Heeeee!
Fabulously entertaining post, particularly as last weekend there were a lot of “Well *I* don’t know, I’m a townie!” comments.

Yep, come and protest folks, please, come and sit in the middle of roads and fuck us all up.
But don’t mess with cows.
Heeeeee!

http://www.bigad.com.au/

Go watch it.
Now.

Woooo! I spent the weekend in Bridge of Balgie, have you ever been there? Neither had I, it’s brilliant! It looks a lot like this!

Myself and the bloke were taking part in a training weekend being run by SCN, I’ve written about these guys before but they’re essentially a group of people skilled in Casualty Simulation; using makeup and acting to portray various injuries and conditions so that medics can practice on them. SCN also do lots of work with auxiliary emergency services like mountain rescue and the coastguard, it’s all very well dragging a dummy out of the harbour in practice, but when the dummy’s screaming and bleeding it adds a whole new element to your drill!

Bloke was keen to find out more about the type of scenes we can put together as he wants to use us to train his first aid cadets, his main problem is that the cadets in his organisation aren’t allowed to go out on duty until they’re 16, but they often join at 10! That’s 6 years of book studies and theory before you’re allowed to touch a patient, then suddenly you get old enough and you’re expected to fix people. He’s keen to get them treating fake patients first to build up their confidence.

Either way, the two of us motored up on Friday night, myself driving, himself with the map. Now, I won’t comment on his navigation skills, cos he got us there, but see when you turn onto a road barely wider than your car and the navigator utters a small “oh”? That’s not good.
Wasn’t as bad as we feared, though the ‘wee cut across the moor’ turned out to involve driving over the top of a mountain, fantastic views though. We’ve decided I suffer from hypo-glen-sceneia, that’s a dangerously low level of nice mountainous vistas in the blood and occasionally have to get them topped up to remain a happy bunny.

That’s the venue up there, an old farm house (as far as we can tell) that’s been overhauled as an outdoor centre, it was bloody brilliant! Hot showers, loads of space, professional kitchen, lovely. We all convened for hugs, drinks, dinner and a quick briefing “There are adders out on the moors, don’t get bitten. Also, this area’s notorious for a particularly unpleasant type of E-Coli which CAN kill you. Wash your hands!” and retired to bed.

Next morning saw make-up practice first thing, where I gave young Matthew a dirty great burn hole in his face (nasty pic warning).

He got his own back by lacerating my leg.

And Big Dave from Caithness seemed to develop some sort of nasty necrosis.

Then it was back to the classroom for workshops in Mass Incident Management, Triage, navigation, stage combat and portraying emotional/psychological problems. Hooo, we’re a laugh a minute, us.

We wrapped up and *ahem* spent some time perfecting the finer arts of prehospital care.

That night we settled down to an amazing dinner of homemade steak pies and veggies and stared forlornly out the windows, where vast black clouds of midgies were gathering. There was much muttering, acting casualties or not, we all started off in this game as emergency care people, be that first aiders or ambulance crews and a number of us were ITCHING to treat something nasty before bedtime. Midgies, however, are not to be trifled with and so those of us who were in the mood not only for a big scenario to happen but also to be the ones who made the medics’ lives hell got to work.
A terrorist attack! Yay! Topical and scary, what more could we ask for? We hastily blacked out an entire corridor upstairs and set about making up our injuries.

These people had a bad day.
The scenario was run that we, the casualties, all worked for the Civil Service and had been instrumental in running the G8 conference. Having had a heavy month, what with the conference, the Make Poverty History efforts and the bombings in London, we’d taken a weekend out to come into the Highlands and relax. On returning from a hillwalk, we found our accommodation full of men with ski masks who overpowered us, stuck us in a corridor and blew us up, leaving a one of their number behind, with a little gift.

To make matters worse for the medics, all the doors in the corridor were wired to explode, the only light was a distress strobe which we’d hung from the ceiling (firing effectively a camera flash every 3 seconds) and the whole scene was played to a background of sirens played LOUD on a mobile phone hidden near the roof.
So that’s pitch black, flashing lights, wailing sirens, no space and panicked, injured people.
Just another Saturday night with us, really.

The laugh from this scenario was as I was sitting in ‘casualty clearing’, the one room we’d allowed the team to move casualties into, unfortunately it was also the bedroom of the two young lads you see in the pictures above. The scene is intense, people are screaming and crying, traumatized, bleeding; I’m not wearing my glasses and see vaguely see Ben, seven, sitting in the corner with his head bowed. I whispered to Elaine who was treating me that it might be an idea to check on him, she thought I was acting, so I used our ‘this is for real’ codeword. “Nah, run a quick 10-20 on him, this is pretty heavy.”
Ben wasn’t upset at all, exhausted by the day’s proceedings and the fact that it was past eleven, he’d nodded off in the middle of a bombing aftermath. We’ll make a medic of him yet!

An hour later, ‘time’ was called and we stopped acting, emotionally and physically knackering and the first aid crews weren’t much better!

The next day half of the group went off on a hillwalk, so we decided to line up a surprise for them on their return. Stabbings, hangings, skull fractures, chest infections, post-seizure epileptics, they were all waiting for the walkers as they came off the hill.
Considering that it was Sunday afternoon, they all did reasonably well, though some were thrown by the red herrings that had been put in. Just because the casualty is smoking from a hash pipe on approach doesn’t mean that’s the ONLY reason he’s not making any sense!

We packed, ate, cleaned, left the visitor book with it’s most unusual entry yet “Lovely scenery, hot showers, terrorist attack on Saturday night, thankfully all pretend!”, hugged and jumped into our cars, convoying out through the glens, peeling off from each other with cheerful beeps and waves.

The next one’s in October.
Can’t wait.

Eeep.
It would appear, dear readership, that I may have come across as a bit of a heartless prick and as such, I would like to give you all a homework assignment.

Go back to 25BRAVO02, reread and tell me in the comment of this post what you think it’s about, with backing up evidence if possible.

Post your comment without reading others, please, I’m just looking for your response.

UPDATE! Editted to fix the link, I’m a twunt.

The following has nothing to do with:
Legal
Medical
Libraries

So those of you who come here for tales of blood and puke, witty and insightful rhetoric on the latest cases or thrilling stories of shelving books should leave.

Recently I’ve been taking a look at childhood memories and viewing them as an adult, all those times my parents freaked out about something that I didn’t understand I can now view as a boring grown-up and am, frankly, staggered I’m still alive.

Case 1:
While fishing for crabs off the pier (aged about 8), I’m offered the chance to go out on a proper boat and fish with some of the men from the island. The island has a population of 80, I know everyone, there is no stranger danger, I hop in and spend an enjoyable few hours bobbing up and down and catching not a damn thing.
Meanwhile my parents come to the pier to collect me for lunch and find their youngest son quite absent, most probably leaving behind him some remnant of his belongings, like a jumper, rucksack similar.
Parents, understandably, shit. Spend frantic hours searching surrounding beaches, ringing houses all over island, convinced I’ve been swept out to sea. I return home salty and tired and wonder why I receive the bollocking of my life and get sent to bed.

Case 2.
I’m in the quarry behind our house (probably about 10), plinking away at beer cans and coke bottles with an air rifle. It jams.
Do I leave it outside?
Do I bugegery.
Do I carry a loaded and primed gun into the kitchen, lay it down in front of my father and forlornly say “It won’t fire?”.
Yup.
Bollocked?
Yup.
Gun fixed?
Yup.
Thanks Dad!

Case 3.
Having been given some money from a great-uncle’s estate, I am bought a spanking new BMX bike, it goes like the wind, especially down-hill.
Now, to understand the amazing stupidity and luck of this story, you need to know a little bit about Maggie.

Maggie Harcus is, without doubt, one of the greatest people who has ever walked this earth. Maggie has lived on Papay all her life, running her croft and generally being instrumental in getting everything organised, ever. When the co-operative shop got given a new digital till, there was significant consternation amongst the islanders as to whether or not they could understand how it worked. In her late 60s at the time, Maggie sat down and taught herself how to operate the machine, then stood up and said to the crowd “Well, if I can do it, you youngsters have no excuse.”. Now 82, she’s just had her first book published.

Perhaps the most well known aspect of Maggie is her famous blue tractor, not for Maggie a little Nova or Corsa, or even a mobility scooter. No, a 40 year old Massey Ferguson tractor will do the job, and has doing it ever since I first met her as a blonde-curled 3 year old.

Maggie goes everywhere on the tractor, to the shops, post office and kick, tourists would say “And we met a lovely lady in a tractor” and you’d KNOW it was Maggie.
I typed “Maggie Harcus” tractor into Google and got three hits!

ANYWAY, the tractor and my bike/juvenile stupidity, while Maggie remains one of the brightest and sharpest octogenarians in the known universe, her eyesight is, perhaps, not as razor-esque as her intellect.
This wasn’t a problem, Maggie could see the road and oncoming cars and when they met on those single laned tarmac ribbons, they’d work together to get by.

I know for a fact that eagle eyed drivers in Edinburgh don’t spot me, 6′2, 220lbs on a tall mountain bike unless I’m wearing a reflective vest.
It was, perhaps, asking a little much of Maggie to expect her to spot a little boy on his first proper bike.
As he overtook her.

I was going downhill, full of the joys of life and spring, I realised I *could* go faster than Maggie’s tractor, so I did.
But looking back, I’m amazed I wasn’t flattened.

I proudly told my parents of my accomplishments.
Bollocked.

So, parents, I’d just like to apologise for these various moments of heart-stopping stupidity; I imagine my elder brothers also did stupid things, but I can’t comment for them. As is, I imagine I’ve done enough for you to have thought on several occasions “My god, we had a sixth and he keeps trying to kill himself!”
You’re awesome. Thanks.

It’s the glass I remember,
sugar-dusting fragments and splinters;
picture, window, wine.

Trodden into carpet by my 11s,
toes lifting instinctively inside,
rubber soled protective.

It shifts beneath me, noisy as a glacier
crunch-screaming, rough edges over smooth.
Witness in this house of keening recriminations,
crisp as a gravel path, misplaced in a tenement flat.

In the walls, jagged shards in plaster,
a cheap menagerie by the skirting.
Dolphins, cats with balls of wool,
some dismembered, others whole;
I’ll step around them, precious reminders of red days past.

One kristall above them all,
twisted deep in screamer’s wrist.
Smeared claret red on its shiny surfaces.

A sobbing lassie in the background,
unhugged on her desert island,
stockinged feet no match for felsenmeer.

Push me,
I see the kid,
the bloodied wife,
the husband who turns his face and will not travel.

It’s the glass I remember.

Kal - 21/07/05

Well the opinions continue to roll in, so many people think I’m going to die at Amber’s hands I was getting a little disillusioned until a colleague stopped by my office the other day. Cockney jack-the-lad that he is, he’s always up for a chat. I mentioned Belgium and he was off.

“Worrrrr! Belgium? I LAV Belgium I do, I go every year. ‘Ere, I bet yoo’ve ‘ad loads of people goin’ “Belgium? Worra fack yoo goin’ there for?”M’I right? M’I? Facking right.
Well, let me tell yoo mate, it’s fackin’ brilliant, yoo’ll fackin’ love it. Seeya!”

And with that, he was gone.
Amber?
Zeno?
Did you set this one up?

I made a fabulous chicken pie last night, though I say so myself and it reminded me of a conversation a few days ago when we talked about “Root vegetable mash”, the standard silliness of any conversation led it to be christened “Rude vegetable mash” and as such I would like to present the accompanying dish for your dining pleasure.

“Creamed bastarding potatoes, arsehole carrots and your mother’s a whore parsnips, served with black pepper and nutmeg.”

It’s good, trust me.

Realised I’ve spoken about the Dungeon before, but never posted any pictures, so here’s me, being the anatomist.

I like to sit at my computer and post photos.
Eat it up.

Here we have my niece Corey, with her bear, by a standing stone.

Clever rhetoric will recommence tomorrow.