Rick's b.log - 2019/12/24
You are 3.142.53.80, pleased to meet you!
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Rick's b.log - 2019/12/24 |
| It is the 9th of April 2025 You are 3.142.53.80, pleased to meet you! |
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mailto: blog -at- heyrick -dot- eu
Come break time, I felt really bad. I had taken some "happy new year" cards to work to fill out and take around the post office afterwards. It was the intention.
Reality was throwing a milk drink down, trying not to throw it right back up again, and wishing I could just go home.
Upon returning to work, one of the line managers asked me how I was. Who are you? came the reply. I noticed her name tag. Oh, you're... I have no idea who it was. I was holding a rubber apron, with a vague recollection that I washed up stuff. So I went and did that. I would like to say that I hoped that I was doing the right thing, but by that point I no longer cared. I mean, let's look at it objectively - the only reason I managed to clock myself in was by comparing the clocking in cards with the name written on my own uniform until I found one that matched.
End of work day, clocked out, went home. Went straight to bed. Wasn't entirely certain if I fell asleep or passed out.
I know I needed to pee, kind of normal morning routine. Then I didn't. To my benefit, I woke up some time later, lying face down on the driveway. Yes, outside, in the rain, in December. Given how soggy I was, I guessed I'd been there for maybe a quarter hour.
As I write this, I am aware that mom has died. I'm not sure if I was aware on Tuesday.
I phoned for a doctor's appointment, then phoned work and said I wasn't coming in. And that's the last thing I remember until half four when my alarm went off. I was in so much pain. It was weird - I knew I wasn't especially cold being wrapped up in two duvet and a heated blanket, but then suddenly and in a matter of seconds I would feel estremely cold, like butt-ass-naked-in-Siberia style cold. Every muscle clenched hard and that was what caused the pain. This would happen maybe every ten minutes. And the entire time it felt like I was falling.
Drove myself to the doctor. No idea how. Amazed I didn't crash. I guess the slow car and not many people on the road helped. Sat there for nearly two hours (yeah, she was seriously late) just trying to stay conscious. She poked, prodded, and asked questions. Told me it was bronchitis, and a virus. So I wasn't surprised when my prescription was for paracetamol. Doctors don't like giving out antibiotics these days, and there's no point in this case as a virus isn't bacterial so antibiotics won't touch it. Instead, just gotta see this through. Of course, I'd have to man up a little harder as my appointment finished at twenty to eight, ten minutes after the chemist closed, so it'd have to wait a day before I could even get paracetamol.
Doctor, I think, was impressed that I at least had the sense to stay away from mom's painkillers. In the next room are loads of pills of interesting formulations for cancer and post-op. So if I had wanted to whack myself out on codeine, it would have been easy. But things were already so far whacked as they were that I didn't see how such a thing could stand a hope of making things better.
On the way home, in the forest, slammed the brakes on. Right in front of me was the most godforsaken ugly son-of-a-bitch that fell right off a death metal album cover. Yup, I'm talking about a wild boar. Standing there in the headlights, demonic yellow eyes reminding me that I was driving a Playmobil car. I put my hazard lights on, and waited for the obligatory French driver. Who went whizzing around me at speed, honked, and then slammed his brakes on. But he had a big-ass four wheel drive jobbie, so he started flashing the main beams, honking, and driving right at the creature. The creature took the hint and ambled off the road before it actually got hit. It turned and delivered a death glare that would easily outclass Nancy Pelosi, before vanishing into the darkness.
Then I continued home.
Mid-afternoon, I made myself a carbonara ready meal, and pulled all the yucky pork bits out and ate the rest. The first thing I'd eaten since Sunday. I had no appetite and had to force myself to eat.
Didn't sleep that night. I thought the illness was going to start to get better, but instead I spent the entire night coughing hard. So now a whole different set of bits hurt. Lovely.
Finished my shift, felt totally shattered. But my smiley-santa jumper was popular, so I'm pleased I at least got to wear that, and a santa hat. It did have blinking lights, but, hey, Made in England... it conked out after about two hours. :-/
And that's what I did. Mostly.
I walked around the supermarket when I realised that the weird feeling was hunger. So I went to McDo. That was a big step forwards, actually wanting to eat something. Got a big burger, and a coke. Drank only enough of the coke to help the burger down. Dumped the rest, it was absolutely disgusting. I think they're mucking around with the recipe to try to reduce the sugar for some essentially arbitrary government ploy to reduce sugar. If I wanted some horrid chemical concoction trying to pass itself off as coke, I'd have ordered a diet coke.
As I write this, I am having Fanta out of a tin. It's got sweeteners in it these days, but at least there's some honest-to-god sugar still in there too.
I'm also able to write this now, now that I have enough concentration to actually sit down and write something.
This, if ever a demonstration was needed, is a good example of why I do not celebrate my birthday on the 16th of December. Yes, that's right. All of this kicked off on my birthday. Paul McCartney is on the radio right now singing about simply having a wonderful Christmas time but I hate this time of year. It's not bah humbug, it's cold and miserable and loads of illnesses do the rounds, and if you're lucky there's light between nine and six (or eight and five in British time). It's crap, naff, and I wish I could hibernate and just miss it entirely.
I celebrate my birthday on the 16th of June. Just a dash before longest day, much better weather, and one doesn't tend to get these sorts of illnesses in early summer.
I'm not sure what to do about my advent calendar. I might resume as of day 16 and just open one a day until it's done. I can hardly open a week and two days at the same time. At any rate, this really wasn't what I had planned. It is, indeed, the curious case of the missing week.
Here in France, loads of people are on strike over pension reforms. Personally, I think Macron is doing too much too soon. You see, there are two things to consider. The first is to get rid of some of the weird specialist pension regimes that see some workers (particularly public service) able to retire at the age of 55. To put that into context, if it was me, I'd be looking at retirement in nine years. That's insane. Given the state of medical care and how long people are living these days, I don't think there are many jobs that justify retirement at 55. You'll notice that it's the likes of air traffic controllers, railway workers, and the like who are on strike. Because they're the sort who benefit from the ability to retire at 55. People like me? We're not on strike as we retire at 62.
Macron might have had some measure of support from ordinary people if that was the aim of his primary pension reform. But, no, he also wants to take the retirement age and raise it from 62 to 64 at the same time. This is bringing in a whole additional group of annoyed people. I'm sure the age of retirement does need to go up, because the state isn't an endless source of funding to support people (especially when public service pensions seem based upon their best performing so-many-years). But since we have the retire-at-55s and the don't-mess-with-the-retirement-age groups to deal with, it's going to be a mess that will make or break Macron's presidency. And, of course, the next presidential hopeful could always pledge to restore the current broken pension system and kick the can down the road in return for some cheap votes. I've seen Marine Le Pen on the TV offering her words of wisdom. Well, it's easy to have all the answers when you're not in charge of anything, right?
So it's yet another Christmas with France "closed due to strike action". Yes, it is annoying. But that's the point. The people have the ability to vent their frustrations and, maybe, to be able to directly hold the government to account to bring change in a very direct way. It's though these sorts of actions that France has a generous and integrated social care system. A limitation on how many hours a week a person works (which, granted, is more theory than reality but at least it exists as a notion), sick leave, five weeks of paid holiday per year (plus numerous religious holidays). Everybody who feels the French are whining and are still going on strike despite all of these sorts of benefits - they have it wrong. The French have those sorts of benefits because they were willing to fight for those sorts of things.
This is no different. And, yes, it's okay to be annoyed. That's your role. Complain. And maybe enough complaining and it will bring about the change that people hope for. I'm not sure that there isn't a need to do something with retirement, but let's see who wins this one - the militant unions, or the magisterial President.
At any rate - happy christmas. Whatever you're doing tomorrow, have a nice day.
David Pilling, 25th December 2019, 00:49 Mick, 25th December 2019, 03:23 Zerosquare, 25th December 2019, 19:03 Gavin Wraith, 26th December 2019, 13:55 Rick, 26th December 2019, 14:53
Don't want a weekly birthday. It wouldn't be anything special if it happened all the time. Plus, it would make me 2401 because that's how many weeks I've been around.
Or a little under one and a half BILLION seconds. :-)Pieter, 27th December 2019, 02:41
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