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