Weird Science

Today we had a visit from a company that specialises in showing animals to old people in care homes. They have visited here before and this time I'd asked for some unusual animals. We were hoping for a meerkat but were willing to settle for a chinchilla or a parrot. When the very nice girl-animal wrangler arrived she told me that she was sorry, she didn't have a chinchilla and wasn't quite sure why we'd been offered one. Plus the parrot was two now and had started kicking off so she'd left it at home (we would've liked that! It would have woken my sleepy residents up a little!). 'Do you have a meerkat then?' I asked, ever hopeful. 'Oh no!' she chuckled, 'they're really difficult to look after!'
The science bit was looking less weird with every passing minute.

In the upstairs lounge only four out of twelve residents were awake and ready to greet the animals who, it transpired were exactly the same ones as we saw last time.....a fat guinea pig, a lopless big rabbit and apparently a hairless creature, the species of which none of the residents were quite sure of when I quizzed them later (I wasn't able to stay for the whole show). I was sitting beside one of the residents, an old Scots lady called Mhairi whilst she was petting the rabbit and she asked the animal-girl a question in quite a soft voice. After asking her to repeat the question three times and still not catching what Mhairi said, Animal-Girl turned helplessly to me. 'What are you saying Mhairi' I said to her, having only caught the word 'mother'.

'Is its mother a dog?' was what she was trying to ascertain. Phew! Weirdness resumes!!!

Pic from here

Hello, I'm Resting Bitch Face

resting bitch face  a person, usually a girl, who naturally looks mean when her face is expressionless, without meaning to.

High up on the list of 'people who annoy me' (ie. most of the people I meet) are those, almost always men, who try to get a laugh by saying insulting things about you, belittling you. By this I mean they will say something quite personal about you in order to a) make themselves look clever and b) make you look stupid. These men are normally attempting to cover up their own inadequacy and I would imagine, tiny appendages. Most times this would make me feel ridiculous and small - it happened fairly frequently in my barmaiding days, normally when I'd refused to serve someone who had clearly had a skinful - especially because I knew that if I answered back, or replied in kind, it would incite the man to be really mean and personal. And who needs that when they're just trying to earn a few quid? Sometimes though you just have to call people out on their behaviour, if only to stop them from doing it to younguns who are not quite so confident. Because it's a form of bullying really, don't you think?

We have a resident whose previous carer comes to visit him a couple times a week - let's call this ex-carer fellow Geoff, shall we? He's maybe my age; a real Sotonion (calls people 'mush') and clearly doesn't have a job or he couldn't come to our place during the day like he does (that's conjecture on my part though since I haven't cared enough to ask him). I've chatted with him briefly but no deep meaningful conversations; thought he seemed okay and he seems fond enough of the resident he comes to visit. So far so good. A month or so ago I was serving out the lunch to the residents and I had my phone on playing music, singing along, when Geoff, who was sitting at the dining table with his friend called over 'don't give up the day job Keshling'. Now I don't claim to be Shirley Bassey but I know I can sing a bit so how rude is that? Uncalled for, personal rudeness. I confess I was taken aback, I mean, who asked him? Why comment at all? On that occasion I said nothing and let it ride, however other than saying hello I haven't spoken to him since.

Today I came out of the lift to walk to my office, maybe ten steps. Just walking, carrying some photocopying, minding my own business. Geoff was sitting outside the lift beside his resident; there were a couple of other residents there plus one resident's wife, a woman whose face is permanently etched with the expression of someone who has a lemon rammed up her arse and the demeanour to go with it (more of her another time). Geoff piped up 'cheer up Keshling, you've got a face like thunder' (obviously the aforementioned resting bitch face since I was neither happy nor sad, merely looking forward to a little sit down) and I decided, there and then, that I had to nip this in the bud. Without breaking step I told him 'make one more personal remark about me and I'll slap your face'. He was startled, clearly, because when I came out of my office almost immediately and said 'was that happy enough for you?' his mouth was still open. 

You might think I over-reacted, being that I am the thinnest-skinned person I know (absolutely the thinnest-skinned person in the building according to my boss Andre) but really, where do you draw the line? Should I allow him to carry on, getting more and more personal and clever with himself or do you think that's just banter, part of male/female relationships? I'm well able to slap Geoff down but what about the younger carers like Sam who has just started and is so eager to fit in, or one of my Polish colleagues whose English isn't fantastic; who nevertheless realises they're being laughed at but can't quite formulate a response? And does having resting bitch face mean that you have to put up with stupid comments from people who are, to all intents and purposes, strangers to you? It's bad enough having Big Man asking 'what's the matter with you?'constantly when all I'm doing is watching TV intently. But I think really, what irked me the most was somebody who barely knows me thinking it was okay to be personal. One thing's for sure, Geoff won't be making that mistake again any time soon.

What do you think, resting bitch face or just complete bitch?

Wednesday Addams, queen of the Resting Bitch Faces

Back

I never intended to be one of those bloggers who write things like 'shelled some peas and ate them with gammon and a fried egg for dinner, followed by bread and butter pudding for afters. Washed my hair and had an early night'. That isn't to say there's anything wrong with that kind of blogging - I follow one just like that and its very banality is balm to my bruised soul after a hard day with the bewildered elderly - but it's not MY kind of blogging. I hoped I'd be writing funny things and ironic things and thoughtful things. When I couldn't think of any I just.....stopped. Better to leave people wanting more is my opinion.

So I've read a LOT of books; been on holiday; I met up with another blogger and her sweet, sweet children (Lisa flattered me by saying my blog is very funny....I'm as susceptible to praise as the next gal); and I've started investigating my family tree - there's something about a new series of 'Who Do You Think You Are' that brings out the genealogist in me. My inner nosy cow, you might say. But mostly I've been working very, very hard. We are almost full in our dementia unit and far from being the horrorfest I was dreading the residents are, for the most part, funny, bright, witty, spunky (can I say that nowadays?) and so willing to try new stuff. Several of the ladies (I call them my 'Clever Girls Club' which they love) are very aware that something is going wrong with them and are desperate to keep their minds active so we do all sorts of quizzes, crosswords and puzzles. It can be draining but it's very rewarding - not meaning to sound like a Miss World contestant here - and for the first time I can remember people are happy to see me at work. As opposed to thinking I'm a monumental pain in the ass like at most of my jobs.

So for now I think I'm back. I've got more stuff to say, including some thoughts on the nature of blogging and why we do it. I can't promise it'll be regular but I hope it won't be boring.

Clever Girl

Today I was talking to a patient in our dementia unit - Heather is her name. She told me that she was born in 1914 but I think I'll have to check up on that. Heather looks like everybody's favourite grandma, all curly white hair, little glasses, pastel twinsets and a whispery voice. We got to talking about what she liked to do before she came to live with us - I asked whether she liked to read and she told me that she used to adore reading and that her mother used to tell her off, saying that she 'always had her nose in a book'. Sadly nowadays, Heather said, she can't really see well enough to read.
As we chatted further Heather told me about her schooldays. She mentioned a lecture that all the students from local (Southampton) schools went to, on the subject of the League of Nations. All of the students from the other schools had little notebooks and pencils to take notes but her Headmistress wouldn't allow that, on the basis that 'if they were note-taking they weren't listening properly' (quite right too). After the lecture all the students from the schools that attended had to write an essay based on the lecture and Heather won the prize for the best essay. She was, by all accounts, a clever girl.
In those days, Heather said, you only got one crack at what she called a scholarship but what I guess was a forerunner to an 11-plus kind of exam (but sat at 13) and on the day she was due to sit it she had an abcess on her head and couldn't go to school. The Headmistress was gutted for Heather, her star pupil.

Needless to say Heather had to leave school along with the others who had failed the exam. There was a careers meeting for each child and the Headmistress had picked out three or four places where Heather could work and still use her brain but Heather's mother said that she should go into service. She went to work at fourteen skivvying at the District Nurses Home in the city, her brain completely wasted.
I was almost in tears as Heather told me this. Her father died when she was 10 weeks old but she had three older brothers and was not only the youngest child but the only girl. I asked why she hadn't been given a chance to carry on with her studies somehow and also why the Headmistress, in her opinion, hadn't gone to see her mother and ask her to give Heather an opportunity for advancement? Heather told me that her mother was a country woman to whom it would never have occurred that her daughter might be bright enough to maybe teach or nurse; also it just wasn't the done thing for a teacher to try to persuade a parent in a different course of action - her mother would have been mortified. I was so upset that I wished I could go back in time and give her mother a good slap, never mind anything else. I also asked Heather whether she felt resentful, as she got older, that her mother had denied her the chance to make something better of herself and she told me that she did of course, but at the time children didn't ever go against their parents - what they said was the law.

It got me thinking about parents nowadays, myself included, who move heaven and earth; spend money on grinds; and ease the path of their kids any way they can to get them what they want, be it a job by pulling strings and calling in favours; or by introducing the perfect conditions for studying, taking them all over the country to view universities, kit out their room in halls and subsidise them to the nth degree (yes, I have done all of those things). We seize on that one tiny spark - a talent for athletics, football, art or algebra - and blow on the tiny ember until it produces something bigger. We nourish their gifts and put all of our efforts into easing their path through life. Sometimes it's because we want our children to have what we had; sometimes it's because we want them to have what we didn't have. As a parent I would have been mortified if a teacher had pointed out that any of my children had an aptitude for something that I had failed to spot (and nurture) myself - would that be interference in the way that an intervention from Heather's Headmistress would have been perceived all those years ago? Do you think that Heather's mother was right?
It's a sad story.

Barry

In my last post I described my seven hours in A&E with Chester and Barry. Chester came home to us after two days, diagnosis constipation. We kept expecting Barry 'home' for the last couple of days but when I got to work Friday Nadine called me into her office, sat me down and told me that Barry had died. She told me that Barry's brother, Maurice, had asked her to tell me on my own because he knew Barry and I were close.

I'm devastated, and disbelieving....

I can't understand how someone who can be well enough to be able to be discharged can suddenly just die. Barry was a great big bear of a man; a really good appetite (and these are two things that are very rare in care home residents); a good sense of humour; patient; very expressive, despite being unable to speak. Fair enough, this stroke he'd had previously comes with a fairly short life expectancy but he was just so...healthy and full of life. It's a tough time for all of us  - we all loved Barry. His brother and sister-in-law are ultra-supportive and this will destroy Maurice because he's lost his big brother. I'm going to offer to help them clear Barry's room, though it will be sad but I see it as doing him one last service.
Barry was 82 (which is no great age nowadays) and never married. He worked out in the open as a bricklayer for years then when the cold weather got to be too much for him he worked for the NHS here in Southampton, as a delivery man. His passions were ham radio, female singers of the 50s (Jo Stafford was a particular favourite) and old films. He was left unable to speak following his stroke and also couldn't move his right arm or leg. He could say 'yes' and this was his usual answer to any question, though his facial expression usually gave lie to that! It makes me happy to remember that Barry did actual speak, clearly and appropriately to me - once when I came back from two weeks holiday I went into his room to say hello and his face lit up. He said 'hello, how are you?'. I told Maurice about this (he would have LOVED Barry to speak to him one more time) but I was never 100% sure I hadn't imagined it. However the last time the vicar visited I took him along to Barry's room and Barry said, quite clearly, 'how are you?' so I guess he could do it after all.
Barry had a small fridge in his room where he kept his tins of cider (he liked a tipple at night) and he had a constant supply of sweets and chocolates. Because of this his teeth had almost all fallen out or gone bad and twice this year I accompanied him to the hospital to have extractions. Due to his size he needed the maximum amount of anaesthetic but he was so brave....I was the one secretly worrying - my nails left big marks in his hand where I'd been holding it so tight!When I think of Barry I think of Boxer, the brave, strong but ultimately doomed workhorse from Animal Farm.....don't know why. Sometimes I can't help but identify people I meet with characters from books or films. Is that crazy?

I'm glad that the last time I saw Barry, last Saturday at the hospital, I'd given him his dinner, held his hand, kissed him (yes, we do kiss our residents) and as he was being taken to the ward he was smiling and gave me the salute he always gave, in lieu of saying goodbye. Miss you already Barry xx

I'm not sure I can do this job.....

Seven Hours In A&E

This is in no way meant as a critique of the NHS which, as everyone knows, is a National Treasure - rather a description of what I saw during my Saturday at A&E.

Yesterday morning when I got to work at 10:00 there was an ambulance parked outside. One of our residents, Barry, who has had a stroke was in some difficulty and was being taken to hospital. My colleague Jackie told me that she thought a second resident, Chester, may also have to go to the General. To cut a long story short, I accompanied Chester to the hospital in the ambulance and it just so happened that he (and I) ended up in a bay next door to Barry. But only after 20 minutes in the gangway getting in everybody's way.

I had no money with me for a start, meaning I had to rely on the free water and juice provided, plus one cup of tea I managed to beg from an orderly. That was fine because I didn't expect to be fed and watered and it kept me sharper for my earwigging and general nosiness. Chester is 86 and Barry is 82 and during the whole time we were there Chester wasn't offered a drink - when I asked the orderly for one for him she told me that 'the nurse' said he wasn't allowed one. Barry was given a cup of tea though - sadly, due to his stroke he only has use of one arm and hand and couldn't get the cup from where it'd been left 3 feet away. From about 12:45 meals started to be brought to the department. I think the distribution must've been quite arbitrary because Chester was allocated food by the senior nurse (despite him being in obvious stomach pain from a twisted bowel) whilst Barry was given nothing. I was able to get permission to give Chester's meal to Barry - roast chicken with stuffing; roast spuds and some carrots that could have done double duty as small orange discuses - but I had to feed him since there was no way he could've balanced it on his stomach and eaten it with one hand, and there was no table available either. All I kept thinking was 'what would either of these guys have done if I hadn't been there?' Additionally, neither Chester nor Barry can speak coherently - Chester has dementia and Barry has had the stroke - so it would have been impossible to get any details from them had I not stuck around. There were plenty of staff members around; nurses, senior nurses, auxiliary types, even one or two doctors but nobody to just check folks were drinking or were able to eat the food that was being given out. Having said that, the nursing staff was constantly on the go - there was none of this standing around gassing about their personal life like you see in 'Casualty'. But then there was none of the chatting to patients and solving their problems like you see either...

Throughout the hours I spent darting between Barry and Chester there was a constant stream of people being brought in on stretchers, most of them elderly though some were middle-aged. The majority walked out again under their own steam, within a couple of hours - one even had the strength/energy/whatever to argue over whether his friend, who had followed him in in her car, should have to pay for the 3 hours of parking she'd bought. From what I could glean most people were, or had been, suffering from 'chest pains'...I'm guessing Saturday morning is a prime time for this. Or they had fainted. Nobody came in and had a crash team working on them or had masses of blood on them. There was no sense that anything emergency-like had happened. And everyone had friends, or family including small children, with them. I couldn't get over it because there is a perfectly good and really very efficient 'Walk-In Center' in the city. It's a sort of buffer between a doctor's surgery and the A&E Department - I've been twice recently with Red and would recommend it 100%.

So what are these people doing, clogging up the Health Service, and how much could be saved if they made their own way to the Walk-In Centre? They clearly have people who can drive them around, and they clearly are not really ill (as in not suffering from something critical necessitating emergency treatment)....is that called 'the worried well'? It got me wondering how different it would be if the people at A&E yesterday had been required to pay at source for their treatment, rather than pay through their National Insurance. I'm not advocating the kind of situation we read about in the US where uninsured patients are dumped on the street after receiving emergency treatment but there has to be some kind of check put on the use of our scarce resources. I really don't see that we can continue to spend the kind of money we are spending on health but the problem is that our NHS is such a sacred cow that to try to change it in any way is seen as completely awful and beyond the pale. I don't know what the solution is but before too many years go by I see the inhabitants of the UK having to be insured. Our NHS is good but it's not great, and I don't think we should expect it to be...we just don't pay enough for it. What do you all think?

Barry was admitted with a very nasty chest infection after four hours in A&E; Chester was admitted after six and a half hours in Bay 5, with the possibility of an operation on his bowel; and outside, on my way to get my lift home I passed a chunky girl and her boyfriend, both smoking furiously and arguing about walking home (her choice) versus getting a cab (his choice). She had been brought into A&E on a stretcher two hours earlier......

Crocs Away!!!

Next week I am working in the kitchen again for another three days. I said I'd never do it again after last time because it was so exhausting and I'd had sleepless nights beforehand worrying that things were going to go wrong (they didn't btw). However, this time it will be a joint effort, me and our handyman Robbie together. Robbie was also pressganged into cooking last time and he said that he would only do it this time if we both cooked. Rather than see money wasted on agency chefs I agreed and we are planning to do some spectacular meals. The food is a bone of contention at our place with the chef on one side and the staff and management on the other. It's complicated but Robbie and I hope to instigate some changes next week.
Anyway, last time I found it very hard on my feet and legs, standing for nine hours and someone recommended Crocs as being good for this problem. Previously the idea of Crocs made me shudder....ugly, clumpy, nasty-looking....but I saw some in Primark today for £2.50 and so I decided to take the plunge. I doubt they are genuine for that price, don't you?;P

The hour I spent in Primark with Red today was the longest I've ever stuck it for - normally I am driven out after five minutes, terrified by the sheer scale of shapeless schmutter (heaven forbid any woman with breasts might want to shop there!) and hordes of teenage girls. And to be honest, who can be bothered to sift through all the dross in search of the elusive treasure? If I was shut in a room stark naked with 99% of the stuff from Primark I'd make a dress out of the carpet before I'd wear any of the clothes. I know it has the same kind of jumble sale vibe as TK Maxx but somehow Primark is so downmarket that it's demoralising.

Anyway, I showed Mr Charming my new Crocs when I got home and he was scathing in his contempt. This is a man who would be willing (if he had it) to spend over £100 on this synthetic jacket.

I told Mr Charming that Babcia could knit him one but he's not convinced...

Has one or both of us had a taste bypass this week? What do you think, and have you ever bought something you previously turned your nose up at?

Is It Money-Saving If....

...you decide against buying biscuits and cake at Lidl in favour of baking a homemade cake, which you all then eat 7/8ths of in one sitting?

Looking nothing like the picture but still very scrummy, with a bit of going-mouldy fromage frais!

I had £47 left of my £250 food budget when I went shopping this morning, and my list had food needs for the next 11 days meals. I didn't need much because I have the makings of most things in the freezer or cupboards already. The total came to £52 but that included 6lbs of minced steak at £1.49 a lb - not on my list and limited to six per customer but such a bargain that I couldn't turn it down. But then, when I got home and checked my emails later I had one from Approved Foods. Carb Addict is a popcorn freak and they are selling popcorn kernels at 99p per kilo so I ordered four. Plus another £36 of stuff on top that we didn't really need. I'm not sure why I am the world's worst self-sabotager but I am. I suppose the good thing is I got an extra £200 in my wages for the overtime on Christmas Day and New Year's Eve, and even being £50 over my food budget is good for me.

We bought a reduced turkey crown just after Christmas. I cooked it this evening and I hope to get three meals out of it - roast dinner, turkey and leek pie and turkey stew and dumplings. I also got three meals out of the pork loin I bought after New Year's, that was reduced by 50% to £10. I'm just not used to ekeing things out like this, and we still have meat or sausages for nearly every meal; even just a bit of bacon in Egg, Bacon and Potato Bake counts as a meaty meal to me. Thank God I can cook is all I can say - it must be very hard for those who can't or won't home cook. My Red cooked a couple days this week and she's pretty good too....at least she won't starve.

I'm working tomorrow, Monday and Tuesday at my regular job. Wednesday I am doing extra hours as a carer, Thursday and Friday my regular job then Saturday and Sunday I am the chef. Never cooked in a works kitchen before and I'm soooooo nervous about it! Keep your fingers crossed I don't poison any of the residents!!!

Me on Saturday. Except I will be screaming.

Sally and Joe

Earlier this year an old lady moved into the home where I work for five days respite. Normally she was cared for at home by her husband Joe but he had to go into hospital for something very minor so Sally came to us.
She spent most of the time crying, and begging to be allowed to go home to 'my Joe'. It was really quite pitiful and I'm ashamed to say that my severely limited supply of compassion quickly depleted. Sally never knew this of course; nor did my colleagues - I am such an accomplished actress that even my most despised enemies go around believing I am their bosom buddy. But don't hate me for it - I get by how I can :(
Sally left after five days but she appeared again on December 17.... Joe had broken his ankle and was in hospital. Whilst he was there the doctors discovered he was riddled with cancer and had just a matter of days to live. Sally understood that Joe was very ill and that he didn't only have a broken ankle. And although it's not a hospice where I work Mac, our manager and Nadine, the matron pulled out all the stops to get Joe admitted to our place for his final few days. When the paramedics brought Joe into the room we'd prepared, next to Sally's, I couldn't believe that this wizened little old man had been caring for anybody all on his own, let alone Sally. She's not big, just a regular-sized pensioner but he seemed more dead than alive. Sally was in the lounge when Joe arrived last Wednesday afternoon, watching a special showing I'd laid on of 'White Christmas' so she didn't realise that he was there and I, in my wisdom, decided to let her watch the end of the movie, even though I knew I was going home before it ended.

You think you know what I'm going to say next, don't you?
You'd be wrong.

Joe survived until 7.30 the next morning. He and Sally had their reunion and she told me afterwards that he gave the biggest smile when he saw her face 'and he was my old Joe again'. Even though we hardly know Sally and we didn't know Joe at all we were all gutted for them...but happy too, in a melancholy way. Sally and Joe met when they were eight years old in the church choir. They liked each other then and always went back to each other. He was a joiner who provided for Sally and although they had no children of their own they were much-loved aunt and uncle to lots of nephews and nieces. Sally is sad but she knows he isn't in any more pain and she is thankful for all the years they had together. When she cries she says 'I'm so sorry, I know I shouldn't be doing this'. She is dignified in her distress because she says that 'Joe wouldn't want me to carry on like this. He'd say "Buck up Sally"'. I tell her that Joe hung on so he could see the face that was so precious to him one more time, and then he was able to go.

How lucky is Sally, that she's had that kind of love in her life? And how brave?



PS Because I detest New Year's Eve so much I have nobly volunteered to work a night shift tomorrow. If you go out please be careful! Love and luck to you all in 2012!

Where I Do Something Good And Not Just With Cake.....

I thought it might be a good idea to bash a post out whilst waiting for the flea man to arrive - his ETA is 'between 08.30 and 13.00' and it's now 11.30. I'm starting to worry that he's already been here, tried our notoriously temperamental door bell, got no response and cleared off again. Which would be not only very bad from the severely bitten Big Man's point of view but very annoying from the point of view of the person who got everything up off the floor in readiness for the spraying. That would be moi. Here's a tip on how you can tell there are fleas in your carpet; your cat won't lie down on any surface lower than 3ft. Hence Otto is currently asleep (or trying to sleep, in between my accusational rants at him) on the work surface in the kitchen. Yeah, I know it's not very hygienic but I'll get the Cillit Bang out later....

Anyway, that's by-the-by. I wanted to write about last Thursday when I did A Very Good Thing. We got a letter from Macmillan a couple months back asking if we would hold a Coffee Morning to raise funds. I talked it over with Mac, my manager and we decided to go for it. The home I work in is surrounded by sheltered accomodation flats...talking about incredibly independant old people here who own their flats and go out shopping in their mini-bus each week, garden, walk laps of the grounds in a healthy stylee - not sad, isolated, poor pensioners. We're building up links with our neighbours so I invited them to the fundraiser. Well, I invited their spokeslady Betty and she did the rest. I sent invitations to the school-on-the-corner; put our event on the Macmillan website; heck, I even baked. Peanut Butter Cupcakes and Best Lemon Bars if you're interested. I took the makeup we'd had donated plus plenty of other stuff Boots had given; found lots of items for raffle prizes (because I haven't got enough life left to use all the body lotion sets I've received at Christmases and birthdays lol!); and went to local supermarkets to ask for cake donations.....Co-op and Sainsburys, you rock! Tesco and Lidl, you stink! I was very nervous beforehand and also worried that I wouldn't be able to cope with everything on my own but Red very kindly came over and was a great big help plus one of the carers, Twinkle, gave up her afternoon off and was also fab. I couldn't have done it without them because we were totally over-run with guests.

We made almost £35 for Macmillan and just under £100 for the Residents Fund. I hope nobody thinks that it was a bit underhand not to give all the proceeds to Macmillan but the way I look at it is the charity gets £35 from our guests that it wouldn't otherwise have had and I made it very overt that the raffle, make-up sale, plus a book sale we held too were all to raise funds for our residents. Fundraising is part of my job and if the Coffee Afternoon ended up being a vehicle for our own cause, well I'm not gonna apologise for that. Next thing is a party for Halloween. I wanted to have fireworks (and knowing my daughter I don't suppose anybody will be surprised to hear she has a friend who is a pyrotechnician. Sets fireworks off for a living in other words!). He was happy to do the job and provide the fireworks but Health and Safety has reared its ugly head and we can't do it....the old people's flats are too close to us. And even I can see that it wouldn't do to incinerate them before they've helped us raise enough money to see the Christmas panto...

Lakota has asked about the Chocolate Coca-Cola Cake. It was divine, my dears! The recipe is from a fantastic book I got (I think) from eBay called The Great American Bake Sale. I'm a massive fan of American cookery books and although they can be tricky to use, because they measure things differently to the UK, they're fine if you have the American cups and liquid cups jug. Mine came from the US but I assume you can get them online. I also have an absolutely fab book that I bought ages ago called American Cooking in England - it's written by Delora Jones, an American ex-pat who gives all sorts of measurement conversions plus she tells you what American ingredients are called in the UK. Did you know that what we call chick peas they call garbanzo beans? Very, very useful but sadly out of print right now. Delora does however have an updated version coming out next month though at £28 it's a bit steep if you're just a casual American recipe user. I see there is ONE copy of The Pocketbook Guide To American Cooking in England on Amazon for £3.99.....

Chocolate Coca-Cola Cake - makes one 9 x 13-inch sheet cake

1lb SR flour
1lb castor sugar
3T cocoa powder
1t bicarbonate of soda
1/2 pint Coke (not cheapo version, must be the Real Thing!)
8oz butter or margerine
4floz buttermilk (I used regular milk with a biggish squeeze of lemon juice)
2 eggs, well-beaten
1t vanilla extract
4oz mini marshmallows

Preheat oven to 175C

Combine flour, sugar, cocoa and bicarb in mixing bowl. Combine Coke and butter/marg in saucepan and bring to boil. Pour over dry ingredients and stir to blend. Mix in buttermilk, eggs, vanilla and marshmallows (batter will be thin). Pour into greased and floured (I use Wilton Cake Release instead. Get it at The Range or Lakeland) 9 x 13-inch pan. bake 35-38 minutes. Let cool 15 minutes then spread with warm frosting.

Coca-Cola Frosting

4oz butter or margerine
6T Coke
3T cocoa powder
1lb icing sugar
5oz chopped, toasted pecans

Combine butter, Coke and cocoa in saucepan and bring just to boil. Pour over icing sugar and blend until smooth (I did this with my stick blender). Stir in pecans. Use while warm.

This is just gorgeous, if not a bit sickly. I found it took longer than even 38 minutes to cook because it's a very runny batter in a biggish tin so I had to cover it with foil half way through to stop it burning whilst it cooked. You don't HAVE to put pecans in the frosting but it makes it damned delicious if you do. And no, I don't have any photos - it didn't last that long. You can find the recipes for Peanut Butter Cupcakes and Best Lemon Bars in The Great American Bake Sale too....only 46p plus postage on Amazon.
Go gettit folks!!!!!

A Day of Two Halves

This morning I spent an hour sitting with Vera. 93 years old and she is not 'going gently into that good night'. The screaming was hard to cope with but the weirdest thing was the way she kept looking intently at someone I couldn't see. The curtain between the living and the dead seemed very thin today.....

....then later, after the ambulance took Vera we had some entertainment. A duo, who my manager had told me were very funny, came to sing and play music. Well they were funny all right - Ken is the Les Dawson of the concertina world whilst Deirdre sang even more bum notes than he played. Irene kept giving me a worried look that said 'where's the Candid Camera?' whilst Dorian (who deserves a whole post of her own) didn't stop sniggering all the way through, then blamed me afterwards for having a cheeky face. Whatever charms I may possess by the way, a cheeky face isn't one of them :S. Needless to say my work colleagues all showed clean pairs of heels, leaving me singing-along by myself, as usual. Looking on the bright side Ken and Deirdre were cheap, knew every song from the 30s to the 60s that we threw at them and are keen to come back. And the residents enjoyed it once they realised they weren't part of 'You've Been Framed' so that's all that matters.

From tragedy to comedy in six hours.

This Is Ghost World

Regular readers will know that I work at a nursing home as an Activities Co-ordinator and sometimes I fill in as a carer which is what I've been doing this week. We look after the elderly who need 24 hour nursing care and/or have special needs and/or early stage dementia. I love the activities side but I don't much like personal care. Most people don't have the first idea of what goes on in a nursing home ( I thought it would be a cross between 'Waiting For God' and 'One Foot in the Grave' - how wrong I was) and would rather somebody else took care of old people. I'm cool with that.
But the world of the nursing home is a strange and unsettling one, filled with the ghosts of carefree, young, bright, brave men and women, shadows of what they once were. The residents' families flit in and quickly out again - if indeed they visit at all, preferring to pay strangers large sums to care for their parents' earthly needs and to provide the comfort and companionship they no longer feel able to give. Rooms echo to the sounds of long dead performers - Glenn Miller, Ambrose, Alma Cogan, Billy Fury - and the air is perfumed with Old Spice, Lily of the Valley and decay. All the residents have left are a few photographs and their memories. Not all of them have even those.

In 4 is Jean whose son tells me she was a WAAF in WW2. He tells me she is 'Hampshire through and through' and even spent the war based in the New Forest. Later Jean tells me that she was based in Iceland for four years during the war but she can't remember which branch of the RAF she served in. She is droll and peppers her conversation with phrases such as 'now you're talking my language' when I ask if she'd like a cuppa. She winks at me as she drinks her tea through a straw but her expression says 'we both know this life is a crock of crap' and she sleeps for 22 hours a day.

Rose is in 16 and she too was a WAAF in the war. It was the best time of her life she tells me. Now the regular care staff and the nurses are driven demented by Rose's constant ringing on the buzzer...every twenty minutes she is 'dying for a wee'. They are in and out of her room all day and her underarms are bruised from being hoisted up and down from armchair to commode and back again. Each time she squeezes out one or two drops of urine or a tiny hard pebble of poo. There's no medical reason for the incessant need for the toilet - she just needs to know that people are still there. When she's not on the commode Rose sits in her stifling room, windows firmly closed, staring at a blank TV screen.

Then in 11 we have Irene; a great-granny many times over, Type 2 diabetic and laziest resident in the house. She sits Jabba the Hutt-like with her knitting and her televised sport, always amenable  - 'whatever's easiest for you, I don't mind' - until actually required to do something like walk to the dining room or out to the garden, when she'll start sobbing and complain of terrible pains in her legs and 'feeling all wobbly'. Irene worked for the Post Office as a telephonist and later taking telephone bets for a bookie but now she doesn't remember her late brother's name and tells me every day that she has a sister who is 99. Her daughter and grand-daughter visit every second day with numerous children in tow, always across dinner time. But at least they care.

Dennis is only with us for a week's respite, in 5. He arrived alone in a cab wearing dirty clothes and in need of a wash, a shave and a haircut. His daughter is his main carer. Once Dennis travelled to his own apartment on the Algarve four times a year. Once he knew by heart every taxi route around Southampton, when he drove one himself. Once he was a marine engineer and worked on our great naval aircraft carriers. Now he sits out in the garden in pilled old sweat pants and talks about his days as an evacuee. He was so happy out in the Forest that he refused to come home until eight years after the war ended. I said I'll cut his hair when I'm back at work on Friday and he's so, so very grateful.

Ethel in 8 had a stroke and has dementia. She came to us on the back of a four month stay in the General. She is a widow with a son, daughter-in-law, granddaughter, grandson-in-law and great grandson. Ethel can only say one or two words but she hangs onto your hand for grim death when you sit beside her. She wears such a look of abject terror all the time that one can only wonder what is going on inside her head and how much of anything she understands. But when I show her the photo of her old self with her husband she rubs her gnarled finger softly up and down his image and I think she remembers. Ethel was once a big woman and her clothes, her 'old Ethel' clothes hang from her now tiny body. Her family should really replace them but I've only seen her son the once.

I know most of the residents' stories; what authors and screenwriters call 'back-stories'. That's my job, to find out things about our residents because that's what we do nowadays so we can 'help' them; tailor entertainment to their interests; 'understand'. We poke into their lives and say 'gosh, that's awful' or 'I bet that was a good laugh' or 'weren't you brave?' or '99 years old, really?' then move on to the next body, the next bed.
We exhume their memories and exter their ghosts, setting them free to swirl around the rooms of their keepers whilst we clock off back into the here and now.

Out Of Sorts...Time To Take To My Bed Methinks

Thanks to you who hoped I had a good night at work last night. It was okay...fairly tedious although I did have a 'poor me' moment this morning at 6.30. Like I said I work in a care home, not as a carer, but I was kinda 'bumped' into covering for short-staffedness by working as a carer for a 12-hour shift. I got some knitting done, watched a bit of Tomb Raider and finished a jigsaw but by about 4.00 I was starting to flag. At 6.30 I found myself in a client's bathroom and at the same time the Kings of Leon 'Use Somebody' came on his radio. All I could think was that a couple years back I was camping at Reading Festival with Red and we were singing along to that same tune with thousands of other KOL fans. Now here I was, washing an old man's armpits. How the f*!/@ did I end up here? Cue plenty of Slavic/Gaelic gloom...

I know how I ended up here. I'm trying to pay off debts incurred by our defunct business, which is why my altercation with Big Man yesterday (things are still rather fraught, btw) seemed so unjustified. I just don't know....can you all please put your Crown Court wigs on...?

It seems to me that, in almost all of the PF blogs I read it's the female partner who does the bulk of the worrying, repaying, figure-juggling and just plain sorting-out of the finances (with Frugal Queen's DB an honourable exception...possibly more too) and mine and Big Man's situation is no different. He pays lip-service to debt repayment but he doesn't have the drive or desire to owe nothing that I do. He puts the big light on in the front room at night when he's just watching TV then gets annoyed when I ask whether it's necessary. He isn't willing to give up his 5 or 6 bottles of wine a week. He never checks the freezer or cupboards before buying bread or mayonnaise or ketchup or whatever he fancies (which drives me CRAZY!!! I always say 'at least it's your own money you're wasting..' That's right, I have our money, he has his money). He has always left all financial affairs to me - this was the most sensible thing to do when he was away at sea - but if you're thinking that I got us into this mess on my own, erm...no. We had a business that failed. I begged Big Man to fold it 18 months before he finally agreed which has resulted in us having to repay an £18k personal guarantee (an overdraft taken out in the period when I wanted us to close the whole show down) and has given Nat West a charge on our house. That's the background.

Big Man's car had to be scrapped and when the hauler came he left a cheque for £150 that wasn't made out to anybody. In December last year I too had a car that was scrapped and I too got £150 that I used to repay a small overdraft. I assumed, rightly or wrongly, that we were in this together and that Big Man's £150 would go towards debts. I didn't realise that when Big Man came home from work he saw the blank cheque. I thought it would be funny to write my name as the payee then show it to him with an innocent face, saying 'look who the man made the cheque out to!'. Which I did. And he was furious.

That was HIS money. That I was controlling. That it wasn't funny. That HE'D paid for that car. I said that it was just a joke, that I'd assumed it was going to go towards paying credit cards down (especially since, despite knowing we...well, obviously it's I; I know that now...were working hard to get rid of the Halifax credit card he put £81 on the card to pay for some extra car insurance. He said that he'd told me he was going to do that but it wasn't true. He was just banking on me not remembering, like people sometimes don't when they are working FOUR JOBS! However I never forget anything to do with money...); that I thought we were in this together. But clearly we're not. I think the thing that upset and yes, insulted me the most, was when he said 'since you've taken it just make sure you pay it all onto the Halifax card'. As if I haven't been working my ass off since the start of the year and paid every penny I've earned against our debts. I don't get wine. I don't buy a M&S Brie and Cranberry sandwich nearly every day. I don't want to buy takeaways every week. 
It ended up with me transferring the £150 straight into his bank account from the joint one. And he let me. So am I the effing idiot or what?
Don't get me wrong. Big Man has a lot of good points. I'm starting to realise though that the bulk of this is going to be on me and that frightens and saddens me a bit.

The final 'taking to my bed' spur was Red's problems with her landlord. I went to bed at 9.00 this morning. At 1.30 Red rang to say that she and her oppos were having problems with their landlord over some rent. There are five sharing the house and the couple amongst them have unbeknownst to the landlord moved in a snake, some stick insects, a lizard and a very big lizard. They don't want to antagonise the landlord in case he calls over and finds the Lewisham Zoo in his front bedroom. Red and her two other friends want to move out and quick. After asking whether she had woken me up Red proceeded to chunter for another half an hour. Within 20 minutes the letting agent rang to complain about Red. Well, I think that's what she thought would happen but she hadn't bargained for the now extremely fractious Tiger Mother. After sending her off with a flea in her ear I had another two calls from Red, one from her friend and one from her landlord. According to Red and her friends he is psychotic and needs to be sectioned. After today he and I should get along fine.

So m'learned friends. Thoughts and sympathy gratefully received. Seriously...don't be kind just 'cos you like me....
I'll be in bed if you need anything.

A MASSIVE Job Jobbed And A Dilemma Resolved

I finally finished my census job tonight and I feel like a kid let out of school for the holliers! It wasn't at all onerous - the weather was lovely, people were polite and sweet, I was able to work at my own pace and the money has been a real help to me in my debt-reducing endeavours. I'll miss doing it in a way but after six weeks I'm ready to get my nights and weekends back. Pity it's only every ten years - I'd do it every year!

Good bye, money-making opportunity!

Today a dilemma was solved for me, but not really the way I wanted it to be.

Our new manager at work, Mac, asked me on Wednesday whether I would consider doing some extra work as a carer. My job is Activities Co-ordinator in a nursing home and doesn't involve any care-related work, even though I have been trained in Manual Handling and a few other bits - I suppose that was one point in Malicia's favour....she gave me a couple of other strings to my bow. The idea was that, because we are very short of carers, I would become a 'bank' carer to fit in as and when at times when we're short-staffed. A separate contract with a tiny bit more money in the hourly rate. I told Mac that I'd think about it and tell him today.

I went home and spoke to Big Man about it - he wasn't keen, and I can see it from his viewpoint. We both wanted to work part-time so that we can take care of Carb Addict between us when he's home from his unit (he's a 38-week boarder, which means he's home every weekend and every holiday), and so that I can do my other bits of work (like mystery shopping, eBaying, this census and Poll Clerk stuff, etc). I thought about it and decided that I WOULD do it, with some caveats. One, that it was only until the end of the year; two, that it was just 'as and when', not set shifts; and three, that it was a separate contract. 

I went in to work this morning and told Mac my conditions....what do you think he said? He told me that things had changed and that it looked as if it was sorted out now - someone who had been offered a job working nights and turned it down had come back and said that she would do it; another person's sister is going to be a bank carer; and our housekeeper/cook had asked if she could transfer over to care work. So all my deliberating and cogitating was for nothing! The main reason I'd agreed was to save myself from having to scrabble around for more work now my other stuff has finished but it looks like I'll be scrutinising the mystery shopping websites again from now on! 

You never know, things could change again and at least Mac has said that rather than recruit a second Activities Co-ordinator to share my job when we get more residents, I can keep upping my hours (I currently do 16 hours over four days). And as I always say, everything happens for a reason. 

For now I'm going to relax and enjoy my weekend. On Monday me and Big Man are off on a little jaunt for a few days....one of us sure deserves it!!!!!!

AV Or Not AV? That Is The Question.....

...but I don't want your answers. Votes are secret, right?

Today I spent 15 hours at a local polling station. I was a Poll Clerk for the day and whilst it wasn't super-massive fun it wasn't too onerous. My colleagues, all but one of whom were city council employees, were complaining about how long the day was going to be from about 9 am (we started at 6.30 am); how it was going to drag; and how tedious it was going to be. They obviously have never spent 12 hours on a railway siding counting pedestrians....no moral fibre.

Like I said, all but one of the other five people knew each other from work and had done the job on several occasions. Poll clerks were paid about £150 after tax - not bad and mine will go straight into the bank tomorrow. However, one of the council employees told me that he had expected to have to book a day's leave to work in the polling station today and was pleasantly surprised to be told that not only didn't he have to book a day off, he also would get his regular day's pay PLUS the clerking pay. Is it just me or does anybody else find that totally outrageous?! I was really annoyed (but hid it very well, obviously) and just said 'no wonder you're all clamouring for the poll station work then' - when I had my training for the job almost all the others there were council employees.

I find it amazing that the council would happily pay its employees twice for the one job and am not at all surprised that public sector workers are clinging onto their jobs and perks with all their might. That's money from council tax paid by all the inhabitants of this city and I think it's just wrong, wrong, WRONG. I can understand that nobody's going to say 'actually, I won't take two lots of pay for this one day's work', after all they are just going along with a precedent that has been set, presumably for a long time. But at a time when councils are moaning that they have to cut back on frontline services perhaps they should look at the money that they've paid out to their employees for this one day. And I don't wanna hear the argument 'if the council workers weren't willing to do it there wouldn't be enough people to man the polling stations' - my local council found an extra 150 that they were told were needed with no trouble at all.  It just seems like 'jobs for the boys' to me.

I must say, I've worked in the NHS and it was nothing like the rest of the public sector seems to be. Cushy with a capital C.......

Goodbye Malicia, Goodbye

I said I had some exciting news the end of this week and I think it's finally safe to tell you. If you read this post you'll remember that I've been working for a truly toxic boss, Malicia. Well, we had a staff meeting a few weeks ago and the kicker at the end was that she had handed in her resignation and would be leaving on April 27. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah, hallelujah, halleeeeelujah!!!

It was really odd because on the agenda was 'Manager' and when we got to that item, the last on the list she said 'Well, I want you all to know that Malicia is leaving, she's setting off for pastures new' and continued talking about herself in the third person. Bizarre. She carried on to say that she had been headhunted and had two interviews and actually been offered the job but turned it down (a likely story - would any company headhunt a 62 year old who is leaving her job voluntarily after 10 months? I think not.) She told us that she is thinking of opening a coffee shop with her other half who has now retired and wants her to slow down. For varying reasons, not least that she can't relate to people and has none of the warmth of character you expect from a host, I can't see her pulling this one off. Stas, our lovely Polish RGN always says that 'she is like vampire, taking all the happiness away'. Not really what you want serving up your muffin and latte.

One or two of the staff said 'all the best' and 'good luck for the future' but I said nothing. I can't be a hypocrite....I just remember how she upset and offended everybody; has had almost every member of staff in tears at times; and drove out our lovely Clinical Manager and our great fun, dynamic chef. No, I am not sorry in the slightest...inside I was cheering. And the best news is that our super laid back Deputy Manager is taking over from her. It's the best possible result. All last week the atmosphere was so much lighter - we could laugh, have a bit of a joke....we all sat down together with the residents and watched the Royal Wedding. Everybody was happy and relaxed. There's just no way that would have been allowed had Malicia been there. I already liked my job, despite everything. Now I'm gonna LOVE it!!!!

And no, I didn't sign her card or put anything in the collection. Anybody who can tell a person they're not smiling enough at work a fortnight after their sister died wouldn't get the steam off my ?!%*@, as they say in the North....

How Do You Overcome A Toxic Boss?

No, it's not a joke in need of a punchline - it's a serious question. What do you do when you work for somebody who is erratic, unpredictable, a micro-managing, nit-picking rule-maker and in many ways totally deluded? When even your husband, not the world's most perceptive person (possibly even borderline Asperger's!), says that he can see you become less confident and losing your self-esteem?

I work in a care environment but am not a health or care professional (that's important). The establishment I work in was closed previously by Social Services but has been totally refurbished and has a complete new staff. It has been 'open for business' since September last year but so far, primarily as a result of the previous difficulties, has only two residents. I work 16 hours a week and am supposed to have a colleague to mirror me, making one full-time post but as we are under-subscribed I am on my own for now.

I know I'm creative - I've got a degree in Fine Art; I thought I was confident (heck, I've taught teenage boys - you can't be a shrinking violet and do that); I have a lot of good ideas that I'm dying to put out there; people usually like me..I know they do. I think I can be really funny and I make people laugh. Maybe my problem is I want to be liked, but I can't believe, underneath it all, that it's me who has the problem.

This week, because the manager....let's call her Malicia...hadn't stressed to the staff the importance of taking holiday by the end of March, (bearing in mind that we've been employed for six months now) there has been only me, a Romanian RGN and Malicia (who is an RGN too) at work to care for two old ladies, one of whom is non-ambulant. Malicia normally stays in her office when we're at our full complement but this week she's had to muck in. Today, a couple of hours into my shift, I saw Malicia ask the other RGN if she could have a word with her and took her off somewhere - my antennae went up. Next thing she calls me to her office where the other RGN is already waiting. Proceeded to say that she wanted to talk about things that had happened in the last hour. I put on my 'quizzical but interested' face, obviously still oblivious to the next remark. Which was that I was involving myself in medical things not of my concern and that I had said something to a resident that could bring 'Safeguarding' down on us.

Gobsmacked, followed by incredulity, followed by indignation.

Although I am trained in Manual Handling my job doesn't, in theory, necessitate it. Because all the care staff were on holidayor off duty I was in the position where I had to help the RGN with the hoist etc and yesterday, whilst hoisting her into bed one resident had asked us four times to take her socks off before she had her sleep. Today she asked us again several times and I said, laughingly 'You just tell me now, XXXX, who's forcing these socks on your feet anyway?!' The way you do with a child, or at least I used to with Red, Mr Charming and Carb Addict anyway, just acting silly. She laughed, I laughed and I thought nothing of it. That was the first thing I did wrong, apparently. This lady who, bless her, can't remember what she had for lunch an hour after she's eaten it, might tell her daughter when she visits tomorrow that she had been forced to wear socks. Long lecture followed. Then, even worse apparently, I had asked the RGN what would happen if our other resident suddenly got into bad pain, when she is given Paracetamol every four hours as a matter of course. What do you give then??    I asked, I suppose, because I am basically nosy although I have to say that I wasn't really listening to the answer. Second mistake. I shouldn't be querying what they, professional nursing staff were doing because I am not a member of the caring staff. Just good enough to do the lifting and handling when everyone else is off, even though it's not my job. 

Well, I told her that I asked because I was nosy but that I didn't particularly care what tablets they were giving out and I'd obviously offended her for which I apologise. Whilst wanting to kill her stone dead. And do you know how all this came about??

My face was red when I started because I'd gone from the rain outside to a superheated atmosphere, and stayed red (I have complained to all and sundry about the heat of the place). Malicia pulled the RGN aside and asked if I was angry or upset and the RGN, who earlier I had been talking to about her wish to have babies; how she loved children and so on; who I had made laugh when I sang 'Goodnight Sweetheart' to the lady as we left her in bed, had told all this to Malicia. WTF!!!! Maybe I'm wrong but if you're a manager and you think (wrongly) that one of your staff members has a problem, don't you ask them? Why would you ask someone else? And you know something else? If I was an RGN and I thought someone was out of line in what they said I think I'd tell them myself. She later told me 'I feel a lot better after that conversation' (with me and Malicia). Well isn't that great, at least one of us did. 

Since we started in September seven staff members have left including the Deputy Manager RGN who wasn't allowed to do her job, and the chef - both of whom wrote and told the higher-ups exactly why they were leaving; whilst Malicia was on holiday the Deputy Manager Admin called in Head Office because of the atmosphere, the staff turnover and so on, and there was a big meeting with the remaining staff and a HO person - we all wrote statements and some people stated that they had been bullied by Malicia, which I thought would be pretty serious. What happened? Bugger all. I really like my colleagues (apart from the RGN from today who I now detest but will never have an inkling), and need the job to get rid of our debts, but the day we pay the last penny off I'm outta there. 

Massive post, massive rant I know but....any thoughts gals? 

Ever Feel Like Giving Yourself A Good Slap?

Well, do ya?

I applied for a job with the Census 2011 people because I want the extra money - I'm planning to take some time off from my regular job to do it in April. I got through the first part, the form filling bit. Then I got through to the telephone interview and that was all fine. So far so good. I got an email shortly afterwards with a conditional offer of work. Hurrah! That was on December 14. This evening I was going through my emails deleting all the old crap when I came across the job offer. I started reading it again because I had seen on MSE that some people had been for their classroom session and I was wondering why I'd heard nothing from the census people. Reading further than the bit that mentioned 'conditional offer' (something I failed to do the first time round) I was aghast to see that I was supposed to send copies of ID and a photo WITHIN A WEEK OF RECEIVING THE EMAIL!!!!!!! The email dated 14 December!!!

There's nothing I can do about it tonight, clearly, so I will have to ring tomorrow and, although I know it's wrong, pretend that I sent the stuff in time and am wondering why I haven't heard anything from them. I know, I know, it's very bad and my tongue will turn black for telling a lie, but I need to get the job and make some extra money. What's more to the point is why do I sabotage myself by not paying attention to things and being such a procrastinator? What is wrong with me that I can't concentrate on things that are really important and that matter? Do I have some kind of inbuilt self-destruct switch? Or is it like Homer Simpson says 'Every time I learn something new something old falls out of my brain'? Am I really that dim? I'm starting to think I probably am.

In which case I need a good slap.