Fail

So. I didn't get it.

Bugger.

Oh well.

On fence sitting and risk taking

Yes. I chickened out of applying for the hospice job.

I wanted to, I really did. I was all fired up but my enthusiasm waned on a daily basis. I got cold feet. I thought about it long and hard but when the closing date passed I didn't feel a pang of regret. There's another potential escape route in sight, however, in the form of a nine month maternity relief position with a view to extend in The Hospital Next Door. It's a public hospital which scares me slightly as I've worked in the private sector for over 12 years now but maybe it's time to get out of my comfort zone. Yes, I know. We've all heard that one before and look what happened. Nothing.

I'm slightly torn about this one although I'm feeling more enthusiastic this time round. Without saying too much (you never know who's reading) it'd be a promotion. I emailed my CV and a covering letter last week and received an email the following day from the manager telling me my covering letter was missing some information and could I send it again, please? I didn't get the email till a couple of days later as I was in sunny South Australia in a house with two other adults, four children and a Red Setter. I came back to Sydney last night to two messages on my answerphone from the manager asking me to resend my letter. The closing date was originally the 31st of March and they've extended it by a week. So, she either really wants me to get it or no one else has applied for it. I'm somewhat worried about being unemployed in nine months time so I do have to really think about this but I'm going to apply and see what happens.

In other news - Adelaide was nice if not very noisy. The dog was the best behaved member of the entire family as well as having a shiny coat and an amazing tail. Dogs are much nicer than people, don't you think? I ate a lot of chocolate, too many hot cross buns and drank a moderate amount of South Australian rose.

Oh, and my computer died a couple of weeks ago. This blog is brought to you courtesy of my beautiful new MacBook Pro. It's hard to save money when you keep spending it but my, it's a wonderful thing. I am officially obsessed with widgets. And Red Setters. And chocolate.

The passing of a giant

SSS was deeply saddened to learn that Michael Foot, Labour party legend, passed away yesterday at the ripe old age of 96. It is, as they say, a good innings. His death is hardly unexpected. His beloved wife Jill Craigie died some years ago and the couple had no children. So, who mourns him? I do.

I'm not going to give you a potted history of Mr Foot's life, most of the papers have excellent obituaries and the Beeb have some nice coverage. I don't even have a terribly interesting Michael Foot story. But I'm going to tell it anyway.

You will not be surprised to know that I was something of a militant student nurse. It was difficult not to be, training as a nurse in Thatchers NHS. I was a union steward and was reasonably active in rallying the troupes in the volatile days of the late 80s. There were public meetings, petitions, and marches. Lots of marches.

One such march was organised by the TUC. Thousands of the great unwashed massed at The Embankment to march for the NHS. The union advised us to march in full uniform and we did so, hats, dresses, capes and banners. We were angry. We were loud. We were on fire.

Whilst waiting to start walking I glanced around and spotted an older gentleman with a walking stick. He looked familiar. Suddenly, it dawned on me. "Come on," I shouted at my equally militant and similarly clad friend. "Michael Foot!"

We rushed towards him like excited spaniel puppies. Before the great man knew what had hit him we each grabbed an arm and planted a kiss on his cheek. The look on his face was priceless. We told him we loved him and thanked him for coming. He started laughing, as did everyone standing nearby. I don't think my feet touched the ground for most of the march.

I wonder if he ever remembered the day he was grabbed by two young nurses. I like to think he did. I know I'll never forget it.

Flash forward two decades and I found myself reading about his passing on the internet. Today I stood on the other side of the world and watched a British news item reporting his death with tears streaming down my cheeks. Even in death he was teaching me something. He reminded me that there was a time I cared passionately about something.

RIP, Mr Foot. Thank you for your service to the Labour party and to the country. Thank you for being that rarest of creatures, a decent politician. Thank you for being an inspiration.

An epiphany

As most of you know, I am a nurse. Much as it pains me to admit it I have been a nurse for a very long time. 24 years of my life have been spent in a variety of different uniforms in a variety of different postcodes looking after a variety of different patients. I don't think it's a vocation, at least it isn't for me. I sort of fell into it after answering an ad in the local newspaper. I'd already had a few crappy little office jobs when I thought I should really do something proper and perhaps shag a good looking doctor/meet some interesting people at the same time. I went along to the interview and a short time later found myself in a classroom with 30 other would be nurses. Excellent. A real job.

St Florence's Hospital for the Perpetually Bewildered was a local busy district hospital. It was home to Britain's second busiest casualty department. It had Britain's second longest hospital corridor. It remains to date the busiest hospital I have ever worked in and the most fun I have ever had during my nursing career.

I had absolutely no idea what I was letting myself in for on that first day. I wrote my resignation letter at least three times in three years. I cried. A lot. I drank cheap cider, got food parcels from my grandparents and an aunt, cried some more, laughed more than I ever thought possible and developed a love for Marmite. I worked like a dog for a pittance. I worked with some amazing people. I cared for some amazing people. I would say I studied hard but that would be a blatant lie, instead winging exam success with a slightly better than average brain and pure chance. Three years and three months later, I got my nurse registration, a silver buckle for my new blue belt and a job on my favourite ward.

Twenty one years later and I've hit a brick wall. I'm bored. I'm not doing what I want to do. I'm not getting job satisfaction and I haven't done so for at least ten years. Lately I've been thinking more and more about moving into the field of palliative care. I thought about it when I was a student nurse and was all set to do an allocation in the hospitals own palliative care centre when a change in hospital policy put paid to my plans. A fellow classmate had what might be deemed as a mental breakdown during her own allocation there leading her to attempt suicide after a fight with her mum and sister. She's fine. At least she was then. I haven't seen her for a while. Truth be told she was always a little bit mad by her own admission. Anyway, to cut a long story short - and believe me, it is a long story - it was decided that she'd gone off the rails due to the death of her grandfather 4 months before. The school of nursing instigated a policy preventing student nurses from going to the palliative care centre if they had experienced a bereavement within the previous 12 months. Sadly, my own wonderful grandfather had died the month before hers had and I was transferred to another unit.

I qualified, got a job on a ward I loved and didn't look back. Every now and then I wondered about what would have happened if things had panned out differently. I always enjoyed looking after terminally ill patients on the ward, which I know sounds strange to non nurses, but I always saw it as a privilege to do so.

Fast forward to today and I've been thinking a lot about a move to the field of palliative care. Last week I was channel surfing when I came across a programme about a hospice, a hospice which just happens to be opposite my hospital. Today I was at a meeting where the palliative care clinical nurse consulant talked about her work. For the next half an hour I could think of nothing else but the hospice and how I wanted to work there. It was as though someone was standing in front of me saying, "Run. Run now. You hate what you're doing and you'd be really good at this. You'll love it. Run."

So, I'm thinking of taking up running. Matters are slightly complicated by the fact that I have an interview on Friday for a part time job in the Hospital Next Door as project nurse for 13 weeks which I'd quite like to get. If I get that, I'll stay put for a while. But if I don't, I'm going to pull on my trainers and run.

Distance

I'm sorry to tell you that I'm feeling a little bit maudlin today. For some strange reason I want to call my grandmother tonight. I want to call and find out how long she had to wait for the bus to East Ham. I want to call and hear her tell me how terrible the television is. I want to call her and hear how much her feet hurt. I can't, of course. She died some years ago. I wanted to pick up the telephone and listen to her voice. It's come out of the blue and I don't know why. I just miss her tonight. I really do.

That's the thing about being apart from people. It causes you pain. It doesn't make it any easier when you've deliberately moved yourself away from people, regardless of what they might think. I'm planning a trip home this year and will be in sunny England - and possibly further afield - in June and July. I get to eat Marks and Spencers food, lard myself up with proper chips from the chippy, annoy friends and family by asking, "Who's that, then?" during soap operas and of course, see my dear old dad.

I was reduced to tears at work on Friday when one of the doctors asked me if I was going home this year. I said I was and that I was looking forward to seeing my dad.
"Do you know what it feels like for a father?" he asked. "Don't you know that when they're so far away it hurts? It really hurts. It gets you right here," and he pressed a hand against his chest.

I know. I do know. It hurts me too. Sometimes I sit here and I think about my dad sitting on his own on the other side of the world. I wonder if he ate properly today. I wonder if he spoke to anyone today. I wonder if he understands that it hurts me too. Not all the time, of course. But sometimes. Like today.

Still, I get to see him in about 16 weeks. I can pick up the telephone right now and hear his voice. I can't do that with my nan.

Ring someone you love today, if for no other reason than to hear their voice. You'll be glad you did.

Monday nights entertainment

See this? Good, isn't it?

I love Sydney. I think I was born to live in a hot country and this one fits the bill. Good climate? Check. English speaking? Check. Doctor Who shown on terrestial TV? Check. Okay, so it's 12,000 miles from the country of my birth and there are times when I wish I didn't live so far away but for the most part it's great.

The picture above is a further indication of why Sydney is a great place to live. The Sydney Festival hits town in January. There's something to see and do most nights of the week. Some of the events are even free, which is a bonus considering how little free cash most of us have at this time of year.

One of my favourite things to do, however, is visit the Open Air Cinema at Lady Macquarie's Chair. Tickets are like hens teeth. I've been unsuccessful two years in a row but this year I managed to score two tickets for last Monday's performance of In The Loop. I know, it's been out for ages in the UK but we've only just got it and I thought it was the funniest thing I've seen in ages.

I'm not going to talk about the film. I just wanted to tell you all that I had a fabulous time. Yes, the seats were a bit hard and I was sitting right up the back directly under the fig trees, thus increasing the risk of ending up with batshit on my head. I didn't care.

Just look at that view.

Remember me?

Hello, my name is SSS and I used to have a blog. I didn't have much of interest to say for a while, real life got in the way and I became morose and dull. I sought solace on the braindead pages of the Daily Mail, watched too many episodes of The West Wing, ate chocolate, drank tea. I procrastinated on a level never seen before.

Anyway, I thought I'd come back to my little blog. And here it is. Sad, neglected and a rather unattractive shade of blue. A bit like my old PE knickers, actually.

But enough of my knickers. I hope to have something witty, informative, hypertension inducing or hilarious for you soon. I just need to have one more cup of tea.........