try.

This man came to the house first thing this morning. He opened the diverter valve and found that, while the rest of it was fine, the rubber diaphragm was torn. Imagine trying to keep a straight face while you tell a woman there's a hole in her diaphragm!

He went off to the supplier and found that the diaphragms for this make aren't sold separately. You have to buy the complete diverter valve unit (£112, remember?). So he looked around at a few similar makes until he found one with the same-sized diaphragm, which was sold separately. This was so cheap, he didn't even charge us for it.

£53 + VAT for one hour's labour = £60.95

My husband and I immediately programmed his number into our mobile phones for future reference. I'll be happy to pass it on to local readers.

This is called looking after your customer's interests!

pic of the day - beautiful boy

This gorgeous boy stands across the road from the emporium of all things South African which I simply had to visit today. Well, we've got a Zimbabwean family coming for a barbecue on Monday. They have expectations!

He's enormous, some sort of shire horse, I imagine - nearly as big as a Percheron. I'm familiar with Percherons because it was the whim of the Town Clerk for whom I used to work to have them pull the garbage collection cart in our small town.

I don't know if this boy pulls a cart, but I'll bet he could! I love the way he is framed against the sky, and the wind is catching his magnificent mane. I have another shot of him looking straight at me (I think I attracted his attention by calling him a 'boodiful boy') but the composition of this one is better.

pic of the day - scaffolding

There's nothing quite like the frantic rush to do some or other last minute thing for school tomorrow, is there? Our younger son went to see a show with a school group as part of his drama curriculum. When we picked him up, we learned that his art teacher told him today that he has to produce pictures of scaffolding by tomorrow or get a yellow card.

Fortunately we had to pass several scaffolding installations on our way home, and fortunately I take my camera with me everywhere, so we manage to procure a few pics.

However, scaffolding in the dark might be quite what she was after, so we had to hit Morguefile when we got home. There was no stipulation that the photos had to have been taken by him. We also threw into the mix the photo I took of St Pancras earlier this year.

Surely that must be enough?

If not, tough. I'm not having my son working on homework at this time of the night. Until his 16th birthday he still has a bed time, and that was some time ago.

Taking a stand for education

A very brave little girl called Rekha in India (and she is just a little girl, which is what makes this story so hard for a westerner to relate to) has refused to get married, as her parents have instructed her. When her parents didn't take her refusal seriously, she sought help and support from government officials.

She wants to get an education.

While we're debating whether this or that model of education is relevant in today's world (and I'm not suggesting that that debate should stop), this girl is choosing an education - whatever education is on offer - over pre-teen marriage.

It must take huge courage to go against your culture and tradition in this fashion. And she has set a precedent. Several other girls have followed her lead. Choosing the empowerment that comes with education. No doubt, to the adults of that culture, this is seen as a breaking down of their traditions, their society. No doubt they are saying things like "This is how it was done for me, and it never did me any harm..." It's not an easy situation, and it isn't black and white.

Rekha has now decided that she wants to become a teacher, demonstrating how highly she values education. In what she probably considers a rather extreme stance, she has declared that she won't get married until she is at least 18.

Oh the irony!

So Usain Bolt, the fastest man on the planet drove his sports car into a ditch. Unhurt - and no doubt deeply relieved that this was the case - he stepped out of the car...

...and hurt his foot!

Several years ago, I was driving on a dirt road when I hit a patch of loose sand and lost control of the car. The car went nose first over the edge of a ravine and rolled several times on different axes before ending up on its wheels 25 metres down, with its nose pointing back up towards the road, as if it had every intention of going back there for another try.

The car was pretty much cylindrical by this time. Every window was shattered. The mirrors had come off. My luggage was strewn all over the place. The box of 3.5" floppies I had had on the back seat had landed in a small thorn tree, which now looked as if it bore rather odd fruit. It honestly looked as if no-one could possibly have survived the crash. I was completely unharmed. I kid you not. I didn't even have stiff muscles the next day.

BUT

When I tried to climb back up out of the ravine, I slipped and wrenched my knee. Note to self: remove high-heeled shoes before imitating a mountain goat.

There seems to be some danger in "Phew!"Apparently more people die during the descent from Everest than the ascent.

Perhaps there's the big adrenalin rush to deal with the critical event, and in the aftermath, we're most vulnerable. Although I'm not sure that adrenalin rush is quite the word associated with the long, arduous climb up the highest mountain on earth!

I wonder if this is a known factor, for example, in combat situations, and whether the training addresses it.

Hmm.

pic of the day - clematis

This time of the year in the UK is when we find out why we put up with clematis the rest of the year, when its appearance ranges from shabby to utterly unsightly. Just look at this glorious sight!

And just to share a chuckle...

As evidence that a current ad campaign in the UK is raising awareness... after a fashion. An elderly lady was recently overheard to say that she had a beautiful chlamydia all over one side of her house.

Midweek smile

In the UK, Wednesday is often referred to as 'hump day'. To my ears, that sounds rather rude. In South Africa, it is known as 'klein Saterdag' [clayn sah-ter-dugh] which means 'little Saturday'. I think I prefer that.

Whatever the case, here is a midweek smile for you, courtesy of Bill over at EV Living. What if operating systems were airlines?

UNIX Airways
Everyone brings one piece of the plane along when they come to the airport. They all go out on the runway and put the plane together piece by piece, arguing non-stop about what kind of plane they are supposed to be building.

Air DOS
Everybody pushes the airplane until it glides, then they jump on and let the plane coast until it hits the ground again. Then they push again, jump on again, and so on …

Mac Airlines
All the stewards, captains, baggage handlers, and ticket agents look and act exactly the same. Every time you ask questions about details, you are gently but firmly told that you don’t need to know, don’t want to know, and everything will be done for you without your ever having to know, so just shut up.

Windows Air
The terminal is pretty and colorful, with friendly stewards, easy baggage check and boarding, and a smooth take-off. After about 10 minutes in the air, the plane explodes with no warning whatsoever.

Windows Vista Air
Just like Windows Air, but costs more, uses much bigger planes, and takes out all the other aircraft within a 40-mile radius when it explodes.

Linux Air
Disgruntled employees of all the other OS airlines decide to start their own airline. They build the planes, ticket counters, and pave the runways themselves. They charge a small fee to cover the cost of printing the ticket, but you can also download and print the ticket yourself. When you board the plane, you are given a seat, four bolts, a wrench and a copy of the seat-HOWTO.html. Once settled, the fully adjustable seat is very comfortable, the plane leaves and arrives on time without a single problem, the in-flight meal is wonderful. You try to tell customers of the other airlines about the great trip, but all they can say is, “You had to do what with the seat?”

On accents

I was listening to a radio programme today about a BBC project called Voices. In it, they touched on the fact that some of the subjects in the project chose to leave behind their regional accents when they went to university, saying that in order to be perceived as educated, they needed to dissociate themselves from that pattern of speech.

On a previous project, I worked with audio clips from people in what is known as the Black Country. The accents and dialects of this area tend to be treated with scorn, and there was concern as to whether the clips would be suitable because of the accents of the speakers.

During my short stint as a drama teacher, I was faced with a dilemma. It was during the days of apartheid and I was the first white teacher at what was primarily an Indian (as in Asian Indian) dance and drama school. Some of the parents were resentful of my presence. Others would try to wangle it so that their children came to my classes. Then they would take me to one side and ask me to teach their children to speak without an Indian accent and, in so doing, open up a whole vista of new opportunities for them.

Elocution lessons were a thing of the past by then. My own drama school had long since dropped them from the curriculum. While we were taught to adopt other accents for roles which required them, we were not taught to lose our own accents in everyday life. These were considered integral to who we were. I supported this view.

But how (at the age of 19) do you say no to a parent who is paying a fair amount of money to send their child to you for drama lessons? One parent asked me to rid their child of a stutter. This was outside of my remit, but no more so than overriding the culturual influences of a lifetime, albeit a short one. (Side note: while I did not rid him of his stutter in daily life, we found ways for him to lose it on stage... but that is another story)

I have lived int he UK for 10 years. I am still unmistakably South African from the moment I open my mouth. Ron Lubensky has been in Australia twice as long, and yet his accent identifies him as Canadian... to those with a fine enough ear not to mistake it for American.

I love the fact that, during the after-service tea on a Sunday, I can hear a different accent every few paces (although, to be honest all our children sound pretty much the same). It represents such a rich diversity of cultures, perspectives and backgrounds. It saddens me that people feel pressured to lose their accents to get ahead, or to be perceived with greater respect.

Food for thought

On the aforementioned trip to Oxford today, I came across this poster on the door in the loo (er.. bathroom). No, I hadn't taken my camera in there with me - although that wouldn't be the weirdest place I have taken it. I took this picture with my phone. In case you can't read it, it says:

If your home has something other than a dirt floor, you are in the top half of the world's population
If your home has a roof, a door, windows and more than one room, you are in the top 20%
If you have refrigeration, you are in the top 5%
If you have a car, a microwave, a video, a computer and this toilet has a cubicle door, then you are in the top 1%.

At the bottom is a Mahatma Ghandi quote: "We must be the change we want to see in the world"

I'm assuming that, although it isn't mentioned, this top x% refers to material wealth. There's a lot that could be said about the chosen wording, in spite of which, this is a sobering way of representing this data.

pic of the day - Oxford

Today I had a meeting with my dissertation supervisor. This meant a trip to Oxford and back. Initially, we had these meetings via Skype, but I was such a jibbering wreck for a while that it seemed better to go the f2f route... at least for a while. It's very ungreen, but the drive gives me time to listen to BBC radio 4 (a talk radio programme, which my family will not countenance). Today - among other things - I heard Salman Rushdie doing a critical analysis of The Wizard of Oz. I kid you not!

pic of the day - *&%$ boiler!

Blooming thing's on the fritz. We can get heat through the central heating radiators, but no hot water through the taps. Of course the plumber didn't come when he said he would. However, when I described the problem, he was pretty certain that the diversion valve was knackered. That sounds about right, so I gave him the make and model details so that he could order it and hit the ground running when he arrives.

His response (and I kid you not) was to suck his teeth and tell me that that kind of boiler is at least 15-20 years old. Considering that the boiler is in a part of the house that was only built 3 years ago, this seems highly unlikely.

Fortunately, in the boys' bathroom, there is an electric shower which is still running hot, so we are at least able to stay clean, you will be pleased to learn.

On sanctuary

An incident which occurred during our morning service today reminded me of a scene in the animated movie of the Hunchback of Notre Dame where someone (I think it was Esmeralda) bangs on the door of the church and calls for sanctuary. Once the doors have been opened to her, sanctuary is assured. No-one would dare defile the house of God.

Our own church is attended by a few homeless people. During the morning service, three local gang members barged in and started demanding money from one such couple (I'm not even going to speculate what it was for). Fortunately no mention was made of weapons, and the community worker who supports the homeless couple was on hand to take the matter outside and mediate. Few people in the service were even aware of what had happened.

Of course, far worse things have happened. In 1993, many people we knew were present when terrorists invaded a church service with grenades and automatic weapons. Eleven people were killed and many others were maimed. While yesterday's event was nowhere near the scale of the event at St James church in Cape Town nearly 16 years ago, it still left me feeling unnerved.

Mosques, churches and temples all over the world have been violently attacked over the years.

Of course, I am not about to stop attending the meetings because of incidents like this. I believe with all my heart that the doors of the church should be open to one and all. This includes both perpetrator and victim. One Salvation Army officer puts it something like this: If the ladies of your church can safely leave their handbags on the chairs while they drink their after-meeting tea, the church is not doing its job.

I have been thinking about sanctuary since I learned about the incident this morning.

When I was a child shuttling between my exciting, flamboyant Dad and my unexciting, dependable Mom. I used to feel a pang of such disappointment as I left my Dad. My Mom was so 'boring'. But, as the plane landed in our home town, I was more than ready to be home. My Mom was also safe. She was my sanctuary, even thought she worked full time, the home she provided me was my safe place to which I could retreat. The excitement of my Dad's life lacked peace and security.

Today, I have a home of my own, where I can close the door behind me. But electronic media allow into my sanctuary hate-filled communications from people who detest and despise everything I am and everything I stand for. The same is true for my children. My home is not the haven to my children that my mother's was to me.

Increasingly it seems that sanctuary is about people and situations rather than in places. No place is sacrosanct any more.

We try to be our children's sanctuary by being the people they run to when it all gets too much. We try to be a sanctuary for hurting friends and relatives, so that they can withdraw for a while and regroup. I find my own sanctuary in prayer, where I feel as if I am climbing into the mightiest lap in the universe and taking shelter. I also find sanctuary in the people who know me well enough that I don't have to pretend with them. I find sanctuary in the unexpected emails and private tweets/Facebook messages from friends in this space who take it upon themselves to affirm me without feeling the need to let the whole world know that they are doing so. I find sanctuary in the public hugs I get from my teenage sons, and in their explosively angry responses to anyone who appears to be trying to threaten me. I find sanctuary in the look in my husband's eyes when I am dishevelled, unlovely and suffering from a severe-case of morning-breath.

And what about our homeless couple? Where is their safe place? They have no home to retreat to. They will get moved on from any of the places they try to find shelter. They are vulnerable to the gangs and the dealers out on the streets. The council has refused to provide them with shelter.

As far as I know, someone in the church has provided them with a place to stay. I don't know if they have accepted the offer. When I arrive at the church building on a Sunday morning, they are always already on the lawn, with several bags. Because people in the church treat them with kindness, it must have seemed like a sanctuary to them... until yesterday.

And what has this got to do with learning? Well, think about the kid who is being bullied at school. The kid who comes from an abusive home. How is this poor child ever supposed to be in a frame of mind conducive to learning? If his entire mental capacity is absorbed with staying safe, there is none left over for learning.

My elder son's learning journey has been very bumpy recently thanks to victimisation at school. Things are improving, though, as he begins to identify some allies, assisted by a sanctuary-wielding teacher, who reports a marked improvement in his entire demeanour.

I know there is a limit to what schools - as organisations, and teachers - as individuals, can do for children at risk. And I would be the last one to try to lay an extra burden on them, when they already seem to be expected to shoulder an increasing portion of what used to be a parental burden. So please don't think that I am suggesting that route. However, by keeping our antennae up, I believe we can make a difference.

pic of the day - pamper time

The recent marked (and unexpected) improvement in my mobility has meant I have been able to reinstate my Sunday night ritual of a DIY pedicure. Neglected looking feet give me the heeby-jeebies.

pic of the day - snug as a bug

We have a wonderful deck in our back garden. We also have a wonderful gas patio heater and several deliciously soft blankets for the express purpose of facilitating outdoor living. I took full advantage tonight, as my husband took care of an impromptu barbecue. Bliss.

One of my boys secured evidence.

On being a photographer... or not

Because of my pic of the day project, I tend to go everywhere with my large camera slung around my neck. Yes, I have an iPhone with a built in camera. I also have a teeny tiny camcorder which takes still shots. But I like my camera. It's nothing fancy, it's a Kodak EasyShareDX6490.

Because I walk my dog at roughly the same time every day, I encounter the same people regularly. And, in their English way, they went from walking past me, to acknowledging me, to greeting me, to asking me, "Are you a photographer?"

Well? Am I?

When I was chatting to some people about my early memories a few days ago, one said, "You should be a writer."

Well? Aren't I?

After all, I write this blog, as well as magazine articles and the occasional academic paper.

Do you have to earn your living at something to call yourself that thing? I guess not. But I'm pretty sure that's what most people think you mean. For example, I used to know a rather eccentric woman who referred to herself as a writer and a dancer. She wrote what I considered atrocious poetry and letters to magazine editors. And she performed what I regarded as rather graceless dances during worship time in church. It is entirely possible that I was being uncharitable and bitchy, and I don't mean to imply that she should have stopped doing any of those things that so obviously gave her so much pleasure. After all, she should do what she does for her, regardless of what intolerant, narrow people like me might think. Nevertheless, she will serve to illustrate my example. Is she or isn't she a dancer? A poet? A writer?

In the process of taking photos, like Barbara Ganley, I find that I am seeing things differently. That somewhere along the way, I have figured out how to take a halfway decent photo. I love this one, for example:
I notice that my younger son has a quirky way with the camera that I am only just becoing brave enough to try.

There are all sorts of reasons for this, but broadly, his empowerment occurs on two levels.

Firstly, apart from the fact that he probably started out with more natural talent than I have, he has grown up with a lot more 'yes you can' than I did. He has experienced encouragement at every turn and his off-the-wall wackiness has always been treated as a major plus rather than a social no-no, as it was by my own somewhat repressed family.

Secondly, on a more practical level, because he doesn't have to spend money on having his photos developed, there is no risk involved in taking failed photos. There is room for lots of process learning, rather than a purely results-focused approach. The first photos I ever took, I had a 12 exposure film, which I took in to the pharmacy for development. Only three of them were developed. I was so embarrassed when the pharmacist tried to give me some tips (with several other customers within earshot), that I ran out of the store. I felt as if I was being smirked at.

My son has never had to deal with that kind of humiliation. Courtesy of the digital equipment at his disposal, he gets to see his photos immediately and he can decide for himself what might work better. He can try several different approaches and see what works and what doesn't. He has taken so many photos of the sort that people buy from iStock to use in elearning and PowerPoint presos. He took this in a cafe right on the beachfront in Cape Town. See how the damp, salty air has formed a layer on the glass:

I don't know that I consider myself a photographer. But I have taken some pretty decent shots, especially lately.

Have I learnt to be creative? I don't think I would put it that way. I think I would say that I have learned practical skills on the one hand. On the other, I have developed the courage to give expression to creativity that I have always had.

Am I more creative than the next person? I honestly don't know the answer to this question. I know that I am creative-but-not-artistic. Candidly, some of the things I do are considerably better than other people's efforts in the same field. But perhaps they simply need to learn how to express their creativity better. Or perhaps their creativity is better expressed in other media (such as flower-arranging, where I have amply demonstrated my lack of skill).

What I do find is that I look at the world diferently at the moment, and am learning to find picturesqueness (is that even a word) if not beauty in unexpected places.

pic of the day - a thing I can't do

I have occasionally been asked, "Is there anything you can't do?" Of course, there are many things I can't do, but because I don't spend my time doing them, people tend not to know about them. So here is evidence of something I can't do. I can't arrange flowers for toffee!

We had a flower-arranging demo at our ladies' group tonight, and then we each had a go. Mine was without a doubt the worst one there.