The Book of Enitharmon

I don’t remember how many Americans read this blog but given the amount of what appears to me to be complete drivel emanating from your side of the pond on the matter of Obama’s proposals for healthcare reform and slurs against our very own National Health Service.

Though horror stories appear from time to time in the media, I can only take those as stories because they bear no relation to my own experiences, which ore entirely of the sort which is of no interest whatsoever to the media.

First off, I’ve only ever spent one overnight in an NHS hospital ward - I blogged about it here - and although the experience wasn’t everything it might have been if I had devised it for myself in my wildest dreams, there was nothing I could complain about and everything was conducted in a friendly and efficient manner making the experience no more grim than having the inside of your nose scraped out could be expected to be. Apart from one rearranged appointment with the ENT consultant all the pre- and post-operative care was conducted smoothly and without undue or inconvenient delays. (A few of you reading this will be aware that ten years ago (heavens!) I spent a week in a Belgian hospital, which was very agreeable indeed, but those were different circumstances and I can’t really say how that would compare with the NHS, except that I’ve never much liked the idea of barrack-like dormitory wards)

My other hospital experiences are of A & E, where I have reported from time to time with one of my more severe asthma attacks and have always been seen to promptly and put straight on a nebuliser, and where I was taken once with a suspected heart attack that, thankfully, turned out not to be. And of the tender care of Professor Sir Stafford Lightman and his Clinical Endocrinology team at the much maligned Bristol Royal Infirmary, where I was never kept waiting and always attended to promptly and courteously.

But the bedrock of it all is the GP service. Physicians vary a lot in quality and in bedside (or deskside) manner, but I’ve never stayed long with a Hippocratic oaf and contrary to some of the recent propaganda I have a choice. My current GP, Dr Ruth Wilkinson, is a treasure. Maybe I owe my life, or at least my sanity, to those wonderful Bristol GPs Dr Rhona Macpherson and Dr Sylvia Thompson. (Dr Narayan of Reading - Lakshmi on the desk and “what you are having is a Bell’s palsy” - was ok too but suffered from the disadvantage of being a man. And I don’t have to think long and hard about whether I can afford to see them this month. I see them as and when I feel there might be a need, and they have no problem with that.

That’s my two pence - or two cents - worth. Take it as you wish. And up yours, you deceitful, disingenous, self-serving Tory piece of shit, Daniel Hannan!

I did 40 minutes round Walney this morning. It was another lovely morning but for some reason it felt like hard work. Possibly because despite what the chap from the Grauniad might say, Walney routes tend to be quite testing as the centre of the island is rather saucer-shaped. It felt good afterwards, though.

In other news: I have done what I have resolved to do every time I have made a trip involving an overnight stay in the last fifteen years - I've bought a bag on wheels. And I have discovered that it is also excellent for conveying one's shopping. Provided that said shopping does not include bottles of beer. Especially not when said bottles are of precious Belgian Duvel beer.

And my daughter regrets that she's unable to lunch with us on Sunday. Actually there's more to it than that, and it's going to take some assimilating. Meanwhile it's possible that I may be fragile over the weekend, but I'll try not to be a pain.

Went for a run. Took it way too fast in my agitated state. Broke down after 25 minutes.

Meh!

It's a lovely autumn day today - sunny, warm but not overly so, still. A bit of mist over the sea and the channel, which makes it look rather attractive.

I didn't try to emulate Friday's effort. Instead I crossed the bridge, looped round the South Walney estate, and then did the reverse of my usual shore path route via Ocean Road, Biggar Bank, Sandy Gap and back to the Promenade.

First thing this morning my head was telling me it didn't want to go, but my legs were ready for action!

Follow my route here.

A gentle 40-minute jog this morning, up to North Scale and then, instead of turning at the Crown, continuing to cross the island by way of Cow Tarn Lane to West Shore Road. At this point an opportunity arises in the future to go north and take to the open sands at low tide and to run and run right up to the North End. For now, however, we have to go south and because of the rockiness of the beach south of here, and difficulties caused by coastal erosion and the intransigence of the Furness Golf Club who refuse to realign their holes to allow for the right of way to be made good along the coastal path, we must resort to dreary West Shore Road to return to the Promenade via Mill Lane. At the Promenade, 40 minutes is up. Lots of opportunity, though, for a longer run all the way back to the start.

It has been a lovely autmn day for it.

Thanks to modern technology, and to lyzzybee for pointing it out to me, you should be able to follow my route here.

Another thirty minutes under my spare tyre! Actually thirty-one minutes because owing to sausage fingers I didn't actually start the watch until I'd been going for a minute.

Once again I ran up to the Crown at North Scale and back to enjoy the scenery. It was another lovely day, actually quite warm and a tad humid. The tide was right out so good views of the channel, but somewhat hazy and a bit murky over the fells. I ran comfortable and although it was nice to stop I could easily have gone on I think.

For my reward I've just had a lunch of bacon and eggs on an oatcake.

Thursday isn't normally one of my running days but having missed two of those this week, and rather craving the post-run high, I took myself out for another three 10+1s. It felt a bit like hard work, mainly street running around Walney and with some short but sharpish hills, but it doesn't half feel good afterwards.

Like stopping banging your head against a brick wall!

It's not a cold. I had another fitful and feverish night last night. What I have is some kind of nasty chest infection and I've checked myself in with the Doc in about an hour. (Not Ruth, she's away. It's Dr Roberts, whom I've never met before I think, but I bet he's sick of that song!)

It all puts a bit of a damper on the fact that it's four years ago today that I went into Sainsbury's in Broad Street, Reading, with the intention of buying a pouch of Old Holborn, and walked out empty-handed. Didn't I do well! And it's a long time since I craved, too. In fact, when I think about it now I feel disgusted.

Meh! That cold that was incubating yesterday came out with full malice in the night - sore throat, tight chest, muzzy head.

At least it hasn't gone to my sinuses this time. Not yet anyway. So it's the first old-school cold I've had in many years, and I'm not convinced it isn't worse.

I'm feeling miserable. TLC, please!

So, I begin the New Year with a rush of hormones.

I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't a week ago.