I stagger out of the building my head full of death. I pull my phone out of my pocket and call my Detective Sergeant, or Craig, as he likes to be called by the officers he supervises. I want to talk to Francesca, but this isn’t the sort of news that you tell your long-term partner face to face. Similarly, I need to tell my mum and Aunt, but there’ll be a thousand questions, hysterics. I need to have a cuppa and compose myself before I tell them. Anyway, I have a good relationship with Craig; he’ll get my head straight. I sit on the car park kerb and I sob into the phone, “Craig, I’m dying. I’ve got an inoperable brain tumour. I’m all fucked up”. His words are calming and soothing and help me get everything into perspective. At least the tears stop. After a while a ring off and call John, the guy I went to Poland with those few short weeks ago. John usually has an amazingly pragmatic view on life. If anyone can make sense of this its John. For the first time in the sixteen years that I’ve known him he’s dumbstruck. He keeps asking me to repeat myself as if he needs to hear it a multitude of times before it sinks in. We talk as I walk slowly to the train station.
I arrive at the flat some forty minutes later. Its empty, Francesca is out collecting Olivia from the nursery. After a few minutes I hear their buggy being pushed through the car park gravel. I decide to meet them in the basement.
“How did it go love?”
“Well, do you want the good news or bad news first?”
“Don’t do this to me, just tell me how it went at the hospital”.
“Well the good news is you’re going to be around £200,000 better off. The bad news is I wont be there to spend it with you”.
“What?”
“I’ve an inoperable brain tumour love”. She collapses in my arms. Her tears mingle with mine. I hold her tight to me and bury my face deep into her long dark curls. She smells and feels good as always, comforting, but somehow different. I’m appreciating her more. Unconsciously, I’m taking in every molecule of her perfume, and every inch of contact as if it were the last. The children begin to cry.
Friday, 29 June 2007
Wednesday, 27 June 2007
The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long...
Late afternoon Tuesday the 17/10/2006, I’m on my back inserted into the MRI at Kingston Hospital. Despite the headphones piping cheesy music it’s still very noisy inside. I’m pulled out of the cylinder after about half an hour. The radiographer assures me that I’ll be called with the results the following day and I leave.
That night I’m calm. I’ve already rationalised that I have a small brain haemorrhage. I know this can be remedied quite easily with either medication or a small operation. After all, it made sense; stress or exertion seemed to bring about my seizures. I reasoned that this was likely caused by blood pressure building up causing the weakened intracranial lesion to swell and ultimately press on the same area in the brain thus eliciting the same sensations of Presque vu, olfactory and auditory hallucinations and eventual disorientation. I thanked God that I took that module of Physiological Psychology at University. I knew that it would pay off one day.
Early afternoon Wednesday the 18/10/2006, the phone in the living room rings. It’s the dashing doc’s secretary. He wants to see me later this afternoon. Feelings of dread and fear well over me.
A couple of hours later I’m ushered into his austere but spacious office. As the doctor offers me a seat I glance to my left to see him put up what appears to be an x-ray of what must be my skull on an illuminated wall mounted x-ray reader. I identify it before he can utter another word. A large white mass, like a clenched fist, sitting behind my right eye. His words fall on me like hammer blows to my body. “I’m afraid you have a large brain tumour” I look again, this can’t be true, this sort of thing happens to other people. “Tumour?” “Yes”, he replies, and then the words start ‘bouncing off me’, words that no amount of training in psychology could prepare you for. Words such as ‘astrocytoma, inoperable, mortality. Nausea wells up in my stomach, I cup my head in my hands and begin to weep like an inconsolable child. “But I was a good cop”. “And you still are”. “How long has this thing been in my head?” “There’s no way of telling”, comes the reply. “Typically, they’re very slow growing. Could be ten, fifteen years, could be longer”. I start to think back on all the things I have done with this ‘time bomb’ in my skull. I bloody climbed the Glyder range in Wales. Negotiated Corno Grande, highest peak in the Apennines. I’ve scuba dived underwater mountains in the Med. Raced solo across Europe on a Kawasaki, and got myself through the tough training at Hendon police academy, all with this crap growing away, festering. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain. It’s now my time to die. “Look, in my experience tumours such as these are largely benign. However, we won’t know until we have a biopsy performed. In the meantime, I’m writing you a prescription for anti-epileptics. We’ll be in touch with a date”.
I float to the hospital dispensary. Hand shaking I pass the prescription across the desk, I’m given a number. Mercifully, I’m alone in the waiting room. I stand with my back to the pharmacists and sob quietly.
That night I’m calm. I’ve already rationalised that I have a small brain haemorrhage. I know this can be remedied quite easily with either medication or a small operation. After all, it made sense; stress or exertion seemed to bring about my seizures. I reasoned that this was likely caused by blood pressure building up causing the weakened intracranial lesion to swell and ultimately press on the same area in the brain thus eliciting the same sensations of Presque vu, olfactory and auditory hallucinations and eventual disorientation. I thanked God that I took that module of Physiological Psychology at University. I knew that it would pay off one day.
Early afternoon Wednesday the 18/10/2006, the phone in the living room rings. It’s the dashing doc’s secretary. He wants to see me later this afternoon. Feelings of dread and fear well over me.
A couple of hours later I’m ushered into his austere but spacious office. As the doctor offers me a seat I glance to my left to see him put up what appears to be an x-ray of what must be my skull on an illuminated wall mounted x-ray reader. I identify it before he can utter another word. A large white mass, like a clenched fist, sitting behind my right eye. His words fall on me like hammer blows to my body. “I’m afraid you have a large brain tumour” I look again, this can’t be true, this sort of thing happens to other people. “Tumour?” “Yes”, he replies, and then the words start ‘bouncing off me’, words that no amount of training in psychology could prepare you for. Words such as ‘astrocytoma, inoperable, mortality. Nausea wells up in my stomach, I cup my head in my hands and begin to weep like an inconsolable child. “But I was a good cop”. “And you still are”. “How long has this thing been in my head?” “There’s no way of telling”, comes the reply. “Typically, they’re very slow growing. Could be ten, fifteen years, could be longer”. I start to think back on all the things I have done with this ‘time bomb’ in my skull. I bloody climbed the Glyder range in Wales. Negotiated Corno Grande, highest peak in the Apennines. I’ve scuba dived underwater mountains in the Med. Raced solo across Europe on a Kawasaki, and got myself through the tough training at Hendon police academy, all with this crap growing away, festering. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain. It’s now my time to die. “Look, in my experience tumours such as these are largely benign. However, we won’t know until we have a biopsy performed. In the meantime, I’m writing you a prescription for anti-epileptics. We’ll be in touch with a date”.
I float to the hospital dispensary. Hand shaking I pass the prescription across the desk, I’m given a number. Mercifully, I’m alone in the waiting room. I stand with my back to the pharmacists and sob quietly.
Tuesday, 26 June 2007
Potential Catastrophic Biological Failure Detector
Saturday comes quickly and Francesca returns home with the kids. Come Monday midday I’m attending my eldest daughter’s nursery for her induction day. It’s a big deal for us as its our baby’s first day at school, albeit nursery. And while she skips about making friends we’re being introduced to all the staff and facilities. Meanwhile, my youngest daughter, ever the extrovert (where does she get that from?), is happily milling about with children twice her age. Afternoon, I’m sitting outside the neurologist’s office at Kingston Hospital trying to get images of white haired Teutonic fops fighting vampiric hordes with nothing but a pointed stick (Python reference, had to get one in somewhere – The Americans will appreciate that, always have good taste in humour the Yanks). “Ahh… neurotic middle-aged Arab type woman sitting next to me, She’ll do”! Within three minutes she’s told me all her ailments and how’s she ended up sitting in a neurologist’s waiting room. Now if I could just use that ability on suspects in interview. I’m just about to diagnose her when, “Mr McNally?” “That’ll be me”. Apart from the regrettable name Dr Van Oertzen cuts a rather dashing profile. A slim, good looking six foot something forty-year old you just know has no problem picking up the ladies, der Scheißkerl.
We sit I talk. After some minutes and a plethora of hmm’s and aha’s the dashing doc recommends that I have an MRI scan the following day. I ask him that despite it being ‘early days’ does he have any idea what may be up with me? He replies that it could be some form of epilepsy. I protest that I’m not trashing around and losing consciousness. He retorts that there are many types of epilepsy, the ‘grand mal’ being only one. None the wiser I thank him for his time and patience and leave to make my appointment for tomorrow.
The internal ‘bodyclock’ is well documented. Indeed, Circadian rhythms are important in determining the sleeping and feeding patterns of all animals, including human beings. There are clear patterns of brain wave activity, hormone production, cell regeneration and other biological activities linked to this daily cycle. However, the ‘bodyclock I’m thinking about is when your girlfriend reminds you that she’s not getting any younger, and that she needs to get married and have children. I digress. Where am I going with this? Similarly, I actually believe that the human body has some sort of inbuilt destruction detection device insofar as we detect potential catastrophic biological failure in the absence of symptomology. Allow me to explain. Prior to the first incident taking place in September, I went up to see my Mother and Aunt at the family home in the North West of England. Whilst there I drove around all my old haunts, places I wouldn’t normally visit in a short weekend trip to my folks. Somehow I wanted to relive the memories (nostalgic son of a bitch). What made it all the more poignant was the fact that I had my three-year old daughter with me. It was summer, I wanted her to see where I grew up, what seasonal sensations I experienced at this time of year thirty years ago. I wanted to see her run with her bare feet through the damp sand collecting shells. I wanted her to pick the flowers from the borders in the park, and eat ice cream on the promenade. I wanted her to have some quality time with her grandmother.
I also visited a dive shop and found the bargain of the century in the shape of a one piece Oakley 7mm semi-dry suit. Wanting to pay cash, I left a small deposit and told the storekeeper that I would return at the end of the week. End of the week comes, and I start to make my way to the store. As I approach the door something internal physically prevented me from carrying on. A little voice inside my head saying, “forget it mate, you’re not going to need that suit, it’ll be a waste of money”. I didn’t pick it up, and I let the deposit go. At around the same time I started to Ebay everything. Stuff that had monetary and sentimental value, all were sold electronically. Confusing considering I’m such a horder of memories. Stranger still was my sudden obsession with constructing a list of 100 things to do before I died, and ticking them off as I religiously, no ritualistically, completed them. Meanwhile, Francesca shook her head at me in bewilderment. I remember that somehow I was ‘clearing the decks’, making sure that I had experienced everything that I could possibly experience legally, and not leaving clutter behind.
We sit I talk. After some minutes and a plethora of hmm’s and aha’s the dashing doc recommends that I have an MRI scan the following day. I ask him that despite it being ‘early days’ does he have any idea what may be up with me? He replies that it could be some form of epilepsy. I protest that I’m not trashing around and losing consciousness. He retorts that there are many types of epilepsy, the ‘grand mal’ being only one. None the wiser I thank him for his time and patience and leave to make my appointment for tomorrow.
The internal ‘bodyclock’ is well documented. Indeed, Circadian rhythms are important in determining the sleeping and feeding patterns of all animals, including human beings. There are clear patterns of brain wave activity, hormone production, cell regeneration and other biological activities linked to this daily cycle. However, the ‘bodyclock I’m thinking about is when your girlfriend reminds you that she’s not getting any younger, and that she needs to get married and have children. I digress. Where am I going with this? Similarly, I actually believe that the human body has some sort of inbuilt destruction detection device insofar as we detect potential catastrophic biological failure in the absence of symptomology. Allow me to explain. Prior to the first incident taking place in September, I went up to see my Mother and Aunt at the family home in the North West of England. Whilst there I drove around all my old haunts, places I wouldn’t normally visit in a short weekend trip to my folks. Somehow I wanted to relive the memories (nostalgic son of a bitch). What made it all the more poignant was the fact that I had my three-year old daughter with me. It was summer, I wanted her to see where I grew up, what seasonal sensations I experienced at this time of year thirty years ago. I wanted to see her run with her bare feet through the damp sand collecting shells. I wanted her to pick the flowers from the borders in the park, and eat ice cream on the promenade. I wanted her to have some quality time with her grandmother.
I also visited a dive shop and found the bargain of the century in the shape of a one piece Oakley 7mm semi-dry suit. Wanting to pay cash, I left a small deposit and told the storekeeper that I would return at the end of the week. End of the week comes, and I start to make my way to the store. As I approach the door something internal physically prevented me from carrying on. A little voice inside my head saying, “forget it mate, you’re not going to need that suit, it’ll be a waste of money”. I didn’t pick it up, and I let the deposit go. At around the same time I started to Ebay everything. Stuff that had monetary and sentimental value, all were sold electronically. Confusing considering I’m such a horder of memories. Stranger still was my sudden obsession with constructing a list of 100 things to do before I died, and ticking them off as I religiously, no ritualistically, completed them. Meanwhile, Francesca shook her head at me in bewilderment. I remember that somehow I was ‘clearing the decks’, making sure that I had experienced everything that I could possibly experience legally, and not leaving clutter behind.
Monday, 25 June 2007
Career Suicide
There’s noise all around me as my colleagues mill about their tasks. There are arrest enquiries to be completed, prisoners to be processed, statements to be taken, mug shots to be shown, and breakfasts to be eaten. My workload is not a particularly heavy one today; collect CCTV from the scene of a non-residential burglary, take it to Hounslow police station and view it in the hope that I get a good image of the ‘slag’ that ‘screwed’ the warehouse. Secondly, collect a victim of robbery from his H.A. (home address) take him back to the venue (place he was mugged) with a view to jogging any suppressed memory and identifying any overlooked forensic opportunities. The latter has all the hallmarks of an ‘insurance job’. A ‘victim’ pretending he/she was robbed in order to generate a crime reference number so they can claim a newer more up-to-date cell phone. Unfortunately, this is all too often the case, and is difficult to prove otherwise. Often it simply comes down to ‘gut instinct’ to detect a liar, which as we all know is simply a layman’s’ term for intuition and experience http://psychologytoday.com/articles/pto-20070424-000001.html . Sadly, this is not enough, and I’m digressing widely. Guess it comes with studying psychology for far too many years. Besides all that I’ve still got my other crimes to investigate, there’s a shortage of unmarked cars, and I’m still phasing in and out of reality. I cannot get behind the wheel of a police vehicle, nor any vehicle for that matter. I would be a danger to the public, my colleagues and myself. In fact, the way I’m feeling I shouldn’t be in contact with anyone in a working capacity, I’m a bleedin’ walking health and safety violation. I then decide to take the ‘long walk’ into the DI’s (Detective Inspector) office and put all my ‘cards on the table’. This crap isn’t going away.
“Guv, can you spare a few minutes”? “What’s up big man?” Now my DI, a stocky Glaswegian in his forties, is one of the nicest blokes you could ever hope to meet in this life. The sort of person a guy could instantly feel at ease with and open up his heart. I am truly blessed that I can refer to him as a friend of the family. However, potentially committing career suicide should be very low on the list of things to do of a young and upcoming detective, nobody wants a ‘loon’ on their team that could keel over in a fight, or ‘flip out’ in a high speed car chase. “Guv, I think I’m really ill”. “Close the door behind you mate, take a seat”. And then it all spills out and I begin to shake. “Likey… Likey, my office now!” The office door bursts open, “What’s up Guv?” “Get a car, one with blues ‘n twos, and get Ivan to the hospital pronto”. “What’s up mate?” “He’ll fill you in on the way, get going”.
I’m at Kingston Hospital in record time a testament to the driving ability of my work mate John. As promised I’ve got him ‘up to scratch’ along the way, and he decides to stay with me while I get booked in for the usual barrage of probes and questions. A phone call, “it’s the Guvnor, I should stay with you as long as it takes… I was anyway, we’re paid by the hour” I crack a wry smile.
After a while the doctor in charge visits my cubicle. He informs me that they cannot find anything wrong with me, and that they considered keeping me in for observation until my Neurologist appointment next week, however, he is more concerned that I’ll leave here with more diseases than I went in with. His advice is to wait at home until my appointment with Van Helsing, after all its only three days away. I’m discharged none the wiser, but at least free of MRSA. Another phone call from the DI. I’m not to come in until after the neurologist’s appointment next week. I wonder how I’m going to tell my folks about all this
“Guv, can you spare a few minutes”? “What’s up big man?” Now my DI, a stocky Glaswegian in his forties, is one of the nicest blokes you could ever hope to meet in this life. The sort of person a guy could instantly feel at ease with and open up his heart. I am truly blessed that I can refer to him as a friend of the family. However, potentially committing career suicide should be very low on the list of things to do of a young and upcoming detective, nobody wants a ‘loon’ on their team that could keel over in a fight, or ‘flip out’ in a high speed car chase. “Guv, I think I’m really ill”. “Close the door behind you mate, take a seat”. And then it all spills out and I begin to shake. “Likey… Likey, my office now!” The office door bursts open, “What’s up Guv?” “Get a car, one with blues ‘n twos, and get Ivan to the hospital pronto”. “What’s up mate?” “He’ll fill you in on the way, get going”.
I’m at Kingston Hospital in record time a testament to the driving ability of my work mate John. As promised I’ve got him ‘up to scratch’ along the way, and he decides to stay with me while I get booked in for the usual barrage of probes and questions. A phone call, “it’s the Guvnor, I should stay with you as long as it takes… I was anyway, we’re paid by the hour” I crack a wry smile.
After a while the doctor in charge visits my cubicle. He informs me that they cannot find anything wrong with me, and that they considered keeping me in for observation until my Neurologist appointment next week, however, he is more concerned that I’ll leave here with more diseases than I went in with. His advice is to wait at home until my appointment with Van Helsing, after all its only three days away. I’m discharged none the wiser, but at least free of MRSA. Another phone call from the DI. I’m not to come in until after the neurologist’s appointment next week. I wonder how I’m going to tell my folks about all this
Sunday, 24 June 2007
Pleasuurre, painn, someone somwhere is eating a lot of Muller yoghurt
Saturday night, Francesca and the kids are still in Italy, its time to party. By 1900 hours fellow lawman, close friend and confident, Joe, is at the flat. By 1905 we’ve hit the local bars of TW19, spending over the odds for vodka that would have cost me a fraction of the price two weeks ago.
By 0205 hours the two of us are making the sad slow meandering march back to the flat. In true Northern fashion Joe takes the floor with a few cushions, and I hit my bed with a resounding thud. The following morning I have a pain in my neck. I write it off as having slept too soundly in the same position for far too long. Anyway, I got a good 20 hours to shake the effects of the night off before I’m on duty again.
Next day and the pain is still there, worse in fact. Work is a nightmare, notwithstanding the stupid comments every five minutes about the stiff neck. Definitely no overtime today.
When I get home I ‘drop’ a couple of paracetamols, virtually no effect. The rest of the evening is spent in excruciating agony to the point that I’m walking around with a wrapped up towel around my neck as a makeshift brace. And then I make the fateful mistake; self diagnoses, http://www.wrongdiagnosis.com/ I typed all my symptoms in and… Shit! Bedtime is propped up in a sitting position on the couch. Lying down is far to tortuous. Sleep? Forget it! The next morning at the stroke of 0830 I phone the surgery and get an emergency appointment with my GP.
Not long after I’m sitting opposite my doctor again. A few minutes later he’s recommending that I be admitted to hospital with suspected meningitis. I protest his diagnoses. There is no sensitivity to light, or high fever (I’ve done my homework). He retorts, “There’s more than one type of meningitis, I’ll call an ambulance”. Shortly after I’m in the local hospital being prodded with needles, having lights shone in my eyes, and having my reflexes taken every five minutes.
After what seems like at eternity the doctors return to my cubicle only to announce what I already knew. “Well its not meningitis, here have some Diclofenac. Take one three times a day. If symptoms persist go back to your GP”. Within a few hours the pain has gone completely.
However, within days it’s ‘bang, bang, bang’ three ‘funny turns’ in quick succession over the period of one afternoon and evening. The exact same M.O. as the others. Soul sucked out through face whilst experiencing a strange feeling of deja vu, or rather presque vu (from French, meaning "almost seen"). The sensation of being on the brink of an epiphany. “There’s something at the back of my mind trying to breakthrough. If I can just understand what it is I’ll have this sucker, whatever it is, fully understood, and once its fully understood, its beat”. A sort of ‘mind over matter’, I will have taken away it’s ‘power’.This sensation is coupled with the familiar taste that I don’t recognise, and the background music that I’ve heard so often yet still can’t put my ‘finger’ on. And then ‘schbang’ as my soul slaps back into my face, and the ground reaches up to meet the disorientated me. However, despite the symptomology there seems to be a resounding theme with all these incidents; They’re usually post exercise or some form of exertion, until a few days later.
I’m in a classroom at work being subjected to a training day. It’s a lengthy affair covering the usual diverse topics, from fire pickets to domestic violence. We’ve all just come back from a short coffee break and are now in the final stretch. The end of the working day is in sight. A quick ‘n easy Q and A and we’re just about finished. I’m sitting amongst a small group of colleagues mulling the scenario over when ‘bang’, “You crafty bastard you ‘snuck’ under my ‘radar’. I didn’t see that coming. Did anyone notice?” “Training days over, thank God. Feeling like crap, early dart home on the bus.” Light workout, a few curls in front of the TV before I start dinner, ‘bang’, second one of the day. “Right, stop that. No more exercise until this crap is sorted”. Into the kitchen for a light evening meal, ‘bang’ a big one. “Bloody sniper got me, I’m on the floor”. Panic sets in, I start to phone everyone. I don’t want to be alone. Francesca tells me that she’s going to come back the following morning. I pull myself together and tell her to stay in Italy for the last few days of her sabbatical. After much cajoling she relents.
The next day I feel bad, worse than usual. But then again, I had three ‘spells’ in one day. Travelling to work on the bus is dreamlike. I feel strangely disjointed from reality. I float into the office, boot up my computer, and then realise that I can’t go on…
By 0205 hours the two of us are making the sad slow meandering march back to the flat. In true Northern fashion Joe takes the floor with a few cushions, and I hit my bed with a resounding thud. The following morning I have a pain in my neck. I write it off as having slept too soundly in the same position for far too long. Anyway, I got a good 20 hours to shake the effects of the night off before I’m on duty again.
Next day and the pain is still there, worse in fact. Work is a nightmare, notwithstanding the stupid comments every five minutes about the stiff neck. Definitely no overtime today.
When I get home I ‘drop’ a couple of paracetamols, virtually no effect. The rest of the evening is spent in excruciating agony to the point that I’m walking around with a wrapped up towel around my neck as a makeshift brace. And then I make the fateful mistake; self diagnoses, http://www.wrongdiagnosis.com/ I typed all my symptoms in and… Shit! Bedtime is propped up in a sitting position on the couch. Lying down is far to tortuous. Sleep? Forget it! The next morning at the stroke of 0830 I phone the surgery and get an emergency appointment with my GP.
Not long after I’m sitting opposite my doctor again. A few minutes later he’s recommending that I be admitted to hospital with suspected meningitis. I protest his diagnoses. There is no sensitivity to light, or high fever (I’ve done my homework). He retorts, “There’s more than one type of meningitis, I’ll call an ambulance”. Shortly after I’m in the local hospital being prodded with needles, having lights shone in my eyes, and having my reflexes taken every five minutes.
After what seems like at eternity the doctors return to my cubicle only to announce what I already knew. “Well its not meningitis, here have some Diclofenac. Take one three times a day. If symptoms persist go back to your GP”. Within a few hours the pain has gone completely.
However, within days it’s ‘bang, bang, bang’ three ‘funny turns’ in quick succession over the period of one afternoon and evening. The exact same M.O. as the others. Soul sucked out through face whilst experiencing a strange feeling of deja vu, or rather presque vu (from French, meaning "almost seen"). The sensation of being on the brink of an epiphany. “There’s something at the back of my mind trying to breakthrough. If I can just understand what it is I’ll have this sucker, whatever it is, fully understood, and once its fully understood, its beat”. A sort of ‘mind over matter’, I will have taken away it’s ‘power’.This sensation is coupled with the familiar taste that I don’t recognise, and the background music that I’ve heard so often yet still can’t put my ‘finger’ on. And then ‘schbang’ as my soul slaps back into my face, and the ground reaches up to meet the disorientated me. However, despite the symptomology there seems to be a resounding theme with all these incidents; They’re usually post exercise or some form of exertion, until a few days later.
I’m in a classroom at work being subjected to a training day. It’s a lengthy affair covering the usual diverse topics, from fire pickets to domestic violence. We’ve all just come back from a short coffee break and are now in the final stretch. The end of the working day is in sight. A quick ‘n easy Q and A and we’re just about finished. I’m sitting amongst a small group of colleagues mulling the scenario over when ‘bang’, “You crafty bastard you ‘snuck’ under my ‘radar’. I didn’t see that coming. Did anyone notice?” “Training days over, thank God. Feeling like crap, early dart home on the bus.” Light workout, a few curls in front of the TV before I start dinner, ‘bang’, second one of the day. “Right, stop that. No more exercise until this crap is sorted”. Into the kitchen for a light evening meal, ‘bang’ a big one. “Bloody sniper got me, I’m on the floor”. Panic sets in, I start to phone everyone. I don’t want to be alone. Francesca tells me that she’s going to come back the following morning. I pull myself together and tell her to stay in Italy for the last few days of her sabbatical. After much cajoling she relents.
The next day I feel bad, worse than usual. But then again, I had three ‘spells’ in one day. Travelling to work on the bus is dreamlike. I feel strangely disjointed from reality. I float into the office, boot up my computer, and then realise that I can’t go on…
Friday, 22 June 2007
Journey back to reality
Mission accomplished its time for that slog across the eternal city in time for my evening Easyjet departure. Not as ‘easy’ as it sounds. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced really bad London congestion at rush hour, well multiply that by a factor of ten and then you may be getting ‘warm’. However, I’ll give the coach driver his due, he cut a swath through the evening’s traffic like a gladiator’s sword through a, well, er… another gladiator. Italian drivers, put the British to shame. Whereas, the British are largely content to sit in tailback after tailback on a nightly basis, Italians will make a concerted effort to actually get through the queue. Italian males are probably eager to get home to their busty Sophia Loren look-alike wives, and table spread with delicious home cooked fare. ‘Brit’ males on the other hand ‘look forward’ to an empty house (she’s still at work helping pay for that second mortgage), and a boil-in-the-bag languishing in the freezer’s bottom drawer. We may have to deal with ‘Mamma’ and her over-sexed mates, but bring on the ‘Mediterranean diet’ any day of the week.
Finally, with minutes to spare, I arrive at the airport, grateful that I left Francesca and kids ‘tucked up’ in the comfort of their second home. It had been decided weeks earlier that Francesca should have a decent time in Rome to ‘recharge her batteries’. On the other hand I had work commitments, and two weeks off was more than enough. God only knows how the mean streets of Chiswick must have deteriorated without me.
Two hours later I’m touching down in Stanstead. I had no idea of the true journey that lay ahead.
Finally, with minutes to spare, I arrive at the airport, grateful that I left Francesca and kids ‘tucked up’ in the comfort of their second home. It had been decided weeks earlier that Francesca should have a decent time in Rome to ‘recharge her batteries’. On the other hand I had work commitments, and two weeks off was more than enough. God only knows how the mean streets of Chiswick must have deteriorated without me.
Two hours later I’m touching down in Stanstead. I had no idea of the true journey that lay ahead.
Thursday, 21 June 2007
Centurians, cake and christenings
The meeting was a success, Camilla, my youngest, was to be baptised the following Sunday. In record time the invites are sent out and the cake and party nibbles are ordered. This was to be a lavish little Italian affair, a chance for Grandma to show off her hostess skills, and more importantly her latest Prada bag, and a chance for Francesca to catch up with some old friends.In the meantime it was time (pardon the pun) to bend the space-time continuum and introduce my offspring to their origins by means of a tour of ancient Rome in child-size bites. Where better to start than with the Colusuem? And it’s not long until the girls have made a new friend. And no, its not Ross Kemp (or Ed on a TARDIS excursion).
Sunday is a success, especially for me. I don't know if it was the Ted Baker linen suit, Nicole Farhi shirt and Patrick Cox loafers, the English accent or a combination of both, but I ended up fighting the wife's mother's mates off with a proverbial stick. Anyway, have a look at the photo below and you be the judge. I'm the one in the 
middle by-the-way. In typical
Italian fashion the food is delicious, the guests well-dressed, and the event is topped off by small children running between legs at a hundred kilometres an hour.
Monday, 18 June 2007
Mission to Rome
The stop over in the UK is a brief one. Basically, repack my bag, not much call for mud covered paramilitary garb when I’m walking the kids through the trendy centre of Rome, grab a bite to eat, and try and get a good nights sleep before the flight the following morning.
Letter on the doormat. It’s the referral. I’m to see a German neurologist, a Dr Van Helsing, or something like that, on the 17th October. “No problem I’ll be back long before that”. “Besides”, I remember thinking, “I might not even need to see him, after all I’ve put myself through in Poland I’ve not even had the faintest indication of a funny turn”.
In true Easyjet fashion I arrive at my destination famished but heavier in the wallet. A sprint to the transfer bus, and half an hour later I’m at the sleazy side of Rome’s centre; Termini, the huge central rail station that links the rest of Italy and some parts of Europe.
A mad dash across the road to the closest tabaccheria (tobacco kiosk). Buy a biglietto (ticket) for the ATAC (bus), and zig zag back to where they’re all parked. Twenty minutes later I’m at Francesca’s mother’s place, a contemporarily decorated 7th floor apartment close to Trastevere (I digress). In true Italian fashion there are kisses all round upon my arrival, then a light snack and a rest before dinner. The next few days are largely spent resting, eating and window shopping. Its noted that on a few occasions I feel light-headed, but after gorging myself on pizza bianca, a chewy and salty pizza derivative, and chinotto, a bitter sweet type of cola, I feel re-energised. Carbs and sugars, am I developing some sort of diabetes?
I'm losing track of the mission at hand. The true reason I’m in Italy’s capital. Its Thursday the 28th September I have an appointment with Don Ricardo this evening. Its crucial that the meeting goes well.
Letter on the doormat. It’s the referral. I’m to see a German neurologist, a Dr Van Helsing, or something like that, on the 17th October. “No problem I’ll be back long before that”. “Besides”, I remember thinking, “I might not even need to see him, after all I’ve put myself through in Poland I’ve not even had the faintest indication of a funny turn”.
In true Easyjet fashion I arrive at my destination famished but heavier in the wallet. A sprint to the transfer bus, and half an hour later I’m at the sleazy side of Rome’s centre; Termini, the huge central rail station that links the rest of Italy and some parts of Europe.
A mad dash across the road to the closest tabaccheria (tobacco kiosk). Buy a biglietto (ticket) for the ATAC (bus), and zig zag back to where they’re all parked. Twenty minutes later I’m at Francesca’s mother’s place, a contemporarily decorated 7th floor apartment close to Trastevere (I digress). In true Italian fashion there are kisses all round upon my arrival, then a light snack and a rest before dinner. The next few days are largely spent resting, eating and window shopping. Its noted that on a few occasions I feel light-headed, but after gorging myself on pizza bianca, a chewy and salty pizza derivative, and chinotto, a bitter sweet type of cola, I feel re-energised. Carbs and sugars, am I developing some sort of diabetes?
I'm losing track of the mission at hand. The true reason I’m in Italy’s capital. Its Thursday the 28th September I have an appointment with Don Ricardo this evening. Its crucial that the meeting goes well.
Saturday, 16 June 2007
Bullets, Beer and Babes
The beer flows freely at Dom Żołnierza. Old acquaintances are refreshed, and new friendships are struck. As the night progresses I spy a group of German cops, bedecked in their green uniforms, sitting sternly by themselves in the corner of the hall. Drunkenly, I attempt to ingratiate myself upon them, however, the bitterness of 1966 remains and I leave them brooding over their steins. Mental note to self, “Don’t discuss soccer with the Germans, it’ll only end in tears”.
Its 4am by the time we stagger into our hotel room worse for wear after touring the hostelries of the old town. I turn to John and Andy and exclaim, “You do realise that we have to be up in two hours?” “WHAT?” “Well, we got to get a taxi from here to the barracks outside town where all the other competitors are billeted. We then have to have breakfast with them, get on their coach to the range, and be on parade for 7:45 in time for the competition start at 08:00”. “In that case we’d better get our heads down”, replies a pale Andy.
There’s a chorus of digital alarm clocks at 06:00. I’m first out of my bed, closely followed by a groaning John, then finally Andy out of the pullout sofa. No words are exchanged. No words need be exchanged. Still struggling with the laces on our combat boots and the urge to vomit we make our way down stairs to a waiting taxi.
Everything goes according to plan despite raging hangovers, and by 07:45 we’ve formed a line in the dewy grass along side all manner of military uniforms, most still clearly under the influence, in front of a Polish colonel and his entourage.
Having listened to range do’s and don’ts in what sounds like Klingon, Romulan, Cardassian and Ferengi we set about the competition.
I’m on form, and despite a friendly ribbing in the background from the Royal Navy team I blow the Norwegian entry away on the .177 round. Similarly, our team makes short work of the German army on the .22 rim fire rifle. I consider it prudent to refrain from drawing a similarity to a certain 1-5 victory in 2001. After all, they are armed Germans and look what happened in “39. Likewise, we hold our own on the AK47, Glauberyt 9mm machine pistol, and Dragunov 7.62 sniper rifle. However, as the day progresses the hangover that has kept me strangely alert starts to subside and my performance begins to tail off. This is evident in the poor performance on the PK 7.62 GPMG, the grenade throw and the standard Polish police issue p83 9mm pistol. Ah well, that was my excuse at the time.
By 15:00 the competition is well and truly over and we make our way back to the hotel, via the barracks, for a well-deserved sleep until dinner.
Come 20:00 we’re rested, washed, dressed in fresh designer garb, and ready to hit the town again. First things first though, the Pharaoh restaurant across the road for another super huge helping of steak, and chicken kebabs washed down with copious amounts of beer and vodka.
The rest of the evening is spent moving from bar to bar sampling various brands of Polish vodka, locally brewed beers, occasionally meeting up with other competitors and engaging in friendly drunken banter, and now and again upsetting the locals.
We stumble into the hotel lobby at around 06:00 much to the disdain of the night staff. I fancy I hear, “Bloody mercenaries”, as we fall into the lift. But then again that could be just the vodka.
Night blurs into day for a third time, and by Monday morning we’re ready to kiss the tarmac at Stanstead.
Its 4am by the time we stagger into our hotel room worse for wear after touring the hostelries of the old town. I turn to John and Andy and exclaim, “You do realise that we have to be up in two hours?” “WHAT?” “Well, we got to get a taxi from here to the barracks outside town where all the other competitors are billeted. We then have to have breakfast with them, get on their coach to the range, and be on parade for 7:45 in time for the competition start at 08:00”. “In that case we’d better get our heads down”, replies a pale Andy.
There’s a chorus of digital alarm clocks at 06:00. I’m first out of my bed, closely followed by a groaning John, then finally Andy out of the pullout sofa. No words are exchanged. No words need be exchanged. Still struggling with the laces on our combat boots and the urge to vomit we make our way down stairs to a waiting taxi.
Everything goes according to plan despite raging hangovers, and by 07:45 we’ve formed a line in the dewy grass along side all manner of military uniforms, most still clearly under the influence, in front of a Polish colonel and his entourage.
Having listened to range do’s and don’ts in what sounds like Klingon, Romulan, Cardassian and Ferengi we set about the competition.
I’m on form, and despite a friendly ribbing in the background from the Royal Navy team I blow the Norwegian entry away on the .177 round. Similarly, our team makes short work of the German army on the .22 rim fire rifle. I consider it prudent to refrain from drawing a similarity to a certain 1-5 victory in 2001. After all, they are armed Germans and look what happened in “39. Likewise, we hold our own on the AK47, Glauberyt 9mm machine pistol, and Dragunov 7.62 sniper rifle. However, as the day progresses the hangover that has kept me strangely alert starts to subside and my performance begins to tail off. This is evident in the poor performance on the PK 7.62 GPMG, the grenade throw and the standard Polish police issue p83 9mm pistol. Ah well, that was my excuse at the time.
By 15:00 the competition is well and truly over and we make our way back to the hotel, via the barracks, for a well-deserved sleep until dinner.
Come 20:00 we’re rested, washed, dressed in fresh designer garb, and ready to hit the town again. First things first though, the Pharaoh restaurant across the road for another super huge helping of steak, and chicken kebabs washed down with copious amounts of beer and vodka.
The rest of the evening is spent moving from bar to bar sampling various brands of Polish vodka, locally brewed beers, occasionally meeting up with other competitors and engaging in friendly drunken banter, and now and again upsetting the locals.
We stumble into the hotel lobby at around 06:00 much to the disdain of the night staff. I fancy I hear, “Bloody mercenaries”, as we fall into the lift. But then again that could be just the vodka.
Night blurs into day for a third time, and by Monday morning we’re ready to kiss the tarmac at Stanstead.
Friday, 15 June 2007
A well-deserved interval
The flight to Poznan passes quickly in the presence of good company. My friends John and Andy are as excited as I over the prospects of being let lose on ex-Soviet bloc automatic weapons and Polish vodka again. Upon our arrival at the airport we hail an old Mercedes Benz saloon masquerading as a taxi, throw our bags in the boot, and thrust a computer printout of the hotel, which we booked a week or so earlier, under the driver’s nose. The moustachioed driver who bares a striking resemblance to Lech Wałęsa grunts something unintelligible, and I reply in my best Russian (Can’t do Polish) accent, “Snajper”. Instant respect. Can’t be the accent. “He thinks we’re some kind of Mercenary force”, pipes John. “Couldn’t be far wrong”, I reply. “You’re a window cleaner come builder, a very successful one I might add, Andy is attempting to start up his own blinds business, and I’m a copper.” “Nah”, I reply with the voice of reason. “Truth is this competition is a big deal in this town. Once a year military types descend upon the town, drink it dry, beat up the local neo-nazis, and some, the lucky few, bed the local maidens. Others pay for the privilege.”
Upon arrival at the hotel I pay the fare plus a decent tip to the driver with a huge smile on my face realising that the equivalent trip in London would have cost ten times the amount. I make the comment to John and Andy and there faces light up. “This is going to be one cheap weekend,” says John with a wry grin. Lech Wałęsa drives off . I can’t help think that the ex-president of Poland has fallen on hard times.
Its late in the afternoon, we’re wasting valuable drinking time – There is vodka to be consumed. But first we need to clean ourselves up, and get some food down our necks
We’re ready in record time. A combination of well organised visits to the shower, calculated decisions on what clothes to wear, and the ubiquitous, “Does my bum look big in this?” What can I say other than the Fast Show is timeless. We look good as always. Not a thread of Ben Sherman in sight. Its Dolce Gabbana, Diesel, Versace and VO5 styling gel for my team. We’re flying the flag here, and that’s on and off the rifle range.
A few minutes later we’re across the road from the hotel and sitting at an outside table in the Middle Eastern themed Pharoah restaurant. A flurry of menus and our minds are made up. What seems like mere moments later we’re supping on Polands favourite tipple, and gorging ourselves on plates fit for kings. Quick double take at the menu, “My God that’s cheap!” “You couldn’t buy a steak for that price back home let alone serve it up with all the bits ‘n pieces”, exclaims John.
Meals finished we leave a hearty tip and head down to Poznan’s town hall come function suite, Dom Żołnierza, for competition registration. As we arrive I thrust my police warrant card in front of the concierge and exclaim, “FBI”. “Knob”, says John, “He probably speaks better English than us”. “Bollocks”, I protest, “I’ve always wanted to say that”. “Registration straight up those stairs and on the left hand side. Just join the end of the queue, have a nice evening gentlemen”. “As I was saying,” Smirked John. We’re off to a good start. The rest of the evening doesn’t dissapoint.
Upon arrival at the hotel I pay the fare plus a decent tip to the driver with a huge smile on my face realising that the equivalent trip in London would have cost ten times the amount. I make the comment to John and Andy and there faces light up. “This is going to be one cheap weekend,” says John with a wry grin. Lech Wałęsa drives off . I can’t help think that the ex-president of Poland has fallen on hard times.
Its late in the afternoon, we’re wasting valuable drinking time – There is vodka to be consumed. But first we need to clean ourselves up, and get some food down our necks
We’re ready in record time. A combination of well organised visits to the shower, calculated decisions on what clothes to wear, and the ubiquitous, “Does my bum look big in this?” What can I say other than the Fast Show is timeless. We look good as always. Not a thread of Ben Sherman in sight. Its Dolce Gabbana, Diesel, Versace and VO5 styling gel for my team. We’re flying the flag here, and that’s on and off the rifle range.
A few minutes later we’re across the road from the hotel and sitting at an outside table in the Middle Eastern themed Pharoah restaurant. A flurry of menus and our minds are made up. What seems like mere moments later we’re supping on Polands favourite tipple, and gorging ourselves on plates fit for kings. Quick double take at the menu, “My God that’s cheap!” “You couldn’t buy a steak for that price back home let alone serve it up with all the bits ‘n pieces”, exclaims John.
Meals finished we leave a hearty tip and head down to Poznan’s town hall come function suite, Dom Żołnierza, for competition registration. As we arrive I thrust my police warrant card in front of the concierge and exclaim, “FBI”. “Knob”, says John, “He probably speaks better English than us”. “Bollocks”, I protest, “I’ve always wanted to say that”. “Registration straight up those stairs and on the left hand side. Just join the end of the queue, have a nice evening gentlemen”. “As I was saying,” Smirked John. We’re off to a good start. The rest of the evening doesn’t dissapoint.
Who am I kidding?
A couple of days later I was sitting in my doctor’s surgery. As I summed up my story to the GP he went through the usual basic checks, blood pressure, listening to my heart and lungs, and inspecting my eyes with a small torch. He admitted that he saw no glaring irregularities in function and told me that he would refer me to a neurologist at a local hospital in the first instance. I gave him my dates to avoid, as I had planned an entry into a NATO shooting competition in Poland the following week, and had made arrangements to join Francesca and the Children in Rome immediately following that.
This would be the second time I had taken part in the Klub Żołnierzy Rezerwy LOK Snajper competition (http://snajper2004.tripod.com/album/) in Poznan. The first event I attended was a fun filled weekend of shooting by day and drinking by night with the US Marines, Polish police, German navy, and Czech army to name but a few. If anything could be judged by the last event, this event would be an alcohol-fuelled whirlwind of small arms fire, good company, and laughing until your sides split. Pity about the food and weather though.
However, the following weeks excursion to Rome would be a more sedate affair. No ‘pissed-up’ squaddies, old Bill, jarheads, and Jack smelling of gunpowder and old spice. I just had to be on my best behaviour for the future mother in laws sake. Damn, I missed those guys already. Nevertheless, it was guaranteed that the food and weather would be great, which was some consolation. Perhaps this was what I needed, a break away from the stresses and strains of London, and the burgeoning property UK market.
This would be the second time I had taken part in the Klub Żołnierzy Rezerwy LOK Snajper competition (http://snajper2004.tripod.com/album/) in Poznan. The first event I attended was a fun filled weekend of shooting by day and drinking by night with the US Marines, Polish police, German navy, and Czech army to name but a few. If anything could be judged by the last event, this event would be an alcohol-fuelled whirlwind of small arms fire, good company, and laughing until your sides split. Pity about the food and weather though.
However, the following weeks excursion to Rome would be a more sedate affair. No ‘pissed-up’ squaddies, old Bill, jarheads, and Jack smelling of gunpowder and old spice. I just had to be on my best behaviour for the future mother in laws sake. Damn, I missed those guys already. Nevertheless, it was guaranteed that the food and weather would be great, which was some consolation. Perhaps this was what I needed, a break away from the stresses and strains of London, and the burgeoning property UK market.
Thursday, 14 June 2007
The serialisation of my demise Part 2
I recall crawling on my hands and knees into the living room. I remember thinking as I used every iota of my strength to climb on to the sofa, “This shit is serious, what the hell is happening to me?” This time it was worse, much worse. This time the seizure, or whatever it was, took me to the floor. A rationalisation of what had happened began to stream through my head. “Its hot, damned hot, I’ve feinted through lack of fluids. I’ve overdone it that’s all” But no, part of me knew that it was worse, much worse. I remember feinting at school once. It was never like what I was experiencing now. Back then it was a simple swaying sensation then ‘goodnight Vienna’. On both of these occasions I had the same strange smell, music, deja vue, and a feeling that my soul was being extracted like a hapless victim in some schlock horror science fiction movie. Confusion and fatigue, “I don’t want to be alone right now, where’s Francesca and the kids?”
Francesca, my long suffering partner, and my two young daughters, Olivia and Camilla, returned from grocery shopping about fifteen minutes later. Francesca instantly saw that there was something wrong with me, and as the children ran about with their ice creams I ‘sobbed out’ my latest experience.
“Look”, she said, “Its likely nothing, but you’d better go and see a doctor”. “You don’t have to tell me twice”; I replied with a tremor in my voice, and with that I reached for the handset.
Francesca, my long suffering partner, and my two young daughters, Olivia and Camilla, returned from grocery shopping about fifteen minutes later. Francesca instantly saw that there was something wrong with me, and as the children ran about with their ice creams I ‘sobbed out’ my latest experience.
“Look”, she said, “Its likely nothing, but you’d better go and see a doctor”. “You don’t have to tell me twice”; I replied with a tremor in my voice, and with that I reached for the handset.
The serialisation of my demise
A week passes by with my soul staying firmly attached to my body. My bike languishes in the yard at work, the 65 bus seeming a more attractive option to travel to and from my place of employment. On or around the tenth day I decide in true man fashion that the whole 'elastic soul' thing was an isolated incident, and make my mind up to straddle the saddle yet again. At the stroke of 16:00 hours i don my Italian racing costume, pack my sac, check my tyre pressures and off I go. Along the way I praise my decision as its a lovely day with the sun beating down on my helmet. Traffic is heavy, and I see my bus ahead stuck in the rush hour congestion.
As I cross Kew Bridge I'm conscious of two racing bikes tailgating me. Its not long until they 'slipstream' me, and so the race is on. These are serious guys on American machinery wearing jerseys and pants to match their steeds. No way are they getting the lead on Italy's finest, I have a whole racing tradition to uphold. About 500 yards from Richmond circus (strange one that 'circus'. There's no big top, no acrobats and no lion tamers. However, there are plenty of clowns, especially in rush hour. I digress, its not a circus, its a roundabout. Why do Londoners call them circuses?) I pass them flat out turning my head swiftly to take in their surprise. I break off triumphant.
A couple of minutes later I'm locking the bike up in the basement and tearing my ruck sac and cycling top off. Its hot, damned hot. I take the lift up to my apartment, put the key in the door, it opens, and I hit my hallway floor as if a sniper has just executed his contract. "Soul don't leave me now".
As I cross Kew Bridge I'm conscious of two racing bikes tailgating me. Its not long until they 'slipstream' me, and so the race is on. These are serious guys on American machinery wearing jerseys and pants to match their steeds. No way are they getting the lead on Italy's finest, I have a whole racing tradition to uphold. About 500 yards from Richmond circus (strange one that 'circus'. There's no big top, no acrobats and no lion tamers. However, there are plenty of clowns, especially in rush hour. I digress, its not a circus, its a roundabout. Why do Londoners call them circuses?) I pass them flat out turning my head swiftly to take in their surprise. I break off triumphant.
A couple of minutes later I'm locking the bike up in the basement and tearing my ruck sac and cycling top off. Its hot, damned hot. I take the lift up to my apartment, put the key in the door, it opens, and I hit my hallway floor as if a sniper has just executed his contract. "Soul don't leave me now".
Wednesday, 13 June 2007
Blink and its over
Nine months have flown by since that fateful day in September. A nice cycle ride to work after a light work out at home on my weights bench. Just crossed Kew bridge when it hit me. Most weirdest sensation I ever experienced. Felt like my soul was being pulled out through my face, and I started to float. Soul must have got about 3 metres out then 'SHBANG', straight back at me like it was attached to some great elastic band. And that's when I came back down to Earth with a bump. Not good when you're on a flimsy Bianchi racer being overtaken by a number 65 double decker. Luck would have it that I got off the bike before being swatted like a bug, and then massive amounts of disorientation. I immediately tried to make sense of it all. Was I over-heating? Was my ruc-sac on too tight? Was my cycle jersey on too tight? I wish! I realised that it was worse, much worse. Why else would I have had auditory hallucinations in the form of music I couldn't quite put my finger on, olfactory hallucination in the form of a smell I couldn't figure out and a strange feeling of deja vue?
Anyway, I carried on to work, wheeling the bike all the way. Being a typical bloke I decided to put it all to the back of my mind and hoped my body would sort itself out. For the rest of the day I felt like crap, like I'd been through 10 rounds with Iron Mike, except I showed no external injuries.
Anyway, I carried on to work, wheeling the bike all the way. Being a typical bloke I decided to put it all to the back of my mind and hoped my body would sort itself out. For the rest of the day I felt like crap, like I'd been through 10 rounds with Iron Mike, except I showed no external injuries.
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