When speed is of the essence…

Standard

“You see things, and you say, “Why?”.

But I dream things that never were, and I say, “Why not?” – George Bernard Shaw

~~~~~

I recently reread Stephen King’s memoir On Writing, where he comments that he is regarded as a prolific writer even though he has written “only a few dozen” novels (up till the year 2000).

But this was nothing compared to British mystery novelist named John Creasey.

He also mentioned that it should preferably take about 3 months to get the draft of a book out. Not longer than one season – else you start to lose your tempo.

Stephen King recently also received the National Medal of Arts award this year. He knows what he is talking about.

My 2nd book “50 PERSPECTIVES – The Value of Things Unseen” is now out and available on all the large electronic commerce companies.

And there is a 2-year gap between the first and the second.

Certain parts in the world, specifically where we live now, has four seasons in a year. Yes four.

It’s a bit difficult to write 4 books in a day.

  • So, sorry Stephen – No Can Do.

However, before I say that too loudly, let’s look at the most prolific writer in history. Creasey is only 9th on the Prolific List. He received 768 rejection letters before his first book was published. He then went on to write more than 600 books – included westerners and even romance novels – under 28 pseudonyms.

 

  • Top spot is held by Spanish writer Corin Tellado – 4,000 novels between 1927 and 2009. If she started at age 22, then she wrote one novel every 5 ½ days! And sold on average 100,000 copies of each.

 

At my speed I will have to become 8,000 years old to write that many books.

 

Meet the top 17 most prolific writers at Why Not Books on http://thewhynot100.blogspot.com.au/2014/06/17-most-prolific-writers-in-history.html

THIS WAS “YESTERDAY’S NEWS”

Standard

Other than the news out of Paris – which continues to be horrific, this was “yesterday’s news”.

 

A grown man beat up a 17 year old kid in a car park. The kid had accidentally reversed his car into the man’s car – and bumped the tow-bar. No noticeable damage to the man’s car.

The kid was in hospital for days and took 6 months to recover from black eyes and other wounds. Not to mention he is scared to go anywhere.

The court gives the man a couple of hundred days to learn how to control himself. No assault charges.

The man says he snapped because he had a bad day at work.

  • Maybe the parents of the boy should hire a few big guys who had a bad day at work and teach the guy a lesson about bad day behavior.

 

An 18 year old drives a car (no permanent license) into a bus full of people many of whom land in hospital.

The 18-year old gets a suspended sentence and a suspended license, which he don’t really have anyway.

His excuse? I was on the drug ICE.

Operating a car whilst under the influence of drugs has now become extenuating circumstances.

  • Maybe all doctors should operate under the influence of drugs and claim extenuating circumstances when people die. Let’s expand it to the airline pilots. And ambulance drivers.

The magistrates’ excuses? The jails are full.

 

Well, then let the offenders out then but hit them with other ways and means – not suspended sentences.

Make them recompense their victims. If they don’t have the finances, sell what they have and make them work. If they wont, then deal with them differently. And there are ways, believe me.

 

Here is a story that I experienced in 1965:

I played cricket against a team of guys who were from a young men’s correction facility. They told me that their “management” would feed them for a certain period of time during which they were given seeds and animals.

  • They had to plant and raise the animals to feed themselves. It’s called “learn responsibility”.

No work, no food. And the other blokes in the “home” would sort out the lazy ones.

They won the match against us. And they were a proud bunch. I went back to visit some of them.

 

  • You cannot suspend financial impact or death or being in a wheelchair after an accident.

So why would you suspend responsibility – or rather irresponsibility?

 

It is time the world grows a sense of responsibility and the only way that is going to happen is to stop dealing out suspended and lenient sentences to people who literally sometimes get away with murder, and physically, emotionally, psychologically maim others permanently.

 

We have become too politically correct. Too lenient.

AND

We are sliding back into the cave. Fast.

 

It is time for the Common Folk to march on the institutions who are supposed to govern and get them to get “our house” in order – or to leave.

 

The alternative – I fear – is that people will suspend with the authorities and take things into their own hands – as I said: and slide back into the cave.

~~~~~

FOOLS OF OUR TOOLS – Revisited

Standard

Recently I wrote a piece titled “FOOLS OF OUR TOOLS” which I concluded as follows:

 

And I am still happy with an “older model” of my mobile phone.

 

So, have we become the fools of our tools?

Not yet, but it may be a work-in-progress.

 

Yesterday I saw a post which seems to be very much aligned with the uneasiness which I have been approaching technology over the past number of years – since cars were in fact fitted with odometers that would tell you the exact kph (mph) you were driving – to a decimal place.

By the way one of my friends made her husband get rid of their car since it really made her feel uneasy to drive at 83.9 kph on their way to Sussex inlet.

I have now followed with trepidation something they call “robo- advice” where algorithms (written by whom, and with what input?) will replace financial advisors in an attempt to lower the cost of financial advice. There are several points to notice here:

These “robo-advisors” will not be owned by banks – which I think is a good thing – to a point.

They can spark a sell-sell-sell cycle and as recently seen in the USA can cause a stock exchange blip that can wipe billions of dollars off the market in minutes – off companies that investors rely on for retirement and other finances.

 

Now here are four instances where Bernd Struben, Managing Editor of The Daily Reckoning (in Australia) feels that we should definitely say NO to technological “advance”….

 

…. much of which reminds me of George Orwell’s two classics “1984” and “Animal Farm”.

 

  1. Road safety

AustRoads – Australia’s top road safety body – has called for alcohol interlocking devices, cameras and finger print recognition devices in cars to stem alcohol-related death on roads.

Whilst I thing drink-driving should be regarded as an extreme offence, so do I think drug-driving should be regarded the same as should be other types of driving.

Question: Why just not take cars away completely? That should stop most road deaths.

But the deeper question is: Why should the 90+% of the drivers be saddled with technological crap so we can stop the “10%” hoons and reckless drivers out there? Let them pay for their mistakes – with more than a slap on the wrist. And I mean make them pay in terms of finances. And if they cannot or will not, then extract it from them in other ways – which may be seen as draconian

but the many should not pay for the stupidity of the few.

 

Footnote – of course we would all be tracked via GPS.

 

  1. 2. Photo sharing

Facebook is busy testing a feature that will share your photos with “friends” – even before you decide to upload them to facebook. They will go through new photos on your phone’s camera and share them with your “friends”.

It is time to really think who your “friends” are.

Of course this will be done “with your permission” but how many of us have actually read all the small print, and keep reading it (as they change this when it suits them) and who knows where to find all the “switches” to “opt out” of what we don’t like? In fact, if you have ever shared a photo with friends via Messenger you might have already given them permission to do this – without you knowing it (“opted in” being the nice word to describe it).

 

  1. Fitness tracking devices and Intelligent watches:

The sweetner that they give you is that you will know every one of your vital signs at any point in time. But so will your insurance company AND probably your government.

You strap this device on and it helps you pace your walk, your run, the number of steps you take in a day, your blood pressure, your heartbeat, how many calories you ingest, etc.

And your insurance company will craft you a “better and cheaper” policy based on this.

Question” When last did your insurance go down? They always find “more new technology” to install which makes things more expensive. Not to mention the multi-million dollar bonuses and severance packages they pay themselves.

 

  1. Black Boxes for cars

And cars to be installed with more “black box” technology to track how you drive – for the same purpose: to offer you “better and cheaper” insurance.

Question: Same as above.

 

I think the BIG question to come out of all of this is:

  • This is data that I generate. So who owns it?

The answer is simple: I own it.

 

  • And what do they do with it?

Answer: Who knows. You will never get a straight answer out of any of them.

 

  • So, why should I share it and for what benefit to me?

You are being told by these organizations and corporations that it is for you benefit.

 

Really? When last did you get a royalty cheque in the post for sharing any of this data / information with them? Or lower insurance for that matter? Do they send your child to school?

 

~~~~~

LAKE PLACID (Jakarta, Indonesia) – 5 JUNE 2005 (part 2 of 2)

Standard

Thumbnail of Part 1: I had myself an appointment with a friend one Sunday morning and called to confirm our meeting time. When the appointment time was delayed, I decided to wash our clothes (to surprise my wife who was visiting friends) and relax on the balcony. On hearing a noise from the kitchen I opened the cupboard door to be surprised by a gushing stream of water which started to fill up the kitchen floor. I blocked off the water with a bedcover and tried to find the shut-off tap in the servant’s room that runs off the small back balcony and in so doing I hear the balcony door shut behind me – with disaster still in full swing in the kitchen.. now read on….

Ok., no water mains shut-off tap here either. Turns around. Extends hand onto the outside kitchen door knob,…and touches a confused and out-of-breath white dove with a olive branch in its beak, trying to balance on it. Paunchy whoosh-whooshes the dove energetically away with a vigorous wave of arms, nervously looking if there are any other strays about, such as maybe a lonely vulture that might have drifted in on the back of the dove. Paunchy the Hopeful grabs the door knob with renewed fervour. And turns it. No left-right motion. And turns it. Still no turning motion. Shit. Translate that into SHIT!! Re-translate that into SHIIIIT!!!. The door is on auto-lock from the inside. (This is where the reader is kindly reminded to recall the earlier reference to the fireman’s axe).

Instant Consternation!

Paunchy the Severely Concerned is now a Permanent Resident in the Land of Disbelief.

Let us take stock for the reader’s sake: A drum-roll of gushing water. Rising Tide on both sides of the door. Mobile phone on dining room table. Paunchy out on tiny 9th floor balcony with door locked from inside. Four locks and thief-proof latches on the apartment’s front door. Sunday lunchtime.. A bewildered dove. The possibility of a circling vulture… No Axe.

Paunchy the Disbeliever (reminding himself to go to church tonight, if not earlier, given certain conditions are met) scrambles around in the servant’s quarters and finds a few plastic cups, a plastic bucket, a small plastic chair, and yes of course a mattress. But sleeping is very low on the Totem Pole of Desired Solutions. Even Maslow and Freud would have a problem trying to place the comfort of a lonely Sunday afternoon nap into the right context here. Bucket, Cups, Chair, Bucket, Cups, Chair. Plastic. Panic.

“Help! Help!!” Listen..

„H E L P !! “ More listening..

“AITCH EEE ELL PEE !!!” More INTENSE listening..

Not a beep. Not a bat of even a mosquito wing. It might as well have been the Sahara. 500 miles from the nearest well. On a moonlit night. In the 12th century.

Hey what have we here now? Aha a one meter length piece of wood, forgotten by some careless workman. EUREKA! Thank you dear God for careless workmen! They should all be given gold-rimmed Certificates of Carelessness. And large bonuses.

Paunchy the Jailbird, trying to stay above the Rising Tide from under the kitchen door – balances himself like a drunken two-legged circus elephant on the small wobbling plastic chair. Aims. Wobbles. Hits. Wobbles. Connects with a Bang! Bang!! It does not even take the paint off the door. But it puts some splinters in Paunchy the Carpenter’s hands and fingers. Minor concern.

Maslow was right. Safety is higher than Comfort on the Hierarchy of Living Needs, and Fear is a Powerful Motivator. Fear Factor. Has anyone ever heard of a program called “Comfort Factor”? or “Safety Factor”?)

(Unbeknownst to Paunchy the Batsman, the Emergency Services have arrived outside the front door but is being denied access to the apartment, as well-documented above). Aims for the door knob. Bang. Bang! Bang!! 50 Bangs! Paunchy the Banger drips from a mixture of water, sweat and deep concern. Has the dike held? Is the water Niagara-falling over the outside balcony? Are We Adrift? What if there is an earthquake NOW!

Who said THAT?

Liver is now competing with Heart to be the first to jump from Paunchy the Panter’s mouth. Rest awhile. This is important. We have to pace ourselves here. Panic leads to stupidity. hmm now there is a thought to savour. Don’t get into heart-attack territory by over-banging the door knob, which is by now giving way as slowly as an un-cooperative traffic cop on a lazy Sunday afternoon.. Shit what about the 3 pm meeting? What time is it?

Who Cares?

Bang! Splinter. Puff. Drip Bang!! Puff-puff. Drip-drip. Bang!!!. Splinter. Wiggle. Knob and lock is now as bent as a New York City Cop, but still as un-cooperative as a 300 pound folded-arms “Momma’s Big Worry”-tattooed bouncer at a rock concert. With dark glasses on. That is the bouncer, not the concert.

100 Bangs!!! More splinters. Puff-puffs. Drip-drip. Bang! Splinters. Puff. Drip. Rest. Bang. Puff. Drip. Wiggle….

The lock yields with the grace and speed of the Tumbling Walls of Jericho! The door swings open … to a tsunami.. and the sweet smell of a flooded kitchen.. FREEDOM!

Paunchy The Freedom Fighter skims the surface like a jet-skier, over the still-holding bedcover-dike, skids around the dining room table to unlatch, un-lock, un-emergency-proof the by now almost bulging bang-assaulted front door…(nice to know someone else was also banging away on a door).

On the dining room table the mobile phone is ringing its little battery flat. The clock on the wall says 12:20…

Further inspection showed that the washing machine was an innocent bystander. The Prime Offender was the kitchen wash-up sink feeder-pipe that broke off flush against the wall.

PS: The white dove and olive twig were just added for dramatic effect. The vulture was for real (he..he.. gotcha).

~~~~~

LAKE PLACID (Jakarta, Indonesia) – 5 JUNE 2005 (part 1 of 2)

Standard

Dateline Indonesia

 

Backstory:

This is a true story. Indonesian apartments will normally have a servant’s room that runs off a small back balcony whilst a large front balcony would face outward with nice views over the city. It is one of those that we rented. We did not have a servant. Where I grew up you did things yourself. My wife was visiting with friends and I was enjoying a lazy Sunday morning…now read on. Part 1 of a 2-part blog)

Couple of Sundays ago, having just moved into his “new” 9th floor apartment overlooking a placid sun-splashed golf driving range, yours truly (call me Paunchy for short, since I have a bit of a beer belly) had himself an appointment to visit with some friends around 12 noon.

Following tried and tested standards Paunchy the Organized calls in advance to confirm the appointment – thus trying to align the local custom of perpetual lateness with western values of punctuality.

Lucky break! Paunchy’s friend asks to delay the meeting till 3 pm since he still has to fly back from another island.

Ok, so Paunchy the Delayed, now with a clutch-full of free time (a.k.a. as the Devil’s Pillow) on his hands, and with a “waste not, want not” attitude, pops some clothes into the washing machine. Regulation activity. And to complete the picture Paunchy the Relaxed decides to hang loose on the front balcony for 20 minutes or so, taking in some sunshine and relishing the panorama. Ah what a life…Relaxation at its best. Unadulterated Freedom!

And …hm? What is that.. uh… gushing?…sound? Paunchy the Nonchalant strolls into the kitchen Noise emanating from the cupboard below the sink? Bends down. Opens door. Regulation activity. Doors are made to be opened. Normally….

…. And a jet-stream of water gushes straight past Paunchy the Slightly Bewildered, hits the fridge door on the other side of the kitchen like a torrent from a fireman’s hose. Without the regulation clanging of bells and screeching of tires…Also without the regulation brass-buttoned uniforms and long-stem axes (an insignificant but insightful little detail that the reader is advised to remember for later consumption).

Instant TURMOIL.

Downtown Bagdad!

Slam! Shut goes the door.

Disbelieve.

Open goes the door.

No change in activity. Gulf Stream still in full operational mode. Shut goes the door. “Shit” goes Paunchy. And nearly adds action to words.

Disbelief is fast becoming a pressing pastime. Then turns into a fulltime personal trait.

12:01: Fast-thinking Paunchy the Dutchman grabs the bedcover that is still on the lounge suite from watching “The Perfect Storm” on TV the night before, throws it down and molds it like a dike to contain the water in the kitchen. Aha at least any flooding into the rest of the apartment is now (temporarily) under control. Paunchy the Electrician slips on his rubber-soled Noahs and shplonks into the little upstart lake now placidly assembling in the kitchen – to unplug any electrical appliances. Smart Thinking Paunchy Einstein. Better safe than sorry. Self-confidence grows again with every stride – just a minor inconvenience. A pre-lunchtime burp so to speak.

12.02: Paunchy the Telephonist searches the mobile phone directory for the Emergency Services number… No such number…. OK. Not a problem, Paunchy the Unfazed calls the owner of the apartment – to ask them to contact Emergency Services. The connection is made. Paunchy the Pedagogue explains the situation with the calmness of a Tourist Board Guide on a downtown City Bus. Control is all important and Paunchy the Confident is still in (slightly less than full) command of the – by now – slow forming little Lake Placid in the kitchen.

Paunchy to Owner: “By the way, can you tell me where in the apartment is the emergency shit-off…I mean, shut-off tap?”

Owner to Paunchy: “Hmm let us see, if we are not mistaken (and we might be, by the sound of the confidence level in the voice of the owner) it is either in the cupboard where the problem is (hmm) or in the servant’s quarters where the geyser is located – just behind the kitchen. Just open the kitchen door that leads onto the small balcony and the servant’s room in the back. We are sure it is there…”

Paunchy the Unconvinced, now sounding more and more like Noah: “Roger”.

Option One. Opens the cupboard again. Tries to put his hand in front of the Jet Stream. Which hits him in the face. And dislodges his glasses. Damn! Scramble. Tap. Splash! Feel. Be careful. You don’t want to do this without glasses. Feel. Tap. More Feel. Ah. Lady Luck is a Kind old Bitch, sorry, Nanny. Glasses are found. Returned to both ears. Drip, but not dry. Impaired Vision is better than No Vision.

No Emergency Shut-off Tap Here. Ok one more to go.

The servant’s quarters now starts to figure in Paunchy the Hopeful’s mind with the same urgency and determination as a light-house does in the mind of a ship’s captain on a stormy night. Paunchy the (Now Much Less) Confident steadies himself in the Rising Tide, splish-sploshes to the kitchen door, opens it and splashes out onto the tiniest of balconies that leads into the servant’s quarters…

…. and hears the kitchen door slams shut behind him by virtue of a slight daft.. er, draft.…

(part 2 of 2 will appear Monday)

YEARS TOO LATE

Standard

(Another true story – 7 Cans. 1 Hour)

Back story:

  • I found a job in Jakarta, Indonesia and still rented a weekend house in the small steel town 85 km from the city where most of my friends stayed. It gave me an opportunity to get out of the city for Fun Runs which predictably invariably ended up with more Fun than Run. It also afforded a welcome break from the IT business, choked traffic, eternal protest rallies and glitzy shopping malls.
  • I used to drive myself out of the city on those Friday evening and to get into the mood I would buy two or three 750ml bottles of local Anchor beer and soak them up on the way home. Translated it would mean about 7 standard cans. The journey would normally take about an hour in the dark once you leave the city.

Seven cans. One hour.

There I was, buckled up and belting down the toll road out of a partially pyrotechnically and incrementally infantile protesting Jakarta. Friday evening! On my way “home!” La Dolce Vita clenched between my thighs, in the form of the second bottle of half-sipped luke-warm beer, windows wound down to let in Mother Nature – listening to “Hey Jude” on the radio at 160 clicks an hour. Alone.

It was 10 p.m. and getting unsteadily later. The road sign reflected 45 km, and two more exits to the final turn-off. And home. Choices multiplied: switch radio stations, switch destinations, switch brands. Matrices of Madness with unclear interim destinations but a predictable end-result. Life in the Fast Lane – 30 years too late. Woodstock had come and gone. Even Bob Dylan has changed religion twice.

And basically only one of the three Big Walls remained: Checkpoint Charlie is now checking out a vanishing heap of Berlin rubble. Pink Floyd helped educate those protesting voices of a past generation who “don’t need no education” whilst the Great Wall of China continues to be visible from the moon – probably the only safe place to watch the increasingly lunatic economical and political wobble on Planet 3.

But, hello, what the human eye fails to see, is the biggest human artifact – the worldwide telephone network. Socket to me, you, and whomever else is plugged-in, powered-up and pass-worded. It only needed another w (the web). Funny what just one character can do. But that is just the point. It needs character do worthwhile things. Character, the Anchor of the Spirit. Unbottled. And Stirred.

But the one BIG worry is when, stirred, the alphabet soup of beer misspells your name. Then you are really in the wrong soup. And that brings us full circle: Souped-up wheels, with souped-up drivers, bottling at souped-up-speed-an-hour down souped-up toll roads will land you in the soup. Almost always. With only one destination. You don’t need the pick. And the shovel they will use to dig the hole.

Anchors Away!

15 clicks till exit. One more bottle to go. Aha! But what is that they say about beer? Once you “break the seal it keeps on leaking”. Not a challenge where I am on the “Highway to Hedon”. Pull over to do the “number three”. Cigarette in mouth and with Pink Floyd now belting from the speakers I walk around the front of the car, unzip and turn the relief valve open.

Heaven. Is. A. Roadside. Pee…

…and a Highway Patrol car slides by, windows down – and just keep moving right along.

New-found democracies tend to be more flexible.

Can’t image the scene had this been somewhere else. The USA. The UK. South Africa.

Cilegon, Indonesia. Friday 15th October,1999.

“COME PICK UP THE OTHER HALF ON THE DROP ZONE” (part 3 of 3)

Standard

Recap: After ridiculing friend Martin’s weekend skydiving plans one Friday night in a pub he publicly challenges me to come pick up one half of a R10 (close enough to USD10) note on the drop zone – if I dare. I accept the dare and do the jump – with less than perfect results: I cannot seem to get up and stand on my right leg after, and having landed in a cow patch I now spot a bull and my friends bearing down on me from different directions. On arrival at the hospital it becomes apparent that the medical attendant’s national sport team had just won a significant event – and he had been celebrated prematurely… Now read the concluding part of this real-life story:

And so opens another chapter in the Saga of Saturday.

I am placed on a high medical bed. He prods here. Bends the foot there. Oohs and Aahs as doctors do. Its part of the final exams for a doctor, the Ooh and Aah bit.

“Ouch!” that was me.No Ooh and Aah out of me. I am not qualified.

“Hm. Worst sprain I have ever seen in my life”, and with that he arms himself with a crepe bandage and proceeds to wrap my ankle – which of course requires it being moved about and lifted a bit.

More “Ouch”. Less Ooh and Aah.

“Ok you can get up now” and with that he stands back to admire his medical skills and for me to get off the bed.

It is starting to dawn on me that this is going to take more than an Aspro and a week to heal.

I slide off the bed, put my foot experimentally down – and it just folds sideways, collapses.

Make that two Aspro’s and two weeks.

We look at each other. The smile on his face had – hopefully – very little to do with my wobbly foot.

Two of my earlier rescuers went outside and came back with a “dropper” which is basically a thin metal pole that is used in South Africa to do wire fencing. They bent it into a walking stick and handed it to me.

We hobble back to the truck and camp. Someone produced a bottle of Scotch which was to be my comfort for the night and which I stood swigging at until it was empty. Yes and there was a certification ceremony and a barbeque to celebrate my jump. The bottle of scotch was of course a mistake. The midnight pee was agony.

But the morning was worse. I now had to content with a “severely sprained ankle” and “roaring campfire” in my head. And the leg was by now swollen into the size of a watermelon. Bulging over the crepe bandage.

So, up we packed. Off we went and straight to The Groote Schuur Hospital, made famous by Dr. Chris Barnard for performing the world’s first heart transplant there. Hopefully I was not going to need any transplants. Hopefully.

“So, what is wrong with him?” At last a doctor is attending to me. A doctor with white clothes on. Not a swaying sport fan with impeded faculties dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. And victory on his mind.

By this time it is late afternoon. I am thirsty. In pain. Hung over. Hungry. My impatience led to ehm .. a difference between me and the doctor. I was declared unruly, un-co-operative and forthwith kicked out of the hospital without treatment.

Doctors 2. Kris 0.

Ok. Let’s go back home. That is a good place. Maybe.

There was a deep sigh, a worried look, and sympathetic eyes. With a tear in them. Mom said little other than “ai” which can probably translate (in this instance) to “and what now?” And a few other sentiments. Subdued was not the word to describe Martin and the other blokes. Silence is golden. I now know where Simon and Garfunkel got the idea for the name of their famous song.

“Ok Ma’am. We are sorry. And we have to go now.”

The night was long.

Gillian (a colleague) arrived during the course of the next day with a get well card which features on the cover of this book. Together with Mom they decided to take me to another doctor. I made a promise not to fail this test.

X-rays showed what we suspected. Ankle broken in two places. Fibula (outer of the two bones in the lower leg) snapped and broken in half.

The sporting doctor was right: Worst sprain ever.

I pleaded with all not to put my right leg in plaster, having had my left leg from toes to hip in plaster of Paris for extended periods when I was in primary school. It is not fun.

”No, of course not. We know the agony people go through. Your Mom told me about your childhood struggles in plaster of Paris. Don’t worry. But we will have to put you under narcosis to attend to things because the leg is quite swollen”.

Doctors talk in understatements. Swaying or sober.

So I woke up with my leg in plaster of Paris.

Doctors 3. Kris 0.

And a dent in my trust towards doctors. Do they also get taught this in medical school?

Mom was good enough to go buy me a bottle of whiskey as a bedside buddy whilst I struggled with the inconvenience of stiffening knee muscles.

I went back to work as soon as I could to submit my resignation in preparation for my emigration to Australia – by ship – which is another story in this book.

Brian, the IT Manager of our Section took one look at my resignation letter.

“How can you resign? Look at you. You can hardly walk”.

Footnote: Now 32 years later I found out that the first doctor was actually a radiographer and doubling as a vet! And he did not spot three breaks in my leg! Glad I am not a sick dog in his town. I will have no legs left. I copy Martin’s informative line “Do you recall the radiographer[1] at (place name) that gave you a clean bill of health also worked for the local vet .”

My comment: Glad I am not a dog or a cat…

~~~~~

They tell me the second jump is more fearful than the first. Although I am ready to go out and face my fear our doctor advised against it. My wife is currently also winning the argument against a second jump however many times I point out that former US Pres George Bush (Sr.) did his number eight jump at age 90.

[1] Radiographer: An important member of a diagnostic health care team. Responsible for producing high quality images to assist medical doctors and specialists in diagnosing/monitoring injuries / illnesses. Where is Superman with his X-ray eyes when you need him?