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.
Tuesday 24 April 2012
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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