Supermarket sorrow

A LOT of my posts on here will no doubt be related to television - I do tend to watch a lot.

 However despite having literally hundreds of channels and programmes to choose from, my first post has to be about an advert.

 I won't name the supermarket, but honestly who ever thought the set of ads were a good idea should be forcefed supermarket own-brand grey non-specific species fishcakes. 

 I'm talking about the ones in which a bedraggled-looking woman turns up after a hard day's work and is complaining about her shoes pinching, to another considerably more smiley person - the latter turns out to be one of the said supermarket's employees (although seriously I've never seen anyone who works in a supermarket smile that much, or in fact at all) who welcomes the woman in to the supermarket.

 All the staff know her name and they indulge in a spot of banter before listing the special offers. See it as the Cheers of supermarkets if you like.

 There are other ads in this series, my particular favourite is the one in which another middle-aged woman is very pleased with herself as all the staff remark on what a lovely dress she is wearing; she gloats that her husband bought it and he will also be cooking dinner for her. 

 I know the supermarket is obviously trying to show that they are nice and welcoming, but to me it just shows it's a sanctuary for tired aging women; that this is as good as it gets. Their only friends are the staff who humour them as they turn up time after time in slippers/pinching shoes.  Their only glimmers of hope involve getting their lazy teenage sons to do the washing-up, or that their husbands will finally return from the high-powered job to offer a bit of home cooking and attention - an offer which she has evidently been nagging him to do for ages. Seriously, is that it? Is that all there is to middle-aged life for a woman? Somebody pass me the fishcakes.

Waiting for what?

THIS year sees the 60th anniversary of the NHS; a point which the media has chosen to celebrate by highlighting just how far services have come.  Taking a rest from countless reports of cash shortages, ward closures, failed targets, filthy conditions, and superbugs, journalists are instead covering tales such as the first baby born on the NHS. 

 Regardless all of the media coverage, good or bad, you never really get an idea of the state of the NHS until you experience it, which is what has happened to me this year.

 I'm not sure how, but my hearing in one ear has gone. Not completely - don't feel you have to shout at me - but generally some days all I seem to hear is a noise a bit like listening to a conch shell, an airy distant hum which will get louder or quieter depending on how much my ear wants to try my patience. 

 So as a smaller, more private celebration of the NHS I decided to brave my fear of doctors and see if I could get my hearing sorted. 

 After waiting for nearly six months I saw a lovely man who tested my ears, listened to me and lectured me on inappropriate shoes before sending me onto the next specialist. 

 The second couldn't be any more different. He may have been the Ear, Nose and Throat doc, which I can only assume in his book meant there was no need for eye contact. Or conversation. 

 Glancing over my hearing results he took a relatively small breath and in one sentence said that yes I was partially deaf in one ear but that shouldn't disrupt my life and that actually what was wrong with me was my concentration levels. He slowed down at that point, probably to make sure I was paying attention. 

 He stood to usher me out of the door; my 30 seconds was up.  Six months of waiting for a 30 second diagnosis, that's about six days per second. 

 Desperate for answers; I sat still - a move which triggered copious amounts of eyebrow raising between the ENT doc and his secretary/nurse/token female bystander. 

 Before they could reach for the alarm I pointed out that his diagnosis was as lacking as my hearing (and supposed concentration levels) and demanded further tests. 

 Sighing, he referred me for an MRI - effectively an X-ray of my head. 

 And so, according to test conditions, in a splendid outfit of elasticated waistbands and blandness and sporting not a scrap of make-up, I attended the hospital again this week. 

 Past the polished lino floors and immaculately painted corridors, I followed the signs to what can only be described as the shantytown equivalent of hospital wards.  The waiting room of eight chairs was crammed into a space suitable for three chairs where we all sat knocking knees, praying that the person opposite didn't suffer from a contagious scabby knee condition, and wondering who would crack first and begin reading the extensive selection of caravanning magazines circa 1995 placed in the waiting room. 

 An hour later I'm still sitting there when my name is called by an Indian man sporting a clipboard.

 Tripping over the other patients who by now look like they are playing an involuntary game of Twister as they try to find space for various limbs I follow the man out of the ward, down a corridor... and out across a car park before entering a tiny trailer. 

 Some other poor sap is still lying on what looks like a bed placed in a large white doughnut - and I'm sat there staring at the x-rays of her skull. 

 Soon it's my turn and I'm led over to the bed, given headphones and a large panic button and my head is then restrained in a cage before I'm moved into the centre of the doughnut; a tiny space which prevents me moving even my arms.

 Closing my eyes, classical music is being piped through the headphones. Between the heavenly choirs and the enclosed space I desperately try to ignore that this is probably what it's like to be dead and at one point sneak a peak to check I'm not, in fact, in church.

 The image fades quickly as all sound is replaced by that similar to a pneumatic drill.

  Something tells me not even whale singing would transform that experience into one of calm and serenity. I open my eyes to see the next patient waiting for his test - we've become a part of some giant production line which is so rapid it makes you question why the long waiting lists - what is the hold-up? Because it certainly can't be down to the staff dragging their feet. 

 I now face another wait for the results - I wonder if the NHS will celebrate another 60 years before I get my diagnosis? 

  

Mechanics, milk bottles and moronic behaviour

THERE are three things in life which when found should be held on to tightly or the loss will always be regrettable.  The perfect-fit jeans is the first (once found, buy as many as you can afford that day), the second is your place in a queue in the supermarket - don't risk jumping to another seemingly shorter queue - because that solitary old lady standing there will pay for her weekly shopping in loose change whilst insisting on sharing all of her various ailments, contagious or otherwise to the cashier.  The third is a decent mechanic.  I learnt that last one this week after what can only be described as a traumatic experience for all concerned.

 I'm fairly neurotic when it comes to my car; I listen out for any rattle which might signify the tyres have fallen off, or the seat is about to eject itself, taking me through the roof, never to be seen again.  I'll interrupt all conversations with my passengers, however important they might be: "So the doctor said it might be terminal..." "Mmmm did you hear that banging noise - I wonder if that's my exhaust?"

 And so this week has been like any other ; a trip to town with the boyfriend and a backseat full of plastic milk bottles ready for the recycling bank.  Then it happens: a car noise that is actually heard by someone other than me.

 By the time we reach town I'm sufficiently freaking out and swerve into the nearest multi-national garage - a location I find about as desirable as headlice.  They are magnets for a combination of young spotty greasemonkeys who smirk a lot and tired old spanner dogs who call you 'luv' and always look severely annoyed you've entered their world - in their day women weren't allowed to drive.  A quick look at the driver's door and a kick of a tyre is enough to tell the garagefolk my car is fine and I really am as dumb as I look but just to be safe I should run it over to the local Renault garage. Of course, take it to another garage.  What did I expect? It's half four on a Friday, of course nothing is wrong with the car.

 And so to shopping, where I obeyed the queuing rule.  Just over an hour later I return to the car and decide to open the bonnet, except it's already been unlocked.  With shaking hands I unhook it and lift it up... my eyes rest on the windscreen washer fluid container and its lid open and hanging off.  Then my other half points to a pipe connected to the engine, or rather half connected and it feels as brittle as French toast. OH MY GOD. How have I managed to drive anywhere with the car like this? I contain myself long enough to speed-dial a local independent mechanic, who normally has to subdue my annual MOT panic attacks.  It's 5.45pm but he answers and after listening to my incoherent nonsense agrees to come out and look at the car.  The boyfriend is by now looking longingly at the bags of food shopping and mentally debating the perception of him eating a dry loaf of bread slice by slice in a public place.

 

 The mechanic arrives chirpy as ever and humours me by making eye contact as I relate my tale of woe.  He looks under the bonnet, sees the pipe and says that it's fine, not a problem.  Offering to take it for a test-drive to hear the mystery noise, I clamber into the passenger seat, and my only other witness to the noise slips into the backseat as the clatter of 30 or so milk bottles causes the mechanic to gasp at the sight of so much supermarket-bought dairy containers.

 "We're not milk freaks," I hear myself saying, "I was taking them to be recycled."

 With a degree of hesitancy in his voice the mechanic responds: "Erh yeah..."

 The pressure is on as the mechanic drives my little car around town, we all silently hold our breaths incase that prevents us hearing the mystery car noise.

 "There is a slight rattle but nothing major - is that the noise you heard?" I shrug my shoulders, seriously beginning to doubt my grip on reality.

 The need to find the sound begins to get to me and I resort to defensive behaviour; humour. "Okay when I tap the dashboard I want you to perform an emergency stop," I tell the mechanic and begin to manically laugh.   I feel a kick from the back seat and a clatter of milkbottle as the other half tries to shut me up - the response from the mechanic is one of confusion.

 Back in the car park, the mechanic patiently looks under the bonnet again for me and in a soothing tone explains that nothing is wrong.  I eventually get it; the car is fine.  Which is more than could be said for my sanity as I hear myself confess to the mechanic with all seriousness that what I actually thought had happened was that the engine had blown up at some point without me realising, removing the windscreen washer fluid cap, the pipe and popping the bonnet open in the explosion.

 The mechanic, who has maintained composure up until that point, starts laughing, advises my other half never to be left alone with me and gets in his car to leave.

 I ask how much I owe him for the callout after 5pm on the Friday before a bank holiday - by now I will quite happily pay any amount to cover the shameful behaviour - he just laughs again and shouts across the car park: "Are you kidding? The entertainment value alone has been priceless."

 I think there's a lot to be said for public transport.