Relaxation

I've started going to the gym.

I found a very nice one in one of the main areas of Munich, about 20 minutes walk from my hotel.

I chose it mainly because it takes monthly payment. I won't mention how much I pay because I'd have to admit to myself how much I paid.

But it is very big, it has lots of training equipment, two punch bags (two!), sauna etc.

First time I used the gym I basically trained as hard as possible. Then, to reduce the chance of post-training muscle ache, I went to the sauna.

Once I found it, which isn't easy these days when I'm not wearing contact lenses or glasses. Before going in I read the instructions on the wall outside, which were written in German and English. But they were pretty standard sauna guidelines.

The sauna was very hot and I'm a bit out of practice.

Eventually I noticed that the other people in the sauna (it's not packed as hardly anyone goes to the gym) were completely naked, not even covering themselves with towels. One of them clearly needed to lose weight as he had man-breasts ... oh hang on, those were women's breasts.

Then it seemed there were more breasts but my double vision had kicked in so I'm not sure how many women were actually in the sauna.

So, I find myself, an Englishman, in a sauna, with totally naked Germans, men and women.

!

And I'm wearing shorts.

!!


In England you cover yourself up in communal saunas or they call the police. So, I'd brought over the baggy shorts I used to wear in my local gym's sauna in England.

But instead I suffered the embarrassment of being clothed in a room full of naked people. Very wierd.

After the sauna, I showered, in the usual way (i.e. naked), in the men's changing room. When I finished I turned round to find a cleaning woman brushing excess water from the shower area.

Don't these people have any sense of decency?

The next day I went to the shops and brought a big towel.

I'm also thinking of asking the gym for a discount: well it's not like I can see anything.

Abominable way to improve you abdominals

Get up and have a shower. Good. That’s two actions: 1. getting up and 2. having a shower. So that’s good twice.

Then have a long, much overdue shave. So that’s good, three times (not thrice, for goodness sake). I’m on quite a roll.

Looking in the mirror whilst shaving I notice my abdominals. Mmm. They’re quite developed. Not bad at all. Have I been going to the gym recently? No. Having I been walking extra briskly to the cake shop? No. So, what have I been doing?

Why, vomiting of course. A good old fashioned English past time. It’s difficult not to be a part of this, what with the English tradition of heavy drinking and the problems with food hygiene. Eating out in England has been a risk for a long time.

I once took an IT team at an investment bank to an Indian restaurant in the City. It was a remarkably clean restaurant. Even the toilets were very clean. We had great curries and every one was happy. The next day, however, no-one was happy. We all got into work without problems but then the deluge began. People had to go home; others had to take turns going to the toilet – quite a tag event. If we had network points in the toilet traps I would have taken a laptop and worked from there. And funnily enough it wasn’t even my team. I just thought they need a night out.

Anyway, this occasion was different. It wasn’t due to restaurant cooking and it wasn’t really due to home cooking. I had bought an oven ready meal from a well-known supermarket. A pre-packed meal I had had many times before. And as usual I made sure the timings et cetera were correct. Still, bad luck prevailed. Three hours later I was dramatically and impressively ill – diarrhoea and vomiting. Almost simultaneously.

From all this I’ve learnt a handy tip: don’t projectile vomit very close to a toilet bowl. Ironically it’ll look like you’ve made no effort at all to get near the toilet.

The next couple of days I’m a wreck. I have an annoying hangover. It’s annoying because I haven’t been drinking. But the loss of nutrients and electrolytes are still severe. I wean myself onto first fluids then solids.

But with the sudden loss of calories, and my intense abdominal exertions, I look quite good in the tummy area – well I like to think so anyway. And I’ve learnt a handy tip. So in retrospect it’s been quite a few successful couple of days.

This is the second time I’ve returned from Finland only to be ill a few days later. The first time nearly killed me so I guess this event was an improvement. Nevertheless although I like going to Finland (I even want to work there) I’m a bit wary of returning back to England only to be ill. I know there’s no connection, but something is trying to tell me something. May be I should just go to Finland and not return; I’ve never been ill there.

Yet there was a time when I thought I would need my friends to provide me with health certificates before I visited them.

Some years ago I visited a friend who was living in the Andalusia part of Spain. Although he lived in a smallish town he was close to bigger cities like Jaen and Grenada. Being a self-confessed culture vulture he was looking forward to showing me the sites of Grenada, especially Al Hambra. Being a frustrated (I have to work) man of leisure I was looking forward to chilling out, eating Spanish food, and drinking.

Being also a self-confessed hypochondriac my friend complained about a pain in the chest almost as soon as I arrived. The next day he was still complaining so, being a man of compassion and care, I called his bluff. “If you feel so ill, you should go to the hospital”. He did. And as I hadn’t seen a Spanish hospital before I went along. There they took an X-ray and for some reason also showed me the resulting pictures. He wasn’t suffering from a heart condition at all. Thought so. But they showed me a white patch where one of his lungs should have been. He had pneumonia. Pneumonia! This was outrageous: “But he’s only 30, he’s in Spain and it’s November (and I’m on holiday)”. I had been walking around his town baking hot in shorts and T-shirt although admittedly the inhabitants were wearing coats and looked quite cold.

Whilst we were waiting for the doctors to finish what they were doing we sat in the waiting room. It was full of sick people and every one was on drip feeds except me. Then a passing nurse looked in and saw the situation. She said she’d go get a drip for me right away. Although I don’t know much Spanish what I had deserted me in the panic. Fortunately my friend had enough energy to explain to the nurse that what I needed was a beer, not an IV feed. But it was close.

After the doctors had finished my friend was given a prescription for some hard-core anti-biotic. And being the kind, compassionate sort, I got them from the pharmacist and also bought some food. Then I went off on my own to Grenada. It was good. I ate and drank well. And, damn it, I even went to see Al Hambra. Not bad for an old building.

When I returned back to the town my friend’s condition had improved. The anti-biotic had kicked in and he could even eat out. In the end it turned out to be a nice, relaxing holiday for me with a bare minimum of that pesky culture thing. Unfortunately for my friend, when I returned to England his condition worsened. He got quite ill and had to have even more anti-biotics – the sort of anti-biotics which other anti-biotics call “sir”. My friend is fine now, although he’s still a hypochondriac and I’m still cautious before visiting him.

My return flight was to Gatwick airport. As I left the plane, before I barely started on the tube walk from it, there were policemen and police dogs. The dog earning its living approached me sniffing. Being wary (i.e. scared) of dogs I don’t know, I tried to move backwards. I couldn’t retreat very far at all and the dog moved its nose around my jeans, particularly the top bit. “Get that damn dog away from me” I shouted at the policeman who was its handler. Now, I do know that being rude to a UK policeman is a very bad idea indeed. It just came out under the tension. But the policeman was quite polite “I’m sorry sir, it’s the law”. That’s just so typical: I leave the country for two weeks and whilst I’m not looking they make it mandatory for police dogs to sniff your genitals.

Not going to the Munich beer festival

You know, if you're not going to go you should do it properly. Anyone can just not go. But doing it with style takes skill and preparation.

First: lose your job several months before. A year would be handy (it can be done).

Then go on a break to a country you rate highly. You know, like Finland.

Come back refreshed with ideas, contacts and a stack full of job-related literature; newspapers, corporate brochures etc. Helsinki would be a great place to work, trust me. Returning from a place like Finland in the summer months means you can also be tanned, even sun-burned, and mosquito-bitten at no extra charge.

Then, when you're back home, then is the time.

Collapse.

You may have been having breakfast or lunch, remembering isn't important - or possible - but it is important to finish eating first. It’s bad to collapse on an empty stomach. You don't know when you'll eat again. And in fact you won't remember having the first few meals after this one anyway.

So, collapse. Landing in the recovery position gains extra marks. Especially if it's under a table and chairs.

Then wait. Hallucinate a bit if you wish, even have a few moments of lucidity. That's fine. Bear in mind that it pays to be patient here.

Eventually get found by, say, your landlady. To the question "Have you been taking drugs" answer "No" even if you haven't.

The waiting won't be over yet so patience is still important. Just lie there and wait. An ambulance has to be called. When they arrive they'll have to do all their usual things, whatever they are. You’ll be taken to the local hospital. At some stage your T-shirt will be cut off and discarded and your trousers and underwear will also be removed. They'll dress you in a standard gown and put around your body a large number of electrical pads and an intravenous drip in the back of your hand. Complaining, or even noticing, is rude so don't.

They'll also put on an oxygen mask then ask lots of questions – in that order. When you remove the oxygen mask to answer they'll tell you not to touch it. That's standard. Remember, when you're conscious, to speak with a very heavy slur, very slowly.

One of the question they'll ask is for next of kin. That's the parents. The initial response should be that there's no need to disturb them. When they persist - and they will - give them the number. I know that may be difficult to remember these days with mobile phones and selecting numbers by name. So it may have been years since you actually dialled their number but persevere with recalling it.

After a while you'll get transferred to another hospital. They'll be more equipped to deal with this sort of case - n.b. you won't have realised what's wrong but so what? Just lie there and go along with their plans.

At this new hospital they'll do a couple of noteworthy things. First a lumber puncture.

Now, I don't really know what the fuss is about lumber punctures. Years ago there was a student at University who was permanently in a wheelchair. Funnily enough his surname was "Walker". After University we met at some party. He told me about a contemporary of ours who had to have a lumber puncture. I remember the horror as he told me about this. Although he'd obviously had a lot of medical intervention in his lifetime he was still sickened at the thought of a lumber puncture. "Imagine, having a need stuck into your spine".

Despite your problems with memory, and indeed consciousness, you'll remember these thoughts. You'll find them comforting as you lie there waiting for the puncture. And there will be a lot of time between being told about the puncture and actually having it. Nice one medics.

But when it actually happens you find it no worse then having blood taken from an arm. In fact you could even be disappointed. It's actually better than having blood taken as you can't see what's happening.

The next noteworthy test is the MRI scan. There are stories about this as well. One of my friends is an American for whom XXXL is too tight. He went for a scan in the UK but couldn't fit into the machine. Another friend was given an emergency buzzer in case they panicked and had to get out quick. In this case you'll be simply told not to move. No buzzer and no squeezing in problems. Not moving is normally the wrong thing to be told and would immediately result in itches, sneezes etc. But this time just lie there.

After this, at some time, a phone will be brought to your bedside. Your parents are on the line having a chat with you. Tell them that funnily enough you're in a hospital near them and they'll tell you that actually you're not. You're in the main neurological hospital in London. This will explain why the transfer by ambulance was so quick.

The next day your parents will turn up in intensive care to visit you. And then some consultant doctors will turn up. They'll explain that you've had a stroke. Yes really. A few infarctions in the brain stem They'll also explain that one of the nerves controlling your left eye has been affected. Which is why it has been looking downwards all the time.

This is the first time you realise you've had a stroke. It's also the first time you realise you have double vision.

Anyway, stay in intensive care for a few days. Whilst there have showers every day. During one shower - not the first - notice the electrical pads still stuck on your body. As soon as you notice rip them off ignoring the pain this causes. The more hairy you are the more effective (that is painful) this will be.

Also, don't worry about personal issues like going to the toilet. Number Ones are easy. There'll be a bottle near you. Use it without regard to whose there around you. Number Twos ... well it's best not to remember anything about them.

Several times a day a nurse will check your memory and reflexes. When they ask you what day it is, look at the date displayed on your recently purchased watch and tell them. (This is why preparation is so important: you need to be wearing the watch when you collapse.) Notice that when they ask you to recall where you are you really don't know which hospital you're in. That's because no-one has actually told you its name yet.

The neurologists will question your lifestyle. By this they'll mean more than the occasional visit to Ikea. Tell them about your diet (healthy), regular exercise (three times a week) and technically moderate consumption of alcohol. They'll work out for themselves your relative youth.

So, you're unlucky as far as the neurologists are concerned. Now, I know some people would argue (because they have) that actually you are lucky. Sure, you could have been confined to a wheelchair for months or even life, lost intellectual and memory powers, or even left hospital in a wooden box. In fact a stroke to the brain stem could have by-passed all this by killing you immediately. But my definition of good luck is different. It involves being offered highly paid jobs, chocolate cake and sexually adventurous blondes.

As well as being unlucky (or as we can see lucky according to some people's view) you'll also find it's a patent foramen ovale. "A what?"

That's a natural hole, more a tunnel really, between the two upper chambers of the heart. It's there before birth so that the pre-born baby's blood circulation can bypass the lungs. It should close and seal in the first year of birth; often within a few days of birth. But not in your case, oh bloody no. Nor, depending on which medical journal you read, in 1/5 to 1/3 of the population. Blimey. Sometimes it can cause heart murmurs or other irregular rhythms. It certainly gives divers even more things to worry about. But often there’s no symptoms.

In your case it probably allowed a clot to transfer from the body to the head and cause the stroke.

Finding this PFO won't be fun. You'll be transported by car and wheelchair to the London heart hospital. It'll look all nice and new and, in fact, like a private hospital. That's because it was a private hospital but went bust and the National Health Service took it over.

There, they'll do a few things. First they'll ask you to wait. Not too long. Then they'll squirt anaesthetic in the back of your mouth. You are reminded of Pernod. They'll allegedly sedate you. Then they'll pass a camera down your throat, down your oesophagus. Whilst using it to photograph your heart you’ll be asked to squeeze a few times as if you are constipated.

In all, you’ll find it the most unpleasant thing since your admission to hospital. You'd much sooner have a lumber puncture. In fact, after this test remember to ask the cardiologist if he'd actually sedated you. He'll assure you that he did.

So for the first time in 37 years you discover you have a PFO. Something you've had all along. And it'll need to be closed. But not yet. This is why patience is so important. Having been made redundant months before you've lost your private healthcare so you have to wait for the NHS wheels to grind. They'll put you on a priority because of your relative youth - still being called young will please you - but that still means a wait of months. Just for an appointment with a cardiologist. The procedure to close the hole will happen much later, if at all.

So meantime the doctors put you on an anti-coagulant. Although they and the literature always refer to the generic name - i.e. an anti-coagulant - you'll find the drug is invariably Warfarin. All your friends know it because their older relatives or parents will be on it. Having the drug used by your friends’ parents doesn't please you.

Another thing. Every doctor involved with this tells you to limit your alcohol consumption whilst you're on anti-coagulant. No more than two units. That's two glasses of wine, one pint or half a litre of beer. "But ...". But "but"doesn't come into it. Really, you may as well open a flower shop. But you don't and you stick with this limit. After a little while, say three months, you find that you get pretty drunk on two glasses of wine anyway. Going to an event where everyone is drinking several litres of very strong beer may not be a good idea after all. You decide not to go to the Munich Bier festival.

The day

It's a nice, sunny day. Well obviously not that nice (I'm at work) but still sunny. A senior manager appears.

"Hello".

For a large (read "fat") person he can clearly move very lightly. He must be a spare time Ninja or I'm slipping.

Years ago a boss crept up on me as I was dozing at a desk. I was faster in those days and as I woke hit him with my elbow, as I've been trained to in Karate. Moments later I had fully awoken so I didn't follow through. A pity from a Karate standpoint but probably advisable career-wise. There are laws against killing managers.

After he recovered his breath he was very British about it. But he never crept up on me again.

Anyway I don't hit this manager who has glided into my field of view. Nevermind. Can't hit every manager you meet I guess. Instead I follow him into another room. There is an even more senior manager.

"Oops"

This one starts by reminding me that "a lot of reason they are in this new office" was down to me. True but, in fact, a lot of reason they were still in business at all was down to me - I like to think. "But", he carries on, they weren't making enough deals and so, reluctantly, they have to make my job redundant.

"Oh"

But here's some free money.

"$$"

And some outplacement services.

"Wow" - no hint of sarcasm. Honest.

My senior manager then escorts me back to my desk. In his presence I pack up my personal belongings ("so that's where I left my toilet brush"). Slowly. I then hand over my pass and am escorted by him out of the building.

"Bye bye".

In all, half an hour.

So, I go home rather early for once. It’s mid-morning, past the rush-hour and there’s a choice of seats. As I descend on my chosen seat an armrest catches the left pocket of my chinos. It creates a big tear in the trousers. It looks like I’ve gone from senior manager, to unemployed bum in under an hour. I consider buying a bottle of vodka and drinking it on the streets, just to complete the image.

Desire in Helsinki Airport

Yesterday I arrived at Vantaa, Helsinki's airport, in plenty of time. I did my statutory mooch around the duty free shops but there was nothing I felt like buying.

So, I went to the gate and sat next to a rather nice looking blonde. Well, why not?

In a rather nonchalant fashion - I like to think - I unzipped one of the pockets of my cabin bag. I wanted to fish out a book to pretend to read whilst thinking up a non-cheesy chat up line (if there's such a thing).

Anyway, looking into the pocket I saw a pair of flight socks looking back at me (I know, not even flight socks actually look at people).

I really should wear these socks, even for short flights. Probably even for elevator trips to the top floor of buildlings.

"Bother" was a word I could have used.

I dragged my bag off to the toilets to change socks. I put the bag on the toilet seat whilst I undid the padlock on the main part of the bag.

That's when it all went terribly wrong.

The keys slipped away from the padlock onto the the porcelain, at the back of the seat. As I went to retrieve them, I was careful not to push them so they'd slip all the way under the seat into the bowl. But they did, oh bloody yes.

I raised the seat and looked at the bottom of the bowl. The keys were there looking back at me (yes, I know they weren't really looking, but they were taunting me). I grabbed the toilet brush and tried to retrieve them using it. No success.

Now, I felt it was quite important to retrieve these keys. Although I have duplicates, some were back at home and I didn't want something else to go wrong which would prevent me getting into the house. But there was no way I was going to put my hand into the bowl - which had been flushed and looked quite clean - and retrieve them.

No way.

Except.

One of the advantages of being a single bloke is that you're expected to carry condoms in your wallet. Now I had wanted to use at least one of the condoms for more interesting activities but why not use it as an improvised glove?

This I did, inserting my hand into it whilst trying not to stretch it open. Then, using my fingers I dragged the keys out of the water.

I then noticed something which hadn't happened to me before as I'm very careful about the types of condoms I buy. It had split. Clearly, they're not to be used for rescuing keys from toilet bowls.

I threw the keys into the sink and using large amounts of soap washed them and my hands. In fact I ripped off my shirt (which had been splashed a bit) and washed my forearms - scrubbing up style before an operation. Soap is an anitseptic and I didn't have any cuts on my hands or arms so the chance of infection was very low. And most of the condom had remained intact covering most of my hand.

I had a feeling that things could get worst. As in the police kicking open the door and asking why I had an opened up condom in the toilets. Alone. My Finnish wouldn't be up to answering this level of questioning; all I could say in such a situation would be "Minä olen englantalaien".

So I very, very carefully disposed of the condom. Then I washed my hands and arms and the keys again. And once I dried them off, I washed them again.

Finally I retrieved my last clean shirt from the cabin bag and put it on. And I sprayed on some eaue de toilette.

A few minutes later it was as if nothing had happened. I left the toilets, and returned to my seat. The blonde had long gone. Pity. I still had a spare condom.