Inchock’s 4th Escape from the lockdown – to town! Pictorially presented!

Inchock’s 4th Escape from the lockdown – to town!

This woz rote by Inchy’s alter ego – Hehehe!

The following, pictorials and odes, were created in support of the Depressed Nottinghamian At-Risk High-Rise Flat-Dwelling Prisoners Support Group. Donations gladly accepted.

Having made his escape bid plans again. He clandestinely crept to the lifts, falling over his three-wheeked walker-Guide, waited for the regulation Winwood Heights twenty minutes for a lift, and got down in time to miss the bus.

He waited patiently, for the next bus, but this proved something of a benefit for the old git. Not many folks about, but he still managed to corner one poor chap, and hastened to bore him to death verbally! The man wisely moved away.

And Inchcock, being instantly bored himself now, went into one his Sherlock Holmesian modes. Someone had been blowing their nose in the bus shelter, and stuffing the tissue under the seating?

He caught the bus and got out his crossword puzzles, but the driver, obviously a stock-car racing fan, nearly had Inchy out if his seat a few times en route to Nottingham City centre. Trying to hold onto his three wheeler, took some effort.

The old chap went itn the Pondland shop on Lower Parliament Street, and despite his painful and feet, enjoyed his hobble around the store, coming out with many items he didn’t need or want, Tsk!

He got to the checkout, and got himself in a right pickle and state of embarrassment at the self-serve checkout! The lady monitoring the tills, was greatly unimpressed with his continual dropping of things and farting about trying to retrieve them.

But did not offer to help, although she shared some sneerings, of hate, derision, scornfulness and causticness with him. He came out redfaced and £20 lighter. And took these three shots of the Milton Street junction.

Where he went into the Bargain Shop. A terrible experience! No one talking, empty shelves etc. But, he still spent over £21, mostly on Christmas treats for his family of friend in Woodthorpe Court.

He was struggling now, the three-wheeler trolley-bag full, and three carrier bags hanging on the handles, would make progress awkward for him. At least he remembered to but sone of the dar clothing cleaner. He set off on a limp towards the Slab Square.

On his hobble along Milton Street to Upper Parliament Street, he noticed the Nottionghamian pedestrians crossing the road against the lights again, but this is a usual, regular occurrence. He adjusted thos spectacles.

Which was a mistake, as he turned onto Upper Parliament Street, the old fart of a fool unthinkingly took the spectacles off to clean them.

They got caught in the facemask!

He crossed over the road, and down King Street. Near the bus stops, a chap dressed like the Beatles used to, with plaited hair hanging below his shoulders, stopped him and asked for ‘a couple of quid for a coffee’. As he eyed up the bags!

Inchy just said, ‘No!’ and carried in hobbling down the hill, turning to keep an aye on the youth as he did, to make sure he wasn’t following. Getting to the Slab Square, Inchy gor out his camera for a snapping away session.

He saw the little crowd and paparazzi outside the Council House steps, he went back into Sherlock Holmesian mode, and took a close up[ phot of whoever was on the steps. This person came by. Inchy got a decent shot of his/her head.

Inch repositioned himelf a bit closer, and waited for the right moment to get a view of what was going on. Nice zoomed-in photo for once. Asssumed to be the Sheriffess or Mayoress of Nottingham? Again, not single Policeman in sight today.

The tatterdemalion, dour, malagrugrous, weary, tellurian, dangerous populace of Nottingham, were showing a bit of itnerest, at least. Not many of them had face-masks on, but it isn’t law yet to wear them outsdoors yet, methinks.

The lad poddled his way wit hdifficulty up Queen Street to get to his bus stop, and caught a number 40 back home, to his never-restfull, beloved, always something to worry about, four years being upgraded and not finished yet, Winwood Heights.

He was the only passenger when the bus moved off from the terminus. Pondering on should he get out the crossword or not; one look at the mass of bags on the trolley, and the book being at the bottom, he decided against it!

The first passenger to get on the bus, was Face-Maskless.

The second one, had his mask under his chin.

A lady got on, and she had no mask on!

As the chin-mask wearing man got up tp get off, he gave Inchy a cautionary scowl, that was a bit threatening. As the bus progressed along St Anns Well Road, it passed the Health Centre where Inchy has to go for his bladder-scan.

This is St. Anns Valley Centre, 2 Livingstone Road, Nottingham NG3 3GG.

Events over his last two visits there, do not proffer the least bit of encouragement or confidence in Inchy.

The record, as Inchy explains:

  • February: Went to get the feet done, and they said come back later, we’ll have to lool at your health record.
  • March: They refused to do my feet, cause the Warfarin level was too high..
  • July: They refused to tend to my feet, because I’d just had the stroke.
  • August: Refused again, cause of my having been diagnosed with diabetes.
  • September: The did cut my nails, but said they will not be able to so in future. I have to go private in future.

Poor old sod!

He arrived back at his Woodthorpe Court, along with the mysterious wonders of, the Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Boll-Weevils, Aliens, Gremlins, Karakia-cursing entities, Hallucinations and Kehuas. Materialisations, Poltergeist, Lemures, Wairuas, Manifestations that permeate, pass through the pores and interstices of space, through the time-continuum. Usually, without rupture or displacement within the building. To cause havoc, fear and frustration, as they dislodge time itself, in their aspirations and skulduggery, to complete their given by Satan mission; ‘To annoy and scare the bejesus out of, and the pants off of the old energumenist, Inchcock’.

Thank you.

The tale in bad rhyme, of Inchies Escape from isolation, to Nottingham City Centre!

Monday, 7th September 2020, Inchcock escapes from captivity and cunningly flees his Woodthorpe Court. To investigate the Coronavirus affects in the City Centre, buy stuff he doesn’t need, cripple his poor feet, and a failed search for a chinwag!

Plans were laid,

For his escapade,

The Escape bid was made,

He was feeling fraught and afraid!

Arriving on Upper Parliament Street,

Alighted the bus, hobbles to Poundland,

Already pains from Relux Roger and his feet,

He spent on superfluous stuff, like crabmeat,

Then to the Bargain shop, wishing he could find a seat!

He bought three things, none of them needed,

His enthusiasm for his escape, now, receeded,

Little Inchies fungal lesion bleeding, succeeded,

His finances, he had further bleeded!

He hobbled along Milton Street then,

Down Clumber Street, he was saddened, when,

He saw the closed shop, there were over ten,

Including his camera shop, he nearly cried then!

Sadly, he made his way to the end,

Feeling lonely and down a bit,

What Coronavirus has created, can we mend?

Oh, dear, a penny he needed to spend!

The urge he had to suspend!

To the corner of Long Row, he did wend!

A photo of Pelham Street he did take,

Then one a shot backwards up Clinton he did make,

Long Row, too, where he took some more,

Off towards his bus stop in the Slab Square,

Paramedics, Security Guards, were there,

The people looked so full of despair!

The rain came down, he took shelter from it,

Under the shop eaves, but it didn’t last long,

He took this photo, he quite liked the resulting effect,

His bladder was full, to the bus stop direct!

En route, Slab Square was photographed,

He tripped on the wheeled trolley walker,

He even managed a little laughter,

When he passed wind and hiccoughed! 

He caught the bus back, a painful drive home,

Got off on Chestnut Walk, glad he finished his roam,

Damn it, he’d forgot to get his shaving foam!

He sheltered from the sudden rain,

Under the cover, and gloom was falling again,

He belched, it smelt like aminomethane,

He hobbled toward home; it was a strain!

He got in his flat,

He untangled his hearing aids from his mask,

It was a fiddley, difficult task!

Made himself a meal that,

Was too big, but not too much fat,

He fell asleep, and that was that!

Not a very good ode this time, uncertainty and confusion were visiting me. Sorry.

I thought I’d look back, on my victories

I thought I’d look back, on my victories

Bear with me; these are hard to find…

At birth, I lived through Mother’s fag ash dropping on me,

I had Double-Pneumonia at the age of three,

Sister Jane was almost adopted, to Italy, she did flee,

Brother Pete, escaped, good for him, went in the army,

Mother running away, the police wanted her, you see,

Which left just poor old Dad and me,

Doing the cleaning, shopping, and two paper-rounds, that was Inchy!

I survived being thrown in the Nottingham Canal,

Clinging to a barge rope, without much hope,

I was rescued by Brain, a neighbour, and a real pal,

Hauled out, was taken home, full of hope,

Got a belting off of Dad, and scrubbed with carbolic soap!

GC Young

Jane away in Italy still,

Life was for us both, a bitter pill,

We’d both had our sad times, but still,

I started work, bought a bike that would go uphill!

Duodenal ulcer, Anne Gyna I acquired easily enough,

Got shot at work, and a new heart fitted,

Fron flat to flat, I flitted,

Got made redundant, Cancer zapped, not fritted,

Job searching failed, hopes, attritted,

My desires, faith, and plans buffetted!

GC stick

Then along came Peripheral Neuropathy ailment,

 Jane, back from Australia, accompanied me,

To and from the hospital, she was heaven sent!

Then the stroke, I was a broken bloke,

Months in care, after the stroke,

Slowly, recovery began to cloak,

Bits of the old Inchcock, showed, bespoke,

And I knew something more would wroke!

Then the diabetes was found,

And things got worserer, all around,

When Saccades-Sandra, was also found!

But, my hopes and aspirations remain,

Although I am no longer sane,

I’m ready for the challenges again…

I just wish there was a little less pain!

I fang you!

 

I’m Determined to destroy Depression!

I’m Determined to destroy Depression!

2Tue08a

I decided, in a dream, I had yesternight,
Depression, I’ll resist, beat and outfight,
I must be strong, determined, not contrite,
I’ll be honest with myself, not like a Blairite,
My approach, will-power, must be definite!
I’ll have courage, like a brave medieval Knight,
And continue to show my vigour and fight,
Although my confidence may be finite,
This misery, I will surely try to expedite,
I must give this depression, no respite,
Ridding myself of this soul-destroying plight,
Who knows if I can, I just possibly might?
Then hopefully, I’ll get some sleep tonight,
And for supper, I can have some toasted Marmite!

Created during an aberrant spell of semi-confidence.

No Brexiteers were harmed during the production of this waffle!

Coronavirus Calypso

A spur of the moment, impulse, load of drivel, created, as Inchcock woke up. He asked me to pass on his apologies, as he was temporarily in Defcon 2 mode, mentally.

5Fri007c

Remember These? Of course, the hoarders will!

Coronavirus Calypso

Going into self-isolation,
As is most of the nation,
To get the toilet rolls in?
The chances? None to thin,
Coronavirus, payment for our sin?

Tellurians, you must not bump into,
Tatterdemalion or the well-to-do,
Urges to touch, you must subdue,
Cut your hair in a basin cut hair-do,
Having sex is still under review!
But pigeons can still bill and coo?

No food in the shops,
Bread, milk, you might find a few,
You’ll have to fight and argue,
Battle with the determined queue,
Then blood and insults will spew,
The language was very blue!

You might try home delivery for food,
To sustain you and your brood,
If you do try home delivery food!
To the delivery man, do not be rude,

Self-isolation; is wrong, some folk argue,
But I’ll not be involved over this, thank-you,
HMG responses seem so impromptu,
Certainly going to cost us revenue,

Self-isolation, so many folk rue,
A bit of good news is overdue,
Confusion over what we must do,
We mustn’t shake hands too!
Is mankind’s end really in view?

Stuck at home, what do we do?
Clean shelves and dust that statue,
Pen some extra veins to your tattoo,
No food in, so no chocolate to chew,
Can’t get out to buy, so no making stew,
Your plans and orientation, gone askew!

Sit, read a book, perhaps of Fu Manchu,
Back of the fridge, mouldy Danish blue?
You’re starving now, crumbs for tea, that’ll do!
Dig around the sofa, for crisp-crumbs residue!
The nurse’s visit cancelled too,
Mind froze, stagnated, what will ensue?

Where is the spirit of World War Two?
Is it the end, will you ever again hear a cuckoo?
Is it to be, that you’ll not see another cup of tea?
Farewell, to your beloved tasty Glengettie brew?
Your mind gets depressed, whatever can you do?
Finally, you get a plan made and worked through!

Escape! Find food, and hopefully, a toilet roll too!
Your plan to go shopping, sanctioned by the Tenant’s escape crew,
How to get out though, whatever can you do?
They don you with a wig, to hide your bald head from view,
You know you may not return, but offer your neighbours, a thank-you,
Creep out, staying in the shadows, your walking stick oiled too,
Arrive at the store, but what a sight greets you…

Header7

But it’s the future, your deja vu, hitherto!

Empty shelves, fighting, greed, at Sainsbury’s too!
Little fresh food, no toilet rolls, not even a tissue!
This is now a serious issue,
You give an Achoo – but ominously, nobody blesses you!

WDP 003a

Published in Support of the Outer Peruvian Pregnant Kangaroo Appreciation Society

A Little Chunter from Inchcock. In bad, nae, terrible rhyme!

1Mon05.jpg

A Little Chunter from Inchcock

In bad, nae, terrible rhyme!

It’s the day of the criminal, there is no more law,

Empathy, understanding have become just folklore,

I don’t see Police officers in Nottingham, anymore,

 Pavement Cyclists, beggars and shoplifters galore,

Street sleepers, who survive with skills of a detrivore,

Druggies, alcoholics, muggers, both old and mature,

While families dine, smoke cigars and drink their liquor,

All the time, making the poor, feel even sicker!

Disabled with Fit for Work Assessments, have to fight and bicker,

A blind chap got told he can work on a cherry-picker!

Jobseekers told to do psychometric tests, Glory Be!

But if you’re lucky, you’ll live to retire just like me,

But it isn’t what you thought, no rest and freedom, see,

Heart attack, Duodenal Ulcer, and I live on the twelfth-floor,

Peripheral Neuralgia, then a stroke and Arthritis, core!

What next I thought, and the lock broke on the door,

It was mended within three weeks, no need to be sore,

My hot water system went down, so I called help once more,

After nine days of being lied to, ‘We are coming today for sure,

Staying in and awake eight-until-ten, no chance of a bedsore!

But they mended it! It leaked, my clothes wet, the water did pour!

I slipped on the liquid, ending up injured on the floor,

Luckily, the stroke nurse called, so help came to the fore,

Depression and self-hating I began to explore,

I complained at the lack of help, this just caused a furore!

Now the haemorrhoids have returned, bloody and sore!

 

I fank You!

Inchcockski Today – Sat 3 August 2019: A communicationless day, ending badly. Humph! TTFNski.

2019 Aug 03

2019 Aug 03

Saturday 3rd August 2019

Scots Gaelic: Disathairne 3 Lùnastal 2019

23:30hrs; I woke in need of a wee-wee. The general performance in getting out of the £300, c1968, mind-blowingly crude beige-coloured, rickety recliner, was more comfortable than it has been for months. The ailments must have still been asleep! Haha! So good and pain-free was I, that I didn’t use the stick to get to the grey plastic wee-wee bucket at all!

WD 0.0.150 However, unfortunately, the passing was of the UWBUS (Ultra-Weak-But-Uncontrollable-Sprinkly) version. I think I prefer the power-blast type, at least I know when things are finished. Hence, the first job was to clean and sanitise the bucket and me and change my PP’s. (Disesteem-Mode-Engaged!)

It felt very nippy this morning. The new unwanted kitchen windows were steamed up inside and moist on the outside? I put the dressing gown on.

I moved the hanging handwashing to the stand-up airer.

WD 0.0.150 Then the need for another wee-wee arrived. Aha, I was cunning. I decided to use the sit-upon Throne this time. But things were not the same as the last wee-wee. (I should be so lucky!) This was an ELPSOA (Extra-Long-Powerful-Spraying-Out-Allover) wee-wee. The blast-back soaked things that should not have been soaked! I had to clean up the floor, cabinets, sink and myself! Such was the force of the spraying! How things can change like this, is beyond my understanding? Bending down did me no good, and started Anne Gyna off. Galumph! But, it did make me aware that the stomach had bloated a lot overnight, and had gained a few extra marks. There appear to be some new spots taking hold as well. At the bottom of the heart op scars. It could have been how I was laying in the gungy rusty-recliner, perhaps?

1Mon02

5Sat01I retrieved the hemadynamometer from the medical drawer and failed three times to get the machine to operate. Got it to go on the fourth attempt, though, and with fair results again too. Sia 142, Dia 72, Pulse 86.

However, the body temperature was still very low, I thought, at 34°c. I must mention this on Monday when I go to the surgery for the annual CHD test, the extra CBC and the Lipid assessment test. A Shame that Lipid can’t be quoted in an acronym form, I could have made a hat-trick there! Hahaha! 

That got me thinking, where the term hat-trick came from. So I looked it up on Google: The term originated in cricket during 1879, where it refers to three wickets taken by a bowler in three consecutive balls, traditionally rewarded with the presentation of a hat. No charge for this information! Financial Donations gladly accepted, though. Hehehe!

I made a start on the updating of the Friday post. It was a long slog, with the finger ends playing up and not recording anything they touched to the brain! Then…

Vir s 0.0.150

IMG_1212WD 0.0.150 Making progress decelerated even more! The damned operation of updating and getting it posted off to WordPress, took me over five hours! It was daylight by the time I’d completed it! Misty in the distance mind.

Liberty-Global Virgin Media Internet then decided it would start to die occasionally on me! Progress fluctuated between a dead stop, and frustratingly sluggish! Ah, it’s weekend again! See how clever I was to spot that? Sad really!

I tried doing a defrag on Norton, they now call it a clean-up apparently. It performed this in about three seconds? Then I tried uploading another photo on WordPress. But no luck, it wouldn’t/didn’t have it. Oh, Globstagglefunk!

WD 0.0.150 I looked up how to do a defrag. Chose all three drive options, including the massive old external Passport drive I use, and it started defragging. The first two drives took all of three seconds to do. The Passport cleaning was about ten minutes. As I recall from years ago, the defragging took ages and yonks?

I tried uploading the photo again. It took it but struggled, and it cost about five minutes to go on.

Hello, the Porcelain Throne beckons. Back in a bit…

WD 0.0.150 Well, that was different, in the extreme! The first shock that tool some comprehending was the lack of pain. Then the softness. Then the flow stopping with what was obviously a lot more to come yet? I expect to be trotting back to the Throne again soon.

WD 0.0.150 Washing my hands after the evacuation of sorts, and the right arm had a mini-session of directing an orchestra! It was over within 30 seconds and back to normal as it can be. But I still had to dry the floor and my torso and legs of the splashed water from the sink. Ah, well!

I was doing alright, really. With the computer, Virgin Media Internet, no one to socialise with, the leg and arm playing up, and the Throne changes; I feel I’m doing satisfactorily in the megrims and endogenous depression departments. I hope the computer problems don’t get too much and beyond me, that would do me no good!

 I was doing well with the aberrancies, instabilities, Whoopsiedangleplops, annoyances and vagaries of the day, I thought.

WD 0.0.150 Then, out of the blue, came an alarming weariness and a general, but definite disequilibriumness. A vertiginousness, a wooziness, that took over the body and mind. I don’t mind telling you, it shook me up, coming on so suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye.

6Sat02aI sat still in the chair for ten minutes to recover, but this didn’t work. I assumed lack of food for so long might be part of the cause, and got the fodder cooked prepared and served up. (Bulimia?)

I made the easiest to cook meal that I could. The vegetarian chilli, and heated the last sourdough bread. Another worrying factor to consider, was, is my abstemiousness for food on the wane?

Half-way through the nosh, I had to go to the Porcelain Throne. A failure, though, all wind. Washed and returned to the meal, the, oh, so too big a bowl of, of Soulful pulled jackfruit, smokey BBQ chilli with beans. ‘A scrumptious chunky chilli with chipotle and pumpkin seeds’ – with the black bean sauce and orange tomatoes that I had added to it. Could this be comfort eating?

I finished the, to me, delectable, delicious, dinner. After I’d washed the pots and took the evening medications, I still felt unsteady, weak, and so tired now.

WD 0.0.150 But sleep refused to come. My mind, sort of went into a lull, pause, or respite mode. I put on the TV, but didn’t even watch it properly, it was just company of sorts, while the mind stewed in turmoil, and the stomach stung, and Anne Gyna stabbed away at me.

6Sat03aI gave up on sleeping. I’ve no idea why, but I got up and went to the balcony, and took a shot of the evening sky through the windows.

The odd tap-tapping noise started again. It might have been pipework perhaps?

Off I trudged to the Porcelain Throne once more. Aha! Movement. Sloppy and messy, a little bleeding, and not a lot of evacuated material this time.

A good wash then did the teggies, and back to the second-hand, £300, c1968, horrendous beige-coloured, tatty, rickety recliner, determined to get some sleep.

Huh! I lay there for over an hour or so before the blessed kip arrived. But during this time, the tummy and Anne Gyna both calmed down.

Zzzz!