Bio Oil and other advertising not for men

I like to watch TV advertisements; I like it almost as much as I enjoy the programmes they interrupt; I like trying to work out the target audiences and influencing factors that advertisers use. For instance, the other evening an advertisement baffled me. Why would anyone want a product that reduced the appearance of scars? Yet unsolicited testimonials praised the efficacy of Bio-Oil.

"What?" I incredulously railed at the TV set, "My scars are fading quickly enough as it is; twenty six stitches and clips, at this rate, I'll have nothing to show-off when I finally get back to work."

Clearly, men were not the target audience for this product; men would have bought it immediately if the blurb had read: 'Bio-Oil, make your scars tell your suffering.' Or perhaps 'Bio-Oil, because you've suffered', that would have had men queuing out of the door at Boots; they could have sold off a stall outside the local Accident and Emergency department.
Another favourite of mine at the moment is the advertisement that makes constipation look like a lifestyle choice. In the advertisment for DulcoEase a group of well dressed, comfortably off ladies-who-lunch, are shown enjoying a lifestyle that many aspire to thanks solely to the ablility of the product to make it easier for them to...well, you know.

With no apparent strain, the advertisers have stolen what used to be sketch material for gritty northern comics and made it look unseemly to snigger at toileting. You can picture the sort of thing:

A dowdily dressed woman hesitantly approaches the busy pharmacy counter and, having built up her courage, whispers something to the assistant who, in a broad northern voice, shouts to the pharmacist in the rear:

"Mr Barker, lady here says she can't go, 'ave we anything to 'elp 'er"
The pharmacist mutters something back which the assistant repeats:
"'e says is it 'ard or soft?"

The woman, having now committed herself to a course of action, persists; you can imagine the rest.

But now constipation is out of the closet, we can march up to the chemist's counter with pride and declaim our difficult passage in the full knowledge that people will admire us for it.

My left foot: update

The plaster cast is off my foot and my peacock post was every bit as justified as I thought it might be. More of that shortly, but first a musing on my insistence on being right.

Getting around with the plaster cast on my foot was pretty impossible; the process of moving anywhere on one leg using crutches is surprisingly exhausting. When we arrived at hospital V. remembered that an x-ray was necessary before my appointment; she also remembered that we were told to go there first. I remembered differently and because I'm Right, insisted that we book in at Out Patients reception first. We walked the 100 metres along the corridor to Out Patients, passing X-Ray Reception on the way.

I explained to the Out Patient receptionist that I had to have an x-ray before my appointment. She did very well not to say "What are you doing here then?" but couldn't resist one of those sisterly looks with V. that said "Men!" as V. failed to resist the temptation to say "Told you". In total my insistence on being right added an additional 200 unnecessary metres to my walk - I felt every step.

I found the x-rays fascinating, you could clearly see the gap where my heel has been removed and reattached; reassuringly the gap is filling with new bone, though there is a way to go yet. Even more clearly you could see the 6 cm screw up the centre of my foot that is currently holding my heel in place - it looks like any old screw from the tin in my garage! But of course there are non in my tin made of titanium.

The plaster was cut from my foot using one of my favourite hospital tools: the oscillating saw. The blade looks nasty, but, rather than revolving, actually oscillates back and forth, thus it never cuts the flesh. The foot exposed beneath was not mine, but rather the foot of an alien: lizard-like, puffy and showering powdery skin scales. Despite my distaste at its appearance, my surgeon was pleased with it and announced that I could start putting some weight on it.

Having not stepped on my foot for eight weeks, and never having stood on it with the heel in the place it ought to be, I am finding myself reacquainted with an aspect of the surgical process that I had forgotten: pain.

I now have to wear an Aircast for four weeks whenever I am out of bed. This does the same job as a plaster cast but you can remove it; and importantly, you can take it off while submerging the limb in hot soapy water: bliss!

I've noticed on some of the better blogs that it's de rigeur to share favourite products, here are my new faves:





This is my brand new Aircast, the photograph doesn't really do it justice; it is huge: like Frankenstein's boot!








This is one of my crutches, still in use until I am more confident at walking with Frankenstein's boot; and walking with less of a wince.





Boots BPC Aqueous Cream: contains no natural ingredients, (unless you count water), no essential oils, no SPF thingies, no pro-retinol wrinkle removers: but it feels absolutely fabulous smoothed into the reddened scales of my foot; and it's really cheap - £2.25 for this huge tub.

A right good send off

Crazy coffin maker Vic Fearn can build you a custom casket to reflect exactly what you want to say to the world as you take the journey from the mortal realm. He has made cars, guitars, skips and Egyptian themed burial boxes to ensure that the final send off is as spectacular or symbolic as one could wish.

Anita Roddick the founder of The Body Shop tells The Independent today that when her mum dies, she has asked to have her ashes rocketed into the stratosphere on a giant firework to the theme tune of The Godfather.

I'm a keen composter; it suits me to have a fully biodegradable coffin, so that my rotting remains can feed the roots of a yew tree that might grow for hundreds of years with a bit of me inside.

How would you like to go?

Ten Years Younger

I've been thinking about getting older; I mean as a subject, not a life choice. What is it that makes us older, what makes us look at someone in the street and think of them as an 'old man or woman'?.

On Thursday evenings we enjoy the Channel 4 programme Ten Years Younger. Nicky Hambleton-Jones takes some poor wrinkled wreck whom time has not treated kindly and, using a combination of expensive surgery, expensive dentistry, posh hair, costly cosmetics and cutting-edge clothes, transforms them into a much younger version of themselves.

We debate the serious issues raised by the programme and make pertinent observations like: 'I'll bet a night in bed will put a few of those years back on' and 'How many hours do you think it will take to get ready to go out now?" Actually, thinking about it, both of those pertinent comments are from me.

I'm generally of the opinion that ageing is not about appearance, but rather a diminution of our abilities and confidence in them, that does the deed. Let me use an example:

As you know I am still on crutches, unable to put any weight on my left leg. A week or so ago I watched a fabulous production of Swan Lake on television. I had forgotten why I love ballet: the incomparable combination of grace, strength and beauty. So enamoured of the whole thing was I, that I allowed my inner-idiot to have a moment's free reign.

Picture the scene: in the lounge I test my strength carrying out balletic moves, deftly balancing my weight between crutches, gently swinging between them in a graceful arc. All well and good. Then, in need of a refreshing cup of tea, I progress to the kitchen, still moving with the poise of Billy Elliot, overwhelmed by my dance muse, I repeat some of my better gymnastic moves in the open space of the kitchen. The floor is tiled, it was also slightly wet in places. Do I need to explain what happened next? My poise disappeared as I landed with a clatter of crutches. Fortunately I was alone (this is how you know I'm a man: the thing that mattered most at that moment was that nobody saw me make an arse of myself), I regained my crutches, my pride and my vertical position without fuss or pain.

Here is my point: each step I took after my fall from grace was hesitant and awkward; I didn't dare place a crutch more than a few inches ahead of me; and only when really sure, did I put my weight on it: I was walking like an old man.

We become old not when we start shaving our ears, plucking three inch hairs from our eyebrows or marvelling at hairy patches in new places (you don't do that?), but when life's knocks take their toll. My theory for being ten years younger is to be personally resilient in life: take the knocks and get over them. We don't need the fashion fascist Nicky Hambleton-Jones to go through our drawers with sneering forensic fastidiousness to look ten years younger.

The fug and the time

Prisons and schools, in fact all institutions, require their inmates to adapt to a certain set of behaviours. This has never been more apparent to me than during my hospitalisation. In an earlier post I mentioned that my two fellow patients Harry and Bert inducted me into the ways of the ward, telling me about the routine, the food and the staff. Other things though more subtly effected my change into 'a patient'. On the first day I wandered around, in my own clothes, chatting amiably with Harry and Bert. Later I changed into pyjamas; that was one significant change, wearing night clothes during the day.

My surgery and subsequent awakening attached to a syringe driver and intravenous infusion deepened the view to anyone passing that I was very much a patient, and in some ways too with Harry and Bert because all three of us now were immobile.

Another thing that bonded us as patients were our shared concerns; in our microcosm different things mattered, the quality of the food, visitors, and doctor's rounds all sparked conversation and concern. All of this was enhanced - and if you have ever been camping you will understand this - by the complete lack of privacy; curtains are not sound-proof. So, Harry and Bert knew to ask me about my pain, Harry and I knew that Bert was having difficulty going (that is the end of that phrase by the way, please don't make me spell it out).
After only 24 hours my pain was pretty much well controlled and I was heartily tucking into hospital fare. After 36 hours, although I mentioned it to no one, Bert and Harry instinctively knew that I too had my own l concerns about going.

Determined that anything that was necessary in the toilet line could wait until I was more mobile, I waited; by day three there was a lurking presence that, sooner or later, had to be dealt with.
On day four physiotherapists taught me to do non-weight bearing walking with crutches, there was only one place that I was heading, Harry and Bert knew it. After manly efforts, I gave up on the grounds that I might break something. "How'd you do lad?" asked Harry anxiously. I shook my head dejectedly and limped back to my bed. Bert was quiet, his own internal drama not yet resolved, and from the conversations we heard, requiring some pretty significant chemical intervention.

I resolved to apply all my food and nutrition knowledge to the problem and gorged on grapes, porridge and hospital curry. The following day I tried again and with considerable effort joyfully exorcised the beast.
Bert's problem though was starting to make him feel ill, he withdrew and only joined in a few of our conversations, dozing on his bed for much of the time. Bert's visitors spent time chatting anxiously with Harry and me about trivia, not knowing how to talk about their concerns about Bert. Later that afternoon from behind drawn curtains snatches of doctors' discussions could be heard:
"Looks like we'll have to...", "Yes, we'll give it him tonight..." Something was afoot.
The following morning Bert remained subdued, feeling unwell, Harry and I chatted about the papers and hoped Bert would be OK. Shortly after lunch the drama came to a head,
"Nuuurrrrsse!" shouted Bert, I reached for my nurse-call button and pressed it, so it seemed did Harry. As two nurses ran to the wrong beds Harry and I pointed in unison across the ward. Curtains were whisked shut and a wheeled seat brought to the bed side. Harry and I glanced at each other, who were they kidding?We knew what that seat with the deep bottom was. For fifteen minutes we listened to groans and strains until finally in response to Bert's call a nurse slipped back through the parted curtains.

We waited anxiously but knew all was well when we heard a happy exclamation from the nurse:
"Good grief Bert I think you've had a baby!"

For two hours a thick faecal fug hung over the ward blurring our vision like a heat haze, but nobody minded.

The title? Fans of the 70s Northumbrian folk/rock band Lindisfarne will understand, click here if you want to know more..