Tag Archives: uncomfortable

The Creature of Habit

I am a creature of habit. Things need to be just so. I do not like change. I sleep on the same side if the bed, I prefer a side of the bus and I always sit to the lefthand side of NFT1 at the BFI. I like things the way they are, and that is that. My treatment on the Second Floor is no exception to this. I have a side of the room, I have rituals that I adhere to, and when that changes, well, I do not manage it very well. I think I can evidence this….

I am sulking. Big time. For the Second Floor has failed to meet my usual, completely realistic, expectations.

First of all, I was greeted by a receptionist who did not know me. What? I hear you say. Not know me? She won’t last long. And none of the nurses are smiling, even when I red lipstick smile at them.

As the lift doors opened, I looked forward and saw that the clinic is rammed. Utterly full of sick people and their healthy buddies. My heart sank. There are people everywhere; it’s like there is a sale on and everybody is buying. It gets worse, I sadly discovered on my arrival that there are NO big read comfy seats free. Not only that, there are no free moderately less comfortably grey reclining chairs. To take this trip even further into the rubbish dump, there are no free hard red chairs with a tall back. I am sitting on something that I did not even know was a seat. Essentially, I am sitting on a cushioned park bench in shades of grey and orange. I am in dire straits. Actually, it is not just me, I just witnessed the Medically Trained People wheel a patient into a bay on office chair. Oh my gods, it’s all the fault of immigration to be sure.

Now, I must, begrudgingly give people their dues, I have surveyed the floor and the people preventing me from being comfortable who are occupying the the big red chairs and the grey recliners are patients. The people occupying the premium economy seats, with neck support, are not patients. They are with patients. I do mean to sound like a child when I say that they are selfish numskulls. Sure it’s New Year’s Eve and people are off work, so they have chosen to spend their free time with a loved one who is being injected with poison, but this does not make it acceptable for them to make me feel uncomfortable by them occupying my preferred seats I have back issues. Nor is it acceptable for them to watch me struggle with a chair whilst they sit their and sip their coffees, and accumulate rubbish which they seem to be incapable of putting in one of the several bins provided. I just know they have used the patient toilets. They are also making a lot of noise, thus drowning out my iPod, foul excuses of human beings. I’m am sure they are all talking utter tripe that is about as interesting as watching beige paint dry, but that does not mean that they can use up all the tables and make me put my tea on the floor.

Sod sulking, I’m irate. This is my space and this is my time and I am surrounded by badly dressed, ageist imbeciles.

Damn you, sick people. Damn you.

Smiley face.


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Once Upon A Time There Was Moisture

Once upon a time there was a girl. The girl had hair as dark as night, and hips as wide as a HGV. A minority of people across the land considered her to be beautiful and vivacious. She was confident and content. She would walk the cemented pavements of her kingdom with her held high high and her lips adorned with paint. After dark, she would do both with added liquid gusto.

One day she became unwell, the kingdom mourned and the girl was given a combination of various magic beans, in a variety of shapes and sizes from a number of different fields, from the local apothecary. Disheartened, but not defeated, the brave girl took the beans when advised and hoped. She hoped for happily ever after.

Slowly the pills took effect… Firstly, she was driven to dream more frequently than once upon a time. She then sacrificed her hair as dark as night to the Wicked Witches of Doxorubicin, Cyclophosphamide and Melphalan. Her skin grew scales from the topic her head to the ends of her feet, and her finger nails cracked resembling an artexed ceiling. The small, white beans called Dexamethasone, gave her an overwhelming urge to eat. And eat she did.

The girl had comes to terms with what had happened, and still she walked the cemented pavements of her kingdom with her head held high and her lips adorned with paint. To keep the head held high, the girl ensured that whilst she was on the streets, she dressed like the princess she was and oozed elegance by enhancing her natural beauty with marker pens and crayons, even when she wore denim.

One day, whilst visiting a new land, mysteriously called “Bourne”, the girl, dressed in a print of a jungle, explored the town centre. She entered a parlour of sorts, referred to by the locals, as the stationary shop. It was a treasure trove of paper and stickers. There were two ageing ladies working behind a counter as white as snow. They greeted her with a smile and a head tilt. As the girl looked at the Manila envelopes, a strange sensation came across her, she felt like she was standing at the crater of a volcano. Despite her cosmetic disguise, a red colour appeared on the surface of her skin. It was strange, but it was familiar for she had experienced something similar, previously. “Oh no”, she whispered, “I am going to get wet”.

It started at her head, then slowly progressed downwards, stopping at her upper thigh. The girl looked up, and there were now two more people in the shop buying pencils for their young; the girl’s head fell. It fell due to the weight of the moisture that came out of every pore on her head and face. She attempted to shield it with her hands, but any attempt was worthless. Puddles formed in the fat roll in the back of her head. She reached for a handkerchief from her leather satchel, which she used to blot the beads of sweat until the handkerchief stuck to her brow. As the warm liquid dripped down her neck, the girl could not stop it from protruding out of her dress at her bosom and down her back. As the paint melted from her face, she began to cry tears of black. It would not stop. For ten minutes the girl stood in the shop, wishing and willing the spell to end. When that failed, she wished to be invisible. She stood in front of a revolving fan, pretending that she was inspecting the colour photocopier and still it did not end. It lasted an eternity.

As it subsided, the girl walked at great pace until she came across a bench, for she was in great need of a seat. As she in the shaded area between a bin and a phone box on the A15, she caught her breath whilst hoping she could be saved by Prince Charming. Prince Charming would not mind sticky thighs, she thought. Hopefully not. Prince Charming did not come, this is only Volume I afterall. So the girl attempted to rehydrate.

In the hours and days that followed, the sensation reappeared, frequently, regardless of whether she was in her log cabin, hidden from the kingdom, or not. They occurred in her sleep, when she was sitting, when she was standing, at least ten times a day. There was no rhyme nor reason to their appearance and frequency. It prevented the would be princess from donning a wig.

Her confidence suffered. The girl became concerned about engaging with her public. She smelt like a potion of oranges and onion. An occurrence became an inevitability. She knew they occurred because of one or more of the magic beans, she also knew that she was experiencing something more suites to the evil step mother, but there was nothing to be done, apart from sweat it out. The girl knew she had to wait to receive more magic pills to make them stop. She longed for a return of dryness.

It was still to come. Happily ever after had not come for her. Not yet.

And so, the girl decided to education those of her kingdom, that excessive sweating was not necessarily a result of obesity. It can be menopause. Fake or real. Nobody knew.

The End

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