Something on TV this morning set Keith off on a grumble about the inanity of social networking sites.
"I just can't see the point," he said. "What possible interest could anyone have in my tweet that I had just had a tomato for breakfast?"
A great deal, I should think. The day he has just a tomato for breakfast without the bacon, eggs and sausage to go with it, will be extremely newsworthy. However, I kept these thoughts to myself.
When Paddy and I got back from our walk, Keith announced (to me, rather than to the world) that he had had his breakfast, including a tomato.
"You'd better set up your Twitter account right now!" I laughed.
For the record, although I have long been a fan of blogging, I can't see any point at all in Twitter and am only on Facebook because it makes it easier to follow the doings of Elder and Younger Daughters (Be warned, girls!) and I am always concerned when I read that Facebook powers-that-be have surreptitiously introduced yet another 'improvement' that chips away a little more at people's privacy.
Still, if Keith does set up a Twitter account (unlikely), it will be interesting to see how many millions of followers around the world will respond to his announcement that he had a tomato for breakfast.
The reckoning!
This morning I got a phone call from the GP surgery, inviting me to present myself for a blood pressure and cholesterol check. Presumably there are targets to be met "Yes, we have screened x number of our patients over 60. Can we have our funding please?"
The last time I was summoned was when I registered at the practice, nearly eight years ago, when I was still in the throes of classroom stress and my blood pressure was 'high side of normal' but exacerbated by 'white coat syndrome.'
At that time, I was very assiduous in keeping my own regular check but since then, I have fallen by the wayside.
Keith, who pays little heed to weight, exercise or healthy eating, has no problem with his blood pressure. I, on the other hand, exercise daily, keep strictly to healthy eating and try constantly to keep my weight down to what I am happy with, so why am I the one with borderline high BP?
Maybe there's a clue in my reaction to this morning's phone call:
The last time I was summoned was when I registered at the practice, nearly eight years ago, when I was still in the throes of classroom stress and my blood pressure was 'high side of normal' but exacerbated by 'white coat syndrome.'
At that time, I was very assiduous in keeping my own regular check but since then, I have fallen by the wayside.
Keith, who pays little heed to weight, exercise or healthy eating, has no problem with his blood pressure. I, on the other hand, exercise daily, keep strictly to healthy eating and try constantly to keep my weight down to what I am happy with, so why am I the one with borderline high BP?
Maybe there's a clue in my reaction to this morning's phone call:
- Dig out BP monitor and take blood pressure three times (taking the best of the three as my guide)
- Spend an hour online researching acceptable levels of blood pressure and whether I fall within them.
- Vow to give up my daily glass of vin rouge - although I had thought that this was good for blood pressure. The jury's out on that one, it seems.
- Text Elder Daughter for her opinion on whether I have any cause for concern. Well, it's no good putting her through uni if I am not to derive at least some benefit.
Strange
Odd how they make so much fuss about our owners cleaning up after us dogs...
yet horses seem to be able to do as they like!
Dental hygiene
I had to go to the vet on Thursday - something to do with a 'booster' whatever that is, and a health check. The appointment was early and I think Jenny arranged that specially because, when we got there, there were no cats, no animals of any kind, in fact, and we went straight in to see the vet. She poked and prodded me and said I was a nice dog. I was doing a lot of sniffing around the floor and Jenny said I had probably picked up the scent of cats.
"He likes cats, he just couldn't eat a whole one," she said and the vet said, "Ah yes, he has Border terrier in him," as if that explained everything. I don't know why Jenny assumes I couldn't eat a whole one, she's never given me the chance to try!
Anyway, I bore my injection very stoically (Bet you didn't think I would know a word like that!) and then the vet looked at my teeth and said that they could do with cleaning, so she suggested either Dentastix (yum, yum) or a dog toothbrush or special wipes.
Later, Jenny went shopping and came back with Dentastix and some dental wipes.
You're really going to put your fingers in his mouth?" Keith asked incredulously (See, another big word).
Well, so far, she's given me Dentastix.
The pot of wipes is still sitting on the dining room table...
"He likes cats, he just couldn't eat a whole one," she said and the vet said, "Ah yes, he has Border terrier in him," as if that explained everything. I don't know why Jenny assumes I couldn't eat a whole one, she's never given me the chance to try!
Anyway, I bore my injection very stoically (Bet you didn't think I would know a word like that!) and then the vet looked at my teeth and said that they could do with cleaning, so she suggested either Dentastix (yum, yum) or a dog toothbrush or special wipes.
Later, Jenny went shopping and came back with Dentastix and some dental wipes.
You're really going to put your fingers in his mouth?" Keith asked incredulously (See, another big word).
Well, so far, she's given me Dentastix.
The pot of wipes is still sitting on the dining room table...
Cats!
It was great going out for my walk today. There were TWO cats right out there, just WAITING to be chased, but of course, I was on my lead. When will Jenny realise, I only want to play with them! Off we went up the path. By now, one of the cats had run away, but the other, a raggy old black one, was sauntering up the path right in front of us. Of course, I assumed my stalking position and crept along steadily behind him, and all of a sudden, the stupid creature SAT DOWN in the middle of the path, right in front of me. How cheeky is that?
I thought all my birthdays had come at once.
Unfortunately, Jenny was quicker, dragged me to the side of the path and pulled me past the cat, who was still sitting there, smirking!
I won't forget, Pussy Cat! Oh no, I definitely won't forget.....!
I thought all my birthdays had come at once.
Unfortunately, Jenny was quicker, dragged me to the side of the path and pulled me past the cat, who was still sitting there, smirking!
I won't forget, Pussy Cat! Oh no, I definitely won't forget.....!
Dreams
I have slept in this morning. If you are looking at the time of this post and thinking, "9.15am on a Sunday? What's she on about?" well, it is late for me. Keith (apparently) sprang out of bed at 5.30am, which is not unusual for him and I am generally up and about between seven and half past at the latest. I was late this morning because for some reason, sleep had eluded me between half past two and about half past four so, in all fairness, I was entitled to make up for that.
Those last few hours were spent in Dreamland. I don't often remember my dreams but they are generally about losing and searching fruitlessly for my purse or searching unsuccessfully for a toilet in some large building in which I happen to find myself. Sometimes they are about my finding myself in front of a strange class and trying to obtain information, assistance and the whereabouts of the materials I need. (Common theme of anxiety here?)
This morning, it was about being in hospital with something very minor, although I can't remember what, and being informed that I would need an operation in which my neck would be broken and then reset and it would be done by a student nurse who had never done such a procedure before. Perhaps I need to stop watching Holby City and Casualty.
Having politely turned down the operation, well then I spent the rest of my time searching for a toilet!
Those last few hours were spent in Dreamland. I don't often remember my dreams but they are generally about losing and searching fruitlessly for my purse or searching unsuccessfully for a toilet in some large building in which I happen to find myself. Sometimes they are about my finding myself in front of a strange class and trying to obtain information, assistance and the whereabouts of the materials I need. (Common theme of anxiety here?)
This morning, it was about being in hospital with something very minor, although I can't remember what, and being informed that I would need an operation in which my neck would be broken and then reset and it would be done by a student nurse who had never done such a procedure before. Perhaps I need to stop watching Holby City and Casualty.
Having politely turned down the operation, well then I spent the rest of my time searching for a toilet!
A new boiler?
On Monday, British Gas Man came to service the boiler, which was working fine.
"It's 16 years old now," he said, "I'm supposed to persuade you to get a new one, but, don't worry, the parts for this one are still available."
After a conversation about why I objected to the fact that the only boilers that we are now allowed to have are condenser boilers, which, I have read, are not very reliable in very cold weather and about Dad's boiler which is now 45 years old and still going strong, he left.
Yesterday, Keith had a call on his mobile phone, asking for me. (Don't ask!) It was British Gas Call Centre Man. In tones of deepest gloom and darkest warnings, he began to tell me that, as our boiler is now 16 years old, it is FAR more likely to break down and it will be ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE to get parts for it if it should. Boilers are only meant to last ten years, so I should really be thinking of replacing it and would I be interested in a free, no-obligation quote?
"No," I said.
"Can I ask why?" he said.
"Yes," I said, "I am certainly not going to spend over £2000 buying a new boiler when the old one is working perfectly well. If boilers only last ten years, they're really not worth the money, are they?"
I could almost hear the shuffle of feet as he backed away from his phone in shocked silence. Then,
"OK, no problem," he said in a faint voice.
"It's 16 years old now," he said, "I'm supposed to persuade you to get a new one, but, don't worry, the parts for this one are still available."
After a conversation about why I objected to the fact that the only boilers that we are now allowed to have are condenser boilers, which, I have read, are not very reliable in very cold weather and about Dad's boiler which is now 45 years old and still going strong, he left.
Yesterday, Keith had a call on his mobile phone, asking for me. (Don't ask!) It was British Gas Call Centre Man. In tones of deepest gloom and darkest warnings, he began to tell me that, as our boiler is now 16 years old, it is FAR more likely to break down and it will be ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE to get parts for it if it should. Boilers are only meant to last ten years, so I should really be thinking of replacing it and would I be interested in a free, no-obligation quote?
"No," I said.
"Can I ask why?" he said.
"Yes," I said, "I am certainly not going to spend over £2000 buying a new boiler when the old one is working perfectly well. If boilers only last ten years, they're really not worth the money, are they?"
I could almost hear the shuffle of feet as he backed away from his phone in shocked silence. Then,
"OK, no problem," he said in a faint voice.
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Plaster board and dust
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