Ikea

Today, I undertook the ultimate shopping experience with my wife. It had to be with my wife, because a trip to Ikea is something a man never undertakes by himself, but only as a result of the cudgelling of a shopping crazed spouse. I have been building up to this for the last week. A few days ago, my wife, in idle conversation mentioned the word “Ikea”. This is a word, a name, an experience I had been trying to forget. I have been in receipt of psychiatric counselling since my last visit. I would suffer from nightmares, night terrors in fact, and wake up in a cold sweat and screaming “Where's the exit – where's the exit” as I was convinced I was trapped in a world filled with hordes of the undead, green skinned and fowl smelling rotting flesh, forever following an endless succession of arrows marked on the floor, and never, ever being able to break free into the outside world and freedom. Yesterday, almost inexplicably, my wife received in the mail a £10 Ikea shopping voucher. This was almost unreal. Sensing the unseen powers of the universe at work, and my wife exclaiming that we are obviously meant to go, I resigned myself to the inevitability of today's expedition.

Now, as soon as the word “Ikea” is voiced, I know it is only a matter of time before I will be going back, inexorably drawn by its siren calling and the lure of Swedish Swedishness. And I have to admit, I have been pretty much sucked in. In my study, or computer room as I sometimes call it, I have three Ikea bookcases, all black, with white “doily” patterns on them. They look really garish and everyone hates them - except me. The walls are painted blood red, which blends well with the red table lamp which I bought for a song at Ikea. As you can tell, I am a real style guru.

I first came across Ikea some 28 years ago when I was living in Germany. It was this big blue building I would drive past on my way from Mönchengladbach to Düsseldorf. I never went into it, and the innards remained a mystery to me for years, until we came across it again in England. Then we had our first visit.

What makes Ikea so different from every other shop is that it is laid out in a totally different way to every other shop. It has a beginning and an end, a start and a finish. Once inside, you reach the starting line at the top of the escalator, and then work your way around the course, following the arrows on the floor, until you emerge, hopefully (if you work for Ikea), laden down with a vast mass and array of goods you never knew you wanted or needed. The course you follow is a long one – a bit of a marathon in fact. Its a bit like trekking up a mountain. When you think you have reached the top, there is always something beyond, and so you stagger on, never quiet sure where you are and when the end will be reached. Along the way, you will pass myriad examples of every type of household item you could ever want – or never want, and many of them at extremely low prices. It really is a case of “stack-em high and sell-em cheap.” Another thing about Ikea is that it is impossible to have a quick visit. Every trip to Ikea is a major event, and conscious of the hours and hours customers spend in the always overcrowded store, they have a large restaurant to feed the starving masses before they are once again ejected into the never regions of the beyond, well, the car park, anyway.

And so it was that I have now found myself the proud owner of a set of eight coat hangers I didn't know we wanted, a set of 6 wine glasses I didn't know we wanted, a load of golden Christmas baubles I didn't know we wanted, and two tall-boy multi-shelved cabinets my wife has been telling me we do want. Of course, they are flat pack – what else? And of course, we will be spending a good proportion of tomorrow banging and screwing the things together before they are proudly placed into position in our porch where they will be used as posh shoe-racks in place of the course, ugly, lude rack occupying the space at the moment, and due to be re-employed in the depths of the garage, out of sight from those who might frown upon their banality.

One has to maintain one's standards – even if they are cheap and Swedish.

Cambridge Con

As I was sat eating my lunch the other day, I heard the letter box cover go thwump! At this point I decided to forgive the postman because I was convinced he was deliberately keeping my mail back as it seemed somewhat late in arriving. Despite my initial arousal, I decided to finish eating first before investigating the postman's offering given that man shall not live by mail alone, but by every ham and tomato sandwich which issues from the kitchen.

Anyway, I discovered three letters poking through the letter box. One was from the County Council about the proposed A14 (killer road) re-routing improvement. This seems to have been talked about, debated and protested against for about the last two hundred years. I'm sure I'll be six foot under by the time they actually get around to building it. While we are on the subject, a word to the nimbys in the local villages. “No new A14 in our village” their placards proclaimed. Actually, its not routed through any village at all, but half a mile up the road. As one who lives a lot closer to the A14, it really is no big deal, and certainly nothing to complain about. And don't worry about your property values (the issue which is usually at the back of most rural protests), I doubt they'll be affected. Anyway, the credit crunch has already done much more demolition in that area than any nearly half mile distant road building scheme. If you want to continue protesting, then I am sure that you will have the sympathy of all the relatives and loved ones of all those who have been killed and injured over the years on this horrible road.

Another of the letters was addressed to my eldest son. He's out of the country so I'll be keeping it for him.

The third envelope was addressed to me, and me alone. This one looked a bit special. Good quality, pre-printed with gold embossed letters on it. With a feeling of mounting curiosity I ripped the envelope open and pulled out the letter.

“Response Necessary by 21st November 2008” was the bold proclamation at the head of the letter. Well, that gives me a lot of time, given that it was already the 17th. I also spotted that the letter was dated 1st November. Gosh, the mail really is slow these days. Must be clogged up with Christmas cards. The letter was from a company called “Cambridge Who's Who.” It began:
“You were recently proposed as a biographical candidate to represent Cambridgeshire in the 2008/2009 on-line Cambridge Who's Who Registry among Executives and Professionals."

 How wonderful. How great. How the hell do they think I qualify for such epic heights which I would have thought was strictly reserved for the captains of industry, the Lord Farquehars, the old Etonians, and Grandees of the Tory Party??? Surely not me, a fair to middling manager of no significant merit or social standing? What possible claim could I have to this hallowed territory? Have they read my blog? Do they consider me a literary giant along with the likes of Dickens and Salman Rushdie?? One final question – who the hell proposed me?? I decided to do some delving. It didn't take long.................

The “Cambridge” Who's Who is nothing to do with Cambridge as in Cambridgeshire. Its more to do with Cambridge in the USA. Its also more to do with a scam which is exactly what it is. Although it costs nothing to register your details with them, you are very soon contacted for a telephone interview for your biographical details where you are also very quickly put under pressure to part with vast sums of money. Naturally, as its such a fantastic privilege to be listed on this esteemed database, you would naturally be only too happy to part with hundreds of pounds for the privilege of owning a hard copy, or ensuring you remain on it for years to come. I decided to take a look at some of the members (suckers??) on the database. They were nothing special. They were so unspecial that there was no real reason why anyone, let alone a sharp suited executive would want to head hunt anyone from this list. I would suspect that the only people who actually look at the list are the same people who are on it. To be honest, they'd probably do better and find out more about people by looking on Face book. Needless to say, I will not be ingratiating myself to this bunch of con merchants.

Actually, it has given me an idea. It goes like this. Send me a load of details about yourself and a cheque for £500 and I will publish it on this blog. There – who said brilliant opportunities never come your way?

Sugar is sweet, but not for me.

Following my recent blood tests, I recently returned to the doctor to be told the results. Whenever I have had any kind of tests in the past the outcome has always been clear, with no problems emerging. This time however, I could feel it in my water that it would be different. Why had they requested a second test? I asked myself. If you are anything like me you always think the worst. So, in the back of my mind I had some horrible incurable disease, and the future, if I had a future, was bleak.

I sat in the waiting room cacking myself. My wife was with me to give me reassurance. I was glad of her presence. I needed the loo. I don't like going to the loo while waiting to be called into the doctor's surgery, because I just know that the moment I drop my pants and sit down, that is the moment I will be called. And guess what? - that was the moment I was called. On this occasion I simply had to go – probably nerves, so the doctor had to be entertained by my wife before I appeared – feeling flushed!

He explained to me that there were problems with my results. I could feel myself about to be immersed in a serious situation. He told me I was folic acid deficient. Was I pregnant? I wondered, but didn't ask. Could this have anything to do with the tingling in my legs, I asked. “Possibly” was the non-committal reply. He then went on to tell me that my sugar levels were raised, and my blood pressure a little high. Does this mean I am diabetic? I asked. “Yes” he replied. I have Type 2 Diabetes.

A few days later an envelope appeared through my door enclosing a letter from the doctor telling me I had an appointment to see the nurse for instruction on how to manage my Diabetes. This was good. I was being looked after.

The nurse asked me about my diet. I proudly announced that I had made some changes and cut down drastically on my sugar, was drinking more water and eating more fruit and vegetables. Also, I was only having half a teaspoon of sugar on my breakfast cereal. She wasn't having that. All the sugar had to go, and that was half a teaspoon of sugar too much.

I have a sweet tooth. I like sweet things. I like sugar. I don't like artificial sweeteners. I have now cut out even the half teaspoonful of the thing I love. Better that than have my leg drop off! I am growing to love bitterness. Tea without sugar was anathema. It is now the norm. I will have to lump it.

I had my youngest son and his girl friend visit during the week. She is a dietician. We discussed my Diabetes. She told me it was a progressive disease and would definitely get worse as I grew older.

Nothing like the truth, I suppose!

Actually, since I gave up sugar I have felt a lot better in myself. I have also felt more energised. The other night at the gym, I really let rip on the running machine – I hadn't felt this good in ages. I am also not waking up in the night feeling short of breath and having to take great gulps of air to avoid the sensation of drowning. You are what you eat. I am eating healthy so I am healthy and will be healthy. That's positive thinking. My blood Group is B Positive. I will B positive. I will live my blood group.

Supernatural?

Although I am very pessimistic about the existence of the supernatural, I have to admit that there are some things which make me wonder. Being a bit of a doubting Thomas, unless I experience something weird myself, I tend to suspend belief when confronted by the accounts related by others, particularly where people are claiming to have been abducted by aliens.

Whilst I am not aware myself of ever being abducted by aliens, (though who knows what happens between falling asleep at night and waking up the next morning – wooooh spooky), I have had some pretty strange experiences – which I am about to relate.

Many years ago, when I was a teenager, I was cycling home late at night after visiting a friend who lived in Hadley Wood. The sky was very clear, and the stars shone like diamonds. Being a bit of a stargazer, I stopped, partly to take a break, and partly to look at the stars and Milky Way. I spotted a bright point of light moving rapidly across the sky. It seemed to be following a bit of a wobbly path. Suddenly, it changed direction, accelerated and disappeared. I have to say that I have seen many phenomena in the sky, but this is one I’ve never found a good explanation for. Whatever it was, I do not believe it was little green men. I have seen many shooting stars, satellites, and even the odd fireball, but nothing quite like this.

When I was even younger, I went up to bed one night and was soon beating a hasty retreat again down the stairs in fright. As I approached the bedroom and looked in through the open doorway, I saw a kind of apparition which seemed to float across the room and disappeared behind the wardrobe. My mother said that it was probably the spirit of my Grandmother who had died some years earlier.

However, the above two accounts pale into insignificance against this next event.

A few years ago while I was away on a course, I was staying by myself in a hotel. One night I dreamed that I was with my mother, and together we were looking through a photograph album I had never seen before. The dream was very vivid and clear in my mind when I awoke. The spooky bit is this: the pages of the album were full of photographs of Sir Winston Churchill. After I awoke, I switched on the television and watch the news. One of the news items was that a photo album had just been discovered which belonged to Sir Winston Churchill, full of previously unseen images from his life. I am not making this up. I had not heard anything of this before the dream, and the coincidence was just unreal.

There have been many instances, particularly with my wife, when we have both said the very thing which the other was about to say despite the fact that it was in no way related to the conversation previous, and there was no reason why we should be thinking the same thing at the same time. I believe there is a name for these types of coincidences, and that is synchronicity.

There have been other events I could relate, but the point is that there are things which you just cannot, or have very great difficulty in explaining. I believe there are rational explanations for most unusual things we experience, but there is still the odd thing which makes one pause and wonder………

In praise of our troops

I am very proud of our armed forces. As far as I am concerned, they are amongst the best - if not THE best in the world.

I spent many years of my life in the armed forces. I suppose in a way I was fortunate in that the whole period of my service was a time of relative peace in contrast to the deployments and conflicts of today.

I was very moved watching the "X-Factor" last Saturday with the performance of the contestants "Help for Heroes" recording. Buy it.

There has been a lot of publicity and media coverage of our troops in Afghanistan. This is right and proper - for some time this conflict was called The Forgotten War because all the attention was on Iraq. Our troops have performed with the kind of courage and commitment - in all conflicts - which is beyond criticism, awe inspiring and demanding of our total admiration and pride.

The 9th November is Remembrance Sunday. Buy a Help for Heroes wristband. Buy a poppy. Get out there and support our servicemen. They give so much, and sacrifice more than any of us will ever know. They stand between freedom and tyranny on our behalf. When you see them on parade - be proud!

Blogging and me

Why do I blog? A good question and one which is now somewhat timely and demanding an answer. Read on…………..

I started this blog because I have always wanted to write; it helps to fulfil a creative instinct within me. As the blog description states, it is meant to be a blog about anything I think might be interesting, amusing or even a bit controversial. It is not, and was never meant to be an on line diary of my activities, although many incidents and events in my life inevitably provide the inspiration for many of the postings.

I have made some changes and deletions because some misunderstandings have occurred amongst some of my readers, and it is not in my nature to deliberately cause offence either knowingly or unwittingly. Should anyone who reads, or has read this blog think that any of my comments have been specifically aimed at them, they are almost certainly wrong. Much of what I write is "tongue in cheek" and should not be taken too seriously. I try to write in an amusing entertaining way and I have had many extremely good reviews, even to the extent as to comment (more than once) that I should write a book. Indeed, it has even come to my attention that someone has actually made a hard copy of this blog and shared it with others for their delectation. Perhaps the next stage might be Hodder & Stoughton, you never know.

Joking aside, it ought to be reasonably clear where I am being serious and where I am not. "The Justice of God" is deadly serious and I mean every word and would not change a single letter. Where I am being flippant, that is more for amusement, though that might be lost on some. Those who know me well, will know that in real life I am well meaning, honest, hard working, friendly, humorous, and generally try and do my best in whatever I undertake. I am also human, and like everyone else, have my faults. This blog is no exception. I appreciate comments, so if you feel I have touched a nerve or want to bring something to my attention, click on “comments” and the floor is yours. I will publish them so long as they are not obscene or offensive.

Moving swiftly on, I want to say a little more about what makes me blog. A lot of it is frustration with the unfairness and stupidity we find all around us. Yes, there is much that is good and commendable in the world, but there is an awful lot which is not. I worry particularly about the way that religion distorts people’s view of life and their relations with others – particularly those who do not share their faith. Unless as a race, humanity can free itself from the mental straight jacket of religion, then the future for our children may well be too terrible to contemplate.

It’s not all doom and gloom. There are, nevertheless, those hysterically funny moments which should be written about to bring a laugh or a smile. There are the amazing experiences and the places and people you encounter on your travels. There is a whole universe of interesting and exciting things to write about, so I have no excuse for dull or boring prose.

Another function of blog writing is catharsis. Sometimes there are things you just have got to get out of your system, and you don’t mind who knows about it. Anyone can read this blog, and it serves its purpose with every “hit”. Please keep reading, and I’ll keep blogging.

Ooh Nurse

I have got a new hobby. It's going to the doctors while trying to convince myself that I am not actually dying, though inwardly I suspect I am.

It all started like this:

A few years ago I took part in a 46 mile walk around part of Cambridgeshire. When I finished the walk - though by this time "walk" was the wrong word, it was more staggering towards oblivion; I noticed one of my toes was sticking through a hole, which had developed in one of my socks. When I took my boot off, there was no hole - it just felt like it.

The imaginary hole never went away, in fact the odd feeling of semi - numbness tingling yet still feeling started to spread, first to one toe and then them all, taking over both my feet, and now working up my legs. I saw a doctor some years ago and mentioned this to him, to be told it was probably a symptom of the sciatica, a complaint that pre-dated the walk.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I decided enough was enough, so I went to see the doctor. He was very good, very understanding, checked this and that and everything seemed to be okay. Nevertheless, bothered by the "spreading" syndrome (who wouldn't be?) he sent me for a blood test.

"Are you at all queasy?" asked the nurse before sticking the very long needle into my vein.
"No, not at all" I replied, "you're not going to kill me are you?" I replied with a laugh but not quite a thigh slap.
"Well, I don't aim to kill you" she replied while I mused that hopefully her aim was good.

In went the needle as I watched it sink into my vein feeling a sharp stab and a kind of ache. She then sucked up a number of blood samples to test for every disease known to man, telling me that one of the samples would have to go to Addenbrookes. Wow - Addenbrookes, must be serious after all. I counted it a real honour that a sample of my humble lowly blood should be deemed worthy of the attentions of such a learned and esteemed establishment. It was clear that I was definitely more than just a "take an aspirin and lie down for a while" type of patient.

I awaited the results. The days rolled by. Suddenly, amid a whole load of junk mail lying on my doormat I espied a HAND-WRITTEN white envelope addressed to me!

Instinctively I knew the situation was serious. Only junk mailers send me type written letters. I cautiously opened the envelope. My worst fears were realized - I was called back for yet another blood test. "Can you tell me why?" I asked the receptionist as I made the appointment, conscious of the fact that really only the doctor (who of course would not be available right at that very moment) should answer such questions. She repeated this to me, as you would expect while taking a quick peak at my notes and informing me that one of my readings was outside the normal limit, and they just wanted to do a second check to make sure.

That was it. I now knew it was serious. Thoughts started going through my head. Should I check the policies? Should I start putting my affairs in order? Should I start eating Mars Bars again?

This morning, I turned up for blood test number two. I waited in the waiting room where people were waiting playing a waiting game. My waiting game was "Sudoku" on my Nintendo DS, the ideal friend in a waiting room while waiting.

"Stephen McAdam" the nurse called out, and I rapidly saved my game and made like a sick man into the nurse's lair. Actually, she was very nice, as was the other one last time.

She did a blood pressure test. It was high.

"Are you on blood pressure tablets?" she asked, before trying twice more, finishing with an old fashioned sphygnamometer before confirming that, yes, there was no mistake, my blood pressure really is high.

"But I go to the Gym three times a week" I protested.

"Don't worry, just coming here can put your blood pressure up" she replied, and I commented that it might have been something to do with the Sudoku…………
She plunged another needle into my hapless vein and the dark red blood rapidly flowed forth.

My next appointment is next Friday.

The jury is out…………