Tag Archives: trousers

Bear’s Guest Blog

It’s a bit nippy out, and there’s a North wind blowing across Nottingham as I type. You notice things like this when you have no trousers.

This cold wind may be a metaphor for the current state of world politics, if you think that a bear with a head full of viscose kapok is capable of metaphor. Or it may just be a weather report. Looking at our current crop of politicians, it’s clear that brains aren’t required, and in at least one case the stuffing appears to be leaking out.

The lack of trousers may also be a metaphor, depending on your view of the Prime Minister’s well-publicised private life.

The lack of trousers is even more apparent when you spend a lot of time sitting in a tree. It wasn’t particularly cold during the photoshoot, but there was an element of chafing I didn’t particularly care for.

This isn’t the only deficiency in the knitting. You’d think if they expected you to type a blog they’d have managed a few fingers, wouldn’t you?

Me amongst the cranesbill

However, I digress.

Today the two large moving objects that share the house went to visit something they call “the gardens”. This is different to “the garden” which is an area of untamed growth to the rear of what they call “the house”.

To get to the gardens we drove, which seems to be a process where the one with the furry face twiddles a few bits and pieces and offers a stream of helpful advice to other drivers.

The quiet one, who knitted me, mutters things like: “You really shouldn’t say things like that to people.”

I keep pointing out I’m not a panda but it doesn’t seem to sink in

I remember her voice from the knitting, because she did my ears early on, though it was nearly a day before I could see her. It’s a pity she didn’t take a bit longer and add a few extras. I’ve already mentioned trousers and fingers, but when posing for photographs it might have helped to have had a few joints. There is a limited number of poses when you can’t bend anything, and I’m not going to be Playbear of the Week if I can’t strike a pose.

Fortunately I do have a winning smile and a twinkle in my eye.

From this angle the lack of knees and elbows isn’t apparent, but this doesn’t mean I’m going to stop mentioning it

Whining Wednesday

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I went to hospital this morning – the (inaccurately named) Treatment Centre at The Queen’s Medical Centre.

After a night worrying about being late I took a taxi and, as you do, found all my fears were groundless. I was then tested for blood pressure, height, weight and my ability to fill a small tube with urine.

I have blood pressure, height and weight, so that went well. The final part was trickier as I’d purposely not had a drink before going to hospital so I wouldn’t have to disappear to the toilet and have my name called in my absence. However, I did manage to provide a specimen, though not with any degree of accuracy.

The doctor then saw me. I had to drop my trousers. I moaned about not wanting to take my trousers down but they still made me do it.

It’s a flower – how should I know what sort?

Oh yes, the dignity of an elderly man (I’m dropping all this “middle-aged” nonsense as I’ll be lucky to make 80, let alone the 120 that “middle-aged” implies) comes second to a doctor wanting a look at my terra australis. How a pain in the finger becomes a viewing of my lower extremities I really don’t know.

The good news is that I finally have a diagnosis for the skin problem I’ve had for the last 15 years. It’s definitely psoriasis. This is mixed news. It seems they can possibly do something about it. On the other hand, all that time I spent learning to spell eczema has been wasted. This is all heading towards a diagnosis of psoriatic arthritis. Or gout. They haven’t ruled that out yet.In fact they haven’t ruled anything out, they have just sent me for more X-Rays and more blood tests. That is why, in the absence of any treatment, I consider the unit to be inaccurately named.

The X_Rays went badly, and involved more dropping of trousers so they could get pictures of my lower back without a zip and belt buckle getting in the way. They also asked me if I could move further up the table. As my head was already touching the wall I had to say no. They also asked if I could flex my knees “like this” (accompanied by a wrenching of my ancient knees). I replied, quite reasonably I thought, that if I was able to flex my knees “like that” I wouldn’t be in need of the X-Rays. Fair point, I thought, but my words seemed to produce a slight drop in temperature within the room.

This one might be an anenome

Then there was the blood test. The Phlebotomy room at the Treatment Centre is the best hidden department I’ve ever seen in a hospital. It has a small sign saying “Phlebotomy” over a solid door with a combination lock on it. I asked about how to gain access and was told to take a ticket from the machine and wait.

Machine?

It’s like a bollard with some badly sellotaped signage, not at all like the one with the big screen that says “Please take a ticket” at City Hospital.

That’s just over 500 words now so I’ll stop. There were plenty more moans in the day (after all, I’ve only just arrived at 11.30) but I think this sample will do.

I thought the flowers might lighten the moaning mood a little. I’m gradually easing into maximum misery mode.

Rudebekia – I know that one

An Answer and a Solution

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As I added in a note to yesterday’s final post, my sister answered the question in minutes. It turns out that she knew two of them and confirmed the third on Google. Useless knowledge must be genetic.

I hadn’t thought of that when asking the question, I thought there were no mysteries left now had Google.

The answer must, for the moment, remain a mystery in case a few more people want a go. As several people have mentioned, the names are associated with plants in some way.

And the solution?

It’s about my trouser problem.

Following a suggestion about trouser psychology from Donnalee, I was, this morning, able to get my trousers on without the customary struggle.

All I did was start with the other leg. It’s a bit tricky balancing on that side, and I made sure I was situated in the right place to grab the bannister, but it worked. Left leg in, quickly before falling over, then right leg in.

I’m not quite sure why it worked, though I think the flexibility of my right ankle compared to the left, may have helped. Anyway, it did work.

As a result of this improvement in the leg/trouser interface I’m now waiting to see what goes wrong to maintain the cosmic balance.

“No rules. No fear. No steady form of income.”

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When I look at what we’ve done over the last week I think I could come to like this pretirement. It’s a word I first heard last year on daytime TV last year, and one I’ve adopted for my current state of existence. I can’t be unemployed because I wasn’t employed, and I can’t be self-unemployed because the world isn’t ready for the term. Every time I use it people just look at me blankly. However, if you look it up in Google, there are other people using the term, so it may catch on.

One man defines it as “No rules. No fear. No steady form of income.” I like that, because it makes me sound like a bit of a rebel, rather than a middle-aged layabout. In truth it also defines my mode of self-employment, as the last 23 years have been hard work, interesting and challenging. They were meant to be lucrative, rewarding and successful, but you don’t always get what you want.

At least I’m still able to add new experiences to my life. I’ve never seen Red Crested Pochards before or been attacked by a swan.

The coming week isn’t going to be so much fun. We have a day on the farm teaching people to do some of the jobs we used to do (there have been several emails on the subject, as they have realised getting rid of us not as easy as it seemed). As if that isn’t bad enough I have also been summoned to hospital to follow up on the pre-Christmas hospital visit.

I’m not keen on hospitals, as a visit almost always seems to involve removing my trousers in front of strangers. When I visited to have my arthritic finger examined it was a positive joy to sit there fully clothed and talk to a doctor. If only the trousers were the major problem! This week’s visit features a camera, and although I’m told it’s a good deal smaller than the one I use for bird photography, I’m still not keen on the idea.

That still leaves several days to fill in, but I’m not able to plan that far ahead. Every time I try to think about next week I get a mental picture of a camera. A large camera…

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Trousers, rats and vole-au-vents

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Yesterday comprised mainly of paperwork, a meeting and fighting my way through traffic. The latter was caused by having to pick up some alterations Julia was having done. We’re going to a wedding reception on Saturday night and she wanted her new trousers to fit. I’m have new trousers too, but I have lower personal standards in matters of appearance so mine will be going on straight out of the bag.

I haven’t actually bought new trousers for the reception, it’s just that time of year. Two pairs of black, two pairs of dark green and I’m set for weddings, funerals, interviews, casual wear and anything else the world may throw at me in the next 12 months. Last year’s trousers now become working garments and don’t ask me about the year before because I’m hard on trousers and after two years you can almost sense them sighing with relief as they split, tear or simply wear through.

Being a modern couple, Julia’s niece and husband got married abroad and are holding the reception in Nottingham because that’s where they live. Suits me. In the old days we’d have had to trek down to Suffolk, where the bride’s parents live, and I’d have felt duty-bound to complain all the way down.

I suppose that isn’t a bad trade off – an hour in traffic set off against a trip to Suffolk and back.

While I was parked behind a building waiting for Julia I was treated to the sight of a young rat cavorting in an overgrown margin. It seemed full of the joys of spring and looked very well fed, but you would do if you have access to an endless supply of discarded take-away food.

I used to shout at rats and throw things at them, but they don’t understand me and I always miss. I now take a more laid back approach and merely think bad things about them. I don’t like them but I’m not going to raise my blood pressure over them when it achieves nothing.

I have an inventive solution to the rat problem, which I wrote about a year ago but was never able to find a reason to use it. I have a reason now. It also addresses another modern problem.

They say you’re never more than six feet away from a rat (or two metres for my younger readers) and estimates vary from one rat per person to two rats per person, according to something I was reading recently.

These rats are free range and at six foot the food miles are not great.

Ah, the “food miles” bit rather gives it away. Think about it, rats are seen as a legitimate foodstuff in some parts of the world and they are certainly more traditional than tofu and micro-veg.

Free range local food. If you applied that label to chicken people would pay a premium for it.

I was almost saddened to see that both figures are probably wrong, with only one rat to share between six of us and a distance of 50 metres. However, it’s still a practical proposition, and with the new super rat there will be more meat to go around. Incidentally, that last link also says there will be three times as many rats as people, which is a good example of why it’s a bad idea to believe anything you read on the net.

If you don’t fancy a rat, how about starting with something smaller and cuter – the vole-au-vent. A cute rodent garnished with something tasty in a puff pastry shell. I’m wondering if I could send out a press release and get anyone to believe that. Or to see if I could get Heston Blumenthal interested in the recipe.

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Life after the Care Farm