Tag Archives: Christmas party

Simon Wilson, Nottingham Poet

Miserable Old Git, Moaning and Methotrexate

Julia picked up my methotrexate earlier in the week. It’s for my arthritis and acts by supressing my immune system, which is what is causing the problem. Well, that, my weight and 45 years of manual labour. There was a note on the form that came with the pills, saying that I was behind with my blood tests and they would not dispense more until I was up to date. They worry about it destroying my liver. There is no such thing as a simple drug, they all come with side effects.

Anyway, last time I had a note like that it took weeks to sort out and then a month or more to return my fingers to a reasonable condition after missing the medication. I don’t want that again.

I’m not sure if I covered this in the blog before, but over the last three months I have been arguing about it with the pharmacy and wrangling with the GP surgery to have the inaccurate note removed. I was up to date when it first appeared on the form and have remained up to date – even having two goes at the last one when the laboratory had to retest due to “technical reasons”.¬† I’m not sure what the “technical reasons” were, but it makes a good excuse.

I have just written an email to the surgery asking for the record to be corrected, citing my previous email on the subject (because I have now started filing all my dealings with them) and asking that they reply to confirm they have made the necessary correction.

I am now taking things more seriously, being fed up with shoddy record keeping and the rest of the things that are happening (appointments disappearing from the system, prescriptions sent to the wrong place etc).It is time to sort things out.

Meanwhile, as our Glorious Leader launches “Plan B” to divert attention from the Christmas party scandal, we have a strange situation. We can’t hold Numismatic Society meetings (twenty middle-aged men meeting to talk about coins), due to “Plan B restrictions”. Boris didn’t mention this, but that’s what the owner of the meeting room says. However, under Plan B, football matches, bars, clubs and restaurants are all still allowed to operate.

Of course, if I’d been in charge it wouldn’t have been Plan B, as Plan B lacks gravitas, being the name of a rapper and reminding me of Bela Lugosi’s last film. Even without that, there are just too many words that begin with B that could be used in a disrespectful fashion.

However, that may just be me.

Another day, another party…

It’s not every day get to see a Christmas tree cake with a chocolate spanner but it was the Christmas Party For Men in Sheds on Friday and Julia had a special cake made for them.

Unfortunately, nobody had told them that the party was being doubled up with lunch for a tree-planting session and they turned up to find themselves tasked with setting up tables for twenty five. Frankly, I was surprised by the language.

I was also surprised by the table cloths, which explains why we couldn’t find them for the curry on Thursday.

Julia and I had been invited to the party as guests (me because I’m old and crochety and fit the Men in Sheds demographic, Julia because she’s the pin-up girl for the over-85’s).

However, at the curry lunch I’d been asked to do the cooking. Either there was a lack of planning or a cunning scheme to get the cooking done on the cheap. It could be either, because it’s not the first time I’ve fallen for it.

The “cooking” wasn’t onerous, though it did have to be trekked across the yard instead of served up in the centre. I just had to warm the pies and peas. Then warm the fruit pies. Then walk them across the yard. ¬†Then raid the cafe stock to produce beans on toast for a vegetarian, because nobody had thought we might have a vegetarian come for lunch.

Lack of planning again…

Anyway, despite unpromising beginnings it turned out to be quite a good meal. The food was good and the vegetarian was a jolly young woman who was quite happy chatting to a bunch of elderly men.

Fortunately I like pie and peas and I love sitting round a table  complaining about young people and modern life, though the joke of the day (asking me if it was a busy time of year Рho, ho, ho) did start to wear a bit thin. Yes, I carry a bit of extra weight, and yes I have a whiteish beard but aconstant barrage of Santa jokes would challenge even the good humour of the fat man himself.