Ringtones

It's a particular source of frustration to me that I wake up at the same time on a Saturday morning as I do during the week, and rarely get back to sleep, regardless of the lateness of the hour at which I went to bed on Friday night. Such has been the case this morning, though on the brighter side it's equally a relief to realise that I don't have to get up and go to work.

This morning something else was impinging on my consciousness as well: a long, steady ringing tone, medium in register, occasionally fading for a brief moment before returning, sometimes seeming to come from the left, other times from the right. In other words, the internal orchestra that comprises my tinnitus (not that I want to give it too grandiose a description or anything) appears to have a temporary new addition.

I'd almost forgotten what this was like, lying there and listening in, trying to distinguish between external sounds and internal ones. I've become so used to the repertoire of ringing, whining and whistling that goes on, that for the vast majority of the time it really doesn't bother me at all. It used to scare the shit out of me: I'd be constantly finding somewhere quiet to sit and listen and work out whether the noises were fading or getting louder or whether there were any new ones (which would mean another nail in the coffin for my hearing). These days I'd probably find it more unsettling if the ringing disappeared.

The new tone I heard this morning shouldn't last. It was triggered by going to see a film last night: Control, the dramatisation of the life of Joy Division singer Ian Curtis. Normally I'd have the earplugs in for loud music (and the music is done particularly well in the film) but on this occasion I just couldn't bring myself to do so. Much like the handling of the rest of the film there was something very satisfying in how the rawness and immediacy of the band's live performance was captured.

I normally steer clear of biopics: if the subject is one you're very familiar with, I find it tends to be an unsatisfactory experience, defined as much as anything by what has been missed out, misrepresented or glossed over. Not so in this case: apart from one or two slight irritations, I can't see how it could be improved upon. My friends and I were talking about it long after it had finished, which is always a good sign: as is my willingness to tolerate the ringing in my ears.

Testing

so, does this work?

Salivating

Because this is being released next week, apparently.

I do hope it's good.

*drums fingers for next seven days, waiting patiently*

Is it next week yet?

*continues drumming fingers*

Is it next week yet?

*drums fingers ad infinitum*

Is it next week yet?

*drums fingers even more than ad infinitum if such a thing is possible*

Update: is it next week yet here's a review of it for those interested.

Stream of consciousness (ish)

I'd threatened (if that's not too harsh a word) to anna mr that I would do a stream-of-consciousness post after she did one, a few weeks ago now. So here it is. It seems a good idea to do it right now because, following the previous post I wrote, and the wonderful responses it got from everyone, I've remained deep in thought about the whole blog-thing in relation to what I do and don't reveal. This has moved on to reflecting on what I choose to reveal - or not - about people around me.

I really don't want to think about it too much or it will stop me from writing about anything whatsoever. It would prevent me from writing about my mother, in whose company I've spent the weekend. It would also prevent me from writing about my grandmother, who lives close by to my mother and who will soon, all being well, reach the rather fine age of 92.

Again it feels like a question of motivation: I shouldn't really have any worries about privacy issues since no one here knows that much about me apart from what I've written, and anyone who does know more about me certainly doesn't know any of my family.

So where's the problem?

I tend to worry about these things, that's where the problem is.

But I want to write about how twisted my mother's hands are from arthritis. Not that arthritis is restricted to her hands (to understate the hold that the condition has on her): but they are, maybe, the area that I focus on other than her face. Hands are pretty crucial things after all. I'm used to seeing hers as they are now. I can't imagine the pain and frustration.

I used to feel guilty for not helping her out more. I go back home every so often and get mothered, and for a good while I used to think, I should be cooking for her, I should be offering to help out with whatever needs to be done. I changed my opinion, though, or came to a point of realisation: whenever she wants something done, she will ask. Otherwise she'll damn well get on with doing it herself, and she keeps as much independence as she possibly can.

She had an operation on one of her hands some time ago, to try and get the individual joints realigned to a more manageable degree. I rang her regularly and offered to go and see her at weekends if she needed help with anything at all: she responded with a list of jobs which needed doing, and she then described her frankly ingenious methods of getting round the problem of each individual task with the temporarily-limited means at her disposal . In other words, she didn't need my help or anyone else's, thank you very much: or if she did, as mentioned, she would ask.

My grandmother is becoming increasingly dependent on her: but at her (my grandmother that is) remarkable age, the fact that she still lives in her own home, the one she moved into when married, is quite something as far as I'm concerned. She's getting more unsteady as time goes on, and not just physically. At the end of each visit I say "I'll see you soon" or words to that effect. I'm increasingly conscious that there's only so many more times I'll be saying that: while that sounds like a sad thought, it's tempered by the fact that whatever happens, (to resort to a necessary cliche), she's had a damned good innings.

I'm often reminded of something my late grandfather said one birthday in the final few years of his life. He had a lengthy spell of illness and was clearly ever more aware of his own mortality, and one of his apparent coping strategies was to specialise in a fine brand of gallows humour. For a birthday present I'd bought him a new shaving kit. As he opened the box and saw what it was his eyes lit up, he smiled at me and said with enthusiasm, "Thanks! This will just about last me!" I remember bursting out laughing though being highly aware of the the truth behind the humour.



Note: I have to be honest (well I don't, but I'm going to be), this wasn't completely stream-of-consciousness, I had to stop and think and change a couple of things, but it's a lot more off-the-cuff than most of what I've written previously. It's a lot more spontaneous than next Thursday's post is shaping up to be, put it that way.

Advice welcome

A small favour, if anyone can grant it.

Does anyone have any clear guidelines on confidentiality issues with regards to blogging? There's a post I'd like to write, relating to someone I knew when I worked in a particular setting and they were a client there.

But at present, although I think the story is worth telling (and is fully respectful of the client), I feel uncomfortable. I think it's partially because I could do with a clear sense of where I stand in terms of confidentiality (maybe I'm wrong, but it feels like a whole different ballgame online as opposed to within the context of work itself).

It's also because the very act of writing about a client - regardless of the context - feels somehow disrespectful and, almost by definition, constitutes a breach of trust.

But I still think the story is worth telling.

As mentioned, any advice or pointers in the right direction would be most welcome.

Award (2)

Yes, I'm positively swimming in the things now. Well, I've got 3 anyway - thanks be to djkirkby who has deemed me fit to receive an award for making her smile. Which seems to be no mean feat given that she has confessed to me on a previous post that she has no sense of humour.

Not that I, nor anyone else for that matter, should believe such a thing: there's plenty of fun and games to be had at her site, one of the latest being a rather bizarre game involving mice and tea (don't ask - just go to the site and have a go, it's tagged onto the end of Monday's post I think).

Well it's a very nice thing to have had another award, so thank you very much dj! I do appreciate it. I shall bestow this very same award onto but why?: reason being, straightforwardly enough, that many of her writings make me smile. Hopefully, these are the very same ones that are supposed to have that effect.

Spartacus

Before I deal with the very nice business of accepting yet another award, I thought I'd note that I attended a pub quiz tonight: the first time since I wrote this post.

I mentioned this to my prospective team members (sorry, you'll have to click on the link to get the context) and, although they liked the idea, we settled on a workable compromise and called our team "We're Spartacus." Sod's Law reared its ugly head, as we submitted our name and our fee, the quizmaster informed us that they'd had an entire round on Spartacus last week. Typical! Oh well: plus points tonight were that

a) we didn't come last (third from last in fact, which seems quite respectable given the competitors and the good at quizzes/good at life ratio)

b) thanks to a good showing in the music round, we ended up winning 8 pints for ourselves (for a team of four, so that works out at roughly 2 pints each, according to my calculations)

c) it was a pleasant diversion from the mania that occurred between the hours of 8.30am and 4.30pm (at which point I was at work)