Listening to I Am Kloot's Northern Skies, never fails to make me cry.
Remonstrating to myself the mindlessness of it all, the salty sweetness as they fall.
Rubbish I know, but just didn't want to go all mushy on you again.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Why oh why.
A patient of mine suffered from an acute alcoholic withdrawal episode yesterday. Broke his shoulder. (That was the least of his concerns) Also now diabetic - his pancreas's given up on him.
He confessed to me this morning that his wife had smuggled several beers for him on the ward over the weekend.
This guy had been admitted with pancreatitis caused by alcohol excess - 2nd time in 3 years.
Yes he could have died.
I really don't know whether to pity his poor wife, who either didn't know better, or loved him too much to say no, or to try to smack some sense into her.
I just don't know what to think, sometimes.
He confessed to me this morning that his wife had smuggled several beers for him on the ward over the weekend.
This guy had been admitted with pancreatitis caused by alcohol excess - 2nd time in 3 years.
Yes he could have died.
I really don't know whether to pity his poor wife, who either didn't know better, or loved him too much to say no, or to try to smack some sense into her.
I just don't know what to think, sometimes.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Sai Gang.
You know the term that was so popularly used when we were back in the army? Sai(2) gang(1)? Well I'm starting surgery next week and have been arrowed to do bowel decompression on this patient once/twice a week. What you do is you stick a tube up the poor person's arse to allow faeces to flow out, said person having difficulties emptying his bowels1, obviously.
So, literally, sai gang.
1Due to a long-standing medical condition - shall not bore you with the details. Or disgust you, for that matter.
So, literally, sai gang.
1Due to a long-standing medical condition - shall not bore you with the details. Or disgust you, for that matter.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Oxford Brasserie - Southampton
Horrible place - horrible service, horrible food.
Obviously what follows is a totally subjective review based on my first (and last) visit to this place.
First impression was not too negative indeed - reached the place an hour before we were expected, and were ushered in despite the staff still having their dinner in a corner of the restaurant.
I guess the downward spiral started when my dad asked for the waitress's recommendation for his starter. She didn't seem too familiar with the menu itself, but credit to her, some quick-thinking ("not a fish dish, since you're having a fish platter for your main" - then, on discovering more than half the starters eliminated, nailed down the smoked duck, perhaps her favourite dish?) saved her blushes somewhat.
Then the bread and the starters arrived. The bread was hard, and cold; the octopus salad that mum and I had ordered had bits of octopus, assorted vegetables and wedges of tomato, all soaked in oil, like a diassembled DIY model car someone had left abandoned on the porch. Interesting concept, with random flashes of inspiration (beetroot surprisingly goes well with octopus - pity they'd probably run out of it, with the meagre piece in mine) but I don't normally associate playing with food at the table as particularly flattering, to food and individuals involved.
Oh and the calamari dad eventually ordered for his starter was so salty I had to douse my pieces in the tartar sauce provided1.
Plates eventually cleared, mains arrived. We had ordered rabbit, fish and fancy-named chicken, and they looked rather decent, if not impressive2. Real pity, then, that the legs of my headless chicken were pointing ominously at me, when the chef had plainly intended otherwise3.
Small complaint, really, when compared to the atrocious taste of all our dishes.
The twin themes running through our dishes seemed to be salt and oil - someone had obviously thought that copious amounts of oil could make anything taste good, and stimulating the tastebuds in any way was good enough for most people. That was the pre-dominant complaint from my mum; dad left his dish unfinished, which says a lot, really. And my chicken - well it seemed as if the chef had thought 'exotic' influences from all over the world could somehow all fit in a dish, but failed miserably, resulting in the confused chicken drowning in its multiple personalities. Oh and the vegetables - someone had obviously failed to mix in the salt properly, sullying what could have been a highlight of the meal.
And so half the plates were still full when the mains were cleared. And still the waitress had the cheek to ask if we wanted dessert. And had the cheek to say there was no discount provided, when it clearly was stated in our brochure that we (as serviced apartment guests) were entitled to. And then when I clearly indicated my displeasure by pressing "no gratuity" in the payment machine had the audacity to ask if I was from southampton4.
Thinking about it, the ironic "thank you" I had said upon leaving the restaurant was perhaps lost on them.
Please, if you ever go to Oxford street in Southampton, avoid this place. (It's separate from the 'oxford restaurant' situated next door, which in contrast is a decent place with quite decent food.)
__________________________________________________________________________________
1No the tartar sauce wasn't particularly good. Yes it really was that bad.
2Dad's platter of fish consisted of, well, various species of fish (and "king" prawns) drenched in oil, and placed unimaginatively on a plate; my fancy chicken was laid spread-eagled on the plate and smothered in sauce; mum's dissected rabbit was placed on a rather inviting bed of mashed potato. Vegetables came in separate dishes.
3There was an oriental-style carved flower placed near where the head might have been, together with some sprigs of parsley - even an amateur like me would have figured where that might have featured on the dish.
4Perhaps hinting that I did not know the rules of tipping - hell yeah like I would pay for rubbish service. Oh and in case you think I'm over-reacting, she had made no attempt at idle chatter right until she asked that question, after I had paid the bill.
Obviously what follows is a totally subjective review based on my first (and last) visit to this place.
First impression was not too negative indeed - reached the place an hour before we were expected, and were ushered in despite the staff still having their dinner in a corner of the restaurant.
I guess the downward spiral started when my dad asked for the waitress's recommendation for his starter. She didn't seem too familiar with the menu itself, but credit to her, some quick-thinking ("not a fish dish, since you're having a fish platter for your main" - then, on discovering more than half the starters eliminated, nailed down the smoked duck, perhaps her favourite dish?) saved her blushes somewhat.
Then the bread and the starters arrived. The bread was hard, and cold; the octopus salad that mum and I had ordered had bits of octopus, assorted vegetables and wedges of tomato, all soaked in oil, like a diassembled DIY model car someone had left abandoned on the porch. Interesting concept, with random flashes of inspiration (beetroot surprisingly goes well with octopus - pity they'd probably run out of it, with the meagre piece in mine) but I don't normally associate playing with food at the table as particularly flattering, to food and individuals involved.
Oh and the calamari dad eventually ordered for his starter was so salty I had to douse my pieces in the tartar sauce provided1.
Plates eventually cleared, mains arrived. We had ordered rabbit, fish and fancy-named chicken, and they looked rather decent, if not impressive2. Real pity, then, that the legs of my headless chicken were pointing ominously at me, when the chef had plainly intended otherwise3.
Small complaint, really, when compared to the atrocious taste of all our dishes.
The twin themes running through our dishes seemed to be salt and oil - someone had obviously thought that copious amounts of oil could make anything taste good, and stimulating the tastebuds in any way was good enough for most people. That was the pre-dominant complaint from my mum; dad left his dish unfinished, which says a lot, really. And my chicken - well it seemed as if the chef had thought 'exotic' influences from all over the world could somehow all fit in a dish, but failed miserably, resulting in the confused chicken drowning in its multiple personalities. Oh and the vegetables - someone had obviously failed to mix in the salt properly, sullying what could have been a highlight of the meal.
And so half the plates were still full when the mains were cleared. And still the waitress had the cheek to ask if we wanted dessert. And had the cheek to say there was no discount provided, when it clearly was stated in our brochure that we (as serviced apartment guests) were entitled to. And then when I clearly indicated my displeasure by pressing "no gratuity" in the payment machine had the audacity to ask if I was from southampton4.
Thinking about it, the ironic "thank you" I had said upon leaving the restaurant was perhaps lost on them.
Please, if you ever go to Oxford street in Southampton, avoid this place. (It's separate from the 'oxford restaurant' situated next door, which in contrast is a decent place with quite decent food.)
__________________________________________________________________________________
1No the tartar sauce wasn't particularly good. Yes it really was that bad.
2Dad's platter of fish consisted of, well, various species of fish (and "king" prawns) drenched in oil, and placed unimaginatively on a plate; my fancy chicken was laid spread-eagled on the plate and smothered in sauce; mum's dissected rabbit was placed on a rather inviting bed of mashed potato. Vegetables came in separate dishes.
3There was an oriental-style carved flower placed near where the head might have been, together with some sprigs of parsley - even an amateur like me would have figured where that might have featured on the dish.
4Perhaps hinting that I did not know the rules of tipping - hell yeah like I would pay for rubbish service. Oh and in case you think I'm over-reacting, she had made no attempt at idle chatter right until she asked that question, after I had paid the bill.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The Anatomy of Melancholy
If you find my posts rambling and incoherent at times, you haven't met the master. Saying that,http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif it is really a monumental work, worth reading - even if just a tiny selection of it. Spent a really fruitful few hours in the Wellcome library trawling through the abridged version. Probably not the most conventional way to spend part of a trip to London, but hey I did walk down to that cheap ticket office in Leicester Square, only to find that there weren't any good matinee shows on today. And this was after covering the bits of the British museum I'd missed the last time I visited. Enough walking, I think you'd agree, for a day.
Oh the reason for reading said book? It caught my eye, nestled craftily amongst the huge collection of (fake) books lining the walls of that gallery in above-mentioned museum.
Oh the reason for reading said book? It caught my eye, nestled craftily amongst the huge collection of (fake) books lining the walls of that gallery in above-mentioned museum.
In the British Museum
I found it quite odd that I was not the only Chinese guy in the Chinese section of the museum - indeed, I found it very disconcerting, the fact that there was a group of Chinese tourists wandering around, led by a tour guide who was describing the exhibits in detail in mandarin.
(Tourist) Trapped
I should have noticed the signs. Italian-looking cafe located right outside the British Museum, with signs advertising CHEAP MEALS (PASTA + SALAD + SOFT DRINK = 6.95) and an over-enthusiastic italian crew greeting customers on arrivhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifal. And the 'chef' making a beef sandwich from (admittedly good-looking) sliced beef on white sliced bread.
I guess I was hungry. And I had spotted a comfortable-looking chair, at a decent-looking table, unlike the stools and plastic table at the cafe inside. And there wasn't a queue. (Which on hindsight should have been another clue, I admit, but then the presence of several customers packing the rear fooled me.)
So I sat down, and ordered a pollo e asparagi rice dish under the authentic-looking heading 'risotti', and a cappuccino.
I must admit my doubts started to surface when I noticed the microwave located behind the sandwich counter (and what appeared to be liberal use of it1), but the cappuccino, which had arrived with typical italian efficiency, had allayed them2 somewhat.
But what greeted me when the rice dish arrived was beyond my worst imagination. Obviously microwaved (it looked like it had been emptied from a cheap inverted microwave container) it looked positively depressing, with several cubes of a decimated chicken vainly swimming against the tide of dyed3 basmati grains engulfing the dish. Oh and I spotted one lonely piece of courgette amongst the sea of red. No sign of any asparagus, tinned or frozen. At least they'd tried to add a twinge of authenticity by sprinkling some forlorn-looking parsley around the well-defined edges of the rice pile.
After that assault on the eyes came the inevitable battery of my poor tastebuds. I have to say, I was expecting a horrible concoction of indeterminable mashed-up flavours - but surprisingly, it didn't taste that bad. The chicken was rubbery, as expected, and the grains of rice anonymous, but taken together they tasted just as a microwaved ASDA meal might - cheap factory-produced muck that kept you alive in times of famine without too much distress.
Problem was, a microwaved meal might cost me 3 quid, while the price of this was more than double that.
So trapped as a tourist I had been, silly hungry fool that I was. You would do well to miss this restaurant - the only 'cafe' facing the museum that's somehow survived despite its food.
But then again with starbucks as its only competitor in the street...
________________________________________________________________________________
1Judging by the 'ding's we're all so familiar with sounding out at regular intervals.
2On a score of 1-10, where 1's starbucks coffee and 10's the best you've ever tasted, it came in somewhere between 3 and 4. Which isn't much, come to think of it - but I'm so used to the Maxwell House coffee provided in hospitals (-1) now that anything greater than 1's a bonus.
3Dyed red. Why red, I really don't know.
I guess I was hungry. And I had spotted a comfortable-looking chair, at a decent-looking table, unlike the stools and plastic table at the cafe inside. And there wasn't a queue. (Which on hindsight should have been another clue, I admit, but then the presence of several customers packing the rear fooled me.)
So I sat down, and ordered a pollo e asparagi rice dish under the authentic-looking heading 'risotti', and a cappuccino.
I must admit my doubts started to surface when I noticed the microwave located behind the sandwich counter (and what appeared to be liberal use of it1), but the cappuccino, which had arrived with typical italian efficiency, had allayed them2 somewhat.
But what greeted me when the rice dish arrived was beyond my worst imagination. Obviously microwaved (it looked like it had been emptied from a cheap inverted microwave container) it looked positively depressing, with several cubes of a decimated chicken vainly swimming against the tide of dyed3 basmati grains engulfing the dish. Oh and I spotted one lonely piece of courgette amongst the sea of red. No sign of any asparagus, tinned or frozen. At least they'd tried to add a twinge of authenticity by sprinkling some forlorn-looking parsley around the well-defined edges of the rice pile.
After that assault on the eyes came the inevitable battery of my poor tastebuds. I have to say, I was expecting a horrible concoction of indeterminable mashed-up flavours - but surprisingly, it didn't taste that bad. The chicken was rubbery, as expected, and the grains of rice anonymous, but taken together they tasted just as a microwaved ASDA meal might - cheap factory-produced muck that kept you alive in times of famine without too much distress.
Problem was, a microwaved meal might cost me 3 quid, while the price of this was more than double that.
So trapped as a tourist I had been, silly hungry fool that I was. You would do well to miss this restaurant - the only 'cafe' facing the museum that's somehow survived despite its food.
But then again with starbucks as its only competitor in the street...
________________________________________________________________________________
1Judging by the 'ding's we're all so familiar with sounding out at regular intervals.
2On a score of 1-10, where 1's starbucks coffee and 10's the best you've ever tasted, it came in somewhere between 3 and 4. Which isn't much, come to think of it - but I'm so used to the Maxwell House coffee provided in hospitals (-1) now that anything greater than 1's a bonus.
3Dyed red. Why red, I really don't know.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Psychosis.
Just a little note here that I wrote a few months back about psychosis.
It all starts with an innocent thought.
A naive, half-formed notion misplaced,
Mis-appropriated,
Misguided in its quest for resolution.
It's how delusions start, I believe. A mis-reading of actions by others, where gradually the usual mechanisms that keep our wild thoughts in check get eroded, re-programmed, if you like, sometimes knowingly, sometimes not. Then layer upon layer the mistakes accrue, till you get something so barmy nobody can understand - it's that little disconnect, that differentiates an odd but comprehensible thought process, and a pathological one.
For those of you in the know I know psychosis is much more than delusions, but note I'm just trying to demonstrate how delusions can be explained in a biochemical model (imagine thoughts as neurons 'aligning' and firing in synchronicity) here, just as how the occipital cortex gets activated in auditory hallucinations.
Fascinating aren't they, our brains.
It all starts with an innocent thought.
A naive, half-formed notion misplaced,
Mis-appropriated,
Misguided in its quest for resolution.
It's how delusions start, I believe. A mis-reading of actions by others, where gradually the usual mechanisms that keep our wild thoughts in check get eroded, re-programmed, if you like, sometimes knowingly, sometimes not. Then layer upon layer the mistakes accrue, till you get something so barmy nobody can understand - it's that little disconnect, that differentiates an odd but comprehensible thought process, and a pathological one.
For those of you in the know I know psychosis is much more than delusions, but note I'm just trying to demonstrate how delusions can be explained in a biochemical model (imagine thoughts as neurons 'aligning' and firing in synchronicity) here, just as how the occipital cortex gets activated in auditory hallucinations.
Fascinating aren't they, our brains.
Power!
Apologies for the lack of posts, life's been just a plodding journey of baby-steps so far.
Once in a while though, you get re-energised by songs such as these. Check out Vintage Trouble on Jools Holland, if you're in the UK - preferably on iplayer; the youtube one just doesn't do it justice. Marvellous album, btw.
Once in a while though, you get re-energised by songs such as these. Check out Vintage Trouble on Jools Holland, if you're in the UK - preferably on iplayer; the youtube one just doesn't do it justice. Marvellous album, btw.
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