BEANS MEANZ NO SANDWICHES

Ever walked up or climbed a mountain?

Say like Scafell Pike in the English Lake District. There is nothing better I imagine than using the protection of a suitable cairn or trig point, opening up the sandwich boxes and the thermos and having a relaxing bite to eat before heading back down to valley floor and the car home.

I imagine there’s nothing better anyway because I’ve never had the experience. Let me explain.

My Dad was a skilled and committed climber back in the day. He had trekked and climbed in Scotland, Wales, The Peak District as well as Norway and the Alps but he always came back to his beloved Lake District.

My Dad (On right)

My Dad (On right)

He knows every inch of it, and was so compelled to have his regular fix of it that when my brothers were small often on a Sunday he would wake me up at the crack of dawn and we would kit ourselves up, get in the car and go to The Lakes for a fell walk. Or a quick couple of routes if it was climbing weather. My Dad would make sure we always had the right gear: Sturdy boots, waterproofs , ropes, compass , map, whistle. We went prepared for anything. Except eating. He was so eager to get onto the fells that on the way out he would just grab anything that he thought might sustain us by way of provisions. Food was a very low priority. Besides my Dad was notorious for going the whole day with just 20 Embassy to fortify him.

I remember one occasion stopping for lunch on the summit of I forget where, for my Dad to open his rucksack and produce a tin of pilchards in tomato sauce! Pilchards! Ugh! We ate them out of the tin with our hands.

Pilchards!

Pilchards!

But the best example of this cavalier attitude to food was on Crinkle Crags. And thereby hangs a tale of survival and derring-do.

We’d headed for some snow, hopefully to try out some new skis. But instead found ourselves on the top of Crinkle Crags in white-out conditions. Snow being blown horizontally. You could barely see your hand in front of your face. It was so cold and windy, ice was crystalizing on the front of my jacket. We found a bit of protection in the lee of an outcrop of rock. My Dad had a primus stove and two eggs he planned to boil. Fat chance of that!  It was simply too windy to light the bloody thing.

Crinkle Crags

Crinkle Crags

‘Don’t worry’ says my Dad, pulling out a tin of beans. He went about opening the tin with a tiny ‘wiggle and cut’ opener and passed the can to me ‘At least they are already cooked’ So we shared the tin ‘drinking’ the beans while trying not to cut our lips on the shredded metal. Suitably ‘refreshed’, we considered our position. My Dad took the view – which I shared – that we were in danger of outstaying our welcome and that we ought to call it a day, even though we were only half way through the walk.

White out condtions on Crinkle Crags

White out condtions on Crinkle Crags

The trouble was the lack of visibility. We were on the traverse of the crags, but which gully to descend by? Get it wrong and it was goodnight Vienna. We consulted the map again and made our choice. I wasn’t scared in the least. I never was when I was out with my Dad.The snow was about knee deep in the gully. The most dangerous thing was avoiding lose rocks and boulders hidden by the snow. After about 20 minutes we broke through the cloud and saw we were spot on with our direction finding – exactly were we should have been – It was still snowing, but much less windy now we were off the tops. In fact we skied the final third of the descent. Not exactly Kitzbuhel but there you go. And home in time for tea and crumpets.

My Dad

My Dad

NB. Scafell is pronounced ‘scorefell.’

Andy Daly 2016

 

Parkinson’s Awareness Week

As regular readers will know I make a point of making posts to this blog Parkinson’s-free. But, as it is Parkinson’s awareness week may I present this to make you even  more aware.

The boy who fogot how to smile

Now if anybody tells you that these days, Parkinson’s is not so terrible and that it can be easily managed with drugs, you can say nothing, just punch them as hard as you like on the Philtrum (It is the vertical groove or ‘channel’ we all have which runs from the nose to the top lip) There are lots of nerve endings here which make it extremely painful when bopped.

With any luck, fragments of bone will be shattered away and lodge themselves in the Know It All’s brain too.

“Well, it seems your GP was correct, you have Parkinson’s Disease” I remember distinctly the tall beech trees that I could see behind Consultant Neurologist Richard Crawford, through his window. I was transfixed by them as they swayed in the stiff breeze. His words seemed to echo around the room, while briefly, still captivated by the trees I left my body and looked down on the scene in the room from somewhere above the window but which still allowed me a view of the trees as well. The gentle squeeze of my left hand brought me back down to earth, and back to my body. Crawford leaned back in his chair and began to chew on his spectacles. He had taken off his jacket earlier when he got me to do the gait tests (to my humiliation, out in the corridor in front of a packed clinic waiting room) and sat there in blue striped shirt and tie with red braces. He began to speak. His eyelids closed and fluttered as he did so. There was the tiniest hint of a stammer in his voice.

God knows why, but I imagined him as a schoolboy. Public school of course: taunted, teased and bullied because of his blessed stammer and, I suspected, a complete lack of co-ordination and interest when it came to sport. I found myself feeling sorry for him. Strange, really in the light of the news he had just given me. I had first seen him a little under a year before, with the same symptoms. Stress and Writer’s Cramp he concluded. I think he knew then, his diagnosis possibly intended to ‘buy’ me a few more worry-free months, maybe more. In the event, it did the exact opposite: the intervening year being one blighted by increasing concerns as to whether there was something wrong with me or whether it was all imagined. By rights, I should be on his desk now slamming his head in the drawer.

Well things have moved on apace since that meeting in Crawford’s consulting room, it is sixteen years later and I am still battling away with my devious and wily opponent. In the meantime I have tried all manner of drug cocktails in order to keep him at bay: Pergolide, Pramipexole, Neupro, Apomorphine, Entacapone, Stalevo, Amantadine, and of course L-Dopa. Each one comes with its own particular set of unwanted and frightening side effects – Nausea, movement disorders , Obsessive/Compulsive Disorders, Impulse Control problems, Addictions, Hallucinations, Psychosis, the On/Off Phenomenon, characteristic of long term use of Leva Dopa, of course, the alarming and exhausting diskynesias.

So Parkinson’s is much more than a tremor or slowness of movement, motor deficiency. As the condition progresses the non-motor issues become more difficult to deal with and their management becomes more complex. Luckily I was thrown a lifeline in the shape of Deep Brain Stimulation which I had done in 2011. If it weren’t for this I would be in a very dark place indeed. I went into it knowing that possible side effects were impairment of speech and Depression and in the event both have been problematic. My gait is also a bit clumsy but DBS has meant that I have remained on the same drug regimen for the last four and a half years plus it has given me back a measure of independence. There is no doubt that it works, but my perception is, whether the DBS, the drugs, the underlying condition or external factors (probably a combination of all four) that my personality has changed.

Scan of my brain. Dead centre there are two circular shapes, to the left and right are two semi-circular shaped which look like spanner ends. This is where the DBS electrodes are located.

Scan of my brain. Dead centre there are two circular shapes, to the left and right are two semi-circular shaped which look like spanner ends. This is where the DBS electrodes are located.

Lack of self confidence and self esteem are key issues. Although I have been retired now for 6 years or so I still haven’t found my ‘niche’ in a post employment world; while many things I once took for granted are now only on the edge of memory – walking without having to think about it, driving, Having a good criac in the pub with friends, teaching a class of children, my Taekwondo patterns, replacing worn brake pads on the car, the ability to write by hand, to enjoy music, to play the guitar.

And who has front row seats to my humiliations and inexorable decline? The people I love most and whose approvaI I seek more than anything: my family

Sometimes I feel like I am in a ‘bubble’ and ‘real life’ is taking place around me. I don’t speak or engage because it is too tiring to manipulate my mouth to get anything intelligeble out, other times it is simply because I don’t feel I have anything to contribute.

And the ‘Smile’? This is a reference to what is known as ‘The Parkinson’s Mask ‘ Where the muscles of the face lock, leaving me with a ‘blank expression’ which in turn makes smiling difficult. So I am not gumpy or cheesed off, I am just at the mercy of the level of Dopamine in my brain, So I’ll pass when it comes to the ‘Selfies’ I f you don’t mind.

Andy Daly 2016

 

 

Chawkey does the ironing

Not suitable for vegetarians and those of a nervous disposition.

As a rule I try not to laugh at other peoples’ misfortunes, but the day Chawkey ironed his stomach, I very nearly wet myself.

Chawkey and me go back a long way. In fact, we go right back to the beginning; which if you know your ‘Sitting Comfortably’ posts mean The Softest Cushions’ and Wiz and the D’Oyly Carte’. We all lived (that’s Chawkey, Wiz, Marión and me,) in Betjeman’s leafy green ‘Metroland’ of Ruislip, where for a peppercorn rent, we were entrusted with a grand detached house in a state of elegant decline.

I have described the house elsewhere, so I’m not going to repeat myself, save to say it was as enigmatic as it was formerly elegant. From the beautiful wooden floors to the car engines and gearboxes buried in its grounds. (We used one unearthed, a mini, as the stand for a low ‘drinks’ table in the back garden) From the wheezy, bronchial gas fires to the monumental iconic 1950s American fridge which stood like some armoured sentinel, guarding the kitchen door. From the breezes blowing through net curtains and birdsong on a warm sunny sunday morning, to the big back garden bonfire, guests in fancy dress and complaints to the police about our behaviour.

It was a great house to live in, and one full of many happy memories. It still stands, though of course modernised, now. I wouldn’t step into it for all the tea in China.

Well, the day Chawkey ironed his stomach started much like any other. Nothing untoward, no portents of things to come. It was so unremarkable that I have no recollection of the day’s events, except that it was a saturday. It was warm. I do remember that, because not long before contact between hot steel and prime British beef, Chawkey, barechested due to the heat, announced he was going to do some ironing and left the front room, where we lolled over furniture and floor, watching the TV and looking like we’d all been dropped out of an aeroplane.

Chawkey was fastidious about the care of his clothes, and in particular, his ironing. Unlike me, I am ashamed to say. It took me the same time, more or less to learn how to use an iron as it took Jesus of Nazareth to tell all his parables, cure the sick and lame, learn a bit of carpentry, turn everyone out of the temple, (including the Scribes and Pharisees) perform some general-purpose miracles with wine, fish and bread, be tempted for forty days and forty nights, commission the disciples and apostles, give a sermon on the Mount, find himself arrested, fitted up, executed, then three days later come back to life for a while, and squeeze in a Last Supper.

So there we are, saturday evening watching some old crap on the TV, Probably ‘Blind Date’. We are just considering whether Lee of Dagenham has made an error of judgement in choosing Annelise from County Durham.

There is a strangled yelp from next door. We look at each other nonplussed, then straight back at the TV to hear what Kerrie from Lichfield is going to ask Malik, Aidan and Jed from Neasden, Portrush and Rochdale respectively.

The living room door is flung open. It’s Chawkey, in shorts and flip flops, iron (unplugged) in one hand and a bottle of Budweiser in the other.

‘You’ll never guess what I’ve just fucking gone and done …’ and before we can even attempt a reply. ‘ I’ve only just gone and fucking ironed my own stomach!’ .

We all leap across the room to see. Sure enough, there is a very neat V-shaped weal across Chawkey’s belly, light pink; but getting darker by the minute.

‘But how the fuck did you manage that?’

‘Well …’ and Chawkey goes onto explain that taking up a relaxed posture at the ironing board, meant that his belly (no shirt remember) – not big by any stretch of the imagination, slightly overhung the ironing board. It seems that Chawkey, gripped by what Annelise and Lee are going to get as their ‘date’ for next week, doesn’t realise there are 2lbs of ribs and some liver lying on the ironing board, and irons right over them. Thankfully we are spared the searing sound as he brands himself – possibly for life. The weal is standing proud now and a vibrant red in colour.

Ouch!

Treat this as a cautonary tale. Remember your posture and think carefully before you answer the telephone when ironing

The Poetry Archive

©Andy Daly 2016

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