I know it could be worse.

I almost cried at the hospital today.  It was not out of pain, though my foot has suddenly gone from being blissfully walkable to excruciatingly sore in the past few days.  No, these would have been tears of a control freak who has lost her grip on her own life; tears of frustration.

Today was my fifth hospital visit in ten days.  Things could be worse.  I could have burned both feet.  I could have burned the bottom of my foot, rather than just the entire surface of it.  I could be bedridden.  I could be dying of starvation in a small Ethiopian village.  I could have a huge, outstanding hospital bill or be refused treatment for lack of insurance (both of which would most likely be the case, were I still in the States).

Things could also be better.  I could not have an ongoing injury that is keeping me from working.  I could have a job that offered sick pay.  I could be rich.  I could be so rich that I wouldn't be having panic attacks about missing so much work at shitty hospitality jobs that I do not love.  I could be so rich that I could afford a butler!  A butler could go to the shops for me and bring me more codeine and call me "Miss," because I would instruct him not to call me "Ma'am."  A butler would mean that I wouldn't have to go on impeding the healing process by walking around on this stupid foot so much.

When the nurse unwrapped my foot for the fourth time today and it looked EXACTLY the same as it did the last two times — raw, pink, bleeding, swollen, generally really ugly — and then said, "Oh, wow, I didn't expect it to be that big," (one of the joys of a university hospital: you never seem to see the same person twice) I did want to cry.  

I wanted to scream, "Has no one made notes about the size or location of this burn?!  Why am I asked every single time where exactly on my foot it is and what they said last time?!  This is not my job!"  Of course, they usually ask out of kindness, to be sure not to graze it when they're cutting the bandages off.

I was spoiled for the first couple of days of my injury.  After my initial A&E visit, the pain was manageable with ibuprofen.  I was walking all over the place and marvelling at my proactivity in the face of adversity.  I shot a short film!  I worked two bartending shifts!  I told the anecdote of my pasta foot (I called it pasta foot) with the humour and distance of one who has made it through the worst part.

Even my first follow-up appointment on Tuesday morning was fun.  I was in a relatively good mood, despite having waited an hour for a scheduled appointment.  My nurse was goofy and friendly and from somewhere like Germany or Denmark.  I didn't ask him, but we had a good rapport as he "gently, gently" (his words) burst my new blisters and peeled away all the skin from the top of my foot like so much Elmer's glue.  It was dead!  It didn't even hurt!  I was convinced that all nurses were people I would like to get drinks with.  Maybe Maeve and Heke— (his name started with something like that) and I would go out together when this was all over and have good laugh about lancing blisters on my left foot!

Whereas walking around was good for my foot for the first few days — the nurse today explained that the increased circulation would have created more fluid under the "blister roof" (that is totally what it is called), thereby making the dead skin easier to remove on that second visit — it is now just bringing a lot of fluid (blood) to my foot and preventing it from healing in a timely manner.  She recommended staying off of it as much as possible.  She gave me crutches.

I always wanted crutches when I was a kid.  Or maybe it was a broken leg.  I think what I really wanted was the feeling of importance and popularity that comes with a cast and a Sharpie pen.  Crutches, as it turns out (and as everyone knows who has ever used them) are not so much fun.

The Standard European Issue are the ones with arms holes and handles at the front, as opposed to the more common underarm American model.  They are easier on the armpits, but harder on the hands.

I have only used them for one journey, so far: the one from the hospital onto the bus, the bus to my estate, and finally, the climb up the stairs to my flat.  That last bit was a bit awkward.  I hate them already for slowing me down and making me acknowledge that I have a real injury.

In an effort to stay positive, I will now make a list of things I can do from my current position with my foot elevated (I want to say levitated every time, it's so weird) on the back of the couch:

1. Write a novel
2. Eat snacks (which Jeeves should be brining me shortly)
3. Apply for jobs that offer sick pay
4. Find the humour in all of this and work it into my stand-up set
5. Watch disaster films and be glad that that hasn't happened
6. Become a caricature cartoonist
7. Do crunches

I threw that last one in because I am missing exercise, particularly cycling everywhere.  I don't even like doing crunches.  If you have any more suggestions for activities to be executed from a semi-recumbant position, please do let me know!

TG for the NHS

Last Sunday night was supposed to be a quiet one.  The bar I supervise was pretty dead, so I closed early and was home by 8pm.  My plan was to make some dinner and some food for the next day, and get a good night's sleep before my day-long rehearsal leading up to Tuesday's film shoot.

When I got home, though, two of my flatmates, Jerome and Lisa, were about to head out for a Sunday evening pint, and they convinced me (there was very little arm twisting involved) to go along.  We had a lovely drink together at the Hackney Pearl, and then I came home to make my pasta for the next day.

The three of us crowded up the kitchen, and when I took my pasta off the stove and over to the sink, I realised someone had moved the colander.  I set the pasta down on the edge of the counter, and as I reached for the colander, the pot teetered and then fell onto the floor, boiling water landing all over my foot.

I proceeded to swear and jump up and down as Lisa shouted, "Cold water! Cold water!"  I hobbled up the stairs, tearing of my socks and jeans en route, and stuck my foot under the cold tap in the bathtub.  My foot looked red and the skin was puckering a little in the middle, but it didn't seem too bad, and as long as it was in the water, it didn't hurt.  Still, Lisa thought it was best to look on NHS (that's the National Health Service, for all you Americans) Direct website for advice.  She asked me if the burn was bigger than the size of my hand.  I said it was the size of my foot, so yes?  This response to the symptoms questionnaire prompted her to dial 999 (that's like 911, guys).

So Lisa calls 999, and we're told that for burns, we need to go to casualty, a.k.a. A&E (Accidents and Emergencies, not Arts and Entertainment).  I reluctantly agree, as it's now after midnight and I'm supposed to be getting a good night's sleep before my rehearsal, plus my foot looks totally fine... until I take it out of the cold bath.

As I wait for Lisa to pull her car around, my foot really starts to hurt.  It feels a little bit like it's on fire.  I limp into some shorts, and Jerome insists on carrying me down the stairs, which is a little bit awkward, but very kind of him.  He puts his arm around my waist as I protest, but then cave and tuck up my knees like a child being lifted over a fence.  I get into the car and resume my string of expletives.

By the time we arrive and Lisa drops me at the entrance to A&E, my foot has started to come out in some pretty gnarly blisters.  I limp through what turns out to be the wrong entrance, and a sympathetic security guard, to whom I whimper, "I burned my foot," directs me next door.  I get to the reception desk and wince while I wait to be checked in.

Among the information I was asked to provide were my name, my date of birth, what the hell I did to my foot, and my postcode.  In what still seems a small miracle to me every time I seek medical care in this country, there was no question of insurance.  In all of my vacillating about my trip to the hospital, a consequential £20,000 bill was not one of my concerns.  The guy at reception didn't even ask for proof that I live in the UK, which is good, because I was way too busy trying not to cry when I left the house to think about bringing my passport.

I was told that the wait for a doctor was 3 to 4 hours, at which point I nearly did cry.  I was assured a nurse would see me within about 20 minutes, though, to assess the damage.

I couldn't sit still in the waiting room.  The inside of the hospital felt unbearably warm, and the only way to alleviate some of the throbbing pain in my foot was (strangely) to walk around on it.  Lisa stayed in the waiting area while I stepped outside to pace with my one bare foot on the cool pavement.  There were three police officers just inside the double doors, and one of them must have taken pity on me in my crazed, wincing patrol of the A&E entrance.

He came out and said, "Jesus, what did you do?  Burned your foot pretty badly."

"Yep," I whimpered, "boiling water."

"And they just told you to walk around on it?"

"No, they didn't have anything for it, and this is the only thing that's making it feel slightly better at the moment."

"Just a minute," the blessed man responded, "I might have a burn mask or something in the car."

And so the lovely police officer, my third hero of the night (after Lisa — for advice in the case of an emergency and hospital transportation — and Jerome — for feeding me dinner whilst my foot bathed and then carrying me down the stairs), fetched a burn mask from his car, escorted me back inside to a seat, and wrapped my foot in the gloriously cool, tea tree oil soaked cloth.

My remaining wait time, which came closer to 45 minutes in the end, was much more pleasant as the three kind officers joked with me.  When I heard my name called, I shouted "Yes!" and practically leapt out of my seat.  I apologised for the mess of oil I had left on the ground, but I was told not to worry about it, and Lisa helped me into the consultation room.

The nurse's reaction to my foot was also something along the lines of "Jesus, that looks like it really hurts," which was simultaneously comforting (as an affirmation of my pain) and worrying (as this woman sees a lot of injuries).  I described the incident to her, confirmed that I have no allergies that I know of, and watched her type all of this into her computer.  She finished, paused, looked at my foot again and said, "I'll be right back."

I knew this was the moment of truth.  Either she would come back and say I'd need to wait three hours to see a doctor, or she'd come back and sort it out herself.  I said a small prayer to no one in particular.

The nurse returned a minute or two later with a cart full of dressing.  As she wheeled it through the door, she explained, "I'm a Nurse Practioner, so I'm going to dress your foot for you."  I don't think I've ever been so grateful.

"I'm going to clean your foot, burst all the blisters, and dress it for you," she said gently.  I think she could see my eyes go big and crazy when she said the bit about popping the gigantic, numerous blisters on my sore foot.  She assured me, "Don't worry, all of that skin is dead, you won't feel anything."

WARNING, if you're squeamish, I wouldn't read the next few paragraphs.  The nurse was right: I didn't feel a thing as she lanced and drained each oversized pustule.  It stung a bit as she cleansed the wound with saline solution, but the co-codamol she had given me before going to town on my foot was starting to kick in, at least in its giggle-inducing side effects.

As she explained to me that all of that skin would need to be removed — probably when my foot was schedule to be redressed Tuesday morning — I started telling her how great she was, and how amazing it was that she was doing this for me.  I had asked her earlier whether she was just starting or just finishing her shift (it was the latter), so I felt that I had laid the groundwork for a real friendship.  Flattery is clearly the best way to make friends, so I carried on asking about her history as an A&E nurse (she's been doing it for 12 years, it's what she always wanted to do), and telling her what a great job she was doing with my foot.  As we were leaving, I asked her for her name (Maeve), and I might have asked her for her number if Lisa hadn't escorted me out of the room.

To be fair, Lisa (who was not high on codeine) agreed that Maeve was an especially personable and fun nurse, and also conceded the next day that it would be great to get a drink with her some time.

As we left the room, though, I looked deep into the eyes of my fourth hero of the night and said, "Thank you, Maeve.  You were amazing."  And I meant it.  Maeve is amazing, and so is not having to pay a penny for a late-night emergency hospital visit.  I will happily watch my National Insurance contributions reduce the size of my paycheck if it means my foot does not fester into a pile of gout.  Or whatever happens to burned feet that go untreated.

Publishing old posts: Installment One

Have I mentioned that I have a bad habit of abandoning projects?

As evidence of that fact as well as an effort to rectify my wrongs, I am going to start publishing old, forgotten posts, some of them in fledging form.

The first of these dates back to late 2010.  Here goes:

crise /kRiz/ (n. fem. French)
1. crisis
2. attack, e.g. heart attack (une crise cardiaque) /yn kRiz kaRdjak'/
3. fit, e.g. epileptic fit/seizure (une crise d'épilepsie) /yn kRiz depilɛpsi'/


I once read or heard somewhere that the English language contains thousands (maybe even tens of thousands? -- I don't want to exaggerate) more words than than its Germanic and Latin-based counterparts.  This makes sense, etymologically speaking, since English began as a Germanic language, but then -- due to the success of the Norman invasion and the development of an Anglo-Norman tongue -- was heavily influenced by and came to include much of the French language.  I never did take that A. P. European History Exam, but I remember a thing or two from the class. 


My initial attraction to the French language had to do with an accident of pubescent loyalty.  It was 1998, I was 13, and my junior high school was piloting three first-year language courses: French, Spanish, and German.  The latter, with its hackingly harsh consonants and emotional range of expression spanning stern to outraged, never even crossed my radar.


My best friend, Casey, was all about French: wasn't it a beautiful language? The guttural R resonating pleasantly in the throat, the ã and õ vowels exiting through the nose, creating an altogether unfamiliar n sound? 


I, on the other hand, was utterly convinced by the practicality of Spanish.  Why would I study a language as useless as French?  Didn't she know that within fifty years, half the country would speak Spanish as a first language?  Didn't she want a job after college?  It was a no brainer.


We spent the end of 7th grade debating the subject (as was our wont), but when it came time to choose my fall classes, Casey's bff status outweighed the long-term benefits of studying a language that would ultimately give me a leg-up in the 'real world.'  Besides, France seemed like a nice place to visit one day.


The matter was settled, and we spent the summer debating more frivolous things, like whether or not Rocky I through V merited our repeated viewing (I the nay-sayer, in this case).  She introduced me to Alfred Hitchcock, instilling in me a lifelong fear of low-flying birds.  We sneaked romance novels off her step-mom's shelf and read them by flashlight under the covers at sleepovers, prepared at any moment for the approaching footsteps of her father, ready to burst out of the covers and make a convincing show of staring at the wall.  French class just never came up.


Day one of 8th grade arrived, and I found myself in Ms. A's third-period French class, alone.  Not alone, alone -- there were a good 27 or so other students, many of whom I knew -- but distinctively lacking my best friend.  There had been some mistake, I was sure; she had gone to the wrong classroom.  It wasn't until later that day, when I saw her her in Advanced English, that the matter could be cleared up: she hadn't been in French because she had gone to Spanish class.


As it turned out, my powers of persuasion had been as strong as hers: we had convinced each other to take the classes that we were respectively promoting, without ever realizing our success. 


And thus began my love affair with French.  I suppose I could have switched to Spanish after that first class, or Casey could have moved over to French, but we were both too stubborn to change our minds.  Besides, I was sold -- completely taken in by the elementary aspects of this new and exciting language.


It's now 2010, the year that brought me my 25th birthday, and though that enthusiastically smart, but insecure, 13-year old seems like some


the duality of words

And that's where it ends!  An unfinished sentence followed by an undeveloped thought.

I imagine that the former would have ended with something like, "... distant memory, she is still a part of me, if only in that she brought me to where I am today [and am today, in 2012]: living in Europe, ever seeking to improve my comprehension of the French language."

As for the undeveloped idea, I think I would have made a clever and seamless connection back to the beginning of the post.

One of my favourite things about French words is their multiple meanings, due largely to their relatively small numbers.  Because French has so many fewer words than English, many of them necessarily have several definitions.

Vague /vag/ (n. fem.) means both "vague" (as one might expect), and "wave".  I love that.

I think I probably would have gone on to describe whatever my personal crise of the day would have been.  Late 2010?  Let's see, in 2010, I moved from Ireland (where I had essentially been freeloading -- unemployed and work-permit-less -- with my boyfriend at the time) to New York, where I moved in with my incredibly generous friends Neimah and Audrey.  What was meant to be a couple of weeks in their spare room/office turned into four months as I worked as a dancer/promoter in Times Square, saved money, and awaited my visa to live and work in the U.K.  I then moved from New York to Scotland, where I did find full-time work in a fabric store and settle into a new routine with the same bf.  Full-time work in a new country, however, after months of working my ass off to save enough money in the States to (as it turned out) last me about six weeks in the U.K. meant that all creative ventures were put on hold.  I wonder what my crisis might have been.

I might also have mentioned how I first learned the that crise had more than one meaning.  In my first couple of months in France, I was living with a host family.  One day, ma petite soeur came running to my room to say that Papa had had a crise.  He was okay now, and Maman was looking after him.  I couldn't figure out what kind of crisis required aftercare.  I figured it must be existential.  It turned out he was epileptic. 

So there you have it!  One post uncovered, unfurled, and perhaps undone.  Here's to finishing what I start.

One down!

A winter-weight, autumn-coloured scarf, just in time for spring!

Scarf!

Knit on 10mm needles.  Easy peasy.  So much more yarn to go.

The hostess with the mostess (income)

Jobs!  I have many.  Hostessing is one of them.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I once showed up to a hostessing job only to find out on arrival that I would be serving light snacks and champagne to a group of European businessmen.  Oh whoops, I forgot to mention the fact of four-inch heels on the second story of a moving, vintage double-decker bus (thankfully not open-topped).

A little bit like this, I think.

That was exciting!  The thing about walking -- and let's just forget about the shoes and the service for a minute -- on a moving double-decker bus is that you cannot do it and NOT fall over UNLESS you are holding onto a pole or railing at all times.  Now, for fun, let's add those other factors back in!  Shoes just tall enough to make standing up straight contingent on a sideways bend of the neck; one hand holding a rail for stability: that leaves one hand free to hold a tray of snacks, a bottle of champagne, empty glasses, or anything else that an amused European businessman might try to hand you as you stumble past.  And stumble we did.  Luckily there were only two of us, but passing in the aisle was no easy feat.  London traffic meant that the bus jerked to a halt approximately every seven seconds, causing heroic and undoubtedly amusing lunges, grabs, and near-businessmen-lap-tumbles for stability. Miraculously, neither a drop of drink nor a single nut hit the ground on our account.

This was certainly my most ridiculous hostessing shift to date, but it was exemplary of the general experience in one way: I didn't have to do much, and I got paid stupidly well.  In that particular instance, we were booked for four hours, but only actually worked for about 40 minutes.  We got paid for four hours (standard minimum for agency work).

This is what does my head in about the hospitality industry.  The people who work the hardest get paid the least.  When I am bartending, wine-waiting, or serving food, I am generally running my ass off and taking way more crap from customers than I do as a hostess.  I have to think on my feet, problem-solve, lift heavy things, not spill red wine on fancy customers, and smile through it all.  For all of this work, I get paid a fraction of what I do to tease up my hair, wear some flattering makeup and maybe a dress, and smile at customers.  Same smile!  Same face!  Less pay.  The kitchen porters who are elbow-deep in greasy water get paid even less than my waitress self does.

Of course, the perversion of it all is that I enjoy the grunt work more.  I would so much rather run my ass off than stand around in heels, I just want to be paid the same.

Mad Crushin'

Jay Smooth, Internet Boyfriend.




Social consciousness is so sexy.

Let's knit some shit

Is the name of my new Saturday morning CBeebies show!

Or it should be.

Can I confess that I sometimes watch I Can Cook on CBeebies -- a channel, according to Wikipedia, aimed at children under 6 -- because I find it inspiring to watch small children crack eggs and learn what effect bicarbonate has on their baked goods?  Also, watching children's television is an excellent means of procrastination, which brings me back to my original point.

I have this bad habit of abandoning projects, not finishing what I start, getting distracted by new and more exciting ventures (or adorable 3-year olds in aprons), et cetera.  I do this with my writing and acting pursuits, though I've improved dramatically in the past couple of years at kicking myself into gear and making things happen.  On certain days (today, for example), I take my avoidance to the next level by refusing to clean my room, shower, go for a run, get dressed, and all of the other general practices of human beings that I was planning for myself.  I worked 15 hours yesterday.  I deserve a day of lazing.

Lucky for me, I found an ironic tactic for ignoring all of my other obligations/goals for the day: my backlog of knitting projects!

Yarn!

My knitting habits (or lack thereof) are certainly a shining example of my love of starting what I may never finish.  This problem was only exacerbated by my brief stint as a full-time employee of a fabric store in Glasgow.  I worked in the haberdashery and eventually took over the ordering of stock in the wool/haberdashery department, which basically meant that I had license to bring in whatever yarn I thought I -- ahem, I mean the customers -- would enjoy most.  My motives were thinly-veiled.  My employee discount was put to frequent use.

So now I have a bad full of wool!  More than one bag, if I'm being honest.  I have several lovely pattern books, amazing intentions involving cardigans and cabling, and one mostly-finished, but never-assembled bolero.  I have a back, two front panels, cap sleeves, and a trim, but I just can't seem to get around to putting it all together.

I also have lots of fat quarters of quilting cotton and an extremely well-traveled but idle sewing machine.  Working in a fabric store made me fancy myself something of a seamstress, but now that I've bothered to transport the aforementioned machine across a continent and an ocean, I seem to have lost interest.

My mother, clearly an enabler in my craft hoarding, recently mailed me a box of yarn that she wasn't using.

Thanks, Mom.  Thanks a lot.

So, new goal for today: get knitting.  Much better than my plan to clean out my closet, which is how I was accosted by my offending stash in the first place.  

But first I am going to get off my ass and go for a run.  I swear.  Or maybe just knit one more row of this hideous scarf... 

This post has been brought to you by Procrastination.