Category Archives: Autobiographical

Did You Know?

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Guess where I am going to?
I’ll give you a clue. It begins with ‘H’.
Hell?
No, but you are close.
Of course, it’s Hospital!
This time the surreal nonsense begins in the cab. The driver furnishes me with all manner of interesting facts. Such as:
“Did you know the human body can live for 40 days without water?”
“Really?”
“Or is it food? Yeah, must be food….”
“Well, I suppose, if Jesus did it ….”
“Did he? He done all that then?”
“Well, according to the Bible, 40 days and 40 nights in the desert …”
“That must be Lent then? When you give up chocolate? Just imagine 40 days and 40 nights without chocolate. It’s a good job Easter falls when it does”.

It's just as well Easter falls when id does: Chocolate Jesus

It’s just as well Easter falls when it does: Chocolate Jesus

 

© Andy Daly 2014

 

On The Edge Of Memory

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IMG_0751

Skiing a parallel turn.
Walking without having to think about it.
The smell of our new born babies.
My Great Grandmother’s kitchen.
Having a good criac in the pub with friends.
Teaching a class of children.
My first bike.
Playing football.
Draught Boddingtons Bitter Beer.
The taste of Stimarol chewing gum.
My Taekwondo patterns.
Changing a set of brake pads.
Carrying our two beautiful boys.

© Andy Daly 2014

Chelsea Makes West London Man’s Day

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Full Story Below

I keep in touch via ‘Social Media’with many ex-students from my days as a Secondary School teacher of Art and Design.

The pupils I taught were in the age range 11 to 18, mixed ability, boys and girls from a variery of socio-economic and cultural backgrounds.

Now, I don’t make a habit of doing this, but I thought I would share this with you, because it was so out of the blue.

It came in the form of a message last Saturday morning from … let’s call her Chelsea to save her embarrassment. Although Chelsea and I have been ‘friends’ for years and I have always been a fan of her upbeat Facebook greetings (and occasional rants!) we have never corresponded. This is the first time and is reproduced word for word below.

Best art teacher ever. xx

Chelsea, I’m honoured!

Seriously though Mr Daly- best teacher I ever had. A true legend.

What’s brought this on?

Always thought it, but just thought I’d say. Only lesson I actually liked lol

Thanks. Made my day.

R u still teaching?

No. Had to give it up. I’ve had Parkinson’s for 13 years, so life is a bit of a battle.

Your’re a true inspiration sir- u were always my fav teacher. Loved your lessons and always an inspiration.

Thanks. Hope life is treating you well.

All good thank you. I hated school but looked forward to art- u taught me to express myself.

Well to help people to express themselves was all I set out to do. I miss it but when people say the kind of things you have I feel better.

U r a true legend sir.

Look after yourself Chelsea. I love your daily messages – ‘Good morning you gorgeous lot’ Keep ’em coming! X

I will sir- and keep being you! I have the up most respect for you xx

Look at that hair! and the tie ... What was I thinking?

Look at that hair! and the tie … What was I thinking?

A few words that mean a lot.

© Andy Daly 2013

Police Escort

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As the government’s decision to give the contract to build a new nuclear reactor at Hinckley Point to the Chinese and French, with an agreement to pay double the current market price for the energy it produces for the next thirty years, so nuclear power is under the spotlight as once more the pros and cons of reactor design, build, efficiency and safety are batted back and forth.

It is comforting to know that we live in a country where successive governments have put a premium on the public’s safety and complete transparency as far as the nuclear industry is concerned.

Or have they?

My Dad tells a story about his cousin’s husband, who after the War, worked at the Windscale plant in West Cumbria.

Windscale. Lovely place.

Windscale. Lovely place.

He remembers one Friday night in the mid-50’s, a knock on the door of the family home in Lancaster. It was my Dad’s cousin in law Dick. He had called in to drop off a bottle of his wife’s home made wine for the family.

‘I can’t stay’ He says ‘I’ve got a police escort waiting outside, I’ve got to take some plutonium down to Aldermaston’

And with that, he bundled back into his Hillman Minx and drove off, police outriders falling in around him.

And where do you suppose he put this nugget of weapons-grade material?

In the glove box of course.

Not one of these

Not one of these

One of these!

One of these!

© Andy Daly 2013

(Aldermaston: the UK’s Atomic Weapons Establishment)

Where does yoghurt come from?

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Where does it come from?

Where does it come from?

Now this is a subject I don’t give a great deal of thought to, there being much more pressing matters in the world at this moment in time eg. Poor umpiring decisions at Trent Bridge, and should Tulisa leave the country for good (Yes please, and take Dappy and the rest of N Dubz with you.)

However I am obliged to consider it when it raises its ugly head as a topic of conversation one breakfast time. I am sitting with my colleagues on a sunny picturesque balcony surrounded by honeysuckle and jasmine. (To tell you the truth, I have no idea what we are surrounded by, but writers always seem to mention same, so I figure the odds are that there is at least a bit of one or another) enveloping us in their heady scent as we enjoy a ‘continental breakfast’ of rolls they could practise their batting on up at Trent Bridge, fruit and yoghurt.

Whereupon someone announces they can taste ‘the cheese’ in their yoghurt. Now I am a little perplexed at this statement, never having considered cheese to be an ingredient in the humble yoghurt, and express my surprise.

It transpires that the ‘cheesy’ flavour is the result of the fact the yoghurt comes from milk, which as it happens is where cheese comes from too. Well this is news to me, (not about the cheese, but about the yoghurt)

‘Well where did you think yoghurt came from?’

I sense they are trying to catch me out, but have none of it: ‘From the supermarket of course’

‘No, no before that. How is it actually made?’

As I say from the outset, it is not a matter that bothers me much. But after being put right by my fellow diners I am left all day trying to figure how they pour the milk from bottles or cartons into those little pots, or is it squeezed straight in from the cow? Very labour intensive, I conclude. And what about the fruit? How and when does that get in there?

Help

Confused of Ruislip.

This post is sponsored by the Milk Marketing Board and any characters represented herein bear no relation to any persons living or dead.

I hate it when that happens

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Warning. This post contains some bad language and scenes of mild to moderate bloody gore.

May not be suitable for those of a nervous disposition.

Ah! fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I’ve bitten my tongue.

I hate it when that happens.

Andy Daly 2013

WHAT A SHOCKER!

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I went to the Hospital last week for an EMG. That is an Electromysomethingorothergram, for the uninitiated. The doctor bore more than a passing resemblance to Matt Lucas in looks, mannerisms and voice. All of which I have to say I found a little disconcerting.

Dr Steve, or is Matt Lucas?

Dr Steve, or is Matt Lucas?

‘Hi. My name’s Steve.’ He said by way of introduction

‘And you’re …’ He glanced at his notes. ‘… Andrew. Lovely! Now let’s have a look at this arm shall we?’ and took me through to a room, where sitting next to a bed was a computer attached to lots of little wires.

It just so happens that I have had one of these nasty little tests before, so I knew what was coming. I remember the jolts of electricity from electrodes placed on the skin going down my arm, causing individual muscles to fire and jumping about like a cat on a hot tin roof in response. Then the needles which were stuck into the muscles which are stimulated by movement of the arm or by wiggling the needle in its site and readings taken. Not neccesarily painful, but extremely uncomfortable.

‘The test is designed to check muscle and nerve connectivity and shouldn’t take too long. All right?’ He said in his Matt Lucas voice. Yeah right, let’s get it over and done with, I thought. Now needles I can take. I mean I wouldn’t jab them into myself for laughs, but since having had to self-inject every day for four months, I don’t have a problem with them. So he stuck the needle into eight or ten sites, and the electrical activity in the muscle was recorded. It was the part of the test designed to measure general muscle activity which is done via the electrodes which caused the trouble. It reminds me of when we were kids and used to hold on to farmers’ electric fences (as you do)

That sure looks fun

That sure looks fun

Each time Doctor Steve presses a little button – barely concealed in his chubby hand: I hit the roof. He begins to show signs of frustration, as I am hopping about so much he is finding it difficult to get a reading. In fact during the course of one particularly extended series of shocks, he definitely gives me a glare. As if to say: ‘Come on, get a grip’. What neither he nor I realise is that this is because he hasn’t switched it off while he is taking his readings. So I am rewarded by the sight of him jumping about three feet into the air as he goes to peel the electrode off my hand and completes the circuit. He looked flustered. More by his own discomfort than mine I suspect.

I am minded to say something about Health and Safety, but decide to let it lie.

Copyright 2013 Andy Daly

Painting The Town

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Our house

Our house

Now last night I just get back from a blinding holiday in a place called Italy. And I wish to say I never see a prettier sight, what with trees and birds and bushes called vines.

In this Italy they are pretty big into churches, cathedrals and suchlike; and where you find churches and cathedrals you can take odds at six to four on that you will also find plenty of pictures. I’m no expert but I reckon they are painted hundreds of years ago to keep the punters awake. You know when the sermon gets a bit boring and they get to thinking I am sure I hear the same thing last week, they might find their eyes wandering over pictures of scenes from the life of Jesus, St. John the Baptist and other famous Italians.

But exercise caution, as wherever you find paintings, you are almost certain to find sculpures too. Sculptures are 3D pictures and are generally the things you trip over as you stand back to admire a picture.

We are staying at the Masaccio Art Centre (Masaccio being a famous artist who invented the camera) which is high up on a hillside near Poggibonsi – or ‘Podgy Beyonce’ as some of our party are apt to call it – Now although I call this a holiday, it is anything but. The general idea being that we (that is to say me and my thirteen colleagues) spend our days painting the Tuscan landscape and all that we find therein. Well this is a tall order in my view. Personally I think instead of paying for the priviledge of tackling such a tricky task, we  should be on a decent hourly rate, given all  the things we have to do, such as mixing paints and whatnot.

0112smOur teacher is an amiable guy by the name of Gary, who it seems does a fair bit of ‘smudge with the sludge’ in his day. In fact I am in the Art teaching dodge myself for some years, although the last thing I paint is a garden shed and by that I mean a garden shed and not a picture of one.

The trouble really starts when we begin to use oil paint. This infernal stuff takes decades to dry and seems to magic itself onto my shirt, trousers, hair and into my ears. I begin to get a reputation (unjustly in my view ) as a messy worker and a horder of materials and equipment.

‘Where’s the Yellow Ochre?’ ‘Andy’s got it’ ‘Where’s the Alizarin Crimson?’ ‘ Don’t know, but if you look on Andy’s desk…’

Then, horror of horrors. It is announced we have an exhibition to show our work at the end of the course. Now needless to say, my paintings are clearly the work of an idiot who is messing around and not listening when he should be and so appropriate action is taken. To whit, I knock out a few abstracts and even go as far as sticking red ‘sold’ labels on some of them in an attempt to generate some interest.IMG_0120sm

Unfortunately, at the exhibition private view, the only interest I generate is that of a daffy English doll who lives in the village; or more accurately lives in the bar in the village and who is 102 if she is a day. Cut her and she bleeds Chianti. On top of which she is a Know It All.

But despite this I have a blast and hope the others do too.

Chuddy Time

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gum2

Now, I’m no Physisist … Phisycist … Phycisist. What I am trying to say is I don’t understand much about classical mechanics, quantum mechanics, thermodynamics and statistical mechanics, electromagnetism, special relativity and the like.

But I have been doing a lot of thinking about Time lately and reckon it is just like chewing gum. You can stretch a bit out here and another bit over there, but it is still part of the same piece of chewing gum although it is in three places at the same time.

And so it is. Time plays maddening tricks on you. Events seem to telescope out of all perspective. Things that seem to have happened only yesterday on closer inspection turn out to have been a quarter of a century ago.

It seems like yesterday I was reading bedtime stories, planning daft excursions and being ‘Dad’ to two little fellows who are now grown men.

Memories, like old gum, ambush you when you least expect them, stuck to your pants, shoes, the underside of your table; glueing themselves to your consciousness for ever.

gum

Andy Daly 2013

Put yourself in my shoes

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parks_weekparks_shoesI am pleased to have been asked to write a blog post on the theme ‘Put  yourself In My Shoes’ by Parkinson’s UK  for Parkinson’s Awareness Week.

docs

So, for starters I suggest we try and get you into my shoes. Size 8 black Dr. Martens boots. No, not necessarily a fashion statement: they are light, and provide essential support for my ankles when I walk. The dystonia I suffer from causes my feet to turn inwards when I walk and a pair of tight fitting Docs makes bit makes it a bit more bearable.

How are you doing with the boots? Got them on? Good. Now pop on this pair of oven gloves and tie the laces.

(It doesn’t really feel like you are wearing oven gloves when you are performing the task, they are simply to replicate the kind of frustration you feel at the complexity of doing this, the simplest of things because you cannot co-ordinate your fingers, or because they have no strength or simply do not respond to what you/your brain is telling them to do.)

Now, let’s put your coat on. You may have some difficulty … What is that? Yes, I was about to say you may have some difficulty getting your arms in. Yes, that’s because of the falls you had last year. You’ve damaged your  left shoulder, we think. That’s why you can’t get your arm any higher.  Here let me help you. Stay upright though! Don’t start to shuffle your feet! Take longer strides! Don’t … You’ll fall … Oh deary me.

Hmmm! Let’s have a look … I think it’s only a surface wound, I’ve got some iodine and some steristrips upstairs. You take your coat off while I go and get … Oh of course, you can’t can you? Well let me help you get the coat off and see to that cut. Pardon? It’s time for you medication? I see. Well let’s deal with one thing at a time shall we? Let’s get that coat off … Now I’ll just run upstairs and get the … What? You need to go to the toilet now? Is that before or after I clean your cut and get your medication? Before? … You think? OK, in you go.

What? You can’t go now? … I thought you were desperate? Turn the water on! It’ll help.

What? … Oh I see, you can’t go because you still have the oven gloves on …

… Well, you get the picture…

If you were in my shoes this time last year, it would have been a pretty miserable experience, because my shoes didn’t go anywhere. However, thankfully, due to the patience, care and dedication of the Functional Neurosurgery team at the National Hospital For Neurology And Neurosurgery who performed the Deep Brain Stimulation procedure and supported me through the hellishly complex programming; I am able to put my boots on, lace them up, put my coat on, leave the house, walk to the nearest Underground station and travel into London, visit an art gallery, see a film …. Whatever. On my own.

I have a life again AND not only that, but I have been able to reduce my medication to microscopic amounts compared to what I had to take before.

It has not been an easy road The DBS has not worked as well as we might have hoped. My walking isn’t pretty, my speech suffers when I have to increase the level of therapy to counter the wearing-off of Sinemet. But I am learning to work around its limitations.  It is not a cure.

But for the time being it’ll do me.

Links to posts on this blog specifically about Parkinson’s and what it is like to live with it. (Please note, the hospital referred to in the East Ward stories is not The National)

Rake’s Progress

Rake’s Progress 3

East Ward 4

East Ward 3

East Ward 2

East Ward 1

Sticks and bones

Brain downs tools

Who will make ammends?

The way of the hand, foot and the walking stick. Tae Kwon Do and Parkinson’s

 Love and other drugs

Know it all

Dub cutaneous injections: Aswad and the man who…

Please be aware some of the above contain language of a fruity nature and my not be suitable for those of a nervous disposition.

I ought to make clear is that what you have read is a fictionalised version of my experiences. Also, Parkinson’s, its symptoms and its progress differ from person depending on age, the type of medication they are taking, external stresses and so on. So please bear in mind anything you have read here may not be typical of your own case or that of the person you care for.