Off we go again, time to move on. Summer is over, autumn is almost upon us and the nights are drawing in. Don’t you just hate it? I know I do. Change is supposed to be good for us, a change is as good as a rest – well, who decided that I want to know? There is nothing whatsoever restful about change as far as I can see. Change unsettles me, makes me nervous and at this time of year its happening all around me.
Thrivine, our local support group for which I am Chair, changed rooms on Saturday.This was no mean feat, I can tell you, as we have collected an abundance of accoutrements over the last year, including heavy desks, filing cabinets and other chairs (apart from me) which all had to be carted down the stairs by some of our more able bodied members. Our new room in the interest of economy is much smaller, but has the added advantage of lots of cupboards and not only one sink but two. This is the height of luxury for us, but as we still don’t know if we have funding for the coming year, it might have been a bit premature to change rooms. Maybe we should have just packed up and called it a day, which leads me nicely on to the new Thrivine phone, which is also a 24hr helpline.
My old ‘Hello Moto’ now classed as an antique, was simply not up to the job and things like sending group texts was beyond its (or my) capabilities. Unlike me it didn’t have a blue tooth in its head, or an app in its entire body and like me, didn’t even know was an app was. Planet of the apps – and talking of planets, you have to keep up with this fast moving world so I’m currently trying to do just that with this new phone. But somehow along the way I managed to download, ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag’, instead of the dialling tone for when someone is ringing me, so anyone who calls me now will get that blasting in their ear whilst waiting for me to pick up the phone, which could take a while as I still have a problem answering it. I swipe away at the screen then the caller disappears – or I tap the mute button by mistake and no one can hear me. It’s far too sensitive an instrument for the likes of me. Don’t tell anybody will you, but I don’t know how to get rid of the pesky ringtone and what’s worse, it’s costing me a pound a month. What if it’s an emergency and the caller is traumatised, they are going to hang up before they start, or worse hate me. I’m already guilty of harassing the long suffering members of Thrivine, who I now pester with my group texts or with my mad brainwaves like some kind of bossy HIV mother – or maybe it should be HIV granny as I am the oldest, albeit not necessarily by any means the wisest. Therefore my role as Chair should really be rocking chair – hopefully as in I still rock as opposed to not.
The new room is great and we soon settled in, although there was some dispute about the positioning of the furniture and what should stay and what should go. I am a clutterer by nature but my colleague Chi Ko, being Chinese, of course insisted on everything being arranged according to the rules of feng shui. Someone misheard him and thought he said French wee, so the room now has to be organised with the best French wee in mind – although we would have preferred French wine to be honest, especially the ladies. Talking of which we decided to add a ladies wine night to our list of services, although the men, pissed off at being left out, said being all women it would be more of a whining night.
So yes, some changes are definitely for the good; changing rooms, the change of life – the change of husband if needs be, not to mention change of knickers whether needs be or not, in the interests of general hygiene. Unfortunately HIV is not a pair of knickers and our mothers would probably state the obvious and say that if only we’d kept them on etc. but I think I’ve mentioned that before. Some good things can come out of being positive though and for me it is our group and the whole bonding together against adversity process. You should have seen us, we worked together ‘changing rooms’ like a smoothly oiled wheel – well, there were a few creaks and grinds, the odd exhaust pipe dropped off, or big end (as in mine) packed in.
Car parts have some very peculiar names, don’t they? We all know about gaskets, shock absorbers and carburettors, even if we don’t know where they are or what they do, but do you know that cars also have wishbones, engine cradles and poppet valves – how sweet! But as for catalytic converters, bleed nipples and exhaust flanges (better not go there) or Stub axle who sounds like the lead singer of a heavy metal band or a friend of Ozzy Osbourne.
I read recently that we should all really be driving hybrid cars. Like apps and blue teeth I wasn’t quite sure what a hybrid car was, so I looked it up on wikipedia.
“Many people have owned a hybrid vehicle at some point, for example a mo-ped is a type of hybrid because it combines the power of a gasoline engine with the pedal power of the rider.”
Is that like in the Flintstones? Perhaps I should knock a few holes in the floor of my old Mondeo (another antique Hello Moto) and start running in to town – literally. Although according to Rocket man from my local garage who somehow manages to get it through its MOT every year, it might just as well be from the Stone Age as its now twelve years old, which is pre historic in car terms and probably ready to be put to sleep.
Talking of sleep I must get to bed. With this new phone I can tweet in bed. Twittering in bed is a disgusting habit, although not exactly new – my ex husband accused me of twittering on years ago. I must put a stop to it I suppose, but like all things bad for you it helps me to relax. I keep tweeting Stephen Fry but he hasn’t tweeted back as yet.
Anyway, must move on, onwards and upwards as the actress said to the bishop. Maybe I should move my bed whilst I’m at it? It might not be in the best French wee position, or maybe I just shouldn’t drink so much of it before I go to bed, then I wouldn’t have to get up so often in the night.
