Behind the bar, a pewter bucket...

An ex-boss of mine, giant in stature, was also rather partial to a good drink. This was good news when you fancied an extended lunch hour, as you would just invite him along and he would happily stay there and buy the beers for hours! Not sure how I’d cope with that now, as too much beer on a daily basis is not a recommended regime for a diabetic! Back then were more innocent and carefree times, I guess. He had a peculiar method of hiding his bald patch – instead of a ‘comb-over’, he had a ‘comb-forward’ which meant that his hair was quite long at the back and then combed forward to give the appearance of a fringe. This was fine, if a bit ridiculous, but when the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, the hair would rise up and flail about. We concluded that this was his method of communicating his requirements across a crowded bar – a sort of follicle-based semaphore. Here is the Ballad of Dave Y, aka Mad Dog aka ‘The Bend’…

Tiny little baby, ten fingers, ten toes,
Lying still in blissful repose,
Awoke and screamed in baby words
‘That bottle you give me is quite absurd!

How can I grow up big and tough?
That bottle doesn’t hold enough!
There can’t be more than half a gill,
Don’t economise on the milkman’s bill,

If I’m to grow to six feet five
That much will barely keep me alive!’
The parents watched him rant and rave,
Astonished how his hair could wave.
‘We’ll have to order several litres,
Or else they’ll think we’re baby beaters!’

And so the milk began to flow,
And the lad began to grow,
He learnt to walk towards a pub
And lift a pint in his dad’s club.

He went to school, he learned to count,
And drink a rather large amount.
First in pints, then in yards
Without feeling too rough afterwards…

Then at a party down Canklow way
A challenge to meet or a bet to pay:
To drink a barrel down in one…
One deep draught and it was gone.

He travelled far, he travelled wide,
A giant thirst, a drinker’s pride
Offered beer, Mad Dog took it,
Behind the bar, a pewter bucket…

‘I didn’t say that!’ was his chant
‘I wouldn’t say that!’ he would rant
‘I promised nothing!’ he would plea
‘A pint for the lads, a bucket for me!’

Body language so profound
Communicates without a sound.
Wave his hair across the bar,
Follicle language travels far.

‘I’m sorry, you’re wrong!’ the man would snap.
‘What you say is utter crap!’
A bucket deep without an end
This is the man they call The Bend!

Tickling Dogs

I think that today I should tickle a dog,
Yes, I think that is what I should do!
Or maybe a frog on a gnarly old log,
Perhaps I could tickle that too?

For I need a distraction to take me away,
An escape from my cares and my woes…
For when you live with it day after day,
Diabetes gets right up your nose!

Like having to think about what I can drink,
And several daily injections,
And to stay in the pink and not kick up a stink
About needing blood sugar corrections!

So, what do you say? Maybe just for a day
Diabetes could just let me be,
And leave me to play in an unfettered way,
And a dog might get tickled for free!

The Whole Mole!

Blood glucose in the UK and many other parts of the world is measured in millimoles per litre (mmol/l). A mole is the SI unit of measurement, and a millimole is one thousandth of a mole. What we really want to see each time we prick our fingers and take a test, is a reading of between 4-7 millimoles, which is regarded as ‘normal’. It actually represents a tiny amount of glucose per litre of blood, and at normal levels if you were to add that much sugar to a litre of water, you would probably not be able to taste it (Type 1.5 demonstrates this admirably on her blog at Just a Spoonful of Sugar. )

So, how long does it take to get through a whole mole? I invented a (probably entirely non-scientific and spurious) method of calculating it. If we accept that one unit of insulin will lower my blood glucose level by approximately 3 mmol/l, and I take 30 units of insulin per day, then it will take me just over eleven days to get through a whole mole…!

Imagine if, when making that fingerprick hole,
The blood that emerged should contain a whole mole!
It’s highly unlikely, for you’d probably be dead,
And your blood would be glucose, and probably not red!
For each time that we measure we are hoping to see
That most of our blood is entirely mole-free!
Ideally, we’ll find just a whisker or two,
For a nose or a claw would be harmful to you –
That’s too much of a mole to be called ‘good control’,
For it’s thousandths we want, not the whole of the mole!

Beware the Iron Gym!

The only sport I do is running. I did use to combine a run with some gym work, but the gym was far too expensive for the number of visits I was making, so I decided to cancel my membership. So, I had to find an alternative way of building up some upper body strength. It’s important in distance running to be reasonably strong in the upper body, as you do have to carry your arms along too, and they can become very tired if not exercised also. Building muscle mass is also helpful to diabetes, as it is more sensitive to insulin than fat and thus will burn glucose more easily.

I’ve had a variety of home gym contraptions over the years, but the latest one that caught my eye was the Iron Gym. It’s a well-engineered piece of kit that can be fitted (and removed) almost instantly to any doorframe, and allows pull-ups to be done using a variety of arm positions. The chap on the advert certainly looked very convincing, so I decided to take the plunge so I could get a body like his!

Good grief! It is much harder than it looks to pull up your entire body weight, especially if, like me, that weight has been steadily increasing over the past year! The first time I tried, I think I managed two chin-ups. But I worked at it and managed to build up to about eight – still not startling, but progress nonetheless! Then, my enthusiasm got the better of me and I felt something ‘go’ in my abdominal muscles, just below my right ribcage. It didn’t feel too bad at the time, but as the days went on the pain and discomfort got worse. It has started to ease now, but this is about three weeks later, so I’ve now returned to my flabby old self!

I was promised some phenomenal
Biceps, triceps and abdominals,
Of the kind that would put Superman to shame!
But it’s not gone quite to plan,
For I’m not a ‘six-pack’ man –
And the Iron Gym’s the thing I have to blame!

Should have taken things more steady,
Realised I wasn’t ready,
But impatience for results just drove me on.
As I dangled in the air
I felt a tummy muscle tear,
Now my hopes of toned-up strength have all but gone!

I would go to any length
For some upper body strength,
But the Iron Gym was just a step too far!
So now I’ll have to rest
Till I’m healed and at my best,
To become a washboard-stomached superstar!

Don’t wire up any plugs today…

Some complete and utter nonsense today!

At the end of the day
As the horses ate hay
And she put out her sandals for work
Came a voice soft and low
‘Twas a voice you may know
From the place where the Tooth fairies lurk.

Sleep softly, she said
On your fine blow-up bed
That inflatable throne of the night!
And dream of the things
That the morning might bring
As the darkness makes way for the light.

So she slept and she dreamed
And she dreamt that it seemed
That a ritual must be performed
At the dawn’s early light,
When all blurry of sight
With a beverage, her bed be adorned…






And on rising she knew
That the first cup of brew
Was not destined to moisten her lips
But should soar in the air
And descend on her lair
With a shriek and a swish of her hips!

‘Be not worried, my dear’
Said the man from IKEA
For the sheets that are now soaked in char –
For delivery is due
Of a bed that is new
And you’ll sleep like a Hollywood star!