Disposal, Acquisition, the Kindness of Family and Humbuggery

My son’s 4monthly visit was due after Easter and being the dutiful man he is he came, staying for one full day and two halves either side, an improvement on his plan of driving up one day and leaving the next. I wonder if he and his wife remind each other that it's  'that time of year' again , time to go and see the old dear, see how she’s doing and if she needs any kind of assistance. I persuaded him that two half days just didn’t get anything done, particularly as I wanted to spend the middle day in the nearby county town for some much needed shopping and a number of errands which had been queuing up for a good six months.

Once upon a time I’d have been looking forward to an exciting family visit, with meals in restaurants and all sorts of walks and outings. Last week we did what we always now do on these occasions, we filled a carboot with bags of junk and garden waste for the municipal dump.  Nowadays excitement comes from chucking large and small items into huge containers and mountains of general waste through a giant window. There was a time when pleasure came not from disposing of things but acquiring them; how times change.

Still, on the in-between-day I did some acquiring too, mainly smalls. (Underwear for those of you who don’t know the term) Once a year I go to a particular, well-respected and straight-laced old ladies’ store to replace knickers, camisoles, pyjamas, socks, etc., everybody goes there for their underwear, even young ladies. In days gone by replacing ordinary smalls was a boring chore, now it’s the highlight of a shopping trip. I was in need of a fairly extensive order, there hadn’t been a chance to go to Shrewsbury for a good year, so I filled a few bags. A strong man to accompany me was a really good investment, he carried all the bags and trooped from shop to shop with me like the patient and kind soul he is. By the end of the day my back was pretty sore and I was leaning forward quite painfully. My son also drove me, another wonderful circumstance, I was in pain and so tired at the end of the outing that I was enormously glad not to have to concentrate on driving for an hour. When I am well I can manage to drive myself to Shrewsbury for a shopping trip with no problem but not when I am as crook as I’ve been for a good year now.

I have seen a physiotherapist who has given me a list of exercises to do. She examined my back and exclaimed :”nothing moves at all, everything is locked in.” The exercises are fairly light for now, mustn’t cause a new spasm in the lower back, and I sincerely hope they’ll help loosen me up and get me fully upright again. Apparently these things take time, older people do not recover as easily as young ones. I think there is a small improvement already after a week. I also went back to the gym for the first time in weeks today.

I experienced a couple of cons recently, one of them during the shopping trip. Sometimes I wear Beloved’s watch, which needed a new battery. A smooth, be-suited, highly groomed and politely spoken salesman said :”Yes, Madam, we can do that. What we do is charge you £20 for which you get a ten year guarantee, for ten years we replace the battery free of charge.” On the face of it a reasonable deal, you might say. But it’s an average watch, nothing fancy, will it last another 10 years? Will the shop still be there - so many shops disappear from High Streets all over the country almost overnight. And will I remember about the guarantee from year to year? Up to now a battery replacement cost no more than £10 and less in some jewellers. But I was tired and although I recognised the con and even said “I might not live for another ten years”, I went along with it. I sincerely hope that for them it turns out to be a bad deal and that I will indeed go back once a year or so to have them replace the battery.

The other con was really much worse because it was almost fraudulent. Drivers need to renew their licences on reaching 70 years of age. I had a letter from the relevant government department telling me to do so and emphasising that it could be done quickly and easily via the internet. “Just fill in the questionnaire and we’ll send your new licence.” said the government website. Keen to save time and effort - letters need to be carried to the post office - I had duly filled in the questionnaire when I came to an abrupt stop. In enhanced capital letters across the middle of the page it read “PAY NOW” £70.”

Underneath this demand there was a very small paragraph saying that the government department has nothing whatsoever to do with the people making the demand, but that these people check over the answers and expedite the application process. UTTER RUBBISH. Applying for a new licence is free, the applicant will receive it within 2 weeks and, in any case, can continue to drive until then. A prime example of outsourcing that beats all. And it’s not even necessary! I wonder how many people fall for it, after all, it is a government department which deals with driving licences  and one should trust them, shouldn’t one?

Update: Keep Taking The Tablets

The receptionists at the private hospital barely looked up from their computers.  The one I chose stretched out her arm and grabbed the forms with my personal and payment details.  “Do you have your card? I need to swipe it.  No money will be taken but your card needs to go through the system.” She handed me a receipt for £0.00 and waved me away. “Take a seat”. She still hadn’t looked at me.

Mr. Mistry was a nice Indian doctor. The higher up the medical food chain you are the less fancy your title. A consultant, an expert in his very particular field, with years of experience, is plain Mister.  Mr. Mistry is a cardiologist; I liked him and was willing to trust him. He read the GP’s letter, my notes, flicked through the test results and turned his professional gaze on me.

Less than an hour of questions and answers later he was ready to give his conclusions. I’ll live. No operation necessary, no drastic treatments needed, an increase in beta blockers will probably do the trick. AFib is very common and although ablation has become fashionable, there are unpleasant side effects and the operation is not always successful, nor is it without its dangers. I am wholly relieved; the idea of having a bit of my heart burnt off was not something I relished. Now I know, and spending whatever it’s going to cost me was worth it. He answered all my questions patiently and exhaustively. For me, knowing is half the battle won.

I’ll go back to the trusty old NHS with its friendly GPs, nurses and receptionists for medication and, if the condition at some time again necessitates urgent treatment or hospitalisation, I’ll know that the NHS will be there for me. And I won’t have to pay a penny.

I’ve been gardening all day today; I am tired now but  have managed to keep elation and excitement within sustainable bounds. Mustn’t overdo the happiness. I’m still allergic to it.

You Can Pay? At Your Service, Ma’am. Riding the NHS Merry-Go-Round

For eight years you’ve been suffering the same health problem. Once a year, maybe twice a year. Not always to the same degree of seriousness but frequently serious enough to necessitate hospital admission for a night. Each attack frightened you but you always recovered. You have had many kinds of test, all of them thorough, highly involved and using advanced equipment. All of them expensive, although you were not asked to pay for them.

After eight years you have grown tired of the lack of progress. Nobody ever followed up on the tests, although each time you were put on a waiting list. Lately you were told that the time for ‘Plan B’ has come, but Plan B didn’t materialise. Instead you went on another waiting list.

Once again you found yourself in your GP’s surgery, complaining. “We can do nothing”, the GP said. “Once you’re on the waiting list you have to bide your time”. Ringing the hospital’s booking office didn’t help. “I can confirm that you are on the list, but I don’t know when you will have reached the top (or bottom) of the list. Try the consultant’s secretary.” The consultant’s secretary couldn’t help. “Yes, I can confirm that you are on the list. Ask your GP to write and state that your condition is worsening. That might expedite matters.” The GP said: “They always say that, but they take no notice. They get these letters all the time. I’ll write, but I can’t promise that it’ll help.”

“How much would a private consultation cost?” you asked on Tuesday.

Your appointment to see the consultant for as long as you need is on Thursday; letters have been written and are awaiting delivery; you have been given copies of all the relevant test results, neatly packaged, and waiting lists have shrunk to the point of non-existence.

The Last Resting Place In Valley's End

 Although I have no immediate, or even long-term, plans to join the Valley's End inhabitants who have reached their final destination in this utterly peaceful spot, there can be few people who would object to being laid to rest here.

Pure white bindweed grows in the hedge
and white daisies litter the grass around the graves.

The cemetery is the least oppressive place
I can think of, nobody insists on forcing
garish flowers or elaborate funeral processions
on the tranquil scene. Now and then somebody
sits on one of the benches which are dotted around
the perimeter; the ones resting here don't mind at all.

The concept of trespass is unknown.

Some officious person keen on Health And Safety decided that nearly all the crosses were unsafe, in danger of falling over if the living should lean against them or shake them loose - most unlikely, as all who come here, the troubled and untroubled, be they mourners or those just visiting, are instantly stilled by the tranquility and hushed into a calm and peaceful frame of mind. But once these matters have been mentioned, they need to be acted upon, hence the dismantling of the gravestones.

The cattle in the field behind saw it happen, ruminated for a little while, then turned their attention back to more pressing matters.  Now that the fuss is over and the 'job's-worths' have been satisfied, it will be a long time before noisy tools return to the cemetery to finish the job.

I doubt that the dead are bothered.

This post joins the many who have banded together to show the best of their world in Our World Tuesday.

Online Tax Return

Piggy Bank - Wikimedia Commons

Please, Mister Taxman,

Let me file my tax return

before the deadline.

Haiku My Heart 

@ recuerda mi corazon

For two weeks

my efforts to file online,

sadly, were thwarted.

The deadline is close;

stop the red pens, the warnings,

the shrieking sirens,

please, do not fine me,

accept my details as true;

I'm trying my best.

It's true, for two weeks I have been trying to file my online tax return; the deadline is 31st Jan. I'm an online tax virgin and was willing to accept that I might have made mistakes, but no more. It wasn't my calculations that were wrong, no, my personal details didn't please the tax gods. Do I know my name? Birthday ? Address ?  Reference Numbers ? Yes, I do! 

I have gone for online advice and was fobbed off with long, incomprehensible, pre-packaged, one-size-fits-all advice. I have spent long hours listening to tinned music (music? hardly) while waiting to speak to lovely chaps called Brian, Mark and Dennis to give individual advice. Even though two of them went through my return with me online, they ended up by scratching their heads (I could hear it) and sending me onwards and upwards.

I wish I had counted the actual number of times I attempted to solve the puzzle by myself, going step-by-step through the pages presented on my screen, only coming up against X - warning - three errors on page, or correct personal details,  or must be filled in. A crash scene, with blue lights flashing and sirens blaring and dozens of policemen would have been less frightening.

So, this morning, a day before the deadline, I drove to the Tax Office in the nearest town to look for help. The place was shut, the building up for sale. A big sign said Enquiries with Messrs. Scrappit & Floggit, Agents for the Big Society.

With wobbly lip and tears of frustration, after another long, very personal conversation with another lovely chap at the end of a helpline, I had another go. Dear Reader, you may not believe this, but doing exactly the same as before, giving exactly the same answers in exactly the same places, I got through to the end. 

Somebody, somewhere, relented, threw a little switch maybe, or more likely, realised that they got it wrong and that I DO know my personal details even if they don't.

I've hardly been around in the blogosphere for the last three days, now you know why.  Normal service will be resumed.

PS: for my English readers who may want to attempt to file a return online for the first time:

You are given an emergency Nat. Ins. number, which bears no resemblance to a normal one and may, or may not, be accepted in subsequent dealings with the Inland Revenue. Beware!