It occured to me...
...that some of you might not so graciously point out, that I just obviously have rubbish taste. No denying that said taste in literature swerves rather dangerously towards the dodgy, but I still demand that my sensibilites by protected by a minimum level of acceptable rubbish. I'll take ludicrous plots, unbelievable poetic license, abrupt endings, pendantic exhortations, hallucinatory rants, crude construction.... I'll take a lot, but not BAD writing! You have to draw a line somewhere, and I do believe it is the sole responsibility of those who publish to maintain that standard. Why in hell have those glossy magazines otherwise??? So stick that in your pipe and smoke it! (assuming they still let you smoke in that part of the world)
.....rant over
I'm back.... :) Sheesh - now there's groundbreaking news!
Where was I? Oh yes, trash! The reason for my tirade - travel reading. I'm a lightweight when it comes to airport reading, so I tend to veer towards rubbishy romances (actually, the term is misleading - for you men out there, 'romance' these days is soft porn at a minimum, just without the pictures) or murder mysteries. Well, I have been round and about a fair bit of late, so decided I'd best acquire some reading material from amazon in an effort to slash profits at the airport bookshops, especially after the malta trip when i read my first Hello! or was it OK? Well, in either case, it sucked - all about preganant women, and whether tomkats baby was dressed better than brangelina's or that fruit salad of gewnnies... i mean, honestly - who cares?!?!? what happened to all that rude gosisp about who was sleeping with whom and such like?? This is why I'll never write a novel - it'll be like Vikram Chandra's by the kilo effort, without any blooming conclusion!
The point I was making, was that glossy pictures of posh/becks and assorted bacchas don't ring my bell, so I armed myself with a slew of trash for the next time... I mean, this is published goods. Instant credibility, right? Gah! I should have know when I read, correction made an attempt to read this IITan's effort: 'India - A journey through a healing civilisation' (I had to google it coz i couldn't remember his name or the books!) which is and I quote 'In 1997, on the fiftieth anniversary of India’s independence, Shashank Mani, an IIT alumnus, organized a train journey across India. The purpose – to get a sense of how the country had changed in the past fifty years of independence, and what needed to be accomplished in the future. On this twenty-two day journey, in a specially chartered train, were 200 Indians from different walks of life – young men and women whose commitment would help shape the country’s future.
Together they made a voyage of discovery that took them from the Jallianwala Bagh in Amritsar, an enduring symbol of the price of freedom, to Bodh Gaya, where Lord Buddha gained Enlightenment; from Tilonia, and Bunker Roy’s novel experiment in village development, to Ralegaon Siddhi, where Anna Hazare has wrought miracles in terms of economic growth, spiritual fulfi lment and education.
As they travelled, they discussed among themselves the issues that bothered them as citizens, and possible solutions. They came up with ideas on how best to fight corruption and kindle a new spirit of entrepreneurship. There was a reaffirmation of love for the country, tempered by an awareness of just how much more needed to be done, whether it was in population control or in protecting the environment. In a world suffering the first signs of an ‘industrial hangover’, the developmental models discovered during the journey offered the participants new and pragmatic alternatives.
As India enters its sixtieth year of independence – and as the original 1997 team plans one more ambitious journey across India – this story is a fitting reminder of where we once were and where we need to head.'
Yep, we love being verbose..anyway, the concept seemed interesting, but the style... well, there wasn't any. Somya tried. Aashish tried. I tried. Can't remember who managed the most number of pages, but don't think any of us reached double digits. It was just the most boring writing ever.... there was just no desire to turn the page, forget the words magically leaping off and grabbing you, taking you along for the ride. Abyssmal - so we kept waiting for someone to read it and tell us what it was all about. Still waiting....
It just seems that anyone can now all themselves an author and get published. Not by Papaji Publishing either... this one was Harper Collins. Hell - didn't anyone there read it??? Did all their editors keel over and die? How could anybody who reads, allow such dead writing to be printed on pages, bound and sold as a book to an unsuspecting public? Dunno. But I managed to give away my hard earned money on some more namunaas. This time, trash too. A romance novel that was just so badly written, that not only could I bring myself not to finish it (and this was post several stern admonishments to self about paisa vaisooli), I couldn't bring myself to carry it off the plane... let some poor sod think they've found a dirty book and suffer! Share and share alike - that's what I say!
The time after, something about werewolfs because I was fascinated by Patricia Briggs (now that's a bloody good writer!) - her style, humour and language... yeah well. I'll now wait till someone recommends something, borrow it to make sure, and then think about buying.
I'm not really expecting Munro or Woodhouse. They were geniuses. The stories irrelevant - you bought the books just for the sheer pleasure of how they arranged the words. Always the correct ones, in the most incredible order, tripping over each other in their haste to be read... how many times have you had to stop and put down the book just to finish laughing at a sentence.... read it over again, and get hysterical all over again. Or just to go back and read the sentence again, for the beauty the language afforded you. But surely, to read books that seem to be written by joyless authors isn't right. And I'm not referring to their state of happiness, but just the limitless joy of words and the imagery they create. I've read newspaper articles on the current state of the economy, that are more evocative, and actually make you want to read the next sentence despite the fact your portfolio is now worth less than your battered jeans and you wish you had done that Iceland holiday now instead of in August! Where are the editors? Isn't it their job to protect the public from such atrocity? ....... or is it just me? Kismet has forsaken me after all these years to make me reach for books you can't even feel pity for? What is going on................???????
Where was I? Oh yes, trash! The reason for my tirade - travel reading. I'm a lightweight when it comes to airport reading, so I tend to veer towards rubbishy romances (actually, the term is misleading - for you men out there, 'romance' these days is soft porn at a minimum, just without the pictures) or murder mysteries. Well, I have been round and about a fair bit of late, so decided I'd best acquire some reading material from amazon in an effort to slash profits at the airport bookshops, especially after the malta trip when i read my first Hello! or was it OK? Well, in either case, it sucked - all about preganant women, and whether tomkats baby was dressed better than brangelina's or that fruit salad of gewnnies... i mean, honestly - who cares?!?!? what happened to all that rude gosisp about who was sleeping with whom and such like?? This is why I'll never write a novel - it'll be like Vikram Chandra's by the kilo effort, without any blooming conclusion!
The point I was making, was that glossy pictures of posh/becks and assorted bacchas don't ring my bell, so I armed myself with a slew of trash for the next time... I mean, this is published goods. Instant credibility, right? Gah! I should have know when I read, correction made an attempt to read this IITan's effort: 'India - A journey through a healing civilisation' (I had to google it coz i couldn't remember his name or the books!) which is and I quote 'In 1997, on the fiftieth anniversary of India’s independence, Shashank Mani, an IIT alumnus, organized a train journey across India. The purpose – to get a sense of how the country had changed in the past fifty years of independence, and what needed to be accomplished in the future. On this twenty-two day journey, in a specially chartered train, were 200 Indians from different walks of life – young men and women whose commitment would help shape the country’s future.
Together they made a voyage of discovery that took them from the Jallianwala Bagh in Amritsar, an enduring symbol of the price of freedom, to Bodh Gaya, where Lord Buddha gained Enlightenment; from Tilonia, and Bunker Roy’s novel experiment in village development, to Ralegaon Siddhi, where Anna Hazare has wrought miracles in terms of economic growth, spiritual fulfi lment and education.
As they travelled, they discussed among themselves the issues that bothered them as citizens, and possible solutions. They came up with ideas on how best to fight corruption and kindle a new spirit of entrepreneurship. There was a reaffirmation of love for the country, tempered by an awareness of just how much more needed to be done, whether it was in population control or in protecting the environment. In a world suffering the first signs of an ‘industrial hangover’, the developmental models discovered during the journey offered the participants new and pragmatic alternatives.
As India enters its sixtieth year of independence – and as the original 1997 team plans one more ambitious journey across India – this story is a fitting reminder of where we once were and where we need to head.'
Yep, we love being verbose..anyway, the concept seemed interesting, but the style... well, there wasn't any. Somya tried. Aashish tried. I tried. Can't remember who managed the most number of pages, but don't think any of us reached double digits. It was just the most boring writing ever.... there was just no desire to turn the page, forget the words magically leaping off and grabbing you, taking you along for the ride. Abyssmal - so we kept waiting for someone to read it and tell us what it was all about. Still waiting....
It just seems that anyone can now all themselves an author and get published. Not by Papaji Publishing either... this one was Harper Collins. Hell - didn't anyone there read it??? Did all their editors keel over and die? How could anybody who reads, allow such dead writing to be printed on pages, bound and sold as a book to an unsuspecting public? Dunno. But I managed to give away my hard earned money on some more namunaas. This time, trash too. A romance novel that was just so badly written, that not only could I bring myself not to finish it (and this was post several stern admonishments to self about paisa vaisooli), I couldn't bring myself to carry it off the plane... let some poor sod think they've found a dirty book and suffer! Share and share alike - that's what I say!
The time after, something about werewolfs because I was fascinated by Patricia Briggs (now that's a bloody good writer!) - her style, humour and language... yeah well. I'll now wait till someone recommends something, borrow it to make sure, and then think about buying.
I'm not really expecting Munro or Woodhouse. They were geniuses. The stories irrelevant - you bought the books just for the sheer pleasure of how they arranged the words. Always the correct ones, in the most incredible order, tripping over each other in their haste to be read... how many times have you had to stop and put down the book just to finish laughing at a sentence.... read it over again, and get hysterical all over again. Or just to go back and read the sentence again, for the beauty the language afforded you. But surely, to read books that seem to be written by joyless authors isn't right. And I'm not referring to their state of happiness, but just the limitless joy of words and the imagery they create. I've read newspaper articles on the current state of the economy, that are more evocative, and actually make you want to read the next sentence despite the fact your portfolio is now worth less than your battered jeans and you wish you had done that Iceland holiday now instead of in August! Where are the editors? Isn't it their job to protect the public from such atrocity? ....... or is it just me? Kismet has forsaken me after all these years to make me reach for books you can't even feel pity for? What is going on................???????
What is going on??!!
I feel like one of those crochety pensioners, shuffling about, you know, they seem harmless enough, but sit next to them on the bus and you get a whiff of wet dog... it's those cardigans they wear. Lethal. I was going to have a bit of a rant about the good old days, when it seemed that publishing houses actually employed editors to ruthlessly destroy any illusions of grandeur a budding author might have had. Horror stories of reject letters by the kilos, battered and bloody dreams, endless re-writing to please your editor. The good old days. These days if you can masturbate after a fashion, you're an author - all it takes is two fingers.....!! It's gotten so bad, that even trashy novels of yore seem like literary masterpieces. I would continue, but my eyes seem to be following Gandhi's credo of non-cooperation... it's been a long day and my loverly sauterne is kicking in - so shall continue my tirade tomorrow - not to worry, I'll still be as infuriated...actually more so, given how mellow I am right now :-)... night night.
Another glorious day...
....with glaring sunshine glancing of gleaming windows, a deep, intensely blue sky, and yours truly flaunting fuschia toes in white sandals in readiness to forage for dimsums in chinatown. what could be better???
Ouch...!
talk about intensive. just spent four very interesting days at Chamonix, toasting in hungarian, portuguese, russian, dutch, polish and cockney, and now everything below the neck hurts...!! if you can take your mind out of the gutter for a fraction of a moment, retrieve that slathering tongue from the floor - let me elaborate. A C&W (that's where I work) training program for 'peyshaal peepuls', that almost didn't happen (would you believe a recall message to all the participants who were selected?!). Anyway, despite hard times, the company thought the program and us good enough an investment, and 22 of us made it.... each of us thinking, jeez - 4 days with people you don't know, ugh - what a nightmare way to spend your weekend. Well, that was what I was thinking anyway....and i couldn't have been more wrong!!!
utter humiliation, burning muscles, frustration, smugness, laughter, banter, annoyance, extreme competitiveness, unexpected encouragement and support, irritation, raised voices, sense of accomplishment, new tricks, old tricks, calories, snow capped mountains, ruined manicures, group hugs, espressos by the bucketful, exhaustion, teasing, pulled hamstrings, thick accents, toasts in 7 languages, abseiling, dependencies, dancing, patisserie to die for, stress, spiders webs, blindfolds, anger, champagne, competitiveness, sunshine and snow....and that's just scratching the surface.
the most intensive 4 day training course i've ever been on, the most effective, and the most rewarding.
the highlight had to be patrick from our belgian office with his 'listen to the client, talk to the client, think with the client'... all this with his foot up to his ear, mouth and head, in a standing position!! which lead to a ridiculous challenge of the cereal box - the trick being to bend down and pick up the box with your mouth, no hands involved, and tearing a strip off the box after each successful try. how low can you go???? not low enough without putting your hamstring in a shockingly compromising position as i discovered much to the greeks chagrin as that put an end to any bending over ;-)
utter humiliation, burning muscles, frustration, smugness, laughter, banter, annoyance, extreme competitiveness, unexpected encouragement and support, irritation, raised voices, sense of accomplishment, new tricks, old tricks, calories, snow capped mountains, ruined manicures, group hugs, espressos by the bucketful, exhaustion, teasing, pulled hamstrings, thick accents, toasts in 7 languages, abseiling, dependencies, dancing, patisserie to die for, stress, spiders webs, blindfolds, anger, champagne, competitiveness, sunshine and snow....and that's just scratching the surface.
the most intensive 4 day training course i've ever been on, the most effective, and the most rewarding.
the highlight had to be patrick from our belgian office with his 'listen to the client, talk to the client, think with the client'... all this with his foot up to his ear, mouth and head, in a standing position!! which lead to a ridiculous challenge of the cereal box - the trick being to bend down and pick up the box with your mouth, no hands involved, and tearing a strip off the box after each successful try. how low can you go???? not low enough without putting your hamstring in a shockingly compromising position as i discovered much to the greeks chagrin as that put an end to any bending over ;-)
Che fatica!
you do get rusty when you haven't written for a while... who'd have thunk it.. practise, practise, practise...!! just no getting away from it.
in case you were wondering....i just got back from dropping my little piece of paper off in the 'repeat prescriptions' box, which will be ready for collection after 5 pm today....
off to chamonix tomorrow, so unlikely to be carrying laptop, but then agian, who knows... think i might change my profile picture to iceland :) now there's a happy thought. except i'm on the wrong machine.... Che fatica!! (watapainwatapain)
in case you were wondering....i just got back from dropping my little piece of paper off in the 'repeat prescriptions' box, which will be ready for collection after 5 pm today....
off to chamonix tomorrow, so unlikely to be carrying laptop, but then agian, who knows... think i might change my profile picture to iceland :) now there's a happy thought. except i'm on the wrong machine.... Che fatica!! (watapainwatapain)
THE NHS...
...let me enlighten you on another English cornerstone of bureaucracy, the NHS. For the less learned, that would be the National Health Service. And as is the wont of such munificent institutions, the NHS is a behemoth. 60 years old and the world's (yes, the worlds!) largest publicly funded health service. Employer of more than 1.5 million people..... and as their website brags, only the Chinese People’s Liberation Army, Wal-Mart and the Indian Railways directly employ more people. Hah!! Not good enough to beat us, wot?!?! :P Who cares about Olympic medals - Indian railways rock! But I digress (such a recurring motif!). Their website also bandies about a rumour that it is also one of the most efficient, most egalitarian and most comprehensive health service in the world. Did I mention of the 1.5 million staff, only 35,000 or thereabouts are actually GP's??
Which is why, I believe it deserves all of it's 3.4 seconds of international fame on this blog. So, why now? Well, I've only just begun the great journey of discovery that is the NHS. While it's been three years since I moved to London... if you're as healthy as a horse, why would you voluntarily go register yourself for anything unless they were giving away free plasma TVs (free toaster was my first impulse, and as much as I love toast, didn't seem to be enough incentive)? You can take the desi out of the desh, but...... ! Let's just say, manhandling an oxygen tank while diving in Malta (yep, that's yet another blog that I've passed by), left me with a sore bicep, and a burning desire to explore what it meant to be part of the system.
Step 1. You have to register yourself with a GP. Ookie. I knew that. Because Somya and I have been talking about getting ourselves registered for the past year - the usual, we MUST get ourselves register, yes, yes, we MUST. How do you find a GP? Like you find anything else... you google it. :) they spew out a list of GP's in your locality of choice, stating whether they're accepting new patients. Did wonder what happens when they don't, but luckily I was spoilt for choice. Picked one that was closed to work and home and called them to ask what next..
Step 2. Show up with proof of address documents. As anything, postcode is the ultimate key to success, and when this bored yet harried receptionist tried to tell me I wasn't the right postcode for the centre, I just squinted à la Dirty Harry and insisted, 'I called and someone here said it was fine' and she surrendered the forms for me to fill. So cowed was she by my assertive personality that when I asked if she'd like to see my proof of address docs, she just waved them away dismissively. Postcode had won the day.
Step 3. I'd have thought the next logical step would be to set up an appointment with a doctor for a hello, here I am and this is my medical history. I was wrong. Ms. BHR asked if I wanted to see a doctor? (no, I'm here for the matinee performance of Swan Lake), and a free slot was found for me 3 days hence.
Step 4. Meet the doctor. Incidentally I have it on good authority (GP Dr. Vinod from Welton), that all NHS appointments with the GP can last only 10 minutes, so I'd optimistically fixed an early dinner. Except, I get to the health centre only to wait for 10 minutes, but hey presto, I get called and get to meet Dr. Veejay (not me, them..!), who types me up in his combuder, and tells me I'll have to go for physiotherapy. Bugger! that reminds me, I need to find my prescription.... don't worry, illumination a few steps down. But yes, I can either choose to (a) use the NHS, which means I will have to go whenever they give me an appointment or (b) go private, in which case I'd better have insurance, but it will allow me flexibility to pick times that suit me... I promise to check with the company insurance provider and report back, and he gives me a prescription for anti-inflammatories coz I'm cute :)
Step 5. Don't fill the prescription, and make calls to BUPA who the company insures us with, and they cheerfully tell me (after I pass the postcode test, naturally) that I am insured for physio as well - all I need is a doctors name to make sure he's BUPA registered.
Step 6. Again, a newbie NHS befuddlement scenario. I report back to the good Dr. Vee that I can go private, and he says Godspeed. Erm, so who do you recommend? I ask...well, that's entirely up to me it seems. I mull this. I go to the GP coz my arm still hurts. He suggests physio, preferably private, but I'm supposed to find my own physio if that's the case. Huh? Yep, the joys of going private - I can use a-n-y-o-n-e I want. Yipee! Except this wasn't my idea was it?! I think Dr. Veeejay senses my confusion, and suggests two names. Google to the rescue and more calls to BUPA to get their authorisation.
Step 7. Yay! Visit the physio, all good and happy and free :). What a great system if you have the patience! But could it last? Or was it just a forlorn dream?? Session 2, and physio chappie suggests I go back to the anti inflammatories for a week, but can't give me a prescription....
Step 8. Damn prescription!! When people ask what I miss most about India, Lakmé wafts past my eyes. Inexpensive, easily accessible waxing, manicure and pedicures!! With chai on the side... Still is what I miss most, but next on that list HAS to be OVER THE COUNTER DRUG DISPENSATION!! Who ever uses a prescription in India? Hell, you place an order over the phone and they'll drop it off. Waaaaah - give me my motherland. So, how does one get another one? Hah! Google blushes and hides, so I call Ms. BHR and she graciously outlines the procedure. On a piece of paper (no! really?), put down your name, the name of the doctor and what the prescription was for....if you drop it off before 11 am, you will get your prescription after 5 pm the same day. If it's after 11 am, then you'll just have to collect it after 5 pm the next day.....by which time, the pharmacy would have shut! You make a feeble attempt at sidestepping the bureaucracy 'is there no way I can get it tomorrow morning if I drop it off around 5 pm?' - but procedures have been cast in stone. You don't get to employ 1.5 million bodies by being flexible....
Step 9. Am now doing a manhunt for that prescription I never got filled. And if all else fails, breathe deeeeeeefly, and go back to Step 8.
P.S. - Someone told me about another wonderful offering of the NHS. The NHS direct - this is for when you're GP's not available, after hours, weekends and suchlike..... so you call, and find yourself talking to a nurse (400,000 of them and we wonder where all the Mallus disappear) who very professionally asks you to describe your symptoms. So a litany describing your near death situation ensues, encouraged by the thought of imminent relief. Voilà, the oracle speaks, her professional advice (and I swear I'm not making this up!), "I would recommend you go to your GP"
Which is why, I believe it deserves all of it's 3.4 seconds of international fame on this blog. So, why now? Well, I've only just begun the great journey of discovery that is the NHS. While it's been three years since I moved to London... if you're as healthy as a horse, why would you voluntarily go register yourself for anything unless they were giving away free plasma TVs (free toaster was my first impulse, and as much as I love toast, didn't seem to be enough incentive)? You can take the desi out of the desh, but...... ! Let's just say, manhandling an oxygen tank while diving in Malta (yep, that's yet another blog that I've passed by), left me with a sore bicep, and a burning desire to explore what it meant to be part of the system.
Step 1. You have to register yourself with a GP. Ookie. I knew that. Because Somya and I have been talking about getting ourselves registered for the past year - the usual, we MUST get ourselves register, yes, yes, we MUST. How do you find a GP? Like you find anything else... you google it. :) they spew out a list of GP's in your locality of choice, stating whether they're accepting new patients. Did wonder what happens when they don't, but luckily I was spoilt for choice. Picked one that was closed to work and home and called them to ask what next..
Step 2. Show up with proof of address documents. As anything, postcode is the ultimate key to success, and when this bored yet harried receptionist tried to tell me I wasn't the right postcode for the centre, I just squinted à la Dirty Harry and insisted, 'I called and someone here said it was fine' and she surrendered the forms for me to fill. So cowed was she by my assertive personality that when I asked if she'd like to see my proof of address docs, she just waved them away dismissively. Postcode had won the day.
Step 3. I'd have thought the next logical step would be to set up an appointment with a doctor for a hello, here I am and this is my medical history. I was wrong. Ms. BHR asked if I wanted to see a doctor? (no, I'm here for the matinee performance of Swan Lake), and a free slot was found for me 3 days hence.
Step 4. Meet the doctor. Incidentally I have it on good authority (GP Dr. Vinod from Welton), that all NHS appointments with the GP can last only 10 minutes, so I'd optimistically fixed an early dinner. Except, I get to the health centre only to wait for 10 minutes, but hey presto, I get called and get to meet Dr. Veejay (not me, them..!), who types me up in his combuder, and tells me I'll have to go for physiotherapy. Bugger! that reminds me, I need to find my prescription.... don't worry, illumination a few steps down. But yes, I can either choose to (a) use the NHS, which means I will have to go whenever they give me an appointment or (b) go private, in which case I'd better have insurance, but it will allow me flexibility to pick times that suit me... I promise to check with the company insurance provider and report back, and he gives me a prescription for anti-inflammatories coz I'm cute :)
Step 5. Don't fill the prescription, and make calls to BUPA who the company insures us with, and they cheerfully tell me (after I pass the postcode test, naturally) that I am insured for physio as well - all I need is a doctors name to make sure he's BUPA registered.
Step 6. Again, a newbie NHS befuddlement scenario. I report back to the good Dr. Vee that I can go private, and he says Godspeed. Erm, so who do you recommend? I ask...well, that's entirely up to me it seems. I mull this. I go to the GP coz my arm still hurts. He suggests physio, preferably private, but I'm supposed to find my own physio if that's the case. Huh? Yep, the joys of going private - I can use a-n-y-o-n-e I want. Yipee! Except this wasn't my idea was it?! I think Dr. Veeejay senses my confusion, and suggests two names. Google to the rescue and more calls to BUPA to get their authorisation.
Step 7. Yay! Visit the physio, all good and happy and free :). What a great system if you have the patience! But could it last? Or was it just a forlorn dream?? Session 2, and physio chappie suggests I go back to the anti inflammatories for a week, but can't give me a prescription....
Step 8. Damn prescription!! When people ask what I miss most about India, Lakmé wafts past my eyes. Inexpensive, easily accessible waxing, manicure and pedicures!! With chai on the side... Still is what I miss most, but next on that list HAS to be OVER THE COUNTER DRUG DISPENSATION!! Who ever uses a prescription in India? Hell, you place an order over the phone and they'll drop it off. Waaaaah - give me my motherland. So, how does one get another one? Hah! Google blushes and hides, so I call Ms. BHR and she graciously outlines the procedure. On a piece of paper (no! really?), put down your name, the name of the doctor and what the prescription was for....if you drop it off before 11 am, you will get your prescription after 5 pm the same day. If it's after 11 am, then you'll just have to collect it after 5 pm the next day.....by which time, the pharmacy would have shut! You make a feeble attempt at sidestepping the bureaucracy 'is there no way I can get it tomorrow morning if I drop it off around 5 pm?' - but procedures have been cast in stone. You don't get to employ 1.5 million bodies by being flexible....
Step 9. Am now doing a manhunt for that prescription I never got filled. And if all else fails, breathe deeeeeeefly, and go back to Step 8.
P.S. - Someone told me about another wonderful offering of the NHS. The NHS direct - this is for when you're GP's not available, after hours, weekends and suchlike..... so you call, and find yourself talking to a nurse (400,000 of them and we wonder where all the Mallus disappear) who very professionally asks you to describe your symptoms. So a litany describing your near death situation ensues, encouraged by the thought of imminent relief. Voilà, the oracle speaks, her professional advice (and I swear I'm not making this up!), "I would recommend you go to your GP"
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