The Essence of Care

You probably heard the NHS turned 70 and throughout the year there have been numerous celebration events, articles, TV programmes and endless personal accounts in praise of the NHS. This - unapologetically - is another of the latter. I owe it this.

In recounting my particular tale, I’ve worked hard not to plunge into a lengthy preamble: evoking life before and after the NHS, comparisons with the profit-fuelled abomination that passes for ‘heathcare’ in the US or disecting the understated brilliance embodied in the NHS’s (paraphrased) founding principles, “free at the point of delivery, based on need, regardless of means”. It’s been said that how a society chooses to care for its sick and vulnerable is the most revealing thing about that society. That notion of care - in its seemingly simplest forms - is what this is about; but bear with me a wee bit. Some background.

Like most in the UK, I’ve benefited variously from the NHS since birth. In particular, post September 2008, I’ve used it more than most my age. That was when I was diagnosed with Myeloma, a rare-ish blood cancer. It’s incurable, but treatable, meaning as long as you respond to drugs and whatnot, it sort of becomes a chronic condition, managed for a chunk of  time by throwing expensive drugs and procedures at the thing to repeatedly kick it into the long grass. Given that median survival when I was diagnosed was about 5 years and that was 10 years ago, I’m lucky. I am. Behind that luck, of course, sits the dedication, skill and care of numerous amazing doctors, nurses, radiologists, porters, auxiliaries, cleaners, lab technicians, GP receptionists. Many more. Also, a great big pile of money. Lots. In my case, back of envelope calculations reached half a million over 10 years before something akin to embarrassment kicked in and I stopped adding. Maybe there’s less luck than I presume?

Anyway, my story. I recently recounted this to an old friend, Mike. A Scot now living in Canada who fled the US with his family post Trump. The rotten orange wasn’t his only reason; US healthcare was too. We had lengthy chats about healthcare, the US, the NHS and unpicked the essence of care over some rum. I recounted the following memory to Mike, having not previously thought of it as relatable. I sensed in the telling it had an effect on him as by the end, we couldn’t quite make eye-contact - men, what what.

In 2014 I underwent my secong stem cell transplant. About 3 weeks are spent in an isolation room. You’re initially pumped full of something akin to domestos that begins the process of killing you. A couple of days later you’re reacquainted with a small batch of stem cells that hopefully take root, multiply and stop the imminent domestos-based death scenario whilst sending myeloma back to the start line. All in, it’s a reasonably boring process but a risky one. Isolation is required due to having no functioning immune system and visitors have to scrub up, glove up, gown up and no touchy (though the occassional blown kiss is tolerated). Freedom comes when platelets and red and white blood cells rise to acceptable levels - about 3 weeks.

That second SCT took place in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary’s then new Medical Care Centre, Ward 112. A large, roomy, bright, modern building. My room on the top floor had panoramic views across the city that eclipsed those of the best Aberdeen hotels, though that’s not too hard. Though food was terrible, facilities were excellent, making the whole ordeal much more pleasant and contributing to a more rapid recovery. 

Still, it’s a hospital and can be unsettling. Each night, I’d be woken a couple of times by nurses or auxiliaries taking bloods and checking my stats: blood pressure, temperature, heart rate, political bias etc. The room had a positive air pressure system which produced a constant swooshy drone. Lights went on and off, buzzers and bleeps sounded here and there. I learnt to ask for a couple of sleeping pills each night, which helped. More than once I awoke in the morning to see from my chart that I’d been tampered with in my sleep, unroused.

One of the best things about the new ward was its blanket warmer. Many NHS hospitals make use of a pretty thin, but apparently thermally efficient blanket. They work ok, but seem lightweight and can leave you imagining yourself colder than you probably are. Due to the nature of the patients on the ward, many of whom are very sick and prone to shivers and fevers, the ward had a cupboard that specially warmed blankets. If a 3am visit by an auxiliary to check I was alive woke me up, I’d become conscious of feeling chilly and ask if there were any warmed blankets available. Requesting this put the poor nurse/auxiliary through the onerous protocol of de-gloving, de-gowning, fetching the blanket, returning, scrubbing up, gloving up, gowning up (again) before entering my room. Normally, I’d be sound asleep before they returned and only vaguely aware of a sudden, all-embracing warmth and happier dreams as the blanket’s heat soaked into my snoring mass. 

One particular night, I was more conscious than normal. The auxiliary on duty was a lovely, elderly woman who’d been staffing the 12hr night shift for the past 3 evenings. Short and lean with neat grey hair, she was quietly spoken and precise; warm and friendly without being overy ebullient. As usual, I was roused from sleep by the room door opening and the dim night-light coming on. A whispered, “Sorry Joe” was met by my slurry “soa-kay”, whilst my barely conscious brain trod a delicate line between lapsing immediately back into deep sleep or hanging on till the end of the stats to ask for a blanket. My active participation in the stats process was negligible; stick an arm out and proffer an ear, which I probably did instinctively as soon as the night light came on. The auxiliary did the rest. Measurements were taken with a light touch, speed and a concluding “Goodnight”

“Any warm blankets left?”. 

“I’ll go see.”

“Ta”

Night light off, de-glove, de-gown, exit. I go back to sleep. 

I woke again as the auxiliary - who had returned, re-scrubbed, re-gloved, re-gowned - was carefully unfolding the freshly warmed blanket over me. Though now conscious, I kept my eyes closed, doubtless appearing asleep. Starting at my feet, she unfolded the blanket a bit at a time. With each section, she took care to support the weight of the unrolled bit so it wouldn’t lay too heavily and potentially disturb me. When she got to the end of the blanket, she brought it close to my neck but avoided anything that might wake me. Each movement was slow, considered and exact. With the blanket fully unrolled and starting from my shoulders, working down to my feet, she delicately tucked the blanket snugly around me, the blades of her hands woking in symmetry, pausing at the end of each ‘tuck’, before advancing down a hand’s length, tucking again. I was soon encased in the blanket and its warmth. At that point, I felt a hand rest lightly on my shoulder, just for a second, before she quietly left. I lay there, still, tears welling behind closed eyes. For reasons I couldn’t immediately understand, I felt overcome.

I’ll concede, a few weeks in isolation, unable to touch loved ones, terrible food, watching your blood numbers with nervous optimism whilst walking the tightrope of neutropenia - it produces an emotional hair trigger. But regardless, now as then, the feelings that memory evokes put a very humble lump in my throat and a glassy sheen in my eyes. I know now why. What I felt then and understood later was the profound, moving impact of care: of being cared for. Actually, more than that: I felt what it means to have an underpaid, overworked stranger come to you in the middle of the night and deliver care so absolutely that it moves on from being a process and becomes a tangible thing. Care was the blanket, neatly shaped around me and the heat that flowed from it to my bones, my heart, my soul. Care was the visceral memory of hands, lightly and methodically tucking me in, bit by delicate, sleep-preserving bit. Care - the type I felt that night - was more than that she was paid to provide. A very, dedicated, professional person wasn’t just looking after me: she was caring, in all its meanings.

I’d called this, “The Essence of Care” and afterwards thought I’d better google that, just in case. Transpires it’s also the name of a government strategy for nursing in the NHS. To quote their header, “Essence of Care is the government's strategy to improve the quality of the fundamental aspects of nursing care. It provides process for sharing and comparing practices, enables nurses to identify best practice or develop action plans to remedy practice that is identified as needing improvement.” - Sure. Aye. But sometimes it’s also a hand, placed briefly on a shoulder, in the middle of the night.

When Brown went Green.

I don't wish to be dramatic but I'm dying. Sort of. I have been for a while, on and off. Well on. Sometimes. Now, for example.

If that sounds glibly, insensitively flippant, let me explain - to myself as much as anyone.

August 2008, I was told I had cancer. I was told it was called Myeloma, that it was rare and that is was incurable.

Ah. Ok! Shit. Cancer! Incurable!
So, how long then?
Oh no! No no no. It's not like that. It's incurable, yes, but....well...it's manageable. We can treat it. It's now more like....like a chronic thing. Try not to worry. You're a fit, healthy young man! (quote)
Hm...okay doc. Chronic you say! (first job: look up 'chronic')

I did, and so it's been. Chronic. Which, as far as I've worked out, in my case means waiting a while till someone qualified looks at a blood result or a scan and says, forlornly, "Terminal!". Nobody's said that yet (though they will, someday - any day) and so we still say chronic and that's definitely much better.

So I should be - and I suppose I am - grateful. Grateful that it's 'chronic', not grateful I have cancer. Cancer's shit. I'd much rather not have it, but I do and wasting limited emotional resources and time wondering why and riling against the actuality of where I'm at gets me nowhere. 'Chronic' isn't an unaccompanied qualifier. I've become very acquainted with chronic's argumentative bedfellows, 'Relapse' and 'Remission', not to mention 'Treatment'.

Remission's my favourite; Relapse is a bit of a shit. Following a brief, difficult affair with 'Treatment', I enjoyed a nice, positive relationship with Remission. It went well. We did a lot. We changed our view of life. We reset our priorities as best we could. What always hung over the relationship was the certain knowledge that it couldn't last forever.

Four good years and without warning (well, in hindsight: sore hip, sore back, sore ribs, abject lethargy, frothy pee) Remission was gone. Relapse took its place. We didn't get along. I longed for Remission. Treatment helped, sort of. Remission came back - slowly, and has done its best to be a decent friend. It's not been easy, Relapse left its mark; took away some stuff. My running shoes, for one - a trusted lifelong friend gone there. Climbing. Mountaineering. Break-dancing. But hey-ho, I can still ride my bike. Mustn't complain. Just a pity the old engine doesn't quite fire like it once did, but then I'm nae any younger.

Now. Some with cancer - very often the 'chronic' group - will tell you it comes with odd benefits. Others strongly resent that suggestion. I fully respect the views of the latter but tend towards the former. I guess it depends how you choose to view and deal with your cancer. Don't get me wrong, I hate it. Take me back, make it a choice and I'd respectfully decline. But I had no choice and I've existed with it now for almost 8 years. It is part of who I am and has more often than not been a decisive factor in the choices I've made and for that I am sometimes, oddly thankful. Among them, I tapered down my hectic, stressful business until it was no more. With the ever unpredictable arrival of 'Terminal', I figured I didn't want to spend what remained of my life busting a gut and loosing limited hair. With more spare time and a spare room, my wife and I decided to foster. It's been great. Stressful, but ultimately rewarding. We've had the pleasure of the company of one exceptional young lass (now a pride-inducing young woman) for the past 5 years. She has claimed us - we have claimed her. She's bright and kind and beautiful in every way, which all in all allows me to ignore the disgusting state of her bedroom.

 I also started some voluntary work - as a "General adviser", specialising in benefits claims and crisis grants. Whilst I loved being an Engineer (former profession) I truly love my role as an Adviser. It is a privilege to be able to directly help people. To meet, one-to-one, with individuals and families, often vulnerable, often voiceless and often in dire situations and genuinely make a difference to their life is by far the most rewarding and worthwhile thing I've ever done. In the words of Blur, "It gives me an enormous sense of well-being". It's important work. It matters. But it's frustrating too. I took on the role because I wanted to understand what lay at the grimy heart of our benefits system. I wanted to know first hand, how bad things really are. Are folk just "at it!"; work-shy layabouts? Do the lefty-left exaggerate the harshness of the sanctions regime? Are foodbanks really essential or inhabited by unabashed scroungers? I quickly found my answers. They are: Some, but very few; No, it's worse - much worse; Disgustingly essential and under-utilised by a great many more, too proud to use them.

I also found other aspects of our welfare system that really trouble me. The transition from DLA to PIP, for example. Most of my work just now involves completing "Personal Independence Payment" applications for those with health conditions and/or disabilities. Many of those have previously been on DLA and now are being transferred to the new PIP scheme. The process is a blunt, dehumanising, unsophisticated instrument. Walk no more than the length of yourself and score 4 points. Piss yourself on a frequent basis and score 4 more. Sounds reasonable enough. Just turn up at your local, charity-run advice agency, sit down for and hour and a half with a total stranger - usually a volunteer - and explain, in agonising detail, every intimate aspect of your condition and a whole bunch of other stuff unrelated to your condition (because we can't have empty boxes on the form). That nice stranger will sensitively ask the questions and delicately transcribe the answers, employing their comprehensive knowledge of the magic words and phrases that may just unlock enough points for you to earn the benefit - "you're quite sure you can wash all of yourself?". About 3 months after completing your form, you'll be asked in for a face to face assessment with someone appointed by the government to check you're every bit as afflicted as you say you are.

If I'm totally honest, in some cases, it's a reasonable enough system. We've tried to move away from awarding the benefit (DLA) based on simply having a condition to a system that pays based on how that condition actually impacts a person's life. I get that. But the system used to determine this is, as I said, blunt, dehumanising, catch all and far from good enough with many conditions such as mental health problems. As an example, I had a 66 year old woman, very badly affected by progressive MS. She could hardly walk, stand and even struggled to sit for more than 15 minutes (the form takes about an hour and a half, our seating isn't great). Her vision was poor. She had incontinence. As I walked from my office to meet her in the waiting area and she attempted to stand, it was instantly clear she would "earn enough points" in the first few questions. There was absolutely no need to subject her to 90 minutes of questioning by a strange ex-engineer, followed, 3 months later, by something similar from a government paid rep on a target-driven quest to cut the benefits bill. She qualified - end of. Take a look at her! Ask her Doctor! Send a 10 second video of her getting out of a chair. Do something better.

I think I handled that interview well. I hope I preserved as much of her fragmented dignity as the process allowed. But I wept that night, of course. Partly due to my emotional hair trigger, partly red wine, largely the utter, wasteful unreasonableness of it all. We can do better. We should do better.

I joined the Scottish Greens about a year ago, during the Westminster campaign in May 2015. Post referendum, I'd considered for some time joining the SNP, supporting independence and thinking that they generally had done an okay job of governing Scotland. Coming from a 1970s Labour rooted family, growing up where I did and feeling as I did, I was also very strongly inclined towards a more equal, fairer Scotland and greater social justice and opportunities for all. I detest poverty and the poverty of opportunity. As much as I admired the SNPs progress and was grateful to them for delivering the referendum, a lot of what they said on a lot of issues rankled. They don't go far enough. In particular, I was unconvinced that the SNP cared enough about environmental justice and they seemed too slavishly reverential towards the oil and gas sector. Tuition fees aside, I don't think they've done enough to support young people and their cutting of college places is regrettable. I'd long ago concluded that the Scottish Labour party had completely lost its way and had comprehensively abandoned the people of Scotland and the Lib Dems.....well.....bless. It would, of course, be a cold, dark day in hell before I ever put an 'X' next to a Tory's name.

 But post referendum and in particular, during the Westminster Campaign, I came to realise just how comprehensively the policies and ethos of the Scottish Greens meshed tightly with my own beliefs and values. I'd always respected their stance on environmental justice, but had never seriously considered in depth their broader approach to questions of social justice, equality and real transformational change in Scotland. Their ideas were bold, yet sensible; broad, yet deep. They were thought out. They understood the interconnectedness of it all. How land ownership and housing as a commodity leads to inequality and wealth disparity. How community empowerment and stronger local democracy are essential to unlocking the power in communities and how that strengthens society at large. That we simply need to tax higher earners more and lower earners less. To me, it almost sounded like the Labour party of old, only smarter, fresher, better. I joined.

Since joining, I've become involved. Recently, heavily involved. Currently, I'm working hard with others in the North East Region to help the Scottish Greens return their largest and most credible ever cohort of Green MSPs. It feels like important work. It feels like it's going well. For me. it feels like the right decision and a good use of my time. And time, right now, is a precious commodity. When the backing track to your life is a clock that ticks 'Chronic' until it one day strikes 'Terminal', you apportion time carefully. Right now, my ribs hurt a wee bit more each day and my pee's a wee bit frothier (proteinuria - bad sign). Blood results are a little less stable and I suspect me and Remission shall once more part company. I hope we'll meet again. Meantime, May the 5th 2016 approaches. There's work to do. We need a bolder Holyrood and a better Scotland. We need strong, Green voices in our parliament. I'll spend my time fighting for that.

Will cattle yawn in an independent Scotland?

Our house sits in the middle of a field, in the heart of the Aberdeenshire countryside. The field's occupants vary, but for the past few months we've been subjected to the close scrutiny of twenty or so young bullocks, who gather to stare in through the kitchen window, usually as I'm sheepishly roasting a chunk of beef. A few weeks ago, whilst watching them, it dawned on me that I'd never noticed them - or any other cattle - yawning. My dogs yawn; my cats yawn; but I'd never spotted a cow yawn. I consulted my infinitely more intelligent wife - who know these things - and was surprised to unearth a hole in her knowledge- she didn't know. Naturally, we turned to Google and my hopes soared as the search engine auto-completed my query on the 'y' of 'Do cattle yawn?'. A common question, I concluded. Alas, the results proved less decisive. Some links gave a 'Yes, they do', with even a few supporting YouTube videos. Others gave a firm 'No', going into detail that only meat eaters yawn. This led to further searches to establish if the 'meat-eaters-only' angle was true and again, more confusion. Deciding that a.Life was too short, and, b. I didn't really care that much, I abandoned the question and went out on my bike.

About the same time, I'd received an application form to participate in one of the BBC's referendum debates, to be held locally in Inverurie. The form asked for some basic information, whether you were a Yes, No or Undecided voter, and if you had a question you'd like to put to the panel. I completed all but my potential question, determined to develop some deeply penetrating, incisive and original gem of a question. There I remained stuck. Days went past and nothing smarter than the obvious, asked-to-death candidates, came to mind: 'What currency would we use?', 'How easy would EU membership be?', 'Would we be allowed a Eurovision entry?'. At this time, I was an "Undecided, verging towards Yes" man. For most of my adult years, my heart readily jumped at the idea of an independent Scotland, but I was determined that my head would need to be convinced - an approach, I suspect, shared by many. I read the White Paper, looked at the two early, competing fiscal reports and soaked up all I could from news and media. A couple of the TV debates had already taken place, including the first between Salmond/Darling. All this left my hopefully none-too-stupid head confused and gave few, if any, conclusive answers. As things wore on: more debates, more reports, more pondering, I gradually came to a set of realisations. Firstly, I realised that definitive, factual answers to most of the referendum's big questions are simply not going to be available, eg: we won't know with certainty what currency we'll be using or on what basis; we won't know for certain if, or how easily, Scotland's independent membership of the EU will unfold; we don't really know how much oil and gas remains for our benefit nor what it'll truly be worth; don't even get me started on Eurovision! Having realised all of the above, I then came to a very liberating conclusion: 'So what!'. Not because I'd conveniently decided all these questions were unimportant - they matter. What I hope I'd come to understand was that these issues all have an answer. That answer, preferred scenario or otherwise, would simply have to be dealt with. In some areas, currency say, a different outcome to that hoped for by Mr Salmond et al, might mean a radical rethink and perhaps years of adjustment, inconvenience, pain even. From my earliest musings on the practicalities of separating Scotland from the rest of the United Kingdom, I have never imagined for a second that it would not be accompanied by a huge amount of upheaval, reorganising, re-thinking, concessions sought and granted, sacrifices made. It will be inconvenient. Even given two cooperating sides carrying a fair slice of good will and determination to make the transition as smooth and painless as possible, the process of separation will not be easy. But again, 'So What!'. Ultimately, if you hold to the belief that Scotland can be a prosperous, successful, small nation, capable of running its own affairs (and even David Cameron has stated his belief in this premise), then all the unknown obstacles that stand in our way are simply obstacles we need to deal with. A Yes vote is, as we keep being reminded, for ever. Another way of looking at that is that this is therefore a long term strategy, with the full benefits possibly not seen in many of our lifetimes, but perhaps by our children and their children too. With this in mind, but unfortunately too late to participate in the debate, I finally came up with my master question. A braver me would dearly have loved to sit in the Undecided section, face Mr Salmond and Mr Darling and eruditely enquire: "Would Cattle Yawn in an Independent Scotland?". Not that I care about the literal answer (although I suspect Darling knows and has done all along) but the point, I guess, after all the debates, unanswered questions and layers of subterfuge on confusion that we've witnessed these past two years, the point is that the answer to that question is as seemingly unobtainable, unhelpful and unenlightening as a great many of the questions and answers we've listened intently to so far. And again I say 'So What!'. Last week I put a nice big 'X' next to 'Yes' on my postal vote and sent it on its way. I'd finally decided my answer was going to be Yes, but the day before, I caught sight of a now frequently reproduced quote from Nelson Mandela: "May your choices reflect your hopes and not your fears.". This sealed it for me. Some will say that this is emotion guided decision making; that I'd let my heart rule my head. Perhaps. But I truly believe that contained within that quotation is the simple understanding that in order to shape and determine our future, we need to be brave and bold enough to seize opportunities and be determined to see them through. By taking the bullish, positive, self-affirming approach, we put responsibility and control in our own hands. I feel that's exactly the sort of gutsy decision we need as a nation to kick start a whole new era of Scottish politics and societal change. The status quo is not good. Westminster politics is outdated, unchanging and no longer reflects the hopes and aspirations of the Scottish people. There are just as many risks staying in the union as there are leaving it. Now, if only we could get one definite answer to the whole Eurovision thing...

It's been a while

Ok, ok.

I'll do a wee update.

First, and most importantly, Corri's marathon. It was on the 31st May through a scorching hot Edinburgh. Both Corri and her friend Allie put in admirable performances, though Allie's was slightly more admirable as she ..., well, put simply, she beat Corri by a couple of minutes and managed to duck under the 4hr mark. Allie did 3:58:something and Corri managed 4:00:28 secs. If only Corri had pushed that wee bit harder, put the effort in, got her arse in gear, she would have dipped under 4hrs and could put her marathon aspirations to bed. Now she'll need to do another one. Anyway, I was proud of her. On the fundraising front, she managed to raise a stonking £5,140 (so far, money's still trickling in). Fantastic, and thanks to all who have contributed.

On a 'me' front, things are going well. Been home now for about 6 weeks and I'm feeling more or less 100%, back to normal. I have no hair and (sorry, bottoms again) still have a runny arse, but on the whole I feel fine. I've started going for wee runs in the past two weeks and those have gone well. Hopefully keep the motivation up and get fully fit soon. Need to get some weight training done as I have absolutely no strength in my arms and upper body.

My last hospital check up was a couple of weeks ago and went well. My wee stem cells seem to be doing the right thing and all my blood counts have come back up to sensible levels. Neutrophils were 2.2 last time and total white cells 5.something. Interestingly, my platelet count was 266, so for now, it seems the stem cell transplant has cured my ITP. Not sure if that'll last, but an interesting side effect. This has been observed in other people but only a few years ago they'd be writing papers about me.

It's all still too early to know what the full effect on the Myeloma will be. In a month or so they'll re-test my bone marrow to restage the disease and that'll give some indication on the level of remission, which in turn gives us some idea how long it'll be before they feel the need to do anything else.

I've also had a day of minor stardom. I was asked by the North of Scotland Blood Transfusion service to be their poster child for the launch of blood donor week last Monday. I was on the telly (STV news), radio and in local newspapers, encouraging people to give blood. It was good fun and I got a nice wee stainless steel desk clock as a thanks you pressie.

Anyway, today is Friday, Corri's off work today and so we're going to figure out something nice to do. Pick tiles for the new shower room, for example.....groan.

Take care to anyone who's still 'listening'.
Joe

Update - Wednesday 13th May.

Well, been properly home for over a week now.
I'm feeling quite good on the whole, and have had no problems since getting out.

Gripes:
- Still got a really runny arse.
- Still got no sense of taste or smell, so food isn't great.
- I get tired without doing very much.

On the plus side, I was into hospital yesterday for a checkup and things are going well. Neutrophils are now 1.5, Total white cell count is 4.4, platelets are 166 and Haemoglobin 114. All heading in the right direction and nice to see neutrophils well above 1.0.

I also got my Hickman line out, thanks to Jeff, the very skillful Macmillan nurse at ARI Haematology. Good to get rid of that - means I can shower and sleep more comfortably in the buff.

Trying to adjust to this new stage in my life is proving a bit tricky. I'm not sure what I could/should be doing and what I shouldn't. I guess just common sense - not do too much and listen to my body.

Still home, and feeling fine.

Hi All,

Been home now since Tuesday, and all is going well.

Have managed not to catch anything (that I know of) so far, despite still having a pretty low neutrophil count (it was 0.7 at yesterday's clinic appointment).

Eating well, sleeping well. All told, nothing much to tell. The recovery begins and so I guess this blog has served its main purpose - keeping folk informed of my wellbeing during the stem cell transplant. I think it's not too presumptive and fate-tempting to say, I'm out of the woods now.

Time will tell how successful the whole procedure's been. I'm optomistic.

I may stick up the odd post and blood count figure (for those strangely interested in such things) but will post less frequently now. If anybody wants to email me direct to see how things are going, feel free. Email address is (I'll describe rather than write it, to stop spam harvesters getting it):

my name at energyrenewed.co.uk

Where "my name" is just "joe"

Thanks for reading and commenting and all the emails I got sent outwith the blog. It really helped take my mind of the whole process, kept me busy and feeling loved. Look forward to catching up with many of you - starting with Mike & Andrea this weekend.

Later..
Joe

Dogs

New camera = new photos of dogs. Yes, I'm a bit obsessed.

For those who've emailed, asking what dogs look like (any excuse) here's the gruesome, twosome.

Barra, our 5yr old Wirehaired Vizsla:

And Fraoch, our 13 month old Slovakian Roughhaired Pointer: