The Eden Project

I really shouldn't be left alone with the local newspaper and a tax rebate. Granted, I could have spent it on a long-overdue touch-up on my roots but the enticing photograph of Eden's biomes covered in frost and the prospect of a few days away in Cornwall injected some much needed festive enthusiasm into me. I waved it at Alphonse who croaked,
"Not interested."  Fair enoughski.
"It'll be fun and cheap." I chirped.  I'd done the return trip calculations by car and the fuel cost was huge.
"Not for me it won't.  It involves shopping." His logic was flawless. With the Clarke's Shopping Village and the Bath Christmas Market featured heavily either side of St Austell, I'd need long arms and deep pockets so I booked myself on a three day treat and arranged for Them Next Door to ensure Alphonse had regular meals and a fresh litter tray while I was on tour.

I'm a coach tours novice and being a tad claustrophobic when I can't fly myself, I was hoping for an aisle seat so imagine my horror on discovering that window seat No.37 had trapped me next to a big bloke who left me with no wriggle-room. I couldn't have wished for a nicer chap who had only come along to help his elderly parents, but he had sleep apnoea and snored a lot every time we hit a motorway. So on the way from home to Market Harborough, Kettering, Wellingborough and Northampton, I developed a new form of yoga to practice in very confined spaces and cursed myself for not packing some TEDs anti-deep vein thrombosis stockings. At least there was no singing of Vera Lynne classics on the way.

Surveying my fellow travellers, I felt there would be at least one person I could bond with and joy, I found Sue and her husband Roy in the seats behind mine. Like teenage rebels, we took to using our cameras to snap everything that moved from meals, including this glorious bucket of soup and doorstep bread slathered with Cornish butter:

You won't get this on your Costa card because it was grown on the Eden Project estate and tasted like heaven, all for a fiver. Returning to our Torquay Hotel that evening, we were brimming over with The Eden Project's wonders before sitting down to a three course extravaganza that I've not witnessed since staying with my parents in a Weymouth B&B.  I was 15 at the time and in those days considered tinned grapefruit in a glass dish to be exotic.

Granted our digs weren't as bad as Fawlty Towers but purely out of disbelief, I videoed the Saniflow because the goddam thing kept me awake most of the first night.  I must pack ear plugs if I'm ever going to do this again.  Still, sleeping in a strange nest is always a bit difficult at first.  I don't allow technology in the upper reaches of the home nest unless it's an alarm clock so I found the intrusion of a television in my shoe-box sized accommodation to be a real nuisance in the dark. Although on the Sunday morning, enjoying my first cup of tea on the concrete bed, I watched a stupid film about a man who after drinking a lot of a very expensive wine imagined himself as a dog.  Sam Neill as a canine had me howling!  There was also the problem of the strong adhesive smell, apparently brought on by the management having just stuck down the flooring in the bathroom.  Helpfully, they'd opened the windows in the vain hope that I hadn't noticed. I had because my beak is very sensitive.  I also couldn't help noticing the two inch gap in the ill fitting door which looked like a light-sabre in the room when the lights were out. I really couldn't miss the huge, framed Vogue covers circa 1991 of the world's highest paid supermodels of the time adorning the walls to distract our vision from the eye-watering pattern on the carpets. Now I know Naomi Campbell hasn't looked like that for a decade.

Over the full English breakfast serving downstairs in a dungeon of a restaurant, we swopped snaps and howled at the images. Sue, giggling like a teenager, had photographed every bit of their bedroom from the mouldy patch inside the wardrobe door and the two pound coins they discovered under the bad, to the word 'DUST' written in the dust on the top of the wardrobe.  Don't ask me how or why she was up there, it had something to do with the TV remote apparently.  And what, we discussed, could improve our stay at this peculiar hotel; a polyglot of buildings with dodgy plumbing seemingly bolted to a Torquay hillside?
"A facelift?" quipped Sue.
"Closing for a year and gutting?" ventured Roy.
"An Exocet missile?"  forever optimistic Raven.

I could rattle on about our journey home but I slept through the dull bit from Torquay to the outskirts of Bath, at least until driver Barry turned off the motorway and onto some dubious B roads, obviously some kind of demonic SatNav challenge he'd not told us about.  We went through one Somerset hill village and terrified a bloke washing his car, who jumped back as our tour bus squeaked past his wing mirror.  What seemed like a lifetime later, I finally met up with Grimy and January near Bath's famous Abbey and instead of browsing the famous Christmas Market, we headed for the pub to get away from the crowds. A word to the wise if you're going this weekend, get some bovver boots because the stalls are three-deep and you'll never get to see most of it. I ended up hiding in Lakeland and filling my basket with Dr Who novelty items to keep me entertained over the festive break; along with a DIY marmalade kit for Alphonse but don't tell him yet.

Y'know, I had a lovely time and met some great folk.  I also met some real moan-a-lots too. And days later when it came to filling in the survey sheet for Diamond Holidays I was aghast at one question. "If we could improve anything, what would it be?"  My first thought was 'you could have arranged for it to snow at The Eden Project and for Bath to have more public loos.'  My written answer was honest and truthful.
"What are you asking me for?  This is your business and you should know where there's room for improvement.  Why don't you take a tour or two yourself and stop asking stupid questions?"
There, I said it.

Tip of the Beak:  Remember I mentioned a wasps nest that has been causing us some problems?  I sort of calmed down when I realised The Eden Project have a much bigger problem with such things than we ever will. Please go soon and support their charitable work. It's fabulous.

Staff Retention. Seriously?

Granted it's not like me to snuggle down in a dark corner with a reviving beverage but I've taken a serious chunk of downtime over the last few weeks to relax and forget about the awful mess I made of my book's synopsis. The publisher was unimpressed and my mentor, having talked me down from the Nest's highest bough, told me it should have been written seriously in the first person singular and not as a romp through my bizarre life.  Why didn't anyone tell me this before?  I had copious notes and the handouts from Uni to refer to and the Internet as backup, so what could go wrong?  Everything apparently.

With hindsight, I can only put it down to losing the plot because that's exactly what's happened at the hospital from hell too. I thought the Body Shop was bad but this is the stuff of nightmares, and I'm currently avoiding any whiff of the management by diving into bed linen cupboards.  There's lots to chose from on each floor and I've hidden a bottle of Bailey's Chocolate in each, behind the TED's stockings box. Anything to avoid being asked,
"Are you alright Raven?" Spoken in a voice most people would use to apologise for kicking an Andrex Puppy so I've started to call her that.

My problem started after a torrid weekend on the Ward when our crippling staff shortage final broke the will to live of this solitary Raven. At the midway point of the week, I'd been honest with the management about my abilities to prepare notes and files for our high dependency ward on the top floor.  Blunt even
"I have never done this before and I will need help."  I fingered the raised area on my forehead which read 'MUG' backwards.
"Don't you worry your miniscule brain about this ... all will be well."
"I'm not worried but you will be by Friday if this isn't sorted out."  It wasn't, and it all kicked off on Saturday morning when the ward notes were still in tatters.  Oh, all the bits of paper were there but I had no chuffin' idea where they belonged, and with a phone to each ear and a tub of Quality Street for backup, I made an executive call alerting the management to my problem. Again. I almost cried when she said,
"I've called your line manager and she has assured me you know how to do this."  She was wrong and luckily, the cavalry arrived in the form of the incumbant who was passing by and dutifully checking Monday would not be pear shaped on arrival.  And so there was a meeting called and in the true style of an Unkindness of Ravens, I was about to be pecked to death.

Seven of us crammed into a tiny meeting room; all hormonal and one of us seething with fury. Me.  Shall I go around the room? And you know it's going to be bad when the management start off with a little speech about supporting staff and taking staff retention very seriously.  Hah!  The initial question came from the Rota Witch.
"Why didn't you say you needed help earlier."
"I did, last Wednesday, and again on Friday but when I got around to the management office, the Andrex Puppy was already involved with another crisis. So I went back to the Ward and got on with it."  My fault of course and for that I accept responsibility.  And I should have dissolved into floods of tears which is the usual way folks get noticed around here.

"But you didn't get on with it and I've got KPIs to fulfill.  Why wasn't it done?"
"Because both phones were ringing all Friday night and all Saturday morning. Hard to work with a phone in each hand."  This went straight over her head.
"If you didn't do your job, how am I going to explain it?" Lie, like everyone else in this room would.

In grudge-match meetings like this, there's always one who's only there to save her own arse feathers and bang on cue up chirps Stephanotis.
"I did thirty sets of notes on my shift last week. What's your problem?"  Her 'problem' is she's leaving in three weeks so her responsibility levels have waned to a point of non-existence. I pecked back.
"And how many phone calls did you take, appointments did you make and patients did you relate to?"
"None."
"Well unless you've got something constructive to contribute, shut your beak." Stupidly, I hoped Malone would spring to my aid but I couldn't have been more misguided.
"You didn't tell me you couldn't do this either. Remember I came back on Friday afternoon and you said it was all under control." The knife went straight into my back at the third intercostal space thus ending a beautiful friendship. You see, she know and I had told her but she'd just landed a plumb job which she will be bored with in a couple of months and was determined that none of the poo was going to land in her direction.

This appeared to be the downturn in the proceedings because the management contingent suddenly woke up to the veracity of my complaints.  In the threatening silence that followed, the silent minority decided to chip in a few words of encouragement.  Determined to be supportive and thoroughly nice, LouLou had come armed with the Ward Administration Bible which she had written a couple of years ago.
"You say you didn't know how to prep notes but it's all in the book Raven."  She'd brought handouts.
"Oh, that book. The one I've never had time to read since I walked through the door you mean?"  I would've been there all night reading the manual trying to find the right bits of paper to insert in the appropriate slot, absolutely guaranteeing chaos on the following Monday morning.
"All the necessary information is written there when you need it, yes."  Luckily, she's not bright enough to realise how daft she sounded or how close she came to having the file parked up her rectal sphincter muscle.

I got out of there alive on the understanding I would be rota'd back on Ward 2 for further training because, according to the management,
"It might give you more confidence."  The Andrex Puppy was speaking again. "And we're very short staffed."
"I've been behind the controls of a Boeing 737!"  I wanted to shout at them. "Do I look like I'm lacking in the confidence department?" It was an hour before the hormones subsided in the linen cupboard and I'd had a chance to assess the damage.  Not to my career because I patently don't have one. Or to my sense of humour which is priceless. Honestly, I felt fine until Malone caught up with me on the stairs.
"Sorry about that Raven but I wasn't going to do anything to scupper my new job, was I?"
"No. But you've lost a friend forever.  Oh, and here's your knife back."

Tip of the Beak: Please watch the Dr Who mini-episode on BBC iPlayer.  I nearly fainted with happiness at the sight of Paul McGann in his frock coat and will be transfixed to the tele for The Day of the Doctor on Saturday night.  It's like being a little kid again but I won't be hiding behind the sofa.  I only do that after encounters with our management.

Raven

 

What Deadline?

I thought I'd got away with it. Sitting here at the PC, I'd been staring at a blank screen and frittering away the morning on www.shoeaholic.com instead of engaging myself with the job at hand. Writing a synopsis; the bane of a novelist's life.  I hate them because it means engaging in the thought process of trying to work out what my novel's actually about.  Every ten minutes or so, I've employed many of the best known distraction techniques known to writers world wide. Just this morning, I've baked a carrot cake and washed the food mixer and all the attachments, by hand, while Alphonse was reading the sports pages.

And I thought I was doing a brilliant job of avoiding his x-ray vision until was standing at my side with a bacon sandwich, his not mine, and spoke these immortal words;
"Okay. So when's the deadline?"
"What deadline?" In denial as usual Raven?
"The one you're obviously avoiding ..."
"There is no deadline.  You are wrong for once." He's a Virgo. He is only misguided but never wrong. Unexpectedly for a Sunday morning, Alphonse seemed to want to point out some serious home truths.
"The water filter has been changed. The camera is on charge even though it won't be needed until Halloween. Both sock drawers are in pristine order.  My ties are sorted into colours ... even though I don't wear one. I can see my face in the cooker hood and someone ..." How he loves those dramatic pauses and yet I was determined to remain defiant in the face of a full MI5 interrogation session.
"Someone has taught the cat to select his preferred flavour pouch from the box."  He was on to me and my diversionary tactics; all those irritating little tasks I only do in the face of a deadline. Finally, I caved in and mumbled,
"First of November."
"Not a chance." He was almost gleeful in his assessment of my situation
"Why not?"
"You've started making jam."
"Why's that stopping me writing?"
 "Because you could nip over to Lidl and buy it like you have done for the past ten years."

Excuse the rather fragmented nature of this blog post, I've just had to wander into the kitchen for a sandwich and a warming cuppa.  Since I was in the vicinity, I've washed up too and chopped the veg for dinner, and considered how many kilos of assorted sweets we'll need for the Trick-or-Treat bucket.  I could go to the enormous Tesco, the one with the wide screen televisions and enormous 'reductions' section; it's only 14 miles from here which should kill about three hours or I could do the smart thing and buy 10 bags of charity sweets from the box on Reception and save some time.  Although Amber, one of the medical secretaries, had got there before me on Friday night and was routing through the box with a sugar-deprived glint in her eye.
"What are you still doing here?" The first answer that came to mind was 'minding my own business' but I like her and her daughter who taught me everything I needed to know about my job. The interesting stuff you understand, not the mind-numbing filing.
"I'm here 'til eight.  Such is life." I watched in horror as she used her teeth to gain entry to a bag of quasi Galaxy Minstrels with an extra crisp candy coat that sounded like maracas when shaken.
"Know that.  I mean why are you here every night doing this horrible job when you have better things to do with your life?"  I opened my beak but no smart answer emerged.  I felt like a guppy on a fishmonger's slab.
"You've got me there ..."
"Well do something about it or you'll end up like the rest of us saddos.  Chocolate?"
"No thanks.  Not unless you've got an ice pick to remove the hard-as-granite shell."
"Wimp." Amber's laser vision eyes had started to return to their usual green as she sucked hard on the sugar.
"Expensive choppers."
"Great excuse.  Just don't find a reason to stay here after your sell-by date."  I checked out the chocolates later and they were good to the end of this century.

Tip of the Blog:  There's been shouting on the ward this week. By me at someone who has been wasting my time.  I should tell you all about it but there’s a whole box set of Porridge to watch before bedtime.

Raven

Everyone's A Winner

I've been somewhat diverted from writing of late because of a chocolate cake.  Poor excuse I know but you could almost taste the pheromones of competitiveness coursing around the hospital last week as our own version of the "Great British Bake Off" technical challenge took place on Ward 1.  Imagine the scene; seventeen bakers of all ages and dress size took on the Mary Berry 'chocolate sponge cake challenge' all in aid of the Macmillan Nurses charity; it was carnage.  We'd all been given the recipe at least a fortnight in advance so the playing field was level[ish], but mostly to give ourselves the opportunity to prepare and cheat where necessary; and believe me the mental preparation was vital.  Some people are natural-born winners like MedSec Barty who won a petrol mower recently.  It's irrelevant that she hasn't got a lawn, she says, and has resolved to save up for a bigger nest, with grass.  What matters is that she's a winner.  And so I got stuck in baking the cake with a winner's frame of mind.

"Preparation, preparation, preparation."  Chant this and all will be well, I told myself.  At the first attempt I made half the recipe in case it flopped in the middle, and was delighted instead with a fluffy and light chocolate gateaux fit for the Paul Hollywood Poke.  Have you noticed how he gets a finger and stabs it right in the centre of everything?  I always expect the poor buns to pop under his extreme inspection technique and prayed there would be none of this aggressiveness with our cakes.  And so the night before the judging I was armed with a schedule timed down to the last second and ingredients prepped and ready, I set to work after a long shift.

The longest job of any cake is greasing and lining the two cake tins and before you ask, yes I'd been out and bought new ones because my usual 20 year old Tala models with little or no Teflon left on them were not of the regulation size.  Job done, I mixed the cocoa power with boiling water into paste, lobbed it into the already prepared dry ingredients and turned on the mixer.  "Beat until light and creamy" it clearly states but after I'd added the eggs I sensed this wasn't quite the result Mary Berry had intended because it looked like slurry from one of the local farms.  On the plus side, it smelled like heaven.  So, into the oven and pacing like a new father in the maternity ward, I waited for the beast to start rising away from the bottom of the cake tin.  Except it didn't.  Twenty five minutes later both halves looked like large digestive biscuits.  And weeping tears of frustration I tried to get one out of the tin an hour later, it broke in half like the Great African Rift Valley and oozed all over the table.  There's only so much that chocolate cream icing will cover

Undefeated, I went back to Tesco at 11.00 pm and bought another stock of eggs and butter, and set the alarm.  Sleep?  I was so wired from the fumes of Green & Black's finest organic 70% that I'm sure I slept with my eyes open.  At 6.00 am, I was standing in the kitchen before my first mug of tea thinking,
"What the flock am I doing here?"  Winning.  That's what. So I started again, and this time made a delightfully even confection, jammed it up with Asda apricot conserve and made bacon sarnies for Alphonse while it cooled down.  Oh, we don't get treated to these every day as he's on statins but I felt really guilty of neglect somehow.  After all, the dreaded cakes had cost almost as much as the weekly shop if you take the petrol into account and I was in it for the glory.

I'd timed it to perfection for 8.30 am and the journey to work.  I'd even allowed for the school traffic and had battened down the cake with cling film to a silver wedding cake board.  Sadly, I hadn't allowed for the speed humps by the church and, braking just a little too sharply, I sensed the top half of the sponge slide effortlessly away from the jam and land in two pieces.  Make up your own swear words here, I did.  Life teaches us that Plan A is of no use if you haven't got a Plan B.  So I ran into the canteen, grabbed a palette knife and hoofed the two halves back together, jiggled with the topping and covered the whole lot in icing sugar because I'd brought it with me just in case.  Gorgeous it looked.  Good as new.  When I got upstairs and presented myself, why then did the chief judge look me in the eye and say,
"Have you been eating icing sugar again Raven?"
"What?"
"Your face is covered.  And you look like you've been rolling in ... well it's brown and sticky, so I'm guessing it's chocolate."
It's true.  As I placed my now priceless cake in a row with sixteen others and next to the one with the company logo stencilled in edible glitter, I looked like I'd been snorting cocaine after rolling in dog poo.

Anyway, some time passed while the judging team got stuck in and I have to admire their dedication.  Apparently, the four senior citizens resting in the corner later were volunteers from the Macmillan charity and deserve medals of their own for excess cake consumption.  When the results came out, I'd won a certificate and joint First Prize with one of the nurses, and Sandra had bagged the certificate for a plate of excellent scones. When I got home that night clutching my bottle of fizz and a wearing a huge grin, I asked Alphonse if he's like some cake with his pack up?
"Can I have fruit instead of cake?"
"No."
"Crisps then?  I've gone right off the smell of cake." Fair enough. I was feeling a bit bilious myself but my pride was at stake.
"Still NO!"  On closer inspection though, the cake I'd bought for charity had started to sweat and not in a ladylike manner so I softened my resolve.
"I'll buy you lunch tomorrow then.  Sushi maybe ... noodles.  Anything but cake."
I was too happy to care honestly, as I'd finally broken the jinx of a lifetime and won something, and I've been high for the last week although that may be the remains of the sugar rush.

Tip of the Blog:  On the day we'd raised over £700 for the Macmillan Nurses Coffee Morning, the one person who hadn't worked out the 'Bake Off' vibe was a visitor who stood at my desk asking a whole loads of irrelevant questions.  I'm guessing he was bored and wanted to escape his relative's room for some human/raven contact.  Eventually, he quipped,
"It's alright, you ladies can get back to your computer games now." He turned away unaware that he had awoken my inner Robert de Niro from Taxi Driver.
"Sorry. You talking to me???"  I'd had a particularly testy consultant standing over me for ten minutes previously and I was in no mood.
"Oh, I know what you girls are like the minute the boss's head's turned.  It's all Facebook and internet shopping."  We all froze as one and turned in his direction like The Stepford Nurses.
"Facebook? At Work? Are You NUTS??"  Still high on the Green & Blacks, Saab reached for a syringe and I had to be forcibly restrained from administering the Vulcan Death Grip.  Pass the Green & Blacks someone.

Raven

Pain and Mischief Managed

"Pain Management" is the latest buzz phrase in the sedation world and is proving very popular in these parts.  Loosely translated into plain English it means "someone is going to take a large syringe of anaesthetic attached to a brutally sharp needle and plunge it into your buttock."  Follow this procedure with the words, "There you go old chap, pain managed."  And it seems to work as long as the recipient follows the surgeon's advice.  You'd think with a mark the size a 50p piece on your bum and a numb leg that you'd do as the surgeon says.  Ha!  Imagine my horror when the call came from an injectee on this quiet Saturday morning asking,
"Can I take the dog for a walk?"  The instructions are implicit: light exercise for seven days meaning pottering in the garden and making a cup of tea. 
"Unlikely but I will check with the Nurse In Charge." I trotted over to the treatment room and ran back to the phone in a hail of bad language and shouts of "Not on your life!!!"  Deep breath Raven.
"Best you rest for a week and let someone else walk the pooch."  I hate to be the bearer of bad news and was trying to be friendly, and the devil in me had to ask "What kind of dog is it?"
"It's a German Shepherd and needs three miles a day.  If I don't walk him soon he's going to eat the sofa."  Lucky for me Pomello was sitting close by and reading the riot act thus saved the patient from a more painful conversation with the surgeon in two weeks' time.

You may think I'm mocking the afflicted but far from it; I'm empathising.  As the ungrateful recipient of a 5th lumbar injury during a Kung Fu demonstration somewhere around my 20th birthday, I would have walked to Mars if that had stopped the pain.  It didn't; neither did chiropractic or several osteopaths.  It also put a massive crimp in my ambitions to follow Bruce Lee along the path to the nearest Shaolin Temple, or to wear decent heels for the next decade. Still, I wear heels now and was rocking the night away at a Hen Party later on Saturday evening but obviously don't have to same stamina for it as I did in my 20's.  I also have a very low threshold when it comes to disco-cocktail bars with bouncers on the door and had found myself in a classic example of the genre about 11.30; well past my nesting time.  The entire crowd were like a massive conga line, snaking in the door, bumping & grinding along where the seats were, stopping off at the square metre of disco space and hustling forward slowly towards the bar to be fleeced for a load of coloured ice with vodka. And all the girls looked the same - flesh coloured dresses and weird, matted hair.  I save that look for early mornings but what do I know?  One of our number, Pineapple, has flaming ruby hair and in a skin tight frock of the same hue, she always draws a crowd of onlookers and one particular ape in the jungle had put half coconut shells down his shirt in a last desperate attempt to attract her attention.  It might have worked had the shells enhanced his already ample moobs but it created more a vision of King Louie from The Jungle Book singing 'I'm the King of the Swingers.'  His mates and the cocktail staff were all in Hawaiian shirts and it just compounded the picture of jungle mayhem; if only the fake Easter Island stone heads had started to sing we could have had another Disney classic.

When I was ready for a brandy & horlicks, I offered to help Malone stagger up the hill to the meeting point with her chauffeur but, in her condition, it was only a matter of time before she fell down a drain cover.  Still, when we'd made it to the top she slurred,
"Bettr wet here.  No late. Be here in mnut." Her lips had turned rubbery when the cold air hit them.
"I'm not standing on the corner propping you up like this."
"Whynot?"  Because we looked like the two oldest slappers in town, and she was in a fringed dress that was blowing in the wind like a 1950's lampshade.  Thankfully, the Audi turned up and all I heard through her husband's gales of laughter was
"She's such a lightweight."  Me too.

I digress because I've not mentioned the Bride to Be who, being from Eastern Europe, is game for a laugh with all the tinsel, flashing badges, durex and head gear she was forced to wear during the meal.  At least we didn't chain her to a lamp-post even though she begged us to for the photographs she's sending home to her Mum. She is also a brilliant keeper of secrets at work, in a place where everyone knows everyone's business.  For reasons I'm keeping under wraps for the time being, I want to expand my typing skillbase to include the MRI and CT scanning clinics and had secretly volunteered to do a trial session recently.  In charge of the department is the lovely Mandarin, who promised we could keep it to ourselves just in case I made a right fool of myself.  As it turned out, I didn't do too badly with the Asian consultant's dictation and was looking forward to hearing the results.  It was only seconds before Mandarin started laughing and called others into the room. They also looked at me and had a hearty laugh before patting me on the shoulder saying
"Brilliant.  The best laugh we've had for months Raven.  You can come again."
"It looks okay, what've I done??"  More laughter until Mandarin put me out of my misery.
"DrB doesn't ever describe the CT scanning technique as "looking good"."
"I'm not going deaf ... that's what he said." And so she played it back to me.
"Routine protocol."  Crystal clear.  Oh the pain of humiliation.
"Rubbish. I know what I heard!"  And after several offers to put my head in the scanner, I departed with my beak down at my belly button and bumped into the Bride to Be, who chirped
"So now you work here too??"  Big smile.
"No! NO! You mustn't tell anyone.  I've only done a quick trial." She wasn't convinced.
"You'd be really good.  All that medical stuff and jargon.  What's the secret?"
"I just don't want it to look like I'm scouting for jobs."  She didn't understand.  She also didn't understand why we'd kept her Hen Party doings a secret either.  Where she hails from, the whole town turns up, they all get riotously drunk into the night and no-one gets chained to a lamp post.  Pity!

Tip of the Blog:  I've had a few issues with the bloke in the nest over the road.  Nothing personal but his ancient [vintage] Fiesta blows black soot out of the exhaust and all over the bonnet of my car; usually after it's been fastidiously valeted by Alphonse.  Yes it wipes off but that's not the point because he always parks the heap too close and makes sure he revs the engine before roaring off, thus showing incredible maturity and not overcompensating in the slightest.  One particularly sleepless night last week, I resolved to have it out with him. Ten minutes later, there was a lot of shouting and a loud bang outside which catapulted me into the upright position and was soon standing, staring out of the window.  The Fiesta in question and a BMW had had a coming together in the dark resulting in much wreckage of the front bumper.  I believe the Beemer had a titchy scratch which polished out the following day.  As Harry Potter would say "Mischief managed."

Raven

Two for your Kindle.

On a rather odd kind of day when the fifteen kids next door are intent on murdering each other at a family gathering, I've been gainfully employed having a clear out of the nether regions of the nest.  Downstairs, in the scant remains of the library, you can't imagine my delight in finding two treasured books huddling together unread recently, but far from unloved.  Cast your mind back to the 1990s when travel shows on Channel 4 had real explorers to show us how to find the empty corners of the planet, rather than the mahogany hues of Judith Chalmers waffling on about the charms of a family package holiday in Ibiza.  There aren't any charms Judith, I've been there.  Twice.  And after a short spell on the nudist beach at Cala Jack, and being chased away from a restaurant near St Vincente by a savage dog who only wanted to make a dog-chew out of the Mini Moke's spare tyre, I got so drunk at the Es Cana market I bought a yellow sundress that turned out, on sobering up, to be a table cloth.

Still, back to the two books.  They are 'McCarthy's Bar' and 'The Road to McCarthy' by one of the funniest and most brilliant travel writers ever, Mr Pete McCarthy.  Before you ask, he hailed from Warrington not Ireland, and the premise of both books is "Never pass a bar with your name on it."  Difficult for us Raven's and despite extensive research, drinking holes dedicated to the corvid species are few and far between.  I have been to Ireland though.  Twice. And although my paternal grandfather hailed from Dun Laoghaire, I don't believe that slim connection makes me Oirish by default.  It would be akin to buying an Audi, shouting "Vorsprung Durch Technik" and immediately being qualified for a German stamp on your passport.  I only mention this because Raven Malone has a new Audi TT and came back from the teutonic awfulness of the dealership clutching the bill for a new wing mirror, plus the gizmo that makes it work and the artisan paint job; the total was an audacious £700.00 plus VAT. I'm still smirking because they threw in a bucket of dreadful customer service too.

Later the same day, I had an unsettling conversation with one of the medical secretaries who after two decades in the same job is packing up and heading back to her roots.  She also has a 'McC' in her name and was very forthcoming when I asked her reasons.
"Twenty three years in the Shires has sent me soft in the head.  At least when I'm home, I won't have to book an appointment with my friends to nip round for a cuppa."  She's right y'know; that's how it is around here.  It's one of the reasons I write, simply because the end result is better than beta-blockers or alcohol addiction.
"Is it that the grass is greener up there in Fazakerley?" I had to know and for decency, I've omitted the swear words.
"You bet it's greener."  Vivid emerald, tourmaline or gin bottle maybe?  "Too right. Not the morbid grey green snot we get around here."  Don't think she'll be back, do you?

When I first visited Ireland in 2002, it was mainly because I'd read McCarthy's Bar and decided to find out the truth behind the comedy.  Also, my chum Reggie and I had received glowing reports of the twenty shades of green around every corner; and the craic of course. The trouble with Dublin is that when you find the craic, you can't afford it.  I was charged the equivalent of a day's car hire for two soft drinks and a black velvet in Bono's hotel, The Connaught, with its octagonal bar crafted from rare Amazonian timbers. But don't let me put you off because it's a magical place once you get away from the tourist nonsense.  Like the mid-Summer's evening, dressed in Berghaus jackets to protect us from the cold, we decided to go for a walk in search of something a bit different from Irish stew. Crossing the Liffey on the newly constructed Millennium Bridge, our way was blocked by a young couple in tears and hugging as if it was their last day on Earth. They were obviously in need of someone to chat to.
"Been together since we was kids ... fell out over some stupid nonsense ... been apart for thirteen months and four days and we've just met up in a bar and I miss her so much ...bought the champagne because I had to know."  More sobbing followed before the bottle was thrust in my direction to open whilst Reggie held the glasses. "She loves me and we're getting married."  I hate to see a grown man cry like that but she looked happy enough.  Oddly enough, me and Reggie never talked about that couple ever again, mainly because we've rarely spoken since our return to the UK.

It's true what they say about choosing your travelling companions with care.  Like two old friends, I would gladly choose Pete McCarthy's books to travel with because his writing adds pure joy to a dull day. Download them for your e-reader of choice and laugh like a drain at his brilliant writing and natural good humour. Sadly though, as he is no longer with us, we've been robbed of a quality comedian who should have been a headline act on Live at the Apollo. Twice.

Tip of the Blog:  I'll keep quiet about my trip to Ballymena, mainly because I can't remember much about the place as I went on business, pre-Year 2000.  I do remember my lunch though; a Chinese stir fry, Ulster style. I also vividly recall the very accommodating waitress who came over and apologised because the chef felt he had under-seasoned the dish of salt chicken, salt pineapple and vegetables crafted mainly of salt. Twice. These days, I'm still on the total-exclusion regime and a sharp peck usually follows any offer of crisps or salt'n'vinegar on my chips.

Raven

Crime & Punishment

It's only now the remains of the last few weeks have settled on the crypt floor that I can put it all in perspective and have a jolly good laugh about the whole work situation.  HaHaHa ... there, I did it.  Mirthless and dry but I'm still laughing about the crime I've committed by saying "No."  As with the Retail Cathedral, most employers these days have bought into the fantasy that all staff must be 'fully flexible'.  After 13 years of yoga I can bend over backwards with the best of them but I'm not going to commit to working practices that make idiots of us all.  Part of my punishment was being given awful shifts by the Replacement Rota Fairy, i.e.

• 10-12     Ward Filing because it's out of control due to staff shortages
• 12-2       Oncology Ward Clerk to prep this weeks notes because they are so far behind
• 2-4         Ward Clerk on a different ward to the first two
• 4-8         The Bunker - more filing but different to this morning
• Home      I finally had my lunch break

On the whole, it meant I couldn't get into any role before the needs of the business pulled me in a different direction.  Just like the Body Shop really.  And when I tore myself away from the filing at noon, I found the Oncology Admin Manager mumbling to herself; this happens a lot.  So I urged her to get it off her chest and she was unexpectedly forthcoming,
"I didn't take this job to be my own friggin' ward clerk."  Realising her gaff, she carried on digging her own hole.  "No offence Raven but ..."
"None taken." I know how much in demand I am and am considering banking for the NHS.  If only there was a hospital near me.  Still, the OAM kept on digging.
"Not that there's anything wrong with being a ward clerk."  Really?  "But the previous one did naff all for two hours and now you're here, why can't I keep you all day?"
"Perhaps you should consult the people who promoted you into this seat."  A rare moment of tact and diplomacy followed where I didn't refer the perks of her new role including an office with a nice, shiny desk.  I don't even have a locker for my handbag but then us bottom-feeder ward clerks don't count, do we?  The OAM carried on muttering for minutes until she almost burst with one final question.
"Where exactly do you think the problem lies here?"
"Criminally insane management?"  Too late, it was out before I could button my beak and no doubt I'll be punished for my honesty too.  It'll come out in conversation next time I'm chained to the wall over some miniscule discretion I didn't commit.

It was about this time that I reached my maximum number of mosquito bites for the summer and the skin on my wing erupted in a rather spectacular way.  Red, itchy and the size of a saucer.  And once you start scratching, the itch gets ten times worse until you're forced to immerse yourself in boiling water.  Aaaaahhh.  Then, when all the creams in Pharmacy had failed to get a result, I went to the doctors for a course of leeches.  I also got weighed and my BP taken, and left with my beak drooping and instructions to 'lose the belly' or else.  Difficult when there's a fresh box of Thornton's finest on the Ward every single day; all gifted from grateful patients.  On Saturday, someone had opened a monster tub of Quality Street, the one with the skull and crossbones on the lid, and everyone who walked past followed the same little dance routine.

• Skid to a halt
• Gaze into the tub looking for the purple one, or for the toffee button
• Say "Oh I shouldn't"  Well don't then ...
• Dip a claw into the pot hoping for their 3rd favourite
• Say "Which is the coconut?"  It's the blue oblong in case you don't know.
• Fifty times I croaked "Take some pleeeeeeease!"

The Rules of Governance don't allow me to use a camera at work but this would have made a brilliant hip-hop routine worthy of YouTube.  I had four in the end but not the toffee button because I want to hang on to my expensive fillings.  Ten minutes later I was buzzing from the sugar rush after a whole week of sugarless tea so the paperwork got mopped up in a frenzy and I could answer two phones at once.  By the end of my shift, I'd come down so hard that I had barely enough strength to eat tea.  Just a light, Quality Street salad for me Alphonse if you don't mind ...

Tip of the Blog:  I thought I'd try public transport for a change and left the car at home on Wednesday; an act of folly which turned me into Jeremy Clarkson.  Long story but don't catch Leicester's UHL bus and expect to get on or off anywhere along the route that isn't a hospital. Especially, don't expect to get off at a bus stop. They're there, you can see them and stand at them, but they don't work.  All this for a £3.00 day ticket.  Priceless.  And thanks to the driver who did stop thinking I was lost or deranged ... I'm neither despite reports to the contrary. 

Raven

Stop Press

"Job 1.4" is no more.  This is how it happened:

On Tuesday of last week, I'd clocked in at 9.00 am and by 10.00 am I was cross eyed and staring at the PC thinking
"What moron developed this computer package?"  The question remains unanswered.  Worse, the notes I'd made the previous day made no sense and may as well have been written in pure Klingon.  Still, I soldiered on until 12.00 only to be told I wouldn't be needed after 1.00 pm because those losing their contracts were being taken to lunch.  And I was to be dispatched to the back room to catch up on the filing for a couple of hours.

Much mumbling went on while I was sorting paper until I had a visitor bearing a cup of tea and a smile.  Another lovely Sandra who is of a completely different generation from my Raven chum.  She patted my arm saying,
"They did it to me too Raven.  Decided I might just slot in and do a bit of typing. Y'know, like the skill I'd been using for 20 years to earn a living was just a hobby."
"That's exactly how it was sold to me too ..."  Sandra nodded.
"And after two months I felt old and stupid."
"It got to me after a couple of hours."  My beak hit the desk.
"Me too." Sandra nodded sagely.  "But I wasn't going to let their daft schemes beat me."

On Thursday, after much mulling, I fetched up determined to end this farce and was told that more senior management had called in sick and I was to amuse myself in the Citadel.  Seeking out even higher management who'd forgotten I was on shift and patently didn't want to talk to me, I was left with no choice but to tell the truth.
"Sorry but this is a crock of detritus you've handed me and I'm not doing it."  That should be enough but when questioned I felt the need to explain. "I have the procedures for three wards and the medical jargon of twelve consultants locked in my head." Not to mention all the other dross I have to take on board. "It's full."  Her answer was unexpected.
"Oh we thought you'd like a jolly bit of typing to slot in with the rest of the stuff you do.  Never mind ... we might get nice Dee to try out as a medical secretary like you.  She did a two-week course about ten years ago ... she should fit in nicely.  You'll train her up, won't you?"
I gave up.  Wouldn't you?

Raven

Ch-Ch-Changes

It's been a long time since we've tasted the delights of a full-on Summer of Love with unthinkable levels of dryness at Wimbledon and cricket matches that get to teatime without a wet patch on the wicket. Alphonse has even taken his socks off and I've gone all BoHo chic once more, wearing interesting trousers and beads, tonnes of them. Lucky me. I was born too late for rock'n'roll but I certainly embraced flower power in my youth with a curly perm wafting around my feathers and silver platform shoes.  And I looked a right div most of the time. How things change eh?  These days I still wear the silver bracelet I had for my 19th birthday but I can fix my own washing machine.

And on my return to work, there have been changes there too but nothing presented with the sweetness of a Strawberry Mivvy.  Let's take a step back and a fresh look at the pile of doodoo I've landed in this time around. "Job 2.1" is really "Job 1.1" and involves being a Medical Records Clerk, pulling files for clinics and wards, filing used files; although finding the missing ones is a forensic science, a bit like a scene from CSI.  There are traces of evidence as to who had it last but you'd need a massive IQ or a lie-detector to get to the truth.  Oh, and I get to cover on the switchboard when the Admin Team have a meeting.

Then there's "Job 1.2" which is Ward Clerk. I love these gems of the working week because time passes unnoticed with both phones ring at the same time and my shift ends usually with a treat from the Thornton's box and a nice cuppa.  And the downside?  Well, unless you're a fan of Dara O'Briain's devilish math's programme on Dave, you might find it mind-boggling to work out how the 300 bits of paper used during a 24 hour stay in hospital can be crammed into one small file. It's simple; there's a crib sheet and we stick to it or someone will inform the management.

Another gem of the working week is "Job 1.3" when I join the Medical Secretaries in their lovely, calm office at the end of the corridor with its secret door code that the Neurosurgeon refuses to memorise.  It's complicated and interesting and again, time flies because I'm enjoying typing stuff about drug doses, arthritic knees and how we can make people better.  We even have our own bathroom whose plumbing has to be 'flushed' once a week on a Friday morning to stop the build-up of legionella pneumophilia. Although I have to leave the room at this point especially if I've had two mugs of tea at breakfast.

So, imagine my horror on return to the coalface when the management said she 'wanted a chat'.  They do a lot of chatting and very little listening, but whether that involves any managing, who knows?  It seems that because one particular section of the asylum isn't working, I'm being co-opted in to help with the admin and typing.  Except there's a skill to getting the right person for the right job and our mob don't seem to have mastered it in 20 years. And you knew there'd be a catch to "Job 1.4" didn't you?  Their systems are utterly different to our new system which I'm now au fait with after five torrid months.  I don't have a computer login and won't get one for a month if I'm lucky. The audio machine doesn't work unless you put a heavy object on top to keep the lid down and I nearly told one of their doctors to 'sit on it' because she was so rude yesterday.

Technically, I'm ineffective and dangerously bored.  The only other Raven here I've called Malone, like the perfume, and she says I look pasty.  Personally, I'm brassed off because when the Rota Fairy comes back from holiday, she'll expect me to do double shifts in both parts of this nuthouse.  Me, I'm ready for a change and if it involves lounging around in Bohemian clothes and writing my memoirs, then bring it on.

Tip of the Blog:  On Monday, during visiting hours, I had a close encounter with my manager from the dairy days at Express.  It will cheer me up to call him 'Bumff' especially as he did nothing in two years except attend meetings and conferences, in Florida mainly.  Anyway, he chatted away about his new job and how it involved lots of international travel - not work then Bumff? He took in my expanded figure and lack of wedding ring and without warning, blurted out,
"What happened to you?  You used to be so NEAT!"  He meant prim and proper, but I've grown up since those heady days and without a moment's hesitation, I replied,
"What happened to you?  You used to have HAIR!"

Raven

Vive Les Vacances

That's all the French you'll be getting from me today, thank you as I've run out of steam after a pre-packing holiday binge at the out-of-town hellhole.  And don't I need a holiday even if it's camping at the bottom of the garden, although it's more likely to be a last minute hop along to the travel agent. Given a choice of venue, most birds head South for the winter but not us perverse Ravens, oh no.  Alphonse would cheerfully pick up his skis, Tog 24 jacket and goggles, and camp out in the Italian Dolomites until it snows or until the Tour de France takes a detour.  Me? As none of these options are appealing due to a nipped-in budget, I've found myself pecking through the girlie mags in W H Smith looking for giveaway treats.  One textured nail varnish duo called Corpse and Grit caught my eye but were snatched away by Alphonse before I made an idiot of myself. Years ago, I had to go cold turkey to break my addiction to fashion glossies with free samples glued to the front after I spend £100 on the damnable things and only gained a fiver back from the leftovers at a car boot sale.

So, where are we going?  I'm not sure I should tell you and I don't think it's a good idea to quiz Alphonse this afternoon as he's lying down, resting his wallet after buying two new shirts.  The one place we won't be heading is the South of France, especially to the Frejus/Saint-Raphael region of Provence.  In the days before www.tripadvisor.co.uk existed to rate your holiday experience before you'd actually left your armchair, I decided to accept a neighbour's offer of a free week in an exclusive chalet not far from Cannes.  My chum Valerian agreed to tag along and as she put it, "rough it a bit on the Cote D'Azur."  Have I mentioned she's psychic?

Having not researched the venue, how could I have known the chalet was on a camp site in the middle of nowhere?  More importantly, this is exactly where the French military machine put "Camp Colonel Le Coq" and hundreds of paratroopers, bronzed and battle hardened from their contribution to the first Gulf War.  They treated us to reveille at 6.00 am, every morning and when all those topless and honed bodies stamped to attention, it was a scramble to see who could get to the binoculars first.  Usually Valerian; she's 5'9".  We'd also decided to travel in September, a time where we were reliably informed that all the local buses had finished for the Summer and we had to get taxis everywhere.  So we signed up for the day trip to Monte Carlo, nipping into the Perfumeries at Aix-on-Provence on the way.  If you get the chance to visit, please do it because your nose will thank you, and your pocket.  For a knockdown price we both bought perfume in a black aluminium bottle, which is how they're stored for longevity; I eeked out the very last of Paloma Picasso about five years ago.  You won't believe this but scent from a glass bottle smells nothing like it does straight from the manufacturer and I've kept the container because the fumes still inspire me to write.

And what can I say about Cannes that you haven't already heard?  That it's beautiful and if you cross the main road too slowly, you will be mown down mercifully by a passing motorist.  And whilst we've done the Costas, the Algarve and the Balearics, my naturally perverse nature still yearns to stay in the Ritz Carlton at 58 La Croisette; majestic, settled on the sea front like a grande dame from a different age of excitement. She shouts "Dior" and "Chanel" and reminds us we once had flat stomachs and the pizzazz to wear a white bikini.  And the private blue and white enclosure for discrete bathing is adorable, and so are the men.  It's not such a great beach but we watched a couple of guys change from suits into Speedos in public, stripping right down to their aspirin-white Hom pants without getting a grain of sand anywhere; and with cigarettes stuck to pouting bottom lips.  Now that's classy.

Oh, there were other days on this holiday when we were cut off by the worst thunderstorm I've ever seen, had to escape to an air-conditioned shopping centre to keep cool and were both rendered speechless by the whiff of a stand-over-the-hole-and-pee toilette.  And yet we're still great friends despite me not mentioning once on the plane to Nice that the 'chalet' was really on a static caravan park with hot and cold running mosquitoes.  I've still got the scars.

And if you don't hear from me for a few weeks, look out for the bug-eyed Raven in cheap sunglasses wearing bubblegum scented flipflops and smelling of fruity shower gel.  My free 'Hot Plum' lippy goes beautifully with a touch of the Body Shop's honey bronzing gel, shimmering around me like an oil slick.  Repels insects though, so I'm happy.  We've staked a claim on a pile of builder's sand somewhere off the Norfolk coast with a picnic basket, while I finish editing my book. I love Summer, don't you?

Tip of the Blog:   The aforementioned Maybelline Hot Plum has got me into trouble with Job 2.1.  Apparently, the nurses have been asked to be more prim and proper, put their hair up and not wear strong perfumes or bright makeup etcetera because it frightens the patients. Where the nurses go, we follow suit and in this heat, I'm sporting full body deodorant.  Plays havoc with your pores but at least there's no white marks.  Bon Vacances.

Raven

Liverpool vs Leicester

It's not obvious from any angle but I'm a bit of a closet art lover.  Mainly I'm enthralled by the Italian Renaissance artists who are spectacularly hung in the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery.  The back-stories fascinate me; such as Michaelangelo and his dog-skin trousers or Piero di Cosimo who borrowed models from the local morgue.  But then I love a bit of modernism too, so you can imagine my unfettered delight when Job 2.1 announced a spring outing to Liverpool.  My thoughts immediately gravitated to the former City of Culture, the Beatles, Albert Dock and a chance to checkout the Marc Chagall exhibit at Tate Liverpool.

Secured in the epicentre of England, you can stick a pin in any map and find our nest, landlocked and far away from the coast on all four points of the compass.  So after exiting the charabanc into a sixty mph south-westerly roaring off the Irish Sea, my feathers were all over the place and I sought sanctuary in the Maritime Museum to batten down my undergarments.  Frankly, it was flippin' freezing but after a warming coffee and some moist banana cake, I was revived enough to make a run for the gallery.

Now, modern art has its followers.  And I find Tate Modern in London equally soothing and savage depending on my mood; I've even seen Tracey Emin's 'My Bed.'  It's a bed, get over it. But nothing prepared me for two live macaws in a cage who apparently get swopped every two months so they don't get distressed. Or for a breeze block filled with hard core.

You didn't believe me, did you?  And Chagall?  I didn't bother parting with £11.00 in the end because his paintings seem to consist of romanticised, fuzzy goats. But if I had to chose a favourite exhibit, it's called 'Blood of a Poet' featuring a wooden box filled with 100 glass slides, each smeared with a drop of poet's blood; and specimen list.

http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/antin-blood-of-a-poet-box-l02859

 Curious, I asked the guide,
"Is the blood real?"
"Yeah. All from poets."  Result! Did the artist despise poets as much as I do? I needed more intel.
"Why poets?" Why not?
"She knew a lot of them in the mid-sixties and coaxed a drop of blood out every one she met.  It's an ironic statement, a bit like getting blood out of a stone."  Isn't it just?
"Ironically, our Path Lab's like that.  They aren't happy until they've got a large phial and a whole raft of tests to perform.  They're expensive too."  But they don't check for poetic credentials and certainly don't exhibit; that would be plain wrong.  Eventually when I stumbled into a darkened room showing a film of a barking dog I knew I'd exhausted my artistic bent.  It was time to take the Ferry 'cross the Mersey.

Except the Mersey looked like Cape Horn and was too choppy for a roosting bird like me.  Having suffered grave mal de mer on the Fuerteventura-Lanzarote ferry, I decided to give it a miss and head for the shops.  What an education?  Now I'm not a total stranger to Liverpool in general.  My ex lives in Aigburth, I've spent time at the dairy on Long Lane opposite the Jacobs cracker factory and in my cabin crew days, we used to fly out of Speke. And it's on Lord Street that I experienced the most amazing response to a first-aid situation, in Boots, on a busy Saturday when a girl passed out by the No7 counter.  My gay chum, Didier, did what any first responder would do; he raised the young lady's legs to a ninety degree angle thus allowing blood to flow back into her head.  I was fussing around, patting her hand when a blunt instrument swooped out of nowhere.  The girl's mother, seeing a man holding her daughter's ankles in a compromising way, swung a handbag at Didier's head screaming "Pervert" at the top of her lungs.  Poor bloke, he was never the same again, even after his ears stopped bleeding.

And Liverpool will never be the city of the Beatles again because the Cavern Quarter looks more like Temple Bar in Dublin; so loud you can't swallow your drink. Yes, the shops are great but they're the same as in any large city, except for the Harvey Nichols pampering room.  Downstairs, there's all the fabulous brands of my dreams and they sell Tom Ford perfumes too; Frangipani's favourite.  There I was spritzing and sniffing at the Jo Malone counter when two large glasses of bubbly appeared for customers having a hand massage; a yawning gulf away from the Body Shop's squash and biscuit refreshments.  Filled with envy, I so wanted to go upstairs and get "done up" for a night out - mani and pedi, fake tanned from scalp to toe, and a full head of heated rollers in a hairnet to go back to Leicester in.

We rolled away from the docks after a long day filled with Polish rock music, street theatre and a delicious lunch in a real Spanish tapas bar, all buoyed up with hope and energy.  Everything there seemed bigger, brighter and inflated by enthusiasm.  Yet I had to smile at the contrast between the two great cities [nowhere have I mentioned football yet!] On the streets of Liverpool, it's a common sight to see a young woman arms filled with designer bags and in her rollers bursting with the possibilities of a great night out and no-one calls her a 'chav'.  In Leicester, velcros look plain wrong accessorising any kind of ethnic clothing and, as always, my beak went down just a little as we exited the M1 at Junction 21.

Tip of the Blog:  My neck of the woods has just been shortlisted for the next City of Culture award and
I'm filled with sense of dread concerning my council tax contributions.  Yes, we have galleries, museums and an ancient historic past dating back to Roman times.  We also have the bones of Richard III and his statue overlooking the Castle Gardens.  I've even done 'the tour' with a group of Japanese visitors and know the very spot he was supposed to have been dispatched but is this enough?  Especially as no-one from the Lord Mayor's office has had the courage to ask the '24-hour Diamond White Drinking Circle' to vacate the benches under the great king's monument.  Liverpool vs Leicester?  You won't get very good odds at Ladbroke's.

Raven

Must Try Harder ...

Twice this week I've been admonished for not sharing May's tales from my neck of the woods but between you and me, it's been a bit of a struggle. I've been waking up at 5.00 am most mornings, cursing the little tweetie birds in the bottom hedge for making so much noise, before falling back into the pillows for an extra couple of hours of restless roosting.  Always an early riser, I'm finding the relentless late shifts at Job 2.1 as a right pain in the tail feathers and I'm seriously looking for a change before I expire.  So finding myself on a day shift for a change yesterday, I didn't expect a visit from the visible* management who asked,
"Why haven't you applied for the Oncology job?"
"I don't want to."  I can't deal with the emotional drain but I'm damned if I'm going to tell anyone that.
"Why not?"
"Honestly, it's not my kind of thing." 
"Why not?"  Here we go again.  Deep breath Ravens.
"The fact that I fail to meet the three main criteria for the role might explain my reluctance to apply for it."  Coupled with the fact that five of the current applicants have been there for 20 years, are keen to move up the fireman's pole and are nowhere near as cunning as I am clinches it for me.  There's even a tray of cupcakes bet on the outcome.  Yet her next statement made me bang my beak on the desk.
"You could learn."
"Not by tomorrow night I couldn't!"
"Well, I think you should show willing if you want a career here.  You really must try harder."  I heard the click of her heels all the way back to the stairwell where the carpet starts again.
"Indeed I must."  But the thought of wasting valuable sunshine hours applying for a job I don't want and am unqualified to do fills me with dread.  So I went back to the mountain of filing left by my apparent job-share partner MoBo who's so Raven, she keeps a pen stuck through her bun.

And I've developed an unhealthy fascination with some of the photos we get back from theatre.  Yesterday I picked up an A4 sized graphic image created by an endoscope and wafted it in Nurse Volvo's direction.
"Wassat?"  We've developed a guessing game akin to Anatomy for Dummies.
"Who's the consultant?"  I divulged his name.
"Orthopaedics then."  She nodded.
"Can you see the bone?"  Yep ... it's a patella.
"Gristle in fluid. Got to be a knee arthroscopy."
"Y'know if you worked a bit harder, you could retrain as a nurse?"
"Thanks but no."  Secretly, I'm working really hard on early retirement to the Caribbean Island where they film Death in Paradise with Ben Miller in a suit.  And after seeing Alex Kingston on Dr Who the other week, I want whatever she's been drinking.

I find it really odd in an age where technology allows us to see inside the human body yet we're still using the same audio typing machines I trained on in college to send letters on paper from one consultant to another.  I suppose it stops information going astray or worse, being hacked, but the process is still time consuming and increasingly complicated.  I've been specialising in Orthopaedic clinics lately; a far cry from the 1970s when I learned the QWERTY keyboard on an Imperial manual typewriter and I've got the claws to prove it.  I had my first taste of medical work in the 1980s when I was skint [yes, again] and temped in the local NHS typing pool.  There were four of us hammering away on electronic machines in a draughty office where a steam-driven IBM word processor sat unused in the corner.  It was the ultimate domain of the office management, a portly woman who also held an invisible job.  We were all equally baffled by her ability to have meetings yet achieve little or nothing. One morning she sidled up to me saying,
"You've been working really hard lately and the consultants are very pleased with your output."
"Really?  Thanks."  Wait for it.
"So I've decided to give you one of my tapes.  It's really urgent so you can use the word processor." The initial excitement was tinged with dread as I hauled myself over to the chair and waited for the lights to dim as I switched it on.  Oh, the tape started well enough. 
"Blah, blah, letter to so-and-so a couple of times, then next please on a separate sheet ...
Two pounds of potatoes
Green Beans
Cornflakes - Kellogg's
Apples
A large bottle of Tizer
Spangles ..."  Spangles?
The dozy woman had recorded her shopping list and expected me to type it up, and when I expressed my displeasure at this utterly menial task she snapped,
"You really must try harder if you ever want a permanent job in my department."  I didn't, so moved swiftly on to typing tenders for Norwegian oil rigs and fell in love with an Italian engineer.  Sadly, I should have tried harder with that one too.

Tip of the Blog:  I've been searching through my school reports hoping to bury the myth that I don't work hard enough, so imagine my disappointment when most of the end-of-term missives read "Raven Must Try Harder."  Yet when I arrived at GCE year, I trumped them all and got a Grade 1 in English Language.  Not English Lit though; I didn't care what Brutus was thinking when he stabbed Julius Caesar in the back.  With hindsight, perhaps I would have tried harder and paid attention during the performance at Stratford, had I known the young actor playing Cassius was called Patrick Stewart.

Tip Two:  *I know we also have invisible management but I've never met them.  They have offices with names on the door but I'm damned if I can work out exactly what role they fulfill.  Must try harder to investigate, then I'll let you know.

Raven

House!

What a week or two of medical madness and jolly japes.  It's been so bad that I stumbled into Theatres yesterday and begged a passing anaesthetist for a quick drag of nitrous oxide.  To his credit, he declined saying there were much better and freely available cures for working-in-a-mad-house than 'laughing gas.'  NHS time-served and customer service hardened, he also suggested a  new approach to my role on the Wards; basically give less of a damn.  Like the wonderful TV doctor, Gregory House, as performed by Mr Hugh Laurie, I am becoming more irascible by the day.  The bits I liked the best were when Cuddy ordered him downstairs to work his magic with less demanding cases, and so it has been with me and a certain student nurse I've called Hesperus.  She sidled up to me on Monday morning saying,
"I've got this thing and it really hurts."  One of those days.
"Where is this thing?"
"Between my cheeks."
"That's your nasal region."
"No, my bum."  Latin is so wasted on the young.  And they're so easily wound up.
"Oh.  Little thing is it?  Feels like a golf ball when you walk kind of thing?"  She brightened visibly at my vast medical knowledge and then the darkness crept back.
"Will I have to have a colonoscopy?"
"For hemorrhoids?  Unlikely but if Theatres are game and you've got the cash, we could do one anyway."  Her face was a picture until I explained there are creams available and where to get them.  Except not from Pharmacy unless you want it broadcast on hospital radio.
"Are they serious?"
"Only if you tango without applying ointment first."  Overhearing our conversation, Nurse Indira tried to cheer us up with tales of her nursing training in India at a Catholic institution run by Sisters of Mercy. Our jaws dropped when she told us,
"We weren't allowed to go out with boys or get married until our training was finished."  Hesperus's remained agog.
"What did you do about ...?  Well, you know?"
"This was a strict nursing academy, not a knocking shop" came the rebuke from Indira. "And we had to pray every day before each shift started."
"Why?"
"To stop impure thoughts."  Well I think that's what she said before muttering something about being confined to the house if they so much as smiled at a boy.  Herperus hissed in a loud stage whisper,
"I wouldn't get through the first week let alone four years!!"
I have to stop worrying about her, I really do.

Although worrying seems to part of Job 2.1.   So to lighten the load a little, me and my partner in healthcare crime Raven Jasmintha, decided to have a bingo night out at the local Mecca.  You'd have thought we'd asked for volunteers for varicose vein surgery because everyone said "Yes" initially, then support evaporated the second it was discovered there's an entrance fee.  At one point, we were surrounded by a gaggle of excuses,
"Can't we go on a free night?"  No, because we all work the same late shifts and there's be no staff.
"I can't get back in time after my dancing class" piped up Stephanotis. She can but she doesn't want to.
"I'm against gambling."  Another valid reason from Kuckleberry but considering she'd just come back from Las Vegas having lost her shirt, I think it's understandable.
So Jasmintha and me ... well we went anyway and had a riot, although I'm really sad I didn't get to shout "House!".  Well, not in the right place anyway.

Tip of the Blog:  Short and sweet this time. I've almost finished the donkey work of pulling my e-book together and yet, like the summit of Mount Everest; the higher you climb the further away it gets.  Keep you posted.

Raven

Thwarted

Thwarted by recent winds and a general lack of enthusiasm for gardening, I've been staring at our patch of scrub with the forelorn hope it would magically transform itself into a Chelsea Flower Show winner.  The shabby remains of my tomato tent has flapped like Buddhist prayer flags these past months leaving only the zip holding it all together.  And the buffeting we took the other night shook the car so badly, the service clock reset itself from 12,500 to zero, which the receptionist at the garage assured me couldn’t happen.  It did and a service will follow next week just in case a bit's dropped off.

Post garage, I hauled myself back to Job 2.1 with depleted enthusiasm, arriving in the naïve hope that a quiet afternoon would follow, until the phone rang.  The harassed caller confessed to being a local florist  and asked,

“Is there a Mrs Hollybush-Wicklow on your ward?”

“That’s confidential information. Sorry.”

“Is she in your hospital or not?”

“Either way I still can’t give you the information you require.”  Yet she ploughed on regardless.

“But I’ve got these flowers going off and I want to deliver them to the right address.  Would you like the postcode?”

“Not really because we share a postcode with the surrounding mansions and it could be any of those dwellings that require delivery of your flowers.”

 “So is she there or not?"

“Love to help but you could beg me for a week and I still can’t give you confidential information.”

 “How am I going to deliver them then?”  And why was she making this my problem? I muted the handset for a moment while I thought the process through.

“You’ll have to go back to the person who ordered them and ask for more details.”  She gave this enormous sigh indicating thwarted-ness.

“You’ve wasted a lot of my time.  I should report you."  She was starting to get right up my beak.

“If you insist but then we are all bound by NHS governance and confidentiality rules.  Thank you for calling.”  Five minutes later, the phone rang again.

“Hi Raven, it’s Reception. Have you got a Mrs Hollybush-Wicklow on your ward?”

One thing bothering me is that I’ve been thwarted in my attempts to 'work less and earn more.'  My talents as a medical secretary are in real demand and I genuinely enjoy a day’s audio-typing and helping patients get their impingements dealt with.  And fundamentally I’m not bored.  I mentioned this in passing to management and, for some unfathomable reason, I’ve been unable to return to the serenity of the MedSecs office with no hope of rescue in sight.  Not only am I working late hours again but I’m worse off.  Seem familiar?

I was mulling over my bank balance yesterday morning when the toaster turned up its toes in spectacular style and fused all the downstairs appliances minutes before I was due to leave for a funeral. The eternal dilemma – should I be embarrassingly late or defrost the entire contents of the freezer.  Common sense won and so I found myself legging it into church just before the coffin arrived.

On the way home, I browsed the toaster collection in John Lewis and however flushed with cash I’m feeling, there was no way we’re parting with seventy quid.  So I hopped down to Argos and bought what I thought was a bargain.  It came in an enormous box so I had no doubt it would deal with a chunky slice of Gregg’s finest.  When I got the toaster out, there was no need to plug it in because I couldn’t get so much as a pop tart in the slot. I'd bought a Toaster designed for a Wendy House.  Back it went and I exchanged it for a more expensive and bigger box.  Was the toaster any bigger?  No.  And this went on until was on first name terms with their customer service advisor “Wendy" [at Belgrave Gate store in Leicester who is excellent by the way] and happy to give me a full refund because I've been thwarted.  I decided that since the gas bill will be horrific anyway, I’m grilling my bread the old fashioned way.

According to television’s, Paul Hollywood, really good bread should be eaten fresh from the oven and ‘au naturel’ with butter but I may starve long before that happens.  You see Alphonse has come over all 'Pilsbury Dough Boy' and brought flour, yeast and a set of Salter digital scales with a 25 year guarantee, and I’m guessing it’ll be a full quarter century before I get an edible loaf out of him.  Odd though, when I came to putting my 50 year old mechanical scales in the bin, I couldn’t help but shed some emotive tears at their parting.  The internal spring had gone, any accuracy was dubious but they came from my Mum’s kitchen.  She made dubious cakes and solid buns and so I learned to cook in school for self-preservation mainly but everything on the table was filled to the brim with love.  And in the week of her birthday, I've never missed her more.

Tip of the Blog:  Stanforth, our petrol-headed neighbour, has been nurturing a D-Reg Ford Fiesta into life.  His plan is to create a masterpiece from the wreckage and sell it on to some other mug instead of consigning it to the scrap yard.  Sadly on Saturday, when he turned the ignition key for the first time in six months, we were all left in no doubt that he's trying to convert a bag of spanners into a car.  "Bad petrol." he said looking thwarted.  "Bad petrol."

Raven