Fog lifting?

I felt stressed for most of the weekend. It seemed impossible to switch off from everything going on in my head, which meant that everything I did, or tried to do, was shrouded in dense fog. I was busy all weekend - at least it felt that way - but I never felt like I did anything of significance. I went for a longish walk, went to the market, did my chores around the house, played around with a few phone apps (which I need to do as part of my "other job") and spent a fair while on the phone, but didn't talk face-to-face with anyone unless the market stallholders count. That's not an unusual weekend for me; when I return to work on a Monday and someone asks me what I did at the weekend I often end up saying "nothing special" or words to that effect.

At lunchtime today I saw my support worker (have I mentioned her?). Her main job is to help people look for and keep jobs, but when I see her I often drift into territory that lies outside work. Today it felt we were getting somewhere, and I think my fog cleared a little as a result.

I had to phone a few customers at work today. Considering how hard I find certain people-related situations it's funny how I don't mind calling customers, and sometimes even like it, except when they ask me something I don't know the answer to and I feel silly. Today I found myself in an interesting situation when a name I knew flashed up on my screen. I checked his notes and one of my colleagues had written "I spoke to him, he said he's autistic...". Yep, definitely the guy from the group. He'd applied for an automatic acceptance policy (no underwriting) and it's easy to see why: he's very overweight and with his past history of addictions he'd struggle to get cover otherwise. He'd be about five foot five in every direction and his trademark braces make him a very recognisable figure. Some of his comments on Monday nights make me wince ("when I feel down I fire up YouTube and listen to one of Hitler's speeches"). Eww. His view of the world lacks any shades of grey, and he can get worked up over issues to the point of being scary, but he's also highly intelligent and can be very friendly too. Anyway I was really supposed to ring him but I just couldn't. How could I pretend I didn't know him? What if someone listens to my call (which is recorded)? I saw his birthday was imminent so I sent him a text wishing him a happy birthday and, er, by the way, if you provide your payment details I'll put your policy in place. I found it interesting that he told my colleague he was autistic - he seems to identify strongly with the "brand".

Julie sounds like she's in a pretty bad way and I don't think I can do much to help. Our 45-minute phone conversation on Saturday (which was really her conversation) could have been summed up in seconds: "I'm in a lot of pain, I feel hopeless, and I don't want to live any more."

So Nadal did make it eight French Open titles and twelve grand slams in total. Quite remarkable really. Some of the results in the latter stages of the tournament (Tsonga beat Federer 3-0; Ferrer beat Tsonga 3-0; Nadal beat Ferrer 3-0) show the importance of match-ups in tennis.

Collecting

I stood in the cold on Lambton Quay for an hour and a half on Wednesday evening, trying to raise money for Autism NZ. There was plenty of foot traffic but the weather didn't help; people just wanted to get home. It was also hard to get noticed, unlike last year when we put up a stand at the entrance to New World. To my surprise two blokes each gave $20. I was the next biggest donor (a $10 note and a bunch of small change) but of the thousands of others who walked past me, only ten or so donated. If everyone had given just a dollar, what a difference it would have made. It can't help that so many people live cashless lives. I stood next to a bus stop for some of the time; bugger those Snapper cards.

I can't remember anything of Thursday except that after work I walked past a café that I hadn't really noticed before on the corner of Dixon Street and Courtenay Place. It has lots of old shabby furniture. I heard the latter half of what seemed like an amazing song blaring out of the speaker. The only lyrics I caught were "Jump On My Shoulders" which happens to be the title of the song. I Googled those lyrics after going to the gym. When I listened to the song (by a band called Awolnation) on YouTube it no longer seemed amazing, just reasonably good. I must download the Shazam app (which can identify songs as they're played) when I ... um ... get back to using my smart phone instead of my dumb one.

Last night I saw the Great Gatsby at the Embassy with the work social club. It's good for me when the social club organises a movie because I can participate without having to be very social. I read the book in 2009 and I can see why it's viewed as the great American novel. I didn't realise that F. Scott Fitzgerald was so damn young when he wrote it. The movie wasn't bad either but I preferred the book and I felt the movie was half an hour too long (one of my colleagues said two hours too long). They could have cut back a bit on Gatsby's use of "old sport". Visually it was quite spectacular though. After the film a few people, including my boss, wanted to extend their night out but it was an easy decision for me to go home.

I listened to bits (when I wasn't asleep) of last night's gripping semi-final between Nadal and Djokovic. The other three grand slams have produced all manner of great men's matches in recent times but this time it was Roland Garros's turn to come up with a real classic. It wasn't just the quality of play and closeness of the match, but the significance of the outcome. Luckily I woke up in time for the fifth set. During the most dramatic game of that set, which saw Djokovic broken for 4-4, the commentators did justice to the historical significance of it all. The crucial moment was perhaps when Djokovic touched the net to hand Nadal a break point in that vital eighth game, but it's easy to single out individual moments. Had Nadal served out the match at 6-5 in the fourth set, all those "crucial turning points" in the fifth would never have happened. With a staggering record at Roland-Garros (58 wins and only one loss), Nadal must be a fairly heavy favourite to win a record eighth title.

Could I live with other people again?

Martin came over yesterday. He'd just been working as an extra for the second Hobbit film - they needed tall people. He thinks he might be called upon to play an orc in the third film. We played squash, or tried to, and the rest of the time just talked. I'm a bit embarrassed of my flat when people come over - I have way too much space for one person, and you can't help but give away a lot of information about yourself when people see how you live. I'm toying with the idea of taking on Martin as a flatmate (he's not all that happy with his current arrangements). The money would be handy. But I haven't lived with other people for six years, and the idea of living with someone I sort of know is scary. I think I'd almost rather take my chances on someone I don't know from Adam.

Last night we had the autism group. It was a really good session, the best in a long time. Some of the quieter people are gaining in self-confidence and contributing more, which is excellent. After work tomorrow I'll be collecting for their annual appeal (due to some calendar stuff-up, this year's collection is in midweek, which is a shame).

I listened to an interesting programme on the radio yesterday. David Stuckler, author of The Body Economic was interviewed. According to him (and contrary to what you hear from politicians and in the media), recessions are health-neutral. In other words economic downturn doesn't make people sick, but how governments react to the situation just might do. In particular, he says, austerity (a word we've heard so much of in the last two years) is a killer.

Tommy Haas marches on at the French Open. He hardly broke sweat last night as he beat Mikhail Youzhny to reach the last eight.

I think we can safely say it's officially winter now. The weather took a violent turn early this afternoon as heavy rain combined with gale-force winds. The colder, wetter weather obviously means people wear a lot more clothes, and that makes life more interesting when you're wandering through (or sitting in) town. On my better days I almost go as far as caring about what I wear, and I should probably write about that some time.

I saw Julie tonight at her flat in Berhampore. Unlike some residents of the suburb (including those in one of the rest homes she stayed at) she wasn't evacuated in the early hours of the morning due to a landslide. Just as well; that might have been the last straw for her.

Living with Grandma

I get on well with my gran but it's hard work at times. She's been largely immobile for some years, but lately she's lost much of her mental sharpness too. She gets confused very easily and her short-term memory is almost non-existent. Sometimes I feel I'm living in some kind of Alice in Wonderland world. My gran has lost all sense of time, so effectively while I'm living here there's no clock and no calendar. She'll make herself breakfast at 3:30 am, then pour me a cup of apple-flavoured instant tea at 5:30 (which I tip down the sink when she's not looking), then she'll sleep most of the day.

Friday was her 88th birthday. I gave her regular reminders of this as the date approached. She would recite her date of birth - "twenty-eight five twenty-two" - but without knowing what it meant; it might as well have been a car number plate. And then the big day came. We - myself and the absent members of her family - made a fairly big deal of it. I'm glad we did. In all she got two birthday cakes, three bouquets of flowers, two punnets of strawberries and numerous cards. And the phone hardly stopped ringing. I even took her to the village pub for lunch (it was good to see her eating well). But later that afternoon she wanted to know what day her birthday was!

What makes it hard for me (and anyone else) is that she's unwilling to accept help from others. She still thinks she can be in control of everything. Every morning a carer briefly visits her for a quick check, but whoever this person is (unfortunately it changes) my gran doesn't trust them.

I should point out that her emotional responses to other people are just the same as they've always been. There's no point trying to pull the wool over her eyes; she can read you like a book. And occasionally all the circuitry in her brain magically aligns and everything, for a few minutes, returns to normal.

Conversation often makes little sense. For instance I'll hand her a bowl of strawberries. "I think I'd better leave these to stand for a while." Stand? So they can brew? Ferment? Dance?

On Saturday disaster struck as she developed a severe pain in her lower back and she could hardly move at all. Suddenly simple things like getting into bed or using the loo became a major operation. On Sunday I called the doctor who came round and prescribed some painkillers.

Not that he should have bothered. There are painkillers, and just about every other kind of prescription drug under the sun, all over the house. She has a cupboard jam-packed with diazepam, clonazepam and nitrazepam, although I couldn't find the one we get in New Zealand called sweetazepam.
Most of the dates on the boxes are from last century but if I dared throw any of them away I'd be in big trouble. My gran is a rampant hoarder (I'll get on to her ancient tins of food in another post).

If you're wondering what diazepam (a.k.a. Valium) is doing in her cupboard, she's suffered from anxiety, panic attacks and depression for sixty years. Her thirties sound like they were a living hell. Things haven't been anywhere near as bad recently but she still gets the odd "attack" such as today when the realisation that the cleaning lady will be arriving tomorrow sent her over the edge.

I love my gran a lot, she was very good to me as a boy, and I'm happy to help her (so long as she'll accept my help!). Funnily enough after cutting her toenails today (she's unable to do them herself) she thinks I should pursue a career as a podiatrist!

Last night I watched Andy Murray's disappointing loss to Tomas Berdych in the French Open (normally I'm watching on a TV with no clever red button, and it's at night anyway, so I don't get that luxury). Murray's body language wasn't good - it was as if he couldn't wait to get off the court (and I know what that feels like). This year's Roland-Garros was the seventh time I'd been to a Grand Slam (I went to Wimbledon in '98, '99, '01 and '02, and the Aussie Open in '05 and '08). It's been a real shame to see so many empty seats in Paris this year. Apparently the tickets have been sold but people don't turn up. Something similar happens at Wimbledon with all the corporate fat-cat tickets, but not to such a ridiculous extent.

Today was a bank holiday so St Ives had a special super-sized market. This time we even had people giving demonstrations of their products. I had a look around, but as always, restricted my purchases to food.

Euronating IV

I left Venice on Sunday evening and boarded the night train to Paris. This was quite an experience. First I got in the wrong cabin. The number 85 referred not to the cabin but to the carriage; this made no sense to me - how can there possibly be 85 carriages? These were six-man cabins (with bunks on three levels) and I soon found myself sharing a cabin with four Argentinians. Patagonians in fact, and you could say they were in fairly high spirits. ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! They also had ridiculous amounts of luggage. I tried to communicate with them using what little Spanish I could remember, but I felt shy and boring in comparison to them. We talked briefly about the upcoming World Cup. They said they had a soft spot for England and that some sort of bond (!) between the two countries had been created following la Mano de Dios in 1986. I grabbed one of the top bunks (¡arriba!) and slept reasonably well, despite the appearance during the night of the sixth member of the cabin, whom there simply wasn't room for amongst all those suitcases.
In Paris I stayed at another overpriced hotel (I was getting fed up of this) and attempted to get myself a ticket to Roland-Garros. Unfortunately it was a public holiday (I didn't know this until I got there) and all the daytime tickets had gone. However as people leave the stadium their tickets can be resold to people who arrive later, so I tried to get one of those evening tickets. I queued for over three hours. It was chaos, and arguments broke out involving people accused of queue-jumping. I'd almost reached the front of the queue when an intimidating line of gendarmes suddenly appeared, blocking off the entrance. Bugger. But then I saw some people run round the police towards the other entrance which they had neglected to block. I did the same. At 7pm, and with a stroke of luck, I was in. I saw the tail end of Murray's five-set win over Gasquet. Murray was playing so well that it was hard to imagine he'd earlier been facing elimination, down two sets and a break. I caught the last few games of Alicia Molik's brave fight against Jankovic before moving to Court 14 to see another fifth set involving Mardy Fish and Michael Berrer. It got very dark out there, Wimbledon 2008 final kind of dark, and I was amazed the players completed the match (Fish the eventual winner at around 9:40). All in all I'd had a good day. I'd spoken to more people on that day than during the rest of my trip combined, and I surprised myself with the level of French I was still able to speak.


Yesterday morning I got the Eurostar to London. At King's Cross I waited for the platform number to show on the departure board, but it just showed a zero which I assumed meant they didn't yet know what platform my train would leave from. But then I twigged: in true Hogwarts Express style, King's Cross now has a Platform 0!

I had a good and varied trip, but not without a couple of misgivings. Firstly I couldn't believe how much I was spending on sleeping, eating and drinking, all basic human needs. Secondly I found the whole business of travelling rather stressful. Well, not the travelling so much as the arsing around with hotels. I stayed in seven different hotels. Maybe I could have relieved some of that stress by booking my accommodation in advance, but I've always tried to avoid planning if I can help it. Finally I needed more company. Hopefully next time I go anywhere I might have some.