#unleashthebeast

These Monster energy drinks may not be good for me...

Bolton Food and Drink Festival

Enjoyed the splishy-splashy rain during the culinary delights of Bolton.

After being accosted by some amorous street performers as French chefs, The Boyfriend and I managed the swarms of people, puppies, and kids. There were Chinese noodles, Mexican nachos, Polish sausages, Spanish churros, Fish 'N' Rice, and unusual meat burgers. Plus artisan stalls selling handmade soaps (got a nice goat's milk and aloe vera bar that is supposedly very good for soothing skin), carved wooden figures, handmade jewellery, and, strangely, knock-off Adidas tracksuits with the logo replaced with the cannabis leaf and the word ADDICTED. 

I had a kangaroo burger, which apparently has 2% fat (all that jumping that Skippy does), but tasted very rich (apparently like venison?). 

I nipped into WHSmiths to grab a travel book for a holiday next year, and a little old member of staff on the basement floor saw me browsing for some time, saw me grab the book I wanted and make for the lift. She shouted at me to stop and asked where I was going. 

Me: Upstairs. To pay. 

Her: No. You pay here. 

Me: No, I'm getting some drinks upstairs as well.  

Her: You put it in this basket now. Before you go.

I dutifully put the book in the shopping basket and scowled all the way in the lift. I grabbed the bottles of pop and mentioned to the cashier I felt a little insulted that I'd been treated like a potential shoplifter. I said I'd regularly been in the shop to get books from the basement and preferred to pay in one hit upstairs so I could look at magazines and get my favoured energy drinks. I said I appreciated she was watching the store on a busy day, but frankly, an older couple or professionally-dressed person would not have been questioned (I have tattoos, wear jeans and have a fade on the side of my head). To my surprise, the cashier was angry and said, 'Oh, yeah, I know her,' and radioed for the manager who turned up straight away. I reiterated my confusion/anger and he also seemed angry. I basically summed it up as, 'I'm a professional adult who has no need or desire to shoplift and I very much resent the stereotyping.'

Bit odd. But there we go. Some older generations see me and think, 'Scruff.' Some older generations smile at me and say how much they like my tops. Mad. 

So, here's some pretty pictures to show how nice the rest of the day was.

Hospicable

This is a long post, I'm afraid.

So, I've been ill. Two Wednesdays ago, I had quite epic D and V followed by generalised stomach pains. I saw a GP registrar on Thursday about getting some repeat meds and mentioned the D&V, nausea, and that the pain had moved to my right lower side. He just mumbled about seeing how it went. By Thursday evening, I was in agony and crying, in between taking codeine and paracetamol. By Friday, it was hard to walk and coming back from the cornershop I had to stop and was doubled over in pain. So, succumbed to my health anxiety and called NHS Direct. They called an ambulance.

I was taken through to the Red Zone of A&E, had blood taken, and had a cannula placed quite violently in my arm. They prodded my stomach and said they'd refer me to surgery for suspected appendicitis. But I didn't mind too much, because they gave me IV morphine.

Wow.

Everything became soft and gentle, and I remember my thoughts being pink. Every sound coming from Resus sounded far away and I remember smiling and having no pain at all. I didn't care what was wrong with me at all.

Four hours later, I was wheeled up to the Surgical Assessment Unit. A nice nurse chatted to me and I was quite upset and scared and was pulling my hair out. I was given codeine and my diazepam. I didn't sleep well as a Healthcare Assistant kept hiding in the bay I was in to use her mobile. She was obviously not meant to do this, as she kept hiding her phone when other staff came near. Myself and another patient gaped at her. I filmed it on my phone. I was on Nil By Mouth until 10pm when I saw a junior doctor who said I'd probably just pulled my muscles from the D&V. Then I got toast. Then I was told from 4am I'd be Nil By Mouth again for an ultrasound the next day.

Saturday, my back seemed to lock up and I had trouble walking and it was very tender to touch. When breakfast arrived, the new nurse in charge (who looked very happily stupid) said I could eat. I had a little bit of cereal and then a doctor appeared who said I should be Nil By Mouth. I yelled at the nurse as it would delay my scan. She said it would happen later in the morning. Dinnertime it hadn't and I wasn't allowed to eat or have anything more than sips of water. I felt awful. By night, I was told my scan had been cancelled so I could eat. But I could only manage a little bit. I was angry that plans were being changed and no one was keeping me up to date. I screamed when the nurse 'reassuringly' patted my arm and I yanked out more hair. She backed away and then started burbling about an injection everyone had to have to stop blood clots. I was already upset and I couldn't understand. I went outside and came back and lay on the bed with my hood over my face. I'd bought a £10 Big Bundle TV card, good for 24 hours, and vaguely remember watching Meet The Goldbergs, The Big Bang Theory, and Big Hero 6. The nurse came back, gave me another codeine and left. Later, I went into agony and was given OraMorph. The night nurse discovered that my cannula was bent where it had been put in and it later just fell out of my vein. Now have a nice painful lump there.

Sunday, I was screaming the ward down for morphine. I had an ultrasound. There was no female chaperone. I didn't like this, but the porter for radiography was very nice and actually made me laugh, which was a real boost.

But then the surgeon came with the results. Not serious news, but unknown to me. Ovarian cysts. He was very cavalier about it, said no point in operating and spoke very quickly. I asked him to slow down or write it down as I have problems processing verbal information quickly. He wouldn't. I asked about fertility and he just shrugged and said I should ask a gynaecologist.

I limped off the ward in tears and phoned Mum. I was terrified. I didn't know how they could be sure the cysts were benign, if I meant I could have children. I shouted that if he'd been told there was a lump in his bollocks he'd be pretty scared. She calmed me down and told me to get the nurse (nicer than Saturday's) to slowly explain to me. The nurse did and told me to stop pulling out my hair. She gave me printed information on cysts and calmed me down. I messaged female friends and turned out a few of them had had them and said it was common, had had some pain when they 'burst' and had had problems conceiving, but that had conceived.

I had morphine and slept for an hour and then felt happy and trippy and read and wrote quietly. With just enough internet signal and a morphine high I ended up ordering kawaii handmade jewellery on etsy.com for a few hours and enjoyed re-reading Donna Tartt's The Secret History. I appear to have ordered a custom junk food charm bracelet, a Chuck Palahniuk quote engraved aluminium wrist band, a “Valar Morghulis” necklace, some skateboard stickers for my Kindle, and Harry Potter necklace for my friend's birthday. I think.

At about 3am after seeing a nice junior doctor, who said the surgeon hadn't been professional with me. The new ward staff were nice and treated me with kid gloves. I finally went to sleep around 4am after they gave me morphine to induce sleep.

Monday, I woke up with the worst migraine I'd had in a year. I screamed for morphine for an hour and half, but there was only one qualified nurse on the ward. Mum called in the middle and she was furious so called the ward to complain and explain my problems. Finally I got morphine and Imigran and fell asleep. Getting the Imigran was difficult. They knew it was with me and locked up by my bed, but I was wasn't written up for it. The nurse showed me the chart and I said I knew all that and that because it was mine I was allowed to self-administer. She said that was right. I asked then why didn't she just get the keys and let me do that? She sighed and did so. 

Woke up and then needed more morphine. Had to lie with a t-shirt over my eyes and a cold can of Coke on my head. Yelled at a healthcare assistant who came to make a bed and left a radio on. A surgeon came to see me and said I needed a CT scan as the back pain could be kidney problems. He told the staff to draw all the curtains and turn off as many lights as possible, which I appreciated.

I was injected with a dye, which made my insides feel very very hot. Then my stomach was scanned. When I sat up, I threw up 800ml of water and orange juice. This actually helped my migraine a lot. By now I was written up for regular morphine and looking at my chart, had had it increased from 5ml to 10ml to 20ml every four hours. I slept well that night.

On Tuesday, I was told my CT scan was normal, but my right leg was puffing up as I'd been dragging it due to back pain. I was given another blood clot injection and told to bend my leg more. A junior doctor checked my legs and back and said there was no point referring me to orthopaedics as it would take awhile. So, I was to be discharged with lots of painkillers, see how I went over the next week and see my GP to discuss a gynaecological consult and physiotherapy. Then we had this awkward conversation:

Me: Umm, before I came in I was having...pain...during...sex. So, with this cyst how long should I, umm, wait? 

Him: Well, I'd ease into it, if I was you... 

Me and Him: [sniggers] 

Him: But, no, you're not going to do any damage if you have intercourse so, you know, just, umm, when you're ready [smacks fist into palm] go for it. 

Me: [laughs my head off]

The nurse in charge was so nice and friendly that day and it made me happier. But she was furious when the junior doctor disappeared for four hours and didn't answer the phone to sort out my discharge. She said for me to go outside to calm down so I wouldn't yank out my hair.

A strange thing happened. The nurse told me that as I had run out of cigarettes, to take 10p out with me to see if I could buy one off someone. The man I saw wouldn't take my money, but rolled me a cigarette and then rolled another without asking and said I'd probably want it later. I was genuinely touched. Then a man he knew came outside. This man's partner had just given birth to twins. The man who rolled my cigarettes, his wife was in surgery for breast cancer. The new father had no idea. There was a strange moment, opposite ends of the spectrum of life. I left them to it.

When I got back upstairs, the Ward Sister had chased down the doctors and had my paperwork and meds ready. The lovely nurse gave me a hug, which I didn't mind too much, and I gave her some chocolate. The Boyfriend picked me up and couldn't stop kissing and hugging me. We went to his Mum's and his brother and his girlfriend were there and it was nice to see people I knew and enjoy my trippy morphine high around friends.

Later, The Boyfriend was what we call 'goo-goo' and followed me around and kept cuddling me. We'd really missed each other. I felt overwhelmingly happy to be home. The Boyfriend had gotten me a pretty 'festival-esque' watch, which looks great.

Today, I am trying to move around more and ignore my health anxiety about my right calf being a bit swollen. It must be from lying around for so long. The morphine makes my pain all but disappear and make me at first tired and then strangely creative.

What I have learnt from this is that hospital staff, for the most part, know what autism is, but don't know how to communicate with someone who is high-functioning. They don't know they should keep someone up to date, even if there's no new news, inform about changed plans, and don't touch without asking. And always give written info. I have contacted NAS and will fill in a “Hospital Passport” form that would explain my needs should I need to go to hospital again.

So, stressful, lost a fair amount of hair, and in slightly less pain than what I went in with. But, just happy to be home and around familiar things.

What is quite horrible is that I know that when I have a meltdown, I must look as though I am twelve and throwing a tantrum. In my world, my head, it feels like a change in my routine = end of the world, everything is destroyed and I have no idea what comes next. It is so out of proportionate, yet it is very characteristic of this brain thing. What I really want to learn is how to 'shut down' quick enough so that these incidents can stop happening. It's embarrassing. 

Terrifying Nights

I'm terrified. 

I've lived in this house with The Boyfriend for six months. Three times (one just now) I thought I was definitely awake because the bedroom looked exactly the same and I could see The Boyfriend sleeping. I don't remember falling asleep, mostly because I was in the same position. Always this has been in the early hours of the morning. 

I became aware of something in the room by my side of the bed that frightened me, perhaps a shadow. I wasn't/didn't think I was paralysed because I was screaming at The Boyfriend for help and even hitting and scratching him to wake him up. 

Then I felt a very hard poke in the ribs. 

I hit The Boyfriend very hard and the next thing he was awake, but said he hadn't poked me nor did he remember me hitting him, only that I was thrashing around. 

I'm not going back to sleep.

What is this? I want it to be Sleep Paralysis, but I don't understand the absolute certainty that I was fighting and screaming for help. 

Could it be Night Terrors? I've been under massive stress, predominantly medical, since moving. But surely I'm far too old for them?

I'm fairly logical (though prefer to "pass" as someone quirky, etc) so even though it felt like a demon or ghost, how can it possibly be? 

I'm on the verge of seeing my doctor (who will probably sigh and tell me to take paracetamol) or call a priest (even though I'm not religious).

Now I'm chugging caffeine with the lights on and going to read a "fluffy" book on my Kindle. I'm envying The Boyfriend who has fallen back asleep upstairs and is snoring contentedly. 

UV

I discovered a quite wonderful term today in Rayne Hall's Writing Dark Stories: How to Write Horror and Other Disturbing Short Stories:

SPLATTERPUNK:This type of horror relies on extreme violence and graphic gore. There may be detailed descriptions of dismemberments, chainsaw massacres and disembowellings. Splatterpunk aims to shock, revolt and terrify. It seeks to create an immediate intense experience, rather than a lasting impression.

Basically, what we call 'Torture Porn' in films such as the Saw franchise.

This sounds exactly like the kind of stories I was writing at the age of ten in school, which had my parents hauled into school by a concerned teacher. An insane farmer running around with chainsaws killing his family and so forth. Maybe that's why I now enjoy watching Wire In The Blood and Dexter. Who knows.

So, I decided to try to return to my childhood roots and write a very nasty story. With a nice cold glass of Moloko Plus to inspire the ultraviolence.*

This is what my brilliant plotting actually says:

An Awesome Splatterpunk Story
1. There's this girl. She's alrite.
2. She wants to join this group, yeah? They won't let her.
3. She proves herself. Turns out the group is baaad.
4. 2,000 words of ultraviolence
5. There's this Obstacle.
6. Then there's this Twist.
7. It ends brilliantly.

* Recipe courtesy of The Geeky Chef Cookbook by Cassandra Reeder. Her outstanding blog can be found at www.geekychef.com

What I Did On My Summer Holidays

[In the spirit of so many of friend's Facebook albums being dedicated to exotic and exciting holidays, here is my own Summer Holiday Essay]

Wow! Arrived in sunny Farnworth today and was gratified to see there was only 30% cloud cover. I'm so lucky!

I listened to the harmonising of sirens go back and forth to the local A&E department and gazed up at a heat-seeking helicopter that appeared to circle the estate. I couldn't hear birds, but at least four different dogs were barking and being told to, 'Shut the fook up!'

The boiler was temperamental and required running down the stairs in a towel to work some dial magic to make the water hot. But eventually I was able to wash my hair with a bottle of Head Strong shampoo, Aldi's finest. 

I visited the local convenience store and was brightened by the range of re-heated pasties, burgers, and chicken fillets. I marvelled that somewhere could sell such low price food with no allergen information or reference to Halal or Kosher. Such simpler ways!

On a Sunday, nothing else is open (not even the famous Pound Bakery!), so I was treated to the local area in all its relaxed splendour. Last night's abandoned scratchcards, bottles, and vomit lined the comfortably wide ginnels on my return to the house.

The day passed more slowly (some would say boringly, but I wouldn't!) and I sat on a warm patch of concrete, drinking a nice cold glass of water that had been boiled to eradicate the recent outbreak of the parasite cryptosporidium. 

That evening I retired to a leg of lamb with lashings of Smart Price ketchup and fell asleep to the dulcet tones of my neighbours snoring through the party wall. 

Discover this gem of the North-West before too many tourists get here!!

Here are my photos from this glorious day:

My arrival on Devil's Road!

A local beauty spot.

The local artwork is divine! 

Local cuisine!

The wildlife is endangered.*

It's advisable to take extra medication when you visit!

All mod-cons here!

A typical local sporting event.

Bolton Rail Station is shut every Sunday from now until October so be prepared to be captured by locals.


*Please note. This mouse was already very dead when the photo was taken. Presumably, like rats, it was sick and came out into the open to die just to shit up the neighbours.

Kindling

I did something I thought I'd never do. 

I thought I'd never succumb. 

I stood on my soapbox of battered paperworks and screamed, 'Never!'

I have a Kindle.

Yes. A Kindle. And actually, it's very good. It was a gift from The Boyfriend who gave me the get-out of allowing me to say I didn't like e-readers and that he could return or sell it if so. But the gesture, the intention to help me be more easily distracted, find solace once again in books, was so sweet, so meaningful that I tried it and love it.

It solves the practical issue of book storage. Too many books enter my home and when I move, 50% of the heavy boxes are books. It's a joy to be able to carry dozens (one day thousands) of books in my bag, rather than commit to one paperback I can read quickly and its cover gets shredded by pulled in and out of my bag. It keeps me occupied on those long, long bus journeys and any shift work that comes my way. The Kindle books are a bit cheaper than hardcopies, which on a budget helps. But I want authors to make as much money as they can in such an unstable publishing era...

There is an ever raging debate about whether e-books provide a good income stream for authors. I don't know. I know as a reader, I have found more things accessible. Magazines that were only stocked in perhaps two places in the whole of Manchester I can have at a click of the big black BUY button. 99p books make me swoon, though I can't vouch yet for the quality of them.

Some books that went out of print decades ago have not resurfaced as e-books, which is a shame. 

My little library will never be replaced. Some books remain most beautiful in hardcopy, especially as hardbacks. But if it can stop the influx of books eating into the corners of my living room, then so be it. 

And it will help my postie's back a bit.

Shortlisted

I am officially on the shortlist for an anthology of Manchester-linked short stories, being edited by The Manchester Speculative Fiction Group, entitled Revolutions! with my story 'Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want' - yes, a Smiths lyric. How clever.

I've bounced off a longer short story to a magazine I greatly enjoy, but the chances are never great as I think my style is not their style. As evidence, so far they have rejected me 5 times. But, still, I try. So very few short story magazines out there.

Another entry for the end of this month ready to be emailed off, once some little Sharpie drawings have been scanned, Photoshopped, and put together nicely.

A big short story competition the same time every year rolls around. Bugger that if I'm entering again. It's very...high-brow. In other words, I don't understand any of the damn stories that win. Are they meant to be so obtuse, to have no undercurrent of tension, no discernible resolution? Is that a publishable short story? Am I muppet for not understanding them? In that case, I'm fucked so I'll save myself £17 and not enter.

I am 50+ words into a novel. Again. I write quickly, but this does not make for good writing. It makes for great fun, great brain-scratching, but more time must be loaded into thought, editing, slowly walking around it and studying it from many angles.

This sudden huge word count has been accomplished simply by scrapping the load of utter, utter crap from the beginning of the year (what was I thinking, seriously?), realising what was just padding, and how the same scenes, the same middle of each 'novel' is always the same, whatever plot I employ. This is a story I feel I have to write, and write correctly, so that I can stop circling around it and write something NEW! Imagine: the same damn story in your head for years that you can't purge. Like a reoccurring boil that you finally realise needs a surgical excision. 

It is frightening how very, very wrong you can be about a novel's potential, about its readibility, even its credibility. Rose-tinted glasses perched on a nose shoved against the page. You don't see anything except one damn word at a time.

Shakey Shakey

After ten months, the report from the consultant I saw in October finally arrived. Pretty much exactly what he summarised at the end of the appointment. Battery of tests indicate IQ in the top 2-3%, motor skills and visual processing in the high-normal range, but understanding emotions/hinting exercises very very low. He concluedes that it is indicative of ASD with possible underlying epilepsy-migraine complex. No evidence to support schizophrenia, bipolar, or a personality disorder.

So, makes sense and good that WonderWoman from the mental health team has made my ASD referral (possibly being seen in September). Also, saw a random GP who agreed to arrange an EEG for epilepsy and the 'possible significant neurological loss' caused by head injuries.

Things move forward. Still end up curled up on the floor when I had to email letting agents to see how we go about arranging a tenancy renewal. I came out of it eventually because I understood:

1) We have never missed rent
2) We passed our 3 month inspection
3) We have no record of antisocial behaviour
4) We have not been served with a notice to evict

So, groundless anxiety. Yet today, my debit card went wonky in the shop and declined. Cue suspicious looks from staff. Quickly checked balance outside and everything normal. Decided chip may have been wearing out. Then immediately get text from bank about weird transactions. Luckily the bank is so good no money was lost and card is blocked off and new one being sent out. Bizarrely this caused only physical anxiety (severe shakes), but I have managed to rationalise it all so that I am not crying or ripping out chunks of my hair.

Now, after a weird start to the day, back to bouncing between three story ideas. I lack focus. 

Also, I won £4 on a £2 scratchcard so that ain't bad.

Skin Deep

Nothing more romantic than getting scarred with your partner.

Last week, The Boyfriend and I were at Vida Loca Tattoos in Bolton getting inked. 

No, not matching tattoos and not each other's names i.e. "the kiss of death".

I now have a Game of Thrones quote (from beloved Tyrion)...

..and The Boyfriend had his final sitting of his Hulk piece. We are itchy and covered in Bepanthan.

Interestingly, we both established a good rapport with our artists. The Boyfriend had his done by Jamie and they chatted about art and whatnot. Becci did mine and she was a lovely soft spoken girl with a kick-ass attitude. With a love of comics and games, I had to resist blurting out, "I'm new to this town. Be my friend!"

But as a woman in a still mostly male industry I could tell she was hacked off that a lot of 'feminine' tattoos were coming her way: script, cats, flowers, etc. She wants to do big, cool pieces. So, when I'm ready to say goodbye to the clearness of my outer calf, she can do a big, beautiful piece of art down it.

Comic-Con

Manchester MCM Comic-Con 2015 (Saturday 26 July)

Geek heaven. 

Stalls. Robot Wars. Comic Village. Cuddly Toys. Canvases. Jewellery. Bullet carving. Meet and Greets. USA candy.

Found some sellers, such as Geek La Chic, Cakes With Faces, and Tokyo Toys, who all could have just taken my money once I saw the dreaded WE ACCEPT DEBIT AND CREDIT CARD signs.

I met the very dry Stuart Ashen and got my bootleg t-shirt signed. I bought prints from independent artists. I bought Pop Vinyl figures from Funko Toys. 

There was Marvel. DC. A lot of anime and manga. 

There was severe social anxiety. Having to walk out for air, then all around and back to get in was stressful. A lot of people were browsing and mingling and the crush and noise was brain-splitting.

By the end, I was worn out and a bit tearful. But I did it and am very glad I got to go to a large public event.

There was some amazing cos-play and even though the queuing system was a bit scrambled, it went smoothly. Except for forgetting which NCP the car was parked in.

The artist @TheKangel had drawn some art that gave me the biggest laugh all day. Very funny (see first image). And The Boyfriend sang me The Jigglypuff Song to get me to sleep after massaging my aching flat feet.