Hearing loss; subways; food

Have spent much of the time since the last entry marvelling at the hearing loss, particularly in my left ear, that came on relatively suddenly with the cold I began on my last day of jury service on 1 March. Cold symptoms have long gone but as hearing had not recovered, consulted GP last week to be told that my ears were so blocked she couldn’t see anything, and to apply olive oil to them for two weeks and then to come back. Always gratifying to wait until you have had a symptom for two weeks before consulting a doctor, to be told to then come back in a further two weeks Just To Prove You’re Serious. Being essentially fairly law-abiding and respectful of authority, I have duly been syringing olive oil into my ears daily for the last week. Almost within a day of my starting it, the hearing loss became significantly worse, to the extent that I now have to ask people in shops to speak up and have taken to warning colleagues that I can’t hear them unless they look straight at me so that I can read their lips. Presumably head is now some sort of giant olive oil slick. Ruth suggested a Hopi ear candle treatment, but only if she could apply it herself. Unsurprisingly, I declined.

Work on Reading station appears to be coming on – the 1980s footbridge has now been closed (and indeed looks to be half gone); the impressive new building cum footbridge (pic top right) isn’t open yet, but is certainly large. Given the footbridge closure, pedestrians coming from the north are now being routed through a new subway, which I’m fairly sure is the revamped old subway, though it’s only partially been reopened. Pleased if this is going to be a permanent arrangement, given that there is quite a bit of subway under the station, much of which has been closed for some time. Coming out of the current subway exit, I peered down to get a glimpse of this bit of heavily-graffiti-ed old subway – think this was part of the bit that came out by Thames Tower, though I was getting a bit disoriented. All very exciting stuff – at least, to those fascinated by disused subways (we are probably quite a select demographic). The buildings along Station Hill, and the long-empty Western Tower (pic on right) are still there doing nothing – one assumes there is probably a plan to demolish them, though to my mind they could just be re-faced and brought back into use. Nothing seems to be happening either way at the moment though.

Western Tower seems to have been the target for quite a few urban exploration attempts – see here and here. And a rather underwhelming one here. Wouldn’t do it myself, but I can understand the fascination.

In a fit of frankly alarming behaviour, Ruth and I purchased some sherry glasses the other Saturday. Here they are, with a snifter of sherry in them. Sherry is something I had not drunk for many years, since we used to have a drop of it occasionally at home before Sunday lunches. Since meeting Ruth’s aunt in 2007, I have been re-exposed to it each time we visit her house. Don’t think it’s ever going to be a regular tipple but it’s nice occasionally.

Stayed up in MK for the weekend of 16/17 and went into CMK in the morning to do a few jobs including using up some John Lewis vouchers on some plastic picnic plates/wine glasses etc (WILL, obviously, use them and didn’t just buy them in magpie-like fashion because they were pretty colours). Popped into Waitrose before getting the bus back and was thrilled (footnote: am easily pleased) to note that Lindt have now started doing chocolate hens. The cheerful checkout woman was also charmed by them – in fact so charmed that it led to her laughing in an increasingly uproarious fashion to the point where I began fiddling with my handbag and looking around for an imaginary spouse.

MK’s branch of John Lewis is inside the listed shopping building along one side of Middleton Hall, a vast open space that seems to get used for displays of various sorts, children’s activities, Santa’s sleigh etc though today it was empty. There seem to have been burblings in the local paper recently about building works that might threaten it, though it’s still there at the moment.

Wended my way to the northern suburb of New Bradwell on the Saturday evening for Guy’s belated pancake party. Guy was buried in a fug of pancake steam at his cooker, with four pancake pans on the go and a seemingly never-ending supply of batter. Matt, Rebecca and I were the only people there from the office; we sat around drinking for a while before venturing upstairs to play Scalextric, which I learned is probably best not played after a few glasses of wine. Most of the others there were artistic types from Guy’s writing group (Guy, as well as being genius-level analyst, is working on a sci-fi novel in his spare time) including one alarmingly hairy gentlemen with staring eyes, who told us enthusiastically that he’d just joined.

Dad stayed over on the 18th on his way to Norfolk; we had a pleasant dinner at The Swan at Woughton, only slightly plagued by a relentless humming from a heating/air-conditioning arrangement just above us. Perhaps not surprisingly given my current state of deafness, it bothered Dad more than it bothered me. Food not bad at all; had quite a decently-cooked steak (i.e. not cooked too much at all, but slightly blackened on the exterior) and Dad appeared pleased with his duck. After leaving the pub, we stood around in the car park for around 20 minutes before being texted by the cab I’d ordered saying he was waiting for us in the car park. After some brief confusion, he phoned apologetically to say he was in fact waiting in the car park of The Swan at Middleton, an identically-named pub in the next village. Tchoh. We were eventually delivered back to the house where I made Dad a warming cup of tea.

Recently watched a few more of the OU’s fascinating ‘African School’ series, about young Africans in the Ugandan town of Masindi. Slightly disturbing episode about evangelical Christians targeting adolescent schoolchildren – and interesting that the medic who is shown speaking to Dickson after giving him the results of his HIV test does seem to be advocating condom usage: an encouraging sign of common sense among all the religious bullsh*t.

Spent a chunk of last Sunday proofreading my colleague Galina’s MSc dissertation, on something called Long Tail theory. Galina is currently on maternity leave but had called in to the office on Friday to ask if I’d proofread for her. She presented me with a goodie bag in payment, containing, among other things, a selection of Club biscuits, which I hadn’t eaten since my schooldays – indeed, I had had no idea they were still made.

In London on Monday for a HESA seminar on the KIS collection. Got the train in early, as I do, and discovered a divine new breakfast spot in the Cafe in the Gardens in Russell Square. I'd walked past this a number of times but had dismissed it as a probable tourist spot, but on this occasion decided to try it - excellent coffee and a good bacon sandwich. Found varying reviews of it online but this chap evidently liked it - though to my mind wanting chips with breakfast is a bit odd. Must be a northern thing. After breakfast, dragged myself reluctantly down to the BIS Conference Centre on Victoria Street for a generally informative day, though HESA's new cabaret-stylee group discussions were a bit hampered by my (now becoming frankly tedious) deafness.

The end of the day was enlivened by an announcement through BIS' public address system that there was a major gas leak and the whole of the area around Westminster Abbey, including the street outside had been cordoned off. Went outside tentatively to encounter quite a strong smell of gas, and sneaked away from the police cordon to make my way back up via Trafalgar Square to Bloomsbury, to stock up on kimchi at the Seoul Mate on Museum Street. Looked for some sort of announcement later about the gas leak, but couldn't see that it had even made the news. Just goes to show. Something or other.

On a final note, this (above right) from the BBC News website yesterday. Not sure how much this says for the great British public - though I did initially suspect it of being a bit of a put on, much as I've always suspected the 'Health And Safety Brigade Stop Our Kids Playing Conkers' story to be an urban myth. Perhaps not though.

Trial; painting; Pope trivia

Jury duty over: trial ended on Friday; verdict delivered and sentence passed. What devilry resulted in my ending up being jury foreman, I’ll never know, except that no one particularly seemed to want the job and I admitted in a weak moment to having some experience chairing meetings. As there were five counts on the indictment and more than one defendant being tried, this resulted in the less than enjoyable experience of having to stand up in the courtroom and having to pronounce seven verdicts in succession. Fixed my gaze firmly on the court clerk throughout, as I think I saw advised online among some ‘What to do if you end up being foreman’ advice.

I had thought that we would then be dismissed and the judge would perhaps spend a few days considering our verdict before passing sentence, but no, we then had to sit through a load of admin from the prosecutor, pleas from each of the defence counsel on behalf of their clients followed by Actual Sentencing. People being sent to prison and stuff. Now trying to avoid being too plagued by worry as to whether we delivered justice, whether we deliberated for long enough (we deliberated for four and a half hours, but as you are given no guidance whatsoever, it’s hard to know how long is a respectable length of time) and whether we were too swayed by being dead impressed by the prosecution case and the prosecution lawyer herself, whose performance one of the younger jurors categorised as “shit hot”.


On a lighter note, the time spent waiting in the jurors’ lounge over the last few weeks provided an opportunity to catch up with some gossip magazines, though in my view there weren’t really enough of these provided. There were a distressing number of issues of Homes & Antiques, which forced me to become more familiar than I’d like with the world of antique collectors and the work of Emma Bridgewater; also copies of World Finance and various motorsport magazines. I did learn that apparently there’s a burgeoning fan fiction around boy band One Direction, as they keep being papped touching each other¹.

Applied the first paint-and-water coat (I believe the painterly term is a ‘mist coat’) to bedroom 3 a couple of Saturdays ago. My first experience of painting a ceiling; not a particularly enjoyable job but at least it’s done now. Two more coats of Jasmine White to go. Ruth’s stripping and oiling job on the door is now finished and she has attached some attractive new door handles. We attempted re-hanging the door ourselves, which has worked after a fashion – I say “after a fashion” as, although it hasn’t fallen off, it won't shut properly either. A temporary hitch, hopefully.

Among all the recent drama surrounding the Catholic church, two of the more charming Pope-related articles include this piece about Benedict XVI’s fashion sense and how his red Prada slip-ons ousted the memory of John Paul II's staid brown lace-ups. Also this interactive guide to how a new Pope is chosen – it’s worth replaying the second frame just to see all the little red cardinals repeatedly running into the Sistine Chapel.

To end with a nod to the horsemeat crisis: found these leftover KOTTBULLAR meatballs in my freezer this evening. In the interests of thrift, took my life in my hands and ate them. Feel OK so far.

¹ This fact gleaned from Heat, not from World Finance.