Come the end of the month, this site will undergo major changes. Most of the present content will be stripped out and replaced and the emphasis will change.
It will also be retitled, Life With Arfur.
Arfur? Arfur-Eyetis that is.
I suffer from osteoarthritis, and as I get older it’s getting worse. It now affects most of the joints in my crumbling body. But I have a secret weapon. Humour.
It’s all too easy to sit around moaning, groaning and moping cos you’re in pain all the time. I do enough moaning, groaning and moping on the size of the gas bill, but it doesn’t make the gas bill go away. And similarly, all the whinging in the world won’t make pain go away. So I have a chuckle at it.
Trust me, arthritis is no laughing matter. The aching joints nag worse than the missus when she wants the drains clearing. And when my knees start clicking, I’ve seen many a wannabe flamenco dancer get to his/her feet.
But the wife stops nagging when I clear the drains, and the drunken flamenco dancers sit down when everyone boos them. Arfur never stops. He will not go away.
So what prompted the change of plan? Two things. First, a call from my publisher, Crooked Cat Books, for something different. As it happens, I had a volume entitled Life With Arfur, so I sent it off to them. This is not a guarantee that they will accept and publish it.
The second thing was an incident in our back garden last week. It’s all right, madam, you can carry on reading. I wasn’t dancing naked round the apple tree. There was no full moon.
Pottering in the garden I slipped. My leg shot out sideways and my ankle twisted. It’s a bad sprain, but a week and half down the line, it still hurts like hell. We’re back in drain-cleaning, flamenco-dancing territory.
These two events conspired to make me change the site.
What can you expect?
Humour. Well that goes without saying. (If it goes without saying, why am I saying it?)
Advice. In a half-arsed sort of way. Well-intentioned suggestions for coping with Arfur, all hedged with a shade of humour.
Aids. No, madam, we’re not talking about quick trip to Ann Summers. We’re talking simple things like sock pullers and grabbers. And by grabbers, I don’t mean your friendly, neighbourhood groper, I mean things like this:
There will be a combination of posts, podcasts and videos, and as an example, here’s one I made earlier concerning the aforementioned sock-puller.
That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.
I’m not a doctor. I’m not a nurse. Hell, I even failed First Aid. According to the instructor, the amount of pressure I put on Resusci Anne’s chest the CPR would be a waste of time. She’d have died of crush injuries at my hands.
I do not give medical advice, but I can give common sense advice.
If you start to suffer with any kind of joint pain, SEE YOUR DOCTOR. Don’t listen to your mates in the pub advising you to stop being so idle and get to the gym. Don’t listen to old Mrs Shufflebottom down the street. Dancing naked round the apple tree under a full moon might work, but it’s just as likely to get you arrested. SEE YOUR DOCTOR. He or she is the one who knows.
And when you’ve done that, then come here and learn how to laugh at Arfur.
You’re welcome to subscribe to the blog, to my YouTube channel, and at some point I will set up a newsletter and invite you to subscribe to that. But gimme a break. I can only do so much at one time and I have to nip to the shops shortly to buy ciggies before the budget price hike kicks in.