Quite Like, Rather Dislike: Round 7

Quite Like: Some New Slang


Pigeon hole (or just pidge), n.: mail box
Pinch, v.: to steal
Elastoplast, n.: Band-Aid
Hobknobs, n: really yummy biscuits (cookies) that taste like Nature Valley granola bars... but better
Six and two threes, idiom: Six to one, half dozen to the other
Mac (short for Macintosh), n.: Raincoat
Brolly, n.: Umbrella


Oh! And our ever-so-resourceful archivist (not librarian) neighbor told me about the pandora.com British equivalent, www.last.fm.  I'm still learning my way around it, but I've already been enjoying having music back in the house. 


Quite Dislike: Gale force headwinds up to 35 mph on my way to work this morning.

Man-Size Tissues

On our way home from work/study, Nathan and I stopped by Tesco. You already know that we don't shop well together, but I needed him to be my pack mule. Among other (heavier) things, we needed some Kleenex. With Nathan's incessant nose blowing and his second cold in as many weeks, my eye was drawn to the tissues marketed to men. Most men here, young and old, carry handkerchiefs, not just the grandpas, so I guess it makes sense to create the disposable equivalent.  

Notice the size difference.  Funnily enough, the man-size tissues were 1.50 (I don't have the pound symbol on my computer, sorry) for 100 sheets, and the regular size was 1.60 for 80 sheets. I totally don't get the pricing here sometimes.

 Here's Nathan looking as manly as possible holding his man-size tissues.

"Okay, now pretend to blow your nose," I said, holding up the camera. 


He put the tissue to his nose. When I looked through the view finder, I said, "It just looks like you're flipping me off with both fingers." 


He just switched fingers for the picture so as not to be offensive.

It's Health and Safety Gone Mad

"It's health and safety gone mad!"


I must hear this at least three times a day. Basically, "health and safety" is kind of like "the man." It/He rules everything, and everyone hates it/him and blames it/him when things don't go their way. But health and safety has more rules than I can count. Don't get me wrong. I love rules. I live for rules. I'm a recovering Pharisee.


For example, one of the cleaning ladies at the college where I work got stuck in an elevator. She radioed the porters from inside and told them to please come get her out. However, no one was a qualified "lift engineer," so they had to make a phone call and wait 45 minutes for one to come out to fix it. When I suggested that they pry the doors open to at least keep her from staying stuck in there, they said, "Can't. There would be an open hole, and someone might fall in, and then we'd be responsible. It's health and safety gone mad."


Another time, there was a light bulb in the ceiling burnt out, but no one was around who had been trained in the updated ladder safety curriculum, so it had to stay as it was. If someone tried to fix it and hurt him/herself without being trained, there would be big trouble. It's health and safety gone mad.


My supervisor at work noted how neat the reception window looked since I purchased a desk tidy to keep the mail supplies in it: pens, tape, a ruler, and a pair of scissors. Then he removed the scissors and told me to keep them at my desk. "We're not allowed to have scissors within two meters of the reception window, because someone might take them and hurt someone. It's health and safety gone mad."


I thought, "I might use them too if I had to deal with all this inefficiency for the sake of health and safety."


These are actual picturs I found when I went to Google images and typed in "health and safety gone mad."

The Tale of Two Messiahs

Saturday was a glorious autumnal day here. We had an afternoon open house party for our new church's staff to thank them for such a warm welcome (more about our new church later). We served all kinds of puddings (desserts like brownies and pies and biscuits [cookies]) and hot apple cider that I made in the Crock Pot (no big secret: just apple juice, cinnamon, cloves, and orange slices). No one had actually had hot apple cider before, so it was a complete joy for me to see people enjoying it and asking for seconds. We had great time getting to know them better, and our friend Sam even got Nathan to tell the small crowd his now legendary deer story.


Serendipitously, Sam and Emily were not able to use some tickets they were given to see Handel's Messiah at the cathedral that night (I told you about the Christmas bullet train, didn't I?), so we greedily snatched them from their hands and skipped up to the cathedral an hour after the party. 


I have to tell you, I was on the edge of tears for the first 20 minutes. It was that beautiful. There was something about being sitting up close and hearing that period's music played on period instruments in that cathedral with those amazing acoustics. The soloists were so young (the super skinny bass soloist was still in college at Durham!), but they were all just fantastic. The alto was a more porcine male (the piece was originally written to be sung by a male counter-tenor, I'm told) and reminded me of Agustus Gloop.

"Agustus, sweetheart, save some for later!"

Nathan actually took me to see Messiah for Christmas our first year of marriage, and it resulted in rather dire (now funny... but not really) circumstances.  Here's how it went: 


We both were in an especially cheery mood because I was just out of school for Christmas and had gotten an unexpected bonus from work the previous day. Every year at Whitefield, the parents get together and give the teachers a special love offering. That particular year it was $300 in cash. That's no pocket change! 


Anyway, Nathan parked my Matrix right across from the Woodruff Arts Center on 15th Street on a cold December night just before Christmas. There was a sign with a picture of a car being towed in front of us, but when I pointed it out he said, "I've lived in Atlanta my whole life. I know where to park." I, being the submissive wife I am, decided not to fight it. We had a lovely time with his four siblings seeing the show. Afterwards, we said our goodbyes and walked back out to where our car was parked, emphasis on WAS. Nathan ran down 15th Street with his hands on his head muttering, "No, no, no, no, no..." As I prophesied, the car had been towed.


By the way, I did not say, "I told you so," but I thought it.  A LOT.


We got a ride back to our house with all of his siblings (that would be six of us total) and tons of dirty laundry and computer parts in Andrew's nasty car. Yes, Andrew. Nasty. We stumbled home, completely dejected and very worried. My car was not yet registered in the state of Georgia, and I didn't remember off hand where the title was. We told the story to a family friend in the military who was staying with us for the night.  He was stationed at a nearby base and was due to fly home to Bakersfield the next morning. Thankfully, he said we could use his car, which was to be parked at our place for a couple of weeks, for as long as we needed.


Nathan and I lay in bed that night, scared because we couldn't find the title to prove that we owned the car. I was particularly irked because my purse, hairbrush, and makeup were inside the vehicle. In the darkness I said, "I'll sleep peacefully knowing that you'll take care of everything." Nathan didn't sleep, thinking, "We're screwed!"


The next morning, a Sunday, Nathan dropped me off at church for music practice and went to the towing yard but couldn't convince anyone to just hand over the car without the title. Fortunately, he was able to convince someone to let him get my purse out. Unfortunately, his truck wouldn't start. Fortunately, the big guys in the towing yard gave him a push start down the hill and it managed to sputter to life.


Nathan spent the next several days on the phone with just about everyone he could think of to try to get it back. He tried every line in the book from "I'm a pastor and she's a teacher!" to "We're leaving for California in three days, and we can't afford to rack up $100 per day charges for it to sit in the towing yard for two weeks!" to "But it's Christmas!" Some saint from somewhere pulled a few strings and said we could come down to the police station to pick it up. I burst into tears and immediately sent her flowers.


We went down to the property recovery unit in a very scary looking warehouse downtown. Among other interesting characters, the gentleman in front of us asked the woman at the reception window (complete with iron bars) for his gas mask and bullet proof vest back. If there ever was one of those "I don't belong here!" moments, that was one for me. After getting the appropriate paperwork, we went down to the towing yard. We got the keys and a bill for three days at $100 each day... that's $300. Oh, and they only took cash.


Bye bye, Whitefield bonus. It was nice knowing you.


You can only imagine my irritation, but it was a good lesson for both of us. Nathan doesn't park on 15th Street anymore, and I don't tell Nathan when I've come into any money anymore.


The End

A Penny for the Guy

My, my!  It's been quite the weekend. Friday was Guy Fawkes Night, also known as Bonfire Night, also known as Andre and Christy's anniversary, here in England.


From the all-knowing Wikipedia...

Guy Fawkes Night, also known as Bonfire Night, is an annual celebration held primarily in Great Britain, on or about the evening of 5 November. Festivities are centred on the use of fireworks and the lighting of bonfires. Traditionally, an effigy (or "guy") representing Fawkes is ritually burnt on the bonfire. In the weeks before bonfire night, children traditionally displayed the "guy" and requested a "penny for the guy" in order to raise funds with which to buy fireworks.^[26]

Historically, the celebrations commemorate the anniversary of the failed Gunpowder Plot of 5 November 1605. The date was originally made a public holiday in England by the Observance of 5th November Act 1605.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence [or mercy] he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Hulloa boys, Hulloa boys, let the bells ring.
Hulloa boys, hulloa boys, God save the King!

And, of course, a jab at American influence...

In recent years, the commercialised celebration of Hallowe'en is seen as increasingly replacing Guy Fawkes Night.^[27] Historian David Cannadine said on BBC Radio 4 in 2005:

...[T]hese days, Bonfire Night is not the event it was when I was young. I can vividly remember that for me 5 November meant street-corner guys in rickety prams; roasted potatoes and chestnuts; and my father in our back garden lighting the blue touch paper on rockets, roman candles and catherine wheels, and then retiring. Nowadays, family bonfire gatherings are much less popular, and many once-large civic celebrations have been given up because of increasingly intrusive health and safety regulations. But 5 November has also been overtaken by a popular festival that barely existed when I was growing up, and that is Halloween.... Britain is not the Protestant nation it was when I was young: it is now a multi-faith society. And the Americanised Halloween is sweeping all before it - a vivid reminder of just how powerfully American culture and American consumerism can be transported across the Atlantic.^[28]

Not really knowing that Guy Fawkes Night entailed fireworks, I actually thought about going to bed early, as I was absolutely "shattered/knackered" (read: really, really tired) after work. Nathan and I actually treated ourselves to some Indian food out, but were quickly disheartened after getting the bill and realizing that we'd just eaten my entire day's wages in curry.


Anyway, we started hearing hug booms outside around 7 p.m. We looked out our front door and saw huge fireworks. I mean HUGE! I took the picture above, but it doesn't do the size of it justice. There was a big fireworks display put on by the fire brigade just across the field from our house, and we put on our coats and went outside to enjoy the show. It felt weird watching a fireworks show bundled up for cold weather. Usually we're sweating buckets and eating our body weight in watermelon while watching fireworks on the 4th of July. 


Upon finding our landlords outside as well, Nathan said, "We thought it might have been you and your friends drinking too much beer and shooting Coke cans with guns out in the field."  


Good one, babe. I think that's only in the South.

Socialized Diabetes Care - First Impressions

About a month ago, Nathan and I registered at the surgery (translation: regular doctor's office) and had our initial health checks. I asked to have a referral to an endocrinologist in order for me to get prescriptions for all of my diabetes supplies. You see, when I learned that we would be moving to England, I started rationing my supplies while they were covered by my insurance in the States. I feared socialized medicine would reject my desire to continue what's working (insulin pump therapy) because it's rather expensive to keep up. I'm probably good on supplies for a year, just in case this happened.  

Anyway, the surgery sent a request for me to the hospital, where the endocrinologist is, and I received a letter in the mail last week telling me I had an appointment at 9 a.m. on Wednesday. I called to see if I could get a time before or after work, but it turns out I didn't have that option. So, I had to take the morning off of work without pay. Thankfully, my supervisor is letting me make up the time by taking shorter lunches this week.  

Nathan and I walked up the hill in the opposite direction of where we both normally go (the library and my job) for 35 minutes and found the hospital. It was big and shiny and new. However, when we reported to reception, they sent us to the East Wing, which looks like a mental institution straight out of movie from the 50s. It was a long and scary looking corridor with thick bundles of internet cables bound together with zip ties where the wall and ceiling met.

See?  I wasn't kidding.

Nathan and I poked our heads in the Diabetes Center, which really was a hallway with a few chairs and a couple of rooms off of them. There was no checking in or medical assistants or real clear procedure about what to do. And with the whole absence of white coats thing, I wasn't sure if the group of people talking at the end of the said hallway was made up of medical professionals or not. I think we looked confused enough, because someone asked if we needed help, and when I showed her my appointment letter, I was shown into an examination room right away. Nathan sat in the hallway and waited for me.

The endocrinologist and a nurse walked in with me (they were in that group after all!) and we sat down in an assortment of tangerine, avocado, and chickpea colored chairs that reminded me of the Bakersfield College tile squares in the Fine Arts building. There was no examination table or scary instruments like tiny scissors or needles or even boxes of gloves. There was an old desk from the same era, some open shelving full of supplies, and us in our food colored chairs.

I think the doctor was from the Middle East, and I had a hard time understanding his English-English, if you know what I mean, but he was really warm and kind and attentive. The nurse was English, and she was in training I think.  She was wearing a navy dress with white piping on the edges that made her look like she worked in housekeeping at a hotel.  It came with a badge that said "Practice Nurse," which I hope means "Nurse Practitioner" rather than what it actually says.  

As they sat across from me I felt like I was in an interview rather than at a medical appointment. They asked me a lot of questions about my diagnosis and my daily management with the pump. The nurse was really confused when I was talking about my blood sugar numbers because they use a different unit of measurement here. I can make the change on my meter, but I'd rather just leave it because it's what I know. If I really want to fit in, I can divide my blood sugar readings by 18. Um, I hate math and do enough as it is... No thanks.

After a while, I just pulled out a letter written by my doctor in Atlanta, which was just a dictation of my last appointment and a little about my history, and gave it to the doctor. A copy of it was supposed to have been sent by the surgery, but I guess that didn't happen. He looked it over eagerly and asked if he could make a copy himself. While he was gone the nurse took my blood pressure and checked my weight, which was honestly the most medical thing that happened the whole time.

When he came back, he told me not to worry, that all of my supplies would be paid for, and that I could continue doing what I'm doing. Now my thinking is this: maybe I should keep rationing my supplies in case we don't have insurance and I have to pay out of pocket for them when we come visit and/or move home in a few years.

He, and I quote, "preferred" for me to come some to some diabetes education and management classes periodically.  When I asked if I could opt out because I'd already been to some and felt like I had a pretty good handle on things, he said, "We really prefer for all of our patients to come."  I take that to mean that if I don't come, I'll be labeled non-compliant and they'll snatch all the free stuff away.  

All in all, I spent about thirty minutes together with the doctor and the nurse, which really impressed me.  They seemed genuinely interested in me and my case.  It wasn't until after I walked out and met Nathan again that I understood why.  

"Gimme the camera," he said, holding out his hand.

"Why?"

"I'll tell you later.  Just give it to me."

"Okay..."

While he was busy snapping the picture below, I read a poster on the wall that talked about diabetes care in County Durham (our new county), which is the biggest county - geographically, not in terms of population - in England. It boasted the introduction of insulin pump therapy in 2006 and proudly announced that as of July 2009, 26 people in the county had pumps.

The first pump came to Country Durham in 2006?!?!?!?!?!?! Only 26 people with pumps?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Whoa...

No wonder they were so interested. It turns out I'm a rarity. Maybe I'm lucky number 27. :)

Nathan was interested in the camera, on the other hand, because this poster on the history of the diabetes care said "Urine Tasting" instead of "Urine Testing" and had a black and white picture of a man hooked up to the first insulin pump.  He looked rather like the Rocketeer.

Click on the picture to see it more clearly.  It's worth it.

I couldn't leave without taking some literature about living well with diabetes, especially if it meant I could be as cute as this lady. 

Quite Like, Rather Dislike: Round 6

Quite Like: Grocery Delivery Service


I type this while I'm waiting for my groceries to be delivered.  I paid for the cheapest time slot, between 8 and 10 p.m.  It is now six minutes to 10, and they're still not here.  I guess we'll find out whether or not this will stay in the "Quite Like" category.  In theory, it's the greatest idea ever, especially for me who has no car and can't carry much more than two Trader Joe's size grocery bags full of college sized everything half a mile home.  I can put the largest sizes of rice and peanut butter in my virtual basket without my shoulder muscles twitching.


Four minutes to ten...


Rather Dislike: Christmas in September, October, and Now November


When Nathan and I arrived on September 1st, we noticed that restaurants were already advertising that they were available for Christmas party bookings.  I thought that was really strange.  Then, when I went to the card store to get cards for my very first blog drawing winners, I noticed that it had been overrun by Christmas decorations and Justin Bieber 2011 calendars.   Now that Halloween is over, it's officially Christmas everywhere.  They don't have the Thanksgiving holiday to slow down the Christmas train.  It seems just wrong to me.

It's nine after ten...


I now rather dislike the grocery delivery illusion.