Lumbago, lumbago, they drink it in Tobago...

Or not, as the case may be.

You know that old saying about trouble coming in threes? Well, if this isn't my third, then I dread to think of what's next. Oh yes, I have lumbago (or sciatica or whatever the hell the diagnosis du jour happens to be) caused by a slipped disc. Actually it's a ruptured or 'herniated' disc, according to NHSDirect. Whoo.

Anyway, the fact remains that I am now stuck at home, unable to walk very far, unable to stand for terribly long and only able to sit for a minute or two at a time. It's a vast improvement on this time last week, when it all started. I never, ever want to experience another Sunday like that, it was terrifying.

The worst of it all was that I thought I'd just strained my back. On the Tuesday I'd been shifting some crates (after our very temporary office move - we moved again the next weekend so didn't bother unpacking) and felt a bit of a twinge. It got worse on Wednesday, so I ended up staying at home Thursday and Friday. I thought it would just go away on its own, y'see, so just dosed myself up with painkillers and heatpads. And until the Sunday, it seemed to be working.

However, one very restless night later, I'm left with crippling pain in the back of my leg, virtually unable to move. The only position that seemed to bring any respite at all was lying face down across my bed. Oh yeah, tres attractive. So, after a hysterical phone call to my aunt, and a panicky phone call to a friend begging for more painkillers, I managed to call out the local emergency doctor. Who was ace. Diagnosed it straight away, gave me a prescription for painkillers and managed to calm me down, which was no mean feat in itself.

Suffice to say that I'm still off work, though thankfully able to at least communicate with the outside world via the gift of broadband (and a very, very long cable). It's uncomfortable to type though, so I'll leave it there for the moment and tell you the saga of my sick note next time.

Housing woe

I think this will probably be the theme of 2007, by the looks of things. Not content with replacing the boiler - which now is a thing of beauty and oh, so quiet - I now have to have a new bathroom ceiling, as mine collapsed two weeks ago.

The feeling of utter dread as I gazed upon the rubble strewn floor is one I simply cannot describe. No words would do it justice.

However, I am proud that I didn't sink into a snotty, crying heap on the floor. I simply informed the neighbours, took some photographs (insurance purposes - though they've been handy for sharing the pain) and then started clearing up.

Our glorious managing agents sent some folks round to have a look-see on the Saturday morning. Whereupon they announced that they would be 'making it safe'. This pretty much meant that they just pulled down some more of the ceiling. Woo. And, indeed, yay. Would have been nice had they put some covering down, but what the hell, I must look like I need practice at cleaning.

And now I don't know what's happening. I need to talk to the people upstairs again (leaking bath caused the problem and is fixed, but temporarily so, as far as I'm aware) because after two weeks of having a gaping hole in the ceiling (and stopping the odd rubble fall with my head) I really, really want it sorting out.

Anyway, photos. Feel free to gasp in horror (Does she really use that shampoo? Blimey!) or shake your head sadly in sympathy. Either's good.

Boo and indeed hiss

New Year, New You? So much for that. I'd settle for heat and hot water right now to be honest.

Oh yes, 2007 is starting off in great form. I got back to London on Thursday afternoon, to be greeted with a non-working boiler. And it's still not working. I'm hoping that the gas engineer blokey will be able to get here this afternoon to fix it, I really am. Otherwise it's Monday morning.

Having said all that, it also looks like I will need a new boiler anyway. The one I have is now 11 years old, and has cost a huge amount of money to fix over the past couple of years. I was quoted a price yesterday - of £2040 - for getting the new boiler, installation and powerflush (for the existing radiator system). Which is a HUGE amount of money. So, as long as it works for the time being, I'll be having a look around to see what else is out there.

Still, glass half full time - at least things can only improve from here. And at least I now have some NICE new neighbours. Let's face it though, I was definitely due that, after the last one!

New Year, New Post...

It's been a couple of months, so I thought it was time to write something. Anything, really. Of course, now I'm sat here I have no idea what I actually feel like writing. Not the best start really, but there you go.

Well, last year was interesting. A year of ups and downs really. And of finding friends in unlikely places. It ended on quite a depressing note for me. Due, in part, to a combination of working too hard and sleeping too little. I really need to sort that out, it's getting a bit much really. Especially when it leaves me so little time to think up things to blog.

Spam - a new twist.

And no, not with lemon.

The exciting story has now finished, to be replaced with this little gem, under the heading of 'woodlot suggestible', from my old mate Rodolfo Thong (shortly to be appearing in an upcoming episode of Kats PI).

The scythe ran into a stone. Till the cows come home. The stronger the breeze the stronger the trees. Up a tree. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Strong as an ox. Rough as a cob. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Sweet as apple pie. Tastes like chicken. We'll hand you out to dry. Sour as a green apple. She's a nut. Till the cows come home. Up one side and down the other. Weed out. There is always next year. A tree does not move unless there is wind. So hungry I could eat a horse.
Wait and see. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Sick as a dog. Timber! Rough as a cob. Raking in the dough. Rough as a cob. Survival of the fittest. Sow much, reap much; sow little, reap little. Some like carrots others like cabbage. That's water under the bridge. The silly season. Wait and see. To gild refined gold, to paint the lily. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.Up one side and down the other. She's a nut. Welcome to my garden. Stop and smell the roses. You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip. She's a mother hen. Thick as a brick. Sour as a green apple. That's a real stem winder. Schools out for summer. Stand your ground. Watered down. A weed is no more than a flower in disguise. Tools of the trade. Wrinkled as a prune.

Nice. I particularly like the bit about sticking it in my pipe and smoking it, though I'm slightly confused as to why anyone would ever want to gild gold. Surely it's gold enough already? But of course, I may just be a hopeless innocent when it comes to these things.

Nice of him to welcome me to his garden though. The sly dog.

Spamarama

The story of bizarrospam continues apace. I'm hoping that at some point all the disparate elements of this magnificent opus merge into one fantastic ending.

The neighbors were regaled with music, but it did not harmonize with theprimitive background.
Desire ate four curlews, and, I enough crab fatto make six civilized men violently ill.
She is wise enough to take charge of the menage when I am reverting to type. When Bones held out his hand it meant only one of two things: food or woman.
Every pig and fowl on the island dashed for the bush! Is my little bird well, or is my little bird ill?
Your big manowar hawk is well,he is not ill.
Desire and I, back in the shadows, snickered sardonically.
Luckily only I among the whites could appreciate the exquisite humor of the neighbors.
In the pools were scores of blue parrot fish.
Now that the Reverend Horatio has gone it wont be wicked, I told her.
Thats the way we are on the outposts of progress.
I have eaten it for so many years that I can assimilate little else. Oh well, the startling occurrence that I intended to narrate will have to wait till tomorrow. Your big manowar hawk is well, he is not ill.
Ah, a coconut contains everything necessary tosupport a man from the cradle to the grave. But there the sharks kept at a healthy distance, asthey generally do when one is in deep water. And the little realist, throwing herself back on the sleeping mat, screamed with laughter. Youll be worshiping in a golden church before ten years are up. Then we left the point to walk along the dry brick-red reef toward the far islet. Who makes the taro grow; I ask you, who makes it grow?
She and her sister Tangi were sitting on the back balcony. But I was tight enough to laugh off his sour looks.
At the last labor pain she, Samson-like, pulled down the two posts and pushed over the third one.
She said later that she had been afraid I would fall over backward like the man inthe comic paper.
Half the deaths are due to it; I have never known of an arrested case.
Only a few of them had been broken by gnawing thighbones and cracking coconut shells. His teeth were a full inch long from gums to tips, yellow-brown, as big as aboars tusk. Then Lingutaimoa knew that Yina had killed her fish. Never had such a spectacle been dreamed of. Down the road of Central Village marched a military band! A finecavalla waited on the table to be fried, but Tangi was still in the arms ofher gift-boy.
Thusmy feet were on either side of the bole while the belt held them firmly against it.
When Bones held out his hand it meant only one of two things: food or woman. I cried, as though I had not asked her to meet me for sheunderstands such whimsies.
You are lovely, Desire, I said; but next Sunday I want you to be Miss Memory. Dont forget to ask them for some banana extract!
It looks like a puffball but is more oily and palpable.

Spam, the saga continues...

I was right. Another exciting episode in my inbox today.

A large tear splashed on the solitaire board, and with the small handkerchief she wiped it off. Upstairs in the drawing-room there was grave silence. Aunt Juley was at once charmed and horrified. It will spoil the carpets, said Aunt Ann, and bark at night; weshall have no peace.
Between his Dundreary whiskers James was telling a story.
The little dog slithered forward, humbly wagging its entire body,just out of reach. It doesnt belong to us, Cook; and your master would never permitit.
I had such a pleasant walk in the Gardens, she said painfully,after church. He would not go home, but walked to the Inn. Well, said Aunt Juley, you do it on your own responsibility,Smither.
Jolyon will give me the money; he will never let you bully me.
Hell send you away with a flea in your ear.
If one cant take care of ones things, one is not fit to have them. No one said thirty; and the picture was knocked down to James,whose mouth had opened slightly.
The dog looked as if it would let her love it, and sensation increased beneath her corsets.
On no account did she mean to be the first to speak; and she said, suddenly: There you sit, Ann!
It doesnt belong to us, Cook; and your master would never permitit. A curtain had been pulled aside; in the lighted window-space stood the figure of a half-dressed man.
Aunt Ann said: Give dear Swithin his chair, Hester; we want your advice, Swithin.
They might talk as they liked: Finding was keeping; and if Timothy didntlike it, he could lump it!
A Hondekoeter; picked it up, a bargain, at Smelters sale.
The traffic was really getting beyond bounds.
The little dog slithered forward, humbly wagging its entire body,just out of reach. Aunt Juley repeated, suddenly: He followed me, Ann.
They only get in the way and spoil your trousers.
Cook spoke:Ive brought it up, miss; its had its dinner, and its beenwashed.
The little dog slithered forward, humbly wagging its entire body,just out of reach.
He got up with a sigh, the scent of nettles, burdock andthe carted hay deep in his nostrils. Better the day, better the deed, muttered Timothy; and Aunt Juley trembled.
He got up with a sigh, the scent of nettles, burdock andthe carted hay deep in his nostrils. Lightning flashed all round, he wanted it to strike. Ive been walking from the Temple; got a touch of liver now.
Im sick of peace, said Aunt Juley, rattling the board. Youought to know that, at your age, Juley; now that were alone, I can talk to you plainly. Five pounds for this genuine work by a master of domestic poultry! His friend answered: You look bobbish enough. The traffic was really getting beyond bounds.
Cook spoke: Ive brought it up, miss; its had its dinner, and its been washed.

My word! Sensations beneath corsets? That Juley's a bit of a one isn't she? As for Swithin, he's not better than he ought to be. I did notice that the little dog seems to be doing a lot of slithering, perhaps they ought to take it to the vet. All this and a master of domestic poultry. Otherwise known as a cock.