Marmite

As a youngster, I never did drugs. Or cigarettes. Maybe the occasional vodka and lime. I now think I missed out. Coming round in a hospital recovery room (I was cared for by a combination of NHS and private – highly recommended) pain-free despite being pricked, gassed, punctured, bored, blown, syphoned, sliced and sewn, I appreciated the positives of downers and uppers, opiates and OMGs and, last but not least, PFAS – also known as ‘forever chemicals’. May they last forever.

Don’t ya think the title of this blog is redolent of a post-apocalyptic horror film? Personally, I think an alien bursting from my tummy might have been less gruesome than what actually transpired.

Some time ago, I was diagnosed with a liver cyst  while being investigated for something else. No, not offensive Tweets but, given that Allison Pearson is a blonde, Lucy Connolly a brunette, and I (as of Friday) am a redhead, it’s plausible that someone will eventually try and present Two Tier Keir with my head (and hair) on a platter during one of his perverted fascist rituals. TTK, you see, has a fetish for threesomes. Indeed, TTK could easily stand for Three Times Kinky. His threesomes include: persecuted right-wing ladies, lost mayoral elections, U-turns, sovereignty sell-outs, and young Romanian males.

Apt title – a story by a woman about women for women chosen as the title of a blog by a woman about women (born as, that is; no other kind exists).  I’ve been pretty brutal in previous blogs about some of my fellow women: a venerable rouge’s gallery of wannabees, neverbees, shouldnabees and wokerbees. Think (because they tend not to) Vennels, Markle, Rayner, Abbott, Rose, Maitlis, Van der Liar, Ardern, Dick, Sturgeon, Hale, Miller, May, Gay, plus one or two you’ve never heard of, and I wish I hadn’t either.

No prizes for guessing what this refers to. No, not the BBC; that’s just a cow. I’m talking about the NHS. If it’s not the elderly being discharged prematurely from hospital, it’s bereaved parents being lied to, sepsis sufferers being told to take paracetamol, paperwork filed incorrectly leading to precipitous prognoses, or the vulnerable being butchered on the perverted altar of transgenderism. Whatever happened to First, Do No Harm? The NHS mantra is now: First, Cover Our Arse; or even First, Woke Our Outcomes.

C is for Covid, of Course. There’s also a C in the ongoing Public InCwirey. There are two C’s in Cowardly Cain and another in Mithering MaCnamara, the two uncivil servants who are blaming poor planning for and handling of the pandemic on something called macho-culture, diversity boxes not being ticked, BoJo being hospitalised and, yes folks you read it here first, BoJo Cracking jokes. They’re wailing that BoJo was too jovial. Ahem – some people rely on humour as a Coping strategy when the going gets tough. I should know because I do the same … why Cry when you can laugh?

This week, I saved the NHS a few quid, freed up several appointments for those in greater need, and emitted less carbon than I might have done. According to some, that was terribly wrong of me.  Say what? My crime was to go private, to eschew the money-blackhole behemoth that is the NHS, to jump the queue, to seek advantage over others because there was room on Hubby’s credit card. Needless to say, I don’t see it like that. For me, I was exercising my freedom of choice, and supporting wider society by tangibly helping the NHS and its patients. Polish my halo.

After Mum passed away last May, I found myself not having to drive to hospitals, GPs, sundry health clinics and out of-hours’ chemists. For therapy (mine), I once blogged about a particularly frantic weekend (always a weekend), mentioning that a chemist was ‘foreign’ and I couldn’t understand her accent; we were talking about Mum’s meds so it was crucially relevant to the situation. For that I was called 'offensive'. What? How? Why? Christ knows. Actually, He probably doesn’t, poor chap. He'll be slumped on a cloud with His head in His hands, wondering when ‘Thou Shalt Not Call A Shovel A Shovel’ became the eleventh Commandment. Yup. Jesus was a Northerner.

I suppose I should have been more compassionate. Hubby and I were having lunch one recent afternoon and his mobile rang. He was expecting a call, having been at the opticians about an hour ago to have his eye checked out that “wasn’t quite right.” (He’s not a wordsmith). “Today at 5pm? Yes that’s fine. Thank you.” Gosh that was quick! A same-day appointment with the NHS after a same-day referral. Respect!

That’s me. Literally as well as figuratively. I have Covid. And I feel sorry for myself. I fell ill while on holiday. I probably picked up the virus at Heathrow or on the plane. Filthy places. After a couple of days yomping in the Alps, I took the train to Munich to visit my Best Female Friend, who's British but lives in Germany and is still as mad as hell at me for voting Brexit. Hubby stayed in the resort, partly because he wanted to carry on langlaufing, and partly because he was still as mad as hell at me for creating a scene going through security at Heathrow ( see previous blog here ).

A number of posts from complete strangers about their or others’ mental health keep popping into my LinkedIn feed prompted, partly I should guess, by that advert for failed therapy, Harry Wales. (I’ve decided to ditch the ‘Prince’ title. He’s lucky I’m not replacing it with P---ck. Yet.) There are so many of these posts, that the ones that deserve genuine concern are drowned out by the ones that don’t do the authors any favours. Sorry, My Darlings, but if you feel the need to share such stuff with your potential employees, employers, clients and contractors, then those ‘potentials’ are going to evaporate faster than you can complain about Freddie Starr eating your hamster.