Business skills

Mrs Slippy has gone to the V Festival, so while the cat is away, the mice will play.

Or will they? Mice don't really 'play' do they? In the absence of cats, they generally eat everything in the cupboard, and shit everywhere.

Squeak squeak...




And whilst not eating and shitting, I am mostly watching the cricket, with Twitter and Facebook streaming in two separate windows on the laptop, and another one open onto which I am typing.

I've also taken some time out to ensure that I will be able to watch the Premiership on the computer if England haven't finished the job by 4 o'clock. I may even bring the portable tv into the living room too so I can watch the Grand Prix as well.

Who says men can't multi-task?

It is probably the business skills of multi-tasking, prioriting, and forward planning that have made me the success I am today.

Never were these skilled called more into play than back in 1998, when I was still a young man, finding my way in the World, and taking sometime out from my hectic business life to enjoy a couple of weeks holiday in Spain with some old school friends.

Nothing like a group of eight young professionals sharing a villa on the Costa del Sol to relieve the strains of day to day life in the UK. The cat wasn't away, but the mice were.

Maybe open a bottle of wine in the evening, and listen to the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore, or find a local bar and enjoy one or two local beers while making friends with the locals.

Chilled and relaxed.

One evening the others wanted to go and visit the local 'Discotheque'. I wasn't really feeling up to it myself. Probably just a bit of a combination of too much sun, and a rich Mediterranean diet, but my guts were gone to hell.

Not wanting to let the others down, I fought the cramping pains and agreed to join them. It was the last night, and so we'd probably earned a few drinks.

The club was only small. It wasn't a big resort, so it really was just the locals place to go and enjoy a night out, not some mega club. We were the only English there, and the bar staff seemed pretty pleased to have us there, with lots of very large, very free drinks.

It soon became apparent that my guts were not going to hold out. Nobody in their right mind enjoys taking a shit in someone else's toilet (except that freaky kid on the TV who wants to 'do a poo at Pauls', which I'm sure must be urban slang for something altogether sinister), but sometimes needs must.

As I said, a small club, so only a small toilet. Fortunately I hadn't started relaxing too much as I burst into los servicios. I knew that despite the urgency of the matter in hand, if I didn't want matter in my hands, I couldn't afford to drop focus until I knew it was safe to drop the kids off.

I was right to do that. A quick visual check told me there was only one cubical, and there was no paper in it. No hand towels next to the sink either meant back to he bar. I'd clocked a pile of napkins at the end of it - those would do.

As I walked round, my hand slipped up and grabbed the small pile without breaking stride, nor attracting attention.

Back in the cubicle I was hit by problem number 2 with my problem number 2.

There was no lock on the door, and it was so badly hung, it wouldn't stay shut on it's own.

And it was about 5 feet away from the seat....

Try it yourself. Sit down and see how far forwards you can reach. Unless you are;

a) an orang-utan
b) Andrew Marr
c) Dave Beasant

then I can pretty much guarantee that door is swinging open on you.

So we have priority decision time number one. Privacy, or accuracy?

If you can lean forwards enough that you can apply some pressure on the door, with your arse pointing in the general direction of the toilet (and trousers removed for added safety), then surely that is the better option than sitting and shitting, door wide open looking cold and clammy as every Juan, Luis y Fernando walks in?

I thought so.

As it turned out, removing my trousers was not required, as it was not the ground beneath me that was the high risk area. Nope, I had completely misjudged the level of pressure which had built up in my guts, and rather that 'falling short' in the gap between myself and the seat, I completely overshot with hot, liquid filth.

As I was leaning over so far, I was practically horizontal, and the wall behind the toilet now looked like someone had been at it with an industrial muck spreader.

I looked down at the small pile of drinks napkins in my hand, back at the 2 foot circle of evil on the wall (that was fast growing as gravity pulled it down to the ground), and peeped through a gap in the door to check I was still alone in there.

I was.

Priority decision number 2. I had a small pile of napkins and needed to clean;

a) My arse
b) The wall

A quick bit of 'quantity surveying' left me quite sure that I did not have enough napkins to clean both. Even if I made a rush job of my arse, the wall would need some serious attention. The longer I took thinking or cleaning, the greater the risk that someone would walk in on me.

The decision was simple. Why clean two jobs badly when you can clean one job well?

I cleaned myself with napkins to spare, but any attempt to start on the wall would have been futile. Best to just drop the lot and run before someone saw me.

So run I did, and I'm pretty sure I got away with it.

And it was there that I learned my most important dirty business skill. You don't always have to clean up your own shit, you just need to make sure nobody saw you do it, and none of it's stuck to you.

Now back to the Cricket/Football/Grand Prix/raiding the cupboard.

After I've had another shit.

Scoring Drugs in Manchester

I'm ill.

Again.

This time it's not my manky hand, which has cleared up nicely - thanks for asking.

Now I have an ear infection, which feels not too dissimilar to earwigs crawling around inside my head while being prodded with a red hot poker.

Nice.

I wouldn't say I was prone to the,, but have had a nasty one before, around 3 years ago. I ignored it for a couple of days, then went to the GP for some antibiotics. He gave me flucloxacillin, which didn't touch it, so 36 hours later Mrsslippy was driving me to A&E to get a second opinion as to why half my head was red and swollen, and my ear sticking out at a right angle.

It was only her promise to bring me straight back in if my head started to split open that prevented admission and IV antibiotics.

Instead, I was allowed to leave with some oral Ciprofloxacin, and a wick inserted into my ear canal to allow the transit of drops in one direction, and pus in the other.

Removal of pus from a manky ear is a tricky one. You can't lie on the affected side to allow it to drain at it's own rate, so instead sleep with it facing upwards as the goo slowly creeps up and up like an overfilled bath.



In the morning, you sit upright and

EUREKA!

Half a pint of putrefied skin cells and blood running down your shoulder.

So when I was woken up yesterday morning at 4am with a burning sensation that I recognised all too well, I though I ought to act promptly.

Biggest problem - I wasn't at home with access to my GP, but away at a Conference in Manchester.

I watched the clock until the hotel started serving breakfast at 7am, and after a coffee and fruit juice (being all I could manage as moving my jaw was very uncomfortable due to swelling), headed out to find the nearest pharmacy.

As luck would have it, there was one just opening at 7.30 not far from the hotel.

Now in fairness, I probably wasn't looking my best. I'd got my most comfortable (read 'tatty') jeans on, a vintage/distressed T-shirt, my comfy (again read 'fucked') Adidas, had managed very little sleep, and hadn't shaved in 5-6 days.

Yet in I ambled. Looking like shit, in a pharmacy that was miles from any actual residential areas, and clearly not looking like I was on my way to work in the City.

And my opening gambit?

A not very well thought out 'I..er...don't come from round here...but I'm going to be here for a few days...and er... I think I need some antibiotics and strong painkillers.....so I can't see my GP....cos he's not in Manchester...'

I got a pitying, patronising look from the pharmacist, and directions to the nearest free health clinic for 'People with no GP"

Great. She thinks I'm a homeless....

Unperturbed, I thanked her for her assistance, and walked a bit further down the road to the local Boots, and bought some Paracetamol, Ibuprofen, and asked for any topical drops or sprays for treating the symptoms of external otisis.

Bought and paid for, back to the hotel for shower and shave, and on with the conference.

Somehow I managed to get through my presentation, which by all accounts was excellent (if by all accounts you count the evaluation forms that I read, which would have been just mine, on which I wrote 'I thought I was great!)

Job done, a quick Google, and assisted by Latitude I managed to find an NHS walk in centre at Piccadilly Station, and saw a very nice nurse who prescribed me some anti-biotics and topical steroids.

Unfortunately, they weren't overly receptive to my suggestion that Fluclox did fuck all last time, and I'd probably be better off with Cipro, he thought I should still probably try the Fluclox first.

So a fortnight after finishing the last course of it, I'm back on it again.....

I even managed to see the pharmacist I'd first approached that very morning.

'Good afternoon' said I.

'I've come back for some antibiotics with a prescription this time'

I watched her preparing it, giving me puzzled glances every few seconds.

She might have just thought I was being a bit random, or maybe she was just trying to work out when she'd seen me earlier.

I like to think she was thinking 'Who the hell did that fucking tramp nick a suit off?'

Slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

To (mis)qoute Shakespeare, I am now suffering in a sling (no arrows involved), due to the outrageous fortune of being bitten by some terrible beastie that had obviously been gargling with raw effluent before sinking it's fangs into me.

It looked bad enough yesterday, so when it was even redder, more swollen, and creeping further up my arm, it seemed like a trip to the GP really was on order.

Unfortunately, due to availability issues, I couldn't get an appointment today, so trudged into work, vowing to keep an eye on it.

Eventually, after succumbing to much peer pressure, which as the name implies, involves a lot of peering and poking, I begrudgingly went to A&E.

I felt like such a fraud, apologising first to the nurse on Triage, then the receptionist that I had tried to get to the GP. Self diagnosis and 15 years of nursing told me that all I needed was a good dose of Flucloxacillin, and I'd be on my way and right as reign in no time, but with the rate the infection was creeping up my arm, I needed to start anti-biotics today, and with no joy with the GP, I'd have to come and sit with the rest of the walking wounded who really should have been at the GP surgery.

The waiting area of A&E is a fascinating, although sometimes uncomfortable place to people watch. I'd removed my ID badge, so there could be no accusations of queue jumping and favouritism should my infection prove more important than the man who'd had a lump on his foot for three weeks that gave him no pain, but today decided it was urgent enough to come straight to hospital.

There was a couple there who were clearly on a family day out, having brought flasks of tea, sandwiches, and several magazines. I have no idea which of them was waiting to be seen. They were there when I arrived, and there when I left.

I patiently watched as other people impatiently challenged any staff who accidentally made eye contact (which is quite hard when people walk up to them and put their face 6 inches in front of them), and demand to know why they have been waiting 2 hours. Or just walk straight into the treatment area to see 'just what all the staff are doing'.

Um....because it's busy? And you're not dying, whereas someone came in an hour ago that was, so we had to..you know..re-prioritise things a little bit.

Not that that's what the staff said. They were polite and courteous, without being patronising. How they get through the day without saying "Just fuck off and stop wasting our time with your insignificant little scratch, that I bet if it happened at home you'd do fuck all about, but because you're on work time you come here with your muddy boots and your 'I'm the center of the universe' attitude, demanding we stop everything to deal with you, you self centred little prick. Fuck off to Boots and buy a packet of plasters you insufferable cunt." I'll never know.

So I was seen after 90 minutes, which I thought was pretty good considering the triviality of my complaint, and now have a course of anti-biotics, and been told to keep my hand in a high sling.

Feeling a bit useless at work, I opted to come home, and being as Mrsslippy was nearly done, and her work was quiet, she nicked off too and will pay them back the hours.

She's gone to Tesco - I couldn't face going with her and enduring the cruel stares, nor would be much use with pushing the trolley, or pack and carry bags.

Nor will I be able to make dinner, or wash up.

I will be able to drink coffee, watch and control the TV, and pootle on the computer (different to work, where a lot of actions involve using the mouse and the keyboard at the same time - not so here).

As long as I avoid doing anything too heavy, or that takes two hands I should be safe, so I hope Mrsslippy comes home soon.

I think I need the toilet.

Uncomfortably Numb

Having hands like two balloons may have been the epitome of comfort and numbness to Messers. Waters and Gilmour, but to be honest, I think it's overrated.

Maybe it's because only one hand is affected, and I need both to be balloon like to experience the alleged pleasure it devolves.

Some fucking creature bit me yesterday morning. I don't know what, as I neither saw nor felt the assault. I just noticed a small white itchy lump as I was pootling around. It could have come from the garden - I'd been out for an hour doing a spot of watering and weeding. It could have been a stowaway from Brazil - I'd been poking around in the suitcases. It could have been just some double hard bastard mozzy that spiked me as I slept, and I just didn't notice the lump until I'd been up for a couple of hours.

All I know is, it has definitely disagreed with me. My hand has slowly ballooned, whilst getting redder and redder.

If I clench my fist (sort of - the skins too tight to do it properly), the skin blanches, and the surface looks blistered and burnt.

It even seems to be tracking up my arm. If it hasn't improved in the morning, I think a trip to the GP's might be in order.

I've seen too many (or not enough?) films to speculate on what might be bubbling away under my skin.

Whilst Alien chestbursters tend to grow in the chest, how fucking cool would it be to have one of them fly out the back of your hand? And I've not been in any teleporters recently, so the chances of me turning into Slippyfly are also a bit slim.

More likely it's just some mutant plague, or the larvae of some exotic insect that will consume me from the inside out.

Whatever it is, there's one thing that's certain, the top layer of skin is so fucked it's going to slide off in some sort of horrible mess during the next couple of days, and if I'm lucky, I'll get to keep my arm. I hope so, as I'm rather attached to it. I don't mind typing one handed, but I can't hit Ctrl-Alt-Del if the fucking laptop crashes.

Back is back

I've got a bad back.

Not bad in the sense it sneaks out when I'm not looking to go shoplifting or orchestrate mass genocide, bad that it just goes out. Period.

For no rhyme or reason it can suddenly decide that it no longer wants to support the rest of my body, and takes a day, a week, a month off....

It's currently having one of it's hissy fits, and yesterday, with no warning other than feeling bit stiff the day before, it decided I wasn't supposed to get out of bed. As it turned out I'd booked yesterday as an Annual Leave day anyway, so I didn't miss work, but I did miss a day off with mrsslippy that we had planned on using to buy, and then consume some very nice food from our local Farm Shop/deli.

Yesterday started badly.

I managed to get out of the bedroom without waking mrsslippy, so she didn't notice quite how long it had taken me to first stand up, and then traverse the room clutching at furniture. The next major problem was not being able to reach something I normally reach quite easily. I shan't go into details, but suffice to say, it was first thing in the morning, I had left the bedroom, but wasn't in the kitchen yet. A different, and difficult approach paid off, then straight back to bed. However, mrsslippy was now awake, and I was rumbled.Another day of me lying around in self pity, expecting waitress service on coffee and food.

Then I had a first. It wasn't witnessed, so I said nothing at the time.

I fucking fell over.

Not tripped, slipped, or somehow got entangled in the debris that tends to accumulate next to my side of the bed. My legs gave out, and I fell. I'd spent half a minute extricating myself from the side of the bed to leaning on the window sill, and felt upright, but I let go, went to put my weight through my left leg, and crumpled like a sack of shit. I somehow got myself onto the bed again, and dragged myself back to a straight lying position, and when mrsslipy returned from the kitchen, I said nothing. I've told her now. Today is a better day. I wanted to be sure this wasn't going to be a recurrent theme before 'sharing', and if it was, work out the best way to tell her. Anywho, as I said - a better day.

I've had problems with my back for years. I've tried to work out why. It's probably wear and tear from years of abuse. I started doing a paper round when I was 12 with a bag that split from the sheer volume of papers in it. I don't know exactly how heavy it was, but I suspect that as a young teenager I had more weight slung over one shoulder than a grown man is allowed to carry today with Health and Safety guidelines.

I've done my fair share of manual work, whether it be lugging frozen food around a freezer warehouse, or the slog of being a nurse on an orthopaedic or geriatric ward (all those patient lifts that are outlawed now? I'd do them all day everyday when I started).

But I've never hurt my back at work. What tends to happen is a cough, a sneeze, a long haul flight, and before I know it, kerblammo, I'm fucked.

I've noticed over the years that this doesn't happen immediately. It's far more insidious, and perhaps because of this I have gotten slightly better at spotting the warning signs, and getting back on my feet quickly.

Because the thing is, I don't have a weak back. Far from it. It's incredibly strong, and that's my problem. My back seems to think its in danger, so the muscles seize up so I can't bend or move. I used to see an osteopath who would pop and click parts that I didn't even know could move. I've been there at an acute inset phase and there is nothing they can do. The muscles are so tight there is nothing they can manipulate. I have steel rods running the length of my spine.

And that's what I had yesterday, but fortunately, I also have an action plan. Lots of hamstring stretching (with the assistance of mrsslippy), slowly but surely gives enough play in the muscles to stand and walk relatively easily, even if not comfortably.

This morning, with her gone to work, I got up in the usual lumbering speed of a man who doesn't do mornings and is 2 stone overweight, rather than the that of a a giant sloth with a hangover, albeit with the assistance of the window sill. Using a belt thrown around an ankle and looped round the head of the bed creates a bizarre pulley system that enables me to stretch my legs.

What I unfortunately can't do, is dress myself, and that has become the yardstick for whether I go to work or not. Where I there, I could sit at my desk for short periods, and provided I walk around and stretch at regular intervals, could possibly pass for 'normal' despite the discomfort. I've gotten very good over the years at ;

1. Ignoring pain
2. Knowing what physical movements I can and can't do without arising suspicion.

But without trousers and pants, that is all irrelevant. I have shoes that I can slip on, but wandering round the office 'cock out', is probably just a bit too unconventional to be classed as normal behaviour, even for me.

All being well, I'll be back at work tomorrow, although still in some discomfort no doubt, but today I'm in bed with my stretching exercises, and fuck me I'm bored.

Can you tell?



slippymark has already watched Alien vs Predator Requiem, Repo Man, and There Will Be Blood off of Sky+, and will probably have to start digging out DVD's soon.