This being the first Wednesday in February, most junior doctors change jobs, so we have four new SHOs. I know, I know, I was one once, etc.. How true. They’re all so very young. It troubles me. One could so easily be labelled a cougar for harassing the young men. OK, yes, I know, I wish. We heard we were getting four chaps, so I was a little surprised to find one wearing a dress. But it was all right, she was a girl. I said, “Oh, you’re not a man!” and she said that I was the third person to tell her that. I think she was having a trying morning.

Not as bad as another young person, of Batman’s acquaintance. Bats tells me that this young person developed Tourette’s this morning, when he found out he was going to get a vaccination. I believe it was rather fluent.

I have just written an angry email to a shop in town, because I went in 15 minutes before closing time, said hello to the doll and she looked at me, then blanked me in favour of some callow lad she was chatting up. That’s not so abnormal, but then she turned the lights out on me when I walked to the back of the shop to look at something. Cheeky tart. Boy, is she going to be sorry in the morning. I am much more eloquently furious when I’m sleepy.

* It was 2am when I got to bed.

…and secretly blogging at work. how naughty

Another night creeps along, interesting things are afoot.

It’s oh so nice to feel like me again.

I must be spending too much time at work. Mental Arithmetic turned into Arithemetic. I don’t know what Arithemetic is, but an emetic is something that will make you barf like there’s no tomorrow. In fact, it will make you wish that there’s no tomorrow. It used to be standard treatment after ingestion of nasty things, until it was appreciated that yakking it all back up caused double the damage, not to mention the risk of inhaling yer own boke. Yuk.

Anyway, we use lots and lots of local anaesthetic, even in people who are asleep. Saves waking up with the feeling that one’s leg is hanging off (even if it is). There are, broadly, two kinds: plain stuff, and stuff with Adrenaline in it. The Adrenaline stuff is magic (I don’t mean real magic, like Santa, I mean pretend chemistry magic) because it causes all the ickle blood vessels to constrict, therefore reduces bleeding. Except that Pharmacy have run out of it. So instead of bottles with 1:10 000 strength adrenaline already in them, we’re giving up on counting in our heads and resorting to writing on the drapes with a surgical marker to work out how much of 1:1000 is required in 20mls of plain to get the right concentration. Whilst a decimal point astray is unlikely to have Shipmanesque results, it’d be bound to lead to lots of shouting. Add to that the lack of a stool for the short SHO (she stood on a wobbly drill box instead), and the fact that instrument set 1 had no scissors, set 2 had blunt scissors and the first decent pair was found on set 3, and then tell me what is wrong with the hospital? Bad, bad, bad management. Buy cheap, buy twice. My hairdresser’s scissors cost over a hundred pounds a pop; ours are under fifteen. I know we need so many more pairs, but it’s ’cause half of them are shite. Oh, but I could go on and on. At least the electricity is still working. For now.

Isn’t it fun when you mix up the space esbetwe enwords? No? OK. Start again:

Pot Roast

I made it. Batman lurved it. I was grumpy today. Some women apologise; me, I make food in lieu. (D, if you’re reading, Yes, I am now showing affection with food.) I also made him apple crumble (for I was very grumpy, and it is his favourite Afters). We had a pointless grouch because he was wearing his best jumper whilst dusting down a cobweb. I know what you are thinking. It is either:

1. Is she crazy? He voluntarily does housework, and she grouches ’cause of his jumper?

or 2. Cobwebs? What a slatternly housewife.

In answer:

1. Yes, I know. That is why he got Pot Roast and crumble.

2. Yeah. So what. Bite me. It was only a cobweb, not a jar of anthrax.

I bought the pot roast yesterday, in a proper Butcher’s Shop. It’s quite scary. It’s kind of a rite of passage to becoming a grown-up woman, having dealings with the Butcher. The place was packed, and it was all businesslike-city-butchers, not the wayhey-missus-look-at-thighs-on-that-(chicken) small-town butchers, that I’ve visited with Mum. I’ve only ever been to the butcher a couple of times by myself, and usually with a direct instruction about what to get. The woman in front of me was buying noisettes of lamb, and 800 grammes, no make it 900 grammes, of something else. Me, I was figuring if the pink thing was pork (which Bats will eat) or lamb (which he won’t). Grammes don’t mean anything to me, not outside the lab anyway. In a past life, I spent a lot of time weighing out six thousandths of a gramme of this and eleven thousandths of the other, using a very fiddly microbalance. It was fun. But 800 grammes of dead cow? I have no concept of that. I cook in ounces and pounds (although I measure in cm and m, except for height).

So I was feeling intimidated, and a bit sweaty, and trying to figure how much steak to buy and could I ask for a certain amount or did I just have to take a pre-cut piece, when, all at once, I saw the pot roast. Aha! Ah ha ha ha! It said “POT ROAST” on the sign. Then I was home on a boat.

“Next!” said the Butcher. (I know this bit now, I have to pretend to know how much I need.)

“How much is in that pot roast, please?”

“Nearly 2 3/4 pounds.” (Hurrah for Imperial Measurements! Although should I be annoyed that he pegged me for an ounces woman when the grammes lady was clearly much older than me? Well, I thought she was, but…)

“That’ll do lovely, thanks!”

You do know that it wouldn’t have mattered a hoot how much or little it weighed. A few short moments later, it was mine, and I was skipping from the Butcher’s, like a child on the last day of school. I seared it in butter and oil, and cooked it with onions, carrots, celery and stock. It melted in the mouth. I feel one step closer to being a grown-up. And he did deserve it after me being grumpy this afternoon.

(PS: We are going to be eating pot roast for a month. It is far too big. But I survived the Butcher’s.)

10.05pm on Saturday, so what might I be doing? Making out the damned rota for February. What else would you do on a fine Saturday night? The full moon is making me cranky and inappropriate. I banged the table at Batman tonight, but not at him exactly. I was pretending that I was answering someone who really really really bugs the shit out of me. Bats laughed and said he wished I’d say it to them, not him.

What is it about celery? Look at it sideways, and my hands reek of it for days. I made pot roast tonight, and my hands are stinking. The pot roast is pot roasting nicely. However, tonight’s dinner of lasagne was not so successful. Tip: do not replace lasagne with penne if you run out of lasagne halfway through compounding the dish. It just makes teeth-crackingly crunchy bits. I am still not a Domestic Goddess.

I bought a frock today. It is black, with patterned sleeves, and spangles around the bottom.  I am not sure how good an idea this will be, but Batman and I are going to Gotham next weekend and I need to look like I have bought some clothes this century, apart from scrubs (not bought, of course) and cords (rediscovered in back of wardrobe). Batman will be donning academic dress, to sit on the platform and look clever. I will be clapping enthusiastically, in a spangly kind of way.

I have got a big thing for black patent this winter. I have mad sore high black patent shoes (from Clarks) and divinedarling flat black mock-croc boots from Dune. The boots have been glued to my feet for weeks. Comfort and style. Excellent.

Back to the rota. Gosh, but it’s boring. My right leg is asleep from the knee down (and my brain from the chin up).

Hours and hours of operating today, but I got to do rather a razzy operation (under supervision of Da Boss, but he kept mostly out of it), which was facking awesome. There’s no other expression for the buzz from some good operating. Today, I do not hate my job.

Now I am dog-tired, working on the rota, and thinking of bed. In other jolly news, I have an announcement. No, not that. Wise up. It it this: for the first time since July, I weigh less than 11 stone. Hoo Ray. Married life = massive waist/butt expansion. Upcoming sister’s wedding = sensible eating plan. It works, slowly and boringly, but it works.

Wordpress and/or iPhone ate my post. It was such a good one, too. Dangnamit.

I have been up since 03.47 am. I am getting too old for this. I used to bounce up and down, without a second thought. Now I am audibly creaking just ’cause I had to get up in the middle of the night. Worst bit was arriving home just as my alarm clock went off. There’s no point in trying a ten-minute-snooze, it ends in oversleeping. All you can do is stay awake, feeling gently nauseated by fatigue. I fell asleep in the audit meeting this afternoon, which wasn’t so smart ’cause HeadBoss was behind me. As soon as the lights go out and the PowerPoint starts, I’m unconscious. Exactly how I plan to be in three seco……zzzzzzzzz

Gosh oh, it’s been a while. Work is…hectic. I wish that people would take better care of their children. Even allowing for my resolutely non-parent status, I figure that letting nine-year-olds do dangerous things is never going to turn out well.

There are now so many jobs on the to-do list that I hadn’t even realised that FB had been shut down. I apologise, and repent, and will blog more. But not now, there’s a man coming to measure me for double glazing and the house is in a state. I must go and redd up.

Dear Readers,

I’m looking for a favour. Votes! Not for me, my life isn’t that exciting. But many years ago, we spent the happiest times by the seaside, in a bungalow belonging to friends of my parents. It’s in the background of this photo:

The National trust are running a competition, called “Treasure Forever”, and our friend has entered her teapot. This link will take you to the Memorabilia section of the gallery, and the one to vote for is the Motorist Teapot. Please please!

Love and hugs,

Blade.