There, but for the NHS, go I

I was born with a bone condition in my feet. Not that you’d know that – obviously I have some scarring from assorted operations, but aside from that there’s very little visible evidence. Perhaps I don’t walk as straight as some, but I am completely mobile and active. The bone condition I suffered from is serious and unusual. I have only encountered three other people in my life with the same condition.

The first one I barely remember, but my parents remember it very well. I was a small child, maybe three or four. At this stage I think I was still a bit wobbly and my feet were still a bit twisted, but the early operations had been successful and all was progressing well. The surgery I had was innovative: the night I was born there was an Orthopaedic Conference in progress at a nearby town. The Doctor on call realised what I had and contacted the hotel, he reached one of the country’s leading Orthopaedic surgeons and asked if he would be interested in my case. He was, and as a result the surgical treatment I received was second-to-none and somewhat experimental.

But I digress; one morning in the park my parents and I encountered another family, with a daughter just a few years older than me, with the same condition. She was in a wheel chair and had those big, ugly black boots that make me think of Oliver Twist. I remember being quite scared at the sight of her and running away to play. My Dad remembers standing there in tears as both sets of parents realised that I was walking and she would not.

In 2002 I was living in Honduras. I used to swim every morning before work and most mornings I would be accompanied by a little girl of about 11 years old. She was a great swimmer with a bright smile and after swimming I would often play water frisbee with her and her sister. I had known this child for more than a month before I saw her out of the water and saw her feet. They were twisted in and backwards; she walked, awkwardly and painfully, on the tops of her feet. She had the same condition as me.

Did she know somehow? Did she seek me out for some reason? It certainly felt like that. One Sunday I saw her picnicking with her family. It was her father who stood up to shake my hand, then looked at my feet, pointed at my scars, pointed at his daughter and said, nervously, "same same?" I nodded and the tears welled up in his eyes. In Spanish he asked, "free hospital?" I said yes. "Where from?" he asked. "Soy Inglesa" I replied. He nodded, there wasn’t much else to say.

I still live in the developing world and get frustrated when people describe it as some tropical paradise where life is ever-easy. Free medical care is a truly breath-taking concept for those that don’t have it. The fact that economic development has enabled certain states to be so rich they can provide it is frankly astonishing to most people here. They cannot imagine such a Utopia.

This morning on my way to work I passed a beggar. I think I may have walked past her before, but I am not sure. Today, just as I was passing she stood up and it was only then that I noticed her feet: twisted inwards and backwards. She had some doctored baseball gloves tied on to protect the tops of her feet as she walked. She was an old lady, tiny in a way that only a lifetime of malnutrition can cause. An obvious lack of even the most basic medical attention (splints) had left her knees and hips crooked as well. Her legs looked contorted and ill-made. She could walk, but the pain was obviously constant and severe. She had that absent look that so many long-term beggars and sufferers have. I gave her money and she thanked me, but she looked right through me. Should I have said something? In the end, what is there to say?

The War on Worms

Thank you all for the comments, emails and general concern about my worm. To answer your various questions:

• I did take a picture - but keep forgetting to upload it. I will do so soon.


• Yes, I have been to the doctor - I will start the medication tonight. First I have to sedate the worm and then tomorrow, I will poison it. I need to sedate it first so it doesn't get too erratic when it's poisoned. Apparently it can take up to a week to die.


• It hasn't moved much in the last day or so.


• The doctor thinks I probably got it from walking through dirty water.


• No, I haven't given him a name. However, after discussion last night a number of my friends have decided to call it William.

LATER! Here he is!

(sigh)

Just got all excited: someone left a comment on my blog! "What could it be?" I mused. The name was unfamilier - so it's not just one of my friends leaving a 'sympathy comment' (not that I get many of those). It's a stranger! Someone, that I don't know, has checked-out my blog (wow) and it has inspired them to think something! Something that they wish to communicate. Fantastic! I didn't look at it straight away - I had some emails to reply to, so I decided to do that first and save the mysterious comment for later.

Just checked it out. It was a link to an adult videos website. Life is full of cruel disappointments. Blogging is standing on a big stage in a dark auditorium - talking blithely to the darkness.

Long Haul

I’m at Hong Kong airport: it’s all shiny and lush and arched and grey and matt and I can’t find anything. I suspect I am in the wrong terminal, but when I asked, the charmingly sweet Information girls just giggled and agreed with everything I said – in the Asian style, which really could mean anything at all. There’s free Wi-Fi (doh! Obviously!) but it’s so slow – I am writing this blog rather than watching the wheel spinning over at Yahoo… arrggghh….

What I really need is to go to the loo. This is the one major drawback of travelling on your own: I will now have pack away my stuff and take everything with me and, no doubt, loose my nice table with the attractive view over the terminus… right. No point in putting it off! Here we go…


I have decamped and retreated to the dusty corners of Gates 1-4. It’s quieter here and more in keeping with my state of mind. Sadly there are no tables, so my laptop really is. Fortunately after my sojourn in the home of real ale, I am now able to balance my laptop on my ample tummy. Curses.

A few words about the signposting of Hong Kong airport: I believe it is designed to wind you up. They signpost really well… up to a point, then they stop. When I arrived I suspected I might have ended up in the wrong terminal (caused by several mishaps involving confusing signposting and over zealous staff). So when I saw a sign saying “Transfer Help Desk”, I thought that would be my first port of call. I following the sign to the left, I saw another pointing straight on and so continued. Then nothing. Nothing that looked like a help desk anyway. There was a large silver bean on a pedestal (oh how I love modern airports, with their surreal concept art – more cruelty to be inflicted on the long-haul passenger, anxiously rubbing our weary eyes: “Does it mean coffee?” we ask in bewilderment.) I turned in a slow circle, looking for a sign or some inspiration. I saw a sign, which read “Airline Services Desk”. “They might know” I mutter to myself hopefully, so I set off, to the right, then straight on, until there are no more signs… once more a slow circle reveals only one helpful sign: “Transfer Help Desk” it reads.

Upstairs there’s a food court (from where this post began) I ate some nasty fast food. It was a burger or noodles and I am putting off the realisation that everything I eat for the next 6 months will come with rice or noodles for as long as possible. Although, as I write this, watching my computer wobble in front of me I think it must be a good thing.

One hour to go until my next flight: just time for another Killer Sudoku.

Blogging Blues

I have just spent five days in the jungle. I could tell a tale of a steep, jungle-clad valley with a deep aqua-lime river winding through it. I could spin a yarn of thousands of indignant bats and a 2 metre emerald lizard. I could sketch a scene from days past of villagers digging themselves into caves, squeezed between hanging tree-roots and glittering stalagmites, to hide from invading soldiers... but I'm not going to... because I have the Blogging Blues.

What do I have to do to please you people?! Huh?! [assuming 'you people' are not actually a figment of my imagination]. What must I do to get a reaction? I thought Lablita would tug at your heart strings and squeeze a response out of you... but it seems little Labli left you cold. I thought the episode in Ging Ging Cafe would raise a few questions about the nature of tourism and cultures colliding... but apparently you didn't even raise an eyebrow. I had hoped that my Ferry troubles or my bizarre reception in Sibuyan might amuse you! But I guess not. Are you really so world-weary? Have you really heard it all before? [sigh]

After consideration, there are two possible reasons for this total wall of cyber-silence:

1. I have no readers. You are in fact my latest imaginary friends. Sadly imaginary friends can't make comments, encourage or criticise. As friends go, they're rubbish.

2. I have readers, but I have [as yet] completely failed to engage, interest or entertain you.

So what do I do? Are my blogs too long? Too short? To much about myself? Too much about other people? To much about people all together and not enough action? Does my blog need a flamboyantly evil villain and a couple of really good tricycle chases? Or some naked celebrities perhaps? Am I too random? Too glib? [grin] Not glib enough? [cheeky grin]

In case anyone was wondering, I am not in the luxurious position of needing a comments policy. So whatever you write will go up! Perhaps you are unsure of what a constitutes a comment? This online dictionary defines it as:

"a remark, observation, or criticism; gossip; talk; a criticism or interpretation, often by implication or suggestion; a note in explanation, expansion, or criticism of a passage in a book, article, or the like; explanatory or critical matter added to a text"

Which is more or less the same as my definition of a comment:

"anything, ANYTHING, that lets me know you're out there and I'm not just writing this for my Dad!"

Don't get me wrong! My Dad is a small, but worthy, audience and I shall continue to write this solely for him [and in the hope that I may pick-up a few stragglers on the way].

But for now, I'm going to the beach, to reflect upon the last few crazy days... that lizard! Crikey! It would've made a great blog. You [if you exist] missed out.



I'm not even gonna tell you what this is. But it looks to me like it might have a plan for world domination...