Grasping The Essentials…

Tips & Advice for Whippersnappers

Waking Actions Advice

In the morning, confusing thought storms swirl about…
Ignore them, cause you’ll never understand, no doubt,
They should stop by evening when you are well tired out…
Working out what day it is, who you are, what life’s about…
Is a waste of time nowadays; you’ll only freak out!

Mental Status

The brain will often go off of its own accord, for self-rumination,
Planning on how to save the corruption of this Nation,
You’ll ignore this, mainly cause you’ve already got depression.
Your ailments hassle you, with many a repercussion,
You might like to arrange a funeral gumphion?

Memory Analysis

You’ll be pleased you can remember when a film was premiered,
But it’ll be one of Will Hays, and that gets you flustered!
But you think all of his films were absolute mustard!
Sometimes you think your memory is alright, to be trusted…
In reality, at best, it’ll be patchy, fractured, and fragmented,
All a part of losing one’s sanity and getting demented!

Doctors Dentist Opticians

You will find yourself wanting the Doctor consulted…
But you won’t get through on the phone, that is accepted,
Coronavirus and that, appointment-making becomes protracted,
Try emailing by all means; indeed, with this, I experimented…
Gmail bounced back the Email, now I’m wherrited!

The Dentist

Appointment coming, I get Emails to be prompted,
Threats of what I’ll be charged if I miss it or if delayed…
Nearly £200 minimum, Gawd, I am amazed!
In their chair, I’d ha dome painful days!
They are not even good dentists… I’m schnockered!

The opticians…

I genuinely fear, attending again,
The lady last time, I warned of my shakes…
Then shook and knocked over all of the lens templates!
She threw me a stare of utter disdain!
Now she thinks I shouldn’t be in the food chain!
I genuinely fear attending again!

Life

Although I may sound depressed and mean-spirited,
In actual fact, I do not feel the slightest bit morbid…
Despite the brain and memory have mutineered…
It’s not as bad as I initially feared…
Cause everything else in life has gone crazy and weird!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Inchcock’s Tips & Advice for Whippersnappers Series

Alto-Ego Inchie Comment:

Any causes for concern about Inchcock’s state of mind and bodily condition need not be mentioned. The dumbo is aware; he’s just incapable of doing owt about it!

Inchcock’s Sad Ode to his Youth

Derwent Street on the right. The railway line going behind the houses, was where I existed as an ankle-snapper

This Ode was written, in memory of the bad times. The start of my life-long Whoopsiedangleplops, Accifauxpas and Failures. Also, the two good things that happened while living here; but, they were my last two good things, and I can’t remember them clearly.

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Inchcock’s Sad Ode to his Youth

In Inchies youth, some kids could be vandalistic,
Most were foul-mouthed verbalistic…
With tempers, through ignorance, volcanic!
Nobody learnt how to use a chopstick,
Most uneducated, we had rickets and hair-nits,
Food options and choices were limited; we couldn’t cherrypick,
No vacuums, all had a dustpan and broomstick!

The teachers didn’t care; they were unspecific…
Volatile youths, spitting, swearing and unhygienic,
Educating in our school? Best learn survival… so tragic!
There always seemed to be some sort of epidemic…
Most whippersnappers got measles, worms or were tularaemic,
School life was about surviving bullies, all unsymmetric!

Threats were rife; each street had a gang, all misanthropic!
Most homes were two-up-two down, bare and mephitic,
But believe me, I’m not intending to be a critic…
Life was what we were born into, not to us, pyrrhic…
We made the best of what we didn’t have. Life was quixotic,
Poverty drove some of us to do things mildly despotic!

To survive each day, we had to be chameleonic…
Keep alert for gangs, any contact, you must be phlegmatic…
You’d still stand a chance of this proving pyrrhic …
You’d still get name called, and a wallop, many a skrik,
Fear turned many of us into being schizophrenic!

Inchcocks Memories

Ode: Inchcock’s First Dance Hall Visit

After trying out ballroom dancing at the Youth Social Centre and being told by one well built, highly desirable busty young lady: “Your dancing reminded me of a pregnant rhinoceros that, with three legs, suffered from an overindulgence of alcohol!” I stopped.

Then, off to the Youth Club, and tried my hand at Jiving. When! More my style, although I was a total failure and spent far too much time picking myself up from the floor and getting an elbow or fist in the face, I also had to give that up. After I was banned from the Youth Club for accidentally putting Sandra’s shoulder out.

Then, it arrived – The Twist!

The current girlfriend was not a fan of the twist at all. And became an un-girlfriend. Sob! But being a romantic, look-at-me-go type of young lad, I’d already had my eye on Margaret, a locally-bred gal, and love of the twist brought us together. She was a couple of years older than I, and the Locarno Dance Hall was the first to be holding a dedicated Twist only night. So we arranged to visit.

Expensive mind you; 2/6d (12½d) to get in. But, I was determined to show off my ‘Twisting skills’, So enthusiastically practised and honed, to what I thought was perfection, in my bedroom for many an hour into the night. This was my chance to impress!

Queuing Up To Get In

We whippersnappers queued early on in the night,
The mood was good; nobody wanted to fight,
No talking back then, of gigabyte, megabyte, or terabyte,
No mobile phones or headphones were in sight…
Time for the doors to be opened, I was uptight;
Margaret hadn’t turned up… still, my chance for the limelight?

Searching Out A Partner!

I got in, and was cool, as they played ‘Twist and Shout’,
Time to have a decker around and pick a girl out…
I found one; she was over six feet and rather stout…
But I went over to try my best lines out…
Her breath smelt of Vodka and brussels sprout,
But her bosom swelled as I got my wallet out…
We were soon on the dancefloor for a workout!

I was enjoying that…

The gal and I did jive, had a jolly good shakeout,
The bouncer came over, and said ‘It’s Twist night!’
I said, well, it doesn’t matter nowt!
He hit me and threw me out!

I was a bit disappointed…

I felt a proper fool; the gal stayed behind, sacre bleu!
I legged it home miserable and made a brew…
Had some leftover rabbit stew…
Two bottles of Guinness too…
Then I had to spew…
That was the end of Twisting debut…

Part of the Inchcock Memories in Ode Series

Inchcock: Out to feed the ducks

A few years ago, before the onset of the awful Coronavirus onslaught and his latest disabilities, Inchcock used to get out and about. To feed his beloved Mallard Ducks at Arno Hill Park Lake. Taking the safe to feed them pellets and seeds, the old fart was in his element. He was even attempting to learn the quacking language from the Mallards! It gave him someone to talk to, not any humans, naturally.

So looking forward to his day out, he rose early to ensure everything was done and readied on time for him to catch the bus. Took a while to find his keys and bus pass. It did not go well…

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05:00hrs: He woke and was soon up and getting on, carefully carrying out his essential ablutionalisationings. Really, he should have got the message and not bothered to go out today. Things did not go too well!

One of his top front teeth cracked, cleaning them. The traditional cut shaving, well, three actually. Nasal cleaner bottle dropped and broken. Banged his head on the sink when he dropped a razor as he bent to pick it up.  Little Inchies fungal lesion started bleeding in the shower.

A late dizzy spell, and he cracked his shoulder on the shower-power box. Things were not going well!

Medicationalisationing the fungal lesion on Little Inchie was particularly painful and brought a few naughty words from the old chap. When after thinking he’s won, the bleeding started again, he cursed with an unexpected venom! He forgot to turn of the heater in the wet room. Going back in to use the Porcelain Throne later, he realised when thereat hit him as he entered the room – stubbing his toe against the creases, feared sock-Glide-Glenda. Things were not going very well!.

However, being used to these many Whoopsiedangleplops and the more frequent  Accifauxpas, he soon felt his old chirpy self again after stopping the bleeding and taking his medications. Then he hoovered the mess up. Not looking very good for today?

He put the computer on to check the times of the buses. But Virgin Media and Liberty-Global top dog Mike Fries had failed yet again.

As Inchcock got everything he hoped together and was moving into the hallway on his way to the door… the wheel fell off of his Walker-guide trolley!

Unfazed, Inchcock retrieved the fallen wheel, and as he picked it up, it somehow morphed into about ten or twelve pieces, then fell on the newly hoovered carpet! Now he was fazed!

He’d missed the bus, of course. Spent the hour swearing, cursing and picking up the bits from the wheel. But it takes a lot to completely destroy Inchcocks spirit. He decided to walk without the guide (having no choice if he was to visit and gossip with his mallards). He set off, full of renewed anticipation for an enjoyable trip on the L9 bus and getting some pleasure from mother nature and the mallard ducks.

A note on the bus stop pole pointed out that service will not be operating today due to roadworks. Back to normal tomorrow. Not a good start this!

Inchie dropped back down into a sort of semi-moroseness, tinged with a high degree of pissed-offeredness! The clot thought perhaps he could go to the Nottingham canal to feed the birds, like the previous week? Then it clicked in; the fool would still not have a bus to use to get there either! What an absolute moron! Things were getting to him, now – Not good!

A Dizzy Dennis visited while he was pondering what to do – followed by a worryingly strong ‘Mind-Fog’, and he sat down on the bus shelter and went into a few minutes of daydreaming mode.

Finally, making up his mind. He’ll climb up the steep gravel footpath into the Woodthorpe Grange Park and have a search to see if he can see any of the wild ducks and hens that frequent it. Mayhaps he thought, I can visit the garden centre as well. Cheered a smidge now, he set off up the hill and began to peruse the woods and paths. But no signs of any wold life, the wasn’t many humans either, but that didn’t bother him.

He legged it down the avenue to the Garden Centre and Tropical Plant House. It was closed! This was not a good day for the old codger, and an iota of self-pity was brewing!

He hobbled around painfully as Arthur Itis kicked off in both knees. Resolutely searching for the wildlife birds. Of course, he had no luck, well, no good luck! Now lousy luck… that was in good supply, and about to get crueller, too!

His Nokia 100 virtually antique mobile phone burst into life, and he dropped it as he fumbled to get at it before it stopped ringing. He didn’t! He fell as he bent to pick it up, fortunately landing in some unstinging nettle bushes, which also cushioned the belly flop fall, right on the epigastrium coeliac plexus (I looked that up to sound clever, Hehe!) which started off Reflux Roger along with Arthur Itis. He had to crawl on all-fours to get to a tree stump, to haul his overweight, blubbery, lardaceous, wobbly-bellied body, back up onto its feet. Cutting his shins as he progressed. It was now a worserer day than ever for the pitiful old goat!

Now, almost a physical and mental wreck, he decided to make for home. Thinking he’d take a shortcut via Winchester Street, as all the aged-whimp wanted, was to get back to the flat, take some painkillers, use the Porcelain Throne, clean up his injuries, and make a good strong brew of Glengettie tea, with dunked shortcake biscuits!

Hahaha! Of course, his plans were stymied; they always are!

The road was blocked off – he might have worked it out earlier when he read the cancelled bus notice, but there you are. To make things worse, it started to rain, and his brolly was still in his broken-wheeled walker-guide trolley back in the flat! Thick as a plank, Inchie!

He did resist crying, but only just. After taking a marathon walk around the park again, he arrived at the lobby doors, wet, in pain, miserable, bloodied, and totally discouraged with life! He’d fought his way through the woods, bushes, rain, the end car park and back to the flats. Showing worrying signs of losing it… Jabbering on to himself and having a distinct twitch in his right eye now… not to mention his trousers being so wet and heavy, his braces were not holding them up far enough.

Once Inchie got inside the dry and warm lobby, the lad immediately began to cheer up a little! History should have told him not to bother!

Residents had gathered in the lift lobby – in vain hopes of one of them working. This just shows not only the stupidity but the banality and hopelessness of Inchcock’s everyday existence! Of course, with the day has been going so wrong, he should have known better than to allow thoughts of semi-contentment and hopes to rise.

Yet astoundingly, the dripping wet, frustrated, injured Inchie wasted no time in legging it limpingly, painfully slowly, up the 24 flights of concert stairs, towards his flat. (Desperate measures call for desperate actions!) He was urgently in need of the Porcelain Throne!

At the flat door, he fumbled about, still dripping wet; he gained access and almost bounced off of the walls in his rush to the Porcelain Throne. Whipped off his wet trousers and protection pants and plonked himself down on the pan… the evacuation began immediately, and it was all over within about a minute. Inchy just sat there, breathing a sigh of relief. Which was tempered by the cleaning up and medicating that needed doing next.

The wet (possibly 85% rainwater – 14% wee-wee, and 1% blood?) PP’s first, they had to be rung out, packed up in plastic bags to later go to the waste chute.

Unbeknownst to Inchcock, Little Inchies fungal lesion had burst open in the tumble he presumes. So that was medicated straight away. The neighbours always know when the Betamethasone cream is applied to the fungal lesion, the loud Argh, and Bloody hells give it away. Inchies day is just not getting any better, is it?

New PPs on,  Piles of clothes into the laundry box. Rubbish bags were taken away.

He found a letter that had been delivered when he returned from taking the waste bags to the chute. It was confirmation from the Council that I am not going to get any attendance allowance. This really rubbed it in for Inchie – Hence his day continued in its ‘Let’s Annoy Inchcock Mode!

Too weary for making and eating any food, Inchie got down in his £300, second-hand, c1968, cringingly-beige-coloured, not-working, rickety, incommodious, grotty recliner, in search of Sweet Morpheus.

He was still waiting for sleep or at least rest of some sort, about two hours later.

Some thunderclap music from the yobboes on Woodthorpe Park having a party started up. Heavy Metal brand, Inchie thinks.

So he got up and went on the computer to start tomorrows blog off…

And…

Not one of his betterer days!

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Part of the Nottingham Lads True Tales of Woe

Tips & Advice – Part 5¾ – In Bad Ode

Related In Chronically Bad Ode

Today’s Tips & Advice topics for Whippersnappers are drawn from the long list of Whoopsiedangleplops and Accifauxpas suffered by Inchcock over the many depressing, failed years. In the hopes that the Whippersnappers will be better prepared for the coming of old age, senility, loneliness and thus: Thus at least giving them a chance to get things right. They can welcome death when it arrives and will make their passing a sweeter thing, as they gladly escape the moralless, debauched, cruel world. My pleasure!

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When I learned what Mother said when I was born,
To the midwife, was ‘I don’t want it, throw it in the Trent’!
I showed no bitterness, no scorn…
Although it was a bit of a rent…
I just carried on, not forlorn?
Although young, you must try to find out what she meant!

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The Mysterious Auntie Kerry

When a previously unheard off Auntie Kerry,
She was attentive, a massager and maternalistic,
Came to bath me, she smelt of sherry,
She spoke proper English, seemed aristocratic,
She was gentle with me, bar the occasional battery…
Bath time with her was a pleasure, never dramatic,
But this always left me contented and merry…
I think when she’d leave, I’d turned lovesick?
Aunt Kelly was touchy-touchy and charismatic,
I was heartbroken when she stopped coming, oh, very!

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Never approach a horse from behind,
When it’s wearing blinkers…
Cause you may well find…
You could get a kick in the knackers!

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Please wear a face mask still,
When out and about in buses and shops,
Help stop others from getting ill,
It would be appreciated if you will!

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Or not?

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

For the sake of clarity, rhyming will be suspended for this, most important of Advice & Tips, on the aged and disabled old codgers dangers and problems with the Porcelain Throne activities; That the Whippersnappers may not yet be aware of, that are on their way.

Getting To The Throne On Time:

Important: Any early warning signs of evacuations being needed mustn’t be ignored. Never, and I mean Never, delay your journey to the toilet!
Fair enough, I do seem to get wildly varying modes of evacuations – rock-solid half-hour minimum ones and squirty, almost liquid efforts. Be prepared for either!
The days of “I’ll just finish this then get off to the bog” will end on your first Accifauxpas en route! Believe me, this will come!

Consistently distribute your walking sticks – I have one in the hallway near the flat door, the kitchen, front room, and main room. This will be priceless when needed – and they will be! I also have picker-uppers in the kitchen, main room and wet room.

Also, the availability of disinfectants is advised; I have Dettol and Zoflora Lemon in all three rooms, along with fresh air spray. Because you will never know when an escapage of blood, poo-poo or urine will occur. These events will cause self-embarrassment, frustration and cost you so much pain and time to clean up and medicate; each time, you will get little else done that day! So, another essentiality is a good supply of protection pants at all times.

Below is my current stock of PPs in the wet room. The Tena ones are a little bulky and are bound to show through the trousers when I go out without a long jumper on. Embarrassment Scale ‘A’.

However, I have found some PPs named Depend, bought them from Amazon. They are a lot cheaper than the Tena. At first, I was not impressed; they are less bulky, thinner than the expensive ones. I believed that they would not cope with a decent leakage. I thought that Blood from Little Inchies fungal lesion, a urine blast, or heaven forbid, a solid evacuation from the rear, would not be containable. Good news. Well, not that I had the urine and bleeding leak from Little Inchie in itself, but how well the Dependable pants coped with it all. I was well-pleased with ’em!

Just another warning about crap products in the Protection Pants department; Avoid Morrisons Comfort Pants at all costs! Firstly they are not comfortable in the slightest! And are not fit for purpose. I had a minor leakage of blood from the fungal lesion a month ago, when I was wearing a pair of these pants, ended up with blood on my legs and knees, and had to scrap the trousers!

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A Final Tip!

When in hospital after having a stroke (which the NHS assures us will happen to 3.3 out of every 5 people in the UK), and you get a leg ulcer to come up on your ankle – don’t fret!

Mine is already beginning to ease and after only three years.

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Part of the Inchcock Make ‘Em Laugh, – In Ode Series

Ode: Life used to be…

Warning: Bubonic plague may seem like a part of the past, but it still exists today in the world and in rural areas of the U.S. and in Asia. The best way to prevent getting plague is to avoid fleas on rodents such as rats, mice, and squirrels.

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ODE: Life used to be…

Full of the dying from the Black Death, Bubonic!
Cause in those days people were thick but stoic,
This Ode will not be in sequence, or chronologic,
Cause I’ve got arithmophobia, to me, they’re acrostic,
I imagine in times prehistoric,
Cave dwellers were less prone to be phobic?

The caveman club was used automatic,
To fight with others, they say… and things domestic…


When a bloke wanted him and her to get at it?
Nowadays, it’s a counsellor? It’s not so dramatic!

In my young days, romance for me was minimalistic,
As were and still are, my tools used only periodic,
I think this Ode is getting confused, semantic?
Cause I think I’m becoming a smidgen autistic?

You know, I used to be somewhat nomadic,
Walking, then on my bike, a Raleigh classic,
Then the motorbikes, I was very enthusiastic,
Bought a three-wheeler – a Robin made of plastic!
Several four-wheelers, then a 4×4, fantastic!
Now no more, I’ve moved on up to a walkingstick,
Heart replacement, Cancers, Stroke, I’ve been sick!

A new walker guide, I’ve named it Dominic!
Deaf-as-a-post, I can’t hear it, the traffic!

Nowadays, so many folk Islamophobic some Israelophilic,
A reading of 168 this morning for the systolic,
A low reading of 54 for the diastolic?
No longer fit enough to be peripatetic,
In fact, life can at times feel rather pathetic!.

Seeing old photos of me can be ironic,
Even if I felt at the time supersonic!
The losses can make one feel threnetic,
This is Susan, she was warm and athletic!

Things so changed, using so much antiseptic,
My hair has gone, the mind too, and I’m feeling asthmatic,
Shaking all over, deaf, diagnosed a diabetic!
There’s little left of my body that’s authentic!
The nurses who call are sweet and charismatic!.

The carers visit, although it’s not automatic…
A few of them are disinterested and apathetic,
Most of them are kind, one even erotic!.
At times have a natter, albeit we can act idiotic!

Next week, I’m going for treatment, electrotherapeutics,
Not sure what it means, but it sounds futuristic,
It worryingly also sounds sadomasochistic,
For my Peripheral Neuropathy, I like the therapeutic,
I hope I get a mug of tea and a biscuit?

I’m a bit concerned about this! Hahaha!

Part of the Inchcock Make ‘Em Laugh-In Rhyme Series

Inchcock’s Sunday – In Ode

Mud Gorning

Today’s Intention

To make the bestest ever chilli bean con-carne for Josie!

I awoke, full of youthful spring, on a high!
Jumped out of the recliner, nice and spry,
I moved so quickly, my body sinewy…
Then I wondered, why? Why why?
It was cause I was dreaming…
So that was a lie!

Woke up proper, and the feet were aglow,
Red they were, great; I sang a divertimento…
No pains or pot-marks on foot or toe…
No bloating at all, although…
I’ll not get excited; I’ll see how it does go!.

The moon still just glowing, up in the sky,
I tried to take a good photo, I did try…
But they didn’t come put well, Sigh!
I was not disappointed enough to cry!

Washed and got on the computer to work,
Got to start this blog; I will not shirk…
Even if I get it wrong, and feel a burke!
But it took me seven hours to do, what a twerk!.

Can you see no lousy parking in the end car park?
First time for over a week now,
Spying on neighbours… innit a lark?
But I enjoy doing it somehow!

Started to prep Josies’ meal, with assiduousness,
How it will come out, tinged with capriciousness,
My determination was keen, even veracious!
I pressed on, for once not losing my focus,
Took my time conscientiously, no rush…
Sister Jane rang me, thus the distractedness,
But lovely to chinwag, even with partial deafness,
Tasted the progressing food with curiousness…
Oh, to my tastebuds, a lovely flavour did gush!.

Gave it some tweaks…
Beef, beans, Tomatoes, peppers, and leeks,
Best I’ve made for weeks…
Added some sliced steaks…
And, no cuts on the knife, for heavens sakes!
Saying that, as one of my renowned mistakes!.

Stabbed missen with the skewer, what a clot!
But it didn’t bleed a lot,
Then burnt my finger, the pan was hot!
Then dropped a shallot…
Also forgot to put in the carrot!
Oh, that was three things on the trot!
Still, I dun well don’t yer think…What?

All ready to dish up anytime now, success!
Oh, I hope it shows taste and deliciousness,
I got it served on the tray with daintiness…
Nothing too much bother for Josie’s,
Determination today was dauntless!

My search for perfection was ceaseless!.
Got it delivered, without any clumsiness,
She liked the look of the food, and thus…
Had a little chat, and Josie took in in a rush!.

I was contented with my actions taken thus,
Onto the computer, and I got an afflatus…
I’ll do the blog before cooking my potatoes,
But there came a sudden hiatus!
Rushed to the Throne, but twas not calamitous,

Twas a long, challenging evacuation, somewhat circuitous,
The crossword book nearby, that was fortuitous,
Pain, messy, the Germoloid was medicamentous,
All done, left feeling I’d done summat momentous…
And found another bill from the dentist had been sent to us!

Bungleackers!

Just took a tumble going to start my meal prepping.

I got cooking this wrong, no idea why!
I forgot the mushroom, chestnut fungi,
It looked fine. I used the usual formulae,
The meat tasted awfully dry,
Tasteless spuds, my culinary skills died?
Thank heavens Josies tasted good; that, I can verify!

ArrivuaAriverderc... Arf Weider… Cheers!

Part of the Nottingham Lads True Tales Of True Woe Series

The Stroke Ward then Care Home

First, I’d like to explain that as bad as I thought my Stroke was at the time, after being taken to the Queens Medical Centre, diagnosed with having had an Embolic stroke, I thought I’d been lucky. Then I was transferred to the Newell Stroke Ward at the Nottingham City Hospital; I soon realised it was not bad at all!

The event took place while I was in the land of nod. I woke to find myself all disoriented, dizzy, and confused. I was sprawled half-in, half-out of the £300, second-hand, c1968, eyesorely-horrendously grungy coloured, haemorrhoid-testing, unfit-for-use, recliner. Unable to sit up at all, I was lolling to my right. Actually, I thought I might be dreaming at the time and sort of waiting for the fog to clear – of course, it didn’t. The most embarrassing thing in my life (Bar one, but I’ll not mention that!)…

Mass Bodily Fluids Flood – The deluge!
Miss this first section if you are queasy!

(A lifesaver, thanks to Nottingham City Homes!)  And the deluge came! Trying to work out what was happening and pondered on whether to press the Medical Alarm Wristlet button…

Every part of my body that could leak leaked! This was without any warning and so rapid, even the tears that eructed out and I think missed the face cheeks it was so violent. The nose ran, sweat poured from all over, I dribbled from the mouth – but the worst two of all – the bowel evacuation almost shot out, and the wee-weeing too! (at The QMC later, the Doctor said that my ear wax turned to liquid?)

Even pressing the alert button was hard work; I was swaying about and fell out of the chair onto the floor as I got to the control and pushed it. Then found out I could not talk to the controller who answered the alarm!

QMC – Then City Hospital Stroke Ward

Yet I was aware of the mess I was in and ashamed! But I was talking again, but so aware of how I must have looked and smelt! A blank spell from then on until I was being pushed into the scan room at the Queens Medical Centre.

Memory went until I was in an ambulance on the way to the City Hospital stroke ward, The Newell Ward. They kept taking me for e-rays and scans for the day, but I can now recall little of the processes.

Sister Jane and Pete turned up later. Having been to the flat and cleaned up the mess I had made – Bless Them!  So many of the patients were in a much worse condition than I was, which made me realise how lucky I had been. Walking again needed some therapy, and since then, I have started stuttering. With Peripheral Neuropathy diagnoses two weeks earlier, walking ever since is a challenge nowadays. But it could have been so much worse!

One morning, a new patient arrived. He looked like the spitting image of Tyson Fury. They had to move some beds to make room for him, which he was wheeled in on.

Then The Wailing Nights Began!

For about ten hours every single night – for fifteen of them, the poor chap would start calling out for his Mummy! No one else got any sleep! But it was not his fault, naturally. The insults being thrown out to him from other patients desperately needing sleep obviously made no difference.

After the first two or three nights, Tyson (I never knew his name, I can’t remember it if I did), who had been placed near the door, opposite the rota board, realised he could see the names of the other patients, and he would go through everyone… ‘Bill, Bill, help me!’ ‘Malcolm, I need help, fetch my Mum, please!’ ‘Dennis, call for my Mum, I beg you!’ And so forth… then start again repeatedly for hours longer!

The insults and lousy language slowly got worse as the frustrations grew in the other occupants. “F’ing shut your F’ing Gob!” and “Oi… shitting nob-rot, shut the F’s up” are two that come to mind, of the many. Although I had sympathy and empathy with Tyson’s plight and had resisted joining in the angry banter… on the last the 15th night, I very nearly did, but I didn’t.

Unfortunately, they gave me Clopidogrel to help prevent any more blood clots. Then found out I had an allergy to them. Hence the ankle ulcer and extra bloated feet and legs.

Move Me To A Nursing Home

I was so relieved when a doctor told me that they were desperate for beds for new stroke victims. Relieved? Ha! Had I known what was to come, I would have refused to go! They would be moving me later in the day into a Nottingham City Homes care home for a couple of months.

The single room, with adjoining WC with a shower, was nice and snug. There were no shortages of residents to come in and have a look around and help themselves to anything they fancied. Amongst the things that went missing were one hearing aid, pens, biscuits and a pair of socks. I later saw a bloke wearing the easily identifiable diabetic bamboo socks. My Get Better Teddy Bear from TFZer Pattie in Canada disappeared, but I found it in the TV room?

The routine went like this:

  • A carer would come in to help me get the ankle strap on each morning. They all got it wrong, nearly crippled me! Hehe! The door would open (no locks), and a mystery voice would yell out, ‘Breakfast in ten!’ Then give me the medications. I missed many breakfasts.
  • Occasionally a cleaner would come in to ‘do’ the toilet and moan if I’d left any shaving foam in the sink or floor.
  • The midday food summoning would be something like “Tea!”, “Food!” or “Nosh” followed by the estimated time I have to be down for. I missed a few meals.
  • Evenings, medications and taking the ankle strap off.

Inchcock with his retrieved Teddy Bear! ♥

I was told not to leave the site at any time. During the nine weeks, I was there, my laundry was only returned to me three times. Sister Jane and Pete kept me supplied with socks and shirts from the flat. They asked me to make a statement for the police when a bloke attacked a woman with a knife.

If nothing else, this experience has made me all the more determined to avoid going into a care home.

In a Repeated Dream

For several weeks after leaving the Car Home, and Jane and Pete returning me to the flats, I had a repeating dream… I would be leaving the hospital… with the Grim Reaper calling me back to the Stroke Ward. I don’t think it got to me badly, but I was glad when they stooped! (Watch it now, the bloody thing will start again!) Haha!

Part of the Inchcock True Tales of Woe & Make E’m Laugh Series!

Inchcock: Confusions In Ode

I woke up; well, I got that bit right; here’s a tidbit…
No leaks from Little Inchy, nor bleeding too…
I actually thought waking up deserved a plaudit,
Checked the overly stomached body, legs two…
Shaking-Shoulder-Shirley twitching at my body audit,
The bruise on the knee had turned from red to blue,
Down the Protection Pants; crumbs from a biscuit!
Nocturnal nibbling guilt did ensue…
Then working out what day, month and what time is it?
The innards erupted, wind escaped from the rear. Ooh!
A massive dump I was about to inherit…
Probably due to last nights far-to-large bowl of chilli stew?
A visit to the Porcelain Throne was urgently due…
It was agony, messy, bloody, and massive, I can tell you!!

The Social Worker asked if I’d like to take up embroidery?
Is she serious, or is this tomfoolery?
Last month when she called to see me dress,
It was like a shockumentary!
She saw me struggling to dress and making a mess…
Getting my socks on buffoonery!
Putting the trousers on was full of stress,
I fell over; that did not impress!
Then saw my arm shaking as I shaved; it was bloody!
Viewed the sock-glide battle, which always causes me distress…
Now she thinks I can thread a needle?
Good God, I struggle to get Little Inchy out for a piddle!

I try to avoid getting the reputation as a badass,
Like I did when I was drinking from a beer glass,
I’ve a new reputation now, well two, one as a tight ass…
The other, rather unfairly as a wiseass!
I just get myself down on my palliasse,
Pass involuntary wind from my flatulent ass…
Sorry about sounding a bit crass…
And wonder what the hell I’ve done with my bus pass?

The last time I went to town it went all askew!
I got soaked waiting at the wrong bus stop, for a No22
Not been out for weeks, a hobble is long overdue,
Finding the bus pass might be an issue…
And remembering where the bus goes to…
What times it runs, get on the right one, first go the loo!
Walking: more painful now than doing jujitsu,
Get some food, veg, fruit… a melon, honeydew?
For the toilet, disinfectant and a Brobat blue,
The bank, my cards ready for a renew…
Oh, Inchcock, you silly old Moo!
Going out today you can’t do…
DWP will be calling to give me an interview…
That’ll be a confusing hullabaloo!

A few close shaves, but no disgruntled attitude,
Made beefburger, broke my tooth when I chewed,
Then dropped the mug when I brewed…
Onward I pressed and continued…
Time for the Porcelain Throne to be used…
I didn’t make it in time, now I’m really screwed!

Talk about being embarrassed – more disgruntlement,
Cleaned, washed, refreshed, out to the apartment…
A letter here, there’s an increase in rent!
Time to get lively, a shake-it-out session to augment…
Or just go deeper, into unhingement?

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Produced in Support of Protection Pants Makers

Inchcocks Keeping Active Routine

In Excruciatingly Bad Ode

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TIPS and ADVICE

It is essential, from your every waking moment, daily,
To assess the ailments, for any possibly acting bolshy,
That gets the brain going, fretting, and panicking too!
On the physical side; don’t expect things with spectacularity,
More concentrate, on dogged hopes and sustainability,
At all times, anticipate and expect, constant impeachability!

No doubt the wee-wees will start then, with tenacity,
Sometimes persistent, more usually of aperiodically,
The first slash you take will be with a certain trepidity!
They’ll be blood, orange urine, this’ll confirm your panic ability!
Apply the Daktacort Hydrocortisone, you’ll scream!
To ease the agony, just think of it, as being a dream!
And count slowly to yourself, up to a thousand and thirteen!

You’ll get letters, forms, threats and emails from authorities,
Along with phone calls, texts, these are not abnormalities,
How much pension and total cash are in your bank?
They raised the total allowed, in reply I was frank!
An hour a week for shopping, laundry, will cost me £280 a week!
It’s best at this time, not to freak!

Nottingham Revenue and Benefits called me on the phone…
The 2½hr form-filling left me in an ether world zone!
My concentration had departed, off it had flown…
I thanked him, with a verbal groan!

He said he’d sent the paperwork to sign & return,
Of course, no help was given, I soon did learn,
Result in today, on a downer now, scowled and had a gurn!
Excuse me, off to for a wee-wee, I must adjourn…

Ah, I’ve made beef stew for later, my hunger does grow…
Hello, it’s already made… Carer due, Doctors tomorrow,
I’m still angry with myself, there is a self-pitying sorrow,
Life at the moment, is annoying, no zest… hollow!
It’s me that is annoying me… that what I’ll have to forego…
The secret costs of the carers costs rise… Oh, blow!

At times like this, try not to get neurotic,
You’ll only get worse if you get all frenetic!
Change your mood to romantic or quixotic,
Think of happy times, when life was sybaritic!

Of course, I write mostly conceptualistic,
You might try changing your mood to eucharistic?
Or change to using heliotrope coloured lipstick?
Cause it won’t help, people’ll think you’re a dipstick!
But a different set of worries, even anti-humanistic…
Maybe enough to stop your brain from going ballistic?

There’ll be daily Whoopsies, Accifauxpas and many a quarrel,
Several times daily, to be insulted, and get a bombshell,
At times these may overpower your one brain cell…
Not to worry, you’ll have forgotten your previous natter,
Diagnosed last week, I’m aneurysmatic, but it doesn’t matter,
You’ll have enough ailments in the body, no hopes to shatter!

Your hero may be Hawking, Newton, mine is Albert Einstein,
Whichever, it matters not, for you must worry not,
Peoples choices whatever they are, are fine…
Cause you’ll only forget tomorrow, and feel a clot!

Usual things to get Arthur Itis, and become annuhilistic,
And your Willy will shrink, change its colour to pink,
You need do nothing about these, they are automatic,
Oh, and you’ll leave the hot water tap running in the sink!
Of the young, you’ll become an inpatient critic!
Your loss of memory will make you forget to think!
You’ll lose your egoisticness, no longer be artistic,
You’ll find yourself on depressions very brink…
I’m only trying to help – just giving you the wink!

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There are times when one realizes that one had not got it right, forgotten something, missed something, lost something…

This is Perfectly Normal – Don’t Fret!