Oh no. The Methadone story. This is a story from my mental faculties' Drawer of Shame.

I was on nights. It was about 3am. There was a man who came out of his room very agitated, saying could he have his methadone, he'd not had his methadone..and looking very angry and fidgety. My colleague and I checked his drug chart; methadone not signed for, so we gave it.
Little did we realise that someone had given it about 4 hours earlier and signed for it on an old chart.

When we did realise what had happened, it was extremely un-hilarious. We could have killed him.

I learnt four things from that incident. One: night shifts can make you a bit doolally and you need to triple check everything. Two: when someone is addicted to drugs, don't believe a word they say. Three: no-one has ever died from not getting methadone. You may make them extremely annoyed, but you won't kill them. You may feel like killing them (if you have a heart of stone, like me) but you won't actually do so by depriving them of Methadone. And four: I will never, ever make that mistake again.

Mental note to self: must be less cavalier about what I promise to write about next.

In my next post; what life was like before my sex change.

We are stupid people: help us

Last night we had a debate here in Lausanne Towers about the fact the clocks were changing. But were they going back or forward? It's daylight saving, right, so to maximise the saving of daylight the mornings would be a bit lighter and it would get dark earlier, suggesting they go forward, I reasoned. No but hang on: if it seems like it's getting dark earlier, then it means the clocks have to go back. No but yes but no but yes but no: let's all move the clocks forward by one hour.

Why was it pitch black outside when it was 9am? Because it was 7am. Why did our friend 'forget' to give us a lift? Because she was still in bed. Why do I not have a career in air traffic control? Just be thankful that I don't.

In my next post I will tell the hilarous story of the time I gave a patient too much Methadone*

*I wish I were joking

Nuns on the run.

You don't want nurseries; you don't want chari-dee; you want nuns. So nuns you shall have!

OK. It went like this. 2 weeks ago I left my Elf in the care of her father for a weekend and went on a retreat to a convent in a place called St Loup, about half an hour from here by train. I would link to it, just to show how beautiful it was (and because I highly recommend the experience), but unsuprisingly I don't think the sisters have advanced quite that far into the digital age. The place was very simple, with decor unchanged from the '50s: no warty influence of Ikea anywhere to be seen. The beds were small and the plumbing was ancient, and there were little specially-marked hooks for things like 'sink cloth' and 'bath scourer': if cleanliness is next to godliness, then nowhere is this more true than Switzerland.

I chose the 'personal' rather than 'guided' retreat option, which meant that aside from brushing past each other in corridors, I only really got to hang out with the nuns at meal times: 0800, 1200 and 1800 - kick-off being as the clock struck. There was also a meeting once a day to sing a song or two and read the Bible. Hitherto, I have had no close encounters with nuns: I have no Catholic upbringing (even these ones weren't Catholics), and I know some nuns can be creepy and downright evil like that film "The Magdalene Sisters." But these ones were pretty impressive. The average age was about 75 (apart from one exception who was younger than me), and had they not been wearing habits, you'dve thought you were in a retirement village. (They raved about Eastbourne when I told them I was English.) They also had some funny old lady habits (no pun here) like mainlining cup after cup of very strong tea. What is it about the elderly and tea? The hours I have spent in hospitals badgering old people to drink water instead.

I digress. What really impressed me about these women is that most of them had entered convent life when they were in their early twenties, and 50 years on, there was a lot of chatting and laughing and easy affection between them. I wonder (and hope) if Rob and I will be like that in 50 years. They also combined a passion for the Gospel with being quick with a put-down - but in a way that was truthful, not hurtful. You also got the impression that they had seen a lot of life: the convent is attached to a hospital where most of them worked before retiring, so it has hardly been a cloistered existence.

There is also something definitely 'other' and a bit fascinating about nuns, too. I had to hold myself back from launching into a raft of probing, personal questions ("Why are you a nun?" "Did you ever regret the life you chose?""Does the outfit itch?" etc) I asked one if she enjoyed life in the convent: "Don't be daft! I wouldn't have stayed if it was that bad" she cackled. "But like marriage, sometimes you choose to stay faithful."

The dynamics between fellow retreaters can be a bit strange, too. Part of the point of the retreat is to spend time alone, so you feel a bit hesitant about engaging in the usual social chatter ("So what soul-wrenching personal crisis brings you here?") but at the same time you don't want to be rude.

I guess the question remains 'did it do what it says on the tin?' - the retreat, I mean, nuns aside. On my tin it said something like 'pray and worship God; say sorry; accept grace in Christ; have faith renewed; think about the future.' And the answer is yes, it did, apart from the last part, the bit about the future which is (ironically), the reason I chose to do a retreat in the first place. I didn't get round to it, because I ran out of time - enjoyably so.

And the nuns - well, they were great. I find it sad that it's obviously not a popular career choice these days and that in less than 30 years, there will be no nuns left. Apart from one, who will be a sprightly 57 or so.

Pakistan

For casual readers, a bit of background: we moved to Switzerland over a year ago (blimey! time flies) because Rob got a job here. His rather grand title is Emergencies Desk Officer, and for the past two weeks or so he has been in top gear organising a response to the earthquake in Pakistan. No emergency is an easy business, but this one is a particularly tough one. The region is remote and difficult to access; it is politically divided; winter is on its way and there are not enough winter tents anywhere; and then there is this.

The good news is that there is a Medair team in Islamabad and Kashmir, and as R spoke to one of them yesterday, they were in the middle of unloading a lorry load of tin sheeting in a place called Rawalakot...so it's happening. The bad news is that R stays awake half the night worrying about work and we are all knackered.

Of course
Medair would love your money, if you feel so inclined, but let's all keep praying and thinking about the people who are grieving or have been badly affected.

Thanks, chums. Nuns are coming, I promise.

Why is this nursery business so complicated?

As of Friday, my Elf is going for 2 hourly stretches on her own in the nursery. Of course, by 'on her own', I mean with 2 educatrices (sorry about poncey insertion of French there, I genuinely can't think of the English. Nursery teachers?) and 8 other feisty, confident 2 year olds. It's just this time, instead of hanging around in kiddyland, I bought tonight's supper (Morrocan veggie stew and couscous), emptied the nappy bin, did the recycling and read The Week while gorging myself on millionaire shortbread in an unusually silent and peaceful home. (Millionaire shortbread is this: shortbread, caramel, chocolate, in layers. The calorific content of a square cm equals a week's worth of Weightwatchers points. I can give you the recipe if you like.)

At 4.30, full of guilt and high on sugar I went to the nursery to find a small, blonde bundle with swollen, red-rimmed eyes gulping and sobbing in the arms of one of the adults. I nearly burst into tears when I saw her. When they told me she'd been crying most of the time, I mumbled 'merci' and quickly carried her out before actually bursting into tears in the street.

She's not normally one for the whole separation anxiety thing. Normally, Emma ignores me most of the time - I become useful when she needs food or her nappy changed or occasionally for entertainment purposes, but otherwise she plays with her lego (big into lego at the moment) and twitters to herself, quite happily, on her own. Normally strangers don't phase her much. Now I don't know what to think: was it just a bad day? Is the place not right for her? Are the other kids too big and scary? Is the language thing a problem? Is she too young?

The educatrice told me matter-of-factly to be brave and that Emma was coming back tomorrow for 3 hours. She is a nice woman, but a bit kind of bossy and strict and I worry about that, too. I know - if I had ten 2-year-olds in a room, probably 'bossy' and 'strict' is the only way to cope with life. But she has a habit of barking instructions at the kids, and I know my Elf isn't very good at instructions yet, even in English. Am I being too soft?

I need a cup of tea now.

I'm in ranting mode

The nuns are coming. But not now, as I have ants in my pants about something else entirely.

Emma is having her adaptation week at nursery. So far, so good: we have been 3 times for half an hour, and each time I stay with her. Easy does it, here in the Land of Lindt. So far my only anxiety is that my Elf is the youngest kid by about 6 months, and very much the runt of the litter both in age and size. When there is pushing and throwing and general naughtiness (but totally normal for 18mth-2.5 yr olds) I fret a bit about her physical safety. And I wonder how she'll get on with the French. But I think she'll be OK, and she was giggling with the rest of them and happy as a lark today.

Then came story time.

It was a story about "Les Mamans" by Someone with a Degree in Psycholgy phD. xyz. etc. It started OK, if a bit boring and stating the obvious rather: "Mummies are good to us, they feed us and change our nappies." ( I mean, yawn! Where is The Gruffalo when you need him?) Then on the last page, there was a picture of a toddler boy dressed as a groom and getting married to the mummy with the explanation "Sometimes we might want to marry our mummies. But we mustn't; it's not allowed."

Is it helpful to refer to the Oedipus/Electra complex (I forget which is which: I don't have a degree in psychology) to 2 year olds? Or is it just weird? I admit I don't know the extent of Emma's inner life, but I'd hazard a guess she thinks about shiny things, monkey, biscuits and Lego. I doubt she's got her little blonde head around 'marriage' for starters. As if in response to the story she'd think "aha! This explains why I am more attached to my male parent! It's because of my subconscious desire to kill my mother and marry my father. Up til now that's really been bothering me."

It's one thing not to subscribe to the whole Oedipus thing (and I don't) , but another to have it put in pre-school. Anyway, I found the whole thing a bit disturbing. I think tomorrow I might put in a request for The Very Hungry Caterpiller.

Thanks - there are a lot of foodies out there and I love you all. As it happened, the Pumpkin Question was answered for me by Rob, who took matters into his own hands and roasted the whole lot. It was very nice.

Sorry about lack of recent posts. I have not been in the blogzone mentally, so to speak. For one, the weather is lu-ver-ly, beautiful golden autumn days. Cold enough for a jumper but not enough to see your breath, and not a cloud in the big, blue sky. Brown, crunchy leaves to kick or pick up and give to strangers (Emma.) Hot chestnuts, too: mmmmmm.

So I haven't really wanted to stare at a computer screen much. Plus, me and my blog - we needed some space. I was sensing some negative co-dependency developing. It is a bit bonkers to check to see if you've got any comments 4 times an hour, and feel all lonely if you don't.
My mother is now the only person I know who can't -won't- use email, the Internet, nothing. She did a computer course, so she could if she wanted to. She just prefers handwritten cards, always with pictures of farmyard animals on them and 'Beautiful Dorset' in golden, embossed italics. I love getting them, too - they are about the only regular things in my post box apart from Dr Happy Frankfurter's bills. These are black and white and totally joyless, unlike HF herself.

But I'm back now. In further installments, expect to hear about
- my weekend with the nuns
- Emma's adaptation week at nursery
- our German guests

Bet you can't wait.

We are turning into potatoes

I am going through a baked potato stage. I shove about 8 in the oven at a time, then microwave them throughout the week for my Elf and I. The only thing is, I am getting bored with the fillings which are:
- cheese (any variety, preferably strong and honking)
- tuna mayonnaise
- spinach with a poached egg on top! (this I really recommend, but I have overdone it now.)
Anyone?
Also..I have a pumpkin on the windowsill that is giving me guilty stares and will be on the turn soon. What do you do with pumpkins (in the eating, rather than decorative sense)? In fact, pumpkins seem to be everywhere I turn, which is annoying as it reminds me of this gap in my competency.

We are all sick. R and I kept getting up in the night to nip at the cough linctus. We both have sore throats, too. Despite it being the middle of the night I still found it in me to have a go at him for drinking it straight from the bottle, an unhygienic practice which brings out the nursey nag in me. (I prefer to measure out 2 x 5ml spoonfuls exactly.) Then Emma woke up full of cold and misery, and needing a full-on cuddling offensive from both parents.

I am still ploughing through my book, The Idiot, which took a very fine turn when one of the female characters gave a man a hedgehog as a love token. I would love to be given a hedgehog as a love token.