Bring out the Bunting
By Dominic Horton
In
order to diagnose the nature of my on-going mild-graines illness I had an MRI
brain scan on Thursday to see if they could locate a brain in my cranium and to
see if there is anything neurologically wrong with my ailing person. I was greeted by an extremely friendly
radiologist at the hospital and after I had left the waiting room and entered
the scanning room he reassured me, “well done, you are doing really well.” By
that stage I had only removed my belt and shoes and taken the small change out
of my pockets so given the radiologist’s reaction I assume that some patients
must struggle to affect even these simply manoeuvres. Well done to me indeed, especially as I was
wearing lace up shoes, which are trickier to take off than slip-ons.
The
radiologist asked if I have had an MRI scan before and I replied in the
affirmative but disregarding my answer he still tediously proceeded to explain
at length what the scan entails. Every
effort was made by the radiologist to ensure my comfort, including a pillow
under my knees and after I was then asked what radio station I would like to
listen to via headphones (I requested BBC Radio 4, for the record.) Then I was slowly slid into the small, person
sized tube of the scanner like a coffin preparing for cremation.
 |
| The cover to Headhunters, by Herbie Hancock |
I
was warned that I might find it a bit claustrophobic in the confines of the
scanner but not a bit of it, I actually felt the most relaxed I have been for a
while given that I was forced to lie still on a comfortable bed and do
nothing. Mind you, I was eternally
grateful that I did not attend the leaving do I was supposed to go to the
preceding evening (due to ill health – it was actually my leaving do, more of
which next week) as lying in the cramped scanner with booze terrors, sweating
and dehydrated, would have been ghastly beyond belief not to mention the risk
of choking on my own real ale induced flatulence in the incommodious space of
the tube.
I
perversely found that the loud noises of the MRI machine were very restful and
calming and in fact I discovered that the experience was more relaxing than the
gong baths that I have been to recently (previous discussed in these pages),
especially given that I was alone and not in a room full of people, which can
make me twitchy.
The
first set of noises from the scanner reminded me of the heavy synthesiser bass
sounds that are heard at the beginning of the track Chameleon on Herbie Hancock’s 1973 album Headhunters; maybe at the next gong bath I should suggest to the
gongmaster, Phil the Gong, that instead of subjecting us to the gentle, ambient
sounds of his oriental gongs that he instead plays Hancock’s ground-breaking
jazz funk masterpiece at full speaker shaking volume. I suspect I would be in a minority of one in
preferring that Phil the G employs this tactic so I might as well just put the
CD on in my Codger Mansion’s living room and divert the gong bath fee of a
tenner from Phil’s palm into my welcoming coffers. Thinking about it, for £10 I could buy three
pints of bitter and half a scrumpy cider in the Flagon & Gorses, which
would act as a further relaxant to unwind me even more after the Headhunters session.
 |
| Norman Collier, by request of Toby In-Tents |
Due
to the deafening sounds of the scanner I could only snatch the odd word of
Radio 4 so it was like listening to the 1970’s Northern comedian Normal
Collier. (Incidentally it is to my mind
a popular misconception that Collier was a one trick pony with his faulty
microphone routine as he also masterfully performed chicken impressions and had
a hilarious skit based around winding up a car window. Indeed none other than the legendary Jimmy
Tarbuck dubbed Collier as “the comedian’s comedian.”) The heavy bass sounds eventually gave way to
a series of high pitched beeps and I thought to myself that I can’t remember
there being such sounds when I have had MRI scans in the past but I then
realised the beeps signalled the start on The
World at One on Radio 4.
I
reached such a state of serenity that I imagined that I was lying on a sun
lounger in the warm sun of a Caribbean beach and I felt myself slowly drifting
off into a blissful impromptu sleep but I was suddenly startled by the voice of
the radiologist via the headphones asking me, “How are you doing in there
Dominic?” As I was in the adjacent room
to the radiologist, with him overlooking me via a window in the wall, I
momentarily had no idea how I would communicate back to him, especially as you
are supposed to remain perfectly still during the procedure. In a panic I decided that the only option was
to wiggle my toes to signal that I was fine but this was to no avail as again
the radiologist asked if I was ok, this time in a more urgent manner. To try to signal that I was fine I considered
pressing the panic button that I had been given but I thought that the
radiologist might erroneously interpret that as a sign that I was in dismay,
which was certainly not the case. I then had the dawning realisation that there
must be a microphone in the scanner so I quickly verbalised my agreeable state
before the radiologist rushed in attend to me.
 |
| Beautiful bunting made by the talented women of Cradley Heath |
One
I had settled down again I felt an increasing pool of saliva gathering in my
throat, blocking my windpipe and I knew that I needed to swallow but I was
petrified of disturbing my stillness and resultantly bringing the scan to a
halt. As the urge eventually became
overbearing I swallowed hard as I was becoming increasingly fearful of drowning
in my own bodily fluid which would have been a ludicrous way to meet one’s end;
I could just imagine people asking, “where did he meet his demise, was it sailing the high
seas in a daring yachting expedition across the Atlantic Ocean?” only to be
informed that, “No, he was on dry land in the West Midlands as far from the sea
as he possibly could be, having a standard and apparently risk free medical procedure
whilst lying in an oversized Smarties tube.”
On Saturday, being in a state of anticipation of my
MRI scan results, I decided to divert my mind away from the matter by popping
along to St Luke’s Church to do my bit in helping to make bunting for the
forthcoming Women Chainmakers’ Festival in Cradley Heath on 6th
& 7th June (http://womenchainmakersfestival.blogspot.co.uk/). The bunting is made out of fabric onto which
attractive and colourful designs have been printed by the talented women of the
working party. As I have no flair
whatsoever for creating visual art I asked if I could be given the most menial
job in the operation, so I was assigned the task of cutting out bunting sized
triangle shapes from fabric sheets, which was something I could just about
manage in the nervous, anxiety-riddled way I have of doing things, terrified of
making a hash of it.
I realised that I was in a room full of accomplished,
skilled artists and I had never been in such a situation before, except I
suppose in the public bar of the Flagon & Gorses where all hands present
are usually p*ss artists. All of the
women there made me feel extremely welcome and chatting to them I felt becalmed
and slowly the underlying and pervading feeling of sadness that colours most of
my life started to fade away.
I couldn’t place the accent of one of the women,
Mhairun’, so I asked her where she is from.
She explained that she is from Bremen, Germany and that she originally
came to the West Midlands as an exchange student as Bremen is twinned with
Dudley but that was twenty five years ago and she has remained here ever
since. I imagine that there are a great
number of Dudlonians still knocking
about Bremen after realising that they were onto a good thing and refused to go
back home, like Scotland fans who can still be found in Spain as a consequence
of the 1982 World Cup.
Sitting in the church, ham-fistedly cutting out the
fabric, I witnessed a warming atmosphere of cooperation amongst the members of
the party and I was enlightened by the thought that the world would most
probably be a better place if it was predominantly run by women. I carried the thought to Drew Monkey’s
wonderful brewing shop on Cradley Heath High Street (http://www.brewmonkey.co.uk/) to reward myself by
buying some bottled beer and on the way I picked up a metal teapot from a
charity shop for a mere £1. But when I
put the kettle on at Codger Mansions later in the day I found that the teapot,
like a conference of a far right-wing fascist political party, was full of
scum. The teapot cleaned up quite easily
though; if only it was as easy to get rid of xenophobic bigots.
© Dominic Horton, May 2014.
* EMAIL:
lordhofr@gmail.com.
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