Instrument Of Torture

Hi All

So, I toddled off to get the instrument of torture fitted (24 hr blood pressure monitor) and, as my luck would have it, waiting for me in the consulting room was a boy-child, resplendent in a crisp, white coat, all smiles and adjusting his nappy. The nappy bit is not true, but why do I get these child or Adonis types when my flesh has to be exposed. Remember the Greek god who kindly repaired my groin hernia to the background track of Mama Mia? The one who delighted in patting-up my shaved pubic hair with a sticky-backed glove, and then delighted in showing it to me amid comments like, ‘Look, these sticky things are very effective. They pick up everyhair.’ This was said with a slight Greek accent – not that I would know a slight Greek accent if it slapped me in the face, but it wasn’t what I term as my native tongue. I digress.

The thing triggered every twenty minutes until 10.00 p.m. and then it kindly reduced its arm crippling tactics to every thirty minutes. By the time I got to sleep it was time to get up.

And then the fun really began when I attempted to upload files to Createspace. This isn’t right.  That isn’t right. Are you a robot? Do you actually know what you are doing? Are you are total moron?  The monitor went into meltdown, beep, beep, beeping, telling me that the reading hadn’t registered. I stopped typing and did as instructed . . . relax the arm and unclench the fingers. More beep, beep, beeping. Why they had to put the thing on my right arm when I said I was right-handed is beyond me. Well, actually it isn’t, apparently my blood pressure is higher in my right arm than my left. Perhaps my pulse is stronger in my right big toe than my left big toe? Who knows? Another mystery of life?

Then I uploaded to Amazon Kindle. Better. Just one little problem . . . I entered the wrong title. I think my brain should undergo the twenty-four hour monitoring.

But you all know me, I always find the positive in every negative, and the positive from this? Well, it has tested my blood pressure under extreme stress and manic yelling at Createspace, and later my own good self. What dickhead can’t remember the title of her own book? Don’t answer that. I know the answer.

Then, of course, I had the ‘normal’ daily stresses to contend with. Whoever said cats are stress reducing hasn’t met Chea. She can’t stay out, or in, for more than thirty minutes maximum, and pleading to her better nature is a waste of time.

‘Chea, wait a minute, I’m trying to upload this file,’ falls on deaf ears as she stands at the door wanting to go out, and I sit at the laptop with my hair turning greyer by the hour. This first instruction brings a mardy meow that I ignore. Next comes a louder mardy meow that I can’t ignore. ‘Wait a MINUTE!’ I say. She throws her heart and soul into caterwauling. ‘For shit’s sake, WAIT A MINUTE!’

Now she’s springing up the door, bouncing on her back legs, scattering cat litter. Obviously I stop what I’m doing and get up and let her out, with the instrument of torture beeping and tightening . . .  and tightening.

Within five minutes she’s back, banging on the glass with her wet paws and giving me evil stares. The look clearly says that if I don’t let her in she’s calling the RSPCA. I get up and let her in. This goes on for most of the day, or until she’s decided she’s had enough of playing silly buggers and settles at the side of the laptop, occasional stretching out in her sleep and sneakily operating screen lock!

Another word that you may as well save your breath over is, ‘quick!’ or ‘hurry!’ Both instructions have the same effect as I stand with the door open, waiting for her to saunter down the path and come in. Prior to me opening the door I can see her trotting down the path and heading for home with great enthusiasm, because let’s face it, another full dish of food might have miraculously appeared since she last came in to check, thirty minutes ago.

Now she stops to watch a starling on the garage roof. I shout the instruction again. ‘Hurry up, Chea, I’m trying to upload something!’ No response. She’s wondering what her chances are of catching the starling. ‘Chea, come on, move it!’ I hiss. It has some effect – for two strides – then she drops to her hairy bum and starts cleaning her whiskers. She’s been in the greenhouse and has spiders’ webs festooning her face.

By evening the uploading is done. Chea has settled at the side of the laptop, purring and galloping back into my affections (surprise, surprise) and the blood pressure monitor is ticking away nicely.

All in all I’d say uploading files and pandering to Chea’s every whim was a jolly good test of my stress levels.

Oh, I forgot to say that during the first two hours of having it fitted, and while I was stirring the soup, Richard shouted me from the lounge. I ignored him at first – well you do, don’t you? When he sounded like he was about to burst into tears I sauntered in just as the monitor beeped. There was Richard, hanging on to the TV that he’d just broken. The whole thing had been snapped off its central leg and it was see-sawing in his hands.

Apparently, it had been ‘dicky’ for a while. Bloody news to me. I can turn the screen to my ideal viewing position without breaking it. I won’t bore you with further details, other than to say that the soup had to be turned off, Richard had to find the ladder from his tip of a garage, and then crawl up into the loft where, fortunately, we had a spare stand.

Be interesting to know who, or what, was the biggest ‘trigger’ to cause the old blood pressure to peak? Createspace, Chea, or Richard?


Take care my lovelies x

P.S Apologies if email notifications arrived twice . . . I posted the original on the wrong page. See, I’m a complete div!

6 thoughts on “Instrument Of Torture

  1. As they say…These things are sent to try us, so they might as well push you to the bleeping limits of the 24 hour blood pressure monitor. Hope the results are deciphered well. 😆


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