Gilliflowers (10 page)

If Shane thinks he’s escaped my pancakes completely this year, he can think again. I’m serving them for dessert after dinner this evening. They’ll be all tarted up in fancy French costume as crêpes Suzette served with Grand Marnier and cream. I can’t wait to see Dick’s face when I serve him with a bowl of bran flakes instead.

Dear Diary,

Today is D Day. I’m finally off to the dentist to have my pheasant damaged tooth repaired. I’m so not looking forward to going. I wonder what topics will be up for discussion once my dentist has crammed his humongous mitts into my gob thus rendering me incapable of reply. It’s so embarrassing. Why can’t he be a mute dentist?

My dental appointment got rescheduled. I was on the verge of leaving the house to set off when I received a phone call to say half the practice staff, including my dentist, had called in sick with a case of the winter vomiting bug and there was no one available to cover until the next day.

I felt fortune was smiling on me when I turned up yesterday to discover the standin was a pretty oriental lady with blessedly tiny hands. She also had a propensity for complaining to the attendant dental nurse about her husband as she worked, wheeling out a long list of his shortcomings. It left me free to recline in the chair without worrying about trying to impart speech around a gag of latex covered digits.

She gave me an injection of Novocain, or whatever they use. While waiting for my mouth to numb up she poked around with her little tool, picking out bits of the breakfast I fondly thought I’d brushed away prior to setting off.

Then it happened. I got the aura. I felt the viscous feel of invisible spider silk brush my face. A foul taste invaded my mouth and it had nothing to do with the injection I’d just had. The episode was fairly mild in itself and its trigger was the dental lamp positioned above my head. It was slightly misaligned so the light irritated my eyes. I’m extremely light sensitive and really I should have said something to the dentist and got her to adjust it, but I didn’t like to break the intense flow of the conversation she was engaged in. She was obviously royally pissed off with her hubby and needed to offload to her colleague as an antidote to either filing for divorce or resorting to violent homicide.

In an attempt to manage the situation I closed my eyes against the glare from the lamp, which I think made it worse as I could see the blood shining red in my eyelids.

The episode left me with tremors as my muscles went into spasm coupled with the usual irrational unfocused fear.

The dentist suddenly became aware of my trembling and stopped talking. She took one look at my face and leapt to the conclusion I was frightened, and indeed I was, though not of the dental procedure. What followed was mega embarrassing.

She apologised profusely for not realising I was nervous. She then made a

concerted effort to reassure ‘Mr Brown’ that there was nothing to be nervous about.

Taking hold of my hand she gently patted it, while explaining in terms tailored to suit the intellectual abilities of a three year old what she was going to do and not to worry, as it would soon be over.

She talked me through every stage. ‘I’m just going to drill out the old filling, Mr Brown. It won’t hurt, but there’ll be a big noise, it’s coming now,’ at which point the dental nurse maternally gripped my hand and made soothing noises. I was mortified and halfway between wanting to cry, because heightened emotion is an aspect of my episodes, and wanting to laugh hysterically at the absurdity of the situation. They both meant well and I assume they deal with scared kids more than with scared adults and therefore their handling strategy was more geared to the former.

At the end of the procedure the dental nurse, tongue in cheek, offered me a sticker for being a brave boy. I took it in good part and chose one of Spiderman; it seemed the appropriate choice, sticking it on my t-shirt to show off to the men folk.

I suppose I could have explained I wasn’t afraid of dentistry as such and my trembling fear stemmed from rogue neurons shooting misinformation around my cranium, but to be honest, embarrassing though it was I preferred them to think I had a dental phobia than explain I suffered from epilepsy. There is still stigma attached to being epileptic. It isn’t fully understood, not even by the experts who research and treat it, and it still has a bad biblical nuance of ‘evil possession’ hanging over it. You become a thing instead of a person. You’re not Gillibran or Bob or Sharon or whoever. You’re simply ‘epileptic’ and prone to strange jerks and spasms beyond your control. It unnerves people and makes them suspicious and wary of you.

I once read a passage in a book where a live lobster was dropped into boiling water. The creature was described as ‘convulsing.’ A witness to the fictional event says:
‘that always gives me the creeps. It makes me think of epileptic seizures.’
To me that sums up the general attitude to epilepsy. It’s something creepy and repulsive. I have never forgiven the author of those careless insensitive words. If I ever find out he’s doing a book signing in the area I’ll turn up and jab him in the eye.

I felt a bit down after my dental visit and drained of energy, so I got a taxi home. I had a sneaking unhappy premonition my invisible spider was still stalking me. I was right. The rogue arachnid struck again as I was unlocking the front door, trailing gluey thread against my cheek. Not such a mild episode after all. This time my phantom fear was accompanied by a surge of pure rage at having two episodes in such a short space of time. What the fuck was that all about. If I’d had the energy I would have punched the wall. Collapsing onto the bottom stair I put my head in my hands and wept out my frustration instead.

The house rule is for any episode to be reported as soon as possible to an appropriate authority. Shane first and if I can’t get him I report to Dick. Afterwards I trot off to bed to rest, because I’m usually knackered after an episode no matter how mild it is. They then take turns in calling me until one of them can arrange to come home and check everything is okay.

I know it’s well intentioned, but I still rather resent the reporting rule. It’s an unwanted reminder that my episodes have progressed from a once in a blue moon kind of thing to being a more regular lunar occurrence. Because of it the choice as to whether I call to report has been replaced with an order that I do so. It makes me feel impotent on several levels (but not the lower level, everything works just fine down there, thank you very much.) I continue to struggle with it.

Once I’d pulled myself together a little I did my duty and called Shane and thankfully got him on his private mobile without having to go through the office and a tussle with Attila The Secretary. He told me to record details of the episode in my medical diary, and properly or he’d skin my arse. He doesn’t tolerate entries along the lines of:
my brain popped a fuse today, must have been the five lines of coke I
snorted, knew I should have stuck to Pepsi.
The man has no sense of humour.

It was he who headed home on Thursday, his schedule being more malleable than Dick’s. After reading my diary he took me tenderly in his arms and gave me a right bollocking for not asking the dentist to reposition the lamp. For a moment I thought he might strip me of my Spiderman sticker and put a protective hand over it.

He pondered aloud, opining that perhaps my outing with Stella on Monday

evening had primed me for the episode. She was a bad influence and he did not like me associating too often. I pooh-poohed the idea. I’d only had a pint for goodness sake. It wasn’t like I’d rolled home drunk. Winter came to his eyes and I inwardly groaned, realising I’d shot myself in the foot. He frostily reminded me I’d had two glasses of wine with dinner before going out to the pub. I’d been told to stick to half a pint or preferably have a soft drink.

I got defensive, pointing out I’d get fucking barred or even beaten up if I ponced up to the bar in the Rose and Crown and ordered half a pint to sit over. I might as well prance in there wearing a tutu with the slogan ‘Fairy Queen’ embroidered on the back of it. Men did not order half pints in the Rose and Crown. Most of the women who frequent the Rose don’t buy halves either. Only people entertaining their grandmother or some other elderly female relative buy half pints and soft drinks. The episode had been triggered by the dentist’s lamp, end of story. There was no other villain involved.

Setting aside vexation he lay down with me and I cuddled up to his solid warmth, drooling on his shirt because my mouth was still a bit numb from the dentist’s jab. I allowed myself to sleep safe in the knowledge Daddy was watching over me.

Dick worked from home today even though I said I was fine apart from a slight headache. He drove me over to see my mother and came in with me. I told him not to mention my episode, as I didn’t want to worry her. He can make himself at home anywhere can Dick. He’s a right gossip queen when he gets going. He was soon chuntering away. I think mum has a crush on him. She says he’s got a lovely voice, like one of the posh people out of a BBC period drama. She goes kind of starry eyed when she looks at him, and who can blame her, he’s gorgeous. She fussed round after him, offering him tea and homemade cake. I had to make do with a tumbler of water and a stale biscuit. (Lie detector blows a raspberry) I’m not making dinner tonight. We’re having an Indian takeaway, which should be here soon, as long as the deliveryman doesn’t get lost like he did last time. It was his first run. He was a virgin deliverer. Hopefully he’s got the hang of the locality by now. I’m looking forward to the meal. I love a nice spicy Indian washed down with a lager or two.

It’s been a pleasant weekend on the whole, just the three of us, no visitors, no going out, no pressures. There was a small hiccup and some mild indigestion on Friday evening, which I detailed yesterday and titled ‘Jottings on a Saturday Afternoon in February.’

I must away and tend my duties. There’s a pile of ingredients in the kitchen requiring my attention. My quest is to turn them into Sunday lunch. As I go to make a pile of peelings I leave you with a pile of jottings. Turn the page to find them.

Weather wise it’s been nice today with a distinct hint of spring in the air. I did a bit of fiddling and diddling in the garden earlier. They can’t touch you for it, not on private property. The snowdrops are out. I like snowdrops. They’re slender and elegant and yet have an underlying toughness that belies their pure and fragile appearance. They bloom in what can be a hard season, often thrusting their heads through frost and snow to fulfil their nature. They remind me of Dick in a way. He too is slender and elegant with an underlying toughness. If he’s in the mood he’ll also thrust his head through frost and snow to fulfil his nature, in fact he’ll thrust his head through anything including his own fist, if you get my drift.

I’m fascinated by the different varieties of snowdrop. We have some in our garden that aren’t above a couple of inches in height, really very tiny things, and others which bloom on long stalks producing large flowers with pronounced stamens. Again, an analogy of Dick springs to mind, but we won’t go there, not today when I’m leaning more towards the poetic than the pornographic.

There’s also a scattering of crocus showing, or should that be crocuses? It doesn’t sound quite right somehow, nor does it sound poetic. It makes me appreciate why whatsisname, the lakes poet, WW, chose to wax lyrical about daffodils. A host of golden crocuses wouldn’t have had anywhere near the same impact on the senses, or indeed on the future tourism industry in the Lakes. I doubt bus loads of people would flock to see golden crocuses fluttering and dancing in the breeze. They’re too short and stubby to flutter and dance with any kind of conviction, they just huddle the ground looking a bit ruffled and slightly narked.

Incidentally, judging from a line in the daffs poem, I suspect William Wordsworth was gay. The company of daffodils he writes about is actually a metaphor for the athletic jock types he preferred to gangbang with. It’s all there in his own words:
‘a
poet could not but be gay in such a jocund company.’
Yes, okay, it’s a tenuous joke I grant you, but I like it, so it’s staying in.

Leaving aside daffs and returning to crocuses, there are fewer in our garden this year compared to last year. I think the naked snails have scoffed quite a few of the corms, the greedy little bastards. I’ll have to plant some more, corms that is, not slugs.

I think I’ll get me some slug pellets and a gun to shoot them from, that’ll teach them to mess with this houseboy’s spring bulbs. Yup! I’m gonna run those slimy slugs outta town.

After lunch I spent some minutes in front of the hall mirror, depressing over the state of my skin, trying to convince myself that my blue eyes and dark lashes are nice enough to make up for what my complexion lacks. I had another flare up of acne last week because of my medication. I was not happy. My doctor gave me some Duac gel to daub on the spots at night. Being a bit of a vanity merchant and eager to remain pretty for my men, I daubed twice daily in the hope it would get rid of the spots twice as fast. It sort of worked, but at a cost. I now have a few less spots, but in their place I have dry sore skin on my forehead and around my nose. I geared up for a good moaning session about it this afternoon, but was cut off before I could really get going. Shane trumped my moaning session with a nagging session.

“Don’t you dare start whining to me about your skin, boy, or I’ll wallop your tiresome backside until you can’t sit down. You were told to apply that gel sparingly, at night time only, not plaster it on at will. I’ve got no sympathy for you. It’s about time you started using some common sense. Medications are to be respected, not misused…nag, nag, nag.”

I abandoned the moaning session and huffily settled for massaging some E45