The final Bank Holiday of the summer brought with it the much needed sunshine after weeks of grey skies and rains.
It also brought with it, women who refused to wear bras.
Yes, indeed. I was utterly shocked by the amount of women who refused to wear bras because of the heat.
Not only did they not wear bras, but they also wore either translucent white t-shirts or had boobs down to their knees.
Not a good look.
My advice to all women out there: where a bra, for God’s sake. Well, unless you like the trashy, saggy look of course.
This is all.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Nursing the Nation
Last week, it felt as though I was close to death.
Maybe not a pleasant way to start a blog entry, but true nevertheless, and that’s no exaggeration.
At 2am on Monday morning, I was taken to hospital.
I was in agony. So much so that the pain was indescribable. It wasn’t like anything I had ever experienced before, and as someone who has been dropped on their head as an adult, I have felt pain.
Not only that, but I was alone, miles away from my family, and scared.
Scared because I though that I was actually dying.
Again, agony.
Four days later, still in a fair amount of pain, I was released back into the wild.
It was only a kidney infection. However, the pain was that bad that I can only imagine that giving birth is comparable.
Anyway, the main crux of this blog is to praise the care I received while in hospital.
Not the care I received from the Doctors, however; they merely visited me once every day, hit me on the back and asked me whether it hurt.
Well, of course it hurt! That was why I was there and not at the pub!
The care I received from the nurses, on the other hand, was incredible.
Everyday, they made sure I got my medication, was fed, well, made my bed and were at my beck and call at every hour should I need anything.
The only time I did press my alarm was to ask for another blanket as I was cold.
Indeed, I am reminded of a previous blog about nursing, in which David Cameron argued that nurses ARE the NHS.
(http://rosalindmash.blogspot.com/2007/01/future-of-nursing.html)
After my recent experience, I wholeheartedly agree.
But it makes me wonder WHY they are paid a relatively tiny amount in comparison to Doctors when they do a much greater deal of work and undertake a larger proportion of the care of patients.
The NHS and the government should begin to give nurses more recognition for the work they do, because without them, this country’s health service would not have a leg to stand on.
Maybe not a pleasant way to start a blog entry, but true nevertheless, and that’s no exaggeration.
At 2am on Monday morning, I was taken to hospital.
I was in agony. So much so that the pain was indescribable. It wasn’t like anything I had ever experienced before, and as someone who has been dropped on their head as an adult, I have felt pain.
Not only that, but I was alone, miles away from my family, and scared.
Scared because I though that I was actually dying.
Again, agony.
Four days later, still in a fair amount of pain, I was released back into the wild.
It was only a kidney infection. However, the pain was that bad that I can only imagine that giving birth is comparable.
Anyway, the main crux of this blog is to praise the care I received while in hospital.
Not the care I received from the Doctors, however; they merely visited me once every day, hit me on the back and asked me whether it hurt.
Well, of course it hurt! That was why I was there and not at the pub!
The care I received from the nurses, on the other hand, was incredible.
Everyday, they made sure I got my medication, was fed, well, made my bed and were at my beck and call at every hour should I need anything.
The only time I did press my alarm was to ask for another blanket as I was cold.
Indeed, I am reminded of a previous blog about nursing, in which David Cameron argued that nurses ARE the NHS.
(http://rosalindmash.blogspot.com/2007/01/future-of-nursing.html)
After my recent experience, I wholeheartedly agree.
But it makes me wonder WHY they are paid a relatively tiny amount in comparison to Doctors when they do a much greater deal of work and undertake a larger proportion of the care of patients.
The NHS and the government should begin to give nurses more recognition for the work they do, because without them, this country’s health service would not have a leg to stand on.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
The glory of the English language
Since starting my new job as an editorial assistant/sub-editor, the weird and wonderful uses of language no longer shock.
I’ve certainly become immune to the fact that there are people, fluent in the English language, who are completely unable to WRITE in the English language.
At first, I was astounded, bemused, confused by the amount of people who cannot even string a simple sentence together.
The cat sat on the mat.
Even a 3-year-old can do that!
I think that it reflects badly on our teaching regimens and skill development initiatives that people are unable to write in the language they have known since birth.
Perhaps its just sheer laziness? Or the fact that many people know that poor old me will have to trawl through there work, trying to figure out what the hell they are trying to communicate.
Oh well…
Here’s something I wrote earlier. January to be precise:
The N18 - a number synonymous to many Westminster students living in Harrow with drunken idiots, aggression, sleep and being stranded in Sudbury.
Yes, the N18 is the night bus which serves to aid intoxicated students traveling from Regent’s Street to Harrow in the early hours of the morning.
I too have traveled this route. I can’t say it has ever been particularly pleasant, so it makes me wonder whether it is a safe way to get home.
At a meagre £1.50, the night bus is very friendly on the purse strings. I can’t imagine how much it would cost to travel in a taxi. Perhaps a taxi would be much safer though…
My most memorable experience of the night bus this year alone was in January. Having had a fun night out, my two friends and I boarded the bus at Regent’s Street. The bottom deck is always packed, so upstairs is frequently the answer if you require a seat for the long journey ahead.
As soon as I reached the top deck, I heard the sort of voice that makes you dread to be alive at that time of night - and makes you question whether you will actually make it home alive.
“This seat’s taken! I is restin’ my legs!”
(Oh. My. God.)
“No-ones sittin’ ere yeah?!”
I think to myself, ‘Don’t make eye contact. If you don’t look at her you will be fine.’
I didn’t look. I didn’t want my teeth knocked out, so I continued to stare at the back of someone’s head in sheer fear for the entire journey. I can still hear her voice grate through me as though she was jabbing me in the head with one of her fake nails.
“When is Harlesden?! I has to get off blad!”
Doesn’t she know correct English? Fair enough, I’m a Geordie and possibly have the worst grammar in the world, but this was just plain disgraceful. She terrorized the top deck of the bus for what felt like hours. For a while, I truly thought that the N18 would be my final resting place.
I prayed.
My prayers were answered. We had reached Harlesden.
Then the short, blond, skinny white girl passed me and ran down the stairs. Every passenger on the bus breathed a sigh of relief and uttered a nervous laugh. What were we so afraid of? I could have had her in a fight I think… apart from the fact that I’m adverse to violence in any form.
Let it be said though, that the night bus does not instill a wealth of safety in its passengers. And what must the poor, sober bus drivers think?
I’ve certainly become immune to the fact that there are people, fluent in the English language, who are completely unable to WRITE in the English language.
At first, I was astounded, bemused, confused by the amount of people who cannot even string a simple sentence together.
The cat sat on the mat.
Even a 3-year-old can do that!
I think that it reflects badly on our teaching regimens and skill development initiatives that people are unable to write in the language they have known since birth.
Perhaps its just sheer laziness? Or the fact that many people know that poor old me will have to trawl through there work, trying to figure out what the hell they are trying to communicate.
Oh well…
Here’s something I wrote earlier. January to be precise:
The N18 - a number synonymous to many Westminster students living in Harrow with drunken idiots, aggression, sleep and being stranded in Sudbury.
Yes, the N18 is the night bus which serves to aid intoxicated students traveling from Regent’s Street to Harrow in the early hours of the morning.
I too have traveled this route. I can’t say it has ever been particularly pleasant, so it makes me wonder whether it is a safe way to get home.
At a meagre £1.50, the night bus is very friendly on the purse strings. I can’t imagine how much it would cost to travel in a taxi. Perhaps a taxi would be much safer though…
My most memorable experience of the night bus this year alone was in January. Having had a fun night out, my two friends and I boarded the bus at Regent’s Street. The bottom deck is always packed, so upstairs is frequently the answer if you require a seat for the long journey ahead.
As soon as I reached the top deck, I heard the sort of voice that makes you dread to be alive at that time of night - and makes you question whether you will actually make it home alive.
“This seat’s taken! I is restin’ my legs!”
(Oh. My. God.)
“No-ones sittin’ ere yeah?!”
I think to myself, ‘Don’t make eye contact. If you don’t look at her you will be fine.’
I didn’t look. I didn’t want my teeth knocked out, so I continued to stare at the back of someone’s head in sheer fear for the entire journey. I can still hear her voice grate through me as though she was jabbing me in the head with one of her fake nails.
“When is Harlesden?! I has to get off blad!”
Doesn’t she know correct English? Fair enough, I’m a Geordie and possibly have the worst grammar in the world, but this was just plain disgraceful. She terrorized the top deck of the bus for what felt like hours. For a while, I truly thought that the N18 would be my final resting place.
I prayed.
My prayers were answered. We had reached Harlesden.
Then the short, blond, skinny white girl passed me and ran down the stairs. Every passenger on the bus breathed a sigh of relief and uttered a nervous laugh. What were we so afraid of? I could have had her in a fight I think… apart from the fact that I’m adverse to violence in any form.
Let it be said though, that the night bus does not instill a wealth of safety in its passengers. And what must the poor, sober bus drivers think?
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