Hand Signals and Semaphor Indicators

Amongst the audiotapes I mentioned towards the end of last year, is one recorded by my aunt and cousins in the early nineteen-sixties. My uncle had taken a job in Germany, but they had yet to join him. They mention near the beginning that I had brought my recording machine so they could wish him a happy birthday. My own thirteen-year-old voice is heard briefly at the end of the tape, but the less said about that, the better.

What forgotten memories it brings back!  

After the usual birthday song, they talk about what they have been doing. My youngest cousin says: “Here is a song we learnt at school”, and begins to sing:

Sides together right,
Sides together left,
Sides together right left,
Sides together both.

We did that one in my year too. It was a dance in which you moved your arms about like a boy scout semaphore signaller. It then moves on to your toes: “Sides together point, sides together point ...”. Dear Miss Cowling: how you loved to join in. Remind me how to point both toes at the same time.

Then my aunt mentions she is about to take her driving test. Our town was a great place for it. It is completely flat with no hills. To test your hill start, you either did your three-point turn on a street with a particularly high camber, or went through a T-junction where the road rises a few inches due to the spoil dug out from the docks. There were also no traffic lights, no roundabouts, and only one zebra crossing. It limited what you could fail on. A few years later, I passed first time, four months after my seventeenth birthday. The test centre there closed years ago.

Even so, my aunt was anxious about the test. She took it in a Fiat 600 shipped back from a previous overseas stint in Aden. The Fiat was fine there, but a bit tinny and unsuited to the Yorkshire weather. There was always something wrong with it.

Things did not begin well. She told the story many times. To say she was a nervous driver, lacking in confidence, would be understatement. The examiner made no attempt to put her at ease, staring blank-faced ahead throughout, giving strict instructions in a stern voice. 

In those days, you had to be able to use hand signals. Remember those? Sides together right for a right turn, a kind of circling movement for left, and a wave like a sea gull to slow down. There were also special signals for white-gloved policemen on point duty. It was not easy through the tiny windows of the Fiat, especially if it was throwing it down with rain. The longer it went on, the surer my aunt became that she had failed.

It was a relief to finish the hand signals and be allowed to use the electronic indicators. However, the Fiat did not have the modern self-cancelling flashing lights we have now. They were the old semaphore type. A little orange-tipped arm, about six inches long, flipped out from the side of the wing. You had to remember to put it back in again after you had turned.

So when one of the semaphore indicators flipped out but refused to flip back in again, my aunt lost all remaining hope of success. She pulled up, got out, and tried to push it back in by hand, but it was firmly stuck.  

“Well, that’s it now,” she sighed hopelessly. “I’ve failed. Drive me back to the test centre and I can go home.”

The examiner was stolidly unsympathetic.  

“Get back in woman,” he barked.

She meekly did as told and completed the rest of the test using hand signals.

When they got back, my aunt answered the obligatory questions about road signs, braking distances, and the Highway Code, certain it was futile. The examiner completed his paperwork in stony silence.

“I am pleased to inform you that you have passed,” he announced. He had to repeat it.

“Thank you. Oh thank you,” she stuttered in disbelief. “I promise I won’t let you down.” 

1957 Fiat 600

Breasts

What a title to grab attention! I wonder what the hit rate will be. However, those here for salacious reasons (you know who you are) may be disappointed. This is not what you are looking for. It is about embarrassing side-effects of the Tepotinib medicine I take. 

And they truly can be embarrassing. It messes with your proteins and hormones to strange effect. In an earlier post I mentioned scrotal oedema (14th November). It has you rolling round like a bow-legged sailor. Fortunately, this has now subsided and I can go back to sea; well, walk around the village and do the gardening, at least.

But there is a still more embarrassing side-effect, which I would not be mentioning at all had it not been sorted: gynaecomastia. It translates from the Greek as “female breast”: man boobs.

I am not talking about a bit too much flab and fat in the chest department (you also know who you are; we think we do too), but something more uncomfortable. It took a month or two to pluck up the courage to tell the consultant I was a little sore around the nipples. A month later it was becoming painful. A hug from my wife had me crying out, and bumping against a door frame made me writhe in agony. I don’t know how you women manage. Breast feeding must be a nightmare. There were hard circular lumps under the skin and they were growing bigger. I began to worry it might show.

The consultant said it was not something he had come across with Tepotinib, but he did an additional blood test. My testosterone levels were right down. Both men and women produce testosterone and oestrogen in different proportions. My testosterone was around the female level.

Four months and four jabs in the bum later, I am relieved to report that it has gone completely. The jabs could have been at shorter intervals, but I went for a more careful approach.  I didn’t want to start acting like Rambo.

No further jabs needed. I now have a gel you rub on - no, not there - you rub it on your shoulders. 

“Testogel”, would you believe? Two pumps per day. Phwoar! 

You have to wash your hands thoroughly afterwards, and on first use prime the pump and dispose of what comes out. Quite a bit goes down the sink. I suppose somewhere there is a fish with a beard and a deep voice.