I'll huff & I'll puff (because I got the conch)

"Then the sea breathed again in a long slow sigh, the water boiled white and pink over the rock; and when it went, sucking back again, the body of Piggy was gone"

 

~William Golding, Lord of the Flies

 

I went to the nurse yesterday to discuss my asthma. I could now tell you all about the exciting machine I've been given and the handy little diary that I have to use over the next two weeks. Instead, I'm going to have a good rant about the first five minutes of my appointment which have absolutely nothing to do with my health.

 

To recap, after four chest infections in four months, Dr J referred me to the Asthma nurse so that I can be "properly diagnosed" with Asthma. The nurse is located in the same surgery as Dr J.  

 

It's all very simple, you check in, sit down and wait for your name to appear on the 1984 screens of doom directing you to a room. The last time I was in that waiting room I was there for 90minutes because Dr J was running late.

 

The first two steps were relatively simple; I checked in and sat down. To give you an idea of the waiting room, imagine a white, featureless space surrounded by doors. There are three rows of chairs, with a few pointless walls set out here and there, topped with glass bricks to give an element of purpose in design. It's sterile, offensive in its inoffensiveness and despite being only a year old has no air conditioning.

 

As with most surgery waiting rooms the place is full of old people, stressed parents with bored children and the occasional middle-aged man looking decidedly worried. Sometimes it can be quite loud, sometimes it can be deathly silent. Because it is half-term everyone has their kids with them and the place was jumping.

 

I settled myself down in a seat next to a wall in full view of the screen. Out came the phone with the intention of trying (again) to solve Level Whatever on Candy Crush to pass the inevitable wait. Every so often the screen makes a loud "BERP" noise followed by the deliberately calm and mechanic tones of a female computer asking for the next patient. Then some poor soul shuffles off to their designated room. A perfect factory.

 

I was suddenly wrenched from my revery by the *quietest voice in the world* whispering my name. I'm not exaggerating too much, either. I barely heard it. No one else around me reacted (obviously - it wasn't their name being called!) By the time I had leapt from my seat the source of the whisper had long since disappeared.

 

The receptionist was kind enough to wave me towards a door. I knocked and went in. 

 

My opening gambit went thus; "I'm so sorry, I didn't hear you call my name". It was the perfect sentence - it started with an  apology, acknowledged that she called my name, and explained why I didn't immediately respond. An acceptable response would have been something like "that's all right" and then we would have discussed why I was there. Needless to say, all did not progress as planned.

 

The first question in response to my apology did not fill me with confidence; "what was your name?"

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but the nurse should have already been in possession of this information. She had used my name moments earlier in order to establish if I was in the waiting area, albeit rather quietly - almost as if she hoped I wasn't there. This question was so unexpected that I wondered if I had misheard the receptionist and had wondered into the wrong room. Somewhat confused, I confirmed my name. 

 

"Well, I called it several times".

The good news: I was in the correct room. The bad news: the nurse wasn't going to ask me why I'd come to see her today or how she could help me. Instead she was going to drag out the  "I called your name and you didn't get up quick enough" situation. This would probably continue until we agree that it was all my fault.

 

Now, something similar happened in the office the other week. Stormin' Norman, (the office 'Daily-Fail'-reading rent-a-gob) was supposed to call a lady back because the lady had asked a question that Norman couldn't immediately answer. For whatever reason, Norman didn't have the correct phone number. When the lady rang back several days later, understandably cross that she hadn't been contacted as promised, the conversation should have gone as follows;

"You didn't ring me back"

"I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't able to call you back because I didn't have your correct telephone number. I must have taken it down wrong"

"Oh, I see." ...and then the conversation should have moved on to answering the original question.

Instead, Norman decided to fight her corner. She insisted that the number she had written down was the number the lady had provided and that it must be the lady's fault that Norman wasn't able to return her call. She pulled out the telephone records to read out the number she had been given and even wanted to go and listen to the recording of the original telephone call to prove she was right and the lady was wrong.

I do not understand people like this who choose their battles so badly. This total inability to focus on the bigger picture and instead aggressively argue to the death every minor detail.

 

Returning to my angry nurse, I found myself getting quite annoyed. Perhaps I should have followed my own advice and tried to steer our conversation back to my lungs but something in the tone and the look just put my back up. The nurse had thrown down her gauntlet, slapped my apology out of the way and was waiting for my next move.

 

I said that I was expecting my name to appear on the big screens like it does *every other time I've ever been there*. "Oh no!" she says, with a patronising shake of the head, "those are only for the doctors - us nurses prefer to come out in person to call through our patients". How was I supposed to know that? Ignorance is no excuse in the eyes of the law. 

 

I don't really care that the doctors and nurses have different procedures for calling through patients. I'm not actually that sorry that I almost missed my name being called. I am unphased by the inconvenience of having to repeat yourself in a crowded room where there are people talking and children yelling and patients expecting their names to appear on screens. We have danced through the customary "I apologise and you say that's ok and we move on" scenario - why are we still discussing this?!

 

She did finally agree that it was quite loud due to the number of people (and children) in the waiting area. Additionally, the arty-farty walls don't help sound to travel. We'll call that a nil score draw.

 

One final word on this and then I'm done. On those (now infamous) screens in the waiting area they have various "important messages" from the NHS displayed to give Joe Bloggs some valuable information. One message has already caused me issues. It essentially says "don't come to the doctors with a cold as they can't help you". Imagine my surprise when Dr J had a go at me for " not coming sooner" with my flurry of chest infections. As I have a Masters in History and not a Medical Degree I'm not qualified to tell the difference between a bad cough and bronchitis.

 

The other sign they have on repeat is one advising that the average appointment lasts seven minutes, so make sure you use your time wisely. Five of those precious seven were spent discussing my total inability to respond to my name. Heaven help anyone with hearing problems!

 

 

Post Script and Appendices

The long and the short of my exciting aventures with the nurse is that I've been issued the following;

 

 

I have to clock my peak flow in the morning and evening for two weeks. I will also record if and when I use my inhaler during the day. Then I get to go back for Round Two with the nurse.

 

In the interests of fairness, she thawed out once we actually got down to discussing my symptoms and even gave me the little gadget for free rather than writing out a prescription. When I go back I will be sitting outside her door, staring at it with cat-like-readiness.

 

The Porch

We have commisioned someone to come and do the porch! They are coming tomorrow to take final measurements.

 

Finally - the Tree

Coming along nicely, as you can see.

 

 

Pink & Green

Look what came in the post today!

The photo doesn't really do the colour justice. It is a lovely vibrant green with black undertones which is just perfect for the tree. I can now properly commence the Big Project ©.
Many thanks to Minerva Crafts for such excellent and quick service.

The Race for Life on Sunday went really well. I completed the 5k (3 miles) in 33minutes and 50 seconds - a thoroughly respectable time! The weather, grey and miserable was not ideal and certainly not as lovely as Saturday had been. All the same, looking on the bright side, it didn't rain until after the race was done.

My total raised so far is £178 which is more than I hoped for - I'm so pleased! My owl came with me and I wore the ribbon as well. The crowd was great, really supportive. As I rounded the last corner I could see my gang of friends at the finish line and I just couldn't help but smile and put in a bit of extra oomph for a sprint finish. Brilliant experience - if you've never done it I highly recommend it - it's good for the soul.

Afterwards was a little less saintly - we hit the pub! I think we deserved it, to be honest. A burger and some real ale was just what was called for!

In less happy news, my poor long-suffering team went to Wembley and came home empty-handed for a seventh time. ONE DAY it will be our turn. But it just wasn't to be. I'm not a bitter fan - you can't be if you support a team like Brentford. You take the rough days with the smooth days. We had an absolutely stunning season this year - scoring first against Chelsea at Griffin Park was definitely the highlight. Finishing 4th overall is a good achievement, although very disappointing not to have beaten Yeovil. Maybe next year? 

Finally, the saga of the porch is still ongoing. I think we have pretty much made our decision, although I can't help but wonder if the decision was actually made for us. One of our finalists advised that the quote did not include the removal of the brick wall (were they just going to work round it?! Or perhaps dismantle it and reconstruct it 2 feet out of the way...) and furthermore the width of the unit was non-negotiable, even if it was 10cm too wide! (You can't fit a 1200mm frame in a 1100mm gap without a TARDIS). Needless to say, that company will be getting a "better luck next time" from our judging panel.

Death of a Double Glazing Salesman

A Bit of History
When we first moved into this house it was, to put it mildly, a little rough round the edges. The room intended to be the kitchen had a large sink fitted circa 1952 and a unit made out of a door. The bathroom had a delightfully unfashionable blue enamel suite and (the ultimate sin) carpet and wallpaper. The ground floor had orange carpet with wooden panelling hiding any amount of sins. There was an abundance of of vinyl wallpaper coating every vertical surface. It was a museum piece but it was ours.

I come from a DIY friendly family. My dad is one of those brilliant people who has a shed full of tools that have only one job and they do that job very well. He is also a mine of information - a walking instruction manual. He is also of that generation where the ethos is very much "if a job is worth doing, it's worth doing right first time". My mother, for her part, is full of get-up-and-go. She has a particular passion for stripping wallpaper and painting ceilings.

While our new home was going to be a challenge, it was mostly cosmetic. The central heating, roofing and windows were sound. The first task was the kitchen. It was something of a blank canvas so one weekend and £500 in B&Q and we went from empty shell to 21st century modern space. Dad and Simon worked like Trojans (there was particular glee taking a mallet to the door-unit). This was *fun*.

Giving the ground floor a make-over was also rather fun. Taking the vinyl off the walls was especially pleasant. I have no doubt at all that people will be having a good laugh at my tastes in 40 years time, but I'm fairly certain my colour scheme would never be so hideous as orange with artex fans.

So far so good.

DIY stopped being fun when we had to start involving other people. Up til now we'd been cashing in on my dad's skills but when it came to doing the bathroom it became fairly obvious that we'd need a registered plumber - especially to install the shower pump.

This was 2011. The recession was in full swing. There was no money for butter. Surely us wanting to spend a couple of grand would be a tempting offer to any starving plumber? We were under the illusion that all we needed to do was get some quotes, choose our favourite and book them in. I know, I know, what planet was I living on?!

We contacted about 8 different companies. All promised to come at various different times. None of them showed up at the designated times. Some didn't even turn up at all. One was over 3 hours late when I saw him pull up, knock at the house across the road, get no answer, go back to his van  and drive away. Of those who did turn up we got 2 quotes.

We eventually finished the bathroom that summer. We haven't decorated anything else in this house since. We were so relieved that it was over starting another room just seemed far too dangerous.

Three Weeks Ago
During a trip to see my parents, my Dad suggested I might want to do something about the porch. Our porch was probably erected in the murky mists of time when things like "planning" and "safety" were at the very bottom of everyone's list. It is a basic wooden structure with the original house front door recycled as the porch door. The whole things is perched against a little brick wall and the bay window. It isn't weather tight and its about as secure as a child's piggy bank. Additionally the door is rotten and due to it swelling in the rain we have to kick it to open it. That, naturally, does it the world of good.

It's a simple job. We just need to get a double glazer in.
I swear these people are out to turn me to drink. Company A agreed an appointment for a Thursday. They rang me Thursday morning to say, unfortunately, everyone is in a meeting and can't make it, can they reschedule? Sure. Fine. We rearrange for Monday. Monday comes round and I get another call...
The guy on the phone was rather surprised when I said that I didn't want to reschedule again and that their quote was no longer required. He then started to argue with me, saying that I cancelled the original appointment. Small tip to businesses - arguing with prospective clients and calling them liars won't get you too far.

Company B did turn up. He turned up on time which was a bonus. Company C eventually turned up (25mins late, not so much as an apology). Company D were also late, but they did leave a garbled message on my answerphone to advise they were running late - so we forgive them.

All of them got the same speech - we need to replace the porch. We thought perhaps sliding doors? That is the popular design down our road. AND DON'T FORGET THE LETTERBOX! Postman Pat should be able to deliver my bills and ebay purchases.

None of them remembered the letterbox. Not one. Perhaps they thought the letters would come down the chimney, Harry Potter style.

Company C's design reduced the door width to 520mm from 780mm. Company B wanted an extra £75 for the letterbox. Company D sent me a quote with lots of lovely pictures that bore no actual resemblance to what they would be fitting to the front of my house. All in all a rather demoralising experience.

One of them came up with a design where the door opened outwards, completely ignoring the rather solid brick wall I have in my front yard. The moment where I properly lost the plot came when one of them sent me a design where the door opened onto the bay window.

The quotes come without measurements, or say things like "removal of timber frame" with no mention of the offending brick wall. Back and forth, back and forth - "can you confirm this" "can you clarify that". I think I should be paid a planners fee!

If this porch ever happens I imagine the euphoria will be akin to when we finished the bathroom. It's like smashing your face against a wall - it feels amazing when you stop.