Personal Well-being: 05

 

  Personal Well-being: 05 Bringing up trapped wind.

 

 By Barefoot Medic

Trapped wind can be uncomfortable at best and at worst downright painful.  It has at times been mistaken for a heart attack.  Not much fun at all!

 

Bruce Forsyth passed away last year.  Thinking about him reminded me of his appearance on the Michael Parkinson chat show twenty odd years ago.

Somehow the conversation turned to things that impair a stage performance.  One of the most unlikely things mentioned was 'trapped wind'.  Bruce then proceeded to demonstrate his method of relieving 'trapped wind' :

His instructions were to Lean forwards until your torso is parallel with the ground.

Drop your left shoulder suddenly and at the same time twist your torso so you're facing to the right.   "Burp, Bururp!"  Not something you do in polite company or on a TV chat show, but Bruce did and it caused uproarious laughter.

I remembered it and when I next needed to relieve trapped wind I followed his instructions and it worked!

 

I have used it ever since without fail and passed his advice on to others who suffer from wind on occasions...

It works, and it costs you nothing so, next time you feel that uncomfortable pain, give it a try!

 

 A LOST OPPORTUNITY 

by Richard Banks                   

Gavri turned from the bustle of the crowded main road into a side street and took refuge in the deep shadow of a shop awning. For a few minutes, he pretended an interest in the contents of the shop window while deciding what to do. His mind was confused, struggling to take in what had happened, his mood one of bitter despair. The game was over, they had failed, best to get out of the City, to lie low in one of the villages. That's what the others were doing, brave revolutionaries no longer, self-preservation their only concern.

       Nedjelko was at the police station being interrogated, having the shit kicked out of him. If he started spilling names the hunt would be on. What a mess it was. The plan was good, thorough, it should have worked. The Duke was in an open-top car. Nedjelko had only to lob his bomb into it, to briefly observe the death of the oppressor before taking his own life with the cyanide that had been issued to himself and the others.

       Gavri heard the explosion and thought the deed done. Then to his horror saw the Duke's car speed past too quickly for him to draw and aim the 22 calibre Browning concealed beneath his jacket. Of the seven-armed conspirators, only Nedjelko had acted.

       It did not take long for the news of what happened to spread along the entire route of the procession. The bomb had been deflected by the arm of the Duke onto the rolled-down canopy of the car. From there it had dropped onto the road exploding beneath the next vehicle injuring several of its occupants including two of the Duke's aides. The would-be assassin had been seen to drink from a phial, vomit, then throw himself into the Miljacka river that ran parallel to the road. If he was seeking to drown himself he was again unlucky for the river was only inches deep in water. Within minutes Nedjelko had been dragged from the river and bundled into a police van. The Duke unharmed was now at the City Hall where on his arrival he had angrily berated the Mayor waiting to welcome him. There were rumours that the official programme for the rest of the day had been cancelled and that the Duke would be leaving the City with an armed escort.

       A golden opportunity had been lost and one better might never occur. But still Gavri lingered. Other revolutionaries could play the long game, let years go by before trying again. But time was not on Gavri's side. The inflammation in his lungs could no longer be ignored. In a few months, he might be dead. He knew this as well as any doctor; had he not watched six siblings die of disease and malnutrition. If Gavri was to change history it had to be soon. He was a good shot; given another opportunity that day he would take aim and fire without fear for the consequences. While the Duke remained in the City so would he.

       It was 10.30, too soon for lunch but not for coffee. He retraced his steps to a café at the top of the road. From there he could observe the main road, listen to the chatter of its clientèle, be ready for that precious piece of information that might put him within shooting distance of the Duke.

                                          **********

       The Duke was calm again, determined to fulfil the role for which he had come. His diplomatic mission was one of goodwill, reconciliation. When he came to power there would be reforms, not too many but enough to convince the people of this turbulent country that life within the Empire was preferable to union with Serbia. He must smile, be gracious, show himself to the people without fear. One dangerous lunatic in the crowd was one too many but the crowds that greeted him were respectful some cheering. His mission was to them. He must see it out.

       Potiorek, the Military Governor, was back from the police station where he had assisted in the interrogation of Nedjelko by the breaking of several fingers. After confidential discussions with senior staff, he approached the Duke. The terrorist, he said, was a member of the Black Hand, a fanatic, a Serbian separatist. Despite all attempts to make him reveal the names of his accomplices, the fanatic insisted that he had acted alone.

       “Is this to be believed?” asked the Duke.

       Potiorek hesitated. His security report before the visit had described the City as safe, the terrorist threat negligible. A single terrorist did not invalid that judgement but if there were more, if it was even thought there were more, his career would be over, his reputation in tatters.

         Potiorek smiled reassuringly. The terrorist, he said, appeared to be deranged; instead of making his escape, he had thrown himself into the mud of the Miljacka. A mad man was unlikely to have accomplices. If his Highness wished to fulfil his remaining engagements he had every confidence this could be done safely, without further incident. He had a closed carriage standing by. This time the Duke would be provided with a military escort.

       The Duke said that if there was no further threat he would continue to use the open carriage. The military guard was not needed. He had come to Bosnia as a friend, a benefactor. If the people were to trust him, he must show his trust in them. He was, however, unwilling to expose his wife, the Duchess, to danger, no matter how small. She would remain at City Hall until it was time to return to the railway station.

       The Duke's thoughts turned to those in the following car. On being assured that there were no fatalities and that the injured were being treated at the hospital he resolved to visit them instead of partaking of the refreshments on offer. Instructions were issued to the Duke's driver to make ready the same car as had been used before. Within minutes they were ready to go. As he walked down the ceremonial carpet that almost matched the blue of his uniform he was unexpectedly joined by the Duchess. She pretended to scold him.

       “What kind of a husband is this who abandons his wife only days before their wedding anniversary.” The Duke's reply was impeded by the forefinger of the Duchess which pressed lightly against his lips. “No argument now. This is our first official visit together. We started it together, we will finish it so. The Court may think me unworthy, but I am your wife. My place is with you, no matter what.”

       The Duke took her hand in his and kissed it affectionately. “It will soon be different,” he whispered. When he was Emperor no one would dare speak disrespectfully of her. Did their Hapsburg blood make them better than her? He thought not. She was worth more than all those wagging tongues put together.

       The Duchess slipped her hands around his arm and they walked towards the open door through which they had entered only twenty minutes before.

                                             **********

       Gavri drank slowly, making the coffee last as long as possible. Outside the café, the main road known as the Appel Quay was still busy with the many sightseers who had come to see the Duke. A rumour that he had been wounded by the bomb was refuted by those who saw him arrive at City Hall and ascend its steps to the portico where the Mayor was waiting to greet him. A man on the table next to Gavri was loud in his support for the Duke. Gavri wanted to tell him about poverty in the villages. What had Austria and the Duke done about that? Only when Bosnia was free of the oppressor, when it was one with Serbia, would there be freedom, an end to poverty and hunger. The man was an oaf and Gavri could no longer bear to be in the same room as him. As he left the café by its entrance in Franz Joseph Street the crowd on either side of the main thoroughfare was beginning to stir, voices raised, bodies turning towards the road, vying with each other to get closer to it. “The Duke is coming,” he heard someone say, “the official programme has resumed.”

       Gavri retreated to the doorway of the café and ascended the several steps that led to it. From there he could see over the crowded pavement on the Appel Quay at the steady approach of the Duke's car. There was no time to lose. He needed to be kerbside, in the front row but that was now impossible as more and more people flooded out of shops and cafés to join the ranks of those already gathered.  A short distance to his left the buzz of voices erupted into loud cheers, cries of “long live the Duke.”

       In a few seconds, the car would be passed, another chance gone. There was nothing for it but to shoot from where he was over the heads of the crowd. His position was poor, ten feet back from where he wanted to be, but if he fired rapidly, discharging all six bullets, he might still be successful. He reached into his jacket for the Browning but before he could grasp its handle a customer exiting the café inadvertently sent the door hard against his back, tipping him face down onto the pavement. For a few moments, he lay there too stunned to be conscious of the sharp pain in his chest. He struggled to his feet and regained his position on the step.  All was lost, of that he was sure. In his mind's eye, he saw only an empty road, the Duke gone, hidden behind the façade of the café. Instead, he saw the car turn into Franz Joseph Street.

       Potiorek was shouting at the driver. “Stop, stop you fool. This is not the route. Get back on the main road.”

       If Leo, the driver, had been allowed to speak to his illustrious passengers beyond a polite confirmation of an instruction received he would have said that this was the route. The itinerary had been handed to him early that morning by Merizzi, the adjutant. That was his job. If there was a change Merizzi would have told him.

       The car shuddered to a halt and Leo engaged reverse gear. More shouting from Potiorek as the car slowly backed up towards the café where Gavri waited, gun drawn. His first shot hit the Duchess as she moved protectively in front of her husband, the second severed the jugular vein in the Duke's neck. It was done. The next bullet would be for himself. As Gavri pointed the gun at his head he felt a moment of euphoria. The time of lost opportunities was over, a new age was about to begin.

Postscript

The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg by Gavrilo Princip on 28 June 1914 was the opening salvo in a conflict that claimed the lives of over eight million combatants. The defeat of Austria and the other Central Powers in World War I precipitated the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the formation of the Serbian Kingdom that included Bosnia. 

Princip's attempt to take his own life was thwarted by passers-by who wrestled the gun from his hand. Too young under Austrian law to be executed, the nineteen-year-old member of the Black Hand was sentenced to twenty years imprisonment. He died in prison of tuberculosis in April 1918. Nedjelko Cabrinovic also died in prison of tuberculosis.

Lt Col Merizzi was one of the aides injured by Nedjelko's bomb. Taken directly to hospital he was unable to inform the driver, Leopold Loyka, of the change in the Archduke's itinerary. Had someone else thought to do so the assassination and the war that followed may never have happened.

At the lying in state of the Archduke and Duchess the body of the Duchess was placed on a plinth eighteen inches below that of her husband – a final slight by the Austrian Royal family who despised her for being the daughter of a Czech aristocrat.

   Copyright Richard Banks                    

 

              

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 29

 Abbalar Tales ~ 29 Captivity 2

By Len Morgan

  Paveil was Endrochine's third son, two years younger than Fazeil.   He was the issue of his father’s second wife, widely believed to have been, the true love of his life.   Sadly she died in childbirth, when Paveil was only three, after her loss Endrochine’s flame dimmed and he was never seen to smile again until the moment he rejoined her in death.   The brothers were not close as children, Fazeil much preferred the company of Jazim and her entourage.   

As they aged Endrochine's children flowered. Each contributing his bloom to the Corvalen bouquet.   Each brother was well trained and eminent in his respective field of excellence.   When he'd been running things, the diplomatic and administrative machine ran smoothly and efficiently.   

Paveil smiled, wondering how Asba Dylon was faring with his increased workload.   He had been handed the responsibility as a matter of course.   No other could do the job, and keep things ticking over in good order until the year end.  However, Paveil had been greatly perturbed by the attack on Asba the previous day.    More so by the fact it had taken place in a public forum.   Neither was his concern assuaged, on learning the identity of the perpetrator.   He was the same assassin whose bungled attempt on the life of Fazeil had brought about the unceremonious execution of Jerez, and resulted in Paveil's own incarceration.   Yet the assassin was allowed to go free?   Aldor could not understand why Fazeil should act in so contrary a fashion.  There were also confirmed rumours of a revival of the outlawed blood cult from Bluttland, at the instigation of Jazim, and sanctioned by Fazeil.    A number of key counsellors who were not in sympathy with Fazeil’s policies had mysteriously disappeared.  Others, unsympathetic towards Bedelacq's blood cult, had also gone.  Paveil was painfully aware that he himself was in a precarious position, they could not do what they had done and allow him to live beyond the end of the year.

   That was when he first heard the voice and started to question his own sanity.

 .-...-.

'Now you know the truth brother.   I do not have much time, and I need to know if you are prepared to become Regent of Corvalen' it said.   'Fazeil is not his own man and no longer has the interests of Corvalen first and foremost in his mind.   I have searched the minds of all our fathers’ issue, still residing within the city, and you alone possess the required experience knowledge and dedication to drag this state into a new era of development and prosperity.   I need an answer, will you say yes?'

"Who are you? " he replied.

 "Can I help you sir?" the guard stationed outside in the corridor enquired.

"Sorry, I'm just thinking aloud," he answered; determined not to repeat the error.

He sat on his simple mattress and repeated the question.   'Who are you?’

'I   am a prisoner here just as you are.'

'By what name should I call you,' he answered rephrasing his question.

'You can call me Aldor,' said the voice.

'I have no brother of that name, is this some strange weirding deceit…'

'Not so, I am indeed your brother but, I have changed so much as a result of recent experiences that none of my previous associates' friends or family would recognise me.   In my present state, this name will serve as well as another…'

'So, I am to trust a voice that will not be named?   I will not ask a third time…'

'Very well, I am Ahlendore.'

'Little Ahle?'   Paveil almost choked on the words, 'I would sooner trust a sewer rat, than a drunken womanising murderer of women and children.'

'I have never harmed a woman or child, but I must confess I was unwittingly responsible for the death of a Regent's Guard yester-eve.   He launched an unprovoked attack on my friend and employer,” he began...

'You are Asba's protector?   Why did you not say that first thing?   You have restored your standing in my eyes.'    Paveil's mind relaxed immediately.

'Does he know who you are?'

'Yes, it was he made me realise the Regency was not for me and suggested that I would be the ideal person to seek out the man who will be the kind of Regent Corvalen needs and deserves.'

'Was I the only one you could find?"

'There was one other, but I believe even a liberal-minded man like yourself would take issue with a female Regent.'

'Little Lillefane per chance?'

"You know her?'

'We share both father and mother,' he explained.   'It would be as well for me to be sure little sister Lillefane supports me if her talents are as prestigious as you imply.'

.-…-. 

    The old Ahlendore had considered the Regency his birthright.   He would have fought all comers, toe to toe, to gain it.   Aldor now knew he had another path to travel, not as glamorous mayhap but, necessary and worthwhile.   In addition, he knew he was probably the only person capable of treading that path with any likelihood of success.   He considered this to be due mainly to his off-world enhancements rather than his natural ability as a statesman.   He paused for a second time to ask the question.

 'Will you now become Regent of Corvalen?'  The extended pause was palpable.

'It's a hellish long way from this prison cell to the seat of the Caliphate but, if it is meant to be, I will not turn aside, I will serve the populace or die in the attempt'  he answered.

'Good man,' said the voice in his mind, revealing a picture of the smiling young Ahlendore appearing as he once was, changing slowly into Aldor a taller broader young man of indeterminate age with pale hair and pale northern eyes.

'Is that you?'

'It is,' the image replied.

Paveil liked the open honest face that returned his gaze.

'How can I be sure that you speak true and, that you are not an abomination of my disturbed mind.   I need to know that I am not going mad.'

'Come into my mind and share my thoughts' Aldor's voice invited.

He was confused by this but couldn't feel anything different.   Then he notices he was looking at an entirely different view.   His body felt young strong and vital.

'Ask a question to which you and I alone would know the answer,' Aldor continued.

Paveil thought, 'an unsolicited act of kindness to a stranger that put your own life in mortal danger, for no apparent reward,' he answered at once.

There was a pause for a minute or so, 'In truth, I cannot recall such an act' Aldor replied.   'Sadly I was not considered a nice person in my former guise.'

‘It is strangely disorientating, looking into another's mind, to view familiar events from your life through the eyes of that other.   They seemed familiar yet strangely alien, as if we had both experienced the same thing but, viewed from a different perspective’  said Aldor.   ‘For instance, if one viewed a house from the front, another from the side, the descriptions of its aspect would not tally; yet both views are equally valid.  But, I have failed your first test,'   said Aldor somewhat disgruntled.   'There is nothing, I can bring to mind…'

'Let me see if I can refresh your memory by showing you the incident through your own eyes'  said Paveil 'he eased them both back five years, as though he were in fact the expert.   Ahle would have been about eleven years old, he recalled they were hunting wild boar in the Northern Reserve.   The hounds were bred to the chase and had scented one, maybe several beasts, at this point he sidelined his own recollections in favour of following the action through Ahle's memories.

   He savoured the sounds, the feelings, the fresh emotions.   Even the colours were somehow different, alien, brighter, sharper, fresher, newer.   His spirits were high; he was filled with great excitement and expectation.   He was determined to be in at the kill.   He rode as though he were an extension of his mount, as they raced in pursuit, his head held low in contact with the beast as they sped beneath low hanging branches in an exhilarating adrenaline burst.    He was in danger of losing himself completely in the experience, having frequently to remind himself he was here for a purpose.   The sun-dappled the uneven spongy leaf mould underfoot as the early autumnal wind ruffled his hair and loose-fitting clothes.  

Paveil was amazed anew at the vigour and strength of youth, as he experienced what Ahle had felt.

Ahle was intoxicated with the moment convinced that today he would make his first kill.   All the signs were right, he was way in advance of the chase and watched as the boar split up from the sow to divide the field.   Next moment, he marvelled in surprise at seeing the hounds sniff the air and chase after the sow.   He was already in pursuit of the boar but alone.   The pack and the body of the hunt blindly followed the hounds.   But, he wanted the boar so that was the path he took; leaving behind the sounds of the main party he entered a clearing.   The boar was immediately ahead of him, his blood was up and the chase engulfed him.   He had eyes for one thing only, as he mouthed a litany over and over, 'Kill, kill, kill the beast,…'    It was a fine large specimen of porcine kind, tiny eyes, red now with fury, its anger had been roused; it would be both dangerous and unpredictable.   It sensed his approach and turned to face him, performing multiple pirouettes to offer its challenge.   A challenge Ahle's mount would not willingly take up, it reared and backed away refusing to go any closer.   Ahle kept his saddle eyeing the beast, summoning the will to urge his mount to the charge.   Even as he did so he could hear the change in voice, as the hounds realised their error and changed direction heading back towards him and the boar.   He would barely have time to make the kill before they arrived.   He kicked the horses’ flanks, urging her forward.

Then he heard a woman scream, followed by a high pitched keening, "Nooooo, Nooooo please don't do this…   Aaagh somebody help, he-elp!…"

He reined in pulling the mare in a new direction, towards the tortured voice.   Almost at once, he came upon two youths of sixteen or seventeen with a near naked young girl tethered to a tree by her wrists and ankles.

"Hold still and it will go better on you," one commanded, but she struggled all the more.

They heard the rapidly approaching hoofbeats and the sound of the hunting party closing with them.   They turned in surprise.

"What do think you're doing," Ahle demanded.   "You are trespassing on the Caliph's private lands, that’s a flogging offence.  The minimum sentence for you three will be forty lashes each!   Then if she complains you brought her here against her will, the sentence for you two will be doubled.   You may even be gelded for good measure, to prevent a repetition.   Hold fast," he commanded, but they were cowards so they broke and ran.   He allowed them to make good their escape; two to one is never good odds, he went instead to the young woman's aid.   He untied her and turned his back discretely, while she dressed, then pulling her onto his horse and conveyed her safely to her home.  

   Paveil had followed him when his course diverged from the main party.   Curiosity piqued, he took on the role of voyeur.   He could have killed the boar himself and taken the kudos but, it held no attraction for him, he'd done it all before.   He was much more interested in what Ahle would do.   He was prepared to provide support if necessary, hanging back out of sight to see how the boy would perform.

To his own certain surprise, the boy was brave, selfless and chivalrous.   Moreover, to Paveil's certain knowledge he never once spoke of the incident to anyone.   Others of his kin would have retold the tale a thousand times embellishing it a little more with each telling.   Ahle kept silent on the matter even went out of his way to congratulate the man who eventually bagged the boar.

   Looking into his mind now, Paveil found him to be self-effacing on the subject.   He explained it as something that had to be done, neither brave nor courageous.   He saw a wrong that had to be righted, according to his interpretation of the warriors’ code.   Would any man with the benefit of breeding have acted differently?   The question hung in the air, in the young man's mind, Paveil thought the answer would most definitely be ‘No’.

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 DANNY

By Jane Scoggins 

Danny sat at the end of the jetty in Burnham, his head in his hands, legs dangling over the water of the river Crouch. He was trying not to cry. He could hear boys calling to one another, further back on the jetty, as they baited their crabbing lines with bread and bacon fat. The sun shone warm on his back but he felt cold inside. His mum was dying and his whole world was a blur. How could this have happened, how could God be so cruel?  Mum was Mum and Danny loved her with all his heart. His ten years on earth had not prepared him for this. Two weeks ago everything had been fine; well, not exactly fine, but not terrible and out of control like it was now. If only he was not an only child. If only he had an older brother that he could talk to, who would look out for him so that he didn’t have to bear this burden alone. If only he had someone to turn to. But there was no one.

Gran had died last year and he had hated everything about the horrible months before that day in June. Gran had been a happy person. Mum said she was 'happy go lucky’ and Danny thought that suited her just right. She liked dangly earrings and jangling bracelets. She wore make-up even when she wasn’t going out to work or shopping. She even wore makeup when she was doing the chores on a Saturday morning, like mopping the kitchen floor and emptying the cat litter tray. Gran said it gave her a happy face and that’s what people liked to see. When she came home from work she would kick off her high heeled shoes and put her stockinged feet up on the pouffe. She wore fluffy slippers in the house and this almost reduced her down to Danny’s height. He supposed that was why she liked to wear high heels. Gran wasn’t a bit like mum, who was tall and slim and mostly wore skinny jeans and T-shirts. The only-make up she wore was that black mascara stuff on her eyelashes that made her big brown eyes look even bigger. Mum never wore high heels. Danny thought she was beautiful. Gran too, in her own, painted up way, but also because of her smile and her loud laugh that made you want to laugh too. But that had all stopped when she became ill with cancer. Mum and Dad had told him that Gran wanted him to know about it so that he would understand and because she wanted him to keep on going to visit her and not treat her like an invalid. This was even when her hair fell out and she was just left with wispy tufts, and later, when she turned a nasty grey colour, that no amount of make-up could hide. Gran shrank quickly into a frail old lady whom Danny could hardly recognise. It frightened him. Then one day she was gone. He cried for her, alone in his bedroom, surrounded by his beloved West Ham posters of smiling footballers, and, sometimes, when he lay face down on his favourite Hammers pillowcase. He had cried for her with his mum, as they sat on the settee watching children’s television. He had cried for her with mum and dad when they sat holding hands together in the crematorium chapel.

Now he would have to do it all again, only this time for his mum, whom he loved more than anyone in the world, even more, than he loved his dad, probably the best dad in the world.

Mum had not really recovered from Gran dying. She had lost her sparkle and her big, soft, brown eyes were less smiley than he remembered through his growing up. The changes in her had been slow, so he had not noticed that she had slipped from sadness to illness. All he knew was that these days she was often lying down when he came home from school. His noisy arrival, the dropping of his school bag and PE kit on the laminate wood hall floor, caused her to raise herself up quickly from the settee, in a hurried attempt to conceal that she had been lying down as if it were a secret. Danny did not understand why she did that, but he never said anything as he was always reassured to have her put her arm around him and steer him to the kitchen and the biscuit tin, whilst asking him what he had been up to at school. Then, last week, she had been to see the doctor again, for the second time in two weeks and also to the hospital. He knew that because Dad had taken a morning off work to take her to the appointment Danny had overheard his mum telling his dad that the doctor was concerned about the possibility of complications.

This morning Danny had come downstairs from his bedroom and glimpsed his mum and dad in the sitting room when the door was a bit open and they hadn’t heard him come down the stairs. They were talking quietly, with silent gaps in between what they were talking about as if it were something serious Danny heard mum say, ‘‘Doctor Wilson thinks now would be a good time to tell Danny’’ He saw Dad taking Mum in his arms and giving her a big gentle hug. Dad didn’t say anything, he just stroked her hair. Danny remembered that Doctor Wilson had been the name of Gran’s doctor too. Danny ran from the house and straight down to the jetty. It was a good place to sit and think, safe and familiar.

Danny’s parents, Kate and Kevin, heard the back door close and called out to Danny to come back, but he couldn’t have heard them, as he ran out to play with his friends on that warm Saturday morning. ‘‘Never mind, it will keep, how about a cuppa?’’ said Kevin. Kate smiled wanly and said, ‘‘Thanks Kev, you’re my rock’’.

With tea in hand Kate felt better and sat close up beside Kevin on the settee.

‘‘I wonder how Danny will take the news. Poor love, he has been a bit neglected lately. We must make sure he is made to feel special in the next few months so that he is not too badly affected by what is going to happen. I wish my mum was still here, I miss her so much. Dr Wilson is such a lovely GP; I really feel I am in safe hands. He was so good to Mum when she was diagnosed with cancer, and all through her treatment. He says I will have to take care of myself and that you will have to make sure I don’t overdo things or I will end up in hospital sooner than expected. He says I may need specialist treatment. I told him I don’t care, as long as the baby is ok." 

"We never thought we'd be able to have another baby and now a miracle has happened."

"Now that I am more than three months gone Doctor Wilson feels I am over the worst fears for a miscarriage and we should tell Danny that he can expect a little sister. Have you noticed he's seemed a bit out of sorts lately?’’

Kevin was thoughtful for a moment. ‘‘How about if I take him for a pizza and talk to him, man to man, to see if there is anything going on at school that’s bothering him. After all, we boys will have to stick together now that we know there is going to be another female in the house!"

Copyright Jane Scoggins

Personal Well-being: 04

 Personal Well-being: 04 Relief from chronic pain.

   By Barefoot Medic

It was 1975 when I made an earth-shattering discovery. 

I remember it clearly it was the day of the cup final, West Ham v Fulham, the Hammers won 2 - 0.

 I had a raging toothache, I had doused the tooth with 'Oil of Cloves' without effect, even paracetamol failed me.  Beating my head on the wall didn't help either.

  The only respite came from biting my lower left lip, this eased the pain. But, after a while, it returned.  First as a dull ache, pretty soon it was as bad as ever.

  I bit my lip on the lower right side this time, and for a while, it worked.  I found that if I bit for twenty to thirty seconds, then stopped for twenty to thirty seconds, the effect lasted much longer.

Inevitably the toothache returned.  By that time my lower lip was sore and bleeding.

 So, I put up with the pain from the toothache as long as I could before starting on the upper lip.  Aware of the damage to my lower lip I tried not to bite so hard on my upper lip.  I bit down gently, slowly increasing pressure until it relieved the pain.  I alternated left to right; thirty seconds on thirty off.  My upper lip was undamaged.  But the pain still returned after a while.

 Then I had an epiphany.  the toothache was a prolonged chronic pain!  When I bit my lips I was producing a sharp acute pain.  My body was drawing attention to the acute pain disregarding the fact it was the lesser of two evils.  

 What if I produced an acute pain somewhere else? 

 I made several assumptions:

·                  What if the body can only cope with one pain at a time?

·                  What if acute pain trumps chronic pain?

·                  What if this is the basis of acupuncture?

·                  I looked around for something I could use in place of my teeth.

 I found a drawing pin (thumbtack) and pressed it into one of the finger pads on my right hand, not hard enough to break the skin.  I applied gentle pressure until the toothache was nullified.  I held the tack in place with the finger by making a fist.  When the pain started to return I first increased the pressure then swapped the tack to another pad; no skin was broken, no physical harm was done, and within the hour the toothache was gone.  To be safe I doused the tooth with oil of cloves, the pain did not return.

  I have since used the same method to successfully alleviate earache and other chronic pain.  At no time did I break the skin. 

  Yes, it has been pointed out that medication can accomplish the same result, but it doesn't always work and is not always available, or even desirable.  It's reassuring to know that when all else fails, there is another 'natural' method of pain control you can call upon.

As always, you try my remedies at your own risk.  If in doubt consult a doctor.

 

Personal Well-being: 03

 Personal Well-being: 03 Make your own false teeth 

   By Barefoot Medic

I purchased a tub of POLYMORPH from Maplin's to make a replacement screwdriver handle for one I'd stupidly shattered when I used it as a chisel and hit it with a hammer...

Polymorph is a thermoplastic material that can be shaped and reshaped any number of times. it is normally supplied as granules that look like small plastic beads.  It can be heated in hot water and when it reaches 62 degrees centigrade the granules form a mass of ‘clear’ material (like chewing gum). When removed from the hot water it can be shaped into almost any form and on cooling it becomes solid once more (Majik).

I lost a tooth and was in pain eating hard/hot food.  My dentist said it would cost £20 consulting fee, £50 to remove the root, £250 to make a plate. I already have an upper metal plate.  I previously tried a lower plate but it made me gag, so that was not an option.

If I wanted the tooth set into the jaw that would cost me £1000. 

I told her my pension wouldn't stretch that far so I will just have to suffer; maybe the gum would harden up...

But, it didn't, and I was forced to chew on one side only.  Then, I got to thinking; I placed a few granules of polymorph in a cup and poured hot water on them.  When in the soft malleable state I rolled it into a ball and forced it between the teeth either side and wedged it in place, bit down on it, moulded it and waited for it to harden.  It was a little too large, so I jiggled and wriggled it until it came out.  I cut off the excess with scissors and reheated the remainder.  This time it fitted perfectly and for three months I forgot it was there, but it became discoloured due mainly to my love of curry (turmeric was to blame ~ not me).  So I fashioned a replacement. 

A pot of polymorph cost me £20 and has a hundred uses and would probably make a thousand teeth.  So, every three months I just replace it.  Even the dentist had to admit that it does a good job.  I carry a piece of polymorph in my wallet for emergency use.  I have friends who now follow my example; one informed me you can now get polymorph on the Internet which is good because Maplins is no longer in business in the UK. 

Health Warning:

I've been making my own teeth, like, this for over ten years but, as always, you follow my example at your own risk.  If in doubt seek advice.

 .-...-.

I'm now running out of ideas for 'well-being/money-saving tips' that work.   So, if you have something that works for you, please let me know, I will try it on myself and post it to this blog for the benefit of all.  I will also give due credit to the contributor.

Suggestions to:

 http://www.lenm393@yahoo.co.uk

 

Personal Well-being: 02

 

  Personal Well-being: 02 Lavender for burns & migraine 

  

  By Barefoot Medic

In 2000 my wife took a course in Anatomy, Physiology and Massage at our local technical college.  This involved learning about pure essential oils.  She was keen to learn as much as possible about the materials she was using, she related the following story to me:

 A scientist carelessly touched his hand on a hot Bunsen burner.  The only liquid immediately available was Lavender oil.  He poured it over the burn, which miraculously eased the pain.  Moreover, the skin didn't blister.

That's the story, you can believe it or not, but I will attest to the efficacy of Lavender (Lavendula angustifolia) from personal experience.  I burned my hand on a soldering iron so, June applied the 'Essential Oil'.  It immediately salved the pain and there was no blistering.  In 2001 I purchased a small 10ml bottle of the essential oil of Lavender for £3, I have used it and I've recommended it to my friends for burns ever since.

I occasionally, (once or twice a year), experience a form of migraine that results in a dull ache and lights swimming across my eyes, obscuring my vision.  My only recourse is to go into a darkened room and try to sleep it off.

I'd heard that Lavender was recommended for headaches, so when I next had an attack I poured a little Lavender onto a tissue and held it to my nose for ten to fifteen minutes.  Incredibly the attack was over within the hour.  I have had several migraines since and it worked every time.

That small bottle is still two thirds full and still works as described after twenty years, its efficacy is undiminished.  I thought it was expensive at the time but I now think it was cheap considering the pain and discomfort it has alleviated.  Every First~Aid box should contain a small bottle of Lavender oil!

I'm told it's primarily used is for Burns and headaches but, paradoxically my wife can't stand the smell, it gives her a headache...

As always (with my barefoot remedies) they work for me but, you try them at your own risk.