This testosterone....

is just magic stuff, I tell you, pure unadulterated magic!

Whew, the power it gives you! At the weekend I was outrunning everyone, young and old, male and, er, male - no females in sight; powering up and down those ditches, taking all the wrong turns and still overtaking everyone. It was brilliant!

At night, when sleeping on my arm, I feel I am sleeping on Michelin man's pneumatic biceps.

As for the downstairs department - testosterone should be banned for males under the age of 18. Life of its own!

Should have thought of this years ago!

The poor soul

Here's a phone call to emergency services made by a five-year-old whose mum is lying on the floor unconscious, and he is alone with her and his 2-year-old brother.

You can hear his despair and distress as he is trying to get help, and his inability to understand what the operator is saying to him 'is she having a fit', 'move any dangerous object' - what's an 'object' to a five-year-old? My heart goes out to him!

'She's not the man I married'

Not sure what to think about this book. The author, 'Helen Boyd', is a woman married to a guy who is 'trans', as she calls it. When she got to know him, he was a cross-dresser, but now it seems that he wants to live more and more in a female role. She is worried that 'he' will become 'she' one day and she does not know how to handle this.

It seems she has already written a book about him/her - 'My Husband Betty'. But this current book is actually mostly about her self, 'Helen Boyd' (a pseudonym). The additional problem is that for a woman she is actually quite masculine; she was a tomboy as a child, and as an adult she is often seen as a lesbian, what with her dress style and, I suspect, general demeanour. So the roles in the marriage are all over the place; sometimes she is the husband, sometimes he is - but she does not fancy women, hence her concern about the future. Nothing actually happens in the book; she just reviews her childhood and their lives together, and Thinks About Things.

The whole book goes on and on and on about the accepted binary division of society into men and women, what she thinks makes women feminine and men masculine, although all the time she kyboshes stereotypes about typical 'male' or 'female' behaviour. Mostly she complains about being taken for something (ie lesbian) which she is not. To some degree one wonders if the problems could not be solved by some transplants - from him to her and vice versa.

It's quite interesting, reasonably well written, and tries to be a bit scientific/authorative but not the kind of book you could quote in an essay about sexual difference (which I will have to write in the next fortnight or so). It's better than 'misery lit' - but she could have said the same stuff in half the length of the book, or in a few articles. One wonders if it was meant to be a bit of therapy for the author. Those who know nothing about gender theory might find it illuminating (though they might not know that they need illuminating). Not sure that it is totally worth the money I spent on it.

'Sacred Country'

Why did Rose Tremain call her book 'Sacred Country'? What sacred country?

It's a book set in time from 1952 (the death of the King - of England) until more or less the present. A girl grows up in the countryside, but from the age of six identifies as a boy. She grows up in a farmer's family, where her father much prefers her younger brother, who his father wants to take over the farm. There's also another young man, Walter, who does not want to follow the path his family has prepared for him.

So all three are unhappy. The parents of Mary/Martin are not totally delighted themselves; mum keeps drifting in and out of the local mental hospital, and dad takes to drink. And you are expecting a happy end?

The book tells of Mary's/Martin's struggles to be who s/he is. It is only when s/he is 20 (in the 70s) or so that she first hears the word 'transsexual' (a lot earlier than when I heard it!). Finally she begins the treatment....Meanwhile Timmy, her little brother, feels that the land is not the right vocation for him and finds another one. And Walter also looks for his own direction, and eventually finds it.

The greatest of literature the book is not; not exactly at the level of Booker prize winners - not wonderful skills with words, the way some writers have. It's quite interesting, and unusual. Mixes the 'exotic' with the very plain. I wonder if Walter's story was a bit of padding. Does not really get into the minds of transsexuals, or show the distress they suffer while living in a role that the midwife/society has assigned to them; and the section on the treatment is rather poor - makes me wonder how much the writer researched that. And do they really do breast operations like that in the UK? But it might give people who know nothing about these topics a little bit of information.

I think there are better books on this topic - but I suppose it's a start. Very readable, for a longish flight or so.

'She's not the man I married'

Not sure what to think about this book. The author, 'Helen Boyd', is a woman married to a guy who is 'trans', as she calls it. When she got to know him, he was a cross-dresser, but now it seems that he wants to live more and more in a female role. She is worried that 'he' will become 'she' one day and she does not know how to handle this.

It seems she has already written a book about him/her - 'My Husband Betty'. But this current book is actually mostly about her self, 'Helen Boyd' (a pseudonym). The additional problem is that for a woman she is actually quite masculine; she was a tomboy as a child, and as an adult she is often seen as a lesbian, what with her dress style and, I suspect, general demeanour. So the roles in the marriage are all over the place; sometimes she is the husband, sometimes he is - but she does not fancy women, hence her concern about the future. Nothing actually happens in the book; she just reviews her childhood and their lives together, and Thinks About Things.

The whole book goes on and on and on about the accepted binary division of society into men and women, what she thinks makes women feminine and men masculine, although all the time she kyboshes stereotypes about typical 'male' or 'female' behaviour. Mostly she complains about being taken for something (ie lesbian) which she is not. To some degree one wonders if the problems could not be solved by some transplants - from him to her and vice versa.

It's quite interesting, reasonably well written, and tries to be a bit scientific/authorative but not the kind of book you could quote in an essay about sexual difference (which I will have to write in the next fortnight or so). It's better than 'misery lit' - but she could have said the same stuff in half the length of the book, or in a few articles. One wonders if it was meant to be a bit of therapy for the author. Those who know nothing about gender theory might find it illuminating (though they might not know that they need illuminating). Not sure that it is totally worth the money I spent on it.

Screening is bad for your ... nerves

Don't let anyone tell you that medical screening is good for you; the amount of nerves it must cost for every cancer it actually finds must almost balance out the benefits, quite apart from the cost of unnecessary and sometimes uncomfortable investigations.

There I was, about to begin some long-term treatment, and needing some tests beforehand. I swear that every time someone pointed an xray or an ultrasound at me they found something. Which then needed investigation, amongst others two cancer marker blood tests and a biopsy.

Result? I'm as fit as a fiddle. Just my hair has got greyer over the last few weeks....

You know how it is...

...in those cartoons, where someone cuts off a bit of a leg of a chair, to stop it wobbling, and he cuts it off too short, then starts sawing off bits of the other legs, and before you know it it's a stool....

That's how it was with my own hair cutting just now. I have a dinky little machine that I just run over my head and it had produced pretty good results so far (not that I can really see the back of my head....). And it was working nicely, and I was cutting off bits more and bits more - and suddenly it dug deep - and now I have a patch with very short hair indeed.

Well, I always wanted to see what I look like with extremely short hair (a No 1, roughly speaking). Guess tomorrow I will have a chance to find out. Unfortunately tomorrow is also the day that I might tell my other bit of news to a very good, albeit older, friend of mine - who a year ago, when I was still trying to be a woman, complemented me on my longer hair and (to him) good looks - and tomorrow he'll probably not even recognize this crew-cut person.

New Body!

Looking back, when at the start I gave this blog a name mimicking a feminist health manual, it should have got the prize for the most ironic title of the year.

Recently I discovered that my body and my self are in fact two very disparate items - my body is female, and now I know that my self is male! Now I am working on my body being united with my self.

In some way I probably always knew that, but somehow I had never drawn the relevant conclusions. Looking back (again!) I can see now that my life is just about the classic case of a transsexual.

For complicated family reasons which I won't go into, in childhood I had always tried to be 'a good little girl'; but also always rebelled in a quiet little way. Always played with boys, loved boys' toys, dressed like a boy where I could, could not deal with it when at the age of around 10 my girlfriends began to find boys interesting; growing up into a woman's body was a catastrophe.....I almost failed at school only just scraping through the final exams - but once I left home suddenly education became interesting and satisfying, with the result that in whatever I have studied I have been doing pretty damn well at, regardless whether it was social sciences, systems analysis and statistics, or music.

I nearly always had short hair; even when I had long hair people would take me for a guy; my clothes, while made for women, mostly were unisex and I was often taken for a guy. Particularly in places where I work, like the southern former Soviet Union and Central Asia, where women are feminine and I am not, it was always hard to use female public toilets (I don't do that any more!). And there are other aspects....

Happiness has been kind of a rare companion - I was very happy when my son was born (maybe my body was ok after all?), but thankfully he was a son and not a daughter. I don't know what I would have done had I produced a girl that likes pink! Ye gads! Instead I could now play with the toys that I had never had as a child - the railway track, the race track, and so on.

In the last few years my problem with anger management became more pronounced, and finally I went to get help. It took quite a few sessions with the therapist to find this 'transsexualism' problem - so deeply was it buried! And gee, it was scary at first! How could possibly I live and work(!) as a guy in conservative Eastern Europe?

But I thought I would try it out; first by wearing guy's clothes, and since August presenting as a guy. Luckily I am surrounded mostly by educated people who are all very supportive (you really know who your friends are in a situation like this). Of course there are also some prats but that's life. It's the problem of their little minds, not mine.

And now I hope to start the medical treatment soon - that will be fantastic. It's great to be a guy!

Variations on a theme of toothache

Oh heck!

Wednesday went to the dentist to finish off a little piece of work on a tooth on the right hand side which had got infected three weeks ago. In passing mentioned a little discomfort on the left side.

Dentist took a look and muttered something about a very large filling. Then took another look and realised that this (wisdom) tooth no longer has a friend above, and hence has started to rise up, creating a little pocket between it and the next tooth which caused debris to get stuck there. It has to come out, he told me.

I was aghast! After losing about 5 teeth before I was 25 I had always sworn I would fight for every further tooth! But arguing brought nothing, so out it came - with relative ease. That did not hurt, and it won't hurt later, he told me. I have a feeling he dropped a little silver thing into the hole. Bit surprised that it had only one root, but I see that sometimes the roots fuse.

Ha. 'Tis Saturday morning and I am now finding a good use for the painkilling medication I got after my hernia operation in January, when I did not need it. F*ck's sake. But when yesterday I went to finally finish off the other piece of work the other dentist said that it was healing well, and indeed it looks like it is healing well. But it still frigging hurts; I pray there is no infection.

Tomorrow I am off to Kazahkstan for three days and I'll have to manage the painkilling medication really well to survive flights and conferences etc. Last time I flew to Georgia I had a stinging headache and virtually no access to medication; that was horrific.

I wonder when it will stop hurting??

Smoking damages ....your balcony!

Smoking does not seem to be good for me.....Since starting in June (long story) I've developed an interesting little cough (can't blame the lungs, really), lost a filling from using chewing gum (repair almost completed), ....and last night managed to set my balcony alight!

So...it was a windy day - I hate it when the wind does the smoking for me. I kept the ashtray, as always, in a redundant windowbox filled with compost. Stubbed out all the cigarettes. One had blown out into the peat. No worries.

At 2.30 am I woke up from a dream. A little while later I thought there was a little smell of burning - but this is quite often in my neighbourhood. Strange time of day, all the same. Went to the loo; when I came back I noticed the smell was stronger in the bedroom than elsewhere. Strolled over to the window and opened the curtains.....to be greeted by a dainty row of flames dancing merrily along the front of the balcony.

So I rushed backwards and forwards between bathroom and balcony, and half a dozen buckets later it was out - some bits of the plastic window boxes have poured themselves down the edge of the balcony, another bit is glued to the floor.... Happy days. Given that the balcony overlooks a busy crossroads I thought that someone might have called the fire brigade, but thankfully no. Nor, it would appear, did any neighbours wake up, though the entrance to the casino was nicely marked by rivers of earthy water.

Now imagine the same scenario if I had not gone to bed, but left the country as I sometimes do at night.....

Babies, emotions and brain development

Have been reading a fascinating book by Sue Gerhardt, 'Why love matters'. Gerhardt is a psychotherapist who has been doing much work with babies and their mothers, and in this book collects much current research on babies and the effect of love, or otherwise, on their development. Not only does love make babies feel all warm inside, but it also directly affects their brain development, and the size of different parts of their brain, so they can deal better with stress throughout their lives. The window of opportunity for building an emotionally stable child/adult is past by the age of 2.

Gerhardt calls it 'regulating' when parents, usually mothers, help babies understand how they feel, are responsive to their needs, and provide whatever support the baby needs. It's not just that children need to be with their mothers (or other
permanent carer), but that this carer also responds adequately to the
child's needs. If the baby is thus made to feel secure, as a child and adult he or she can deal with most things life throws at them. If, however, infancy involves stress - no-one alleviates hunger, thirst, boredom, or worse, or the baby is left to cry because 'it's good for the lungs', or 'time there was some discipline', this leads to a permanently raised cortisol level, which inhibits the growth of parts of the brain, and later in life can cause people to explode at seemingly trivial matters. Nowadays all these things can be explained and proven by imagining techniques, which is a huge advantage on guesswork, and even on John Bowlby's attachment theory - effectively, it now even more scientifically confirms his research findings on children, who had attachment problems with their mothers.

She describes some of the (often adult) consequences of poor baby-regulating, for example:

• some babies may feel that they are not allowed to have feelings that their parent might not like, and thus have a level of unfulfilled need that even in adulthood can lead to a high level of dependency, and an inability to realise their own feelings in interactions with others, by trying to be too nice or too strong.
• babies who are not well-regulated grow into the thugs of tomorrow; Gerhardt suggests that already by the age of 2 the absence of positive affection can lead to later problems, especially if combined with a harsh parenting style. My experience of working with poor families, and with children in primary schools confirms this view - by 4 (school age in Scotland) it was already clear which children had more problems.
• poor parenting is passed on, not through genes, but because the parents themselves have not been well treated. Thus you get trouble-some families of the kind you see on 'Supernanny' every week.

Add to the babies whose mothers are unable to provide good parenting, those who lose their mothers, especially those who are placed in infant homes, and you have a recipe for disaster.

The solution? She suggests psychotherapy (she is one). But really, given the time that takes, and the very limited availability and funding, is anyone but a rich family or individual able to indulge in this? Poor families, especially in the UK, have no chance - they are just given ritalin for their lively children (the level of prescription in Scotland has risen nine-fold in 7 years,with 6% of children treated with this (a third of the rate of the US!). Seems to give a message - don't bother parenting, give the kid a pill. Horrifying!

The book is really quite technical, and not necessarily one that harassed new mothers can read easily. But it is a fantastic resource and a severe warning, that nothing is good enough for your baby.

Hmmmmm

Found some rhubarb in the supermarket today! Thanks to a tin of Bird's custard powder which came to me in Georgia via a very circuitous route, and which I then brought home to Vilnius, I am now set for a few weeks of bliss. I wonder if you can bottle rhubarb?

Geee, these Lithuanians

After my successful half-marathon a fortnight ago I thought that it would be a cinch taking part in an open 10k run in Vilnius. Piece of cake, I thought.

I did not much like the idea that the men and women ran separately. Especially considering that the women were only 22 in total and among these the Lithuanian ace runner participated, plus a Kenyan woman. Already among the men, who went up to 70, I noticed that they all looked as if they had run all their lives. Unlike participants of democratic marathons or half-marathons ....

One step beyond the start I was last! To be honest, it was a shitty route, four times along the side of the river, when we could have run very nicely into Vingiu Parkas, my usual route. My speed was quite awesome, 5.20 to 5.30 per km, despite being the last, but after 5 km I decided to let me hurting feet rest (maybe should not have run with new insoles that feel like stones in the shoes), and gave up. I could say that had we gone into the park, far from the start, I might not have given up....but I'm not sure.

Not happy. Need to go for a long run soon, and either try to improve my speed or find a more democratic group. At least I did maintain 5 km at an excellent speed.

Didn't she do well?

The half-marathon seems to have given wings to my feet (though my legs started to complain a bit halfway through the run). Managed to shave another 11 seconds per km off my best time for the distance, or 1.24 minutes for the total - and about half a minute per km off my average time for the distance.

Roll on more competitions!

First Half-marathon!

Vienna, Sunday, it’s 6.40 am and I’m at my computer, looking at the marathon website, which also has a countdown clock to the start. What? An hour and 15 minutes? But it was supposed to start at 9. Did I forget to change my watches? ….It seems there’s a mistake on the website….

7.56 am and I join the queue to the toilet, which I get to after a mere 23 minutes. Then I find myself a place in the group of 30,072 runners, and off we go, eventually. It’s ok. It’s a beautiful day, and not too difficult to run among other people. I don’t have a sense of extreme competitiveness which could be my downfall in a smaller group of people – it’s ok for people to pass me.

At 4 km my feet start to hurt (predictably; I can now go and get them looked at next week – before I did not dare because I knew I would be told not to run). At about 7 km other km signs appear – 38 – 27 and I realise that the full marathon runners will pass this place again.

The feeding stations are there, and usually the place of a scrum, not least because I’m in the middle of the bulk of the pack and the water has been used faster than they could fill up. Luckily I have my own supply, though not in dinky little bottles around my waist like many other runners.

At about 12 km I find a tap on my shoulder and my son appearing beside me, before taking an action photo – wait for it. A bit later the first people start to walk and I increasingly overtake people, though others also overtake me. At 16-17 km there’s a bit of a climb, somewhere near Schoenbrunn Castle (not that I noticed that!), and then it’s home all along Marienhilfer Strasse. The last couple of kms I overtake lots of people and sprint into the goal to the sounds of ‘Buona Serra’ from Rossini’s ‘Barber of Seville’ which I can still sing.

Took 2:02:31; with an average speed of 5:48 per km almost consistently throughout the run, which was better than my estimated 6 minutes per km (the maps of Vilnius must be quite good!). 39^th in my age-and-gender group out of 174 (some woman, born the year after me, finished in 1:34. Incredible!).

It feels great!

Getting ready....

My feet were killing me while out shopping yesterday in Vienna. Only realised how much when I bought some new, larger and wider shoes and I could feel them spread out and go 'aaaaah'. On return to the hotel found a bleeding toe-nail. (A friend who has run a half-marathon lost all his toenails after it. Mine are now cut short....).

Did a short run this morning, about 34 minutes - it felt good! It's amazing how much ground you can cover when running - went in a loop up the road from my hotel, and back down and across to the opera and back. Feeling quietly confident - hurting feet or no hurting feet.

Short breastfeeds best for baby?

This BBC story suggests that rather than letting your baby feed until he or she falls asleep, and as often as he or she likes, it's better to give them 10 minutes on each side, at least 2 and ideally 3 hours apart. They are said to grow quicker (put on weight more quickly) that way.

Sounds like the old-fashioned approach to 'discipline them young'. Not sure what Mr Freud would have to say about that, in terms of oral satisfaction, meeting the child's needs and all that.

Is there really a need, these days, for children to put on weight 'more quickly'? Most breastfed children seem to grow quite satisfactorily. Mine grew to a perfectly normal adult height, being fed for how long and when he wanted (like, all the time!). I also think that despite this approach he did not turn out particularly spoilt, or self-centred....

Though I remember that whilst still in hospital I had to feed him secretly because the nurses (elderly, 30 years ago) did not approve of all that 'meeting your [distressed] child's demands'.

Last Sunday before Half-marathon....

Lost the previous weekend's training effort what with having a cough on the Saturday and a humdinger of a hangover on the Sunday. Midweek training in Tbilisi is possible but usually suffers from inertia....

This weekend it's my (and Lexi's) turn to set the hash; we decided to do my running route. I don't think she realised how long it was, nor did I, for walking. And in fact it's shorter than my running route.

Walked around it on Friday night (and my foot promptly started hurting again), then I ran a longer version yesterday in what seems like an unusually short hour and 9 minutes, this morning we set the hash (took us 2 hours 25 minutes, at a slow walking speed), and this afternoon will have to run it. If I have bad luck and the running group is well spread out, I'll have to run backwards and forwards like a sheepdog to make sure they don't get lost.

Perfect timing - it's Palm Sunday today and the run goes around about 100 churches all of whom are extremely busy. Let's hope that has calmed down this afternoon. The number of police on the road near the cathedral this morning suggests that Misha, the President, will also attend there. Keep praying we won't get there together. We've been ever so sensitive about not using too much flour, especially near churches. With a worldwide wheat shortage coming on, we don't need to be seen to waste flour.

But with all this I should be in fine form for next weekend. Might take a short run in Vienna on Friday morning just for the experience and fitness, and then it's onwards and upwards. That's apart from all that training shlepping round the shops of Vienna; may be one of my last opportunities for major shopping this year in Vienna, and especially for running gear...

My body's not happy!

In March I had done really well, preparing for the Half-marathon in Vienna, now 2 weeks and 1 day away, until I get a cold. That's after running with a painful foot though it still allowed me to do so.

Stopped running for 10 days to cure the cold; did really well, I thought, and out again last weekend, which seemed a bit hard work, but was ok. Well - on Thursday went out, seemed a right struggle, heartrate sky high (though I also cut a minute or more off one bit of the route) - and yesterday started coughing.

Had hoped to do a last good long run this weekend, but can't do that now. And from now on I need to rest the body anyway for the event....It's bugging me.

Messing with someone else's mind

In Friedrichshain, Berlin, an 80-year-old searches his wallet and drops it onto the rails of the S-Bahn (a type of train).

So naturally, he climbs down to retrieve it. An S-Bahn comes round the corner, sees the guy and slams on the brakes. Too late - he passes the point where the pensioner....was. He just managed to duck to the side.

The pensioner is unhurt. The S-Bahn driver has been admitted to hospital, suffering from severe shock.

I hope the pensioner feels bad, too.

'Addiction to the Internet is an Illness'

tells us today's Observer.

Right.

The computer is going off (at 17.10) for the rest of the day, as soon as I have asked a question of my tutor.

Pounding the pavements of Vilnius

So, it's 5 weeks and a few days before my half-marathon on 27 April; I'm at home and now really ratching up my training. Someone suggested it was a bit late to do that now, but one has to run when one can, and one can't always follow a plan, not in my lifestyle.

10 days ago I ran 17 km, and worked out that four times round the park and there and back makes it about 21k. Which I did the following weekend, in just over 2 hours. Stopped running about 3 minutes from my home and found I could almost not put one foot in front of each other. Stagger, stagger, stagger. Probably should stop early more often, and not always run up to the front door, to allow for a stretch or two. But in the afternoon it was already better, and I never got any stiffness in the next day or two. So I can do it!

Sometimes I'm not entirely sure why I am doing it....after the run it always feels like an achievement, but do I really need 'measurable achievements' at my age? It's a good way of listening to music, though - although yesterday, for 9 km, I was stuck with Elgar's 2nd symphony; it was quite nice, but too never-ending.

Children are resilient?

Story on the Beeb today reports that US research has shown that children of anxious or depressed parents are more often sick. British consultants pooh-pooh the idea saying that 'children are highly resilient' and parents are not to worry.

Not convinced about that. Own experiences and some research I have done (the research admittedly being at the extreme end of child welfare problems) suggest that children are extremely sensitive to their parents' condition. Do they really think that stressed or depressed parents can hide their feelings so well that they can act relaxed with the children and that those don't notice? I don't think so - it must be even worse if children have never experienced their parents happy and relaxed.

Psychiatrists working with mothers with post-natal depression certainly worry about this enough because it can really interfere with the bonding of children and mothers. And, as we know, (as I know), bonding problems, and even more changes in carers in children's lives, especially in the first years, can interfere very significantly not only with their emotional development, but can also effectly wreck their future level of educational achievement (an infant who lacks proper attachment does not develop a certain part of his or her brain). Imagine, for example, children who are constantly moved around, from (often disturbed) parent to foster placement, back to parent, to another foster placement and so on. They haven't got a chance! (I will climb off my high horse now). There's a whole school of research into this, in connection with attachment theory and reactive attachment disorder. Google them.

People always say that children are resilient, particularly as they divorce - it makes the parents feel better, I guess. But the hidden damage in the children? Losing a parent is traumatic enough, and living with the remaining parent who may be anxious or depressed - and worrying about losing this parent, too - is far from easy for children.

What I wouldn't put in my body....

....would be the results of Delia's latest book 'How to Cheat at Cooking'. I could not, anyway, seeing that it involves many ready-cooked products not available outside the UK, and it would seem, currently inside the UK.

For those not in the know, Delia Smith is the British goddess of cooking, who taught us all how to cook (in one TV-based cookery course it went back to how to boil an egg). Her Complete Cookery Course is my bible for good old-fashion British cookery - maybe a bit heavy on the cholesterol these days, but I can afford it.....The rich rice pudding, with eggs and cream, the trifle with a double cream custard ..... you get the idea. It was all home made, down to the stock and everything. Delia has made a fortune in connecting books and TV series, and depending on what is on TV at the time, the supermarkets run out of it.

So she has produced this new book, on cheating at cooking. It includes using a lot of ready-cooked ingredients, like ready-cooked frozen aubergines, frozen mashed potatoes, tinned mince and so on. Here her recipes get scathing reviews - they are more difficult to put together than with fresh ingredients, and the tastes are awful, apparently. Well, try eating cupcakes made with frozen mashed potato!

But Delia may be laughing all the way to the bank - the first print-run was sold out before the book was even published.

Me, I'm off to eat my lovely home-made lemon chicken.....

Evening run

Always thought that running in the evening in Tbilisi is dirty and dangerous, but after not being able to drag myself out of bed this morning despite being awake at the right time, and it being a nice day and all, decided to do my morning tour at 6 pm, when it was still day light.

Actually, it was all right - most of the roads were as deserted as always, one road was full of traffic stuck in a jam, and I sailed past it (helpfully downhill, though while I looked around rather gloatingly, I overlooked a downhill step and came to my senses with a jolt). The main roads were a bit busy, but it was ok and manageable.
And that ratty little dog that always tries to chase me and get altogether too close was told off by someone, making its particular corner a bit more pleasant.

And now I'm done till Istanbul - where it'll also be very interesting and hilly - and nice and mild.

First Tbilisi run this year

Wow, it was hard work! After more than two months of running on the flat, or short distances in the gym, one or two ascents were a little bit beyond me. At least the ice had gone in most places, apart from one or two little stretches which I could only gingerly step across....Managed to do all the tricky corners of 'my' route, though I had forgotten about one dog which always yaps too damn close behind me in one place of the route.

Slight disappointment in the supermarket (though tinged with relief) - it no longer had my favourite liquorice-flavoured sweets, which are the reward for the Saturday run. Instead I bought some others which looked like liquorice torpedoes, but they are not....It'll save future calorie
overdoses. Then again, the shop goes through phases - I see it's still in its Kellogg's cornflakes phase - so maybe they'll return after a while.

Pounding the treadmill

Delighted to see rivers of water pour down the streets this evening; at least some sign of thawing. Though the weather forecast suggests that it'll be very cold over the next few nights, like minus 10 or so.

Have had to pound treadmills instead in the Marriott Hotel near my flat. At least I don't have to go far, and it's probably cheaper than the posh sports club far away. Also the Marriott is nice (I used to stay in the Yerevan Marriott - it's very luxurious and I used to have to remove endless pillows from the bed every night, but just sinking in to them, and the solidity of the furniture and fittings - the sameness of the furniture and fittings everywhere.....). At the fitness centre you get free water, lovely Marriott towels (I don't know how they control whether these towels 'take a walk' or not...); which is more than you get at the Impuls sports club in Vilnius for much the same price. You also have a nice view from this Marriott, and in the evening you can admire your svelte figure (or otherwise) in the reflection...

Not very busy - I was almost alone on Saturday morning; this evening I was surrounded by young Georgian men, though some of them exercising only their mobile phone arms (street shoes are such a give-away!). It's nice to know that my running speed, on a flat treadmill, is considerably higher than it used to be. I remember how proud I was to do 3 km in 24 minutes; today I did the same distance in 17 minutes. Probably could not keep that up for a half marathon, though....but practice makes perfect?

Now I can polish my halo a little...but on the other hand, it's only 10 weeks and a bit to the half marathon, and I need to crank up my distances. Please make that ice go away!

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...and still no running....

Here I am, on Saturday morning, sat in front of my computer all dressed to go out for my first Tbilisi run this year - and it has snowed overnight! 'eck!! Not that that would worry me, but it would be impossible to see the ice under the snow, and going for a run in those conditions is impossible. The other night, taking a little lane on the way home, I nearly got stranded on a clean little island in a sea of ice. At least tomorrow we'll go together for our hash, which in a crowd is a bit safer.

Vienna (half...) Marathon on 27 April - I'd hate to work out how many weeks are left until then. Lost a fortnight of training in January, and now almost again - the only gym nearby is in the Marriott hotel and I really don't want to pay for that (though it may be cheaper than a broken bone....).

If I break my neck, arm or leg...

...in the next few weeks it may not just be due to the ice which does not shift at all (yesterday and today my contribution to removing ice in Tbilisi was a total of 20 square centimetres each time), but also to the three gorgeous little pups living downstairs from me.

They are little Alsatians, covered in fluffy fur, what with being forced to sleep outside at the tender age of 2 months, and every time I come in or go out they race along to meet me (or anyone else). Consider that there are stairs into their garden, and bits of the stairs are covered in ice. But you can't put salt in a place used by delicate little puppy feet.

There are clear personalities, with always the same one standing back and surveying the situation a bit while the others just hurtle towards me. They are maternally deprived - not sure when their, rather mad and dangerous, mother left. There is another dog whose hut they sometimes invade (she does not encourage them, and being tied up it's difficult for her to play) but generally they are quite people focused.

It made me think about dog training. Here it's not done to lift dogs to your face, so they stay on the ground and I smile down at them. A long way down! Maybe that'll never give them the idea to jump up? (There's a message to be stored, should I ever get another dog.....) Often if I stand still, they will just sit around my feet and look up expectantly. Perfect opportunity to slip in a casual bit of 'sit' training, while they are so little. But they are not my dogs, so I should not try to educate them.....

I wonder if they will get vaccinated?

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Frosch washing liquid, new mix?

This blog is rapidly becoming hypochondriac's anonymous; was not meant to be....

Has Frosch, the nice environmentally friendly company which makes all the cleaning materials that I have used for the last 7 years, changed their washing liquid mix? Suddenly I am getting allergic reactions to some of my clothes, but recently I've been collecting allergies like smarties. Is there a different mix in Georgia compared to Lithuania - she asks having slipped out of a freshly washed bed and pyjamas this morning with interesting red blotches?

It's not quite what you would expect from an environmentally friendly company.....

You think of everything

....post hernia op, including arranging for someone to help with the luggage, and then you sit in a plane and the safety belt goes right across the scar! Not perfect - glad it was not a long journey.

It's hard to hide screaming fear...

...when it's your eyelids that are being 'attacked'. Would it be the same with the feet, or the hands?

After having my xanthelasmas removed a couple of weeks ago I had to go back for a 'control'. Piece of nonsense, I thought, it'll just be the clinic wanting to earn money. Though as it happens....see below.

The original procedure had been very ... uncomfortable. So when I was made to lie down again and had to close my eyes, with the doctor coming at them, the eyelids started to dance a salsa. If it had needed another procedure today I think I would have had to be put under!

What's worse...the doctor noticed that a little spot had been left behind. Using all my Lithuanian persuasion skills I suggested that no-one would possibly see that, and that it did not really need to be done. (When I pay for a procedure I feel I have a bit more power in this). This worked, and the 'control' was free - nice touch.

Of course, as soon as I got home and looked in the mirror, I could see the small left-behind bit as clearly as a beam across my face. Ho hum.

Back on the run

Started running again 15 days after my op; actually, it was fine. When you run, when I run, I'm not as upright as when I walk, so there is less strain on the op site. Only problem might have been if I slipped on the remaining ice, but managed to avoid that.

Have run for a total of 4 hours, or about 40 km in 8 days. Not entirely sure that qualifies as 'taking it easy' as I was supposed to do, but it's been fine. Speed has also improved again (ice does not help speed), so now onwards and upwards towards the Vienna (half) Marathon in April.

Scary clowns

A report in today's Scotsman reports that children in hospital find clowns scary. Those painted on the wall, that is. The University of Sheffield polled 250 children between 4 and 16 years of age and none of them liked clowns painted on walls.

Wow - even the oldest ones found them scary? I suppose clowns are not much part of today's life, when we don't have so many circuses, so children are not used to them. (I used to hate them in circuses because you'd get unexpected bangs; those drive me crazy even now). And those eyes looking at you.....

Why then are living clown doctors so successful? Or does this maybe gloss over the fact that not all children like them either?

It just shows how important it is to involve the users, or potential users of services, in service design. This is just about pictures on walls - what do the service users have to say about service delivery?

(In one recent hospital attendance, while I was waiting for a scary procedure, the staff turned on the radio loud in the waiting room, with pop music - maybe to help me relax. In another operating theatre the radio was running, with news and pop music. I can't abide pop music. In each case I asked for them to be turned off. It was my operation.....but what if the surgeon needs music while operating? Then whose operation is it?)

(Picture courtesy of the Humour Foundation)

Ouch!

This will be the last self-inflicted surgery on my body for a while! (Though the hernia op was necessary rather than desirable).

After getting shot of my glasses, I and other people noticed more the little cholesterol spots above my eyes. Especially people shorter than me. It's no problem getting shot of them, too, I was told.

Off I tootled to the beauty clinic that I trust (sounds as if I have been to hundreds - but here I know the medical director a bit, who gets wheeled out in the media every time someone talks about larger or smaller breasts. He's not getting his hands on mine - whichever way! Though he's an attractive young man....).

Long discussion about the hows and when. Options were surgical removal or laser. Both have after-effects I was told, of the puffy and bruising variety. Wunderbar.

Plumped for the laser technology, and in the middle of conversations which were harder to understand than at last week's op, managed to imply that I did not want anything for the pain. I thought 'after procedure pain' - can't be that bad, I thought; they delivered 'during procedure pain'. They certainly did. (To be honest, though, it's not supposed to be so good to have local anaesthesia in the face; there are risks!).

This is where this frigging communications thing comes in. Occasionally they would tell me what they did, and maybe they did it more often, but I did not understand - if I cannot see because my eyes are covered it really does not aid my understanding. So they'd come at me with the laser, clack, clack, clack - each 'clack' like being hit with a little pointy dart, and then something else that felt as if they were pulling things, very resistant things, out of my skin. I certainly did not have advance warning of everything they were doing to me. Having this information really helps to deal with discomfort - my experience in Turkey was wonderful in this regard. Definitely not like plucking your eyebrows - that would have been a walk-over in comparison.....

It had better work!

The weirdest feeling

So I had a little hernia op, nothing really, but got a so-called 'spinal' anaesthesia; what pregnant woman might know as an epidural. I was not certain about this, having heard stories of complications from my friends who had their children with form of this anaesthesia. But that was almost 30 years ago, and things might have changed. So I thought I would try it out.

Never again! If I can avoid it!

The process itself was perfect. You hear stories about the pain caused by injections into the spinal canal, but either that process has changed a lot, too, or the anaesthetist was extremely skilled - it hurt no more than having your blood taken.

But oh, the experience! It numbs you from the injection site down (I assume that pregnant women get it at a lower point in the spine to be able to push), and starts with your legs tingling.

Then it all goes dead. Wow! As it happens, I got some gas up my nose as well, and knew nothing about anything until the gas was removed afterwards, when I was completely and totally conscious again, in the recovery room. Bouncing off the walls and ceiling conscious, that is. Could have done with my Ipod there, had I known.

But oh, the legs. Still totally dead! You have no idea the weight that they have when they are, effectively, paralysed. Tried to lift them with my hands (but could not do very much anyway, under the watchful eye of the nurse). But somehow I must have had some feeling in them, because the mattress felt so soft around them, as if it was a duvet, molded just around the shape of each of my legs, with the knees slightly bent.

After an hour's screaming boredom which I finally ended by starting to use the metal cot sides of my bed as a percussion instrument, trying to 'play' some pieces I knew (we haf vays of getting our own way...), I got let back down to my room.

Was I glad when eventually I was able to move the toes of my right foot! I tried to sit up, seeing as there was nothing wrong with my arms, but my balance was totally out of kilter, and the different bits of the bed under the legs kept moving and unsettling me. If I tried to lift my legs, the bed followed them. Slowly, slowly, I began to get some control back - only to be told that after this anaesthesia you need to stay in bed for 24 hours (to prevent headaches or something). Oh 'eck!

But you know what? There was nothing wrong with the bed - it was a normal, one piece mattress, the same I spent almost all my time on - but the sensation while it lasted was totally different!

A weight loser who hates waste

Having lived through poor (though never starving poor) periods in my life, I hate wasting food. It's not so bad in Eastern Europe because if you really have an excess of food in the house, you can put it out on top of the bin, and poor and hungry people will find it and recycle it. Though it hurts putting out food that is still good, one has to be fair to those people, too.....

So there I had lost all that weight over the last 15 months or so, and I was worried about eating so much over Christmas. Indeed, the weight increased again, by up to 3.5 kg from the minimum (though that had only ever been reached for a brief period). It was still tolerable, though I could feel one shirt being a little tight round the top, and my ribs were not quite so visible (all my weight is in my legs - no-one will ever see my leg bones or even running muscles!).

Then two days ago I returned to eating normal quantities - and the excess weight is dropping off! Like a stone! Maybe my body really has found a new equilibrium which is much lower than the one I had during my heavy days. ....Let's see what happens when, after my op tomorrow, I can't run or walk much for a week or two....

I can't believe

...the blog titles that are still available! This is such an obvious one, for us women who have been round the block a bit...

In the 80s there was a feminist woman's health book called 'Our Bodies, Ourselves'. It had the aim of making women thoroughly familiar with their bodies, bits of which were often only touched by doctors or lovers. It empowered women to take care of their own bodies, informed them of signs and symptoms and their bodies' needs and capacities, relationship aspects and it was a wonderful, uplifting read. I see the book is still around, with a separate edition for the menopause (hmmm, yes, well....), and of course there is a website. Well done, ladies!

The body thing is interesting. Sociologists, of which I am one, I think, take a great interest in the human body and how it links with the mind and social conditions (much as David Levitin, in his book 'This is your brain on music' tries to link the physical aspects of music listening to the generally pleasurable experience of music listening). Sociologically the mind (as opposed to the brain) has an impact on the body - just think of 'I should go for a run' and what happens what you do or don't do. Representations of the body are interesting, too and how they affect people's lives - if you think of people of different appearances, whether they are young, old, black, white, tall, small - these are the first impressions you have of people, and that's how they are generally treated. It would be interesting to know, for example, whether the body of a poor heroin-user clad in rags, and that of a wealthy investment banker cocain user would be treated the same on arriving in A&E. People who undergo medical treatment are often referred to by the carers as 'that appendix over there' or 'that lung cancer' rather than as a person who has these conditions. Much like persons with disabilities are still referred to in some countries out East as 'the disabled', as if the disability defines their whole meaning. (I could go on and on; it's a fascinating subject....)

If this title had not been around, the blog might have been called something like 'Personal Stuff' because that's what it is. It's a split off from Viola in Vilnius on arts and music, and from Good Buy Lenin on general life in Eastern Europe. to cover purely personal stuff, like running, health and all those things that I do not consider typical for Eastern Europe. I'm not planning to go on whinging about health all the time, though.....