Forging ahead into autumn…

Forging ahead?  Into chilly old autumn and then into dark, freezy winter? Yes, what else is there to do?  Earlier in the week I went up to the loft and got all my winter clothes down. Does that sound a small thing? Wrong. Battleaxe has so many clothes it was exciting to see this huge mountain of garments piled on the landing at the bottom of the loft stairs. So many things I forgot I had! When will I wear them? As one of my favourite columnists, Suzanne Moore says: ‘We have only one weapon, hope’.

After my last post I had one friend comment on Facebook (yes, you Richard) ‘Fretting about it [the Covid sit] just creates stress and misery which none of us need’… ‘You’re not going to change anything, just make yourself ill’  I replied that I didn’t have concerns for myself, it was the utter ineptitude of the Government that infuriated me.  Sure, I know there is little an individual can do, but I have dashed off a few emails to our MP – Sally-Ann Hart. What an unfortunate choice for Hastings she was.  Next, as Philosopher put it, I am ‘Notorious HBX’.  I wouldn’t be doing any sort of Battleaxey job if I wasn’t furiously angry for prolongued stretches of time. (For those of you who don’t know, Ruth Bader-Ginsberg was known as ‘Notorious RBG’. Have you seen who they are replacing her with? Some Stepford Wife/Handmaideny creature who is so young she’ll be messing up that Supreme Court for, like, ever).

Yes, I do know there is absolutely nothing, nada, us Brits can do about the utterly bizarre situation on the other side of the Atlantic. I was saying earlier on that if Trump was not a crazed psychopathic monster one might actually feel a bit sorry for him. There he was on the balcony of the White House, a deluded old man, orange make-up trowelled on extra thick, dragging in laboured breaths, fumbling to put his mask in his pocket, presumably drugged out of his head. He was like some pathetic, aged luvvie struggling, and failing, to appear young and vibrant. Of course, we’ll never know the truth about his illness.

That line-up of doctors amused me the most. They are like out of a movie, a chorus-line of Dream Boys dressed in white coats. (Oh but looking closer do I see token woman?)  One understands that the head honcho, Dr Conley, is actually an osteopath. In this country, osteopaths hang out in patchouli-scented studios in Hastings Old Town, selling you a course of holistic massage for your frozen shoulder.  Well, whatever Conley is, I think I’d find Dr Who, Dr Dre, Dr Pepper, Dr Marten(s) or Dr Seuss more credible.

Let’s all hope that enough Americans don’t vote for the evil old fool in November.  But so many will. Earlier this week a real-life Trump supporter joined my FB group Collecting Spaghetti Poodles and Cats. If you are reading this, lady, please get a grip. You are wrong WRONG.  Mind you, she is likely to be too busy posting Thank God For Saving Our Great President.  But just in case she’s on here… look, here’s a soothing picture of a spaghetti cat for you.

Over here, we have our own baby blondie Trumpette, tooting hot air into empty space at the virtual Tory party conference. Apparently he has ‘got his mojo back’ and it is ‘self-evident drivel, seditious propaganda’ to suggest otherwise.  Jeez, give it a rest. What is it with these stupid people that they have to pretend to be invincible?  Think Putin, stripped to the waist – no, I’d rather not. Genuine leadership is about being able to share your vulnerability. Well, perhaps sharing just enough of it. I’ll never forget when I was at work, I shared my issues around menopause with the troops. They all panicked, then rose up and denounced me as being too mentally unbalanced to run the company… took me ages to get past that one.  Maybe it contributed to the Birth of the Battleaxe, who, of course is immune from the flickerings of random hormones…

Today I had the stitches out of my leg (see last post).  Wasn’t bad except one was so tight the nurse couldn’t get it all out – there is a bit of stitch still inside my leg. ‘It’ll work its way out’, she said cheerfully, ‘or if it gets red and swollen come back and see me’. I asked the Receptionist how best to contact the surgery. ‘You have to phone’, sez she. Can I email? No. Text? No. Use the on-line consultation tool? No. Last time it took me an hour to get through on the phone…

I said I was going to do a new Covid alphabet. Well, maybe later. In a few days we are actually going away (touch wood) to Essex and Suffolk. More about that when we get back. So, what’s not to like, a whole ‘new’ wardrobe and a trip away from home!