I feel certain my sister-in-law would verify that hospital staff are obsessed with bowel movements. It is definitely true of Nambour Hospital at any rate. If the general cheers, whoops and joyful celebration is anything to go by when one occurs, it’s clearly a red letter day.

Suffice to say that today, after spending a shortish time (without a novel) in the loo, dad emerged with his thumb held high, indicating success. After ten days, this was momentous. The nurses started singing ‘Congratulations’ and mum swung me around the ward.

Actually, even before this great occasion, dad was looking very much improved. Mum and I walked in and he was sitting in his chair (rather than lying on his bed), his hair freshly washed and combed, looking quite the lord of the manor.

We cheered him even further with the news that we had viewed a flat today that was perfect. The application forms need to be lodged with the agency tomorrow morning and, fingers crossed, the landlord will appreciate the fact that mum & dad are the best tenants in the world (I’d have them) and accept it.

So dad was happier, mum was happier, I am happier. That’s a whole load of happier!

After lunch I went for my rapidly becoming traditional after lunch walk, deciding today to go up the hill. I almost walked to the dam but the hill looked way too steep. I took a photo across the valley then walked back.

Up the hill from Nambour Hospital

Mum liked the Brazilian Fish. I thought the barramundi worked well.

Denise told us about the pear juice saga today. Apparently it was decided that dad would only ever be able to use the toilet again if he was to drink some. A nurse found some but it was in a big can. Nambour Hospital does not have a can opener. More about this later.

I decided that mum was not getting enough exercise. I dragged her out of the flat at 5:50 today and we walked into Caloundra along the beach path.

I am amazed by how rude the bike riders are here. For some reason, they believe the path is solely for their benefit and use and that pedestrians are an inconvenience useful for slalom practice. There is a perfectly good road; there is grass either side of the path; they are very similar in Farnham Park.

It’s not really a problem when it comes to me. I’m big enough and ugly enough to deck them as they pootle by me but there is a lot of older people staggering around the path, getting very important exercise every day. They will fall over just from the shrillness of the bell (not that they all have bells). Apart from these people being rude and inconsiderate, it’s also just not fair. Pedestrians seem to be the bottom of the pile wherever they may go. Which is odd. Since we’re all pedestrians at some stage.

Anyway, we made it safely to the cafe at the beginning of the boardwalk and I let mum have a rest with her latte. Here she is, posing under sufferance.

Mum relaxing after her marathon walk

We managed to get back to the flat, shower and get around to a duplex we were checking out for a possible new home for mum and dad. You see, the doctors refuse to let dad come home to a flat with stairs. The Cook family, therefore, is engaged in finding adequate accommodation.

We needn’t have bothered looking at this place today as Tracey had decided it was rubbish. Tomorrow we have an appointment for a place that should prove a lot better suited for our purposes. So we went shopping instead, since we’re a lot better at that.

We bought a huge can of pear juice (mum has a can opener at the flat) and two bottles of flavoured milk. We also bought lots of other stuff including the ingredients for Brazilian fish, which I’m making for her tomorrow night.

Before Audrey collected us for the trip to the ward, I managed to drink the flavoured milk and opened the can of pear juice. After vigorously washing the leftover lactose from the plastic bottles, I filled one with pear juice. It was tricky but I managed without spilling any of it. I could have used a funnel but where’s the fun in that?

Dad wasn’t the best when we arrived today. He was quite bloated. He hasn’t been to the toilet for…actually none of us can remember, least of all dad. The nurses have tried lots of different concoctions but nothing has worked. So, today, out came the catheter. Or, rather, in went the catheter. He also drank half the plastic bottle of pear juice.

What a difference! Just over a litre later, he brightened up, his tummy vanished and he was tap dancing around the ward. Sadly the cricket didn’t cheer him up. Actually the only person of my acquaintance that was cheered by the cricket was in a very different time zone and unable to gloat until well into the afternoon.

Surrounded by his whole immediate family, dad seemed to cheer up a bit later in the day and we left him to sleep the sleep of the pear filled innocent.

An ex-milk container used for pear juice

Slightly before one o’clock this morning, dad was fast asleep, presumably dreaming of something nice. At one o’clock this morning, another patient joined him in his room – it has two beds…they are not short of space.

A man in his 40s with a mental age of 6 was brought in. He’d had a stroke. He also has a problem with being touched. This problem is so deep seated that whenever someone touches him he bellows like a cow with stomach cramp. A very big, amplified cow.

Of course, the nurses (who are not paid enough…or did I mention that yesterday?) had to touch him to get him in bed and set up his IV lines etc. So that was it for dad getting any sleep.

My major concern is that the chanting that everyone is doing has had a side effect. While it may be helping dad, I think it had the opposite effect on this guy and now that dad cannot sleep, he’s not going to improve. So, please, stop chanting.

Anyway, dad was a bit sleepy when we visited today. He had a nap around lunchtime while I went for a walk and mum read. He also managed to eat all of his roast beef lunch, dessert and various potions the nurses keep giving him.

I’m pretty sure he’ll improve a lot now that the noisy guy is in the other bed, just so he can get away. Honestly, it’s like being chained next to some very loud people repeating the same thing over and over and over…he just can’t get away.

Mum wanted me to include a picture so anyone reading this can see how he’s going.

Mum and dad in Nambour Hospital

Audrey downstairs surprised us with a lovely roast dinner when we arrived back at the flat tonight. Speaking of food, I had a wonderful barbi breakfast this morning, courtesy of Bob & Tracey. Fantastic ham steaks, eggs and bacon. Genius.

I believe in fairies. And pixies. Actually, I think I prefer pixies. They seem to be a little more mischievous than fairies. Cleary the fairy is the ‘little Miss Perfect’ of the fey world. I once built a pixie ladder in our garden so they could climb my cairn.

I also believe that if someone works hard, learns all that can be taught, listens hard whenever possible and applies themself dutifully and with great strength and fortitude, they will actually manage to make a difference. Like nurses and doctors. They really can make a difference. And I won’t hear a word against them.

I’ve worked with them, know some and have cause to associate with some in a professional capacity and they always strike me as people who can make a difference. You can give them your life and they can nuture it and make it better. My sister-in-law, for instance, is a brilliant nurse.

Don’t get me wrong, I know, sometimes, they get it wrong or sometimes they’re not very good, but these instances are rare. On the whole they are wonderful and should be applauded. They should also be paid more but I realise that people think nurses (especially) do it because they love it and not because they should be paid well for a job that very few other people could (or would) do.

Which brings me to something very important. Pray. Or chanting. Or meditation on bits of rock. There are many people who believe that whispering a bunch of sounds into the air will effect a wonderful cure and send the sick to the realm of the healthy.

Were I a nurse or a doctor, I would feel a bit miffed that my part in the healing process was so insignificant that a random noise made towards a cloud could be so much better at curative medicine than me and my years of learnin’.

Anyway, because of all the many whispered voices, my dad was a bit better today. Thank you. I have dismissed the medical staff as they’re clearly unnecessary. I’m going to call in the pixies instead.

Here’s a photo of the lovely orchid that Janet and her family sent dad. The flowers are a constant reminder of life and the beauty of nature which needs no superstitious nonsense.

Orchid from America

Yesterday dad was moved from one ward to another ward. This is not a lot of fun, especially when you cannot breathe very well and the staff tend not to tell you very much. You are left, bundled up in preparation for long hours as you wait for the busy crowd that began the military operation to complete it.

I understand that hospitals are very busy (I have worked at one, after all) but what I don’t understand is why they don’t seem to tell you anything. Well, that’s not entirely true, they tell you they’re going to do something and, sometimes, prepare you for it but then…nothing.

This is what happened yesterday with the move. The move was necessary because (they said) dad’s medical team worked on a different ward to the one he was on. Personally I think he was moved because he was in the nicest spot in the whole hospital, filled with the loveliest nurses, most considerate wardspeople and the best view. However, patients are only allowed to enjoy this for a limited period and, sooner or later, you are moved to somewhere more normal.

Dad is not very well at all and virtually everything is a major effort so it’s not the best when they want him to move. Still, he bore it stoically and, eventually, he was moved down a floor.

Mum told me that when they were first admitted to the hospital, she sat with one of the nurses and they composed a list of things that are wrong with the hospital. One of them is the television sets. It’s a bit of a random pick whether they work or not. Apparently there is some sort of wrangle between the people who supply them and the hospital administration. This means that the poor sick people whose only pleasure may come from a television, miss out. Nice, eh?

While the television in the old ward was a bit dark and the sound had to be jiggled a bit, that’s nothing on the new one. it just doesn’t work. Still, I understand how important it is that the feuding hospital administration and the tv suppliers are satisfied that everything is fine, though, I wonder how they’d feel if the foot was in the other shoe for a few weeks. I doubt this would ever happen. Anyway, yesterday we managed to get dad moved down a floor, and it only took a few hours.

We didn’t think dad was showing much improvement but, when Denise spoke to the nurse, she said we were mad and, in fact, he is showing a lot of recovery and we should be pleased with his progress. I guess that’s why I’m not a doctor.

I wasn’t going to blog today but I feel a bit lonely tonight and it is almost like I’m talking to someone by writing so…

My hairdresser told me today that he was almost a ten pound Pom. Like we were. His family were all on the boat. The rest of the huge family were on the dock waving frantically. His father suddenly changed his mind. They disembarked and he grew up in England instead. His father couldn’t stand to leave his family so far behind. Madness.

Here’s a before and after I went to see him.

The Brothers Grim

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My dad is very ill in hospital at the moment and I’m too far away. All I can do is wait to hear. My thoughts are with him and my mum.

The weather certainly improved today. At least in London. According to the guy in Londis and the poodles, it rained in Farnham. It was all blue and shiny in South Kensington (maybe I should say ‘South Ken’ now I’ve been going there so long…I’ll have to ask Susanne).

I think the Natural History Museum is one of my favourite buildings in London, especially when the sun is out. I couldn’t resist taking this as I was walking back from buying my lunch.

Natural History Museum, London

I’m not sure if I’ve already said, but the ice rink is open outside the museum. There’s also a carousel and stalls. It looks very festive. It also attracts lots of families, which is lovely. They also have these child sized penguins for the little ones to learn to skate with. Sort of like buoyancy vests only on ice. It’s all very cute.

I took a shot with my phone for Mirinda, just to make her jealous. And then, it was so lovely, I took one with my camera.

Natural History Museum ice rink

If the weather is ok, I’m going to visit the Foundling Museum tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get a picture of the ice rink at Somerset House for a pair.

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My mother will be very pleased to know that I had a shave tonight. I was a bit undecided halfway through. I then decided to leave it. I quite like the effect of looking clean shaven from one side and bristly the other.

Mmm, I'm not sure...should I? Or...

The statistics I use for this blog give me all sorts of interesting information. One of them is what people have searched for in order to find me. Generally these are quite loose search terms like ‘househusband’, ‘Elphicks Christmas’, ‘naked jenny agutter’ etc but occasionally they really make me laugh. Today, for instance, someone put this into a search engine: ‘panel beaters in st. brieuc, france’ and, if you use Google, my blog comes up 4th in the hit list. It links to our trip to Brittany here where I talk about the rotten traffic around St Brieuc. Clearly the person searching was after something a little more concrete in finding a panel beater than my caustic comments on traffic conditions!

Anyway, today I was off for my monthly chat to the hard of seeing. We had a jolly fun time although the weather could have been better. I’m pretty sick of all this rain, though am thankful we don’t live in Cornwall. Last time we visited, we stayed near Lostwithiel, an ancient capitol. We thought it was lovely. It’s not so lovely today as a lot of it was under water.

When I tape the talking newspaper, I pass an old brewery called the Lion Brewery. And I realised today, I’d never taken a photo of it. While it WAS raining at the time, the clouds had thinned out slightly and, suddenly, it wasn’t as dull as it had been most of the day, and I managed to get a reasonable shot of it.

The Lion Brewery, Farnham

Apparently, the Lion Brewery is a grade II listed building. It was built in the 19th century and has been listed since 1972. It closed in the 1930s when it was taken over by Courage in Alton. It’s now an off-licence which sells some excellent local beers. I think it looks really cute and it’s a shame it no longer brews.

We have a few sets of almshouses in Farnham. I think I’ve included a photo of the ones in Castle Street but there’s two more down West Street, just passed the brewery. Sadly it was too dark and gloomy to get a shot of them. Maybe next time.

In fact, to give you an idea of how gloomy Farnham was today, this is a shot taken down Bear Lane on my way to the Talking Newspaper.

Gloominess in Bear Lane

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I was only joking about ‘naked jenny agutter’ but now I’ve added it to my blog, it will be interesting if I ever get anyone searching for it!

What a day. I feel like I’ve spent most of it travelling. I guess I did.

I’d planned to go up to town today and pack up Mirinda’s personal things from her office (in preparation for her leaving). I figured I’d just need a small bag. Fortunately Mirinda straightened me out on that.

I had to go to the flat first because our big wheelie bag was sitting there, taking up carpet space. So, train to Waterloo, Tube to Canary Wharf. All well and good. I went to the flat, collected the bag (and the piles of junk mail) and took off to Holborn.

While happily sat on the DLR, an announcement pretty much ruined my day. The Central line was a mess because of an ‘earlier incident’ and was suffering huge delays. This was the line I’d have to change to at Bank. I took a deep breath and decided to walk.

Thank Bernard D Sadow & Robert Plath, I had a wheelie bag, that’s all I can say. It’s quite a hike from Bank to Holborn, particularly when the weather’s a bit dodgy. But I managed it.

Packing the case didn’t take very long though I was a bit surprised at the size of the precious vase – for some reason I thought it was a lot smaller. Fortunately, Mirinda keeps an entire wardrobe at work, so it was an easy job packing round the vase to ensure a safe journey. I am still amazed at the quantity of shoes in the filing cabinet.

Having filled the bag, I put the black brief case over my shoulder and the stupid cowboy hat on my head, and headed out to hail a cab. Quite apart from the problems on the Central line, I didn’t fancy vying with commuters for every inch of space. And it was a nice, leisurely cab ride with a driver who actually knew the road where the flat is. In the past, I’ve had to direct them.

I then unpacked everything, being very careful with the vase; arranging the shoes along one wall of the bedroom. There really were a lot of shoes. I sometimes think my wife wants to be Imelda Marcos. I then popped down the Spa for some milk. I had to bring the suitcase home with me so I had decided to wait a bit later in order to avoid the rush hour.

I needn’t have bothered. The Canary Wharf Jubilee line is still packed at 7pm and the 7:30 train I was going to catch home was full to the extent that people were standing in the aisle! This used to happen on the slam door trains a lot but I don’t think I’ve seen it on the 444s. Well, before this one, that is.

I decided to miss the 7:30 and catch the 8pm, which was far more pleasant. I discovered that a train to Surbiton had been cancelled so, some genius at Waterloo had decided to attach an extra carriage to the 7:30 and add a stop at Surbiton. A whole train into an extra carriage. You do the math.

Getting home was a relief, even though it was later than I’d expected. The poodles had been waiting in the rain (why do they do that?) and were, of course, ecstatic I’d returned to them.

This marked my first time at the flat in the dark. The night skyline is great. So I snapped a photo, resting it on the balcony rail to keep it steady. it sort of worked.

View from the Canary Wharf flat

It was a foggy old start to the day. Actually, it was still foggy at lunch time. It was a classic English fog where everything was shrouded in a murky grey cloud. Here’s how the park looked:

Foggy Farnham Park

By about 2:30, the fog had lifted and the rest of the day was gloriously bright. Well, for the short while before the sun went down. Still, the park looked lovely when we all went for a tramp.

Fog-free Farnham Park

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Tonight was a Nicktor night, possibly the last for a while (unless he can come out to play next Tuesday, of course) and we went to see Aldershot play Brentford in an FA Cup replay following their draw a few weeks ago – while I was in London studying the Book of the Dead, in fact.

It was an excellent game. Although Brentford are a league above us and seem to be a more organised team, we scored early on (after 8 minutes) with a blinder of a move that surprised both teams, and then held on for the rest of the match. They had a few shots on goal but nothing to really test our keeper and we came close to increasing our lead a few times. It was a good game and we enjoyed it for a change!

Back at home we watched Kick Ass. When this came out there was a bit of a furore surrounding it because of the fact that it features a little girl who beats up and kills people and swears like a trooper. You can read something about it here. The film is a hoot. We both enjoyed it a lot and the girl who plays Hit Girl is a fantastic actress.

The thing that I found interesting is that, although it contains a lot of swearing and violence, it only has a 15 certificate. Put alongside Reservoir Dogs, which has an 18 certificate, is it really very different? I guess the reason it isn’t an 18 is because there’s no sex in it. For me, this conjures up an interesting moral dilemma. Is it ok for a 15 year old to be subjected to lots of violence masquerading as entertainment but not to see naked bodies?

Reservoir Dogs also features no sex, so why is it any different? The film is about a jewellery robbery that goes horribly wrong and a bunch of ruthless men who kill a lot of people and do not seem to consider anyone but themselves. Kick Ass, on the other hand, is about vigilante crusaders, taking the law into their own hands, to, ultimately, bring down an evil drug baron who kills people when they get in his way. He has absolutely no compunction with beating up the 11 year old Hit Girl and is about to put a bullet into her when he’s interrupted by a bazooka.

I can see no moral difference between the two, so I really do not understand the difference in rating. As far as I’m concerned they should both be 18. Nicktor said there’s no way he’d let his kids watch it.

However, it is a great film and we both enjoyed it a lot. What we also enjoyed is the fact that Aldershot are through to the next round of the FA Cup. Next it’s Dover, away. C’mon you reds!