I just got my feedback from my interview.

It is not encouraging.

Time for a long hard think about things.

Reading it appears to have slipped a chunk of freezing glass in just behind my sternum.

I can feel it in there, it’s not very nice.

Let’s distract ourselves with what appears to be a video of a post-ictal cat.

I’ve been listening a lot to Katherine’s Radio Chatiry at work, as she had nice mixture of gentle, soulful jangle-music that I could get away with playing in the library. She did, unfortunately, occasionally stray into Yes and Huey Lewis and the News and as such I felt I had to take action.

So I set up Radio Traumaqueen, punched in the artists I enjoyed and sat back, thinking to myself “Oh this’ll be splendid, lovely Joni Mitchell-a-go-go, all suitable library music.”

Aye, righty.

It keeps throwing the WEIRDEST shit out at me. Like Yes and Huey Lewis and the News (what the fuck is Yahoo’s issue with nylon eighties wear and hairspray?!) . It also has a wee ticker along the bottom saying “This music was played because…” and then it runs things like “It is enjoyed by REM fans.” or “We are fucking with your head.”

My absolutely favourite reason so far has been “It matches your genre preferences.”
At no point, NO POINT did I tell it I enjoyed listening to Jethro Tull, Skid Row or Pearl Jam.

You get a wee rating system on the right hand side and I’m getting a fabulous authoritarian thrill from clicking on the “Never play this again.” button when it screws up.

I was just about to finish this post when it started playing Carly Simon.
CARLY FUCKING SIMON!?!?
NEVER PLAY THIS AGAIN! BAD RADIO! IN YOUR CORNER! NO PUDDING!

Ahhhh, Eagles, all is forgiven.

EDIT! It’s brilliant, just reminded me of a Mazzy Star track that I luuuuurve and haven’t heard for many many years. Then spoiled everything by playing the Monkees. I think it’s a little passive-aggressive.

From this morning’s Guardian.

“One study found that 69% of all three-year-olds could identify the McDonald’s golden arches - while half of all four-year-olds did not know their own name.”

These people are going to grow up to be MSPs.

I’ve seen *counts on fingers* four stabbings in my time, mostly fairly minor nicks to the belly and chest tissue, backed up with defensive injuries to the hands and forearms.

This is the story of the one that wasn’t.

We were sitting in the station gazing longingly at the birthday cake of one of the Technicians, we’d all been at her party a few nights previously, but this was the day.

“It’s too nice! I can’t ruin it!” she insisted “And I don’t want to cut the cute teddy on the top.”

The phone rang, myself and my host paramedic were up, we left them to their confectionery conundrum.

The incident was a young soldier on leave who’d had a disagreement with someone in the pub, on returning home he found that his debating partner had followed him and he was promptly chibbed in the gut with a breadknife whilst standing in his mother’s kitchen.

On arriving with the paramedic I was shadowing that night we found the lad on the floor, understandably howling, family pressing on his wound with bath towels for all they were worth. The paramedic, “L”, grabbed control of the situation immediately “Right, is the person with the knife still here?”

The family had barely answered in the negative before she was directing me to clear the kitchen while she dropped to her knees next to the leaker on the lino.

Lifting up his sodden teeshirt revealed a wicked, jagged edged hole above his navel, whipping a dressing out from her pocket she applied pressure and machine-gunned off a list of equipment she wanted from the vehicle “Entonox and two bags of fluids, GO!”

I was on my feet, snaking through the crowd of shuddering relatives and assembled cops in the front garden, their faces lit by the blue-green screens of their shoulder mounted radios.

Out to the vehicle, dig in the box, SHIT, where are the fluids? Fluids…fluids…ah! In the warmer, kept at blood temperature so as not to affect the patient’s core temperature when they’re run through, got it. I grabbed the heavy Entonox cylinder and two bags from the warmer, grimacing at their texture, warm as blood, leaden and soft in my hands.

Back into the kitchen and I get taught my first real-life lesson in pain management. All my classroom training has said “Pain is bad, it should be avoided.” but that was it, simply a niceity for your patient, we were told, don’t worry about pain if there are other aspects that concern you, such as their breathing, bleeding or blood pressure.

What had never been pushed home was that pain AFFECTS these things, as was ably illustrated right here, right now. With every scream and shudder that came from the patient, his breathing became harder and shallower, blood poured from the wound and butchered lumps of fat and tissue pushed to the surface, peeking out, spongey and pale in the dim light that emanated from under the kitchen cabinets.

“Get him on that.” said L, nodding at the Entonox, “I’m going to get a line in and give him these fluids…”

“Right mate” I began “This is just gas and air, ok? Like they give pregnant women. It’ll make you feel a bit woozy, but it should take the edge off the pain for you. Take the valve in your hand, hold it in your mouth and suck hard whenever you feel you need it, right?”
He nods, eyes twisted tight and wraps his lips round the mouthpiece, sucking greedily at the cold, sweet gases.

Within a minute he’d relaxed, the screams had abated, the bleeding eased, the wound became a simple dark hole in his belly, rather than the Hammer Horror extra it had previously been.

“Pass me the giving set.” murmured L.
“The what?”
“The giving set, for the fluids.”
“I, ummmm, I don’t know….”
She whipped her head back and forth, “There’s not one here, did you bring one from the car?”
“No! You didn’t say, I don’t know what they are.”
“RIght, we’re going to need one, it’s a long tube that connects to the fluid bags, there’ll be some in the warmer. Quick as you can, right?”

Again, on my feet, open the door and walk into a WPC on her way in.
“LTP?”
“Huh?”
“LTP?”
A nugget of information comes into focus in my memory, she’s asking if he’s “Likely To Prove”, fatal, that is, she wants to know if she’s investigating assault or murder.

I’m in no position to make that sort of decision, I blow out my cheeks.
“Couldn’t say, I’m afraid, can we talk to you once he’s transported?” and with that, I’m on my way for the elusive giving set.

Back in the kitchen with the missing equipment one of the bags of fluid pour into the young man’s veins, a large pad is soaked in sterile water and laid onto the wound and he’s wrapped in cling film, a sterile and self-adhesive container for his belly. The fluids start to run low.
“Are you wanting the other bag, L?”
“Nope, can’t use it, it’s glucose solution, I needed saline.”
“Ah, sorry…”
“Never mind, let’s get this guy ready.”
We sit him in a chair, wrap him in a blanket and roll him out the door where he’s passed onto a receiving crew with an ambulance, no space in the back of the Rapid Response Vehicle to move patients.

We hang around, L gives her details to the police, I chat to the family, reassuring them of the level of care their son is receiving. His mother is frantic, begging L for directions to the hospital, she wants to be with her boy.

I take her husband aside.

“Mate, I realise this is a difficult time, but you can’t let your wife drive like this, she’s in too much shock. Your lad’ll be fine in the meantime, can I leave her with you? She needs a cuppa and a sit down, just to get her breath and keep the head before she gets in the car.”
“Shouldn’t we be going to the hospital?”
“Frankly, if you let her drive in the state she’s in? You’ll need another ambulance before the night’s out, it’s not worth it.”
“Right, right, ok, yeah…”

Back in the vehicle I relay to L what I said to hubby, but she cuts me short,
“I heard you.”
“But you were talking to the cop.”
“Yeah, but I was listening to you.”
“Oh. Sorry I flapped back there, I just wasn’t on the ball.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve been waiting for it.”
“Sorry?”
“Well, you’ve been out with me now, what, 3 times? Probably done 15, 18 jobs together?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve been pushing you harder and harder on each one, I knew at some point I’d reach a level at which you couldn’t perform.”

Once we returned to the station, we reran the shout together, going over exactly what I’d missed, which equipment I’d been ignorant of, how the bags of fluids were labelled( “The glucose shouldn’t be in the warmer anyway, it knackers it, but I still expect you to read the labels.”) and a variety of other minor points.

We left the garage and moved to the mess room, where the cake discussion continued to rage on.

“Good shout?”
“Stabbing.”
“Oooh, pish, or proper job?”
“Proper job.”

Birthday girl stands up, knife in hand.
“Well, when in Rome, right? Cake anyone?”
and down went the blade, right into Teddy’s gut.

Next year? We should get her one of these.

From Bright Eyes, summing up all my feelings about Iraq more eloquently than I ever could.

“We made love on the living room floor,
With the noise in the background of a televised war.
And in the deafening pleasure, I swear I heard someone say.
‘If we walk away, they’ll walk away.’”

And secondly, from the same album.

“So if you’re asked to fight a war that’s over nothing.
Make sure you join the side that’s gonna win.
And no-one’s really sure how it got started,
But we’re gonna make ‘em goddamn certain how it’s gonna end.”

Bucephalus
Originally uploaded by Kalshassan.

Since I can’t TAKE photos, I shall instead inflict them upon you all.

I can see this from my desk…

IN CHARGE!

Direct quote from an MSP who shall remain nameless, only change is replacement of the town name with “your community”.

“16% of people in Oregon have no health insurance and as such no health care. That’s equivalent to 1 in 10 people in your community.”

*pounding head on desk*

It’s been a wee bit quiet here, hasn’t it?
Sit down, pull up the chair, let’s have a tale of woe.

Sunday:
Out for a drive in the Borders, Giles, Hamish and I realise that we’re turning into our parents as we ooh and aaah over landscapes. Hamish has graduated in forestry management, so he and I natter about land management and ecology. We gawp at stone bridges and cloud formations and stop for tea and scones.
I discover my camera is, apparently, fucked. The zoom is permanently stuck on “tight”, the autofocus doesn’t and the display is blurry. Frustrated, I return to the house to try and find the warranty; I fail.

Monday:
Sitting in my office, I show my camera to a more photographically knowledgable colleague, he diagnoses “fucked” and suggests I return to the shop where it was bought. While I lack the receipt, they should be able to check that it’s within the year and although I’m not the original owner, they might still honour their commitments. He reassures me that if I’m in no hurry, to wait a fortnight until he’s working there and he’ll help me out, but that if it needs repairing I’m looking at three figures.

I check my bank balance, deduct monthly bills and rent from it and realise I have £24 ($40) to last me 14 days. Realise I have no washing powder to clean shirts for work.

Stress about money, go to Red Cross meeting, teach new students about diagnosing medical problems. Return home, handwash a shirt with fairy liquid and go to sleep.

Tuesday:
Awake with same gut-wrenching panic and anxiety as when I went to sleep, can’t stop thinking about money and whether the rent will get paid this month. Giles has had problems budgeting in the past and it’s been my job to make sure the money gets sorted, this is becoming increasingly difficult and stressful.

Sit at work and grump at people all day, stop caring about anything, send alarming email to Croila warning her that while I’m still coming over for dinner as planned, I may not be any fun.
Home, decide that straight-talking is the best policy, explain to Giles how I feel, how carrying the flat’s financial arrangements are killing me.
He’s great about it.
I feel better.

Out for dinner at Croila’s with Katherine, lovely pasta and roasted veggies, create ridiculous chocolate pudding and play noisy hammering games with D. Pour out heart to the ladies, they’re also fab at listening, share the most offensive joke in the world with Croila, she nearly falls over. Big hug from D, drop Katherine off, home. Revitalised, ready to start afresh. Email from Croila on return “Are you letting on how upset you are at not getting the job?”, admit to self that I’m absolutely gutted and this is probably why I’m feeling so depressed.
Can’t wash shirt, no powder, no fairy liquid. Mufti tomorrow.

Wednesday:
Wear jeans and pullover to work, boss not pleased but gracious about it.
Long day at office, worry-addled brain fails to recognise new judge, greet them with a “Hiya! How’s it going?” before realising who they are. Grovel.

Home, shopping, big bag tatties, huge block cheese, tinned tomatoes, cheap bread, washing powder, onions, carrots. Plan to cook huge, cheap pots of filling veggie stuff, lentil curry, veggie pasta, scotch broth etc. Make stovies, nurse Giles and SMM who’re both feeling crap.

Do laundry!

Giles retires to bed, I pour out my heart to SMM. He is, predictably, brilliant. I hate telling people I’m feeling depressed, there’s always someone who goes “Oh god!” and wants you to go to your GP, or is terrified to leave you that night in case you chuck yourself out the window when all you really want is just to let people know that you’re feeling down and share it.
SMM wonderful man, love him more.

Thursday:
Up late, rushing to organise self for work, head not on straight. Wake Giles and offer to make him tea, he comes through ten minutes later, still half asleep and says “What happened to tea?”.
I’m standing, half dressed in kitchen, can’t decide whether to iron shirt first or make breakfast, still need to shave, running really late.

My face says more than I’d let my mouth ever do, he stammers a quick “Sorry, sorry, ummm…” and sit down.

I take a deep breath “It’s fine, you can have tea in two ways, you can have it shortly, in a mug, with some milk, or you can have it now, from the kettle, on your bare chest. Which would you prefer?”

He grins, sits down and shuts up, don’t disrupt my morning routine.

While ironing shirt discover that it’s been lying in laundry basket under flannel I used to mop fake blood of myself after the training scenarios on Saturday. My pale lilac shirt now looks like a butcher’s block cloth. No other clean shirts, so wear it under jacket all day.

Boss treats me to Thai for lunch, relax and unwind, start to feel better, drop saffron coloured rice down shirt.

Return to work, stamp front of big pile of magazines and journals, lift them up to flick through them, rubbing carbon ink all over front of shirt.

Laugh hysterically, wonder at what point I won’t need my Mum to help me get dressed in the morning.

Go home, out with SMM to Ambulance Service community event, wine, nibbles, chat with Divisional Training Officer, friend and ultimately bloke who’ll employ me, one day.

“So you didn’t get in? Shame.”
“Yeah, well, next time.”
“Oh? ‘Next time’? Do you not think that this suggests the Ambulance Service isn’t for you?”
My heart falls into my pelvis, is he telling me to give up? Well bollocks to him, I’m not having that!
“No, absolutely not, it’s where I want to be.”
“Oh right, ok then. Well, best of luck for the future…”
He returns to the buffet, leaving me twisting my paper napkin around my fingers.

As he turns to leave the event I catch his arm.
“A question…”
“Uh-huh?”
“‘Do you not think that this suggests the Ambulance Service isn’t for you?’ Is that you testing my commitment or telling me to give up?”
A grin. “Commitment, well done, passion like that will get you in one day, see ya.”

Friday:
Clean shirt! Arrangements to get feedback from interview panel put in place by DTO after last night’s conversation and an out-of-the-blue call from the Dungeon asking if I can work the next two Sundays, perfect, as I had been bemoaning the fact that I was free but had left it too late to get onto the shift rota.
Money situation not sorted, but eased by the fact that the Dungeon will pay me next Thursday rather than Monday week.
Now coffee and blogging.
*deep sigh*
Better.

Eddo’s comment made me laugh down there “Your camera’s fucked and your shoes are bloody? Show us a picture of your bloody shoes!”
Yeah, Eddo, mate, clue’s in the post.

Not a nice day, my camera’s fucked for apparently no reason, have to take it off to Jessops to get sorted, but I can’t find the receipt/warranty so I may have a problem there.

In other news, though, I was playing a very bloody stabbing victim on Saturday for a first aid course and forgot to change into old trainers. My nice new beige and charcoal suede-esque sneakers now look like I’ve used them to kick someone to death.

Which is always a good look, I feel.