When I was walking the Camino, I was asked on many occasions if I had ever gone to Lourdes. And when I would say no, I would invariably be told "you must go and bathe in the waters...the energy is so strong". So of course I was curious. What energy??
Lourdes is one stop from Tarbes so I decided on a day trip to make the most of my sojourn in Maubourguet. In hindsight I could have stayed overnight.
The bathing facilities or 'les piscines' as they were called were open twice a day and bathers were requested to line up an hour before opening. I had been warned that there would be crowds so I decided to opt for the afternoon session and arrive a few hours before. Officially known as Sanctuaires Notre Dame de Lourdes, it is a big complex nestled amongst the green valleys of the village of Lourdes just north of the Pyrénées National Park. To cater for the numbers of pilgrims, the train station was significant compared to the size of the village. There was also a waiting room - full of people in wheelchairs. On this particular day, it was grey and rather cold and when I got off at the station, it was quiet. I found the tourist office where I picked up some maps and made my way through the very commercialised area of cheap shops selling Lourdes merchandise. October was clearly past the peak summer season. Some of the shops weren't even open.
The sun started to appear and it turned into a crisp but sunny autumn morning. I was lucky. The crowds were not there and as I toured the gardens, the cathedral and the grotto, I could feel a certain energy of grace and calmness. So here already was this energy.....Naturally Lourdes was a visual celebration of the Virgin, and believers came from all over to be cured, healed and blessed. She was everywhere.
At 1pm , I made my way to the pools to queue up. There were two entries - one for men and one for women - and rows of pew like benches under cover and next to a low building. There were no men and perhaps about twenty women who were waiting before me. Someone came out to hand out papers with information about the pools and a prayer to the Virgin. As I was sitting on the wooden bench, a voice from the side asked me if I would keep her bag for her while she went to the bathroom. I turned as I recognised the familiar but now distant Australian accent. I of course obliged and when she returned asked her the obvious question. Debra was from Western Australia and was now living in Northern Ireland. This was her third visit to Lourdes.
As the hour approached for the afternoon session, we were asked by the staff, all female volunteers, to pray and sing to the Virgin. Then in groups of four or five, we were taken inside the building and I have never seen anything like it. The interior was separated by curtains that formed square cubicles. Groups of approximately four or five women were taken inside each cubicle and each person was helped by at least one other volunteer to completely strip as the volunteer held a sheet around you to protect your privacy. In the process I also had to remove my glasses and from then on it was all a bit of a blur. I then waited my turn when I was taken into the next area which was separated by another curtain and inside there was a narrow marble pool with two steps going down. There was a statue of Mary on the other end. The volunteer told me to step down into the pool. I still had the sheet wrapped around me. She then asked me to visualise my intentions or prayers and then make the sign of the cross. Next, she and another woman helped me walk down into the water which was about knee deep and cold. They told me to walk through the water to the head of the narrow marble coffin like space, kiss the statue and then they pulled me back quite forcibly, whisking the sheet away as they put me into the water so that all of me apart from my head was immersed. It was very quick. They then helped me up, wrapped me up again and I went back to the other side of the curtain and got dressed. It was an experience like no other. Having said that I am not so sure of the energy of the water. It was so quick that I barely had time to feel it.
I am not a Catholic so Lourdes does not have the significance that it might have to a believer but I have no doubt that there is something special about the place. The volunteer helpers were beautiful people. They embodied such a quite, gentle, compasssionate grace. And I did feel different after my cold bath. It was subtle as if the cobwebs inside of me had been washed away and the world appeared to sparkle. Perhaps one could argue that it was a fabrication of my mind wishing for something to be different or it was the contrast in the light after stepping outside again. Somehow I don't think so.
The Church is probably one of the biggest group of 'con' men gathered together but they have been clever and lucky in their assets. Places of worship, such as Chartres, Santiago de Compostela and Rosslyn Chapel, were often built on sacred ground siezed from pagan believers, ground that over time was known to those who were in touch with the rhythms and cycles of nature to hold a special 'energy', ancient sites of divination .......The Camino is another jackpot when you think of the number of people that walk these routes everyday from Spain and beyond to reach Santiago. I was told at the Pilgrim Office in St Jean Pied de Port that over 240 people set off each day from there. The numbers have probably increased in the last year, due to the film , The Way. Interestingly, Fiona McLaren in Da Vinci's Last Commission suggests that it wasn't actually Santiago that the original pilgrims had been heading for. They were going via Santiago to Iona in Scotland, an ancient Druid and later Culdee place of worship. The Church not wanting to be associated with pagan beliefs cleverly used the original pilgrimage route but directed its pilgrims to Santiago. Perhaps Sant Iago isn't even buried there....
Returning to Lourdes, whatever miracles St Bernadette might have manifested, people continue to pay it homage. It is a sanctuary and I was fortunate to be there on a quiet day so I could really feel the energy of the place.
After emerging from the pools, Debra suggested we have a cup of tea and as we were on our way to the gawdy tourist shops and cafes, she told me about a statue she had bought the last time she was here. It was a small hand carved wooden representation of the Virgin, as I was to later discover. Out of curiosity although with no desire to buy anything from these cheap shops, I asked her to point it out to me if she saw it. I was interested in seeing if there was any craftmanship in the work or whether it was along the lines of most of what was on display.
She took me straight to the shop she had bought it from and it was full of statues. In her effervescent way, Debra told the shop keeper that she had brought me to see the same Mary she had purchased three months earlier. I'm not even sure if the woman remembered Debra.
Mary came in many sizes and she was rather expensive. The woman in the shop took them all out of the cabinet to show me. I really had no desire to buy any but I felt obliged to look at them seeing they had all come out of the glass case. I could see why Debra had fallen in love with her statue. It was very finely carved in a light beech coloured wood. It was as long as my hand and about half the width. Mary wore a crown and had roses at her feet. In spite of my earlier thoughts on the tackiness of the Lourdes merchandise, this statue was different. And although I really didn't want to spend 50 euros on a carving, I could feel her calling me.... What was this place??
I thanked the shopkeeper and told Debra we could go and have our cup of tea now. Mary was very nice but I would leave her in her case. We walked across the road to have a tea and a pastry. I was aware of the time as I had a train to catch back to Tarbes just after 4pm. Debra suggested I stay with her for the night. Thinking back on that day, I don't know why I didn't. I really had no reason to return to the bed and breakfast except to book my hire car on the internet for the next day. Had I stayed I would have also been able to see the Torchlight Marian Procession at 9pm which I had been told was beautiful.
After our cup of tea, I decided to go back to the statue shop just to have one more look at Mary. And then of course I had to buy her. With 15 minutes to spare before my train was due to depart, Debra and I walked back towards the station. I said my good byes and left her at her hotel as I ran to the train station with Mary wrapped in tissue in a small box in my backpack.
Friday 30 November 2012
Saturday 3 November 2012
The Bed and Breakfast
Maubourguet is a small village and like many small French villages there is a town centre with a some basic shops including the post office, a few pharmacies, banks, some restaurants, a couple of bakeries and other food stores. The market comes to town every Tuesday. Madame's house which was also the B&B was within walking distance of the town. There was an infrequent bus service from Maubourguet to the next biggest town centre of Tarbes which is 30 km away.
After settling in at Madame's - it was so lovely to have my own room and bathroom after all the hostelling throughtout the Camino - my first venture into the town was to visit the pharmacy. I did my best to explain my itching to the pharmacist, suggesting that perhaps I had fleas or bed bugs or some allergic reaction to the ham. As far as I could understand, he reassured me that the itching was caused by a seasonal insect. I was dubious about the diagnosis but went home with ointment that was supposed to fix it.
Staying with Madame who understandably was very stressed, having sold her house, turned out to be an unusual experience...In the first few hours of my arrival she had confided in me about her divorce and her children who did not visit her enough. She told me about how she had come to set up her B&B and how she now wanted to do that somewhere closer to Paris. I had come prepared to work hard in her B&B, helping to care for her guests and hopefully in the process improve my French. I had not anticipated being a counsellor...
The first day was actually very pleasant. She welcomed me to her beautiful home and after we arrived from the station, we sat down to a delicious light lunch in her courtyard garden. The weather was still balmy and the autumn had not yet fully set in. As the hours passed, little by little, the expectations I had of my stay with her started to come apart. I wasn't to take any food or drink into my room, the cheese had to be stored in the pantry fridge and not the one in the kitchen but the butter was to go in the kitchen fridge and not the other, the crumbs had to be emptied out of the toaster after each use, she couldn't afford to feed me lunch so I should buy my own ingredients to make my lunches (as it became apparent, the rest of my meals consisted of reheated frozen food so she could empty her fridge out), I wasn't to come into the main house until late morning (my room had its own entrance) because she was busy and didn't want to be disturbed. And the stories continued about her ex-husband and her children who were hurtful and disappointing and who did not want to visit.....
In and amongst Madame's idiosyncrasies, there were moments of fun and delight - I had swims in the swimming pool that was set in a garden of lavender and cosmos. We went to the market to buy groceries and the French markets are real produce markets and a way of life. The French have their own chains of supermarkets which all appear to be thriving and yet the market culture is still strong and one can find them throughout the country. I helped Madame prepare meals for her final guests. We made a dish which consisted of a whole leg of lamb placed inside a pain de campagne with vegetables and olives and baked in the oven. It was like making a stuffed pumpkin but out of bread - we cut a lid off the top, scraped out the bread, and then placed the lamb and the vegetables and tied the whole thing up with some string. It looked quite spectacular. The only problem was the whole construction was too big for the oven and the door had to be forced shut. I also had time to write and reflect on my Camino. It was a restful time for the first few days until it became evident that I couldn't keep this up for two and a half weeks...
And I had no transport except the limited bus service to Tarbes, 30 km away, the nearest airport was Aéroport de Tarbes Lourdes Pyrénées and even further away....I suppose I could have walked and continued my pilgrimage... but by now, I had all of my luggage with me and not just my pack.
After settling in at Madame's - it was so lovely to have my own room and bathroom after all the hostelling throughtout the Camino - my first venture into the town was to visit the pharmacy. I did my best to explain my itching to the pharmacist, suggesting that perhaps I had fleas or bed bugs or some allergic reaction to the ham. As far as I could understand, he reassured me that the itching was caused by a seasonal insect. I was dubious about the diagnosis but went home with ointment that was supposed to fix it.
Staying with Madame who understandably was very stressed, having sold her house, turned out to be an unusual experience...In the first few hours of my arrival she had confided in me about her divorce and her children who did not visit her enough. She told me about how she had come to set up her B&B and how she now wanted to do that somewhere closer to Paris. I had come prepared to work hard in her B&B, helping to care for her guests and hopefully in the process improve my French. I had not anticipated being a counsellor...
The first day was actually very pleasant. She welcomed me to her beautiful home and after we arrived from the station, we sat down to a delicious light lunch in her courtyard garden. The weather was still balmy and the autumn had not yet fully set in. As the hours passed, little by little, the expectations I had of my stay with her started to come apart. I wasn't to take any food or drink into my room, the cheese had to be stored in the pantry fridge and not the one in the kitchen but the butter was to go in the kitchen fridge and not the other, the crumbs had to be emptied out of the toaster after each use, she couldn't afford to feed me lunch so I should buy my own ingredients to make my lunches (as it became apparent, the rest of my meals consisted of reheated frozen food so she could empty her fridge out), I wasn't to come into the main house until late morning (my room had its own entrance) because she was busy and didn't want to be disturbed. And the stories continued about her ex-husband and her children who were hurtful and disappointing and who did not want to visit.....
In and amongst Madame's idiosyncrasies, there were moments of fun and delight - I had swims in the swimming pool that was set in a garden of lavender and cosmos. We went to the market to buy groceries and the French markets are real produce markets and a way of life. The French have their own chains of supermarkets which all appear to be thriving and yet the market culture is still strong and one can find them throughout the country. I helped Madame prepare meals for her final guests. We made a dish which consisted of a whole leg of lamb placed inside a pain de campagne with vegetables and olives and baked in the oven. It was like making a stuffed pumpkin but out of bread - we cut a lid off the top, scraped out the bread, and then placed the lamb and the vegetables and tied the whole thing up with some string. It looked quite spectacular. The only problem was the whole construction was too big for the oven and the door had to be forced shut. I also had time to write and reflect on my Camino. It was a restful time for the first few days until it became evident that I couldn't keep this up for two and a half weeks...
And I had no transport except the limited bus service to Tarbes, 30 km away, the nearest airport was Aéroport de Tarbes Lourdes Pyrénées and even further away....I suppose I could have walked and continued my pilgrimage... but by now, I had all of my luggage with me and not just my pack.
Wednesday 11 July 2012
Leaving Santiago
The Bus Trip
One of the highlights of 2011. A road trip in the south of France that took me to the Cathar castles – Peyreperteuse, Queribus and Montsegur. But I am way ahead of myself.
After walking 1000km across Spain, my next destination was Maubourguet in the Haute-Pyrénées department in the southwest of France. I had been invited to spend two weeks with a friend of a friend, who owned a bed and breakfast. The deal was that I would pay €30 a night for food and board in exchange for a cultural experience helping her look after her guests whilst I practised my French. Something to look forward to.
I rang Madame from Santiago as I was lunching in one of the beautiful squares with Marco, my Italian friend.
“Hello Madame, this is Lisa. How are you? I’m just ringing to make sure it’s still okay for me to stay with you. I’m boarding an overnight bus to Irun later this afternoon and should be arriving in Tarbes sometime mid morning. “
“Yes, yes, so you had a good Camino? I have sold my house. I am not sure what you can do as I am not taking any more guests. But come anyway, we will somehow manage.”
As I got off the phone and explained to Marco that Madame had sold her house, I started to wonder whether it had been a good idea to purchase a flight out of Lourdes/Tarbes airport to Copenhagen which was my next destination after the bed and breakfast. Visiting Marco in Turin might have been a better idea.
At 4pm I boarded a coach from Santiago bus terminal bound for Irun on the border between France and Spain. It was a 13 hour ride with no rest stops and no toilet on board. I had bought a sandwich for dinner to eat on the bus which later I would find contained the saltiest ham I had ever tasted.
After the wonders of the Camino, the bus trip was a bit of an anticlimax. To this day I don’t know if it was the ham sandwich or some kind of lice or mite in the upholstery of the seats but my face broke out into a massive itchy rash accompanied by more itching on my legs. I was itchy for the whole trip and I looked as if a giant mosquito had bitten the right side of my face.
I found myself seated next to a man who kept spitting up phlegm into a paperbag. At one of the bus stops a couple of hours into the trip I asked the bus driver if I could use the toilet. When I returned the man spitting up phlegm was now sitting in my seat. These had been preallocated seats but I didn’t bother asking him to move over. I took the seat in front which was next to a man dressed in a suit who seemed normal enough. By this time, it was dark outside and the lights in the bus had been turned off, presumably to allow people to sleep. It was going to be a long itchy ride.
The bus eventually was full and I fell asleep only to find myself being woken up because the suit man was rubbing himself against me. How disgusting! And as soon as I woke up, he straightened himself out as if nothing had happened. There were no free seats left, everyone else seemed to be asleep and the bus driver didn’t speak any English as I had discovered on my way to the toilet.
So I fell back asleep only to wake to the same scenario again and again. The bus ride was turning into a nightmare. Eventually in the early hours of the morning, the suit man got off.
When we finally pulled into Irun, I had no idea how I was go get to Bayonne to catch the train to Tarbes where Madame was supposed to pick me up. The internet hadn’t been able to tell me my transport options from Irun to Tarbes and the best I could find was that the two stations were only about a kilometer or two apart on Google Maps. Perhaps I could walk.
I found a fellow pilgrim from the Camino – they are hard to miss dressed in their walking gear carrying a pack, as I was. I asked where he was going and he told me he was going to Bayonne. Perhaps I could go with him? We jumped on a train with no ticket and after a few minutes I found myself in France.
It was the start of the next chapter of my trip. 5am in the morning and the town was just waking.
I bought my tickets to Tarbes station and with 35 minutes to spare, I went across the road to the only cafe/bar that seemed to be open. Un cafe crème et croissant, s’il vous-plaît. I asked in my uncertain French. After being spoilt in Spain paying only a couple of euros for a coffee and toast, any sense of sleepiness I had from the previous night was quickly extinguished as I handed over €6 to the barman.
I boarded the train and the second class seat on the SCNF was a welcome change to the bus from Santiago. There were toilets on the train, it was clean and no one was sitting next to me. Two and a half hours later, the train pulled into Tarbes, one stop after Lourdes.
I found Madame in a white jeep - a sixty-something year old French woman with a good command of the English language.
Monday 14 May 2012
An Escape and a Persian Prince
Without naming names, I had to get out. The energy was weird, like having one foot in the grave. As soon as I walked in the door it was evident I could no longer stay there. I had just gotten off a plane a couple of hours earlier, and it was now past 3pm and I wasn't sure how to get myself out. I had at least 80kg of stuff - my belongings had mushroomed from 23kg almost a year ago to now two suitcases, an additional bag, a backpack, a laptop bag and a handbag. Where had it all come from?
I rang my friend and left a message - 'could I possibly stay at your house for the next few days?' I told myself to be patient and wait. But I couldn't, so I rang my friend's mother and left a message - 'I'm in a bit of strife, could you please call me back?' Next I was tempted to contact another friend, someone I hardly knew, but stopped myself.
Eventually my friend's mother called me back. I explained that I needed to move out as quickly as I could. She said that I could stay with her and that she would collect me if the car was free. I told her I would hire a car if I had to, but by this time it was after 5pm and hire car companies would be shut. She rang me back to say that her daughter had taken the car and suggested to get a mini cab. I assumed a mini cab was a rental vehicle and I was trying to explain that the shop is probably shut but she insisted they were open 24 hours. Our wires were a little crossed over the scratchy mobile line, but eventually I worked out that a mini cab was a taxi service but offered cheaper rates. I had learned something new. After I got off the phone from her, as I continued on my way to the supermarket, I saw a sign in the window:
Mini Cab
020 8942 4444
020 8942 3339
Just what I needed! I rang them and they told me it would cost £28 to get to Ealing. They could pick me up with 15 minutes notice. I raced back to the house and threw everything into my cases. I didn't care that none of it was in any order. I just had to be able to zip up the bags.
I called the mini cab and then went to tell my housemates I was leaving.
"I'll be leaving tonight - thank you for your hospitality - you've been most kind....a cab is on its way..."
The cab arrived and a young good-looking man in a long black overcoat stepped out of the car and came to help me put with my luggage. He didn't look like a taxi driver. He was fine-boned and slender with sensitive, dark eyes. He looked like a Persian prince and probably no more than 26 years old.
As he started driving, laughingly I told him I had escaped and how nice it was to be collected in an immaculate red VW estate. I asked him about the mini cab business and how it differed from a taxi service and did he like his job? "No," he said sheepishly. He told me that everytime he had to pick up a new customer he got anxious. Customers were often obnoxious, rude and racist. Some were even violent and one had kicked his side mirror so now it was broken and taped to the main body of the car. He said, if he has one nice customer, it makes his day.
He was from Qatar and had come to London with his father a few years ago. He had completed a Masters degree two years prior and had been driving mini cabs since because he couldn't find any other work. His brother was a solicitor. He too could find no work so they had bought an off-license together but discovered that its location was no good and the income barely covered the rent. His brother minded the shop and he drove his mini cab of a night because it was less stressful than driving during the day. He had brought his mother from Qatar to live with him only a couple of years before because his father had passed away. His father too had been a solicitor and had sent his two boys to London to be educated. Driving cabs was probably not what he had intended for his son.
He said if he cannot find work in London, he will go to Dubai. It was too hard to return to Qatar - there were too many memories of his father.
"I got married last year but I think it was a mistake."
"Why?" I asked.
"I spent all my money on my marriage!"
"But is she a nice girl?"
"Oh yes, she is out of this world!"
And the way he said it warmed my heart. He was so earnest with so much youthful positivity and optimism.
"Just don't have children right now" I told him half jokingly.
"My wife says the same, " he said with such disappointment, "but I really love them."
"You can have children later, you are still young! - when you've found a job - just not now - you don't need any more mouths to feed". He was living with his brother, his mother and his wife in the one house.
The conversation turned to GPSs. London Black Cab drivers are not supposed to use a GPS system but mini cab drivers can. He said one day he had picked up two ladies and the GPS had taken him through some woods where there was no one around and it was dark at night. He said he had never been there before and feared what might happen if the GPS broke down. His two passengers were scared and so was he but he reassured them that they were just fine because he had been through there before and it was no trouble at all, whilst all the while hoping that he could find himself quickly on familiar territory.
As we arrived at my friend's house, I told him he had made my day and what a pleasure it had been to meet him. He wished me all the best and informed me that I too had made his day.
What a difference from what I had escaped from.
I rang my friend and left a message - 'could I possibly stay at your house for the next few days?' I told myself to be patient and wait. But I couldn't, so I rang my friend's mother and left a message - 'I'm in a bit of strife, could you please call me back?' Next I was tempted to contact another friend, someone I hardly knew, but stopped myself.
Eventually my friend's mother called me back. I explained that I needed to move out as quickly as I could. She said that I could stay with her and that she would collect me if the car was free. I told her I would hire a car if I had to, but by this time it was after 5pm and hire car companies would be shut. She rang me back to say that her daughter had taken the car and suggested to get a mini cab. I assumed a mini cab was a rental vehicle and I was trying to explain that the shop is probably shut but she insisted they were open 24 hours. Our wires were a little crossed over the scratchy mobile line, but eventually I worked out that a mini cab was a taxi service but offered cheaper rates. I had learned something new. After I got off the phone from her, as I continued on my way to the supermarket, I saw a sign in the window:
Mini Cab
020 8942 4444
020 8942 3339
Just what I needed! I rang them and they told me it would cost £28 to get to Ealing. They could pick me up with 15 minutes notice. I raced back to the house and threw everything into my cases. I didn't care that none of it was in any order. I just had to be able to zip up the bags.
I called the mini cab and then went to tell my housemates I was leaving.
"I'll be leaving tonight - thank you for your hospitality - you've been most kind....a cab is on its way..."
The cab arrived and a young good-looking man in a long black overcoat stepped out of the car and came to help me put with my luggage. He didn't look like a taxi driver. He was fine-boned and slender with sensitive, dark eyes. He looked like a Persian prince and probably no more than 26 years old.
As he started driving, laughingly I told him I had escaped and how nice it was to be collected in an immaculate red VW estate. I asked him about the mini cab business and how it differed from a taxi service and did he like his job? "No," he said sheepishly. He told me that everytime he had to pick up a new customer he got anxious. Customers were often obnoxious, rude and racist. Some were even violent and one had kicked his side mirror so now it was broken and taped to the main body of the car. He said, if he has one nice customer, it makes his day.
He was from Qatar and had come to London with his father a few years ago. He had completed a Masters degree two years prior and had been driving mini cabs since because he couldn't find any other work. His brother was a solicitor. He too could find no work so they had bought an off-license together but discovered that its location was no good and the income barely covered the rent. His brother minded the shop and he drove his mini cab of a night because it was less stressful than driving during the day. He had brought his mother from Qatar to live with him only a couple of years before because his father had passed away. His father too had been a solicitor and had sent his two boys to London to be educated. Driving cabs was probably not what he had intended for his son.
He said if he cannot find work in London, he will go to Dubai. It was too hard to return to Qatar - there were too many memories of his father.
"I got married last year but I think it was a mistake."
"Why?" I asked.
"I spent all my money on my marriage!"
"But is she a nice girl?"
"Oh yes, she is out of this world!"
And the way he said it warmed my heart. He was so earnest with so much youthful positivity and optimism.
"Just don't have children right now" I told him half jokingly.
"My wife says the same, " he said with such disappointment, "but I really love them."
"You can have children later, you are still young! - when you've found a job - just not now - you don't need any more mouths to feed". He was living with his brother, his mother and his wife in the one house.
The conversation turned to GPSs. London Black Cab drivers are not supposed to use a GPS system but mini cab drivers can. He said one day he had picked up two ladies and the GPS had taken him through some woods where there was no one around and it was dark at night. He said he had never been there before and feared what might happen if the GPS broke down. His two passengers were scared and so was he but he reassured them that they were just fine because he had been through there before and it was no trouble at all, whilst all the while hoping that he could find himself quickly on familiar territory.
As we arrived at my friend's house, I told him he had made my day and what a pleasure it had been to meet him. He wished me all the best and informed me that I too had made his day.
What a difference from what I had escaped from.
Saturday 12 May 2012
Tuesday 24 April 2012
Dublin on a Monday night
With some trepidation, I walked into O'Donoghues on Merrion Row in Dublin. I don't make a habit of going into pubs on my own, but it had come recommended.
With half a pint of Guinness, I found a table in the back of the pub and sat down to write. There were maybe seven others there - couples and groups with extra seating still available, most of them speaking a language other than English. At first there was nothing remarkable. It was a pleasant enough place to be, Irish music in the background, people talking and enjoying themselves. And it was fine to be there alone.
Two men who appeared to be in their 50s sat down next to a group in the opposite corner and started a lively conversation. I did not notice their instruments then.
The pub was filling up. A number of young men, dressed up in suits with what appeared to be red handkerchiefs with tassles in their breastpockets sat down at the table across from me. They were speaking a language I couldn't recognise. Perhaps some sort of religious group? One of them sat next to me. After a while, I asked him where he was from. He told me his name was Johann from Sweden, studying political science at university and was visiting for three days with his friends. I asked what the significance of the red material with the tassle was, as most of them all seemed to have one. He told me they were from Jamtland and it was their 'national outfit' as he called it. They consider themselves separate from the rest of Sweden and are culturally more similar to the Norwegians. These young men although from difficult faculties and backgrounds, ranging in age from 20 to 28 were good friends, their common bond being their Jamtish identity. Another one of these men decided to join us and we started a conversation on Swedish politics.
As we chatted, those two men in the corner started to sing, playing their guitars. By this time, the room was full. Suddenly the pub had transformed into a room full of happy and animated people, sharing stories. The two Irishmen entertained us with their music and with their generous and warm spirits. They were followed by two Irish women who sang a duet of sorts. Johann told me that his group was trying to see if one of them could borrow a guitar so that they could sing their Jamtish national anthem. When the women finished, the ten of them stood up, pulled out their red handkerchiefs, which in fact were caps that looked like elves's hats and sang a song first in Swedish and then in Jamtish. One of them, Peder, who turned out to be Johann's younger brother, played the guitar. The room cheered and applauded when they finished.
Another Irishman stood up and announced that he was going to sing an Irish tune as a token of thanks to the Jamts and launched into 'the Wild Colonial Boy'. By the end, the whole room had joined in.
During a pause between songs, Peder said something in Swedish and Johann translated for me.
He had asked why pubs couldn't be like this in Sweden. For that matter, why not in Sydney or anywhere else?
Sometime ago, it had ceased being a drinking house. It could have been the hearth of someone's home filled with warmth, joy and good cheer where we were all joined together in a shared experience.
With half a pint of Guinness, I found a table in the back of the pub and sat down to write. There were maybe seven others there - couples and groups with extra seating still available, most of them speaking a language other than English. At first there was nothing remarkable. It was a pleasant enough place to be, Irish music in the background, people talking and enjoying themselves. And it was fine to be there alone.
Two men who appeared to be in their 50s sat down next to a group in the opposite corner and started a lively conversation. I did not notice their instruments then.
The pub was filling up. A number of young men, dressed up in suits with what appeared to be red handkerchiefs with tassles in their breastpockets sat down at the table across from me. They were speaking a language I couldn't recognise. Perhaps some sort of religious group? One of them sat next to me. After a while, I asked him where he was from. He told me his name was Johann from Sweden, studying political science at university and was visiting for three days with his friends. I asked what the significance of the red material with the tassle was, as most of them all seemed to have one. He told me they were from Jamtland and it was their 'national outfit' as he called it. They consider themselves separate from the rest of Sweden and are culturally more similar to the Norwegians. These young men although from difficult faculties and backgrounds, ranging in age from 20 to 28 were good friends, their common bond being their Jamtish identity. Another one of these men decided to join us and we started a conversation on Swedish politics.
As we chatted, those two men in the corner started to sing, playing their guitars. By this time, the room was full. Suddenly the pub had transformed into a room full of happy and animated people, sharing stories. The two Irishmen entertained us with their music and with their generous and warm spirits. They were followed by two Irish women who sang a duet of sorts. Johann told me that his group was trying to see if one of them could borrow a guitar so that they could sing their Jamtish national anthem. When the women finished, the ten of them stood up, pulled out their red handkerchiefs, which in fact were caps that looked like elves's hats and sang a song first in Swedish and then in Jamtish. One of them, Peder, who turned out to be Johann's younger brother, played the guitar. The room cheered and applauded when they finished.
Another Irishman stood up and announced that he was going to sing an Irish tune as a token of thanks to the Jamts and launched into 'the Wild Colonial Boy'. By the end, the whole room had joined in.
During a pause between songs, Peder said something in Swedish and Johann translated for me.
He had asked why pubs couldn't be like this in Sweden. For that matter, why not in Sydney or anywhere else?
Sometime ago, it had ceased being a drinking house. It could have been the hearth of someone's home filled with warmth, joy and good cheer where we were all joined together in a shared experience.
Sunday 22 April 2012
Encounters of the Heart
Last year I wrote an article called Encounters of the Heart after I walked the pilgrimage, El Camino de Santiago - a 1000 km walk from St Jean Pied de Port in the south of France to Finisterra in Spain. It is one of the best things I have ever done.
Of all the various assumptions I had about the walk which proved to be true - the physically arduous nature of the task, that bunkbeds in hostels amidst snorers were not conducive to a good night's sleep, the possibility of being bitten by bedbugs - the one that far exceeded my expectation was my encounters with people. I was never alone during the entire trip even though I had not arranged to travel with anyone. I met people from so many different parts of the world, of all ages and backgrounds. To be sure, there were some odd ones from time to time, but on the whole, I feel truly blessed as I met wonderful people, some of whom I know will remain friends for a long time.
The Camino was concentrated and intense - it was a melting pot of pilgrims. Language was often an issue but it was never a barrier. Everyday I had a conversation with someone new as well as with people whom I had been walking with for hours or days.
When I think about it however, my entire trip from the day I landed in Heathrow last June to today has been a series of special encounters: my sister's primary school friend and her mother who took me in and so looked after me in the first couple of weeks; my friends in Scotland who graciously hosted me and showed me their country; the new and old friends in Copenhagen who were so supportive and excited for me about what I was doing and who seemed to be amazed at the fact that I had come such a long way; the beautiful family I stayed with in Rouen, who so patiently persevered having conversations with me in French over dinner and who got me out of bed at midnight one night late January to show me their first snowfall that winter; my dear friend in Paris who opened her home to me and so generously shared her life; my friends in Southampton who came up with creative ideas to help me upon my return to England earlier this year and who are wanting the best for me. There are too many to mention them all.
Even in the last six weeks here in London, I have been surrounded by good people. Ma and Pa Kettle, since our joint visit to Emergency, have done all they can to look after me; friends in Sydney and around the world have connected me with their friends who live here. Every week, I have had the pleasure of meeting someone new in a new suburb of London (and further afield). They have all been warm, welcoming, and decent people. A young woman from New Zealand, inspite of being heavily pregnant met with me a number of times; a couple from Brisbane and their little boy had brunch with me and then drove me to Notting Hill so I could enjoy the markets; a fantasy artist in Chingford who showed me his artwork and invited me to visit his home, where we shared a meal over a nice conversation; a French woman who took me to Sir John Soane's Museum (an amazing home and museum which I probably would never have found otherwise); a French-Scottish couple in Portsmouth who invited me and our mutual friend from Spain to spend the weekend in their home.
These encounters of the heart are a constant theme and I am so fortunate.
Of all the various assumptions I had about the walk which proved to be true - the physically arduous nature of the task, that bunkbeds in hostels amidst snorers were not conducive to a good night's sleep, the possibility of being bitten by bedbugs - the one that far exceeded my expectation was my encounters with people. I was never alone during the entire trip even though I had not arranged to travel with anyone. I met people from so many different parts of the world, of all ages and backgrounds. To be sure, there were some odd ones from time to time, but on the whole, I feel truly blessed as I met wonderful people, some of whom I know will remain friends for a long time.
The Camino was concentrated and intense - it was a melting pot of pilgrims. Language was often an issue but it was never a barrier. Everyday I had a conversation with someone new as well as with people whom I had been walking with for hours or days.
When I think about it however, my entire trip from the day I landed in Heathrow last June to today has been a series of special encounters: my sister's primary school friend and her mother who took me in and so looked after me in the first couple of weeks; my friends in Scotland who graciously hosted me and showed me their country; the new and old friends in Copenhagen who were so supportive and excited for me about what I was doing and who seemed to be amazed at the fact that I had come such a long way; the beautiful family I stayed with in Rouen, who so patiently persevered having conversations with me in French over dinner and who got me out of bed at midnight one night late January to show me their first snowfall that winter; my dear friend in Paris who opened her home to me and so generously shared her life; my friends in Southampton who came up with creative ideas to help me upon my return to England earlier this year and who are wanting the best for me. There are too many to mention them all.
Even in the last six weeks here in London, I have been surrounded by good people. Ma and Pa Kettle, since our joint visit to Emergency, have done all they can to look after me; friends in Sydney and around the world have connected me with their friends who live here. Every week, I have had the pleasure of meeting someone new in a new suburb of London (and further afield). They have all been warm, welcoming, and decent people. A young woman from New Zealand, inspite of being heavily pregnant met with me a number of times; a couple from Brisbane and their little boy had brunch with me and then drove me to Notting Hill so I could enjoy the markets; a fantasy artist in Chingford who showed me his artwork and invited me to visit his home, where we shared a meal over a nice conversation; a French woman who took me to Sir John Soane's Museum (an amazing home and museum which I probably would never have found otherwise); a French-Scottish couple in Portsmouth who invited me and our mutual friend from Spain to spend the weekend in their home.
These encounters of the heart are a constant theme and I am so fortunate.
Saturday 21 April 2012
Fawlty Towers reincarnated as the NHS?
The first night I arrived in London, Ma and Pa Kettle had to take me to A&E at Kingston Hospital. I have endometriosis which I thought had been sorted twelve months ago by surgery, but it reared its ugly head again. Potentially this could mean a trip to A&E every month.
I needed strong pain killers. In Sydney, by the time I arrived at the hospital, the ambulance drivers would have contolled my pain.
I arrived in a wheelchair at the reception of A&E, sounding like a wounded animal - everyone could hear me coming, so luckily I was seen to straight away. It was another thirty minutes before I was given any medication. I begged for anything that would stop the pain - I was told they had to book me in first. Lucky I wasn't having a heart attack. They then had to take my blood pressure. After what seemed like ages, I was told the machine was broken so they would need to take it manually. By this time, I had told Ma and Pa Kettle to go home as I might be there for ages. Eventually a nurse offered me Tramadol and I told her I've taken it before and it doesn't work. She assured me it would eventually. I needed something to work now. I had already been violently ill for over an hour and in excruciating pain for the last two hours. A doctor came and asked me a whole series of questions...where was the pain, when did it start, etc etc.
Another forty minutes later, the pain eventually subsided. There was no one around so I stepped out of my cubicle in my gown looking for someone. I found an orderly and I asked if I could go home. He told me to talk to the woman in front of the computer. I asked her if I could go home. She told me to ask the doctor. He was nowhere in sight. I went back to my cubicle. By this time it was after midnight. I waited for a while and came back out again and found the doctor. I asked him if I could go home. He told me I had to do a urine sample. He said he would be in shortly. Twenty minutes later he reappeared and asked if I would do a urine sample. I told him I had already agreed to do it but he would need to provide the equipment. How else was I supposed to take a sample? More time passed and a nurse appeared with a plastic container and then disappeared before I could even ask where the bathroom was. I went back out into the main room in my gown and barefeet. Why was there no one around?
I finally found someone who told me where the bathroom was. I went in, took the sample and returned to my cubicle. No one came to collect it so I went back out looking for someone to give it to. I found another woman in front of the computer and she tells me to go back into my cubicle with my sample.
More time passed and I went back out, now frustrated and wanting to get out of there. I found the doctor this time and told him the sample's been ready for the last half hour. He told me someone will be in to collect it.
I returned to my cubicle contemplating just getting dressed and walking out of the hospital. But I had no money, no shoes and didn't really know how to get home. Eventually a man arrived and took the plastic container away.
The doctor finally returned and told me that I wasn't pregnant so I could leave. I had already told him, earlier in the evening, that I couldn't be pregnant.
Three days later
Ma and Pa Kettle thought that I should register at their local medical practice. Pa Kettle rang them and asked if they were taking new patients and what documentation would I need in order to register. Proof of address and ID. So I took Pa Kettle as my proof and my passport as ID . We arrived and the receptionist had no idea what she was doing. She told me to fill out some forms which would need to be reviewed by someone else as I wasn't a British citizen. She also told me that Pa Kettle wasn't enough proof even if he wrote a letter. I needed a utility bill or a bank statement. I asked her if I could make an appointment to see the doctor anyway. She told me that until I was registered I couldn't make an appointment but that I could be registered as a "temporary" patient if it was an emergency. I told her it was. I had a month to sort out my problem before I might have to make another visit to A&E which had been hardly worth the effort.
She told me to turn up the next morning at 8.30 to ask for an appointment. I asked her why I couldn't make one now. She told me the appointments for today were gone. I told her I didn't need one today - I just needed one soon. She told me again to turn up in the morning and added that the phone lines were so jammed of a morning that I wouldn't be able to get through even if i called. I still couldn't understand why I couldn't make an appointment that day for a future date. I asked her if seeing a doctor was a drop in system without making an appointment. She assured me it was not a drop in system and they only took appointments. So I asked again, getting more and more irritated by the minute if I could please make an appointment with a female doctor at a time that was next available. She huffed and puffed, telling me it was very difficult, but eventually relented and told me I had one in two weeks.
Two weeks later
I returned to the medical centre. There was a note on the wall in the waiting room saying that appointments were only ten minutes long. I got called in by a lady doctor and I explained my situation, aware that I only had ten minutes. I asked for pain medication for the endometriosis, medication for migraine headaches and for an underactive thyroid as well as blood tests. She asked me if I had proof of these conditions. Proof? Did she want to see my credit card statements from a year ago, a hefty payment for services rendered at St Vincent's Private? I told her, I have these conditions - I wouldn't be wasting my time here if I didn't. In fact, she can call the hospital if she wants - I had been there only the other day. She proceeded to tell me that it would be very hard to give me any special pain medication and then explained how some other patient of hers who had had cosmetic surgery needed medication and that she had to hold a meeting with the other doctors in the surgery to discuss whether that medication could be give to him. I wondered how her patient with cosmetic surgery had anything to do with me, but I kept my mouth shut.
She told me she could give me a pathology request for the blood tests and an emergency supply of the migraine medication but otherwise I would need to get my medical history from Australia.
I went back out to reception and requested an appointment for the blood test.
Four days later
I went back to the surgery to get my blood taken. On my way out, I asked the receptionist for an appointment with the doctor so that I could return with my medical history and get the pathology results.
She asked me if I was on the system. I told her that I had already filled in forms to register as a temporary patient and as a permanent one. She told me that I could ring for the results but if there was something wrong I would need to see the doctor and added that I couldn't make an appointment because I wasn't registered. I told her I had already submitted all the paperwork. She said she couldn't find them but that she didn't know much about new patients so called another woman over to assist. The second woman told me that I had to fill out paperwork to register. I told her I had already filled them out. She looked in her files and told me that there was no paperwork and that I would have to fill them out again. I told her I didn't want to fill anymore out - I had filled out two sets already and I didn't have my bank statement or my passport that day anyway as I didn't think I would need them again. She asked if I could come back later the same day with the documents and the forms. I left the surgery in exasperation, telling them I did not think I wanted to register there anyway.
Later the same day
I had seen another surgery near Pa and Ma Kettle's house so I rang them and asked if they took new patients and what I needed to do to register. The woman on the phone told me to call back the next day as the person in charge of new registrations had gone home. I asked what her hours were the following day. She told me 10am to 4pm.
3 pm the following day
I rang the medical surgery and asked to speak to the woman in charge of new patients. I was told she had already gone for the day. I told her that I had phoned the previous day and was told to ring before 4pm. The woman said, yes, she was supposed to be there until then but had to leave. I asked if someone else could help me. I only wanted to know if I could register as a new patient and told her what my address was. She said that my address was covered by their practice. So why couldn't the lady the day before tell me this? My address was literally around the corner from the surgery.
Two days later
I popped in to the surgery and asked for new patient forms. The receptionist asked if other people lived at my address and I told her there were two others. She told me I had to register at the same practice as where they were. I told her I was not related to my housemates and asked why I needed to go to the same practice. She said it was what the NHS preferred. I told her that I wasn't registering there as they had lost my paperwork and were incompetent. She finally gave me some forms to fill out together with a plastic container and told me to come back with my blood pressure measured using the machine in the waiting room next door, a urine sample and the paperwork completed. As it was Good Friday, she couldn't accept the registration that day and that I would have to come back next week.
5 days later
I returned to the surgery with my urine sample and my completed forms. I took my blood pressure and attached the little slip of paper with the results to the forms and went back to the front desk. There was a woman before me asking whether she needed to pay for her baby's immunisation. A woman was attending to her. There were five other woman behind the counter who were chatting to one another oblivous to the fact that there were now four people waiting to be served.
Eventually the one serving the woman with the baby asked for help. Another woman arrived and asked what she could do for me. I gave her the paperwork as she dropped half of it onto the floor. I handed the urine sample. She looked at the paperwork and told me it wasn't all there. I told her to look on the floor. I asked her if I could make an appointment to see a doctor. She says I would have to wait until I was on the system. I asked if the surgery would notify me when that happened. She told me I would just have to come back into the surgery and check on the computer in the waiting room. If I was on the system there, then I could make an appointment.
------------------------------------------------------
By this time, it was almost a month since my visit to A&E. In the meantime, I had been visiting an acupuncturist an hour away from home to see if I could manage my condition in order to prevent another hospital visit. There were no guarantees of course, but it was just as well, as I had gotten nowhere with the NHS, despite the fact that I had paid good money for a permanent residency visa and was entitled to free medical care in the UK.
Fortunately, the acupuncture and Chinese herbs must have worked as I didn't suffer the same pain at my next period. This doesn't mean though that it would be smooth sailing from here. The endometriosis can return any time.
Two weeks after my last visit to the first medical centre, I received a card in the post from the NHS telling me I had a doctor. A male doctor. When I googled his name, I found him at a surgery that was neither of the two places I had visited.
Three days after the card arrived, I received another card from the NHS telling me my doctor was at the second medical practice I had tried to register at but with no name of a doctor. So do I have two doctors now? I had been told you can only register with one.
Free medical care? Not really. Free medical care that is inaccessible or incompetent at its best.
I have made an appointment with a doctor at the second place I registered and I am due to see her in a couple of weeks. I will go armed with proof of my conditions but I am not optimistic that I will have much joy.
I needed strong pain killers. In Sydney, by the time I arrived at the hospital, the ambulance drivers would have contolled my pain.
I arrived in a wheelchair at the reception of A&E, sounding like a wounded animal - everyone could hear me coming, so luckily I was seen to straight away. It was another thirty minutes before I was given any medication. I begged for anything that would stop the pain - I was told they had to book me in first. Lucky I wasn't having a heart attack. They then had to take my blood pressure. After what seemed like ages, I was told the machine was broken so they would need to take it manually. By this time, I had told Ma and Pa Kettle to go home as I might be there for ages. Eventually a nurse offered me Tramadol and I told her I've taken it before and it doesn't work. She assured me it would eventually. I needed something to work now. I had already been violently ill for over an hour and in excruciating pain for the last two hours. A doctor came and asked me a whole series of questions...where was the pain, when did it start, etc etc.
Another forty minutes later, the pain eventually subsided. There was no one around so I stepped out of my cubicle in my gown looking for someone. I found an orderly and I asked if I could go home. He told me to talk to the woman in front of the computer. I asked her if I could go home. She told me to ask the doctor. He was nowhere in sight. I went back to my cubicle. By this time it was after midnight. I waited for a while and came back out again and found the doctor. I asked him if I could go home. He told me I had to do a urine sample. He said he would be in shortly. Twenty minutes later he reappeared and asked if I would do a urine sample. I told him I had already agreed to do it but he would need to provide the equipment. How else was I supposed to take a sample? More time passed and a nurse appeared with a plastic container and then disappeared before I could even ask where the bathroom was. I went back out into the main room in my gown and barefeet. Why was there no one around?
I finally found someone who told me where the bathroom was. I went in, took the sample and returned to my cubicle. No one came to collect it so I went back out looking for someone to give it to. I found another woman in front of the computer and she tells me to go back into my cubicle with my sample.
More time passed and I went back out, now frustrated and wanting to get out of there. I found the doctor this time and told him the sample's been ready for the last half hour. He told me someone will be in to collect it.
I returned to my cubicle contemplating just getting dressed and walking out of the hospital. But I had no money, no shoes and didn't really know how to get home. Eventually a man arrived and took the plastic container away.
The doctor finally returned and told me that I wasn't pregnant so I could leave. I had already told him, earlier in the evening, that I couldn't be pregnant.
Three days later
Ma and Pa Kettle thought that I should register at their local medical practice. Pa Kettle rang them and asked if they were taking new patients and what documentation would I need in order to register. Proof of address and ID. So I took Pa Kettle as my proof and my passport as ID . We arrived and the receptionist had no idea what she was doing. She told me to fill out some forms which would need to be reviewed by someone else as I wasn't a British citizen. She also told me that Pa Kettle wasn't enough proof even if he wrote a letter. I needed a utility bill or a bank statement. I asked her if I could make an appointment to see the doctor anyway. She told me that until I was registered I couldn't make an appointment but that I could be registered as a "temporary" patient if it was an emergency. I told her it was. I had a month to sort out my problem before I might have to make another visit to A&E which had been hardly worth the effort.
She told me to turn up the next morning at 8.30 to ask for an appointment. I asked her why I couldn't make one now. She told me the appointments for today were gone. I told her I didn't need one today - I just needed one soon. She told me again to turn up in the morning and added that the phone lines were so jammed of a morning that I wouldn't be able to get through even if i called. I still couldn't understand why I couldn't make an appointment that day for a future date. I asked her if seeing a doctor was a drop in system without making an appointment. She assured me it was not a drop in system and they only took appointments. So I asked again, getting more and more irritated by the minute if I could please make an appointment with a female doctor at a time that was next available. She huffed and puffed, telling me it was very difficult, but eventually relented and told me I had one in two weeks.
Two weeks later
I returned to the medical centre. There was a note on the wall in the waiting room saying that appointments were only ten minutes long. I got called in by a lady doctor and I explained my situation, aware that I only had ten minutes. I asked for pain medication for the endometriosis, medication for migraine headaches and for an underactive thyroid as well as blood tests. She asked me if I had proof of these conditions. Proof? Did she want to see my credit card statements from a year ago, a hefty payment for services rendered at St Vincent's Private? I told her, I have these conditions - I wouldn't be wasting my time here if I didn't. In fact, she can call the hospital if she wants - I had been there only the other day. She proceeded to tell me that it would be very hard to give me any special pain medication and then explained how some other patient of hers who had had cosmetic surgery needed medication and that she had to hold a meeting with the other doctors in the surgery to discuss whether that medication could be give to him. I wondered how her patient with cosmetic surgery had anything to do with me, but I kept my mouth shut.
She told me she could give me a pathology request for the blood tests and an emergency supply of the migraine medication but otherwise I would need to get my medical history from Australia.
I went back out to reception and requested an appointment for the blood test.
Four days later
I went back to the surgery to get my blood taken. On my way out, I asked the receptionist for an appointment with the doctor so that I could return with my medical history and get the pathology results.
She asked me if I was on the system. I told her that I had already filled in forms to register as a temporary patient and as a permanent one. She told me that I could ring for the results but if there was something wrong I would need to see the doctor and added that I couldn't make an appointment because I wasn't registered. I told her I had already submitted all the paperwork. She said she couldn't find them but that she didn't know much about new patients so called another woman over to assist. The second woman told me that I had to fill out paperwork to register. I told her I had already filled them out. She looked in her files and told me that there was no paperwork and that I would have to fill them out again. I told her I didn't want to fill anymore out - I had filled out two sets already and I didn't have my bank statement or my passport that day anyway as I didn't think I would need them again. She asked if I could come back later the same day with the documents and the forms. I left the surgery in exasperation, telling them I did not think I wanted to register there anyway.
Later the same day
I had seen another surgery near Pa and Ma Kettle's house so I rang them and asked if they took new patients and what I needed to do to register. The woman on the phone told me to call back the next day as the person in charge of new registrations had gone home. I asked what her hours were the following day. She told me 10am to 4pm.
3 pm the following day
I rang the medical surgery and asked to speak to the woman in charge of new patients. I was told she had already gone for the day. I told her that I had phoned the previous day and was told to ring before 4pm. The woman said, yes, she was supposed to be there until then but had to leave. I asked if someone else could help me. I only wanted to know if I could register as a new patient and told her what my address was. She said that my address was covered by their practice. So why couldn't the lady the day before tell me this? My address was literally around the corner from the surgery.
Two days later
I popped in to the surgery and asked for new patient forms. The receptionist asked if other people lived at my address and I told her there were two others. She told me I had to register at the same practice as where they were. I told her I was not related to my housemates and asked why I needed to go to the same practice. She said it was what the NHS preferred. I told her that I wasn't registering there as they had lost my paperwork and were incompetent. She finally gave me some forms to fill out together with a plastic container and told me to come back with my blood pressure measured using the machine in the waiting room next door, a urine sample and the paperwork completed. As it was Good Friday, she couldn't accept the registration that day and that I would have to come back next week.
5 days later
I returned to the surgery with my urine sample and my completed forms. I took my blood pressure and attached the little slip of paper with the results to the forms and went back to the front desk. There was a woman before me asking whether she needed to pay for her baby's immunisation. A woman was attending to her. There were five other woman behind the counter who were chatting to one another oblivous to the fact that there were now four people waiting to be served.
Eventually the one serving the woman with the baby asked for help. Another woman arrived and asked what she could do for me. I gave her the paperwork as she dropped half of it onto the floor. I handed the urine sample. She looked at the paperwork and told me it wasn't all there. I told her to look on the floor. I asked her if I could make an appointment to see a doctor. She says I would have to wait until I was on the system. I asked if the surgery would notify me when that happened. She told me I would just have to come back into the surgery and check on the computer in the waiting room. If I was on the system there, then I could make an appointment.
------------------------------------------------------
By this time, it was almost a month since my visit to A&E. In the meantime, I had been visiting an acupuncturist an hour away from home to see if I could manage my condition in order to prevent another hospital visit. There were no guarantees of course, but it was just as well, as I had gotten nowhere with the NHS, despite the fact that I had paid good money for a permanent residency visa and was entitled to free medical care in the UK.
Fortunately, the acupuncture and Chinese herbs must have worked as I didn't suffer the same pain at my next period. This doesn't mean though that it would be smooth sailing from here. The endometriosis can return any time.
Two weeks after my last visit to the first medical centre, I received a card in the post from the NHS telling me I had a doctor. A male doctor. When I googled his name, I found him at a surgery that was neither of the two places I had visited.
Three days after the card arrived, I received another card from the NHS telling me my doctor was at the second medical practice I had tried to register at but with no name of a doctor. So do I have two doctors now? I had been told you can only register with one.
Free medical care? Not really. Free medical care that is inaccessible or incompetent at its best.
I have made an appointment with a doctor at the second place I registered and I am due to see her in a couple of weeks. I will go armed with proof of my conditions but I am not optimistic that I will have much joy.
Thursday 19 April 2012
Adventures with Ma and Pa Kettle
"I hate them!" says Pa Kettle, his face distorting into a grimace waving his hands at me at the kitchen door. He was referring to artists such as Picasso and Munch. "Anyone can paint like them - they are all nutters..."
This tirade completely took me by surprise as I walked in the door of my temporary home in London. I hadn't even set my bag down or taken my coat off. Pa Kettle had asked how my day had gone and I told him my visit to Sotheby's had been worth the trip into town. It was amazing to see paintings like The Scream, rumoured to sell for over $80M and double that according to my friend who works there. The visit had been a respite from my daily concerns of looking for a job and wondering whether to stay in London or bail. Had it not been for my friend I would not have known that I could just walk in off the street and have a look.
Later, Ma Kettle apologised for Pa Kettle's outburst as she expertly stated that all these artists had been briliant drawers and as they matured into artists they each developed their own unique style.
Ma and Pa Kettle are a couple. They kindly took me into their home, refusing any rent. They also have a dog. It's a big old thing, like a black and white curly sheep dog, apparently from the pound. He is used to being fed in the kitchen and at the table. As I eat, he sits up close to my chair waiting, eternally disappointed. As I cook in the kitchen, I am constantly having to walk around him, careful not to trip with a pot of steaming food in my hand.
Ma and Pa Kettle mind another dog during the day on weekdays. This one is a female and old - another one from the pound. According to Ma Kettle, she "revenge pisses" (English translation of her words in Japanese). She doesn't like being left alone and she will pee wherever to get back at you. For three days, after Ma and Pa Kettle left on their holidays, I was the designated dog sitter. I made sure she was next to me at all times. She decided that my suitcase was a good place to lie down. I piled the case high with cushions.
The two dogs can't be walked together, so Pa Kettle takes the sheep dog and Ma Kettle takes 'her majesty' around the block but in opposite directions.
Ma Kettle loves plants. She must have close to 50 in the house. She asked me if I could water them while they were away. I told her it would be my pleasure. A week before their departure, she told me what to do. This one - every three days with normal water, the next one - once a week with filtered water, the orchids - once a fortnight with rain water, the one with the flowers - once every 3 days with cooled boiled water. Close to 50... I took notes.
But could I make sense of my notes a week later when I had to water them? Somehow I had failed to note down the type of water. I remembered the rain water for the orchids but the rest was beyond me. So they all got cooled boiled water just to be on the safe side.
This tirade completely took me by surprise as I walked in the door of my temporary home in London. I hadn't even set my bag down or taken my coat off. Pa Kettle had asked how my day had gone and I told him my visit to Sotheby's had been worth the trip into town. It was amazing to see paintings like The Scream, rumoured to sell for over $80M and double that according to my friend who works there. The visit had been a respite from my daily concerns of looking for a job and wondering whether to stay in London or bail. Had it not been for my friend I would not have known that I could just walk in off the street and have a look.
Later, Ma Kettle apologised for Pa Kettle's outburst as she expertly stated that all these artists had been briliant drawers and as they matured into artists they each developed their own unique style.
Ma and Pa Kettle are a couple. They kindly took me into their home, refusing any rent. They also have a dog. It's a big old thing, like a black and white curly sheep dog, apparently from the pound. He is used to being fed in the kitchen and at the table. As I eat, he sits up close to my chair waiting, eternally disappointed. As I cook in the kitchen, I am constantly having to walk around him, careful not to trip with a pot of steaming food in my hand.
Ma and Pa Kettle mind another dog during the day on weekdays. This one is a female and old - another one from the pound. According to Ma Kettle, she "revenge pisses" (English translation of her words in Japanese). She doesn't like being left alone and she will pee wherever to get back at you. For three days, after Ma and Pa Kettle left on their holidays, I was the designated dog sitter. I made sure she was next to me at all times. She decided that my suitcase was a good place to lie down. I piled the case high with cushions.
The two dogs can't be walked together, so Pa Kettle takes the sheep dog and Ma Kettle takes 'her majesty' around the block but in opposite directions.
Ma Kettle loves plants. She must have close to 50 in the house. She asked me if I could water them while they were away. I told her it would be my pleasure. A week before their departure, she told me what to do. This one - every three days with normal water, the next one - once a week with filtered water, the orchids - once a fortnight with rain water, the one with the flowers - once every 3 days with cooled boiled water. Close to 50... I took notes.
But could I make sense of my notes a week later when I had to water them? Somehow I had failed to note down the type of water. I remembered the rain water for the orchids but the rest was beyond me. So they all got cooled boiled water just to be on the safe side.
Running in the rain
Maybe I was meant to run in the rain this morning. My first morning run since Ma and Pa Kettle left on holiday leaving me to look after their house and water their plants. All my routines had gone out the window by this time and it was almost a year since I'd had a place to myself for any length of time. I needed to sleep in. And yesterday they had returned.
Richmond Park keeps me sane in London. A break from the traffic, the people, the suburbs, the rows of identical houses.
When I set off this morning the clouds threatened and twenty minutes in, it was a raining steadily. There were few others in the park except for the odd jogger and dog walker and dog. It was wet and cool but so good to get away.
The rhythmic meeting of my shoes with the dirt path with only the hills, fields and trees in view. No need to worry about dodging cars or crossing roads. And Richmond Park - old hunting grounds - is beautiful.
Even on a grey wet day, the old trees create a sense of warmth - they have endured the passage of time, holding the earth to the ground, displaying their silent beauty and strength with no excuses.
I run to Richmond gate and turn around to find the rain heavier and the wind blowing against me. The rain falls like needles and I feel alive, praying at the same time for the rain to ease. I escape the wind as I run along the southern wall.
I return to the gate nearest Kingston Hospital and I hear a roar - a cyclist negotiating traffic. A roar of outrage at a car that has almost cut him off. The roar of a man, confident of his own position railing against the carelessness or thoughtlessness of a driver with little regard for a man on his bicycle in the rain. A man willing to express himself, unfettered by self-consciousness or the resignation that comes with living in our modern world where we are too often silenced by the need to grin and bear what is so wrong.
Richmond Park keeps me sane in London. A break from the traffic, the people, the suburbs, the rows of identical houses.
When I set off this morning the clouds threatened and twenty minutes in, it was a raining steadily. There were few others in the park except for the odd jogger and dog walker and dog. It was wet and cool but so good to get away.
The rhythmic meeting of my shoes with the dirt path with only the hills, fields and trees in view. No need to worry about dodging cars or crossing roads. And Richmond Park - old hunting grounds - is beautiful.
Even on a grey wet day, the old trees create a sense of warmth - they have endured the passage of time, holding the earth to the ground, displaying their silent beauty and strength with no excuses.
I run to Richmond gate and turn around to find the rain heavier and the wind blowing against me. The rain falls like needles and I feel alive, praying at the same time for the rain to ease. I escape the wind as I run along the southern wall.
I return to the gate nearest Kingston Hospital and I hear a roar - a cyclist negotiating traffic. A roar of outrage at a car that has almost cut him off. The roar of a man, confident of his own position railing against the carelessness or thoughtlessness of a driver with little regard for a man on his bicycle in the rain. A man willing to express himself, unfettered by self-consciousness or the resignation that comes with living in our modern world where we are too often silenced by the need to grin and bear what is so wrong.
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