Calamity Jane's All Over Spain

When I was growing up, one of my mother’s friends had quite the mouth on her, nothing compared to mine now of course, but, a mouth nonetheless. And it was with said mouth that one day I heard her call somebody a Sod. In my self-appointed capacity as “Why?” –child I asked what it meant and was quickly answered with, “It’s like spud. It’s another word for spud.” Of course, at a certain age, you’ll believe anything, won’t you? In fact, I’m still waiting for the age when you stop believing everything…

Either way, with the synonym to Sod being Spud, as I grew up and learnt what it actually meant and then further along the line, learnt the expression Murphy’s law and its ruder cousin: Sod’s law – all I can do is think about the potato famine in Ireland as the toast falls butter side down; as my contacts fall into a pile of water and the way you manage to hurt the same part of your body repeatedly until your nerve endings are numb.

Well now, that last example is precisely what I am living right now. I am surrounded by Calamity Jane’s Sod’s law! And this time, it has absolutely nothing to do with potatoes!

Please take stock of the following: As afore mentioned, NYE for me, was spent in bed with fever and a wisdom tooth releasing all sorts of wisdomosity that was very much unappreciated and undetected actually.

The following week was to be the grandmother’s hip replacement surgery. Which in actual fact, completely boggles the mind! These days, you can just make an appointment with a Dr to give you a new hip. I got talked through how they do it, and as well as it being highly unceremonious in that they actually SAW at your bone and the table rocks with you on it (!!) – they slip in this porous metal, (hello, porous metal??), cut it to size - obviously - and then leave it there to mesh with your own bone! Does nobody feel a little bit like Robo Cop is slowly overtaking all our old people?

Robo Cop or not, something the Dr’s cannot (yet) fix is snow. We were snowed in on the day of her operation and could not move an inch even if we had been paid. Well, for a price, I may just do anything, but the thing is nobody was on the roads as danger of black ice was far too high. Operation cancelled.

Just as bloody well since that morning I woke up with tonsils the size of small golf balls and was beginning to feel like someone’s portable radiator. Of course some would blame this sudden tonsillitis on low-winter-immune system, partying like a Madrilian till the wee hours a few nights before, being in a smokey environment and generally having a huge aversion to coats whatever the season. I blame it on Sod and his law.

That same day, the day that the Robo Cop op. got cancelled and I woke up with a throat slowly morphing into that of the Elephant Man’s second cousin, my grandfather fell in the same place he’d shattered his hip 15 years ago and sprained his wrist and developed complaints of his very own porous metallic body part.

My mother, bless her stripey cotton socks, was afflicted only with great stress at being surrounded by an ailing household.

Suddenly we are presented with the possibility of two hip replacement operations – will it be simultaneous? Will they share the saw? Perhaps compare growth rate of the new titanium 360 super cool body part? I don’t know. I have been dying for the past week and have no bloody idea what is going on.

I lie, I do know the grandfather is fine and been told to grease his hip and bandage his wrist; granny has been receiving phone calls from everyone from here till Timbuktu asking about the surgery – people are beginning to think she made it up just so she could receive an avalanche of calls and me – well, I had to go to the dentist to see about having four bits of useless wisdomosity removed.

Yes, with raging tonsillitis I went and sat in the dentist’s waiting room, having signed consent forms saying something to the effect that if whilst under the anesthetic I swallowed my own tongue/tooth/died etc it was absolutely no one’s fault and quite clearly, Sod’s law.

I sat there with hysteria rising, my eyesight began to blur and hyperventilation quietly but steadily set in. Finally they called my name (the Spanish know how to do this) and I went and sat in the surgeon’s chair. To wait. I must have had such an expression of horror on my face that one of the nurses came and cooed in my ear whilst stroking my hair. Although, according to my mother, there was no expression of horror – which is worse, it means I was exuding enough of it that it warranted hair stroking.

After 20 excruciating minutes, by which time my already reduced throat had completely closed up and I was looking for other means of breathing – the surgeon sent me packing saying he couldn’t possibly operate with tonsillitis. I jumped up, eyesight fully restored, breathing healthily labored once more, hi-fived him, made an appointment for February and ran out before he could change his mind.

Now, although February is the new date for the hip replacement surgery, at least there will only be one. And although I have been told I will look like an unfortunate chipmunk for the better half of a week, I have been recommended the English fix to all bumps: a bag of frozen peas. I intent to show the Spaniards how the British survive pub brawls and dental surgery, yes I do.

So with a good dose of the worst winter Spain has seen since sliced bread; another of Calamity Jane and some more of Sod’s sodding law – we have quite the complete household of late. Of course, we count our blessings, it could be worse. We could have nothing to complain about - and we all know how much we love to do that!