Don't Do Anything Rash
A challenging week at Hedges Towers. I mentioned in my previous post how BH's absence had triggered a whole raft of small problems. The situation ongoes. On Saturday night, after a lovely day in London with DD, I developed a very extreme allergic reaction to something I ate and came out in huge itchy red blotches. In deference to the presence of small children, family pets and the fact that you might be eating breakfast, I shall not post a picture.
Suffice it to say that last time I had this, it was traceable to a new soap. This time, who knows. The night wore on, the itchy patches formed, re-formed, itched and wondered round various parts of my body like unwelcome visitors who had outstayed their welcome but refuse to depart. At 3 am, I ran out of E45 cream and decided that I was probably going to spend the rest of my life in a small jam jar on the mantelpiece. Such are the thoughts that strike in the desperate and itchy small hours.
A visit to the internet informed me that these extreme allergic incidents can be exacerbated by stress - which is logical, and I could see how that worked, but it is very difficult NOT to be stressed when you are lying awake, resisting the urge to scratch. Other symptoms developed over the next few days. The dizzy spells and blinding headache that accompanied them were possibly attributable to a brain tumour, I decided, further evidence that self-diagnosing on the internet in the middle of the night is also not a good idea. Several days of misery passed. At one point, I had visions of BH returning to find a small dehydrated heap at the bottom of the stairs. Thankfully I have now recovered, and the PINK SOFA has withdrawn its offer of being buried with me in case I fancied a sit-down in the afterlife. We march on.
As does Badgergate, which is taking an interesting turn. Regular readers will know that one of our local Tory councillors recently made the unfortunate remark to me in public that if there were any badgers on the allotment land the council has earmarked for development, he'd go and personally put down cyanide. Subsequently, another of his colleagues tried to 'buy' my compliance in a council meeting by saying that if I'd be more ''co-operative'' in my ''attitude'' he'd make sure the development would be ''sustainable'. Enough already, so I decided to out both men in the local press.
Councillor A - he of the badger-poisoning persuasion, immediately wrote to refute my remarks, declaring that he loved wildlife, but added the rather telling rider that: 'If I did use the word cyanide in the context of badgers, it was purely a connotation, not in any way versed as a threat.' (Quote). Hmm. Upon such small statements do whole career empires topple. One is reminded of Clinton's elliptical: 'I did not have sex with that women'.
I am baffled though: given the laws of libel, why on earth would I deliberately misquote someone in a letter to a newspaper? How stupid do they think I am? So a further letter of clarification wings its way, reiterating the validity of my original letter. Which may draw forth other correspondents on both sides with further reflections. Meanwhile the council has refused to comply with my latest FOI request to find out what they are up to behind the scenes. Go figure.
Suffice it to say that last time I had this, it was traceable to a new soap. This time, who knows. The night wore on, the itchy patches formed, re-formed, itched and wondered round various parts of my body like unwelcome visitors who had outstayed their welcome but refuse to depart. At 3 am, I ran out of E45 cream and decided that I was probably going to spend the rest of my life in a small jam jar on the mantelpiece. Such are the thoughts that strike in the desperate and itchy small hours.
A visit to the internet informed me that these extreme allergic incidents can be exacerbated by stress - which is logical, and I could see how that worked, but it is very difficult NOT to be stressed when you are lying awake, resisting the urge to scratch. Other symptoms developed over the next few days. The dizzy spells and blinding headache that accompanied them were possibly attributable to a brain tumour, I decided, further evidence that self-diagnosing on the internet in the middle of the night is also not a good idea. Several days of misery passed. At one point, I had visions of BH returning to find a small dehydrated heap at the bottom of the stairs. Thankfully I have now recovered, and the PINK SOFA has withdrawn its offer of being buried with me in case I fancied a sit-down in the afterlife. We march on.
As does Badgergate, which is taking an interesting turn. Regular readers will know that one of our local Tory councillors recently made the unfortunate remark to me in public that if there were any badgers on the allotment land the council has earmarked for development, he'd go and personally put down cyanide. Subsequently, another of his colleagues tried to 'buy' my compliance in a council meeting by saying that if I'd be more ''co-operative'' in my ''attitude'' he'd make sure the development would be ''sustainable'. Enough already, so I decided to out both men in the local press.
Councillor A - he of the badger-poisoning persuasion, immediately wrote to refute my remarks, declaring that he loved wildlife, but added the rather telling rider that: 'If I did use the word cyanide in the context of badgers, it was purely a connotation, not in any way versed as a threat.' (Quote). Hmm. Upon such small statements do whole career empires topple. One is reminded of Clinton's elliptical: 'I did not have sex with that women'.
I am baffled though: given the laws of libel, why on earth would I deliberately misquote someone in a letter to a newspaper? How stupid do they think I am? So a further letter of clarification wings its way, reiterating the validity of my original letter. Which may draw forth other correspondents on both sides with further reflections. Meanwhile the council has refused to comply with my latest FOI request to find out what they are up to behind the scenes. Go figure.
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