Falling Sky

Mid-Year Report

Here we are, toppling obliviously into the second half of 2008 - dear god, Christmas is just around the corner! - but it's barely noticed in the week-to-week routine of work and not-work. Ah well, just a few decades 'til retirement. Anyway, when I'm not grafting away thanklessly for the good of the Scottish nation, what have I been up to lately? Summery summary time!

If you've not swanned by my online shop lately, do have a gander - there's now 31 pieces up, the above being the two most recent. I've decided to go back to life drawing sessions at the weekend again having given up last year - while I may still have to deal with mercenary voices in my head the moment I start a sketch like the above, at least I'll be producing fresh new artwork again on a weekly basis. As things currently stand, without the discipline of being out of the house and in a studio with dedicated time devoted solely to artwork, I just can't seem to focus on regularly working on drawings or paintings in the evenings or weekend. So, come September, it's back to Leith and expect to see a lot more artwork cropping on my Flickr stream again, rather than monthly occurrences of seascapes and garlic.

Also, over at the wedding site, I've written a great big post wibbling on about what I might wear at the wedding, being the groom an' all. Worth a read if you a) have built up an immunity to the paragraphs of prattle that plague these pages and b) have the slightest interest in what I might be wearing come the 23rd of May (hint: not a kilt).

Not entirely unconnected to the above, may I sing the praises of Doctor Who? Of course I bally well may! The latest series has just come to an end and personally I think it's the strongest one yet, pretty much the best piece of fictional British television being broadcast, practically bursting with enthusiasm, imagination and an ambition that all too often would be sneered down. The last few months have seen some absolutely remarkable stories and sights, an oasis of creativity in the ever-growing desert of tedium that makes up primetime television. The stories have been varied and compulsive - I didn't think the one-two punch of last series' Human Nature/Family of Blood and Blink could ever be matched, never mind topped, but with Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead and Midnight it bloody well happened! The acting has been even stronger than before, with David Tennant so completely suited to the role now that the possibility of him leaving at the end of the penultimate episode was genuinely startling, while Catherine Tate trumped all us nay-sayers who only knew her from that overplayed "am I bovvered?" Her character was initially annoying in Runaway Bride (in hindsight, deliberately so) but over the course of this series she'd blossomed into a fascinating, rich and thankfully-not-lovelorn companion thanks to some superb acting. Julian Bleach's Davros rocked my world over the last two episode with his Hitleresque monologues of rage. And big up the Bernard Cribbins - his scene with the Doctor at the end of the final episode was sombre and genuinely moving. Wonderful, wonderful stuff. I'm looking forward to the Christmas special immensely (the fact that it'll star Dervla Kirwan certainly doesn't hurt...) but next year's BBC1 schedule is going to seem awfully barren. Wildlife aside, will there be anything to watch?

What else? The baking continued apace at the weekend with apple scones (now sussed out the best way to add the cinnamon, very nice too), another loaf (after this, there's really no chance of ever going back to supermarket shelf bread) and trying something new with handmade puff-pastry. The latter took hours to prepare, most of that time spent in the fridge or being 'turned' - tasted good, a sweeter, fresher taste than the shop-bought stuff, but the sheer time it required means I won't make a habit of that. Still, good to keep trying new recipes as I edge closer and closer to the fabled Nagl bagel...

Meanwhile, there's a big old post brewing regarding kids books, both the ones that the missus-to-be got me for our anniversary and certain... plans that may yet come to something, but that's definitely for another time. It's requiring a fair bit of research into something I know next to zero about, so that'll be my excuse for light posting over the next few weeks, but you never know. We're a couple of months into using the Wii Fit and having a grand time with it, so that'll get a write-up of it's own eventually, but in the meantime I've been rather smitten with the WiiWare game LostWinds - there's a suitably comprehensive review from Ryan, but here's a lovely video trailer for it, complete with the gorgeous music and lush visuals that make it a pleasure to play and to watch. Certainly looks a lot more summery than Edinburgh in July.

1,096 Days Later...

Ah, it's almost like it was yesterday... yet at the same time seems like an age away, in the best possible way. Yep, the missus-to-be and me have been a Couple for three years now, ever since Tom Cruise and martian death rays brought us together. Plenty in our lives has changed since then, yet she remains as ruddy marvellous, sweet and smart as she was back in 2005, if not more so, and every day spent with her is brill. (Conversely, on the rare occasions when we're apart for a day or more, I'm pathologically useless and can barely function beyond pacing around the flat looking lost.) Honestly, it's so fucking good being engaged to her, the rest of Planet Earth really ballsed up in letting me get to her first. Ha ha! Too late, you fools!

[Title edited by one digit after the good lady pointed out this was a leap year and February had therefore been a day longer. Best sub-editor ever!]

BOOP BOOP BOOP BOOP

...is what you'll be hearing if you try calling our home telephone at the moment, since for some reason it's dead to us and engaged to anyone calling in. However, the internet connection is still tip-top (hooray!). Most peculiar, but family members trying to get in touch should go by email or mobile. We're always partial to a spot of semaphore too.

In further news, it looks as though the Lass's sicknessnessnessness was all because she broke the cardinal rule of going on holiday and drank the water. And now it's national news! The Northants Evening Telegraph, inevitably, has gone completely bloody doolally about this, but the Burd is thankfully on the mend and this evening had her first meal since Sunday, so that's a result.

Besides, Royal Mail finally delivered what I'd hoped would arrive yesterday - a nice little package all the way from Orkney, the content of which is now gracing my good lady's ring finger, as you can see if you move your peepers to the right). It suits her gloriously and cheered me up immensely (especially after a particularly infuriating day at work).

We're now curled up on the sofa, with Adam & Joe's Song Wars - which only fully downloaded once I got home the other night, blasted slow on-train wi-fi connection - entertaining us nicely. Not sure which one would be most suitable for soundtracking a wedding, right now I'm rooting for The Hours, if only for a Snap!esque rap in the middle, but Dr Sexy could be the perfect slow dance. Here, did you ever hear the Piracy one that Adam did a few months back? It's not on Vol 1, but one can only hope for Vol 2, assuming the sample can get cleared (what are the chances of that?). Until then, for anyone who's put a DVD in and not been able to skip those bastardly patronising 'adverts' that make those ones with Simon Bates acceptable by comparison (at least they were fastforwardable), this is for you:

Now go watch Adam Buxton's MeeBox while you still can. Fly, you fool!

No City For Country Men

Ach. This post finds your correspondent on the wiggly east coast line, northbound to Auld Reekie after a long weekend down in the Shire. Normally I'd be pretty chipper after a few days out in the green stretches of English countryside, but I'm traveling alone. My good good lady had a vicious bout of sickness last night that left her pale and in no shape to get on this train, so she's staying down south another night in the care of my Mum, while I'm dragged back north on schedule due to work commitments tomorrow (and the knowledge I'd probably be worse than useless milling around the Lass while she's resting, continually asking how she's doing). I feel awful about leaving her behind, but there's no doubt she'll feel better there than here right now, and she deserves the best rest possible, especially given the general awfulness of the last fortnight. Still, saying goodbye this afternoon sucked and this four hour-ish train journey is far less bearable without her smiling face nearby as a shining antidote to the mundane annoyances of my fellow passengers. Even the iBook, free wi-fi, a set of headphones and Timonium's near-divine Until He Finds Us can only go so far.

(York. Some idiots with speaker-enabled mobile-phone regaling the carriage with high-pitched nonsense. If only someone could devise an extremely precise, extremely localised EMP device, public transport wouldn't be the teeth-grinding frustration it so often is these days.)

So what's been going on lately? Work has devoured more time and energy than I'd have liked, but this seems to be par for the course these days and I don't much like it. It's getting harder to see where my future lies, or how to steer a path to where we want to be, or anywhere close. Previous thoughts of taking law forward at uni have given way over the last few weeks, with too many uncertainties over the next twelve months for such a commitment to be anything other than foolhardy, naive and downright stupid. Next year? Perhaps, but a lot can change in that time. I keep wondering just what I'm going to do for a wage for the next three and a half decades, and the answers so far seem to be either law, art or baking. It's hard to feel any confidence in any of them, but at least the scones taste good. Ooh, and I baked a loaf the other weekend! Very exciting it was too.

(Darlington. Run out of music on iBook. Tinny mobile speakers still across the aisle. Wailing wean behind me. Make the most of the wi-fi by going to iTunes and buying Adam & Joe's Song Wars Vol. 1. Taking too long to download, losing will to live or let live...)

Until last night, the few days we spent down in Northants were lovely. Seeing great rolling fields of different shades of green laid out under a wide sky can do wonders for a spirit numbed by streets of traffic-stained grey tenements and pavements spattered with rubbish and dog shit. Just like Orkney, being there was a treat for the lungs, savouring all that oxygen spewed out by all those green things. Unlike Orkney, I didn't get any artwork done at all, but I'm still finding it hard to sit down and actually focus on doing any drawing or painting this year - in the last month I've only done one picture, a watercolour of a garlic bulb that was perfectly acceptable and probably go up for sale soon enough. It was good to meet up with Ben Fitton, a chum from Art Foundation back in ye olden days, where we blethered about artwork, upcoming weddings, Edinburgh, Northampton, city vs country, cats vs dogs, the past and the future, which pretty much covered everything. A good fellow, talented in the ways of painting, brewing and hypnotherapy, you could do a lot worse than purchase one of his criminally-underpriced artworks.

(Newcastle. Still waiting for A&J to finish downloading. Still missing the missus. Still bored.)

For the first time ever I've bought some tickets for the Edinburgh Book Festival, eventually succeeding on Friday despite the best efforts of their online ticket store to frustrate and confuse. While there's always been events I've been interested in seeing (any appearance of Richard Dawkins, Tony Benn, BBC correspondents), I could never justify the ticket prices. However! This year there's four different events concerning illustration that tickled my fancy, so I can think of them as a potential investment in a future career in illustration (though given the number of excellent, experienced illustrators already out there, this is probably less likely than Nagl's Bagels going multinational). The priciest, but potentially most rewarding, is a masterclass with Mick Inkpen, the infuriatingly talented bloke behind Wibbly Pig and Kipper the Dog. Being limited to 20 places, this sold out pretty quick but muggins here got one in time, so I plan on making the most of it. Also on my list are author events with Dave McKean (I can't believe I haven't been headhunted for Varjak Paw yet - he must've lost my number...), John Howe (conceptual artist behind the Lord of the Rings film trilogy, proper old-skool fantasy at its finest) and the team behind the dazzling book Varmints: Part One which has subsequently been animated (clips will apparently be shown, which I'm really looking forward to seeing). All this'll take place around August and I plan (ah, good intentions...) to give each event a jolly good blogging, since I'm sure there's a couple of people out there who'd be interested. And if not, you can always pretend.

(Berwick. Look down at swans on the Tweed and notice the old castle walls for the first time (thanks Magnus!). Try to ignore high-pitched squealing from behind me and thank the stars for earphones and their plug-like abilities. Next stop Edinburgh. Look at photo of the Lass on her website and curse myself for ever getting on this train.)

A Celebrity Advertisement We Can Actually Believe In

Ai Ai Ai!, originally uploaded by Falling Sky.

Despite loving the Simpsons to bits (well, pre-season 11 anyways) their repeated use in selling over-processed, unhealthy junk food has always rankled (and rather blunted the satire of Krusty Burger in the process). Hooray, then, for this paper-pasted bit of adbusting subversion that I spotted in a bus-stop on Woodlands Road in Glasgow earlier this week, where Bumblebee Man gives his verdict on a McDonalds 'sophisticated' 'Mexican' wrap-type thing. So good, you could be forgiven for thinking it was actually part of the advert, right down to including his catchphrase over the golden arches. Smart, imaginative stuff - no doubt it'll have been scraped off by now, but here it shall live on forever! Hail Señor Bumblebee, truthteller of tortilla-based tat!

A Breather

Very light posting lately due solely to being a busy little bee, but as I'm on an unplanned day's leave to look after a poorly Burd now seems a good enough time to catch up a bit. Soooo, what to tell?

Lungs! They seem to have calmed down nicely after last month's nastiness, helped no doubt by the twice-daily use of a steroid inhaler. Whether this'll be an ongoing thing or not isn't clear, I'm hoping that it'll be back to normal, so it's back to the doctor's in a month to review how things are going. Daily doses of traffic fumes on the way to work aren't helping, but the clean air further out where we live, especially in the park and along the canal, helps balance things out. Still, it's one more reason to move away from cities over the next few years. Whether finances, employment, property prices and mortgage rates will ever allow us to is another matter.

Tom Waits for no man... well, no man who doesn't have £80-100 to spare. Last week I was in what will surely be a once-in-a-lifetime position - to have tickets to see the mighty Tom Waits playing in the city I live in going on sale, the only show he'll be doing in the UK this year. He's pretty much the only one of my favourite living musicians who I still haven't seen in concert yet and the initial news made my eyes bulge and heart leap with startled joy. This quickly changed to immense guttedness and much soul/wallet-searching after I saw the ticket prices - £75 and £95 (plus a chunky booking fee, no doubt). Readers with elephantine memories will remember this post from 2006 when I questioned whether £35 was too much to pay for a ticket to see Nick Cave live (in retrospect, the conclusion I came to was staggeringly wrong). In the end, I couldn't justify paying £75+ for one concert, no matter how rare, no matter how special, no matter how incredibly good it might be (and for that price, you'd expect the Second ruddy Coming). It's not just a question of whether I have the money to pay for it - with a wedding in the next 12 months, what do you think? - but whether I could feel comfortable spending that much on what ultimately amounts to three hours entertainment, and I don't think I could. Hell, the total cost of seeing Portishead, Radiohead and Melt Banana in concert this year would come to less than that one ticket. And by comparison, a ticket to see him on the same tour in America costs $85 - less than £45. That, I would pay. Inevitably, it sold out and, equally inevitably, tickets are now turning up on Ebay for stupid fucking prices despite the anti-tout overkill measures that would make it impossible to sell the ticket on if you happened to be horribly ill come the day of the gig (it happens). But it's gutting to know that he'll be in town, this town, and I won't be there simply because of prices that really can't be justified. Damn damn damn damn damn.

Still, happy thoughts. The wedding! Content is now starting to appear on our dedicated ding-dong-the-bells-aren't-going-to-chime website, 230509.co.uk, useful for anyone who reckons they'll be invited or just wants to see what planning shenanigans we're up to. There's only a couple of posts so far, but expect more over the next few months, with password-protected pages giving detailed information for guests once invites have been sent out (anything to avoid the paparazzi). There's even an RSS feed to subscribe to, or you can just stare at the countdown as it cheerfully ticks away the seconds - 30675231 to go!

Saw Bob Mould in concert a couple of weeks back with the Brothers Grim of illustration, Rob and Gordon. It was a good gig, quite intimate in the snazzy setting of ABC2, thankfully finishing with plenty of time for me to scamper back to Queen St and get the train back to Edinburgh. Unlike last time, he had a full band behind him, the sound big and heavy, enough to leave my poor lugholes ringing for about 24 hours after. The Sugar and Husker Dü numbers were blistering, taking me back to seeing Sugar at Brixton Academy in the early 1990's (oh, I was so young!), and although the set sagged in the middle, it picked up speed nicely and the final third was pounding. Setlist here, and there's a couple of photos of the big man here.

Having come to the conclusion that I need more potential forms of employment than just artwork (no sales since last November) and The Law if I'm to hope to leave the city behind and live far away (and still pay a mortgage), coupled with that oh-so-distinctive surname, I am semi-seriously thinking about the potential of Nagl's Bagels (incorporating Jon's Scones). Not that I've ever fancied being a baker before, but with that surname what else can I do? Nagl's Ladles? So, with the thought of opening a bakery/gallery/record shop in some distant countryside village in the far flung future, I've started dipping my big toe into the world of baking, committing myself to one new baked goodie every week. Last week, using a recipe from Jock & Muriel at Thisselcockrig Farm, I made some raisin flapjacks, slightly crunchier than planned but with a surprisingly effective salty undertaste that counterbalanced the sweetness very nicely. Yesterday, thanks to the National Trust Traditional Recipes book, I had a go at Erddig Apple Scones (so called because, says here, this recipe comes from Erdigg, a National Trust house and estate in North Wales). They turned out well, using Gala apples grated and chopped, improvising a tad by adding a touch of cinnamon. A really pleasant taste, and the smell of baking wafted warmly through the flat like a cosy blanket.So far I haven't thought to take photos of the process or the results, but starting next week I will - it'll be good to keep a record of what works and what fails spectacularly. I'm not giving up on the art or the law, but there's no harm in adding another daydream to the collection. And who on Earth could resist the allure of a little bakery called Nagl's Bagels? Try saying it out loud, it's incredibly satisfying.

Oh, have you seen the GraphJam website? Finally a worthwhile use for the Charts function in Microsoft Office. They can be a bit hit-and-miss, but when they're good, they're good. Meanwhile, highlights from I Can Has Cheezburger, one two three and a glorious four.

Get Out Of The City

Putting a spring in your step (BBC News)

You could pay a fortune for gym membership, or you could trudge down to your local swimming pool and spend the rest of the day smelling faintly of chlorine.

But the best exercise of all might be the easiest and the cheapest: a stroll in the park, or a country ramble.

The secret ingredient? Greenery. Those of us who live in towns and cities, and even some who live in the countryside, don't get enough of it.

The result for most of us is highly stressful; we get irritable and depressed, and even physically ill (because high levels of stress mean higher risk of things like heart disease and diabetes).

Yet put us in contact with trees and grass and levels of stress fall away.

If I Were A Trawlerman...

Back from Orkney. Nyerhe!

Actually we got back late on Saturday, but after more than a week away from the internet (which has to be some kind of record for an obsessive geek like me) I've not been in much of a rush to get back to gazing at computer screens. It was an absolutely wonderful just-over-a-week away from the health and work hassles that have snowballed over the last few months and did the Burd and I a world, nay, a veritable solar-system of good. Being the efficient one of this couple, she's already got a good wodge of photos up on her Flickr page, whereas I've only plonked up some pastel drawings I did thus far. I'm quite proud of the one above and further below, but wish I'd produced a hell of a lot more while there.

My lungs were blown clean with mighty gusts of fresh sea air as we sailed across to Stromness, as perfect a prescription for recovering from that nasty business as any steroid out there. It was astonishingly invigorating to hang my head over the side of the ferry as it charged through a misty sea, cold air of the freshest kind hurtling down my throat into those mucky old air sacs, slapping them into action and blowing free all those cobwebs of goo. The air on Orkney was just as pleasing, practically free of traffic fumes, a refreshing tang of seaweed and surf tangible in the deepest breaths. By comparison, walking down Dalry Road feels like a trudge through a giant tunnel of exhaust fumes, airborne filth and shit-strewn pavements.

I wasn't half as productive artistically as last time (that sketchbook remains one of the best things I've ever done), but I had a whole lot more relaxing to do. It took days to shake off thoughts from work, to truly calm down, and the whole holiday felt more like a recovery of sorts, though without the drama that might imply. Even drawing brought a pressure of sorts, my silly brain building up the importance of whatever artwork I produced to being at least equal to the output from last time. Inevitably, when I finally did start a sketch (the exterior of Kirkwall cathedral) it turned out dreadfully, so much so that I'm not going to waste your time or valuable internet space with a scan of it. Awful, quite quite awful. It was only when I'd chilled-the-feck-out a few days later that I could sit back on the waterfront and draw the pastel pieces shown above, plus this and a non-Burd bird.

The primary aim of the holiday - to procure a particular sparkly ring for the missus-to-be's dainty finger - was temporarily scuppered as they didn't have it in a size that fitted her peedie digits. Not to worry though, it'll be sent out and should reach us sometime in the next month or two. Naturally, you'll be the first to see it, but having seen her try it on at the OIa Gorie store in Kirkwall I know it'll look sodding marvelous on her. As will the wedding ring when the time comes (one year on Friday, mark yer calendars...) since we both tried our respective wedding bands from the same jeweller. I couldn't quite compute the sight of a wedding ring on my scrawny, alien-facehugger-leg-like fingers, but the runes on it gave it a One Ring look, so that pleased me (and will no doubt lead to me lurching around the wedding reception cackling about my preshhussss and pretending to be invisible).

Much quality eating was had - there's few steaks to compare with a good juicy Orcadian cow - and wares from the island's two breweries were quaffed by yours truly in a noble attempt to boost the local economy. For a week life was so much simpler, quieter, gentler and downright better, and I'll now happily add Orkney to Jonny Nagl's Laminated List of Potential Places to Settle Down Proper In The Next Decade (currently Isle of Skye in big bold letters and Norway or Sweden if I could get the hang of the lingo). The self-catering made it less like a holiday per se and more like a different reality, albeit one where we weren't doing anything to earn a living, not particularly sustainable I'll grant you. I felt very aware of how useless the skills and experience I've amassed in my thirty-one years of existence would be for living on such an island, as with Skye, and daydreamed wistfully about changing my name to Olaf and going out on trawlers. Of course, the reality of this would almost certainly be beyond ghastly, but doesn't Olaf Nagl sound good? Almost as good as Nagl's Bagels, but that's for another post...

Anyway, it gave the Lass and I plenty to think/ponder/daydream about and, more importantly, chilled us down good and proper. Sadly, it made coming back to Edinburgh really rather depressing and if it wasn't for The Green being such a lovely area (oh, the pink blossom!) I'd have gone into a massive hump. Now we're back into the usual routine, wistfully looking back to memories of last week while trudging through the daily grind, but still the better for it. I'll holler once the snaps are all up on Flickr as they'll contain oodles of fascinating details about what to do up there, then start figuring out what the deuce to write about between now and sauntering off to Skye in September. There must be something...

Due North

We're off for a well-earned, well-needed, long-overdue break in lovely lovely Orkney, last visited in September 2006. There's little planned beyond lots of reading, drawing, not-doing-very-muching and getting some very particular jewellery. It couldn't have come at a better time - steroids and antibiotics are one thing, but there's no beating fresh clean sea air miles away from any cities - and the weather's looking very favourable for our northbound ferry. Anyway, time to get packed - have a nice week, take care, and consider visiting those islands yourself sometime for a potent dose of peace and serenity. It could be just what the doctor ordered.

Breathless

Well, that'll teach to make assumptions about what's going on inside my body. At the weekend I was pretty positive that my only trouble was a nasty bout of acute bronchitis, but as Sunday progressed I grew more and more concerned about the fact that I was having trouble breathing. Coughing up potentially sentient masses of goo is one thing, but when you become aware that your lung capacity has dropped something chronic and that's why you can't speak, well, it's a bit more worrying. Something had to be done - and though I didn't know it at the time, the result of not doing anything would've been pretty bally bad.

I decided to go to the doctors on Monday - if I hadn't, the missus-to-be would've probably had me restrained and taken by force, and with good reason - though was somewhat scuppered by the fact it was a public holiday. Whoops. Thankfully, I'd regained enough of my voice back after the weekend to be able to call NHS24 (for yon people south of the border, that's the Scottish equivalent of NHS Direct). Despite understandably being extra busy with people calling them in place of going to the doc's on a bank holiday, my call was still answered promptly and I was passed on to a nurse with the briefest of holds. The service, if that's the right word, was excellent - they were very helpful, and reassuringly patient during the times when I lost my breath and needed to start a sentence again. Having gone through all my symptoms the nurse figured it was worth me being checked out as soon as possible, preferably in the next few hours. Just like that, she gets an appointment set up at Western General just two hours later, time enough for me to comfortably get a bus over there without rushing (not something you want to be doing with lacklustre lungs) - what a system!

So, two hours later, there I am. I'd never been to the Western General before, off to the north-west of Edinburgh. There's all sorts of things going on there - the bus went past the Molecular Medicine Centre and another for Human Genetics, while there was signpost for the Linear Accelerator (Cyclotron) which sounds more like something from CERN. Going by the website there's some lovely old buildings there with a history behind them, but the Minor Injuries Unit was in a typically huge bland building that could've been any hospital in the land. I'd arrived about 15 mins early but figured I'd report to reception anyway and then curl up on a chair and get through a good wodge of Lanark before I got seen to. Nope! I'd barely sat down in the waiting area before I was led to an examination room by Dr. Sexy (well, she was rather, and that damn song played in a loop in my head all through the consultation, thanks a bunch Joe). After the expected stethoscoping and back tapping, I was told that while there had been a chest infection, the real problem was asthma.

Now - back in the halcyon days of 2001, during one of my many failed attempts to get fit, I'd grown concerned that I was getting out of breath notably quickly when going out for runs, and while I'd previously put this down to being a fat bastard I eventually toddled over to the doctors to check. As a result I was diagnosed with a not very serious form of exercise-induced asthma. It'd never reached anything remotely like an attack stage, just a bit of post-jogging wheeziness, but just to be sure I was given a preventative inhaler for use just before a good bout of exercise. I've used it ever since pre-gym/jog/pool and there's not been the slightest problem.

Fast-forward to 2008, and I'm told that what was happening over the weekend was basically the build-up to a serious asthma attack. I was asked if I'd used the inhaler at all, but I'd honestly not considered that once as I'd never thought asthma could be the culprit. Duh. As it was, if I hadn't had the consultation on Monday and the treatment that followed, I'd probably have had a full-blown attack either Monday evening or today. My speechlessness over the weekend was a symptom of severe asthma, and it turns out such things can be life-threatening left untreated, which rather startled me. Up until then, asthma was just an annoying thing that might affect my breathing if I went for a run without using the inhaler beforehand, but it was never a big deal and after that initial diagnosis in 2001 I've barely given it a thought. So what the hell?

Well, my sniffles last week and those thick green gobs at the weekend certainly were indicators of a chest infection, and as these adult-onset triggers suggest, it was this infection that most likely brought the asthma on. It's also possible that a certain amount of work-based stress might have had a hand in this as well, which is something I'll need to think about and discuss with my team leader's over the next fortnight. I've been running myself pretty ragged lately and been loathe to show any sign of not being able to cope with workload or particular responsibilities - when you're on temporary promotion, you don't want to display any weakness that could damage that ever becoming permanent, y'know? - but looking back I can see a couple of points where I got too flustered and it manifested itself physically as well as mentally. That's not good, and it seems likeliest that while the infection or stress on their own wouldn't have had this effect, the two together were enough to clobber my immune system, fuck about with my lungs and trigger the onset of severe asthma, described by Dr.Sexy as bronchial spasm. Nasty.

The solution? Two different prescriptions to get things walloped this week; firstly, these cheery little red fellows to the right. Each one is 5mg of Prednisolone, a steroid that essentially does the same job as that taken in by inhaler, but in pill form it's a more direct approach. The prescription is a hefty one - 40mg daily for five days - described as a 'steroid burst' which is to bring the asthma under control and relax those tightened lungs. Secondly, 500mg of Amoxicillin every 8 hours, an antibiotic (if you couldn't already tell by the name) to give that bastard bacterial infection that brought all this on a jolly good seeing to. I've been on both since yesterday afternoon and already sensed some unsettling mood swings as I'd been warned might happen - this morning I felt an incredible sense of unfocused frustration and annoyance, which isn't like me at all (goodness knows there's enough things out there to make one annoyed, but it wasn't that this time).

I suspect a certain amount of that comes from being a bit shaken by it all. Chest infections are one thing, but having severe asthma symptoms come out of nowhere and what it could have led to really has given me the willies. On one hand I feel foolish for doing so - as today's World Asthma Day (huh, that was well timed!) points out, there's 5.2 million people in the UK with asthma and maybe I'm just getting all flustered over something that's not a big deal. But on the other, surely it is a big deal, to be left speechless and breathless without knowing exactly why, and then finding out what could have happened if treatment hadn't been taken? And, hell, if it wasn't a big deal, I wouldn't have all these cheerfully coloured pills going down my gullet all week and making me moody (well, moodier). I guess I'm writing this bit more for my benefit, to reassure myself that I'm not getting all overblown and manfluey about a spot of breathlessness.

I've not been at work yet this week; while my lungs are like this I need as much good air as possible, rather than the stale dust-laden air that hangs around the office, far from any windows, and the steroids apparently lower your defences to any new germs so I'm not working anywhere near anyone with a cough unless there's any oxygen suits handy. On the orders of Dr. Sexy I'm to go to my local GP tomorrow, though getting an appointment there is reminiscent of phoning up for super-rare gig tickets, phoning up at 8am and hoping I get through before all the day's slots are gone. From that it should hopefully become clear if the medication is working - for the lungs at least, I'd say they are getting better, capacity is slowly but surely improving - and what this means for the future. Do I need regular medication from hereon? What do I need to watch out for? At this point, I haven't got a clue, but then I'd foolishly assumed was something you picked up as a child (I remember a few people at school with inhalers) and wasn't likely to suddenly appear in your thirties. Things you learn...

Anyway, on a happy note, I'm immensely indebted to the Lass who's looked after me and gave me the encouragement to get things checked out on Monday, and for putting up with my moody surliness this morning. Also, I was genuinely impressed by how the mighty NHS performed, the kind of thing that makes you thank the stars you're living in Britain, or any other country with nationalised health care (America, join us!). From the NHS24 phonecall to the consultation at Western General, I barely had to wait a minute and was always treated with care, attention and respect - a private hospital couldn't have been any better. You only seem to hear negative stories about the NHS from the media, so much so that it's almost a surprise to actually call on the NHS and find out that - shock! - it's not all MRSA, day-long waiting times, filth-strewn wards and sullen, exhausted staff. Sometimes it all works perfectly. Now to make my lungs do the same.