College - Week 2...

College - week 2)

Monday morning saw a far more confident peroxide blonde striding into college than the previous week. I’d made some new friends, just as I’d instructed my own offspring to do all those years ago, and I was only a teeny bit frightened.

I immediately bumped into an old chum who I’d spent my Planning Period with, so I had a lovely surprise to start my day with.

Five hours of counselling followed ……I hasten to add that I was participating in a course, and not undergoing prolonged therapy….. which I’m enjoying immensely.

During my luxuriously long (one hour) lunch break, I skipped merrily off to the student supplies shop to purchase the scientific calculator that I shall apparently need for my numeracy lessons. I was deeply disappointed to discover that it totally lacked any James Bond type features that its title insinuates.

Whilst inside the shop I bumped into two more friends from my January stint …..I see a pattern of bumping emerging here….. and the following five minutes was a whirl of "What days are you in?" and "Have you seen so-and so?" etc.

I’ve never particularly liked Tuesdays….and today was no exception… although I accept it could have been far, far worse that it actually was.

I’d managed to unnecessarily work myself up into a complete tizwas over I.T. first thing.  This was very silly, as I’d already decided that I’d attend lessons in future, rather than work from home, and I was only a week behind everyone else, and knew full well that I’d soon catch up.

I’m sure that I must’ve driven my poor tutor insane with my constant attention seeking, for which I can only apologise profusely, and claim temporary insanity, brought about by deep-rooted insecurities regarding my computing abilities. I’m pleased to be able to announce that I have indeed now caught up, and 'normality' has been restored.

After a quickly snatched Nescafe, it was on to the delights of prime numbers and the like. I had no real need for using my posh new calculator but I couldn’t resist pressing a few buttons to double-check my counting.

Another rushed lunch break preceded a guided tour of the big, scary building commonly referred to as the library. With my inbuilt satellite navigation system switched permanently to the 'off' position, I struggled to grasp the concept of the 'circular' room that spanned two floors. No doubt, over the coming months the layout will become more and more familiar to me…fingers crossed.

A session on the PC's in F6 was fortunately a hassle-free exercise, for me, and by the time it was 3pm and 'writing skills' my mind had wandered far, far away from academia and into the realms of what to cook for tea. Paragraphing proved to be my downfall, as I failed dismally in every exercise.

Thursday saw me parting company with my brain. My timetable dictates that on the three occasions each week that my presence is requested at college early morning, all three are at different times.

Today, as I confidently strode along to my 10 o'clock lesson, it suddenly dawned on me that my Thursday class actually begins at half past nine.

Running, at my age, is not an option, unless it’s a matter of life or death, so the best I could muster was a brisk walk as far as the nearest taxi rank. I could ill afford the £4.50 it cost to get me to my class on time, but it did teach me an important lesson regarding importance of the daily ritual known as 'checking your timetable'.

I’ll choose to use this as my explanation for being totally unable to remember the first hour of sociology. Good job I made notes, as I’ll hopefully be able to catch up once the amnesia wears off.

As a female, I pride myself on the ability to multi-task on a daily basis, however, this skill doesn’t apparently stretch to the talent of being able to look, listen and write simultaneously.

My eye-brain-ear-hand co-ordination is somewhat lacking…non-existent to be precise. I’m more than aware that in order to succeed at higher education I’ll have no choice but to develop this seventh sense.

Making notes, whilst copying from the board while listening to the tutor…..and understanding what is being said…..is, by far, one of the hardest things I’ve had to do so far.

The competition of seeing who can get to B Block refectory the quickest for a gulp of coffee and a rapid munch on whatever snack you can grab from the till area, seems to be hotting up. I see that several of my fellow students have got it down to a fine art and even manage to catch a few puffs on a ciggie before charging back to F6 for Act Two.

Friday saw my brief return to the premises for the first of my academic tutoring sessions. K355 was previously uncharted territory for me, and all in all I thought it a positive experience …for me at any rate. I can’t vouch for my tutor.

College - week 1...

The trials and tribulations of a first year access student.

College – week 1)

When my children were small, I distinctly remember marching them confidently up to the school gates and telling them "There's nothing to be frightened of. Now run along and go and make some new friends".

Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, and only now am I painfully aware of just how inadequate my so-called words of comfort must’ve seemed to my tots.

The Planning Period completed, and my induction done, I had no one to hold MY sweaty little palm, and confidently tell me cheery things as I walked through the main entrance for the first time as a 'proper' student.

Well, there I was. All I had to do now was locate the notice board to discover where I needed to be. But where WAS the notice board?

My induction hadn’t included a guided tour, or an ordnance survey map, and it’d been several months since I’d last hopelessly struggled to find my way from A Block to B Block during the Planning Period.

After a minor panic attack, I managed to establish the whereabouts of the elusive notice-board wall, and, as luck would have it, my classroom was conveniently located nearby.

Throughout the day I was faced with minor difficulties ….the shock to the system of the 'teenage rampage' approach to canteen etiquette for one thing…..but I appear to have come out of it relatively unscathed.

“Homework” is a word I consistently nag my children with, but they now have the objectionable pleasure of turning the tables, and the phrase "Mum, have you done your homework yet?" merrily rings out of their mouths with unnerving ease. My replies are generally less than charitable.

My second day was fraught with navigational woes "B" Block means nothing to me when the building has no discernable "B" on it!, but I thankfully managed to follow a couple of familiar faces, and arrived at my destinations more-or-less on time.

My over enthusiasm to inform my I.T. tutor that I have a previously gained computer qualification earned me an Accreditation for Prior Learning pack to take home and complete at my leisure….as long as my leisure ends before October at any rate.

This, with hindsight, was probably not a wise move on my part, due to the displacement activities that I’m becoming all too familiar with. I’ll endeavour to attend my lessons as originally planned to ensure that my work is actually completed ….I shall be less inclined to attack the I.T. suite with Mr Sheen than I am my own home.

Fortunately, I’m not the type of person who harbours deep phobias regarding long multiplication and long division, so my numeracy class went reasonably well, all things considered.

The announcement that we all need to purchase a scientific calculator within the next couple of weeks was another item that ought to be added to the "Things we should've told you about during induction" list ….along with “abandon any quaint notions that you will be spared homework during your first week”.

Thirty minutes is, in my opinion, a ridiculously short period of time for lunch. The fact that I spent the entire afternoon suffering the ill effects of indigestion only served to prove the point. Maybe I’ll opt to bring sandwiches next week, although I have visions of my tutor not being particularly impressed at the picnic module being introduced into the curriculum.

By the third day I’d become over-confident, and in making what was to prove a somewhat futile attempt at a short cut, I became hopelessly lost.

That’ll teach me!

I’ve also discovered that my own teenagers are not the loudest creatures on the planet. The noisiest beings are, in fact, those who stand a few feet away from the windows of F6 puffing on a Benson and Hedges.

Week 8...Yawn...

Week 8) Yawn.
The reasons behind my mid-morning fatigue remain unclear. It’s fair to say, however, that I was utterly exhausted from the onset, and the thought of two long hours of monotonous droning on about the source of the Nile did nothing to entice me out of my coma-like state. I shall therefore name this condition WEA syndrome. A psychosomatic slumber-inducing ailment, which afflicts those devoid of a pension book on a once weekly basis, in my case on Wednesdays.
It was clearly going to be one of those days when I entered the classroom in the middle of know it all in full political debate with his long suffering neighbour.
In a futile bid to avoid the inevitable, I spun round to make good my escape to the less politically inclined ladies lavatory, but I was evidently not quite swift enough.
"And why aren't you protesting in London?" was my rather extraordinary greeting from the old bore.
As class rebel, certain disruptive activities are habitually expected of me, but I don’t consider marching in the capital as one of them.
Momentarily lost for words, it suddenly dawned on me that he was harping on about the US Presidential fiasco, and when I replied with a plain and simple "Because I couldn't care less" the old fool’s jaw hit the deck in absolute astonishment.
With that, I wandered off in the general direction of the coat rack, leaving his bemused companion to cop the flack.
It did rather beg the question that if he felt so passionately about it, why wasn't HE there, rather than sitting on his fat backside annoying the rest of us, but life really is too short to be asking know it all anything.
I can’t recall large parts of today's lecture, and my reasonably valid excuse is that when bombarded with dozens of strange place names, bizarre tribal names, approximate dates of particular conflicts simultaneously, the little power switch situated deep within my overburdened brain automatically switches to the off position. (Assuming that it was in the on position to begin with).
Nescafe at elevenses didn't really help, despite the three heaped spoonfuls of sugar I dumped into my cup, and I was highly suspicious of his motives when know it all offered me some of his firewater. I figured that alcohol would probably not be a very good idea for session two, and I became even more unsettled when, after complaining about the numbness in my legs that the plastic chairs had bestowed upon me, the dodgy old perv offered to give them a rub!
I declined his offer as politely as I could under the circumstances, and sought sanctuary back in the classroom.
Everyone had been complaining about the lecturer during the break. He has a rather disconcerting tendency to skip from 500AD to the 17th century in one breath, and then back to pre-history for no particular reason. This makes note-taking rather a hit and miss affair at best. I’ve actually now opted to wait until the very end of the course and take up his offer of a set of photocopied lecture notes, rather than make any more attempts to spell weird and wonderful place names, spoken by a twit with a bad speech impediment.
A strange and highly irritating beeping sound had been occurring every 15 minutes throughout the morning, and it was only at the very end of our session that the lecturer drew attention to the shiny new watch he was wearing. It transpired that he hadn’t had the time to read the instructions regarding switching the damned thing off before class.
I have a sneaking suspicion he deliberately set it to go off at regular intervals in order to ward off any potential snoring.
I’m now feeling quite unwell, bearing all the familiar signs of an imminent cold.
I'm not entirely certain which particular decrepit crone passed me their old person germs, but it only adds weight to my theory that the WEA is, without a doubt, bad for your health…..and therefore I shall not be returning once I’m back to good health. Life really is too short!

Week 7 - The Monsoons Cometh...

Week 7) The monsoons cometh.
While paddling my canoe into town first thing this morning, it occurred to me that I actually ought to feel privileged to be receiving a practical education in ancient civilisations from an original pre-historic person. I should feel honoured to be spending two whole hours each and every Wednesday bearing witness to such traditions as exclaiming "I wonder what's in the book box this week?" (It’s always the same books), and sharing my life with elders wearing several obviously hand knitted garments, beneath a bulky overcoat, while complaining incessantly about the central heating being on.
Fossil practically disappears under her pile of outer layers, bless her, and you only know it's actually her, and not a discarded pile of clothing left behind after a prior jumble sale, by the occasional glimpse of her spectacles peering out from within.
The class librarian takes her job all too seriously, and is thrown into a state of absolute panic if anyone so much as flicks through at a hardback without signing away their life for it. I'm now beginning to suspect that know it all does this deliberately to ruffle her feathers, simply so he can delight in a particularly patronisingly boom of "Dear Lady, there really is no need to get your knickers in a twist!" inevitably leaving the poor woman slightly flushed and even more flustered than ever.
With a grave expression, befitting of any funeral director, the lecturer informed us today that new wules and wegulations were afoot within the WEA, and the Colchester branch in particular will be adversely affected by these up and coming changes.
He then went onto announce that it is very likely he’ll choose to retire from lecturing, and the follow-on course he was planning to take …..another 20 weeks of much the same would render me sectioned under the mental health act…… may well not come to pass.
A sigh of relief would've seemed a little tactless under the circumstances, but my elation was surprisingly difficult to contain.
The inevitable mass mumblings and protestations followed, mostly initiated by know it all of course, clearly irritated that although he thinks he knows everything, that piece of information had actually eluded him.
Space invader suggested optimistically over coffee that it would be "a jolly good idea" to have an end of term Christmas social!
I lack any amount of festive cheer at the best of times, but I sank into the depths of depression as terrifying images of being force fed repulsive home made mince pies while know it all knocked back the sherry, flashed before me.
Just thinking about the lecturer belting out Wudolph the Wed Nosed Weindeew, whilst wearing plastic flashing antlers, is enough to send dear old Santa back up the chimney pretty sharpish.
I quickly withdrew from the negotiations, and returned to the distinctly non-festive classroom.
I suppose it should have come as no real surprise, as we are situated in an actual church, but nonetheless, I was somewhat astonished when all of a sudden we were treated to a deafening impromptu organ recital from elsewhere in the building. I think the lecturer was a tad put out by this musical interlude. His only option for the next ten minutes was to show a selection of slides that required no narrative whatsoever. Elephants in water, elephants on riverbanks, hippos in water, hippos on riverbanks, zebras in water, zebras on riverbanks, and so forth were indeed pretty much self-explanatory.
With peace eventually restored, we covered the entire history of ancient Egypt in less than fifteen minutes, and raced into 1800 A.D. at breakneck speed. Space invader made a valiant attempt to keep up by scribbling her lecture notes in shorthand, but I fear we lost her somewhere during the slave trade.
Squelching home in my waterlogged trainers, I pondered, beneath my reassuringly big blue brolly, whether I really should've applied a little more effort in selecting my footwear first thing this morning.
After wringing my socks out in the sink when I arrived home, I feel the rather obvious answer has to be yes. Another valuable lesson learnt.

Week 6...It Must Be Wednesday...

Week 6) It must be Wednesday.


When you’re in a funny mood, under no circumstances should you attend a W.E.A. class.
No sooner had I seated myself on my paralysing plastic chair I spied know it all, sporting his latest hideous t-shirt, emblazoned with a rather unconvincing tiger.
For reasons, which remain unclear, this induced in me a mad fit of the giggles. Fortunately this weeks enthralling lecture had not yet got underway, so I made a hasty exit to the ladies to compose myself and vainly attempted a more appropriate demeanour.
A particularly bizarre knock-on effect of my impromptu sniggers was that the lecturer assumed that his abysmal jokes were actually hilarious, and with his ego getting the better of him the deluded old fool turned into Ken Dodd.
Oh how we laughed at man's recently acquired ability to generate fire, which helped to give pwotection fwom pweditows.
I had to pinch myself quite hard to see if I was having some peculiar nightmare. No. It was all horribly real.
You should really avoid caffeine if you are already feeling hyperactive…. was the thought that entered my sadly dysfunctional brain on gulping the last dregs of my unspeakably strong Nescafe.
Know it all subsequently decided to stand directly behind me and proclaim loudly "There are no tigers in Africa!".
Not wishing to look like a particularly reluctant ventriloquists dummy, I shuffled a few feet to the left and stared intently at my nice, shiny spoon.
The pompous old lush continued; "Tigers are from India!".
Not a soul responded, and an awkward silence fell upon the canteen, leaving me with the distinct impression that everyone wished that India was where know it all was at this moment in time, preferably in close proximity to large, hungry, stripey mammals of the feline variety.
I decided to return to the relative sanity of the classroom.
It seemed a very good idea to disassociate myself from my surroundings, which I considered to be the root of the mirth predicament, and I promptly became literarily productive. I completed my entire weeks shopping list, and was busy compiling my Christmas card list. All was going swimmingly until Space Invader suddenly became interested in my unnaturally studious alter ego, and leant over to peer at my lecture notes. My cover blown, all I could do was smile politely and turn to a fresh page, and at least look like I was actually paying attention to comedy act fuelled with Nescafe that was currently entertaining the masses.
With the room hermetically sealed, the heating on full blast, and oxygen supplies running low, it seemed more than coincidence that we had to hear all about sleeping sickness. Space Invader actually asked me to nudge her if she dropped off! It's a crying shame I never actually got the opportunity to give the old crone a hearty shove.
The recent postal strike turned out to be something of a blessing in disguise, as the pre-ordered slides of more maps failed to materialise and we were treated to a re-run of dubious the cave painting slides that were shown last week.
An exceptionally vivid imagination, and possibly hallucinogenic drugs, would've possibly helped to convince me that the non-descript ochre blob on the screen was a Stone Age hippo.
Last orders were done and dusted and we were turned out promptly at noon, by way of a change from running into overtime.
I have no idea if I shall complete all twenty of the classes. I am already growing ever more senile and it must be only a matter of time before I swap my combats for beige polyester slacks. We shall see…..

Week 5...Nostril Nightmare...

Week 5)  Nostril nightmare.

A greatly reduced turnout greeted my soggy appearance in God's Waiting Room today, despite the fact that much objection was made previously regarding taking this Wednesday off.
As I’m the only person directly affected by having to think of alternative activities for my offspring during a significantly damp October morning I was suitably peeved at this mass absenteeism.
Needless to say, Space Invader and Know It All (sporting his latest t-shirt promoting his unrivalled knowledge of the Kariba Dam) were already in attendance.
A trudge through the millenniums accompanied by Neanderthal man was the treat in store for today's intrepid exploration.
Phrases like Homo Erectus (or Homo Ewectus, as the afflicted one put it) failed to raise an eyebrow with my ancient and humourless classmates, but I confess to having to contain a rather juvenile snigger.
It was while I was inspecting Homo Decrepit on centre stage for any obvious signs of evolution that I noticed it……
What, I asked myself, is the correct protocol for informing a senior lecturer that he has a bat in his cave?
This awkward condition, although nowhere near as potentially embarrassing as a flying low incident, provided me with somewhat of a dilemma.
To enlighten him directly would appear a tad familiar. "Excuse me Sir but are you aware that you have a bogey up your nose?" is, I imagine, not something by and large expressed aloud in polite circles.
Sniffing loudly and deliberately only drew attention to myself, and away from the genuine nostril nightmare, especially as I inadvertently inhaled enough old people particles to set off a rather distracting sneezing episode.
Once serenity had been restored to its former glory, and all tutting had ceased, I decided to attempt to ignore the matter in the hope it would go away. However, I found myself inexplicably drawn to this nasal nasty and for the life of me I couldn’t avert my eyes.
Coffee break couldn’t come quickly enough.
The lads duly joined Space Invader and me at the furthest table in the hall, as it has now become apparent that the other females in the tribe have curiously rejected us.
I was somewhat dumbfounded to witness Know It All top up his Nescafe with an extraordinarily generous slug of brandy! Noticing my stunned expression, he commented that he "couldn't possibly drink the awful coffee here without it".
"Try the tea", would've been the overly obvious answer, but I chose to ignore the tedious old lush.
Back in class I was thankful to note the absence of any bats in any caves.
The irony of hearing about the evolution of speech from one who had not sufficiently evolved himself in order to pronounce his R's, was not lost on me.
I could hardly contain myself at the mention of the Cewebwal Cawtex let alone modified lawynx.
The term hunter-gathewew was equally entertaining.
Predictably this week's visual extravaganza consisted largely of maps (in the absence of any actual photographs of pre-historic man) and numerous close-ups of old bones.
I’ve now arrived at the milestone that stands a quarter of the way through this self-imposed punishment, and am left to speculate if, by the end of the course, I will indeed be four times more jaded with the subject matter than I am at present.
Only time will tell…..

Week 4.....Time Flies...

Week 4) Time flies.


No it doesn't!
Pterodactyls fly (or more accurately flew)….. time comes to a grinding halt at 10am on Wednesdays.
I inadvertently bumped into space invader as she arrived this morning, and immediately the old bat chose to engage me in conversation about the weather (wet!). "Jolly good for the garden" she chirped.
Bearing in mind my complete inability to photosynthesise, her over-enthusiasm was somewhat lost on the cold and soggy peroxide blonde that stood before her.
Know it all was attired in yet another absurd t-shirt bearing worldly advertisements of far flung continents, and boring everyone to death with his talk of badgers (by way of a change from his past voyages of discovery).
My eager anticipation of dinosaur talk was marred by further plate tectonics, but we did finally hear about “Bolide” …..allegedly a giant meteor that brought about the demise of the dinosaurs. It made a welcome change from `earth rock` at any rate.
For reasons best known only to himself, the lecturer likened the more belligerent beasts that roamed the planet, to Norman Bishops! This surreal comparison threw me considerably, and my mind rapidly wandered off into BBC comedy shows in the genre of Monty Python.
It was at this inopportune point, that I could no longer ignore the lecturer's minor speech impediment (manners generally forbid me to mock the afflicted) and phrases like "Gweat Bawwiew Weef" and "Afwican Wain Fowest" left me in mortal danger of hysterics.
In a futile attempt to suppress a giggle I chose to cough. Not a particularly wise move as it turned out, as before long the entire class were alarmingly spluttering out of control in some sort of psychologically-induced mass bronchial fit, and the only realistic solution was to head for the canteen for a premature Nescafe.
With a somewhat guilty conscience, I opted to share a table with a quiet and unassuming gentleman in a rather desperate attempt to avoid attracting any more gratuitous attention to myself. Unfortunately, for my solitary companion, space invader, know it all AND the lecturer all followed me like a bizarre and geriatric version of the Pied Piper. Before the poor unfortunate soul had the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat, the canteen rang with the booming "When I was in Africa..." and our gang had unenviably become the class bores.
Suitably revived, and back in class, we raced through the Triassic period with somewhat alarming speed, and out through the Cretaceous period, all in a matter of minutes!
Darwin would indeed be turning in his grave.
Much to my immense irritation, our very own fossil spent Act Two noisily hunting through her gigantic handbag for boiled sweets, wrapped in the noisiest cellophane I have ever heard, in an effort to curtail the remnants of the cough I’d inflicted upon her earlier. This resulted in me missing so many important dates and facts I eventually gave up on the biro and notepad idea altogether.
There is something mildly comforting in the space beneath a big blue brolly, and while I trudged home, cautiously avoiding the ponds that were once mere potholes, I couldn't help but ponder upon the fact that somewhere on this largely uncharted planet dinosaurs probably do still survive.
It's a wonder that know it all hasn't seen them.

Week 3...Brian...

Anyone who has in his, or her, possession such a vast quantity of slides demonstrating the continental drift is clearly in denial of some underlying personal anguish. (Purist Freudians may even be so bold as to suggest a leaning towards something profoundly maternal and faintly sexual). Obsessions with Pangea and the subsequent creation of Laurasia and Gondwanaland surely can’t be healthy, even for hardcore geologists.
I conclude, therefore, that my tutor requires urgent therapy before he drives us all to distraction.
And what, in Gods name, were the WEA thinking of issuing the trembling old fart with a laser pen?
Pointy sticks are dangerous enough in the hands of over enthusiastic pensioners, let alone retina-destroying weapons of dubious legality.
Know it all was decked out in his finest t-shirt of Malaysia, should anyone be left in any doubt at all as to his well-travelled past and therefore infinite worldly expertise.
Bored utterly rigid by the endless stream of references to tectonic plates, or perhaps merely hypnotised by the flickering red light than flitted across the Atlantic Ocean ad nausium (as opposed to the rigidity of PCP or Plastic Chair Paralysis), I managed to somehow survive the first half and reward myself with a much-earned 40p Nescafe.
Unfortunately the blue rinse brigade in the canteen had neglected to furnish the hall with any tables and chairs, much to the disapproval of my distinctly peeved classmates.
Not remotely fazed by the lack of such home comforts I chose to park my weary behind on some steps at the far end of the room. Unfortunately my space invader had taken it upon herself to follow my lead, and unsettled me further more by endeavouring to strike up a conversation.
Her opening line of "I'm almost 80 you know" admittedly threw me a little.
I still remain uncertain as to whether she assumed her advancing years would automatically endear me to her. It didn't.
Clutching at straws for an appropriate retort all I could come up with was "I'm 41". Not exactly riveting stuff I confess. Clearly my lack of conversational prowess failed dismally to impress space invader, as she chose to ignore my reply and directly wandered off I the general direction of the nearby lavatories.
Back in class, and with the ominous prospect of even more slides of maps, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself in the company of a new best friend in the shape of a bug. It appeared on my notepad from an unknown direction, brown in colour, and no bigger than an ant, but it was love at first sight. Hindered by the lack of a microscope I was a tad gender-confused, but chose to call `him` Brian.
Brian and I played for what seemed hours. I drew him a wobbly blue path and encouraged him along it very gently using the non-inky end of my biro. He appeared to enjoy this very much, and encouraged by his positive reactions I added some little blue houses and a blue tree. We laughed, we cried (she's losing it....!) in fact so distracted was I, that it wasn't until I heard the words "single celled organisms" that I realised that we had finally reached recent history (well, 3,500 million years ago anyhow). Hurrah.
My joy was, however, short-lived when the word "glacier" put paid to my delight, and yet again talk instantaneously returned to Supercontinents.
By the time I had remembered my chum and his enchanting new two-dimensional world, he’d vanished. I was devastated. Brian and I were no more.
It was with a heavy heart that I left Castle Methodist Church today, but I shall return, if only on the questionable promise from my tutor that we shall without a doubt have dinosaurs next week (presumably something all my fellow WEA colleagues have first hand experience of). I can now innocently spend the rest of my week fantasizing about enormous mammals devouring octogenarians.

Week 2 - Africa Revisited...

I’d decided to arrive on time, rather than early today, to avoid any unnecessary fraternising with the enemy.
I quickly learnt that musical chairs has been outlawed, to the point of becoming illegal (punishment unknown, but likely to be death by lethal injection of Sanatagen).
It appears that you must choose very carefully where you sit in lesson one, as once your cheeks touch the seat you are immediately tied by some bizarre legally binding contract to sit nowhere else for the duration of the course.
My space-invading friend annoyed me by using an empty chair the other side of her to unload all her old-person's junk! I was left balancing my bag / pen / notepad etc on the end of my knees. The fact that last week she objected to me using a chair for such purposes did not go un-noticed.
Another morning was spent on the Continental Drift, and this week's selection of exhilarating slides consisted of maps…..like we didn't see enough last week!..... digital images of water, and our first real slide of a photograph of Africa....................a large chunk of rock! (Deep joy).
Break-time thankfully passed off without any major incidents, as I had the foresight to bring along 40p in loose change for my Nescafe.
I'd chosen to make myself invisible, by saying very little and trying to blend in to the background to avoid confrontation, and yet I ended up joined at my table by all the "lads". (Clearly attracted to the army combats I was wearing as camouflage). 15 minutes of War stories later, it was time to head back to my special seat in the lecture room.
It was made apparent, that last week someone borrowed a book from the book box without signing away their life for it (shock horror) which now deems this publication "missing" (with the distinct implication it’s been STOLEN!). As the youngest person in the building (and therefore a hooligan) I’m obviously under suspicion, despite the fact I never went anywhere near the front of the room where the box was located. Nobody said anything directly, but I got several side-ways looks when it was being mentioned. I hope the damned thing turns up soon.
After another 20 minutes of Plate Tectonics , I suddenly thought I was having some sort of stroke (obviously brought on by an unnaturally high output of old people pheromones in the air) but luckily for me it was simply pins and needles all down my left side, brought on by my legally obligated plastic chair digging into the back of my leg.
I must've drifted off somewhere between Igneous Rock and the Rift Valleys, because before I knew it part two had ended.
I wasn’t exactly thrilled to learn there will be no time off for good behaviour next week (half-term break) as no-body else has children of school age (or grand-children of school age for that matter), therefore it’ll be a straight run through til December. Happy days!

Africa course..week 1.

Week 1) My new adventure.

I attended my first ever WEA lecture today, and I can honestly say I’ve never been so bored in my entire life!
All I’ve learnt, is the fact I have no interest whatsoever in plate tectonics (the ground deep below us).
I had no idea a course on African History & Culture would take me back 600 million years….. and there's no sign yet of any culture…..yet!
How one man can spend two hours on the subject of "Africa has moved a bit" is mind-numbing. (As were the slides of the maps).
I’m the only one in the class who isn’t collecting a state pension, and the only one who’s never attended a WEA course before, so it really is a case of being a square peg in a round hole.
I’m now clutching at straws hoping that it improves next week.
Things weren't helped by the fact that one old crone took exception to me using up far more space than my allotted chair's width (despite the fact there was plenty of space to be had) and made me shift all my clutter so she could squeeze up next to me.
I do rather tend to like my OWN space (some might say I'm messy, but I know exactly where everything is) and I like to spread out all my worldly possessions to the limits of my arms reach whenever possible.
Another faux pas was the fact I had nothing smaller than a £1 coin for my 40p Nescafe at break time, so the old bat pouring drinks had to ‘tut’ loudly while digging about in a small pot for the 60p change.
Our lecturer only has personal knowledge of Zimbabwe & Mozambique (and geology of course!) and punctuates every sentence with "ummmm".
He’s easily distracted, and frequently goes off at a complete tangent.
During the first hour he only showed one slide (a map of Africa) as he apparently "forgot" that he had slides with him.
It was only in the final 15 minutes that we actually got to see more slides of maps.
By far the most interesting part of the lecture was the 5 minute discussion at the beginning entitled "Shall we leave the heater on and shall we open the windows?!"
Several old dears were yawning towards the end.
The room had that special `old people` smell, rather like charity shops (a mixture of lavender water and pee).
There’s a class know-it-all, who often interrupts and corrects the lecturer, and wears mini-binoculars whilst sitting in the front row in order to get a better view of the screen ……located just 10 feet away.
There’s an ancient lady, so advanced in years she could barely make it to the canteen, and she arrived just in time for her to turn around and head back to the classroom for `act two`.
There’s plenty of `in jokes` about the Second World War, which obviously go right over my head.
I found myself studying my boots when we were asked for a volunteer librarian to guard the book box…… footwear-fascination also took hold of me when a class secretary was asked for in order to take the weekly register.
I was waiting for someone to ask for a milk monitor!
At the end of the session, a newsletter was handed out which declared that a minimum of 20 students per class were needed in order to make courses financially viable................and a head-count today showed there are 18 in my class, so I'm not entirely sure if the whole course will be cancelled.
Dying of boredom will probably bring the class size down even further.
Oh well, things can only get better (surely?!).

Leafleting.

Being on the receiving end of a constant barrage of pizza delivery leaflets and advertising bumf for the local hardware store, toy store, steakhouse, Chinese restaurant and so on, you’d think I’d have more sense than to offer to do ‘leafleting’ for a friend’s business… but apparently I don’t! When I took on the task of ‘marketing guru’ (my words, not theirs) I figured that in order to spread the word about how fabulous their business is, without it costing a small fortune, pushing carefully worded leaflets through as many doors as I could physically manage seemed like a remarkably cheap and easy option. After all, I wanted to get fit and lose weight for the fantastic beach holiday I’d booked for the spring, and I’ve never exactly been a fan of going to the gym, so it made perfect sense to combine long walks outdoors with an advertising campaign. It seemed like a win-win solution. I’ve seen sullen, moronic teenage boys doing it, and I’ve even noticed a couple of grey-haired old ladies doing it, so how hard can it possibly be? It’s rather a good job that words contain no calories at all, or I’d now be morbidly obese after eating so many of my own.

I’d never had the need to pay any attention whatsoever to people’s letterboxes before, other than my own, so my first trip around the block with my stash of colourfully printed and neatly folded leaflets was a bit of a revelation. For reasons known only to themselves (maybe personal preference, possibly vandalism) many households have dispensed with the formality of a letterbox flap, favouring the bare brushes look. These, I found, are the easiest of all to deal with, as the leaflets slide effortlessly through them. A close second are the ones with loose-hinged flaps and no brushes. Plop – another leaflet delivered. Unfortunately, these types are few and far between, as I discovered. I have no idea how some people receive any mail whatsoever, as it’d take something similar to a crowbar to prize the industrially-sprung flap open, and then, when it’s finally up, there seems to be some sort of impenetrable wall of hard bristles preventing anything from entering the property via that route. The postman must have oodles of fun!

As this was a favour rather than paid employment, I opted for the minimal effort approach, avoiding anywhere which involved pressing entry buttons on security doors or climbing up staircases, subsequently, anyone living in a flat round my way will have to find out about the wonderful service on offer via other means. There was also no way on earth I was going to continually bend down to floor level, risking a slipped disc in order to put leaflets through letterboxes just inches above pavement level. I am after all, a marketing guru and am not training for the Olympics. Other homes given a wide berth included those with complicated gate locks and long driveways. Also, I deliberately avoided anywhere where the homeowners were standing in the front gardens. I’m not brave enough (or daft enough) for any direct confrontation with residents already cheesed off with a ton and a half of junk mail. Common courtesy also prevailed, and wherever I noticed ‘no junk mail’ signs I simply moved onto the next house, after all, there’s no point whatsoever in wasting paperwork in a vain attempt at handing it to people who’ve already informed you they’re not remotely interested.

When I first started my new ‘hobby’ I had no idea what a health and safety hazard it’d be it was to push bare fingers through doors, but after 30 minutes of pushing flimsy paper through a blockade of metal and brushes most of my nails were broken and my poor cuticles were red raw. I then got the shock of my life, as somebody’s large, unruly dog decided that my fingertips were fair game and jumped up snatching the leaflet from my grasp as I pushed it through the letterbox. It was barking loudly and in a quite frenzied manner as it pounded the back of the door, presumably with its feet. I swear I could feel it’s breath on my finger tips as I snatched my hand back in sheer terror. From that moment on I avoided any doors bearing notices regarding pets on the premises, and I was far more wary about putting any part of my hands more than a few millimetres inside the letterbox.

Wandering around the village where I had lived for over 20 years, I suddenly found myself venturing down roads and alleyways I’d never noticed before. It was during one of these explorations that I happened upon a tiny gated community where ‘the cat people’ apparently live. Not a soul to be seen, but literally dozens of cats appeared from nowhere the minute I entered. I felt uneasy and the hairs on the back of my neck began to stand on end as I noticed that every door had a cat flap, and every neatly trimmed front garden was lovingly adorned with all manner of cat sculptures and feline imagery. Next to each doormat were water and food bowls, and there were window stickers proclaiming things like “Mr Tiddles lives here”. The smell was unmistakable, and I was rather glad I hadn’t arrived on a warm day. I suddenly realised that many of the garden sculptures were, in fact, memorials to deceased moggies. This was now freaking me out, and I suddenly felt like an extra in some sort of weird horror movie, so I shoved a couple of leaflets through the nearest letterboxes and hastily beat a retreat back into the real world.

Homeowners don’t seem to be at all aware that when somebody is standing on their front doorstep, albeit for just a few seconds, conversations in adjacent rooms where windows are wide open can be heard with no effort at all. It’s often amusing and occasionally quite disturbing, to be inadvertently privy to snippets of private conversations. “…..but it didn’t matter because his leg fell off anyway……!” Of course, no leafleters want to hear people swearing about unsolicited mail as they gingerly attempt to deliver their advertisements without disturbing the homeowners, but unfortunately it comes with the territory.

My own pet peeve regarding anyone delivering stuff to my front door, whether it be the postman, paper boy or someone wanting me to know that their pizzas are bigger, better and cheaper than everyone elses, is when they fail to use my path and choose to walk right across my paved front garden to my neighbours house. I used to find this infuriating, however, one particularly chilly afternoon I’d been on the go for about 20 minutes when it began to spit with rain. I must admit, I began cutting corners myself in order to get back home before I got thoroughly soaked.

This whole experience has been quite a revelation. What I’d originally believed to be a relatively painless way of cutting advertising costs actually turned out to be a rather more complicated affair. True, I had got the fresh air and exercise that I’d wished for, however, I hadn’t anticipated how sore my fingers could get or how taxing it can be on the nerves, especially when faced with the Hound of the Baskervilles just inches away, the other side of a wooden door.

So, the next time you curse out loud at the sound of yet another takeaway menu dropping onto your mat, either move to an upstairs flat with a door entry system or a house with a long driveway and fiddly front gate, not forgetting to fit your letterbox flap with the strongest springs money can buy and several inches of thick brushes, along with ensuring that your rottweiler guards your home with all the menace of a psychopath… alternatively, why not just put a ‘no junk mail’ sticker on your door.

The Swedish Massage...

Throughout my never-ending quest to discover effective pain relief for an arthritic neck, I’ve tried many different remedies. The acupuncture needles didn’t work, nor did the NHS-supplied physiotherapy (quite the opposite in fact). Heated bags gave temporary relief but it just isn’t practical to walk around tescos wearing a Hot-Pac. And yes, I did consider it! Warm baths are also fine for short-term relief but you simply can’t stay in there all day long. Herbal tablets seem to have had little, if any, impact after 6 months and I was keen to cut back on my daily Ibuprophen intake, so when a friend suggested massage just might help I was definitely up for it.

After thoroughly researching the various prices for the mind-boggling selection of different types of massages available, I resented at the thought of forking out £40 just for a consultation, and that was without any hands on whatsoever, so when I spotted a coupon in my local paper for a half price, one hour, Swedish, full body massage at a local beauty salon I jumped at the chance. At a very reasonable £20 it seemed like a jolly good idea, and I was relieved to discover, on booking the appointment, that I’d be seeing a female masseur.

I had no idea what a Swedish massage involved, and chose to ignore all the ooer missus comments I got from various quarters. I went there with an open mind (within reason) and figured that even if the treatment didn’t actually help with my pain, at least I was going to be pampered for an hour.

Arriving unfashionably early gave me ample time to fill out a medical disclosure form. No, I haven’t had botox, I’m not pregnant or breastfeeding and I haven’t got a pacemaker, I have no metal pins anywhere inside my body and I’m not harbouring any infectious diseases. Bureaucracy completed, I was led through a remarkably narrow corridor by my masseur, up a narrow flight of stairs, and around what appeared to be a labyrinth until we reached room 5. To instantly dispel one myth, my masseur, Jane, was neither blonde nor Swedish. The spatially challenged room was warm and clean, not too clinical but not resembling anyone’s lounge either, with a treatment table in the centre and candles for ambience. Relaxation music was being piped around the room and the tiny coloured ceiling lights were on a dimmer switch, presumably so that the masseur doesn’t have to endure the retina destroying sights of terminal cellulite and acres of sagging, wrinkled flesh.

Jane asked me to remove my clothing, apart from my drawers, and lie face down on the table. I breathed a sigh of relief that I remembered to put on my expensive, special occasion Marks and Spencer’s pants this morning, rather than my 5 pairs for £2.50 tescos bargain bucket undies. She left the room for five minutes to allow me some privacy, which is just as well because nobody needs to see a practically naked, fat, middle aged woman struggling to haul herself onto a high plinth. I’d been asked to protect my modesty with the thick blanket provided, but I’d also been told to lie on my tummy. Now, I’d never realised quite what a challenge it is to pull a heavy blanket over yourself while face down on a table. Luckily, by the time Jane returned I’d more or less covered myself up.

In my vulnerable state of undress I wondered what would happen should the fire alarm sound. On the back of the door I spied a large, fluffy, white terry towelling bath robe, and made a mental note that if any loud bells happened to ring out during my session I’d make a grab for it before evacuating the building. With health and safety matters dealt with I finally began to relax.

It would’ve been less of a surprise if the oils that were poured onto my back had been a tad warmer, but the massage was pleasant enough, in a slippery and slidey sort of way. After several minutes the soothing pan pipes were beginning to irritate somewhat, but thankfully the next track on the CD was a mixture of birdsong and piano, which was far more bearable. The babbling brook track was probably not the best idea as it seemed to create the urge to pee. A lavender pack was placed over my eyes, which not only smelt nice but was strangely comforting and not at all claustrophobic.

Jane was careful to ensure that the thick blanket covered up every inch of me which wasn’t currently being massaged, thus keeping me lovely and toasty warm. I though it odd when she asked if I wanted my stomach massaged, as I’d assumed it was a part of the ‘full body treatment’ which I’d booked. However, she explained that several people are simply far too ticklish and don’t like it at all. I’m not remotely ticklish so I agreed to have my flabby tummy kneaded, bread-making style.

I’m not a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but it gradually occurred to me there were very few parts left that hadn’t been oiled, so to speak, other than my chest area. Now, I was less than keen for a young girl to be handling my boobs, let alone rubbing oil over them, so I began to agonize over how to politely ask her to keep her hands off my top half. However, I needn’t have worried. Jane had already placed a cloth over my lady-lumps while she massaged my belly, and simply worked around my upper body parts. She greased my arms, right down to the finger tips and up to the shoulders, then subtly moved around to my neck and throat area. I even had my ears massaged, which was a particularly strange, although not unpleasant, sensation, resulting in minimum embarrassment for both of us. I must admit that the grand finale, a scalp massage, was probably my favourite bit as it made all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up!

Treatment over, my hour was up, and Jane suggested I might like to lay there a while and chill out before putting my clothes back on. That was very welcome, no rushing about for a change. She then left me to my own devices, and to be honest I would have loved a little nap, but I didn’t want to push the hospitality too far, so I breathed in deeply and struggled to haul my slippery carcass off the table. This was a lot harder to do than it sounds, as I’m not used to lying down flat on a firm surface for any length of time, and all that muscle relaxing had rendered me jelly-like.

Good job I’d chosen to wear loose fitting clothes that day because all that oil was making it a little bit of a struggle to put things back on. Fully dressed I conquered the incredible maze and managed to eventually locate the reception area, where Jane was patiently waiting for me. I’d predicted that there’d be some sort of sales pitch and wasn’t at all surprised when she suggested I might benefit from some heat patches for my neck. Willing to give anything a go I parted with an extra fiver, which wasn’t too financially painful.

Whether the massage genuinely helped my neck or not is doubtful, as it felt no different to the way it was when I arrived at the salon, but it was a lovely treat on an especially cold, wet February afternoon. The surroundings were pleasant, the masseur was friendly, and my skin was now all silky soft. If I was able to have the treatment on the NHS I would probably jump at the opportunity, however, I suspect that the environment would be less agreeable and the regulation NHS masseur may not be quite as delicate as those found in beauty salons. I may well return at a later date for a cheaper thirty minute neck and back massage, instead of the full body version. We shall see………

Boobs!!

As a woman of a certain age, I like to think that I’m vaguely aware of the various health-related issues which occasionally need addressing, and I also like to think that I’m generally on top of such matters. However, during a particularly luxuriously indulgent bubble bath one evening, it suddenly came to my attention that all was not entirely as it should be in the boob department. My relaxing bathing ritual instantly turned into a soapy worry-fest as I discovered a new, and very much unwanted, lump.

As my discovery was made fairly late in the evening, way past my local GP surgery opening hours, I spent an anxious night obsessing over all manner of things until 9am the next day, when I could finally ring up and book a doctor’s appointment. As soon as the words “breast lump” escaped my mouth, the receptionist turned into Mrs super-serious. “Dr Malone can see you at 10am!” she announced almost instantly. Stunned by the immediacy of the appointment I automatically agreed, bolted down some corn flakes then fetched my coat. It was then when it dawned on me that I hadn’t actually heard of this particular GP and began to fret that I’d be intimately examined by a man. I know it SHOULDN’T make any difference whatsoever, and now was definitely not the time to turn all bashful. I needed to be checked out as soon as possible and all GPs have done this type of thing hundreds of times before, but I managed to work myself into a right panic all the same.

On arrival at the surgery I was informed that Dr Malone is a female, and the look of relief on my face must’ve said it all. The two minutes I sat in the waiting room seemed an eternity, but in all honesty it was the briefest spell I’ve ever spent in there. I was called to an examination room and, after explaining my bath time findings to the nice lady doctor, she made small-talk with me while groping my upper body, all legal and above board. She agreed that there was, indeed, a lump and she duly filled out a note for me to take to reception, where they would book a hospital referral for me. I was a tad alarmed to see the words “rapid response” written down and immediately went into panic-mode once again.

Within minutes the super-efficient receptionist had accessed my NHS ‘healthspace’ on her computer and I’d been booked to see a specialist at the local hospital two days later. The lightening speed of the process literally stunned me. No matter what we all say about the National Health Service, and I’ve had more than my fair share of reasons for vocalising my extremely negative opinions regarding NHS treatment in the past, they DO seem to take things of this nature very seriously indeed. Astonishing efficiency between the NHS and the post office meant that my hospital paperwork arrived the following morning. I was to wear a t-shirt for ease of removal rather than a shirt with complicated buttons and I was to avoid antiperspirant.

By the time my appointment had arrived I was sweating like a proverbial pig, no small thanks to the instruction regarding the non-usage of underarm sprays, and I’d convinced myself that the news would not be good. My other half was gravely concerned that his ‘fun bags’ had become poorly and was uncharacteristically quiet as we sat waiting to be called up. Eventually, I was requested to step into a tiny side room by a rotund and overly-chirpy breast care nurse who quipped “Just take your top off – don’t be shy!” Now, 20 years ago, with about a gallon of Bacardi inside me, wild horses wouldn’t have been able to keep my top ON. As I sat there feeling rather exposed, I spotted the inter-connecting door. So, there I sat, topless and vulnerable, unaware as to exactly who was going to come in, and through which door. Make mine a double!!

A minute or two later a female doctor entered the room and I faced an encore of the whole legal groping episode. The diagnosis was “probably fatty tissue” however; a mammogram was now required by way of a second opinion.

My visibly-concerned other half, who’d been patiently waiting in the corridor while I endured the preliminaries, escorted me to the x-ray department, which wasn’t entirely as straightforward as you might think in a re-vamped but distinctly Victorian building. At one point I felt rather like a contestant on The Crystal Maze, only without the shell-suit or the eccentric bald man. On arrival at yet another reception desk, the paperwork was swiftly dealt with and we sat down in yet another waiting area, which was actually a small stretch of corridor with half a dozen plastic seats along the wall, and a slightly wobbly table displaying a couple of well-thumbed copies of Women’s Own and a Practical Caravanning Magazine. As a 100 percent heterosexual female I found it deeply disturbing that I seem to have become obsessed with looking at other ladies chests! How can something so normal-looking be so potentially deadly? Unwelcome thoughts began to enter my mind as I stared at my feet trying to avoid any socially inappropriate behaviour. I was relieved to be rescued from myself as I was eventually called in for my mammogram.

The petite young radiologist assured me that even the most flat-chested ladies manage to fit into the monstrous contraption which stood before me. I wasn’t entirely convinced; however, she quickly loaded what looked like a videotape, but was some sort of x-ray cartridge, into her computer and began to position me. “Put your right hand on your head, lean into the machine, grab the handle with your left hand…….try not to crack your head on the apparatus….” It had to be the most unnatural pose ever! Within seconds a vice had grabbed my right boob and turned it into what looked like road-kill. Flat as a pancake it was. There were four x-rays to be taken in all, two with the left and two with the right, all requiring the kind of balancing act that would not seem out of place in a circus. I wouldn’t say it was painful, but it was definitely uncomfortable, both physically and mentally.

While I struggled to regain a shred of dignity, wishing that my skimpy t-shirt was actually a huge woolly jumper, with a polo neck which I could yank right up over my crimson face, my photographer explained that a consultant would now assess my x-rays and he’d decide on what the next step would be, and so back to the plastic chairs I went. About five excruciatingly long minutes later a nurse arrived and unexpectedly announced that I was to be taken away for an ultrasound scan. As someone who has faced the joys of pregnancy in the past I’m fully aware of what ultrasound is, but I wasn’t expecting to have it done to my top half. Paranoia set in once again.

As I lay down half naked in yet another small room, the humourless, elderly, male consultant asked if I’d ever had this done before. Not wishing to elaborate on whatever alcohol-fuelled party games I may, or may not have, indulged in during my hedonistic youth I simply muttered something along the lines that I’d had children and was therefore familiar with the process. The obligatory cold gel was unceremoniously squirted onto me, making me flinch, and I was poked and prodded some more before finally hearing the words I’d been longing to hear for the past few hellish days; “There’s nothing to worry about”. Phew! If the consultant had been slightly more user-friendly I’d have hugged him, and I admit to being more than a little tearful at my healthy verdict. My previously gloomy other half suddenly looked as if all of his Christmases had come at once on receiving the good news, and at last, it was back to the tiny side-room with two doors for the final word from the breast care nurse that my lump, or, as the ultrasound showed, lumps in the plural, were nothing sinister.

I can’t begin to explain what a heavy weight this had been on my shoulders over the comparatively brief period of time between that less-than-relaxing evening bath and getting the all-clear, and how lucky I feel that I can go off and enjoy my life, unlike so many unfortunate women, and a tiny but equally important proportion of men, who aren’t as privileged as me. So, until I get the age-related call-up for my routine mammogram once I hit my half-century, I shall endeavour to enjoy my baths and be utterly grateful that while I can’t exactly give Jordan a run for her money, and my boobs may indeed follow the adage that ‘more than a handful’s a waste’, they’re perfectly fit and healthy, which is plenty good enough for me. 

G.P. Appointment...

Sods law dictates that whenever you are en route to a doctor’s appointment, your ailment seems to completely vanish. So much so, that the act of making an appointment to see your GP should be published in The Lancet as a drug-free cure for all disorders. In my case, it was not so much disappear completely, but it was a far cry from the hideous pain I had been suffering with my bad neck over the past week and a half.

My local doctor’s surgery has recently become all new-fangled. When I rang up to book an appointment I was treated to a brand new automated selection; press 1 for a medical emergency (although, in my opinion, 999 is a far easier number to remember than my 6 digit surgery number when faced with a dire medical situation), press 2 for appointments, which is what I should’ve done, had curiosity not got the better of me, wondering how many options they were going to give me before they ran out, press 3 to speak to a nurse, press 4 if you are in need of a repeat prescription, press 5…..oh well, I’d had enough of that now and pressed 2 (assuming that there was an almost infinite amount of options, the final one being press 999 if you have now lost the will to live).

Not only had I been automated with regards to the landline, my local surgery now sends appointment reminders by text exactly 24 hours before your allotted time, which is hard luck for those who have yet to be dragged kicking and screaming into the 21^st century and do not possess a smart new Nokia. Luddites will simply have to rely on the old fashioned methods of using a diary.

I arrived at the surgery five minutes early, to avoid an encore of a previous encounter with a receptionist, who scolded be for turning up a whole two minutes late and therefore putting their entire system out of kilter. I was met my a lady wearing a rather smart navy blue cardigan, who was leaning over the reception desk, frantically pointing at a big white screen on the wall in front of me. This peculiar mime act was my introduction to the new computerised, touch screen, booking in system, a.k.a. the DIY receptionist.

There was an exciting selection of languages to choose from, and, despite the temptation to test them all, I opted to select English. I was rewarded with “Welcome” displayed on the screen, swiftly followed by the choice of male or female. Well, the last time I checked I was a lady, so female it is. Next I had to use a number pad to tap out my year of birth, then I had to select my month of birth, and, you guessed it, I was then asked for my day of birth! Hoorah, it finally recognised who I am and I was instructed to take a seat alongside all the other automated patients in the waiting room. Good job I had arrived early as I was now only moments away from being late. Isn’t technology a wonderful thing?

As I plonked my backside on the only available chair, stuck right next to the giant triffid in the corner, I couldn’t fail to notice the massive tv screen located at the far end of the room. Rather hoping for something cheery to watch while I waited, I was highly disappointed to discover that for my viewing pleasure was an endless stream of medical-related adverts. Have I thought about my holiday jabs? Am I depressed? Have I got diabetes? Do I need help to quit smoking? Am I pregnant? Did I book my flu jab? The list seemed endless.

Suddenly, the entire screen turned canary yellow, accompanied by a very loud doorbell sound, and someone’s name flashed up in huge black letters! It appears that you are no longer called to your appointment by a kindly nurse or by a red light and buzzer combination. Your full name, along with the name of your GP and your allocated room number are displayed for all to see, thus ending any quaint notions of anonymity. Thank goodness you are spared the excruciating humiliation of seeing your medical woe announced to all and sundry.  I must admit to being a tad shocked at such a blatant lack of privacy, and now sat in dread of the moment that my own name would be emblazoned on a big yellow screen for one and all to see. Although I am not a fugitive from the law, and have nothing to fear from others being aware of my presence, I do not seek fame and fortune and therefore do not require my name to appear on a huge public television screen.

While I pondered upon this annoyance, wondering if this would put me at risk of credit card cloning or spam emails, and whatever happened to patient confidentiality, my attention became focussed on the fact that I was the only person in the room not hacking up a lung. On every available seat was all manner of individuals, apparently stricken with the recently reported flu epidemic. Despite warnings on tv and radio along with notices in the local and national press to remain quarantined at home, unless it became a medical emergency, the world and its wife had turned up to my local surgery this morning, and were now filling the room in which I sat with highly contagious germs. The flu virus had obviously rendered them illiterate, as the walls of the waiting room were practically smothered in huge posters telling people to stay away if they had caught this particular annual affliction.

The thought then crossed my mind that each and every one of these sickly individuals had touched that big white screen before I arrived, and now the forefinger on my right hand was undoubtedly contaminated with millions of little bugs, just waiting for me to succumb to their evil. I frantically rummaged about in my handbag and, as luck would have it, I discovered a travel pack of wet wipes that had been sitting in there since a summer holiday in Cyprus 6 months earlier. See, women should never clear out their handbags as you never know when you might need something that’s stashed in there. My germ phobia, induced by crowds of ill people in the vicinity, usually forbids me to thumb through previously owned, and sneezed on, copies of Women’s Own or Angling News, and the last thing I need is a new bacterial woe to concern myself with.

As I anxiously continued to disinfect my spotlessly clean finger another thought crossed my mind. What about all the airborne germs? I had no choice, I just had to zip up my fleece as far as it would go and yank it up over my face. I must’ve looked a real sight for sore eyes, a mad woman buried up to her eyelashes in a thick jumper, frantically rubbing her finger with a baby wipe. No wonder the small child, who until now had simply been a minor, snotty-nosed irritation, as it read out loud to its flu-ridden mother “A is for apple, B is for box…C is presumably for cough” was now grabbing onto her ailing parent’s leggings screaming like a demon. I must’ve been a terrifying sight, however, I wasn’t going to allow the guilt of traumatising a pre-schooler to come between me and my germ blockade, so I simply ignored her wails and stared intently at the adverts for factor 50 sun lotion, which were now appearing on the huge screen in front of me.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see a tiny little old lady, who was barely able to push her zimmer frame through the heavy double doors, struggling with understanding the concept of futuristic touch-screen technology. Clearly confused, and in obvious need of assistance, the becardiganed woman finally abandoned her Marcelle Marceau impression, and reluctantly wandered over to help the poor dear out.

After what seemed an eternity, and just before I was about to pass out from heatstroke wrapped in my fleecey cocoon, the ridiculously loud doorbell sound, which accompanied the vast yellow on-screen written announcement, alerted everyone within a mile that my GP was finally requesting my presence in room 3. Now, I wonder what it was I came here for?