In Which I Am a Hippo Critter

The EEG and MRI results came back clear. This means I have no nasties that are going to wipe me out, but doesn't mean I don't have epilepsy as that can quite happily exist without being detectable because, hey, being a ninja neurological disorder is where it's at.

The Nokia 2610.

The me of last week would hate the me of this week, because I decided to do something sensible. I decided to get a more modern phone, a phone that was comfortable with the internet and had approximately 2700 times more memory. Sadly, as I well knew would happen, my current phone runs out of juice approximately 2700 times more rapidly than my old phone. The Nokia 2610 was a phone that, if you just used it for phone calls and texting (and guess what, that's pretty much all you could use it for), lasted upwards of a fortnight. Our relationship has been a long one as phones go, but she was temperamental, sometimes switching off when I was around, or refusing to relay messages and phone calls. I suppose it was because I beat the shit out of her. Still, I now have a phone in which I can chuck irate birds at green blobs, and take scenester tinted pictures of nonsequential things. I could also cheat at pub quizzes, like some people who are actively (although perhaps unwittingly) arguing the strongest case yet for bringing back hanging. Anyway. It's amazing the progress that's been made in six years regarding mobile telephony, but as I have said, this progress comes at a price. 

Firstly, battery power. You want your phone to be able to tell you where the nearest gluten free bakery to Pitstone is? You want to be able to take photographs that make you look far fatter than you are (60p well spent on that app, but you could have bought a Mars bar and started working on it yourself)?  Then be prepared for the battery life to ebb visibly in front of your eyes. Seriously, these smartphone companies are in cahoots with the electrical companies to try and drain the National Grid of as much as possible.

Secondly, the human angle. People whip out their smartphones at any opportunity, and not in an "I've got the latest Smithgrinder 5000 X, with added whipple effect" way. Have a dispute? Check it on the mobile interwebz. Need to find out where you are? Map app. There will come a time when most of us will be completely reliant on these things, and if the GPS satellites go wonky because of solar flares (which is quite possible) or, heaven forbid, our phones have some inbuilt fault like these Toyotas that seem to perpetually be recalled, then our brains won't be able to cope. Judging by that long and fractured sentence, the melt-my-brain process has already begun.

I decided to try and reverse that process by visiting the Tate Britain gallery in London where my favourite painting resides (ooh, get him, he's got a favourite painting). For those that don't know, the Tate galleries were set up by the same Tate from Tate and Lyle who make the syrup. I was going to make a joke about what Lyle decided to be philanthropic towards, but I could find nothing important called Lyle. If you're called Lyle, you don't matter and your parents don't love you. Sorry. Anyway, my favourite painting wasn't on display owing to a massive refurbishment of the place and some due to there being an exhibition of some bloke called Turner's paintings. I looked at the modern art (crap) and I looked at one or two of Constable's. And then I went through about 80 Turner paintings. He's an infuriating artist because he has the skills, but sometimes paints something incredibly dull or in a rubbish way. Yes, I KNOW art's subjective, but some of it is bunk. Really. Anyway, right at the end when I had been given more than a couple of suspicious looks (holding several carrier bags whilst wearing a velvet jacket with a giant orange metal framed rucksack on the back of it is a faux pas, apparently), I happened upon this fucking HUGE painting which must have taken him a few hours to finish, a view of Rome from Vatican City from a Papal balcony, perhaps. Standing up right close to it meant you could see the amazing background detail, and there was a lot of that in there. It seemed to be a painting of a few paintings left slipshod by the balcony- I should have read the description next to it. Doesn't matter. The paintings inside the painting were utterly amazing. I know I've already said amazing, so pick any synonym you like. I'm sticking with amazement. The picture below really doesn't do it justice, but you could go and see it. Entry's free, although they strongly suggest a £4 donation. I gave £2.50. I mean, not having my favourite painting and replacing it with this much-vaunted twat? Who do they think they are? Showponies.

Turner's "Rome, from the Vatican."

Finally, I started to head off for home towards Westminster tube station, which naturally took me past the Houses of Parliament, when who should I bump into but Charles Clarke, former Home Secretary. He didn't recognise me though, for some reason. I realise that relaying you this isn't the most inspired ending to a blog, but it's quite apt as he wasn't the most inspired Home Secretary.


Today's Tune

In Which I Try and Become Magneto

I went to the Neurology department in Colchester General today for a spot of Magnetic Resonance Imaging. The all-seeing all-knowing consultant who diagnosed me with epilepsy referred me to this department as well to confirm his diagnosis/cover his back in case of a lawsuit. Apparently Neurology and Neurophysiology are quite separate departments, hence the appointments on different days.  After a little bit of fraughtness with Network Rail and one of their hilarious delays, I made it to the MRI unit 5 minutes early (after having rapidly stripped down outside into shorts and a t-shirt as to not have any metallic clothing on that might bugger up a God-knows-how-much-piece-of-equipment).

  

The NHS is perhaps the finest institution the British have to offer, and is by that token inherently British. This was confirmed when I was left in the waiting room for 40 minutes, exhibiting my knobbliest of knees and my palest of pins to all and sundry. I had come prepared for this eventuality by bringing a hefty book (Palin’s “Full Circle”, since you asked) and a bag of sweeties. Alas, I couldn’t find a kid to eat them in front of, saying things like “Mmm, these sweeties are delicious, my mummy got me loads, because she really loves meeee…”

Eventually I was led to this portakabin full of magical gizmos, where the nurse who was dealing me openly mocked my milk bottled leggies, saying that there was no need for me to have stripped because it wasn’t my legs going into the machine. The letter I had received was very clear on the point that I should have no metal about my person at all, else a couple of NHS nurses called Derek and Denzel would come and put my head so far up my arse that my face would be poking out of my mouth (I know, I didn’t understand it either).  To take attention away from the fact that I looked like some sort of anaemic albino 80’s throwback, I asked her if there was some music I could listen to in there as staring at the inside of a white chamber wasn’t exactly my idea of a night out. I thought of the first relaxed artist I could think of, and I’m not sure why I said him, maybe it’s because I saw Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery the other day. Perhaps it was my brain misfiring, but I did hear from a distance someone else’s words coming out of my mouth- “Have you got any Burt Bacharach I can listen to in there?” I don’t even like the guy. Anyway, she told me that they do let some of the patients have the radio on. She also let me know in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to let me have the radio on and I wasn’t allowed music because I liked Burt Bacharach and was therefore a massive twat.

You know that scene in Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan where it’s Spock’s funeral and I can’t h- where some of the people watching can’t help but cry? What d’you mean, no? Well, he’s in a space coffin and the space coffin is slowly slid into this photon torpedo tube to be shot into space. That’s what it feels like to go into an MRI cylinder. Except Spock’s not dead and he has earplugs and his head rigidly fixed into place.  The nurse was wrong about not having any music though.  For the 20 minutes I was inside that chamber, there was throbbing and pulsing and noises all over the shop. It was just like one of the latest dubstep tracks someone played me, only it was different this time  because when it was “playing” I had put earplugs in. Hmm. No, come to think of it, it was exactly the same.

Today's Tune