Being the Summer Solstice ...

Here we are in midsummer, 21st June ... really?
Why is the Sun is not shining?

There is a philosophical saying which runs thus ...

• There are no such things as problems.
• These are simply golden opportunities for change!



"Oh, Bottom ... Thou art changed!"


I think I might prefer problems!

Saint Anley remembers Mrs. G ...

After 1 year as an undergraduate, St. Anley was expelled from this comfortable university accommodation ...

Now, be assured, this expulsion was not the result of any unspecified misdemeanour that he recalls.
Apparently the university authorities unwisely considered that St. Anley possessed the experience and maturity to survive in the independent accommodation sector.
It was all downhill from there.

A North London suburb, early 1970s …

This was not the most salubrious accommodation: an unheated, drafty, ground-floor bed-sit, a single-element ‘Belling’ hob, a cracked kitchen sink, a few sticks of furniture and an apology for a bed.

The room cost St. Anley only £3.50 per week.
The price for using this shared bathing facility was 20p.

Mrs. G. lived in a room upstairs.
Mrs. G. liked St. Anley.
I think he became just a little fond of her.

Regularly she would interrupt St. A’s evening studies by knocking on his door.
“Come and keep me company,” she used to say.
Now, Mrs. G. was fortunate: she had a television set!
“Of course!” would be the enthusiastic response.

Mrs. G. was a mature lady.
Well, she was just a little older than St. Anley, and clearly experienced.
She was a single mum.
She lived with her infant daughter, Bridget.

Mrs. G. wasn’t exactly pretty; 'handsome' is a better word.
She had a pleasing face, a delightful smile, that revealed only one blackened tooth, and an engaging Irish accent.
She was slightly large in all the right places.
Occasionally she would accidentally(?) display her generous cleavage.
Being a sensitive gentleman, St. Anley would politely avert his gaze to watch the television.

Once Bridget was asleep, in a bed that she would later share with her mother, Mrs. G. would ply St. Anley with coins from her meagre welfare benefit.
“Off you go to the off-licence,” she would say.
“Get some beer.”

Obediently, off he went to the alcohol-retailer on Green Lane.
That was only a mile-and-a-half away.
On his return, an hour later, they drank the beer.
(Does anyone else remember 7-pint cans of Watney's Red Barrel?)

Mrs. G. would fall asleep in her armchair.
(St. Anley didn't have an armchair!)
St. Anley would then quietly withdraw to his own room, bearing inexplicable feelings of guilt in his soul.

Nothing else ever happened ...

          ... except that St. Anley failed his first academic exam!

I miss Mrs. G.

　

　

　

Brave Benbow ...

For reasons explained in earlier posts, St. Anley is currently unable to play any musical instruments.
(OK, there are those who are relieved about that!)

So, he found some free music software called Audacity. It's rather good, but a better microphone would help.
He has been experimenting with multi-tracking. Hear this ...

Alright ... that's 'work in progress'. 

 

So, who was Admiral Benbow?

 

He appeared thus ...

 

Admiral John Benbow, 1653 - 1702

He was an officer in the British Royal Navy who, during the War of the Spanish Succession, engaged with a French squadron commanded by Admiral Jean du Casse during August, 1702.
Two of Benbow's captains: Kirkby and Wade, declined to take part in the action. They were subsequently convicted and executed for cowardice.
Benbow received a leg-wound during the battle and died in Jamaica three months later from 'melancholia'.

There are accounts that he was a drunken, dissolute and abrasive individual, but he must have done something good to be so commemorated in song.



Dupuytren #3

 

 

Finally ... Saint Anley attends the Out-Patient department of his local hospital.

The consultant arrives ... late.

He looks ever so young!

 

He shakes St. Anley’s good hand very firmly as he introduces himself.

•  “So, you’ve got Dupuytren’s disease!” he announces ecstatically.
• “Show me ...”

St. Anley extends his left hand - all except the little finger which remains stubbornly in flexion.

Surgeon gently takes the deformed hand in his own, prods, pokes, pulls and measures things with a protractor.

• “That’s quite advanced."
• "With that degree of deformity, you could qualify to become a Freemason.”

(St. Anley begins to wonder anxiously, “Is this an invitation?”)

• “Now, what do you know about this condition?” he enquires.

St. Anley impresses the consultant with the fruits of his recent research:

• “I know that Baron Guillaume Dupuytren is said to have treated Napoleon’s piles.”
• “Well, I never! I didn’t know that!” says the surgeon.

St. Anley then confides about his previous occupation within the medical profession.

(That was before he became a bicycle maintenance person, tender of live-stock or purveyor of incandescence.)

• “So, you’ll know all about it, then,” says Doctor. 

(Actually, St. Anley knows just a bit about lubricating bicycles. He has rudimentary experience of chicken farming. He knows all about the wholesale price of incandescent light bulbs. His recall of the history of the London & South Western Railway is encyclopedic. However, all he knows about Dupuytren’s contracture is that it is that he’s got it. It is often hereditary, that it’s vigorously progressive, can recur after treatment. The association with consumption of gin-and-tonic is purely anecdotal, and it has nothing to do with haemorrhoids.)

•  “ … and what does it stop you doing?” asks Doctor. 

Here, St. Anley has to admit that he is an amateur musician who plays a number of instruments rather badly.

• “What instruments?"

St. Anley includes in the list a mandocello and a bowed psaltery.“I have never heard of those,” says the consultant.

There follows a lengthy dissertation on the mandolin-family of instruments.

The bowed psaltery is impossible to describe in words alone.

The consultant seems to be utterly engaged.

This takes a very long time.

• “Would you like to hear about my collection of stamps from Papua New Guinea?” asks the doctor.
• “Oh, yes.” replies St. Anley with feigned enthusiasm, “I’ve been there.”
• “Did you know that the German colonists constructed a railway there late in the 19^th century?”
• “Oh, tell me more …”

... and this prolonged, competitive exchange of inconsequential trivia becomes somewhat tedious. 

• “So, what about my hand?” enquires St. Anley, patiently.
• “Oh, yes, I almost forgot! We’ll get you in for surgery: day-case, regional anaesthesia; you know what I mean… OK?”
• "My secretary will contact you."

(St. Anley imagines that said secretary is named Tracey!)

• “When?”
• “When I can find the time!” responds the consultant.
• “Good afternoon. I’ll see you next on the operating table.”

As he departs St. Anley sheepishly asks, “Will I be able to play my mandocello?”

• “NOT WHILE I’M OPERATING!”

 

  

Dupuytren's progress report ...

Last week St. Anley received a letter from the local hospital.
It reads: "I am writing to invite you to telephone our appointments office as soon as possible to agree a convenient appointment ..."

St. Anley phones.
You know who answers ...




Hello, my name is Tracey.
How may I help?



"I've received this letter, ref. ..." says St. Anley.

• "Ah, let me check," replies Tracey.
• "What's your hospital number?"
• "Please confirm your date of birth."
• "... and what's your post-code?"

"Please hold ..."

St. Anley luxuriates in a recording of the spring movement from Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons'. That's one of his favoutites.

Eventually ...

• "Are you still there?" asks Tracey.
• "Yes, I'm really enjoying the music."
• "Now, I am sorry to tell you that we have no available appointments to offer you right now."
• "Oh," says St. Anley, "Then why have I received this letter?"
• "We're just keeping in touch to make sure that you still want an appointment," replies Tracey.
• "Is there anything else I can do?" she asks.

"Yes, can you play some Beethoven, please, next time I phone?"

Clearly, Tracey is not a fan of LVB ...
The line goes dead!

Regarding Baron Guillaume Dupuytren ...

 

Baron Guillaume Dupuytren
(1777 -1835)

 This French anatomist and surgeon is best remembered for having treated Napoleon's haemorrhoids.

He also described this condition, known eponymously as Dupuytren's contracture ...

 

 

In some cultures this could be perceived as a rude gesture.

Above, you see St. Anley's ageing left hand, with the characteristic deformity of fixed flexion of the little finger.  This has become rapidly more apparent since the beginning of the year. There is also some thickening involving the flexor tendons of his ring and middle finger.

St. Anley, having trawled earlier medical knowledge, and after consulting wikipedia, knows what it is. It will only get worse.

"Please may I have an appointment to see my GP?" asks St. Anley on the telephone.

"Of course," replies Tracey, (now a medical receptionist.)
"Come along at 7.30 in the morning."
(Gosh, these doctors work long hours these days.)

My GP's surgery just after sunrise.

The consultation proceeds thus:

• Doctor: "You have a Dupuytren's contracture."
• St. Anley: "I know."
• Doctor: "It will only get worse."
• St. Anley: "I know. What can be done?"
• Doctor, becoming animated: "Surgery!"
• St. Anley, anxiously: "Will it hurt?"
• Doctor, with considerable glee: "Undoubtedly!!"
• St. Anley, with furrowed brow: "Is it life threatening?"
• Doctor, becoming impatient: "There is the highly regrettable risk that you will survive!!!" (I think this doctor doesn't like me.)
• St. Anley: "What's the recovery time?"
• Doctor: "Oh, about three months."
• St. Anley, dejectedly: "How will I be able to play my musical instruments?"
• Doctor: "Badly!"

... No change there, then!

Don't worry, I've got a screwdriver ...

Mrs. St. Anley takes her mobile phone to bed with her.

As St. Anley emerged from the shower on Monday morning, Mrs announced from her bed, “I’ve just ordered a new deep-freeze!”
She then went on to express amazement at her ability to spend money while still half asleep.
“It will be delivered on Thursday.”

As Thursday approaches St. Anley begins to wonder where it will go in the house.
“I’d like it upstairs in the tiny spare bedroom,” Says Mrs. St. A.
“How big is it?”
St. Anley studies the dimensions on-line.
“No way … it won’t go round the corner at the top of the stairs.”
“OK, we’ll move the kitchen dresser … err … somewhere, and have it next to the fridge in the kitchen.”

Much given to considerable morbid anticipatory anxiety worthy of a sufferer of OCD, he studies the dimensions again.
“Will it go through the front door?”
Width = 665mm.
St. Anley measures the door aperture - 690mm. Should be OK.

On Thursday afternoon, having created an adequate space in the kitchen, a large van arrives outside the house and St. Anley greets two cheery strong-men.

“Freezer for you, Sir!”

Then the fun begins …

Yes, it fits through the door frame, but that door handle is in the way.

Fit the best ...
Fit Everest.

“Don’t worry,” says St. Anley, “I’ve got a screw-driver. I’ll take it off.”
“Hmm …this is a bit stubborn.”

PING & POING … several springs of formidable strength scatter about the front porch.

Whoops!

 

“That’ll do fine,” smiles one of my strong men.
St. Anley considers the prudence of this exercise.
They manoeuvre the item through the front door.

Then, we come to an inner door ...
“It won’t go through that.”
“Don’t worry,” replies St. Anley, (worrying all the time,) “I’ve got a screw-driver. I’ll take it off its hinges.”

Heave-ho again … “No,” announces second strong man, “That architrave will have to come off too.”

St. Anley imagines total destruction of his home and considers sending the item back.

Cheerful strong man observes, “I notice you have a back passage.”
( St. Anley avoids the temptation to respond, “You’re not putting it up there!”)

Second strong man is now becoming grumpy: “We have a schedule to keep, you know.”

Now, please understand, the ‘back passage’ is a narrow alleyway at the side of the house.
It has a badly fitting wooden gate.
“Don’t worry,” replies St. Anley, “I’ve got a screw-driver. I’ll take it off its hinges.”
Side gate disintegrates into firewood.

More heave-ho, and via the back door the freezer is finally positioned next to the fridge in the kitchen.

Strong men depart, one with a cheery smile, the second with a disdainful grunt.

“Hello, Everest,” (St. Anley imagines it’s Tracey again,) “I’ve done a silly thing …”

“Yes," says Tracey, “No problem. I can have an operative to mend your front door handle there tomorrow.”
“Now, can I have your credit card details … it’ll cost you £99.00.”

There are several lessons here:

1. Never allow your wife to use her mobile phone in bed.
2. Never interfere with an Everest door handle.
3. Never admit to possession of a screwdriver.