Dear Blog.

I lived in Somerset and was a member of the Seaside Strummers Ukeists. I was with them for a short time and played some gigs, before moving to Warwick.

Since moving to Warwick, I have joined another, much larger group,  and have improved  very much in the two years, now, since I started playing the instrument.

I seem to have a problem with the leader of the group who, by and large, will not include me in the gigs they play, which are quite numerous. There is a bit of a wall between us, not sure why, and I cannot get past it. The feeling of isolation I have, is growing to the point where I think I might have to leave. This is a pity since I like and get on pretty much, with the rest of them.

I am sidelined for a gig which I am pretty sure, I put put my name down for, though not positive, it’s in a Church and I don’t really do churches, so feel I cannot challenge him over this one. The next is at the beginning of May. If I’m sidelined for that, then I shall definitely have a word or two.

Sniff it here, Sniff it there

Not a very nice title, but then, not a very nice complaint. Equally the process of putting it right isn’t very nice, either.

4th April 2017

My first appointment with a hospital consultant. Three o’clock.

She was an ENT specialist who asked me a load of questions appertaining to the problem, to determine my condition.

“What is the problem?”

“My nose continually runs into my throat.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“A long time.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Mmm, at least six months.”

“Is one side worse than the other?”

“The left. If I sleep on the left I stop breathing.”

No comment.

Have you got any animals?”


“Have you got any allergies?”

“Not that I know of”

“I need to look into your nose.”


“Head back, please.”

I tilt my head back and hit the wall behind me. She doesn’t react as I rub my head. She looks up my nose using a small light and a strange looking metal object that pulls my nostrils out of shape.

“I want to do and endoscopy. Is that all right?”

“Whatever you need to do…”

She leaves the room and is gone about five minutes. Upon re-entering she says that she is having to wait for the machine to be found. It is somewhere in the hospital.

I was dismayed to learn this. I envisaged a search party of one, scanning the entire building, which is considerable, in order to find a small machine so that I can have camera inserted in to my nostrils.

She sprayed my nostrils with a disgusting liquid that tasted of something found in a sewer. “Would you mind going back to the waiting room until we find the Endoscope? It shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”

I do as I am bid. I did think five minutes was optimistic. I long ago learnt that five minutes usually meant, ‘ Five minutes sounds better than, we haven’t a clue where it is but its better to give the patient optimism. Better than saying every silver lining has a cloud but in reality it will take as long as it will take but if I told you that, you would be less happy about it. Let’s have an easy life.’

As I await the dreaded moment of a foreign object being shoved up my hooter, and the pain it might bring, someone else was called in to the room to sit on the chair I was sitting on only a few minutes earlier. I thought of the wall.

The clock on the wall spoke to me in hours, not minutes, though really it was minutes that seemed like hours. Watching paint dry and all that. I wished I had brought my Kindle or there as something other than women’s magazines to read.

Finally, after thirty four minutes, I know it was because I counted every one of them, a nurse entered the waiting room with a case and put it into a room in the opposite wall to the first room. She tentavely knocked on the door of the first room. She announced the Endiscope had arrived. Hooray!

Five more minutes and the consultant left her room, crossed over the waiting room and as she passed me, invited me to follow her. She closed the door as I sat down on a seat. It was the wrong one.  A nurse entered and pointed to my seat, which was on the other side of the room, and sat. Staring at me. Not quite sure why she was there, unless there was likely to be a lot of blood about, or I was in need of some emergency treatment.

The consultant took out the implement of torture, got me to sit forward and tilt my head back, once more. A Light came on at the end of a tube and then it was pushed into my right nostril . As it went in, she gently twisted it and my right eye filled with water, which ran down my face. The nurse kindly leaned over to offer me a tissue. Ah! So that was her function.

“Thirty seconds,” said, the consultant, trying to pacify me.

Mmm, I thought, probably more like five minutes. Why am I so cynical. It wasn’t thirty seconds and it wasn’t five minutes. It was somewhere in between, but it was too long.

She repeated the procedure on the left nostril, which wasn’t as bad as the right and didn’t take so long, then withdrew it.

“Let’s go back into the other room,” she said. We returned to the first room. I sat inn my seat. “Do you have a cough?”


“Do you have any pain in your throat?”

“Yes, it sometimes feel like sandpaper has been rasping through it.”

“Does food get stuck in your throat?”


She addressed her computer. Are you on any medication?

“Yes, Omeprazole.”

“You have reflux?”


“How often do you take it?”

“When I need it.”

She is taking notes. “You need to take the Omeprazole regularly to keep the reflux under control. I also want you to take this medication that I”m prescribing for you and you are to take it as directed. I will then see you again in two months. In the meantime I want you to have a scan to determine why you are having this problem.”

She then explained in great detail about how I should take this medication. I was to spray both my nostrils, then wait five minutes and lay on my back on the bed, with my head overhanging the end, and pump two drops of other medication into each nostril and stay there for a further five minutes. This I needed to do twice a day, for two weeks.

After that, and for a further two weeks, I have to spray my nostrils with another form of medication. After a further four weeks, I need to go and see her again. In the meantime, she will arrange for me to have a scan on my nose. I can’t remember why. Never mind. Something to look forward to.

Happy days.