Saturday 26 May 2007
MARK OF RESPECT
It is only proper to record that Bernice's mother, Margaret Andree Thain, died this morning at 06.50 at one month short of her 84th birthday. Personal correspondences will of course be taken up with the individuals concerned. Margaret Thain RIP.
Monday 21 May 2007
Toros
Plaudits on bullfighting appreciated, but author is Bernice alias Beanscene, though sentiments are shared entirely. As Bernice has friends dipping into the blog it is helpful for them to identify the source of the comment(s)
Keep reading, it gets better and better.
Los Blancos
Keep reading, it gets better and better.
Los Blancos
Saturday 19 May 2007
BEANSCENE : BULLFIGHTING
My first Bull Fight. What a spectacle, I am so glad I went. I have read the books, Matador and also Hemmingway’s Death In the Afternoon both which provide comprehensive insight into the bullfight culture. The bull ring, with its bright yellow sand, the darkness of the bull and the colours of the matadors bring a contrast which adds up to such theatricality, the like of which I have not before witnessed. It was well attended. Any rumours questioning the popularity of the bullfight’s existence can be quashed.
Around the perimeter of the ring are six specific points of wooden protection points – the safety boxes if you like – where the matadors and picadors run to in order to save their little bottoms getting a fierce horn sent up them.
There was a band of brass instruments, which acknowledges the opening of the corridas (bullfight) and heralds the start of each –there were four on this occasion -and applauds the Pasa Doble - when the matador executes a double twist of the cape around the bull in a balletic figure of eight manoeuvre. Music added very much to the spectacle.
The crowd becomes anticipatory, all gates but two on the ring are closed, eagerly awaiting the entrance of the troupe and another for the bull. Through one appeared two mounted horsemen, sombreros and baroque style black, white and leather clothing displaying the Spanish riding style upon white horses. The horses side-stepped over in rhythm to the brass accompaniment, to underneath the Presidente’s box, president meaning presiding figure rather than President. The horseman raised their hats to el Presidente, who then flings over the front shelf of his box a green silk flag, to order the proceedings underway. The entire troupe then appear, fronted by the Cuadrillas, with their mickey mouse hats on sideways, with tight black short jackets and even tighter breeches. Little flat shoes that look for all the world like carpet slippers with monograms and knee high socks of cyclamen pink.
They drag their capes that they wave in front of the bull – yellow one side, sock-pink the other about on the sand, as if trying them out for the drag effect that they might make on the sand and contemplating what is ahead. Behind them, are the four novice matadors who will show different grades of experience as the evening progresses. These are dressed in the “Suit of Lights” some fantastic tight knee breeches, and the typical short bolero type jacket, the complete outfit with an intricate design of sequins and tiny mirrors sewn in to the matching bolero and trousers, on a plain coloured background. One in a suit of purple with black sequins, which looked like lace and sparkled in the bright sun, the next in turquoise with gold sequins; the next a red suit, with green and gold sequins, and the last white with gold sequins. All had pristine white grandfather-collared shirts and a thin, black tie. They carry a smaller semi-circular cape of red, which has a stick along its upper horizontal in order to handle more accurately whereas the Picadors grab the top of their capes grittily with both hands. Little defence against a raging bull.
Following the Matadors are the 4 surface cleaners, dressed in white smock shirts and white baggy trousers with a wide red sash around their lower waists. They carry rakes to resettle the sand after each corrida. All the troupe except the cleaning brigade wear the vomit pink socks. As they parade in organised rows towards el Presidente, they raise their hats, are acknowledged and then proceed around the ring waving to the crowd which cheers and applauds even though nothing yet has happened.
This is the chance to show off their elegance, arrogance and sheer self-control, because very soon they are alone with something like a half-ton of raging bull in the arena and all the applause in Christendom ain’t going to help one iota. Their elegant little figures retreat to the gate from whence they came to await the roaring bull. One Matador, four picadors. They all cross themselves before re-entering the ring, and then…the bull emerges, fast.
This is a seriously dramatic moment.
Crowds nearest to the bull gate bang on the nearest hard surface to provoke the bull to charge into the ring. The crowd appears to like a very feisty bull, and it is applauded for its boisterousness. It is quite spectacular to see the bull, which has been reared solely for this purpose to come into the ring. The ferocity with which it circles the ring is borne of curiosity and resentment of its enforced confinement. The Picadors flutter their capes and perform speedy escape routes from the charging horns and then, returning to the ring strike at the bull’s shoulders with brightly coloured pics, which they pierce just into the hide of the animal. Acting as an annoyance to the beast this brings down the level of the head to a lower position which is thus better positioned to receive its ultimate blow. Once the Picadors have done, probably all of about four minutes of display, the Matador comes on, striding arrogantly towards this hulking angry animal, yet still cutting a tiny defenceless figure. He interacts with the bull, who circles the Matador in answer to the red cape swirls, and the true bravado is when the Matador has achieved several pasa dobles or faenas, (an effective succession of turns) that he turns his back on the bull and walks away, holding the cape in an unprovocative style. This gets utter enthusiasm from the crowd who applaud immediately. As each turn between suit of lights, red cape, black bull and back again, the crowd roar “Ole!” This is an approval gesture that the Matador is successfully on terra firma. The kill comes quicker and is effected more rapidly than I had expected. The bull is panting, tired and angry. The sword goes in cleanly and hits the cortex of spinal cord so death is instant. This great heaving mass of beef folds its legs and is very quickly gone, a big black mass lying on the sand.
The defeated bull is then removed. In true rural Talarubbias style, this was utterly unceremonious. A one person fork lift drove on to the sand and with an efficient heave ho of its ugly mechanical lifting head was able to remove the beast efficiently if not totally uncaringly. The butcher wagon is parked outside the bull ring, as is an Ambulance.
The excitement of the crowd is also spectacular. The President notes the approval level of the crowd. This is the waving of white handkerchieves. If the crowd believes either the Matador/Bull has done badly they don’t wave their whites. If a good performance then the waving increases. If the crowd believes the Matador has put on an exceptional performance, they then wave profusely and obviously, so that the President is in effect led by them and he too waves a white handkerchief. The prize? The ears of the bull – one ear for medium to good, two ears for good to better and then the ultimate prize, the tail, once more unceremoniously removed. The Matador is presented with his prize to enthusiastic applause.
The brass instruments strike up a triumphant cacophony and the Rakers come out to do their housework on the sand. As this is happening the Matador, if successful, proudly struts around the ring to more applause and is thrown red roses. Once he’s done his circuit, it’s time for the next corrida.
The colour and spectacle left a huge impression on me. I did not come away with a feeling of cruelty, if the Brit sports of fox hunting or deer stalking were to be compared, then I think that they would have the cruelty edge. Because the kill is so quick, the spectacle is not as cruel as some might imagine.
The third Matador of the evening won both ears and the tail for his performance. He was almost acrobatic in his movements, tightly turning to escape the bull’s horns and swishing his cape deftly to and fro. All the time he appeared to maintain an elegant posture, that backward curve held for just a split second overlong, to emphasise the subtlety of his actions – a bit like the golfers when they take a swing and keep the posture when gazing after the ball. To see such a great animal about 10 metres behind the matador who has confidently turned his back on a raging bull is quite breathtaking.
Si, hay circulo, peligroso y teatro. (So, there is circus and danger and theatre.)
Can’t wait to go again.
Around the perimeter of the ring are six specific points of wooden protection points – the safety boxes if you like – where the matadors and picadors run to in order to save their little bottoms getting a fierce horn sent up them.
There was a band of brass instruments, which acknowledges the opening of the corridas (bullfight) and heralds the start of each –there were four on this occasion -and applauds the Pasa Doble - when the matador executes a double twist of the cape around the bull in a balletic figure of eight manoeuvre. Music added very much to the spectacle.
The crowd becomes anticipatory, all gates but two on the ring are closed, eagerly awaiting the entrance of the troupe and another for the bull. Through one appeared two mounted horsemen, sombreros and baroque style black, white and leather clothing displaying the Spanish riding style upon white horses. The horses side-stepped over in rhythm to the brass accompaniment, to underneath the Presidente’s box, president meaning presiding figure rather than President. The horseman raised their hats to el Presidente, who then flings over the front shelf of his box a green silk flag, to order the proceedings underway. The entire troupe then appear, fronted by the Cuadrillas, with their mickey mouse hats on sideways, with tight black short jackets and even tighter breeches. Little flat shoes that look for all the world like carpet slippers with monograms and knee high socks of cyclamen pink.
They drag their capes that they wave in front of the bull – yellow one side, sock-pink the other about on the sand, as if trying them out for the drag effect that they might make on the sand and contemplating what is ahead. Behind them, are the four novice matadors who will show different grades of experience as the evening progresses. These are dressed in the “Suit of Lights” some fantastic tight knee breeches, and the typical short bolero type jacket, the complete outfit with an intricate design of sequins and tiny mirrors sewn in to the matching bolero and trousers, on a plain coloured background. One in a suit of purple with black sequins, which looked like lace and sparkled in the bright sun, the next in turquoise with gold sequins; the next a red suit, with green and gold sequins, and the last white with gold sequins. All had pristine white grandfather-collared shirts and a thin, black tie. They carry a smaller semi-circular cape of red, which has a stick along its upper horizontal in order to handle more accurately whereas the Picadors grab the top of their capes grittily with both hands. Little defence against a raging bull.
Following the Matadors are the 4 surface cleaners, dressed in white smock shirts and white baggy trousers with a wide red sash around their lower waists. They carry rakes to resettle the sand after each corrida. All the troupe except the cleaning brigade wear the vomit pink socks. As they parade in organised rows towards el Presidente, they raise their hats, are acknowledged and then proceed around the ring waving to the crowd which cheers and applauds even though nothing yet has happened.
This is the chance to show off their elegance, arrogance and sheer self-control, because very soon they are alone with something like a half-ton of raging bull in the arena and all the applause in Christendom ain’t going to help one iota. Their elegant little figures retreat to the gate from whence they came to await the roaring bull. One Matador, four picadors. They all cross themselves before re-entering the ring, and then…the bull emerges, fast.
This is a seriously dramatic moment.
Crowds nearest to the bull gate bang on the nearest hard surface to provoke the bull to charge into the ring. The crowd appears to like a very feisty bull, and it is applauded for its boisterousness. It is quite spectacular to see the bull, which has been reared solely for this purpose to come into the ring. The ferocity with which it circles the ring is borne of curiosity and resentment of its enforced confinement. The Picadors flutter their capes and perform speedy escape routes from the charging horns and then, returning to the ring strike at the bull’s shoulders with brightly coloured pics, which they pierce just into the hide of the animal. Acting as an annoyance to the beast this brings down the level of the head to a lower position which is thus better positioned to receive its ultimate blow. Once the Picadors have done, probably all of about four minutes of display, the Matador comes on, striding arrogantly towards this hulking angry animal, yet still cutting a tiny defenceless figure. He interacts with the bull, who circles the Matador in answer to the red cape swirls, and the true bravado is when the Matador has achieved several pasa dobles or faenas, (an effective succession of turns) that he turns his back on the bull and walks away, holding the cape in an unprovocative style. This gets utter enthusiasm from the crowd who applaud immediately. As each turn between suit of lights, red cape, black bull and back again, the crowd roar “Ole!” This is an approval gesture that the Matador is successfully on terra firma. The kill comes quicker and is effected more rapidly than I had expected. The bull is panting, tired and angry. The sword goes in cleanly and hits the cortex of spinal cord so death is instant. This great heaving mass of beef folds its legs and is very quickly gone, a big black mass lying on the sand.
The defeated bull is then removed. In true rural Talarubbias style, this was utterly unceremonious. A one person fork lift drove on to the sand and with an efficient heave ho of its ugly mechanical lifting head was able to remove the beast efficiently if not totally uncaringly. The butcher wagon is parked outside the bull ring, as is an Ambulance.
The excitement of the crowd is also spectacular. The President notes the approval level of the crowd. This is the waving of white handkerchieves. If the crowd believes either the Matador/Bull has done badly they don’t wave their whites. If a good performance then the waving increases. If the crowd believes the Matador has put on an exceptional performance, they then wave profusely and obviously, so that the President is in effect led by them and he too waves a white handkerchief. The prize? The ears of the bull – one ear for medium to good, two ears for good to better and then the ultimate prize, the tail, once more unceremoniously removed. The Matador is presented with his prize to enthusiastic applause.
The brass instruments strike up a triumphant cacophony and the Rakers come out to do their housework on the sand. As this is happening the Matador, if successful, proudly struts around the ring to more applause and is thrown red roses. Once he’s done his circuit, it’s time for the next corrida.
The colour and spectacle left a huge impression on me. I did not come away with a feeling of cruelty, if the Brit sports of fox hunting or deer stalking were to be compared, then I think that they would have the cruelty edge. Because the kill is so quick, the spectacle is not as cruel as some might imagine.
The third Matador of the evening won both ears and the tail for his performance. He was almost acrobatic in his movements, tightly turning to escape the bull’s horns and swishing his cape deftly to and fro. All the time he appeared to maintain an elegant posture, that backward curve held for just a split second overlong, to emphasise the subtlety of his actions – a bit like the golfers when they take a swing and keep the posture when gazing after the ball. To see such a great animal about 10 metres behind the matador who has confidently turned his back on a raging bull is quite breathtaking.
Si, hay circulo, peligroso y teatro. (So, there is circus and danger and theatre.)
Can’t wait to go again.
Thursday 17 May 2007
DIEGO OUR PLUMBER
Diego is our plumber, tiler, roofer and firewood supplier. He is about 50, lean, weather-beaten and short. He has a voice than begins somewhere round his ankles, conditioned by the permanent Ducados stuck between fingers or lips. He is the antithesis of his modern UK counterpart. He is not only punctual but arrives five or ten minutes before the time scheduled; he does a good job and charges very modest rates.
The reason he deserves a mention is not just for his quality of service but to put another nail in the coffin of British racial superiority. Most of the pejorative names allocated to foreigners were coined in good old Blighty – spicks, wogs, dagos, thick paddies, etc.
Surely that’s all history? Take a look at our beloved national hero, Basil Fawlty. His stupid and clumsy employee was a cringe-making racial stereotype. Manuel incidentally was ‘from’ Barcelona, one of the most sophisticated and advanced cities in Europe yet Basil’s regular line to excuse his dopey Spaniard was ‘you’ll have to excuse him, he’s from Barcelona’. Oh how we laughed. If it comes to impeccable service and a genuine desire to please, the UK is so far behind Spain as there to be no contest.
One big job Diego did for us was to completely re-tile the entire floor of the house.
It took about a week. Diego arrived not at 0830 as agreed but 0825 or earlier each day. He brought two men with him from his home in Valdecaballeros, some 30K away.
They were working at 0830 - no brewing of tea or coffee, no reading The Sun, no chat about last night’s TV – simply ‘let’s do it’. Costs? Diego charged an almost unbelievable ten Euros an hour or six pounds seventy. Pretty close to the UK minimum wage. When I didn’t have enough cash, he waved his hand and said next time. Of course we couldn’t allow that so we arranged to leave the shortfall in a local bar in Valdecaballeros.
On smaller jobs he brings his wife, Mariepietra, who sits happily chatting with Bernice on the terrace. One job, the construction in brick of a kitchen unit, he just would not do as he considered there were ample kitchen units in the mueble stores that would do the job cheaper. So his trip was in vain. Charge for the call out? Zilch.
The reason he deserves a mention is not just for his quality of service but to put another nail in the coffin of British racial superiority. Most of the pejorative names allocated to foreigners were coined in good old Blighty – spicks, wogs, dagos, thick paddies, etc.
Surely that’s all history? Take a look at our beloved national hero, Basil Fawlty. His stupid and clumsy employee was a cringe-making racial stereotype. Manuel incidentally was ‘from’ Barcelona, one of the most sophisticated and advanced cities in Europe yet Basil’s regular line to excuse his dopey Spaniard was ‘you’ll have to excuse him, he’s from Barcelona’. Oh how we laughed. If it comes to impeccable service and a genuine desire to please, the UK is so far behind Spain as there to be no contest.
One big job Diego did for us was to completely re-tile the entire floor of the house.
It took about a week. Diego arrived not at 0830 as agreed but 0825 or earlier each day. He brought two men with him from his home in Valdecaballeros, some 30K away.
They were working at 0830 - no brewing of tea or coffee, no reading The Sun, no chat about last night’s TV – simply ‘let’s do it’. Costs? Diego charged an almost unbelievable ten Euros an hour or six pounds seventy. Pretty close to the UK minimum wage. When I didn’t have enough cash, he waved his hand and said next time. Of course we couldn’t allow that so we arranged to leave the shortfall in a local bar in Valdecaballeros.
On smaller jobs he brings his wife, Mariepietra, who sits happily chatting with Bernice on the terrace. One job, the construction in brick of a kitchen unit, he just would not do as he considered there were ample kitchen units in the mueble stores that would do the job cheaper. So his trip was in vain. Charge for the call out? Zilch.
Monday 14 May 2007
OUR ABOGADO JAVIER
No account of our life in Spain would be complete without mention of our Abogado Javier. In order to grasp the measure of this man one has to purge one’s mind of the images of stuffy Edinburgh or London lawyers – or Madrid lawyers for that matter.
You know the type – as soon as you walk in the door there is the unmistakable ting of a timing device, recording the minutes of your visit which will comprise the greater part of your ‘fee note’ (no vulgar bills for these guys) the lesser part being an indefinable factor called sundries.
Javier carried out the conveyancing for our house here. He met us in a short sleeved shirt with his tie dangling from a hat rack in the corner – in case he had to go to court. We talked of Scotland, Ireland, modern Spain and UK politics. We then slipped off to a local café for drinks and tapas.
We later had problems with a leaking pipe. Javier called his plumber Diego for us. When we needed a kitchen improvement, Javier drove the 25k to our house to meet with Diego to allow him to measure up. (We were in Scotland, packing up). When Bernice said she wanted to work in Spain, Javier offered her some hours in his office. When we expressed the desire to be fluent in Spanish and asked about classes, he said he would give us coaching. In return we improve his English. So we began weekly classes where we presented to each other in the appropriate language and made corrections after each delivery. So far working very well – apart from hiatus mentioned in earlier blog. When we asked about sourcing firewood, he invited us to his finca. There he loaded our Berlingo with Holm Oak; after which he showed us round his finca, introducing us to his chickens, geese, ducks, dogs and cats. On departure he insisted we take a bag of freshly laid eggs.
We regularly meet in the street - Herrera del Duque is a small town – and even if he has ten minutes, he insists we have coffee or a glass. We meet his wife Mimi and though we only met a day or two ago it is kisses all round – both cheeks, unlike the meagre UK one (if any). As for shaking hands - every day is like a Scottish Ne’er Day. Guys you only spoke with that morning, like an old pals reunion. And always time for a chat and a laugh. We think our Spanish is crap but we keep being told it is the perro’s cojones.
Whether flattery or no I cannot say but I think it is because we really make an effort also no whore speaks any English whatever. Even the kids who learn it in school soon forget it because here in the sticks, there is no opportunity to practice. One term the kids seem to love is “Bye Bye” – it sounds so silly in a Spanish accent. Mind you its not all that attractive in English
Can’t imagine the likes of David McLetchie who slowly bled the taxpayer for his personal travel and other expenses, being so enormously hospitable and unmercernary as our Javier, For balance, everyone we meet here in rural Spain simply cannot do enough for us. There is a culture of wanting to please – so absent in most UK transactions. Gifts, drinks, time, patience all given with a grace from a different era.
You know the type – as soon as you walk in the door there is the unmistakable ting of a timing device, recording the minutes of your visit which will comprise the greater part of your ‘fee note’ (no vulgar bills for these guys) the lesser part being an indefinable factor called sundries.
Javier carried out the conveyancing for our house here. He met us in a short sleeved shirt with his tie dangling from a hat rack in the corner – in case he had to go to court. We talked of Scotland, Ireland, modern Spain and UK politics. We then slipped off to a local café for drinks and tapas.
We later had problems with a leaking pipe. Javier called his plumber Diego for us. When we needed a kitchen improvement, Javier drove the 25k to our house to meet with Diego to allow him to measure up. (We were in Scotland, packing up). When Bernice said she wanted to work in Spain, Javier offered her some hours in his office. When we expressed the desire to be fluent in Spanish and asked about classes, he said he would give us coaching. In return we improve his English. So we began weekly classes where we presented to each other in the appropriate language and made corrections after each delivery. So far working very well – apart from hiatus mentioned in earlier blog. When we asked about sourcing firewood, he invited us to his finca. There he loaded our Berlingo with Holm Oak; after which he showed us round his finca, introducing us to his chickens, geese, ducks, dogs and cats. On departure he insisted we take a bag of freshly laid eggs.
We regularly meet in the street - Herrera del Duque is a small town – and even if he has ten minutes, he insists we have coffee or a glass. We meet his wife Mimi and though we only met a day or two ago it is kisses all round – both cheeks, unlike the meagre UK one (if any). As for shaking hands - every day is like a Scottish Ne’er Day. Guys you only spoke with that morning, like an old pals reunion. And always time for a chat and a laugh. We think our Spanish is crap but we keep being told it is the perro’s cojones.
Whether flattery or no I cannot say but I think it is because we really make an effort also no whore speaks any English whatever. Even the kids who learn it in school soon forget it because here in the sticks, there is no opportunity to practice. One term the kids seem to love is “Bye Bye” – it sounds so silly in a Spanish accent. Mind you its not all that attractive in English
Can’t imagine the likes of David McLetchie who slowly bled the taxpayer for his personal travel and other expenses, being so enormously hospitable and unmercernary as our Javier, For balance, everyone we meet here in rural Spain simply cannot do enough for us. There is a culture of wanting to please – so absent in most UK transactions. Gifts, drinks, time, patience all given with a grace from a different era.
Sunday 13 May 2007
SORRY FOR THE GAP
We’ve just had the great pleasure of a visit from my son Andrew here in Siberia, the eastern region of Extremadura. His wisdom is only excelled by his IQ and he pointed out that if I don’t add to my blog people will discontinue surfing (is that the word?) it.
So I thought it proper to let my reader(s) know why the hiatus. Frankly, I have been feeling like shit. With the two chemo drugs (Zoladex and Casodex) working together I reached a point where I had more pain than Victor Mature or Charlton Heston could act out (remember the great grimacers?). Chest, stomach, waist, back, groin plus a dire lethargy where I simply lost the will to do anything. I managed to speak directly with the Specialist – literally by walking into his offices in Villanueva de la Serena - he decided there and then to call a halt to the Casodex on the premise that sometimes when Casodex is stopped the cellular reaction is such that the PSA (now 73) goes down.
We’ve yet to see – June 12.
One thing we laymen don’t realise is just how much poison there is in chemotherapy.
It took four weeks of withdrawal from the Casodex for various pains to lessen. When I picked Andrew up from a train at Ciudad Real I was almost embarrassed by the number of OUCHes and AAAHs I had to emit each time a new pain hit me. Thankfully we had a couple of hours drive back to the house so I could explain to him about the chemo and remove any great sense of alarm.
What really pisses me off is that I simply had to see the GP at Talarubias. I told him without drama about the multiplicity of pains (oh, and constipation) and asked him about the side effects of the drugs. Bugger me, if he didn’t go into the internet and start reading. I would have thought a little residual knowledge might have been in situ.
I have now been given pills to settle my stomach, painkillers, laxatives and I have been sent for a chest Xray. In essence the man was treating each symptom individually. My contention was – and I had rehearsed the whole thing in Spanish – that these dolors could not possibly be separate conditions.
It wasn’t until I finally went into a Google search for Casodex and read the guff for myself that I saw each side effect was included in my portfolio including extreme lethargy.
In summary, after nearly 5 weeks off the Casodex I am beginning to feel almost human.
My poor Bernice has had to contend with a semi-invalid at home, while her mother is detained in hospital in Wales with liver cancer, a terminal condition. She’s not had a happy time.
So, got that off my chest – hopefully there will less depressing stuff to follow
So I thought it proper to let my reader(s) know why the hiatus. Frankly, I have been feeling like shit. With the two chemo drugs (Zoladex and Casodex) working together I reached a point where I had more pain than Victor Mature or Charlton Heston could act out (remember the great grimacers?). Chest, stomach, waist, back, groin plus a dire lethargy where I simply lost the will to do anything. I managed to speak directly with the Specialist – literally by walking into his offices in Villanueva de la Serena - he decided there and then to call a halt to the Casodex on the premise that sometimes when Casodex is stopped the cellular reaction is such that the PSA (now 73) goes down.
We’ve yet to see – June 12.
One thing we laymen don’t realise is just how much poison there is in chemotherapy.
It took four weeks of withdrawal from the Casodex for various pains to lessen. When I picked Andrew up from a train at Ciudad Real I was almost embarrassed by the number of OUCHes and AAAHs I had to emit each time a new pain hit me. Thankfully we had a couple of hours drive back to the house so I could explain to him about the chemo and remove any great sense of alarm.
What really pisses me off is that I simply had to see the GP at Talarubias. I told him without drama about the multiplicity of pains (oh, and constipation) and asked him about the side effects of the drugs. Bugger me, if he didn’t go into the internet and start reading. I would have thought a little residual knowledge might have been in situ.
I have now been given pills to settle my stomach, painkillers, laxatives and I have been sent for a chest Xray. In essence the man was treating each symptom individually. My contention was – and I had rehearsed the whole thing in Spanish – that these dolors could not possibly be separate conditions.
It wasn’t until I finally went into a Google search for Casodex and read the guff for myself that I saw each side effect was included in my portfolio including extreme lethargy.
In summary, after nearly 5 weeks off the Casodex I am beginning to feel almost human.
My poor Bernice has had to contend with a semi-invalid at home, while her mother is detained in hospital in Wales with liver cancer, a terminal condition. She’s not had a happy time.
So, got that off my chest – hopefully there will less depressing stuff to follow
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