Jude takes a trip

 

It was a hot afternoon, last day of June and the sun was a daemon

(Bobby Goldsboro 1975 in case you are struggling) Dreadful song.

It was a hot afternoon, last day of June 1976. I remember it well. The long hot summer. The local reservoir was so low that it began to reveal the mill, houses and cobblestones of the village that was flooded to create it. On that last day of the month a rain cloud allowed a bit of respite, in the form of a heavy shower.

Jude (Judith)  and I went to different schools. She was in the year above me. The gang she hung around with were so much more sophisticated than my mates. We were just silły little teenage boys really; hung up on the Goons, Monty Python, chart music and swailing.

Youth, so wasted on the Young.

What was she like? Well, she had a big personality, big sunny smile and a big boyfriend. Double denim (jeans and denim jacket) just faded perfectly, in all the right places, white t shirt or cheese cloth, leather sandals. Tanned feet and toes. Bracelets and patchouli oi. Long blonde hair and dark sapphire eyes. She was, as my mate Stash recalls a

‘Bonny looking Lass’

We met through a mutual love of art. The local college in a visionary move opened its doors to children of local schools and ran Saturday morning art classes. We used to meet up at the break and discuss music, then we would hang around the town’s alternative Record shop, deliciously dark and subversive place which went by the wonderful name of Black Sedan. And maybe buy a single. Or something from the cheapies box.

Anyway
One Saturday, she announced to my surprise that afternoon, she was going to drop a tab of acid and would I like to come along and see what happens? And ‘no’ her boyfriend wasn’t going to be there unfortunately.

Shame.

Still, she was going to meet up with some friends, have a drink first for ‘Dutch courage ‘ and then go to the primary school down the road where she knew a place you could get through the fence and into the playground. I think she thought, with its painted concrete pipes, swings and roundabouts  it would be a good place to trip.

By the time I got there, (l didn’t partake, incidentally) It was me, my mate Stash and Jude. nothing seemed to be happening much. That was, until the spiders arrived. Big ones too. Judging by Judes increasingly hysterical descriptions of them. About four foot long and crawling  down the rainbow painted playground concrete pipe! To where Stash me and Jude were sitting keeping dry out of the rain. She was having a very bad trip, with vivid and disturbing hallucinations.

We just stayed with her into the evening, talking to her and trying to keep her calm until she came down.

I mention this because just recently (as a long term user of Leva Dopa the main anti Parkinsons drug, whose side effects include hallucinations ) I’ve been getting them too and and it is very wierd. I als often get the the feeling that somebody is always behind my shoulder. Also, any small bits of detritus, crumbs etc will often appear to my cauliflower brain as scuttling little insects.

You just have to rationalise it and tell yourself that they are not really there. It is a bloody good job I’m not scared of spiders I have to say. Mind you if they were four foot long coming down a concrete pipe, I might be forced to reassess my viewpoint.

© Andy Daly 2018

 

THE PACHYDERM IN THE VESTIBULE

The Pachyderm in the vestibule

Regular readers (Both of you) will attest to my healthy disdain for superstition and pseudo-scientific knowledge in place of hard fact. Not only that, but my steadfast and unbreakable determination to grab the bull by its whatsits, avoid all sorts of squeamishness and lily-livered cowardice when it comes to writing about feelings and suchlike.

As my old great grandmother used to say

There’s no fool like an old bird in the hand when it comes to beating it about the bush.

Now, I feel I should offer some sort of explanation for the almost year long hiatus. It all started with a bump. A bump on the head. A quite sizeable bump it has to be said. I was falling a lot at the time; legs just washing out in front if me and down I’d go. I usually though some sort of instictive reaction for self preservation, managed to avoid head injury, praise the Lord.

Yep. Nothing more serious than a trip to local A and E .The top and bottom of it was I was booked into Queen Square for a second insertion in July 2017. It was always on the cards that I would have a fresh insertion at some point, when I felt that I was getting no more from the original DBS (Deep Brain Stimualion) set up as it was. And so it was.This time, they used the Boston Scientific hardware a new generation of kit, which allows the ends of each electrode to be moved to focus the therapy and means it is much more accurate.

The surgery itself was…. ‘uneventful’ I think is the correct term.

And then spent the next month in hospital. And do you know what? It seems to onl y to have worked beyond my wildest dreams!

and now, bizarrely,I find myself increasingly reluctant to talk about it for fear of’Jinxing it’. (I know ). So, i will just collect my stuff, my lucky rabbits foot. My four leaf clover and stick my head down for a little while.

Monday, monday

I have thought long and hard ( 5 minutes) about posting this tale; particularly as it is one of the stated aims of this blog that it should not become a dull repository of all things Parkinson. But there are lessons to be learned – especially for me and maybe others as well.

Above all, it shows us how fleeting everything is, and how our lives can be changed completely within seconds for no rhyme or reason.

It is what it is.

Before I begin, a brief look at some of the terms used, which are pretty essential in understanding how People with Parkinsons (PWP) lead their lives (Apologies I if you already know this. It is tiresome, but not very long)

Dopamine:

The substance produed by the brain which acts as chemical messenger and allows movement to take place. By the time of diagnosis PWP will have lost about 60% of these Dopamine-producing cells .

Leva-Dopa

A synthetic form of the chemical which will cross the blood/brain barrier. Dopamine itself will not do this. Great at restoring movement, but at a price; as the body gets used to the Leva –Dopa, the more it needs , and as doses are increased very unwelcome side effects kick in.

Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS)

This is when an electrical current is passed from a battery implanted in the chest via cables into the skull into two electrodes, implanted into the brain. The current is adusted to give therapeutic results. I had this done in 2011. It is not cure but in many patients it is seen to ameliorate the symptoms.

‘Off ‘

When the leva-Dopa medication or not working. Example. Protein inhibits its absorption. So it may not work after a protein-rich meal.

‘ON’

When PWP have relatively good movement, either because of drug therapy , DBS or a mixture of the two.

Here we go. Monday morning I was getting ready for my 9:30 am weekly Yoga class. It is a five minute walk from my front door. I was alone, everyone had gone to work and I was sitting on the bottom stair, leaning forward tying up the laces on my trainers when I heard an electronic ‘beep’ sound.

I recognised it as the on/off switch of my DBS handset. The handset is about the size of a small mobile phone and allows me to make fine alterations to the amplitude of the DBS settings . I knew immediately what I had done. In the leaning forward motion I had inadvertantly caused the handset, which I always carry in my tracksuit pocket, to swich off.

So now I am getting no deep brain stimulation. Immediately my hands start shaking uncontrollably I am very ‘Off.’ I try and remain calm, noting as I do so that my mobile is in sight but not reach and my medication is in my yoga bag; again within sight and reach, but as good as on the other side of the world to my shaking hands.

It is so difficult to describe the helplessness and frustration. A simple task like putting your hand into your pocket becomes impossible. Nevertheless, after about ten minutes, I manage to get the handset out. I just need to lift it up so I can see. I am trying to keep my hands steady. It is no good, I drop the handset onto the floor somewhere beneath me. My strength is failing. My last Leva-Dopa tablet was at 0:90am. I wonder when it kicks in if it will be enough to propel me to sit up and get the handset. I wait for the familiar sensation of the drug doing its work. Eventually, I can feel it but my condition is so advanced that the tablet barely scratches the surface. It is about 11:00am Time to plan. The chances of my getting help rely on my getting the attention of the postman (who usually comes about 12:30) Of course he doesn’t show his face today. Typical. The amount of shit we get through our door…

It looks like I’m in for the long haul. It will be 5:30/6:00 before my wife gets home. Will I last? I’ve got no option! I spend the afternoon trying to keep wake ( I don’t want to miss someone calling at the door) and periodically shifting my legs to keep my circulation going. My body has slumped, so that I am now lying wedged on the bottom step, the step edge itself under the back of my neck. I am still wearing my jacket and one foot trainer on; the other foot, trainer half off.

My hands in particular are aching due to the constant shaking. My head is arching back at the neck, and feels like it is taking all the pressure from my legs. My fingers are starting to twist. My mouth is dry and I have no swallow.

I listen hopefully for the sound of a vehicle reversing into the drive.

5:45 she arrives. I have planned what to say the moment she gets in the door. My voice is weak, but I have enough of it left to explain what has happened and direct her to the DBS handset.

She switches it on. Bliss! I drop down to the floor and lay on my front.The relief is unbeliveable. I top up with medication. It takes about 15 minutes for this to work and I completely switch ‘on’.

I spend half an hour shaking and rubbing out the cramps (it takes about a week for the aches and pains to ease off)

Over eight hours stuck on the stairs. Nothing I could have done about it. But there was. You see I had got complacent, I had turned off The ‘Panic Alarm’ which is linked to a twenty four hour care centre. It had which had been false-alarming recently. Had that been swtched on I would have been out of my predicament in minutes rather than hours.

I know.

A perfect storm.

A perfect shit storm.

© 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

 

 

I wanna be me!

Regular readers will know I’ve always tried to resist talking about the elephant in the room in this blog, but from time to time I get a bee in my bonnet about something and feel compelled to let it all hang out. (If that’s not mixing my metaphors too much)

Guess what?

Guess what?

When does the neuro degeneration of the brain rob you of your identity?

I have been living with my uninvited guest now for 15 years. That’s almost a quarter of my life. Not withstanding the brilliant treatment I have had from The Functional Neurosurgery Department at the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosugery; and the improvement in drug therapies generally, which mean I have a better quality of life than patients a generation ago, there are stll so many things in life that I have lost the ability to do or enjoy.

In fact I sometimes I think if I were cured tomorrow (unlikely I know) would I be able to remember ‘Me’? Could I return to being the person I was? Could I replace all the pieces of the shattered jigsaw?

Xray image of a human head brain

 

It makes me appreciate how fragile is that exquisite piece of wiring. Look after it.

© Andy Daly 2015

Chameleon and all that jazz

One of the stranger side-effects (if it could be called that) of my Deep Brain Stimulation Surgery, along with the chemical imbalances that characterise the workings of my brain, is that I have lost all interest in music. Listening to it and playing it. It is odd and very sad.

I have stacks of CDs and LPs I don’t play, while I haven’t picked up a guitar for the best part of 3 years.

Go figure.

Anyway, a long time ago before all this Parkinson’s nonsense I realised, albeit briefly, a musical dream. And of all places, it happened at the last school I taught in. The Head of Music announced one staff meeting that Out-reach performers under the radio station Jazz FM 102.2 were coming in to do some workshops and an evening concert. Jazz FM was the official and legitimate manifestation of my favourite pirate radio of the ’80s, JFM. It was a station that encompassed Blues, R&B, Soul, Gospel as well as Jazz. You could tune in and hear music from the likes of Gil Scott Heron, Eddie Harris, Quincy Jones, Thelonious Monk and the SOS Band. All on the same show. (It still exists, although a pale shadow of its former self as ‘Smooth Radio’.)

I’ve always loved Jazz, but never had the technical competence to feel confident playing it.

Dave O’Higgins

But my ears pricked up at the announcement and as luck would have it I was free on the afternoon of their visit and was  therfore able to join in the workshops. And what a treat! We worked with members of the Dave O’ Higgins quartet (O’Higgins – sax, Adrian York – keyboard, Andy Hamill – bass and Winston Clifford – drums) The students were split into to two groups, each concentrating on one piece each, in order to perform it in front of an invited audience that night, I muddled in with one of the bands. To my delight, for our group they chose ‘Chameleon’ a funky number from Herbie Hancock’s album ‘Headhunters’. I was happy as a pig in you know what…

I used a 1973 butterscotch Fender Precision to play the bass line rather than the synth of the original. We worked on it all afternoon. All the players getting the hang of improvising; choosing their ‘jumping off point’ and then negotiating their way back into the tune. The quartet were seasoned musicians and hard taskmasters. I don’t read music (to paraphrase Clyde Stubblefield one time drummer with James Brown ‘All those lttle squiggles made no sense to me they just look like Chinese writing’) so I found it hard going, but I loved every bit of it.

When it came to the evening performance, I felt as through I’d  had a bucket of frogs tipped down the inside ofmy shirt. I had to kick off the tune off before the drums come in. Still, in spite of the white knuckles and sweaty palms I made it through without any major cock ups. Or should that be Hancock ups?

‘Chameleon’ Herbie Hancock

And so ended my brief career as a Jazz musician. By the way, did you know Chameleons have the most distinctive eyes of any reptile. The upper and lower eyelids are joined, with only a pinhole large enough for the pupil to see through. Each eye can pivot and focus independently, allowing the chameleon to observe two different objects simultaneously. This gives them a full 360-degree arc of vision around their bodies.

Neither did I.

© Andy Daly 2015

 

The Last Hangover

You know that feeling. When it finally dawns on you that the jukebox you have been stuffing money into all evening is in fact a cigarette machine.

Trouble

Trouble

No? Let me explain. We have only gone and got ourselves a cozy little lock-in at the Clay Pigeon, a huge unlovely ‘Estate Pub’ near to the school we work at. It is an unheard of state of events, so we aim to make as much of it as possible.

But I am eager to warn my fellow revellers lest they fall foul of the same wicked ciggy machine trickery, but they seem a long way away, too far to hear me, they are enveloped in a thick fug (everyone is smoking … It may have something to do with all the packets I pay for while simply trying to get ‘The Tide Is High’ by Blondie on the ‘jukebox’).

Alarm bells should be ringing right now and indeed I do hear faintly what sounds like my Mickey Mouse clock tinkling away, but choose to ignore it and continue drinking and having a great criac.

We finally stumble out into the street at about 2:00 am

The Clay Pigeon. Now a restaurant.

The Clay Pigeon. Now a restaurant.

The following morning I have such a noggin on me, plus the sweats and the shakes, it is a blessing we only have to do a half day.

I swear when we get back into the pub that afternoon that I am going to cut down on the old falling down water and that I am getting too old for this.

And I do.

A few months later I realise why my tolerance to alcohol has become so weak, when it is confirmed that Mr. Parkinson, uninvited, has moved in to my top floor; which is a bit inconsiderate seeing as I am still living there.

It’s not that I am ‘not allowed’ to drink; it is just that it doesn’t do it for me any more which is perhaps just as well. Also, by the third scoop most alcohol starts to taste like aviation fuel anyway.

My Last hangover 15 years ago.

I don’t miss them.
© Andy Daly 2015

Brain Salad Surgery

Well, if I ever needed an illustration of what my life would be like without my Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS) set up, I had one yesterday.

And it wasn’t pretty.

But let’s start at the beginning.

Last week I got a call from The Functional Neurosurgery Department at The National Hospital For Neurology And Neurosurgery, Queen Square, London. They were calling to see if I’d be interested in helping them out with some tests. They are doing some research into the unwanted side effects of DBS, notably twitching or similar muscle movement in the lips, and the hand.

Of course I said yes.

It means a lot to help out, if only a small way, the team who have been so helpful to me.

A brief reminder about DBS. It involves implanting 2 electrodes deep into the brain, which are cabled to a battery and pulse generator implanted in the chest cavity. When properly set up, the pulse generator sends current to the electrodes  and the stimulation of the pathways in the Subthalamic Nucleus it causes are able in successful cases, to ease Parkinsonian symptoms.

Yesterday’s task, as I understand it was for the team to make some recordings of muscle activity with my DBS settings turned off and, then using one lead only (ie. one side of the brain) increase the amplitude in increments of one volt at a time. To capure this I had numerous electrodes stuck on my face my hands. Now, I’m no expert but it seemed these were connected to what looked like a 1970’s Moog synthesizer: a huge piece of equipment, favoured by Prog Rockers like Keith Emerson and Rick Wakeman. Which is not as daffy as it sounds if you think about it, the synthesizer’s job being to take white noise and shape it by altering its wave patterns and other parameters to create electrical impulses which can be converted to sound.

Robert Moog with Modular Synthesizer. It would fit on a credit card now.

Robert Moog with Modular Synthesizer. It would fit on a credit card now.

The equipment yesterday was doing pretty much the same thing, kind of in reverse picking up electrical impulses coming from my brain which have been shaped by the DBS settings and converting them to wave patterns (and presumably sound as well if required) which can be viewed on a computer, and recorded along with physiological changes in the patient, The brain, ably assisted by the implanted Impulse Generator under my collarbone, playing the role of synthesizer

We got going after a few teething problems which including getting the electrodes to give a clear read out. You’ll be pleased to hear that trying to solve this problem included turning the equipment off then turning it on again! Which was a strangely comforting thing to see.

Equipment for recording brain activity. You see what I mean?

Equipment for recording brain activity. You see what I mean?

As the tests progressed, I fairly soon went into an ‘off’ state characterised by lack of movement, and ridgidity . It is so difficult to describe what this is like. I am unable to move – even to shuffle back into the seat so I am comfortable. I can’t hold a cup of water, it has to be ‘fed’ to me. I am as helpless as a newborn baby. It doesn’t hurt as such, but it is extremely uncomfortable. This is what I would be like without the DBS. I would need constant care, would lose any Independence I enjoy, plus I would be having to take ever larger amounts of anti-Parkinson’s drugs. Drugs which have some scary side effects, which include hallucinations, impulse control disorders and dyskenesias (uncontrollable movements)

After about an hour and a half, the team had got some successful recordings, with twitching coming in around 6 – 7 volts. My settings were restored and I slowly come back to life, able to talk and smile again. Such sessions always leave me exhausted, but a measure of how far I’ve come in the 3 years since the op. Is that I made way back home on the rush hour tube, rather than take the cab the hospital offered me.

It really is remarkable, the difference DBS has made , and it is a technique which is constantly evolving. It is being used in the treatment of Cerebral Palsy, Tourette’s Syndrome, Depression and Migrane nowfor instance. For my money it represents the way forward in treating Parkinson’s in a cost effective way.
Sadly it has no effect on the tendency to compose or listen to Prog Rock.

 

The great H R Giger's sleeve design for ELP's 'Brain Salad Surgery'

The great H R Giger’s sleeve design for ELP’s ‘Brain Salad Surgery’

© Andy Daly 2014

Botox Gives Me The Needle

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Frankenstein’s Monster

It’s a good thing we can’t see into the future.
If I’d have known that one day I would be totally reliant on two Titanium rods implanted into the deepest, darkest recesses of my brain, that these would be wired up beneath my scalp, down my neck connecting to a battery/pulse generator implanted in my chest , I would have been horrified.
It always freaked me out as a kid. You know, that part man, part machine thing. I blame Dr Who; which I watched from William Hartnell to John Pertwee. It was that bloody Davros character half man half dalek that did it. Yep, the thought of it would have kept me wake at nights for years.
But we adapt, and now it seems the most natural thing in the world.
And so today. Lovely and sunny, I decide to go for my usual walk around the park and nature reserve at the end of our street – without my stick.
Ever had a bad idea?
I should explain. I don’t use my stick to rest on or take my weight at any point. I use it to create ‘cues’ (A bit of Conductive Education here) I tend to swing it in front of me, presenting a target for my left and right foot in turn to kick. In this way, I am able to create a rhythmic movement of my legs which approximates steps and allows me to perambulate, albeit with a clumsy gait, even when the oral drugs I take have ceased to be effective and I am in what we in the business call an ‘Off’ state.
I am doing quite well until on the way back I go ‘off’. One of the particlar ideosyncrasies of the way Deep Brain Stimulation works for me is that when the oral medication is working, my gait is adversely affected by an increase in stimulation; so I have to wait for a ‘sweet spot’ in my two hourly medication cycle such that the tailing off of the L Dopa allows me to increase stimulation and as a result, it enables me to walk. As I have said though, it ain’t pretty. I’ll try and describe how it feels as I go ‘Off’. I begin to feel like all my strength and energy are being sapped, meanwhile the muscles of my neck lock up, my jaw becomes set and my head feels like it weighs a ton. Arms and legs stop responding to all but the ‘biggest’ movements, fine motor control is shot. I start to overheat as my body loses its ability to regulate its temperature. Any aches and pains I have got are magnified x 2
The absence of stick proves more problematic than I had anticipated, I start to stumble and my footsteps start to run away with me (Festinating Gait it’s called – lovely phrase isn’t it?) I have to think of a suitable ‘cue’ to control this. I finish up by marching, calling ‘left right’ in my head and swinging the opposite arm, the ‘cue’ being the lower arm seen from the corner of each eye in turn.

Handsome eh?

Handsome eh?

It is when turning a corner I discover that my head follows my body without moving, rather than looking into the corner as you would normally. Marching, arms straight, with my big steel toe-capped boots, frozen Parkinson’s mask- face and surgery scars (which look like OS map symbols for a railway embankment or cutting), I am struck by how much I must resemble Frankenstein.
Or rather Frankenstein’s monster as immortalised in Boris Karloff ‘s portrayal in the 1931 movie ‘Frankenstein.’ The creature almost always appears as gruesome figure, with a flat square-shaped head and bolts to serve as electrical connectors or grotesque electrodes on his neck, and thick, heavy boots, causing him to walk with an awkward, stiff-legged gait. It sounds awfully familiar …
Now did you know that to this day, the image of Karloff’s face is owned by his daughter’s company, Karloff Enterprises?
Neither did I.

© Andy Daly 2014