Blizzard

Blizzard.

It’s winter in the mountains.
There’s snow, wind and ice.
There’s danger.
But that’s ok, we know what we’re doing,
we’ve done the training, we’re prepared,
we’ve got the equipment, we know how to use it.

But the weather’s coming in,
it’s changing.
It’s changing fast. Too fast.

Whiteout.

Where did everyone go? Hello? Hello? (louder)
Hello?
It’s cold. It’s freezing.
Hands are stiff, thoughts are slowing.
Maybe someone will come to help.

Wait.

Wait more.

Ok, maybe they won’t.

Try alone.

But can’t see to take a step
can’t see to read the map
can’t think to read the map

Panic?

No, too cold to panic. Just wait some more.
Go numb. Go number. Then? Nothing.

And everyone says
“Take comfort in the fact they died doing something they loved.”

I bust my tendon running

I bust my tendon running,
And didn’t even know,
There was no pop or crack or stab,
I just got very slow
And by the time the finish came
My feet would hardly go.

I gave myself some blisters
Running the day before
I should have stopped much earlier
When they started getting sore
But no, I kept on going
Being greedy, wanting more.

If I had been unwise then
I got unwiser the next day
When I covered sores with plasters
Then set off on my way
Careering ‘cross the Common
Up steep muddy pathways.

The first four miles were fine
But the final one was not,
I stubbornly still jogged along
Then walked then limped then hopped
All the way back to the car park
Where I found a seat and flopped.

I took my foot and prodded
As hard as I would dare
But however much I pressed it
The pain just wasn’t there
Though as soon as I stood up
It hurt enough to make me swear.

There is no inflammation,
No redness, bruise or bump,
My foot - it looks just fine,
While I’m a proper grump
Cos instead of being active
I’m stuck sat here on my rump.

So I went off to the doctor
To see what he would say
Hoping for nothing serious
Like a fracture, tear or sprain,
Instead a little bruising
That would clear up in a day.

The brave man took my foot
Twisted it from side to side,
Did some more expert prodding,
Then seemed to decide
His inspection was sufficient
And pulled out a fat guide.

He opened at a picture
Of a big foot all laid bare
Pointed at the ‘Peroneous brevis’
Saying “Look, it’s that one there,
You’ve probably inflamed it
Just rest and take some care.”

So it seems it’s ok really,
But I’ll have to take a break
And pop some paracetamol
Or put up with the ache.
I just hope it gets better quickly
For my sanity’s sake...

My wisdom teeth are now in a clinical waste bin somewhere

Well, it turned out that I didn't have to wait for nearly as long as I had suspected to get my wisdom tooth operation rescheduled. Amazingly, there was a slot available for me last Wednesday, and so I duly trudged off to the hospital yet again, slightly nervous but not overly bothered: after all, I'd done all the mental preparation and panicking a fortnight earlier and could see no need to repeat it. The weather had, almost inevitably, turned white that morning, but fortunately this snow was of the unpleasant damp, slushy variety that although useless for building snowmen is nonetheless good in that it is rarely causes major traffic disruptions.

We arrived at the hospital in good time and headed to the Day Surgery Unit where my long-suffering boyfriend Richard dropped me off. There was apparently no room for friends and relatives to wait with the patients, and so while I settled down with a Terry Pratchett novel he ventured out to savour the many delights of Swindon (stop laughing at the back! it's twinned with Disney World, don’t you know). I'd only managed to read the few pages before I got called away to see the first of many medical professionals. I'm not entirely sure, but I think this first guy might have been the surgeon. He entered the waiting room, all gangly limbs swathed in ill-fitting blue scrubs and called out for 'Kiera Morgan'. Now, despite its worrying rise in trendiness due to the likes of Ms Knightley, Kiera is not as of yet a common name, and so I assumed this was me, and followed him into a small dark room. He pointed out, yet again, quite how awkward my wisdom teeth were, got me to re-sign a form, then sent me back to the waiting room.

A couple of pages of Pratchett later and my name was called again, correctly this time. A smiley nurse introduced herself with a 'my name is Helen', spoken as if following a script, and led me into another small dark room where she proceeded to take my blood pressure and weigh me; all the normal nursey things, but somehow made more sinister under the dim glare of the emergency lighting (apparently there was some kind of test going on with the electrics). The next call was from the anaesthetist, another friendly, jolly sort who exuded an air of competence - rather reassuring at seeing as she was the one who was going to be making sure that I didn’t wake up mid-operation.

Then, back to my book. Time passed, I managed about a chapter’s worth then another nurse called me over. Great news (for me, anyway)! The person who was at the top of the list hadn't turned up and so I would be the first to be operated on. I was told to get dressed into an NHS-regulation gown with NHS-regulation dressing gown over the top. Both of these garments were covered in a plethora of little ties which, despite their great number, didn’t seem to pair up in any sensible way. I did my best regardless, tying the sides of the clothing together in the most sensible way I could fathom, and so made myself half-decent. I briefly wondered what kind of operation the previous wearer of this get-up had undergone, but rapidly decided I’d rather not go there and banished such thoughts from my mind. As instructed, I placed my belongings into a locker then returned to my seat.

Alas, I was left to wait for a further 45 minutes. A whole three-quarters of an hour to fill and my book, my only source of entertainment, was locked away in a small metal box. Frustratingly I could see said small metal box; it was a mere four metres from me and yet it was completely inaccessible. Now, I am not very good at sitting quietly and doing nothing. Not very good at all. I fidgeted uncomfortably for a little while and then spotted a newspaper on a table. A newspaper! Something to read! Salvation was at hand. I rose, grabbed the paper and turned it over.
It was the Daily Mail.
Bugger.
Tentatively, I flicked through the first few pages, but depressingly the standard of journalism was exactly what one would expect from such a publication. Not wishing to risk polluting my brain with right-wing anti-immigrant bile any further I instead endeavoured to do the cryptic crossword. This was rather a tricky task given that I had no pen, but I persevered regardless.

At 2 o’clock on the dot I was called away by yet another nurse. Limping alarmingly, and attempting some small talk in a most unenthusiastic manner, she led me through a maze of corridors and past tens of operating theatres to a little room containing my anaesthetist. Here I was quickly put at ease, laid down on the bed, and injected with drugs. The world went funny for a few seconds and then drifted away.

I came to in the recovery room. I can vaguely remember it being a large room, but without many other beds in it. Being still very drowsy I wanted to immediately go back to sleep, but the nurse looking after me, Helen again I think, wanted to talk. She kept asking me all sorts of questions, many of which were just about me in general and not related to the operation or my current pain levels. This I found most annoying. I suppose she did it to ascertain how much the anaesthetic had really worn off, but responding to her questions with a seriously-inflated, painful face mostly covered by an oxygen mask was not the easiest of tasks. The friendly anaesthetist came over at one point and told me I’d done very well, a nice compliment, but I do feel that all I did was lie back unconscious, they did all the work. Apparently the operation itself went fine; it took over an hour rather than the standard 20 minutes, but it nonetheless proceeded without any problems

I was soon (I say soon, but I didn’t have any real concept of the passage of time at that point) taken back to the ward, where there was a new group of nurses. One came over and tried to get me up and dressed, but as this resulted in me almost falling over it was decided that more time in bed was in order. Eventually I regained full consciousness and was able to leave, after being provided with a brown paper bag full of drugs – not dodgy-looking at all! The ever-obliging Richard collected me and we drove back to Fairford. Annoyingly I then had to stay up until 10pm to take some of the pills- I would much rather have gone straight to bed.

Since then I have mostly been doing not a lot. Today is the first day I have been able to speak, and therefore write, without it being overly painful. The doing 'not a lot' has been wearing thin, as has my diet which has mostly consisted of soup. I suppose soup is nice but over the last few days I have developed a deep-seated dislike of it. I watch my parents eating their pizzas, pasta bakes and other such culinary delights and I inwardly seethe with jealousy. But things can only improve. After all, following several days with a face that I thought might burst if I pricked it with a pin, things have started to calm down. I look more like myself again, which is a relief as looking in mirrors and seeing an over-stuffed hamster staring back was freaking me out. These quibbles have been but minor inconveniences however: the most important thing is that the evil wisdom teeth are gone and so can trouble me no more. Hurrah!

I think the NHS might have something against me

I shouldn't be able to write anything today. I should be sat in a chair feeling miserable with a hugely swollen face and four fewer teeth. However, I am sat here at my computer writing away with just the usual level of tooth and wrist pain, periodically staring outside at the snow and wondering if I should go and build our snowwoman a friend. So far I have managed to resist the temptation; after all my wrists are still feeling rather weak from yesterday's construction efforts, and somehow I get the impression that 'Luella' isn't all that sociable.

Since June last year my wisdom teeth have been giving me grief. The little darlings have decided that instead of just coming straight up and slotting in neatly at the back of my mouth it would be far more fun to burrow at funny angles into neighbouring teeth. Not surprisingly, this isn't all that pleasant for me. The resulting compression causes pain in all the other teeth, and whole areas of gum become tender. The mouth is a rather bacteria-rich environment and partially-protruding wisdom teeth are places in which they flourish, meaning things get nasty and infected to boot. Clearly, these teeth are far more trouble than they are worth, and so my dentist referred me to the Great Western Hospital in Swindon to get them removed as a matter of urgency.

Someone else's mouth, featuring wisdom teeth at silly angles. Think this looks bad? Mine are worse!

I am well aware from numerous wrist-related appointments that 'urgent' is often interpreted as meaning anything but. The referral was sent in August, I got an appointment for November, which I duly attended, at which x-rays were taken. A couple of forms were tortuously filled out by a student nurse (I had to help her with spelling and remind her that she had to take my blood pressure and weigh me), and that was that. I would be sent a letter with a time for an operation at some unknown point in the future which was likely to be at least twelve weeks away. By December the pain was so agonising that my dentist sent off another letter to the hospital to hurry things along. The result? An operation scheduled for January 6. Fantastic!

Yesterday duly arrived, and with it came snow, a good 20 cm deep. Nervous that this would result in a cancellation, I contacted the hospital admissions clerk who happily confirmed that the operation would go ahead as planned, no problems. Feeling relieved we set off, well-stocked with warm clothes and chocolate in case the roads became impassable. In fact, the roads were fine. A bit slippery in places, but nothing unmanageable providing you drove slowly and sensibly. It took us a whole hour to make the 17 mile trip from Fairford to the hospital, but we made it. And we weren't even in a Land Rover, but a humble Nissan Micra.

We arrived at the hospital half an hour before I needed to be there. It turned out that I was the only patient who'd bothered to turn up - great, we thought, I get to be done first and get to go home as quickly as possible. My entire team had made it to the hospital, I saw the nurse, got the wristband, saw the consultant who explained all the horrible things he was going to do to me (lots of chopping out bits of bone, sawing teeth in half before pulling them out - details I'd rather not know, to be honest). All that was left was to wait for the anaesthetist, who was overseeing another operation until two o'clock. We therefore sat down and waited.

After we'd been in the hospital for going on two hours, the two nurses sheepishly entered the room with faces bearing expressions of embarrassment and anger. My operation had been cancelled, they said. They'd only found out because they'd phoned around to see if they could get me through sooner, what with me being the only person there. Instead of an affirmation they were told that their list had been cancelled half an hour previously; a trivial fact that no one had bothered to inform them of. To their credit, they then frantically tried to see if there was any alternative, begged and pleaded with the people in charge, but to no avail.

Essentially, one anaesthetist in the whole hospital hadn't turned up and so mine had been pulled in to cover him. My operation was deemed to be 'elective' (although why I would choose to have for awkward wisdom teeth removed unless it was strictly necessary is beyond me), and therefore eminently cancellable. There was a possibility of having the operation done under a local anaesthetic with sedation, but as my teeth are in such bad positions the only option was a full-on general; not something that could be done without the proper anaesthetist. All we could do was trundle back to Fairford and hope that it won't take another five months to get a replacement slot.

I wasn't best pleased.

On the plus side, I got to help build the snowwoman. She is greater-than-human sized, in a kneeling position, and quite frankly terrifiying: I have never seen a snow creation look so menacing, we have truly created a monster. And she's still out there now, resplendent in the sunshine.

The lovely Luella.

Birthday cakes

Birthdays are good for many reasons; reasons such as beer, presents and general frivolity. They are also a great excuse to make cakes, not just any old cakes but proper, highly decorated, completely over-the-top cakes. The kind of cakes that take a whole day to make, involve scary amounts of butter, chocolate and sugar, and weigh in at over a kilogram. It is no longer just about making something tasty to eat; rather the purpose is to make something that looks amazing. Any pleasure that can be derived from actually consuming the cake is very much a secondary consideration. If the recipient of the birthday cake doesn't feel a pang of guilt when cutting into it, quite frankly, not enough effort has been put into its decoration.

How then to go about making the cake look spectacular? An obvious starting point is to make it into a non-standard shape. It is unlikely that there will be strangely-proportioned baking tins in the cupboard, so a better bet is to make a round or rectangular cake as per usual and then cut it up and put it back together in an unusual fashion, using icing to fill in the gaps. This way the cake can be made to resemble a myriad of objects: a snake, a Lego brick or a house, perhaps.

Next, consider the icing. There are many different types, and the variety chosen will depend on the precise design of the cake. Rolled icing can be best for more regularly-shaped cakes, glacé icing makes a good cement, and creamy chocolate fudge is good for covering imperfections, but perhaps most versatile is simple buttercream. This can be applied using an icing tube with nozzle, or simply smeared on directly with a knife.

The birthday cake will look rather dull if the icing is just white or cream. Bright, gaudy colours are much more fun; obtaining these necessitates the use of food colouring. The little bottles of red, green or blue normally carry a warning, saying for example to only use 1 teaspoon per 250 g of icing, but this guidance should be ignored. After all, the whole point of using food colouring is to produce a vivid, unnatural hue, which often means putting in half a bottle. The people consuming the cake will probably be so high on sugar that they will hardly notice the difference from an extra drop or two of E numbers.

If after the addition of icing the birthday cake is still lacking a certain something, do not fear. A quick peek into the baking aisle at the local supermarket will reveal a mind-boggling assortment of sprinkles, chocolate chips, candles and silver balls. A selection of these should almost certainly make their way onto the cake where they can join other sugary delights such as chocolate-covered raisins, jellybeans and fudge. Worries that the whole thing might be looking rather crowded should be brushed aside; when it comes to birthday cakes the old adage that less is more should be thrown out the window.

Once the cake is complete the problem becomes transporting it to the birthday boy/girl. Often this is no mean feat as the distances are long and the cakes are quite fragile. However, it is possible to get the cake, perfectly intact, to just about anywhere. I personally have carried cakes whilst walking for a couple of kilometres through the suburbs of Birmingham, have taken one on a bus and another on the Underground, and most recently have held onto one for dear life as my boyfriend drove us for 10 miles through the hazard-ridden streets of south-west London.

It is possible that at some point during the epic journey of cake creation and transportation the question "why didn't I just buy one from the supermarket?" will arise. Banish such thoughts. Making a birthday cake from scratch may well cost dearly in both pounds and in time, and afterwards the kitchen will almost certainly resemble a war zone, but it is all worth it. It is worth it because, however good they may taste, and however much hassle they cause to be avoided, shop-bought cakes are lame.

My most recent birthday cake, a mountain complete with chocolate raisin scree, marshmallow sheep, matchmaker trees, a caramel stream and a fudge trig point.

This is me

I am a PhD student who has been suffering from chronic wrist pain for the past year. I have therefore been spending my time doing not a lot when I should have been in a lab playing with ultrafast lasers. Unfortunately for me, most things in life involve the use of hands, and so the amount I can do (be it typing, scrambling, sport, chopping vegetables etc.) has been drastically reduced. Fortunately for me, voice recognition software has improved in leaps and bounds since I first came across it many years ago, so I can now 'talk into the machine' and words bearing a pretty good resemblance to what I actually said will appear on screen. This blog is an attempt to force myself to write something every weekday, which should in turn force me to do as many interesting things as possible so that I have something to write about!