Month: October 2012

Ambulance life

~ beetleypete ~ 33 Comments

For those who read my posts on a regular basis, you may see a pattern appearing in my ‘Ambulance Stories’ category. That pattern is that many of the calls we were sent to, differ greatly from the description given to us by Ambulance Control. This may seem fanciful and affected to the outsider, though I can assure you that all these stories are 100% accurate. Perhaps some explanation of general life as an Ambulanceman in London (at least when I was still in it ) will put some of this into better context.

At the time I joined, the London Ambulance Service was a very different organisation to the one it is today. It was short-staffed, under-funded, and the staff were poorly paid, and did the job with very little equipment. Many of the operational managers were ex-military types, and the uniform reflected this, in being totally unsuitable for the job. We were provided with made-to-measure jackets and trousers, from a well-known high street chain of tailors. There was a short gabardine overcoat issued, as well as gloves, rain mac, clip-on ties (for safety reasons) and of course, a cap. Shoes were provided, but they were issued for smartness, rather than practicality. The golden rule, was that both members of staff on the ambulance must be dressed the same at all times; so if you wanted to take off your jacket, your colleague had to do the same, and so on.

During training, we had to parade for pay, as in the Services; and we were divided into classes that would rotate around the different modules, mainly due to the chronic shortage of equipment. The exception was the driving course; this was up to Police standards, fully comprehensive, and taken very seriously. Otherwise, it was a Dad’s Army event, wooden splints, triangular bandages, blankets in abundance, and little technical skill necessary. This is no reflection on the Instructors, as they did the best they could, by imparting their own skills, and experience. The accepted standards of today’s Paramedic; Infusion, Intubation, Defibrillation, Drug Administration, that all came a lot later. After training, we would be assigned, as a pair, to a Training Supervisor, who would look after us for a six-week operational training period, always undertaken in Central London, at the busiest Ambulance Stations.

During this period, we learned to completely distrust and despise Ambulance Control. They were not Operational Staff, and few had ever been. Yet, they bossed us around as if they knew what was happening, and had the required rank to get us into serious trouble, if they so choose to do so. From a small Control Room in Waterloo, they lorded over the staff like kings, and spoke to us as if we were as low as could be. With notable exceptions, they were regarded as the enemy, and rightly so, in my opinion, then, and now.  As a consequence, we learned to argue with them all the time, and to disregard their sloppy diagnostic efforts, as well as to avoid all but necessary contact with them. In all the years that I served, I probably only respected five Control Staff, and all of them had once been operational.

There are three emergency services operating in London, and the LAS  was, by any examination, the poor relation, or the Cinderella service. The London Fire Brigade was the premier service. They took charge by default, whatever the situation we found ourselves in. This was a legacy of various events, and of better training, and equipment. We derided them with various nick-names; Smurfs, Water fairies, Window Cleaners, Yellow Trousers. They were muscle-men, locked in camaraderie, and with Local Council working conditions, much envied by the other 999 services. Their perceived intelligence was low, and they embraced their priority with an embarrassing fervour. After them, came the Metropolitan Police. They had a good working relationship with the LAS, and the same dislike and distrust of the Fire Brigade. If we went to an incident jointly, we had to operate under the instructions of the LFB, something that went against the grain, for both the LAS, and the Met Police.

So that was the structure. Fireman first, Police second, Ambulance third. I received the pitiful sum of £49 a week in 1980, that was after taxation and other stoppages, for a 40 hour week, on a full 24-hour shift rotation. Breaks were not guaranteed, and if we had no break all shift, we were paid £1.50p in allowances. With that in mind, it is obvious to anyone, that at least most of us, were doing the job for the right reasons, and with the best of intentions. So, whatever you may read in my blogs, you can now put it into context of the time and place, and the working conditions we faced. Hopefully, you may feel more sympathetic to the situation we were in, and understand more of the cynicism, and subsequent militancy that developed in time.

This is an overview of the early days. Things did change later, though not always for the better. That is another post though.

Ambulance stories (9)

~ beetleypete ~ 24 Comments

The fainting woman

After a very short time in the Ambulance Service, you soon learn to disregard the diagnoses given by Ambulance Control. They are at the mercy of the caller, and their own desire to end the call, within their protocols, as soon as possible. So, there is a constant repetition of the same diagnosis given for the call you are being asked to go to. Others can be wildly inaccurate, perhaps because of language problems, or lack of observation on the part of the caller. After a while, you do not expect what you are told, to be what you actually see on arrival.

One morning, we were returning from the Charing Cross Hospital in Hammersmith, when we were called to a well-known high-rise estate, not far from our base. We were told to meet a caller outside the entrance to one of the highest blocks, and that he would take us to the victim. The job was given as, ‘Female fainted; possibly unconscious’. We understood that this could mean anything. She may well be unconscious, possibly not. She may have fainted because she was pregnant, or she might well have tripped over a kerb, and not have fainted at all. There was a good chance that she had suffered a cardiac arrest, and an equally good chance that there was nothing wrong with her whatsoever. Either way, we would not find out until we got there, so the sirens and lights were engaged, and off we went.

On arrival, we saw a man at the end of the service road, directly outside the block address given. Although there was no other traffic, save an ambulance making its way at some speed, lights flashing, heading directly for him, he still felt the need to wave frantically at us, his arms flailing as he repeatedly indicated the point that we should bring the vehicle to a halt. This behaviour was so common, that I gave these people the affectionate nick-name of ‘Wavy Daveys’. He was standing next to a woman in a collapsed state, crumpled on the floor, and looking very pale. On first examination, she seemed to be uninjured, though getting a history from her proved difficult, as, confirming her Mediterranean appearance, she was speaking in what I knew to be Portuguese. She was gesturing to her right, around the other side of the entrance porch, her mouth flapping like a puppet, as she repeatedly exclaimed something in her own language, that we could not understand.  We decided that we had best get her into the vehicle, out of the cold, and examine her further. The trolley bed was brought over, and she was blanketed, lifted onto the bed, and placed into the vehicle. She finally managed some English, interspersed between her Portuguese ramblings. She wanted us to open the back doors she said, there was something important to tell us.

We could not calm her down until the doors were opened. As we did so, she pointed again at the side of the entrance porch. “There, there, look there” she shouted, before sinking down onto the pillows, uttering a stream of religious incantations. To placate the distressed lady, I walked over to look in the area that she had indicated. Just out of sight of the road, in a corner aspect of the building, a few feet away from the entrance to the block, was the shattered body of an adult male. From the amount of blood and bodily fluids, and the bizarre positioning of the limbs, I knew at once that this was someone that had fallen from a great height. The briefest of examinations told me that nothing could be done, and I returned to the ambulance to summon the Police on the radio.  I also asked for a second vehicle to deal with this new job, and returned to the body, to carefully cover it with a blanket. We then waited the short time for the arrival of the assistance, and our lady in the back grew calmer during this interval.

She had indeed fainted. Then again, if you were just about to go up to your flat, and a body whistled past you, hitting the ground with a never-to-be-forgotten sickening crunch, you might well faint too.

Halloween- Scmalloween

~ beetleypete ~ 57 Comments

What is all this fuss about Halloween? Does anybody remember when it all started here? Shops full of pumpkins, devil-suits, and tridents; parties with fancy-dress themes, gangs of kids wandering about, begging for sweets. I certainly have no memory of it, in London at least, until about 1990. It is yet another unwanted American import, alongside baseball caps, (Who knows the rules? Come on, tell me.) rap music, and McDonald’s. Driven by the Marketing Men, Supermarkets, and Television, desperate to fill the gap between Summer holidays, and Christmas.

Why do we always fall for this rubbish so easily?  Is there no tradition that cannot be sold on, re-packaged for British taste, and successfully marketed, until nobody remembers a time before it existed? What’s next, Thanksgiving? That would fit nicely into the space before Yuletide, and would increase turkey sales even more. We could all wear stove-pipe hats, and big Puritan collars, trying to pretend it was OK to swindle the Red Indians out of their lands for a few beads and trinkets. It wouldn’t matter that there were no Red Indians here, we could just make that bit up. Or maybe we could call them ‘Native Americans’, to make us feel even less guilty.

Nothing has value anymore. There is no special time left. Hot Cross Buns are available all year, pancakes can be bought anytime, then microwaved, to save the effort in making them. Tangerines are no longer a Christmas treat, any Tesco will have them in, anytime you want. We have slowly removed everything that we ever had occasion to anticipate excitedly, and to look forward to, as the seasons changed. Once we had lost all that, we had to search elsewhere for something to plan for, and along came Halloween. We can now arrange parties, or the appalling ‘Trick or Treat’ parades (Ask them for a trick is my tip!), and have everything from themed burgers, to pumpkin socks. How did we ever cope before?

I would love to take you back in a Time Machine. You would relish the prospect of Buns at Easter, delight at trying to make pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, and be unable to sleep on the night before Christmas. You would never have heard of ‘Grand-Parents’ Day’, and Halloween would be something that was ‘done’ in America.  Brazil nuts and tangerines would appear in December, be enjoyed briefly, and would not be seen again, until that time the following year. Baseball caps would be worn by baseball players, and some other people in The Americas, but not in England. If you wanted a snack, you would be happy with fish and chips, or pie and mash.

There is nothing wrong with American cultural celebrations. They even keep some of ours, like Christmas. But the newer ones should stay on that side of the Atlantic, along with their terrible fast food. That way, those that seek it, can travel there to enjoy it, and celebrate the differences in our societies and customs. We might even tell them that we used to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve as part of the Harvest Festival, and that Halloween is a Scottish corruption of that phrase. That would make it ours then, not American at all. Like most things, including many we have since discarded, they were taken to America by settlers. America does not have a culture as such, just an amalgamation of many of the cultures of its numerous settlers, and more recent immigrant populations. However, it is doing a fantastic job of re-exporting those traditions, whether we need them back, or not.

Surely it is enough to celebrate the difference in the various traditions and cultures of the many countries and societies in The World, without having to assimilate everything? As the French say- ‘Vive la difference’.

A few bad days

~ beetleypete ~ Leave a comment

Since last week, I have been a bit fed up. That sort of edginess where everything starts to assume a real importance, and to begin to really get you down. Of course, the funeral for Julie’s Dad did not help matters, although it went off well, despite being a sad day for all concerned. Driving home last Friday, we hit appalling traffic, adding almost two hours to the normal three-hour journey, so I started the weekend feeling tired and low.

Then the weather turned again. Driving rain, sleet, hail, and a cold wind as well. Everywhere was dark and gloomy, and the ground was muddy, and covered in leaves. Taking Ollie for his walk was a real chore, although he didn’t even seem to notice the change. Then the clocks went back an hour, so we got up to what felt like a late start. This ridiculous, uniquely British tradition means that it now begins to get dark at 4pm, making the evenings seem long and dull.

I decided to do some ‘serious’ cleaning, and tackled the double oven. This is only a year old, but the fan assistance, and high running temperatures, seem to make it harder to clean than a ‘normal’ gas oven. As the doors drop down towards you, it is much more difficult to get right inside, to ensure a thorough job. The oven cleaner is like acid, and stripped the skin from two fingers with ease. (I know that you are supposed to wear gloves but I find them too cumbersome.) After two hours on the cooker, I did the rest of the kitchen, and felt stupidly tired afterwards, another sure sign of my advancing years. I then discovered that the cleaning fluid had somehow managed to get inside the seal of the glass doors, and I was left with white streaks between the two sheets of glass, impossible to remove. This made me angry and frustrated, far in excess of what should be expected for an ‘oven mishap’. A sure sign that the accumulation factor was kicking in.

Then the computer started to play up. Every time that it was shut down, it re-appeared with error messages, lost all my photos, and did not recognise me as the administrator. I have had to ‘system restore’ three times in two days. This made me acutely aware of my lack of technical prowess with computers, and electronic items generally. I would happily have thrown the whole thing out the window, then stamped on it for good measure. I still don’t know what the problem is, so have had to resort to standby only, without shutting down. No doubt I will eventually have to get someone in, to patiently point out my schoolboy error, for a large fee. Naturally, Julie wanted to do her Internet shopping for Christmas, so it came at the most inconvenient moment. (What doesn’t?)

The next day, Ollie’s eye seemed to be tearful again. After two operations, and a lot of distress, it seems that they may not have worked fully, so we will soon have to start that process all over again; contacting vets, claiming off the insurers, and making numerous trips to and from Newmarket, at 100 miles a time.

That is why the blog has been quiet. Not many readers recently, and not much input from me either.

I woke up to bright sun today, and have a lot to get done this week. The sun did not really improve my mood though, and I have little enthusiasm for anything, to be honest. Hence, ‘A few bad days’.

Ambulance stories (8)

~ beetleypete ~ 28 Comments

Experience not necessary

This is another example of how experience does not always guarantee good performance, and how the wisdom of age can be cast aside by events.

One evening, I was working with the oldest, and most experienced man on our Ambulance Station. I was almost 40 years old, and he was over 50. Between us, we had some 38 years of experience in the job. Towards the end of the shift, which had been very busy, we were called to a traffic accident. It was described as a ‘hit and run’, a pedestrian had been knocked down, and the car responsible had left the scene. We had some way to travel to this job, and on route, we were updated on the radio; the situation was believed serious, Police on scene had advised us.

On arrival, things did indeed look serious. A man in his 30’s was lying across the road, which had been partially closed by Traffic Police. On examination, it appeared that the man was semi-conscious, smelt strongly of alcohol, and had a visible wound to his head. His shirt was wet around the abdomen, despite dry conditions, so my colleague removed it, to better examine the male. We immediately saw that he had organs protruding from a wound there, and soon ascertained that it was his intestines that were clearly visible. We applied a very large dressing, dampened to protect the exposed tissue, and advised the nearby hospital that we would soon be arriving with a seriously injured man.

I drove off, blue lights flashing, sirens wailing. In the back, my colleague administered oxygen, and closely monitored the patient, during the short journey to the local Casualty Department. Arriving at the hospital, we rushed him in to the Casualty, where a special Trauma Team was waiting. They quickly removed his trousers, to reveal a dislodged colostomy bag. What we had believed to be a torn abdomen, was in fact a surgical stoma, where a piece of intestine is left exposed to attach to the colostomy bag. The man was well-known to the staff there, and  he later confessed that he had been drunk, and tripped over the kerb, hitting his head, and detaching the bag attached to the stoma. There had been no car, and no traffic accident, all of that had been presumption on the part of the Police, and bystanders who had happened across him. Had we not allowed ourselves to get caught up in the drama, no doubt we would have worked this out for ourselves.

We both felt pretty stupid, and it took us a long time to live that one down.

Ambulance stories (7)

~ beetleypete ~ 20 Comments

The cross-dresser

There was a man who lived in a flat above a baker’s shop. This shop was located in a busy street market area, just east of Ladbroke Grove, in West London. When he had finished his week at work, he would be able to indulge in his two favourite passions, cross-dressing and autoerotic-asphyxiation. His flat was on the second floor above the baker’s ground floor premises, so well away from prying eyes, or inquisitive staff. He would dress in his best clothes, favouring a 1950’s style, with petticoats, flared skirts, stockings and suspenders, and high-heeled shoes of course; the large size required was readily available from specialist retailers in the area. He would then attach a cord around his neck, fastening the other end to a convenient place, a door jamb perhaps, or window catch. He would then slowly strangle himself, by kneeling forward, whilst masturbating at the same time. The deprivation of oxygen that resulted, would heighten his orgasm, as well as fulfilling whatever other psychological needs existed.

Over time, this obviously became too stale a procedure, and no longer satisfied the relevant urges. Something better would be needed, more extreme, with added danger and frisson. He decided that he would secure the cord to the bed head, and then sit on  the bannister rail outside his room. The staff of the Bakery, busy below, would be unaware of his sexual antics, only 20 feet above their heads. He would sit on the rail, leaning forward into the empty space of the stairwell, dressed in an outfit that would do justice to Doris Day, and he would heighten his thrill by these actions. One Saturday morning, he rose early, had a bath, and did his make-up. The dress chosen was a polka-dot affair, flouncy at the bottom, and had plenty of space to add numerous petticoats below. Beneath this ensemble, he would wear his best all-in-one elastic corset, with suspenders attached, to which he would add his most expensive stockings. Freshly polished shoes, stiletto heels of course, completed his look, and he felt like a million dollars.

He chose his strongest nylon washing line, securing one end to the headboard of his bed. Nobody ever came up to the second floor anyway, so he could leave the door open, knowing his privacy was secured. With the cord running from his bedroom out onto the landing, he slipped the other end around his neck, fashioning the familiar slipknot noose that he always used. He stepped over the rail of the wooden railings, intending to lean out into the void, and satisfy himself as never before. Taking the strain on his neck, he eased forward, fumbling with the underwear, in order to free his burgeoning manhood. Unfortunately, his petticoats were too slippery to gain a purchase on the rail, and he slid straight off into the space below, his neck snapping as he reached the limit of the cord.

Two floors below, at the rear of the Bakery, away from the customer serving area, a young Saturday girl had been sent out to get extra rolls from the racks there. She was only 16 years old, and did not know a great deal about life. Her parents had insisted that she get a Saturday job, and she did so reluctantly, as she would much rather have still been in bed, or meeting up with her mates, in the nearby market. The man crashed into her world on that morning, his soon-to-be lifeless body stopping only inches above her head, the treasured shoes clattering onto the floor beside her. The sight of him in his grotesque outfit proved too much for her young mind to take in, and she collapsed onto the floor.

We got the emergency call as “young girl fainted”. It’s a funny old life, isn’t it?

Ambulance stories (6)

~ beetleypete ~ 40 Comments

F.O.I.R.

The above abbreviation stands for Foreign Object In Rectum, and was something that I would use on paperwork, completed during and after Emergency calls, in my time in the London Ambulance Service. Abbreviations were commonly used, to save time, ensure privacy, and because the space on the form for diagnostics and treatment was very small! Other frequently used abbreviations were;  WTASOS (Walked to Ambulance and sat on side). PMCCAH (Patient made comfortable and put in chair at the Hospital), and a personal favourite, MAMH (Mad as a March hare). They are not used these days, as the new forms have various tick boxes and codes, leaving little space for ‘artistic expression’.

In the early 1980’s, the Earls Court area in West London, was a well-known gathering point for the homosexual and lesbian communities in London. There were gay clubs and bars, many of which had been around for decades, and a general tolerance in the district, that made it a lot safer than most areas for those communities to get out and about in, or to live there. The local hospital was called St Stephen’s, now re-built extensively, and re-named The Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. This hospital served the area well, and did pioneering work in the early days of HIV/AIDS, always showing great respect to Gay patients, whatever their reasons for attending. It also offered all the usual services to the area, including a busy Casualty Department.

One of its ‘accidental’ specialities, was the treatment of FOIR. These objects, were inserted into the rectums, of  (always) men, for various reasons, predominantly sexual gratification of some kind, and almost always by the men themselves, and not by a third party. The frequency of these arrivals at St Stephen’s was such that it often went without undue notice. Sex toys that had gone in slightly ‘too far’, household objects, and some fruits and vegetables, were commonplace. There were some more unusual efforts, I recall a shower head attachment on one occasion; however, one night duty, a nurse drew my attention to something that I still remember, 30 years later.

A man in his 40’s had arrived at the department after midnight. He complained of stomach pains, and after further investigation and questioning, claimed to have ‘fallen’ onto a large light bulb. The screw-in connector for this bulb could clearly be seen by staff, protruding from his somewhat distended anus.  An X-Ray revealed that this was an enormous Theatrical Spotlight bulb. It had some material inside that was visible to X-rays, similar to the chemicals in a fluorescent tube. The size of this bulb had moved the organs inside the man, pushing them all into a small cavity below his diaphragm, causing great pain, and the glass seemed to still be intact. When he was advised that emergency surgery would be necessary to remove it, and that this would be major abdominal surgery, carrying great risk, the man admitted that he had inserted the bulb himself. Apparently, he had practiced this insertion for some time, adding more and more lubrication, until he was able to get the entire object inside himself. It was something that he had obtained from work, as he worked in a theatre, in Covent Garden. We saw the X-ray, and heard the story, then had to carry on with our work for the night, and the man was taken off to the operating theatre.

When we were next in that area, a couple of nights later, I asked the nurses what had become of the man. I was told that he had died. This was not as a result of the surgery, or even as a consequence of the original insertion of the bulb. It seems that there had been a crack in the glass, and this had allowed some of the powdery material to escape into his bloodstream. This had caused numerous blood clots, which had resulted in his death.

I still have a vision of this man, alone in his home, tentatively trying to insert this huge bulb into himself. It has always haunted me, for some reason.

Techno fear

~ beetleypete ~ 31 Comments

There is something sinister about the way that Technology creeps up on you. One day, life is going on as normal, and the next, you can’t remember how to use a telephone box, or even know where to find one. I can almost remember the last time I made a call from a public kiosk, queuing patiently, until it was free to use. Then, in what seemed an instant, I had a mobile phone in my hand, and I have never used a public box since; though I still had a phone card in my wallet, until very recently.

Can any of you remember what life was like before mobile phones? Imagine breaking down in your car, on a country road, late at night, in an unfamiliar area. You had to walk for an unknown time, until you could find a telephone box to use, to summon assistance. You also had to make sure that you had the correct money to make the call. There were no Freephone numbers, and breakdown companies did not accept reverse charge calls. Or perhaps there was an emergency, and you had to inform a relative, or ring in to your job. You would have to search in a similar way, hoping that there was nobody inside already, in the process of making a long call; or worse still, that all the equipment had been vandalised.

Of course, cars rarely break down these days, compared to years ago. If you wanted to be a driver in the 1960’s, you would have to have had a reasonable standard of mechanical know-how, or face the prospect of being constantly stranded. A working knowledge of the distributor, HT leads, points, plugs, and fan-belts, was more or less essential then. Have you even bothered to look under the bonnet of your car lately? All you will see is a large plastic cover, concealing almost all of the workings of the modern engine. There will be electronics leading into boxes, housing small computers that regulate all the functions of the car. Good luck with trying to fathom out what is going on, unless you are a qualified car mechanic. Technology again, making us dependent on experts, removing our skills, however basic. Controlling us.

Let’s not forget the desire factor. As the gadgets become more and more widespread, part of you might consider that you don’t need any more, enough is enough. After all, you have a mobile phone, a nice TV, a home music system, a portable music system, even a laptop computer. This is where the technology companies really show their mettle. They know that there is little chance of you replacing those items for many years, so they give you a good reason to do just that. They take the same things, and re-package them into a more desirable format. The screens become thinner, the functions increase, the gadgets become smaller, then bigger again, until you cannot resist the urge to change. It is human nature to always want to know what is on the other side of the fence, after all.

So, you have a nice new PC. It is super fast, with enough RAM to supply your needs, and a hard drive that you will never fill to capacity. Then a swish new laptop is announced. It has even more functions, is lighter than a crispbread, and the battery lasts for six hours. The screen is so clear, you feel that you could dive into it; you just have to get one. Then, your mobile contract is up for renewal; you need the phone, so you might as well get a good one. You notice a new one advertised extensively. It has a huge screen, a camera with more pixels than your existing DSLR, and Internet access as fast as your PC. You can browse the web on it, store all your photos, and sort out all your e mails too. Better still, it fits in a coat pocket, so it will save you lugging that tiresome laptop around, in the smart neoprene case that you bought specially for it.

You now own three things that all do the same thing. The PC sits dusty and unused, in a room that you like to call ‘The Office’. The laptop resides in its case, probably propped up under the desk that has the PC on it. You sit happily in your living room, playing games, updating social media sites, and texting your friends, all from the arm of your settee. You glance across at the TV, and see an advertisement for something new; it is called a ‘tablet’. Sleek, slim, and with a bigger screen than your phone. Still portable, though not as cumbersome as your laptop. Next day, you are off to check it out. Everyone seems to be getting one. Your photos look better, you can watch a film on it on the train going to work, and it has a memory capacity that you can actually fill. No hesitation, it is a must buy. You now have four things that do the same thing. Technology triumphs over Man once again.

Of course, you can choose to ignore all this. You can stick with your Nokia handset,  your VHS player, with your collection of films and blank tapes ready to record TV programmes. You might even still have a cassette player in your car, and you may have decided to forego the Internet, and not bother to get a computer. That electric typewriter you bought in 1977 still works well, doesn’t it?

The Technology companies have the answer to your stubbornness. Planned obsolescence. They just stop making it. No more VHS tapes, or parts for your old machine. Don’t try using that typewriter too much, as they don’t make the ribbons anymore, and once your cassettes are worn out, and start to come off their spools in the car, you will never be able to buy any again. Happy with your CRT television? Forget that, you will never be able to get it repaired. Anyway, there will be a change in the way that the TV is broadcast, making all those millions of sets just so much junk.

How long will it be before compact discs give way to ‘downloads only’?  Then all those resisting change will be forced to buy a computer, and connect to the Internet, if they ever want to buy music again. Technology is control, and I am controlled. I must be, as I am using a PC to write this blog, but I also have a laptop, a smartphone, and a super-slim, Internet-enabled TV. I have  been considering getting a netbook too, so even as I write this, I am overwhelmed, and there seems to be no way back.

As for digital cameras and the demise of those using real film, don’t even get me started on that!

Three days off

~ beetleypete ~ Leave a comment

I have just had a ‘break’ from the Blog. I decided that it was time for a short rest, to re-evaluate, and to consider more subjects away from the Ambulance stories. I can see from the stats that they have been popular, so they will be back. I was thinking that the amount of posts was beginning to be a bit overwhelming, so I may be returning to my original, if slightly opinionated style! As I do this Blog mainly for my own satisfaction, I want to stay as true to the original purpose as possible. Despite this, I will consider the loyalty of my readers, and those following regularly, and occasionally return to the type of posts that seem to be the most read.

Now that I have exceeded 60 posts, I would like to thank everyone for their feedback; and for the criticism, which has been helpful,  and constructive. I continue to enjoy the process, and get great satisfaction, from both the writing itself, and the communication with others, from all over the World. I would reiterate that I really recommend Blogging to anyone. It is a very long way from the more familiar social media sites, and is always therapeutic, as well as being instructive and educational.

Electronic smoking (4)

~ beetleypete ~ Leave a comment

Just a quick update for anyone who may be interested. ( I like to think that someone is)

I have now managed six full weeks using the electronic cigarettes. I have not missed the tobacco ones at all, and it seems my cravings have been satisfied. I am still on the full strength nicotine, as the next level down didn’t do the job. Julie has also managed to stay on them, despite recent events and associated stress. The financial savings have been significant, though I have not worked them out in detail yet.

So, if you want to give up smoking ( does anyone still smoke, except us?) try these things. They are better than patches, gum, or pills, and far preferable to the cold turkey method. I have said it before, but it is worth repeating. If I can do it with these things, then anyone else can too.