The Rathbone wedding anniversary and Steve Reich’s birthday co-incide, so what better for the 30th anniversary celebrations this year than to go to the Steve Reich 70th birthday celebrations at the Barbican.
The evening started at 6:15 with a live performance by Brian Eno of Music for Airports in the Barbican foyer. The place was packed, with people lying on the floor , standing on the tables and hanging over the balconies. It was hard to believe that this piece is now 28 years old and that ambient started here.
At half past seven we trooped into the main hall. The main man himself, Mr. Reich, walked on to the stage and started to bang on a drum. Slowly, other people followed him on, taking up the rhythm on other drums lined up across the stage. Quarter of an hour in more musicians began to add to the rhythm on marimbas. Then people joined in on glockenspiel and flute. Then came the singers. An hour later and the audience was on its feet stomping along.
After that it was out into the foyer to recover and enjoy the highlight of the evening for me..... D.J. Spooky doing a live re-mix of the Kronos Quartet playing Reich’s City Life. The Subliminal Kid was at his best.
Back in the hall, that was followed by Coldcut and Reich’s Music for 18 Musicians.
The concert finished with an angolan band, Konono No. 1 playing Congotronics.
They finished at ten to eleven.
As Mrs. R remarked.... where did the night go?... a bit further for us as it happened. By the time we got to Kings Cross the weekend engineering timetable was in full force. There would be no train back to Rathboneland tonight! Instead we had to catch the suburban train to Alexandra Palace and then get on the complementary bus service. It was well into Sunday before we arrived back home. By that time, the only thing to do was put on Different Trains and have a cup of cocoa.
I can’t wait until his eightieth.
Rathbone's Ramblin'
rathbone wrote:The Rathbone wedding anniversary and Steve Reich’s birthday co-incide, so what better for the 30th anniversary celebrations this year than to go to the Steve Reich 70th birthday celebrations at the Barbican.
The evening started at 6:15 with a live performance by Brian Eno of Music for Airports in the Barbican foyer. The place was packed, with people lying on the floor , standing on the tables and hanging over the balconies. It was hard to believe that this piece is now 28 years old and that ambient started here.
At half past seven we trooped into the main hall. The main man himself, Mr. Reich, walked on to the stage and started to bang on a drum. Slowly, other people followed him on, taking up the rhythm on other drums lined up across the stage. Quarter of an hour in more musicians began to add to the rhythm on marimbas. Then people joined in on glockenspiel and flute. Then came the singers. An hour later and the audience was on its feet stomping along.
After that it was out into the foyer to recover and enjoy the highlight of the evening for me..... D.J. Spooky doing a live re-mix of the Kronos Quartet playing Reich’s City Life. The Subliminal Kid was at his best.
Back in the hall, that was followed by Coldcut and Reich’s Music for 18 Musicians.
The concert finished with an angolan band, Konono No. 1 playing Congotronics.
They finished at ten to eleven.
As Mrs. R remarked.... where did the night go?... a bit further for us as it happened. By the time we got to Kings Cross the weekend engineering timetable was in full force. There would be no train back to Rathboneland tonight! Instead we had to catch the suburban train to Alexandra Palace and then get on the complementary bus service. It was well into Sunday before we arrived back home. By that time, the only thing to do was put on Different Trains and have a cup of cocoa.
I can’t wait until his eightieth.
I'm turning green here........................you're a lucky man.
There’s nothing like the dark to bring out my little insecurities.
Mrs. R and I had gone off to Liz and Dave’s for Sunday ‘lunch’. It’s a bit of a treck involving three motorways and a number of country roads.
It was a nice day. The car was whizzing along comfortably and we were making good time. Only one hold up, due to roadworks on the second motorway.
A pleasant afternoon exchanging anecdotes and photographs of the summer holidays, discussing the delights of the archive programmes on BBC Radio 7. Dave and I had both caught the one last week about Max Miller. (Despite his reputation Miller never actually told a dirty joke.... he just led you all the way there and left you to provide the punchline).
Lunch was delicious (and I do enjoy it when I’m driving and not drinking, because you can study the way other people get quietly sozzled.) The dinner table conversation was exactly like that on Bremner Bird and Fortune, and all of us chimed in with the joke that if the word “Noâ€
Mrs. R and I had gone off to Liz and Dave’s for Sunday ‘lunch’. It’s a bit of a treck involving three motorways and a number of country roads.
It was a nice day. The car was whizzing along comfortably and we were making good time. Only one hold up, due to roadworks on the second motorway.
A pleasant afternoon exchanging anecdotes and photographs of the summer holidays, discussing the delights of the archive programmes on BBC Radio 7. Dave and I had both caught the one last week about Max Miller. (Despite his reputation Miller never actually told a dirty joke.... he just led you all the way there and left you to provide the punchline).
Lunch was delicious (and I do enjoy it when I’m driving and not drinking, because you can study the way other people get quietly sozzled.) The dinner table conversation was exactly like that on Bremner Bird and Fortune, and all of us chimed in with the joke that if the word “Noâ€
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
And more little insecurities this week.
After battling bravely with the abuses of the kids during their formative years, our suite is now showing severe signs of wear. (The fact that the eldest rathbonette jumped on the arm of chair when she was thirteen, and went right through didn’t help. Nor did the fact that a couple of drunken christmasses later, Jimjam sat on it and re-fractured the arm. Then there are all those years of resting coffee cups and/or wine glasses on the cushions while reaching for the remote, which didn’t help to keep the stains at bay. So... time for a change
However Mrs. R. has very definite preferences. The shape must be boxy ( she doesn’t like curvy couches.) The arms must be flat and wide enough to rest the exercise books when she’s marking homework. The cushions must be a modest height above the back rest. The fabric must be of a good texture, not too rough and not too smooth. The colour has to be a particular shade of dark brown, not too chocolate, but not too light. Above all it, must not be leather. (She learned that lesson after someone wearing jeans with a dodgy stud scored all over her brother’s leather suite. No matter what they tried the marks wouldn’t come out. .... I know, I was wearing the jeans at the time.)
So it has taken us a few years to track down something which matches all the criteria, but at last we’ve done it. Daily trawling of the internet has paid off.
But then they suite in question has to be seen in reality, not just on the screen ( How else can you vet the texture?). Fifty miles up the motorway to the nearest stockist. And it’s fine. She pokes and prods and takes the cusions apart while I smile at the nice sales assistant called Phillip.
As we fill in the paperwork Phillip casually mentions the problems some people have nowadays getting suites into their houses. Instantly I whipped my tape measure out of my pocket. No, it was almost the same size as our existing one. Whew!
Back home feeling pleased.
And then the little doubts creep in.
I’ll be in Kenya when it arrives. Would Mrs. R. be able to cope if it didn’t fit? Didn’t we have to take off the living room door to get the existing couch in? I only measured the length. What if the height and depth are greater? Will the colour go with the curtains, or are we going to have to change them as well? Will the plan chest under the stairs leave enough room in the hall for them to get it past?
Inevitably, the following morning, I was measuring everything in site. The width and height of the front door. The width of the hall plus and linus the plan chest. The width of the living room door. The width of the kitchen door in case they had to back into there to turn the thing. The floor to ceiling height.
Armed with fully annotated working drawings of the ground floor of the house, I set off back up the motorway.
Phillip was very understanding. It seems that about a third of his customers come back in a panic. Having looked at the measurements he reassured me that everything was okay.
I drove back happy. And then they started again: What are we going to do with the old suite? The label saying that it is fire resistant came off years ago, so the furniture recycling scheme won’t take it. How much is bulky refuse? How long will we have to wait for the Council to collect it? Will the delivery men give Mrs. R. a hand to get the old suite into the garage? Should I risk coming back from Kenya at all?
After battling bravely with the abuses of the kids during their formative years, our suite is now showing severe signs of wear. (The fact that the eldest rathbonette jumped on the arm of chair when she was thirteen, and went right through didn’t help. Nor did the fact that a couple of drunken christmasses later, Jimjam sat on it and re-fractured the arm. Then there are all those years of resting coffee cups and/or wine glasses on the cushions while reaching for the remote, which didn’t help to keep the stains at bay. So... time for a change
However Mrs. R. has very definite preferences. The shape must be boxy ( she doesn’t like curvy couches.) The arms must be flat and wide enough to rest the exercise books when she’s marking homework. The cushions must be a modest height above the back rest. The fabric must be of a good texture, not too rough and not too smooth. The colour has to be a particular shade of dark brown, not too chocolate, but not too light. Above all it, must not be leather. (She learned that lesson after someone wearing jeans with a dodgy stud scored all over her brother’s leather suite. No matter what they tried the marks wouldn’t come out. .... I know, I was wearing the jeans at the time.)
So it has taken us a few years to track down something which matches all the criteria, but at last we’ve done it. Daily trawling of the internet has paid off.
But then they suite in question has to be seen in reality, not just on the screen ( How else can you vet the texture?). Fifty miles up the motorway to the nearest stockist. And it’s fine. She pokes and prods and takes the cusions apart while I smile at the nice sales assistant called Phillip.
As we fill in the paperwork Phillip casually mentions the problems some people have nowadays getting suites into their houses. Instantly I whipped my tape measure out of my pocket. No, it was almost the same size as our existing one. Whew!
Back home feeling pleased.
And then the little doubts creep in.
I’ll be in Kenya when it arrives. Would Mrs. R. be able to cope if it didn’t fit? Didn’t we have to take off the living room door to get the existing couch in? I only measured the length. What if the height and depth are greater? Will the colour go with the curtains, or are we going to have to change them as well? Will the plan chest under the stairs leave enough room in the hall for them to get it past?
Inevitably, the following morning, I was measuring everything in site. The width and height of the front door. The width of the hall plus and linus the plan chest. The width of the living room door. The width of the kitchen door in case they had to back into there to turn the thing. The floor to ceiling height.
Armed with fully annotated working drawings of the ground floor of the house, I set off back up the motorway.
Phillip was very understanding. It seems that about a third of his customers come back in a panic. Having looked at the measurements he reassured me that everything was okay.
I drove back happy. And then they started again: What are we going to do with the old suite? The label saying that it is fire resistant came off years ago, so the furniture recycling scheme won’t take it. How much is bulky refuse? How long will we have to wait for the Council to collect it? Will the delivery men give Mrs. R. a hand to get the old suite into the garage? Should I risk coming back from Kenya at all?
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
It never rains but it pours. At least it’s been doing that all this week down here. Which has been annoying because it’s been too wet to sweep up the leaves from the Cherry Tree in the front garden.
That’s a problem because every autumn the car disappears under a blanket of leaves unless you clear them off every half hour, and the pavement becomes a health and safety risk.
The tree proved to be a problem of another sort on Wednesday night. Dennis and Toni next door have just about finished festooning their premises with festive decoration (you might remember that I posted photographs of the seasonal splendour last year). Unfortunately, the decorations proved too much of a temptation for three young lads, who took it upon themselves to try to knock the massed santas off the garage roof by sheltering under our cherry tree and throwing stones at them. When the eldest Rathbonette came to the door to tell them to desist, one of the stones headed in that direction and unfortunately carried on through the porch window. Needless to say, the lads legged it and the police failed to arrive.
Thursday morning was spent trying to persuade the glazier that, tempting though it was, I really didn’t want to spend the next five days with a bit of chipboard as the main form of security for my house and Thursday afternoon was spent watching him standing in the rain replacing the glass.
Thursday evening was the second last meeting of the Kenya team before we head back to sunnier climes next week. There are eight of us and we are going out to build a hostel for aids orphans at Kilifi, which is about 50 miles north of Mombassa. The last couple of months have been spent drawing up the plans, arranging for the materials to be there when we arrive, getting transport sorted out and persuading businesses to cough up the sponsorship the promised. Everything has been going well.... So on Thursday night Jackie turns up to say that she is going to have to pull out, but Mark can go. On the plus side, Mark is a skilled carpenter and good company. On the down side, it means that we will have to get the flight tickets changed, arrange for him to have all seven vaccinations necessary, and travel up to the Kenyan Embassy in London to get his visa sorted out, and all that will have to be done tomorrow.
On top of that, during the week a tropical storm hit the coastal regions of Kenya causing flash flooding. Kilifi was particularly badly hit. Out of the population of 3,000, 700 are now homeless and five people drowned. It gets the little bit of rain and the odd broken window we’ve here into perspective.
Somehow, I think this project isn’t going to be as straightforward as last year's was.
That’s a problem because every autumn the car disappears under a blanket of leaves unless you clear them off every half hour, and the pavement becomes a health and safety risk.
The tree proved to be a problem of another sort on Wednesday night. Dennis and Toni next door have just about finished festooning their premises with festive decoration (you might remember that I posted photographs of the seasonal splendour last year). Unfortunately, the decorations proved too much of a temptation for three young lads, who took it upon themselves to try to knock the massed santas off the garage roof by sheltering under our cherry tree and throwing stones at them. When the eldest Rathbonette came to the door to tell them to desist, one of the stones headed in that direction and unfortunately carried on through the porch window. Needless to say, the lads legged it and the police failed to arrive.
Thursday morning was spent trying to persuade the glazier that, tempting though it was, I really didn’t want to spend the next five days with a bit of chipboard as the main form of security for my house and Thursday afternoon was spent watching him standing in the rain replacing the glass.
Thursday evening was the second last meeting of the Kenya team before we head back to sunnier climes next week. There are eight of us and we are going out to build a hostel for aids orphans at Kilifi, which is about 50 miles north of Mombassa. The last couple of months have been spent drawing up the plans, arranging for the materials to be there when we arrive, getting transport sorted out and persuading businesses to cough up the sponsorship the promised. Everything has been going well.... So on Thursday night Jackie turns up to say that she is going to have to pull out, but Mark can go. On the plus side, Mark is a skilled carpenter and good company. On the down side, it means that we will have to get the flight tickets changed, arrange for him to have all seven vaccinations necessary, and travel up to the Kenyan Embassy in London to get his visa sorted out, and all that will have to be done tomorrow.
On top of that, during the week a tropical storm hit the coastal regions of Kenya causing flash flooding. Kilifi was particularly badly hit. Out of the population of 3,000, 700 are now homeless and five people drowned. It gets the little bit of rain and the odd broken window we’ve here into perspective.
Somehow, I think this project isn’t going to be as straightforward as last year's was.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
I am knackered trying to catch up with all of the little things that have to be done before I go away:
The Christmas presents have all been bought and wrapped this week. Those that have to be entrusted to the mail have been boxed up and sent. The cards have been written up, enveloped, stamped and dispatched.
Wednesday was spent sweeping up all of the leaves in the garden, putting them in bin liners and taking them along to the municipal composter. On Thursday morning the lawn was covered in other people’s leaves. Have they no consideration?
Yesterday started with the ironing. (Does it really make the clothes flatter so you can fit them in the case?) Do I take two or three pairs of jeans? Will I take something waterproof because of the rain they’ve been having? Long sleeves or short sleeves? How many underpants? The choices were endless. Each garment was lovingly pressed in between visits to the loo ...... I’ve started the malaria tablets and they always have that effect on me.
Hours were spent deciding which book to take to read on the plane. (Neil Gunn’s ‘ The Silver Darlings’ came out on top).
Then it was ‘phoning round everyone just to make sure that they didn’t forget anything. There were the usual problems. Jan didn’t have a holdall which would meet the hand luggage size restrictions.... we sorted that one out. Elliot couldn’t find his yellow fever vaccination certificate.... his doctor did him a note. Kerrie wanted to know whether we could leave for the airport later than we’d planned because she wanted to take her son to the dentist..... no we couldn’t: getting to Gatwick was going to be tight enough without risking delays on the motorway. (I can be hard when I want to.)
And then I got to Mark. You will recall that Mark was a last minute substitute. I had a whole load of hassle getting the plane tickets changed to include him, not to mention the trip up to the Embassy in London and back last Friday to get his visa sorted out. So I wasn’t best pleased when he informed me that he sprained his wrist playing rugby on Wednesday and that his arm was strapped up. Though he could still come with us, he wasn’t going to be able to do much. C’Est La Vie.
Finally I wrote out the instructions for Mrs. R. on what to do if her paranoias come true.... i.e. the contact details for the plumber, the gas man, the insurance company..... how to change a tyre on the car.... where the keys for the garden shed are....
So, it’s time to go. The prostrate form of Mr. R. , scholar, seeker of truth and, regrettably, finder of truth, will shortly arise from his exhaustion to confront a problem that has tormented mankind since the beginning of time. A man knocking on a door seeking sanctuary and finding instead the outer edges of ............... the Twilight Zone
The Christmas presents have all been bought and wrapped this week. Those that have to be entrusted to the mail have been boxed up and sent. The cards have been written up, enveloped, stamped and dispatched.
Wednesday was spent sweeping up all of the leaves in the garden, putting them in bin liners and taking them along to the municipal composter. On Thursday morning the lawn was covered in other people’s leaves. Have they no consideration?
Yesterday started with the ironing. (Does it really make the clothes flatter so you can fit them in the case?) Do I take two or three pairs of jeans? Will I take something waterproof because of the rain they’ve been having? Long sleeves or short sleeves? How many underpants? The choices were endless. Each garment was lovingly pressed in between visits to the loo ...... I’ve started the malaria tablets and they always have that effect on me.
Hours were spent deciding which book to take to read on the plane. (Neil Gunn’s ‘ The Silver Darlings’ came out on top).
Then it was ‘phoning round everyone just to make sure that they didn’t forget anything. There were the usual problems. Jan didn’t have a holdall which would meet the hand luggage size restrictions.... we sorted that one out. Elliot couldn’t find his yellow fever vaccination certificate.... his doctor did him a note. Kerrie wanted to know whether we could leave for the airport later than we’d planned because she wanted to take her son to the dentist..... no we couldn’t: getting to Gatwick was going to be tight enough without risking delays on the motorway. (I can be hard when I want to.)
And then I got to Mark. You will recall that Mark was a last minute substitute. I had a whole load of hassle getting the plane tickets changed to include him, not to mention the trip up to the Embassy in London and back last Friday to get his visa sorted out. So I wasn’t best pleased when he informed me that he sprained his wrist playing rugby on Wednesday and that his arm was strapped up. Though he could still come with us, he wasn’t going to be able to do much. C’Est La Vie.
Finally I wrote out the instructions for Mrs. R. on what to do if her paranoias come true.... i.e. the contact details for the plumber, the gas man, the insurance company..... how to change a tyre on the car.... where the keys for the garden shed are....
So, it’s time to go. The prostrate form of Mr. R. , scholar, seeker of truth and, regrettably, finder of truth, will shortly arise from his exhaustion to confront a problem that has tormented mankind since the beginning of time. A man knocking on a door seeking sanctuary and finding instead the outer edges of ............... the Twilight Zone
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
I'm just back from Kilifi to a cold and foggy Gatwick.
Kilifi is a small community on the east of Kenya where Aids is rife. 70% of the women have been widowed by the disease and 45% of the children are orphans. The village, literally, consists of mud huts. There is no electricity and only one standpipe for water.
I've spent the last three weeks working with a team of volunteers converting the former school house from this:
to this:
The women will use this as a centre for teaching the children, running a dressmaking workshop and a place to mill maise and casava.
From me, (and my fellow volunteers) Happy Christmas.
Kilifi is a small community on the east of Kenya where Aids is rife. 70% of the women have been widowed by the disease and 45% of the children are orphans. The village, literally, consists of mud huts. There is no electricity and only one standpipe for water.
I've spent the last three weeks working with a team of volunteers converting the former school house from this:
to this:
The women will use this as a centre for teaching the children, running a dressmaking workshop and a place to mill maise and casava.
From me, (and my fellow volunteers) Happy Christmas.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
), it seems that your return has been overshadowed by the PHS news, but Welcome Home from me!! Doesn't seem like a month since you were gorn!! 
It’s a bit like the one on the front of Frank Zappa’s One Size Fits All, and I’m beginning to love it.
Mind you, it’s taken a couple of weeks.
Despite all of those careful measurements and re-assurances from Phillip, the nice sales assistant, they did have to take the handles off the living room door in order to get it in and even contemplated taking the door off its hinges). But in it came, and out went the old one, consigned to the garage to await collection by the bulky refuse men.
The first thing was the banging on the back of the knees. After years of coming in and flopping back, exhausted, onto the couch, my sub-conscious had worked out the precise trajectory required for perfect repose. So, naturally, I flopped back without a moment’s hesitation, to discover that this one is higher than the old one. Like a plane overshooting the runway, my backside skidded to a halt later than expected and the back of my knees banged against bar below the cushions. A couple of days of practice runs were required to sort that one out.
Then there are the cushions themselves. My rear knew, and adjusted to, every nook and cranny of those old cushions and, in symbiotic fashion, they had adapted to accommodate my own nooks and crannies. These new ones are arrogant show-offs, always replumping themselves between sittings and tumbling me about into awkward positions every time I sit on them. Never mind, a few stern shufflings will soon settle their hash.
I usually sit on the extreme left, nearest the fire. This new sofa’s a little bit longer than the old one. Not much, just an inch or two, but sufficient to completely throw out of kilter the balance on the stereo. I find that I’m getting a completely new perspective on much loved guitar breaks and drum solos are appearing out of the ether. However, if I adjust the balance, Mrs. R. complains that it’s gone wonky for her.
The television also needs a bit of adjustment. Not the picture, which I can see perfectly well, but the angle of fire at the remote control on the freeview box is slightly out, meaning that I have to move a couple of inches in order to change channels. That is just not on.
Nor is the fact that I can’t see the postman coming when I’m lying back watching breakfast tele because the back of this new thing is just high enough to obscure the view out the window.
Worst of all is the fact that, when reclining, the reach from couch to coffee table has increased, leading to repetitive strain whilst imbibing.
On the plus side, however, that extra inch or two means that Mrs. R. and I can curl up side by side without one or other of us complaining about the arm of the settee poking them in the back.
Give it a few years and It’ll be just like one of the family.
Mind you, it’s taken a couple of weeks.
Despite all of those careful measurements and re-assurances from Phillip, the nice sales assistant, they did have to take the handles off the living room door in order to get it in and even contemplated taking the door off its hinges). But in it came, and out went the old one, consigned to the garage to await collection by the bulky refuse men.
The first thing was the banging on the back of the knees. After years of coming in and flopping back, exhausted, onto the couch, my sub-conscious had worked out the precise trajectory required for perfect repose. So, naturally, I flopped back without a moment’s hesitation, to discover that this one is higher than the old one. Like a plane overshooting the runway, my backside skidded to a halt later than expected and the back of my knees banged against bar below the cushions. A couple of days of practice runs were required to sort that one out.
Then there are the cushions themselves. My rear knew, and adjusted to, every nook and cranny of those old cushions and, in symbiotic fashion, they had adapted to accommodate my own nooks and crannies. These new ones are arrogant show-offs, always replumping themselves between sittings and tumbling me about into awkward positions every time I sit on them. Never mind, a few stern shufflings will soon settle their hash.
I usually sit on the extreme left, nearest the fire. This new sofa’s a little bit longer than the old one. Not much, just an inch or two, but sufficient to completely throw out of kilter the balance on the stereo. I find that I’m getting a completely new perspective on much loved guitar breaks and drum solos are appearing out of the ether. However, if I adjust the balance, Mrs. R. complains that it’s gone wonky for her.
The television also needs a bit of adjustment. Not the picture, which I can see perfectly well, but the angle of fire at the remote control on the freeview box is slightly out, meaning that I have to move a couple of inches in order to change channels. That is just not on.
Nor is the fact that I can’t see the postman coming when I’m lying back watching breakfast tele because the back of this new thing is just high enough to obscure the view out the window.
Worst of all is the fact that, when reclining, the reach from couch to coffee table has increased, leading to repetitive strain whilst imbibing.
On the plus side, however, that extra inch or two means that Mrs. R. and I can curl up side by side without one or other of us complaining about the arm of the settee poking them in the back.
Give it a few years and It’ll be just like one of the family.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
. We promise not to wet it.
-
Cleopas
-
Cleopas
I could argue that, having had a scare or three 
... but it's a part of my life that is VERY private! 
Regardless ... great job of conversion. I've helped with a few rebuilds of community buildings in this country, but nothing to the standard you've acheived. I salute you.
You and Mrs R take a bow! You deserve it.
... but it's a part of my life that is VERY private! Regardless ... great job of conversion. I've helped with a few rebuilds of community buildings in this country, but nothing to the standard you've acheived. I salute you.
You and Mrs R take a bow! You deserve it.
I used to listen to that anecdote about Eric Morecambe realising that he was having a heart attack and driving to the nearest hospital. and wonder if (a) it was true and (b) how I would react in that situation.
Yesterday was one of my more energetic days: I cleaned the cooker, read the post ( full of joy that the tax man had assessed my tax about £12 less than my own self assessment), watched the lunchtime news and kept on watching until the end of Neighbours. Then I sat down at this computer to do some work.
About five minutes after logging on I was knocked back in my chair by this massive, excruciating pain in my chest. It literally took my breath away. After a moment I found myself thinking what do I do? Asprin. I groped my way to the bathroom and downed two. Ambulance. No that comes from two towns away. The surgery is just around the corner. I made my way down the stairs, half doubled over, out the front door, and round to the surgery.
They were great. It was obvious the state I was in as I staggered into the reception. People dropped everything they were doing to help me. Before I had time to think I had been stripped down to my underpants (fortunately clean) wired up to machines and had an oxygen mask on my face. The receptionist was asking me to confirm my details and the doctor was telling me not to worry.
As I was being carried out to the ambulance the receptionist asked if I wanted her to call my wife. “Yesâ€
Yesterday was one of my more energetic days: I cleaned the cooker, read the post ( full of joy that the tax man had assessed my tax about £12 less than my own self assessment), watched the lunchtime news and kept on watching until the end of Neighbours. Then I sat down at this computer to do some work.
About five minutes after logging on I was knocked back in my chair by this massive, excruciating pain in my chest. It literally took my breath away. After a moment I found myself thinking what do I do? Asprin. I groped my way to the bathroom and downed two. Ambulance. No that comes from two towns away. The surgery is just around the corner. I made my way down the stairs, half doubled over, out the front door, and round to the surgery.
They were great. It was obvious the state I was in as I staggered into the reception. People dropped everything they were doing to help me. Before I had time to think I had been stripped down to my underpants (fortunately clean) wired up to machines and had an oxygen mask on my face. The receptionist was asking me to confirm my details and the doctor was telling me not to worry.
As I was being carried out to the ambulance the receptionist asked if I wanted her to call my wife. “Yesâ€
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
-
sunnyporty
- Posts: 52
- Joined: 18 Jan 2006, 17:26
As Epykat stated ,its nice to know that we are such a close family that we find out about potentially dangerous health problems online with everyone else that cares to peak through this window.
As someone famous once said ''WE ARE NOT AMUSED'' and are wondering when the Telephone became obsolete. It must have been when the internet came into being.
I will try mine later just to see if it still works.
Oh by the way we are both VERY glad everything has turned out well.
As someone famous once said ''WE ARE NOT AMUSED'' and are wondering when the Telephone became obsolete. It must have been when the internet came into being.
I will try mine later just to see if it still works.
Oh by the way we are both VERY glad everything has turned out well.
theres no such thing as bad weather only the wrong clothes
Rathbone, firstly I'm glad that you are ok. Secondly I really appreciste the frank and factual account of your experience. It is a fine example of keeping ones head in a crisis.
I know from the various stories that you keep yourself fit, don't smoke etc. Do you or have you had your heart checked out from time to time?
I know from the various stories that you keep yourself fit, don't smoke etc. Do you or have you had your heart checked out from time to time?
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Nelson Hatstand
- Posts: 359
- Joined: 25 Nov 2006, 11:14
- Location: Marlborough Street
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SoupDragon
- Posts: 2201
- Joined: 03 Oct 2006, 11:02
Again as every one is saying, glad all ok.
Must have been a bit scary for all.
Funny thing is Mr Soupy got an invite from the GP the other day asking him along for a cardio check up. Mr Soupy is "hmm, too busy, whats the point" type of person but I've got a feeling he's about to get booked in whether he wants it or not after reading your tale.
Must have been a bit scary for all.
Funny thing is Mr Soupy got an invite from the GP the other day asking him along for a cardio check up. Mr Soupy is "hmm, too busy, whats the point" type of person but I've got a feeling he's about to get booked in whether he wants it or not after reading your tale.
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Bob Jefferson
- Posts: 6212
- Joined: 11 Dec 2004, 21:16
- Location: Planet Porty
- Contact:
Scary stuff. My mum was also taken into hospital with a suspected heart attack recently. She didn't appreciate the injections in the stomach either.
Of course, as far as we are concerned, your last words would have been:
Stay healthy, I'm not planning on doing an obit for anyone anytime soon.
Of course, as far as we are concerned, your last words would have been:
I would like to think that at your time of reckoning, you may have had some consolation in knowing that you had completed the final entry.rathbone wrote:The last entry for Portobello Beach in the Scotsman Digital Archive was on 11 January 1950.
A young grey seal was found washed up on Portobello foreshore by a policeman.
The seal was taken to Corstorphine zoo where it was housed with an older seal and was feeding quite well.
Stay healthy, I'm not planning on doing an obit for anyone anytime soon.
