Hand warts, haemorrhoids, muscle atrophy, flatulence, constipation, skin sores, head rushes, worms, lung infections, osteoporosis.

According to Dr Dennis these are just a few of the delights John will have coming his way. John looked shocked. “I thought the chair was supposed to help, not turn me into a cripple!” he cried
“It's a means to an end, that is all.” said Dr Dennis “The body isn't designed to be folded and sat around all day. Each week you spend in that chair your organs will suffer the strain.. your muscles will deteriorate.”
“You mean in 15 years I may end up looking like you?” John asked rudely
“When it happens you won't be laughing!” said the doctor, giving his 'return' key an all mighty wallop. “Now, physio. How are you getting on with that?”
John looked at me as if somehow I had the answer; I looked at the doctor as if he had.
“Don't tell me you're not having any PT, good grief! Why ever not? We'll have to change...”
“...this bulky thing to electric.” John interrupted rocking a little at his wheels.
“Physio first, John. Physio first! Lets get our priorities in order, hmm.”
John gave the doctor an evil glare, like he was wishing his heart to stop.

The outcome of it all is that  Dr Dennis has put in a request to Kings College outpatient clinic for physiotherapy. In the meantime, he has given me a used booklet of things we can do at home. Leg exercises, massages, lower back rubs, etc. But the big news, and the one that left John beaming, is that on the 29th of this month he has an appointment with the Riverside Disability Trust to collect a brand new motorised wheelchair. What he wasn't too pleased about was he would also have to go on a one day 'training course' to learn how to use it. John told Dr Dennis he didn't need lessons, that electric wheelchairs are a cinch to drive, “The same as dodgem cars but without the leg protection!”  The doctor looked at him as if he were a drunk, or a fake, or just someone very disgusting and not worthy of medical expertise. Then he turned his attention to me. “Ok, Mr Spencer. Diazepam, repeat. How are you getting along with that?” Before I had time to answer John chirped up saying I was “turning into a drug fiend” and that I fart in my sleep. Not only was that cruel of him, it just isn't true. As I wheeled him out the surgery I bashed his knee into the door frame “Sorry” I said, then reversed and done it again.

From the doctors to the chemist on the high street it is 1441 steps or 320 revolutions of a wheelchair wheel. That's 600 metres. I parked John outside and and went in to collect my script.
“Why are you taking that shit?” John enquired on my return.
“What shit? What are you talking about?”
“The tablets, the fucking mong pills? I'm back now... you don't need that shit.”
“John, not everything revolves around you. I've had sleep issues since my teens, neurotic problems since primary. And anyhow, medication has changed. These aren't those old fashioned helpers our mothers used to take and neglect us on... These are different, even non-addictive. The only major side-effect is rage and anger, so watch out!”
“Non-fucking-addictive! They're valium, the same, only stronger!” blurted John, smoke mysteriously pouring up from where he sat. It suddenly looked like I was pushing the engine of the Flying Scotchman home. I poked my head over John's shoulder and hanging out the side of his mouth I saw a half smoked B&H. The tip fizzled orange and burnt down another couple of millimetres.
“Well, if you're gonna have some extra-curricular activity, then so am I!” he said, whipping the cigarette from his lips and blowing out a short chort of smoke in an exaggerated queer way. “I know you don't like me smoking, but tittie, I've got issues too!”
“As you want,” I replied, shrugging it off. “I put up with it before, I'll do so again, just not through the night, OK?”
John didn't really say “yes” but the way he sucked the last inch of death from his cigarette and flicked the dog-end at a parked car was in the manner of a man who had gained a victory. He probably had, but victory can all too soon turn to defeat. He'd do well not to ever forget that.


  1. Hello Boys!!!! We must have an evening soon... please.

    i'm i court on thr drink driving charge next month. The 2nd I think. My solicitor says if I don't go in there looking too lesbian I may escape with my license. So I'll let my hair grow out and shave my arms. :( At the worst I could get 12 months inside. i've scared myself to death with those thoughts, I don't think I was made for institutions.

    I'll phone. We'll speak. Arrange a lentil night or something, maybe just a bottle... but soon, hey. just don't forget me as you cuddle up in your little nest. Mwahhh mwahhh I love you both!!!!


  2. 'As I wheeled him out the surgery I bashed his knee into the door frame “Sorry” I said, then reversed and done it again'

    Thus it begins.

    Remember how your friend Hawking was hospitalized with inexplicable bruises?

    Soon your little friend's health will unexpectedly deteriorate and he will be using a voice box which you will cruelly program with humiliating voices if he annoys you.

    EG: For the past week my moping nephew's barbed insults to me have been uttered in a Nancy boy lisp.

    Cruelty is addictive.

    Take heed.

  3. Abigail: So the descent begins... and thinking of what you've just said has put an idea in my mind. But not about voice boxes... i doubt either of us will end up with one of those things, but who knows???

    Maybe your Nephews practicing for a part, or maybe, just maybe he's...

    No, I won't say it, it'd be too cruel! X

  4. verity, but phone! me and Superman are waiting your call! XXX

  5. 'Maybe just maybe...No, I won't say it'

    The weasel words of a provocateur.

    Listen Tristy, you won't get to me. I INVENTED Anger Management!

    I'm not the LEAST BIT gotten to by your insinuations. NOT THE LEAST BIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    Proof: I am currently helping dear friend Mel Gibson after that despicable woman provoked him to fury, taping his quite natural reaction all the while.

    Mel's dignified silence throughout this hard time is a lesson for us all.

  6. @ Winthrope (Mrs): I know you, and I know you mention nothing without some secret agenda working away in the background. NO! I'm not going to have Mel purposely crash a small plane into the ground in order to proove his love for John, not Mel! Also, knowing his history, he'd probably survive!

    I'm starting to think that under your drab cardigan, brown pleated skirt and petticoat, there lays a very wicked, corrupt, vengeful, evil person. I just hope I'm wrong. X


Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October

Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October
Cheap jam sponge or something a little more exciting? How will Mr Spencer celebrate his 32nd year in hell?

Trolley Dash August 2010

Trolley Dash August 2010
Did Tristram accidently pick up a REAL bargain?

Brian the Postboy's gift to John: an ankle bracelet inscribed 'Super Dong'

Brian the Postboy's gift to John: an ankle bracelet inscribed 'Super Dong'
Scrap metal or has John been 'tagged'. Is Tristram Spencer really the only fated man in town?

The Dangerous Dandy by Barbara Cartland

The Dangerous Dandy by Barbara Cartland
Will Tristram finally be brought to account for his love of Babs? And: is 25 years hard labour enough?

An Influx of Pigeons

An Influx of Pigeons
Is there still some hope for the fated Mr Spencer?
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