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