Chest Drain

Thank you for comments on the last 2 or 3 posts. I enjoy reading them but am finding it rather tiring to respond at the moment. 

What was supposedly one-day in hospital to drain fluid from my chest cavity turned into four, and almost five. On Wednesday evening at 07:30 p.m. they phoned to say can you come in tonight to have it done in the morning. We got there. In the morning they said that because I had been on blood thinner injections for 6 days they could not do it until the next day. On Friday they put a tube in my back connected to a bag and out came a litre quite quickly. They don't want it too fast, so stopped it for a while. Later in the day they took another half-litre]. It feels strange and uncomfortable to suddenly be able to exhale and cough more deeply, and painful. They kept me another night to be safe. On Saturday they were concerned that although all my readings were very good, (O2 99%, b.p. 119/65), my respiration rate of 40 or more was too high. Why was I still panting? Eventually they got 3.2 litres, plus what spurted on the bed and floor. 

Basically, I had not unlearned breathing habits used to cope. I also had a small pneumothorax air pocket. It meant another day of obs and X-rays. Oh, the tedium. It was touch and go, but at 9.30 p.m. on Sunday they said I could go home if someone collected me. Wife came straight away. 

Monday, back home, able to breathe and walk about without much panting, I felt very emotional all day. It has been a difficult week, for this and other reasons too. 

3.2 litres! Where had it all been? How to lose weight - I weigh about 7 pounds (more than 3kg) less. 3 days with what looks like wine making equipment in your back. I wonder if you can ferment it. Would you like a glass of my special wine? 

Folk Ensemble

Naughty to post this because it is not my video. I might have to remove it. 

The folk ensemble when I was still just well enough to attend. A bit untogether, but I miss it. This is from a Cèilidh rehearsal, but which is me, and which is Mrs. D.? Playing a life Cèilidh can be hilarious, especially when people get mixed up, or seem not to know their right from their left: "Next, link your right arms ... no, not that right arm, your other right arm." 

https://youtu.be/iYGN5T2vCqA

And here is another.

https://youtu.be/LhqMOvtpbXE

I am finding it difficult to respond to comments at the moment. 

Not Well

I wrote this on Thursday but did not post. 

Struggling physically and mentally. 

Finding it hard to do anything. 

I fear the game may be up. 

Did well Tuesday: MRI, CT, and blood test. Very tiring. Wife brilliant getting me there for 9.00 a.m. Results will be informative. 

Have a post scheduled for tomorrow (Friday). But after that? 

Still hope to be here to see a million page views. Not far to go. 

On Friday I was going to call the help line, but they called me first. They wanted me at the hospital again, urgently. Was there all day, mostly waiting for more test results and discussions. 

It seems I have a blood clot and a new area of active tumour growth. 

I have been put on a 20-day course of steroids to reduce any possible brain swelling, and blood thinners to reduce the chance of further clots. The self-administered thinner jabs are difficult. They also want me in for one or two nights to drain the fluid from around my chest and lungs. Oh what fun that sounds, but it should make breathing easier. Consultant team will discuss results this week. It might mean more Gamma Knife. Am beginning to feel a bit better as the steroids take effect; it is usually fairly quick. And at least on blood thinners they might have less trouble getting a canula to work.   

Not happy. But they have not written me off yet. 

Have now caught up with comments on last posts. 

The Clergy House

The Clergy House
Leeds Parish Church
Leeds LS2 7EY

It was the most prestigious address I ever had. In central Leeds, it was a fantastic place to live. The rooms were enormous, and there was a kitchen, a sitting room with a television, and a large, dry, furnished cellar for guitar practice. I was there for nearly a year. Not that I was a member of the clergy, nor a church-goer. It came about by chance and good luck. 

I was tired of the shared house in Headingley. I had been in it and its predecessor for five years, through a succession of house-mates, and we would soon have to find two more. Pete, who owned it, clearly wanted to sell after having married and moved out. 

A chap at work mentioned he was leaving his address, so I asked where it was. “The Clergy House behind Leeds Parish Church”, he said (now known as Leeds Minster), which obviously drew more questions. 

The house was once accommodation for the clergy, but none were there now and rooms were rented out. Murray, the full-time organist and choirmaster had one, along with two choral music students, and a chap called John who had some church connection, although I am not sure what. 

I moved in. I had the attic room right at the top partly hidden by the tree. When Brendan from the shared house saw it, he took the room across the corridor. Then, Gavin, who had previously been with us but more recently in University Halls, took the room below mine. And I had been thinking I was about to escape! Murray, whose duties also included managing the house, was delighted. He had filled all the empty rooms at a stroke. Murray Stewart later went on to a glittering career as an organist and orchestral conductor. 

The main problem with the two attic rooms was that the bathroom and toilet were on the floor below. But we did have washbasins in the rooms, which can be multipurpose for men. Useful in the night if you had been next door to The Palace pub. 

There was ample parking. Here, looking from my window, is my red Mini Van and Gavin’s Vauxhall beside the church. 

We saw little of church activities. A small room next to the front door was set up as a chapel, but it was rarely used. Brendan and I dared each other to swig the communion wine. 

Sometimes I would return from work to find the Vicar, Canon Graham Foley, in the kitchen smoking a cigarette and looking shifty. He was never very communicative. He later went on to the Bishoprics of Reading and Oxford, and was nationally sought after as a witty and entertaining after-dinner speaker. 

To the West side of the church was a row of dilapidated cottages, only one still occupied by an elderly house-bound widow. When John was away I was detailed to call in each day and check that she was all right and if she needed anything. She had been there for years, but now lived in just one room and never went upstairs. I wish I had shown more interest.  

We were served short notice to leave. The Church wanted to increase the income by converting the rooms into self-contained bed-sits. It was supposedly illegal simply to kick people out like that, and Murray had done his job too well by issuing rent books containing terms and conditions, so I tried to resist by citing tenants’ rights. It brought down the full weight of the Church solicitor, Councillor Crotty, who said I was a licensee not a tenant. I had been planning to stay another year until I went to university. I took the easiest option and moved to a vacant room in my cousin’s house, sharing with two nurses. But not before, in a fit of pique, I phreaked the house telephone lock and had a long conversation with my friend Hugo in Belgium. 

On a day out in Leeds a few years ago, I wondered what had become of the place. It was still there behind the church and under renovation. It was now called St. Peter’s House and was being converted into luxury apartments costing a quarter of a million pounds each. This is how it looks now.

I also found the agent’s bullshit.

St Peter’s House ... sensitively converted into 8 one bedroom apartments which incorporate many of the building’s original features. The apartments offer a rare opportunity to live in a refurbished historic building in the heart of Leeds city centre.

No two apartments are exactly the same and most have the individual features which are typically associated with a heritage building. Apartments with a northerly outlook enjoy views of Leeds Minster whilst those with southerly aspects overlook The Calls. All the apartments are single level.

Finished to a high specification throughout, including contemporary kitchens and stylish bathrooms, the apartments offer the chance for discerning home owners the opportunity to enjoy luxury living in the vibrant centre of Leeds.

Here are a couple of pictures of my tip of a room during the long hot drought of 1976, and one of how it looks today (although it might be Brendan’s room at the back which was much the same). You can make up your own mind about sensitive conversion and heritage features. 

Career Analysts

Another self-indulgent piece I have been hesitant to post, but what the heck, it was all so long ago. 

Long-time readers may recall I left accountancy to go to university in my mid-twenties. Nearly everyone said it was stupid, and even my most supportive friends were dubious. “Don’t cock it up this time”, Brendan said, face contorted at the thought. 

My record hardly inspired confidence: weak and failed exams at school, the same in accountancy, and teacher training abandoned after just one term. I couldn’t succeed at anything. Examinations either asked questions I could not answer, or questions I could not remember the answers to. It was destructive and self-defeating, but you keep it to yourself and pretend to the outside world that all is well. What gave me the nerve to try again? 

Desperation, you could say. But there was one other factor. In 1976, I sought professional careers advice. This was not the free-of-charge Local Education Authority service I had tried a couple of times and found superficial and low in quality. It was from a leading London firm called Career Analysts. I can’t remember what it cost, possibly around £80. It also involved a day in London. It was not cheap. Career Analysts still operates, and similar advice is nearly £900 now. My employer might have paid, they were good like that with staff development, but having given notice, I had to fund it myself. It was money well spent.  

There was a lengthy morning of pencil-and-paper tests, followed in the afternoon by a searching face-to-face discussion with an Occupational Psychologist. It is interesting, after fifty years, to look back at the report. 

One test, the Connolly Occupational Interest Questionnaire, identified preferences for different kinds of activities. I scored highest on the Welfare and Literary scales, but below average on Persuasive, Artistic, Computational, Scientific, and Practical activities.  

Another test looked at values. I had above or well-above-average Altruistic, Intellectual, and Aesthetic values, but much lower Power, Material, and Religious. This was said to indicate someone “rather emotional, sensitive and imaginative”, making me “fairly quiet, reserved and introverted”.  

But it was the longest and most extensive set of tests, the Morrisby Differential Test Battery, that surprised the psychologist. This was an intelligence test of seven different aptitudes. It was very difficult. I was above average in everything, scoring exceptionally high in problem-solving and numerical skills, and in the top 10% for Verbal items and handling detail. Perceptual, shape, and mechanical aptitudes were also high. The report said it showed a “very high level of ability”, and I was “certainly capable of passing an Honours degree or professional exams”. And I had thought I was no good at anything! 

It was flattering, but before being accused of showing off it is no big deal. The tests simply say that I am good with numbers and can concentrate on detail. As regards the CST (Compound Series Test) of problem-solving, it is only like Sudoku with shapes instead of numbers. The other things are not unusual; for example, lots of bloggers are better writers, blessed with wit, wisdom, and powers of expression the likes of which I could never hope to have. And whatever intelligence may be, the tests show but a part of it. They say nothing about important qualities such as memory, motivation, social skills, emotional intelligence, plain common sense, and so on, in many of which I am sadly deficient.  

However, it did raise the question of why my exam results had not been what they should have been. From our discussion, the psychologist thought I had been scraping through without proper study and exam techniques, and that emotionality had held me back. It explained the inability to do exams. He was not surprised I was unhappy. I was not occupied in ways best suited to my interests, aptitudes, and values, nor at an appropriate level, my succession of accountancy jobs having deteriorated into the compilation of monthly reports. Career-wise, it left the difficulty of obtaining the basic qualifications to change or progress. 

One of several suggestions was to take two Advanced Level subjects at evening classes, with a view to university the following year. I could work full-time until Christmas and save enough then to concentrate on studies through to the exams. They would be happy to act as referees for my university application. It was only what I wanted to hear, but to be told it was not unrealistic by an unbiased, objective, third party, helped repair confidence and sense of direction. 

Regarding subjects, the aptitude tests rules nothing out, but interests and values suggested avoiding the scientific and mathematical in favour of people and ideas, such as Literature and History. Then at university, Literature, History, Psychology, or Sociology would be appropriate, depending on whether I might prefer an administrative or welfare type of career. I took English Literature and Geography at evening classes, and Psychology at university. I worked hard, got the syllabuses, practised answering past questions, followed all the advice, and things began to go well. 

Considering my interests were not “of a scientific, technical or design kind”, it might seem odd I later went on to gain qualifications and work in Computing, but occupational interests give a snapshot in time, which reflected a desperate wish to escape accountancy and work more with people. At other times the results might have been different. Also, my kind of computing involved a large slice of psychology and creativity. Most areas of science and technology are exciting if they catch your imagination. They crush the wonder out of it at school. 

Unlike interests, I doubt personality values change much through life. My dad always said we were too sensitive as a family, and I say the same to my children now. Should I worry about being labelled “emotional, sensitive, quiet, reserved, and introverted”? Does it sound weak and ineffectual? It probably overstates it, I am no pushover, but I would certainly not be much good as a ruthless salesman, or in dominating a class of unruly teenagers. Much as we might wish we were different, it is better to know and be happy in ourselves. I sense that most bloggers have this kind of contemplative nature. 

It makes us easy prey to those who do score highly on the Power and Material scales, especially the shits that seek to control and use others to further their own careers. It has been my misfortune to fall into the jurisdiction of two such individuals. They cannot understand that some of us are cooperative rather than competitive, and work for satisfaction as much as material reward. It helps to understand this. DLTBGYD. 

Grandad Dunham’s Flight Simulator

New Month Old Post: first posted 18th November, 2015

SGI Dogfight for the IRIS workstation

Like something from the future, it was the most amazing colour graphics workstation I had ever seen. I had got a job in a university where it was used to understand complex proteins by constructing and manipulating computer-generated images of the kind of ball and stick molecular models photographed with Watson and Crick in the nineteen-fifties. These models give insights into life at the sub-microscopic level, such as how molecules of oxygen displace molecules of carbon dioxide in haemoglobin. The details are so magically implausible you could come to believe in creationism. One researcher was moved to tears on seeing for the first time an image of part of the antibody she had been working on for three years.

It was the nineteen-eighties. The workstation came with a set of demonstration programs, among them a flight simulator. It was well in advance of anything any of us had seen before. The best you could have at home at that time, which replicated the dynamics of flight and motion with any reasonable accuracy, were black-and-white wire-frame simulations such as ‘Aviator’ and ‘Elite’ for the BBC Computer. The workstation simulator had coloured graphics and a choice of aircraft. You may now pause for a moment to speculate about the relative amounts of time we spent flying aeroplanes and modelling proteins.

At first, I was the only one who could land the Jumbo Jet without crashing. I had not wasted hundreds of hours flying under the ‘Aviator’ suspension bridge for nothing. I was one of the glorious few to have fought my way through to the secret code for my ‘Elite’ badge. What the others did not seem able to grasp – and some of them are now eminent professors – is that the pilot of a Jumbo-Jet sits the equivalent of three storeys high. You are still thirty feet up in the air as you touch down. If you try to land with your seat at ground level you will be too low, and smash into the runway with terrific force and die.

It all seemed terrifically futuristic. Yet my brother had a flight simulator twenty years earlier in the early nineteen-sixties. You might call it Grandad Dunham’s flight simulator. How could that be? Grandad Dunham was our great-grandfather who died in 1941. He spent the last two years of his life living with his daughter’s family. When he moved in, his son-in-law carried his chair through the streets of the town on his back.

I now have that very same chair, twice refurbished, and very comfortable it is too. On its back and covered with an eiderdown it makes a wonderful aeroplane cockpit. My brother played in it happily for hours. Sometimes he would let me be his co-pilot. He chalked some controls and instruments underneath the seat. They are still there after sixty years.

What makes it particularly poignant is that my brother died at thirty-six. The grandchildren he never saw are now about the same age he was when he drew those simple chalk marks. They can have all the latest tablets and smartphones, and simulators so realistic you forget they are only software. But one thing I do know. No matter how advanced the technology, it will never be one-half as much fun as Grandad Dunham’s eiderdown-covered chair with the chalk marks on its upturned seat.

Elite and Aviator for the BBC Computer