Pulling a stroke

Herself is home, hale and hearty.

Live is gradually resuming a semblance of normality and she even managed to do a few hours in the potato patch this afternoon.  In return, I told her she could leave the dishes that had accumulated over the last seven days and she could wash them tomorrow.  Fair’s fair.

Naturally over the last week I have been consulting my good friend Doctor Google on a few topics mainly centred around stokes, their symptoms, prognosis and all that crap.

Most of the sites the good doctor referred me to all mentioned the same symptoms -

SUDDEN numbness or weakness of face, arm or leg – especially on one side of the body.
SUDDEN confusion, trouble speaking or understanding.
SUDDEN trouble seeing in one or both eyes.
SUDDEN trouble walking, dizziness, loss of balance or coordination.
SUDDEN severe headache with no known cause.

They all say the same thing too – call the ambulance immediately.

Now I have a serious problem with this.  I am not one to waste those ambulance people’s time and I would hate to cause a false alarm.

But all those symptoms apply to at least half the lads down the pub of a Saturday night.

Should I call the ambulance or not?

Would they agree to drop me home on the way to the hospital?

Missing the habits

Does your partner do something that drives you insane?

By partner, I mean wife, husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, goat or inflatable doll [I’m broad minded].

Do they whistle tunelessly through their teeth?

Do they pick their nose and then flick the bogie so it sticks to the middle of the television screen?

Do they decorate your bathroom with their underwear so you can’t even reach the bath, let alone the shower?

Do they slurp their soup?

Do they insist on talking about nothing all the way through that programme you have been waiting to watch, while you have to sit in stony silence through all their crap programmes?

Do they insist on leaving their muddy wellingtons in the middle of the doorway so you keep tripping over them?

Anyone who has ever lived with anyone else will know what I mean.  What starts off a an endearing little habit, over the years become something so fucking irritating that you find yourself doing an interweb search – “murder extenuating circumstances”.  That amusing little foible has reached epic proportions of irritability that you really and truly worry about your own sanity.

But  just stop for a moment and think.

If you find yourself once more on your own?

The silence is so profound you ache for that tuneless whistle.

You miss that little blob on the middle of the television screen as the programmes don’t look right without it.

You throw your own underwear around the bathroom as a bare bathroom somehow just looks wrong.

You will wish for that melodic sound of slurping soup.

You stop watching those programmes because they are no fun on their own and anyway you miss the running commentary about Whatshisname the actor who is married to Yer Wan who used to be in some soap opera or other and what the hell was her name anyway?

You keep falling through the kitchen door because you have braced yourself for the wellingtons, but they are not there any more.

The time may come when you would give your right arm, your eye teeth and in fact all your limbs just to have those irritations back.  Because lack of irritation reminds you of a lack of partner.

There is a lot worse than an irritating habit.

Such as silence.

Penetrating my rear end

I just came back from being out [as one tends to do].

Out of idle curiosity I fired up the old laptop and checked to see if anyone had sent me any mail.

The messages only flooded in.  After a couple of minutes the damn thing was out of breath with the effort of all those messages.

Over 460 of them.

Now I am a friendly sort of bloke and am not short of a friend or two, and very occasionally one of them might write to me, but this was fucking ridiculous!  460 mails?

I then realised they were all from this site frantically telling me that someone was trying to break in.  In the space of forty minutes the place was under constant attack by people trying to guess my password.


Everything that I have written is there for everyone to see, so why the fuck would they want to get into my engine room?  There is nothing there but the usual old shit you’ll find behind the back wall of every WordPress site, plus a couple of old rags and a half eaten tin of sardines.  No credit card details; no old love letters; no banking details; no incriminating evidence of any sort whatsoever.  So why the frantic bother?

For the sake of anyone trying to guess my password, don’t bother.  I find it hard to remember so you’ll find it even harder to guess.  To make life infinitesimally easier for you, I can tell you that my password isn’t “password”.  Nor is it “administrator”, “Gandalf” or “Grandad”.  Alas it isn’t even “incorrect” even though my laptop seems to think it is [it’s always telling me my password is “incorrect” which just goes to show how dumb computers are].

I have a little thingy in my engine room.  As well as telling me whenever there is an attempt at a forced entry it also locks that person out so they can’t even try again.  Well, they can but they have to wait 60 days before they can have another go.  This presumably means that there were 460 separate attempts to break in, which is even weirder.  Why the sudden interest?

Anyway, to all you nice people who have been trying to penetrate my nether regions – tough shit.

See you in 60 days.

Laughter is the best medicine

It would be hilariously funny if it wasn’t so serious.

Irish Water are up to their necks in it yet again.

First we had the scandal of a computer system that failed on its very first day.

Then they sent over six thousand people’s details to the wrong addresses.

How about the fiasco over the bonuses that staff were to get even if their performance “needs improvement”?

Now we hear that tenants’ banking details were sent to their landlords.

Talk about the gift that keeps on giving!

I swear the writers of Father Ted couldn’t have dreamed this one up.

It is no wonder that a million households haven’t signed up.  Out of a total of one and half million, that is more than an angry minority.

I passed on the latest to Herself today when I visited. 

She wet herself laughing.

So Irish Water are good for something?

Eight things I have learned

I have learned a few things over the last couple of days.

1. Ambulance chasing in the small hours of the morning could be fun.  If it hadn’t been for the circumstances I really would have enjoyed myself.  With hindsight, I maybe should have studied to be a solicitor?

2. Today, apparently is Fast Lane Day.  Every fucker on the roads is driving in the fast lane, and the slower the better.  It didn’t bother me though as I just stuck to the slow lane, lammed into fifth gear and left the lot of them stewing in my exhaust fumes.

3. Hospital visiting is a really fucking expensive business.  You need a mortgage for the coffee shop and as for the car park – just forget it unless you are laden down with high denomination notes or a credit card with a huge credit rating.

4. St Vincent’s Hospital in Dublin has a really fucking irritating system of loudspeakers hidden in the grounds.  There is a smarmy voice softly telling us all that “this hospital and its grounds are a smoke free area for the benefit of everyone”.  Well, I can tell you Sunshine, it ain’t for my benefit so you can stick your fucking message you know where.  If I could have found those fucking speakers I would have done something about them but they are all neatly concealed in bushes or somewhere.  Condescending prick!

5. St Vincent’s Hospital is also crap at signposting.  After three days, I am only just beginning to find my way around.  They have completely rebuilt the place since I was last there and it’s now the size of a small city.  They have huge boards in the main reception area like those arrivals and departure boards in airports.  The boards list every room, ward and office down to the smallest fucking broom closet, but they very cleverly leave out the one ward I’m looking for.  Judging by the puzzled expressions on other people’s faces it somehow omits their destinations too.  I don’t know how they do that, but it’s damn clever.

6. The nursing staff are brilliant.  They are kind, cheerful, very helpful and grossly overworked.  On the other hand the administrative staff are cunts.  Or at least one bloke is.  You know who you are – the bloke who would stand out like a sore thumb on an icefield [if you get my drift].  Kept me sitting on my arse for two fucking hours while they waited for me in another part of the building.  It took a nice Irish lass to sort things out [in seconds] after your shift finished.  Prick.

7. If they want to save money on the Health Budget, I have a very simple suggestion.  They could save themselves several million if the only TURNED THE FUCKING HEAT DOWN.  Jayzus but the place is like the fucking Sahara.  I swear you could grow bananas there [the bloke in Admissions must feel right at home *cough*].  I have to strip off every time I enter and I only cool off again after driving home with all the windows open.  A perfect environment for Ebola, I would imagine.

8. Head Rambles Manor is a very quiet place.