Birthday Bug Blues

Yesterday was my 35th birthday. I had lots of things planned. The night before, I started making an enormous chicken tikka masala, using real, healthy ingredients like chopped coriander and grated root ginger. We were planning a birthday dinner party and expecting 10 friends in the evening. The morning was to be spent eating pain-au-chocolat and croissants with my doting family, my wonderful wife having decorated the kitchen with streamers and balloons, and a table laid out full of presents and cards. (I do like birthdays. Especially mine).

We were then going to spend the morning having fun times in the garden, planting seedlings that have been growing in the greenhouse, then off to a local country pub for lunch and a pint or two. Then back home to finish the curry, make poppadoms, naan bread, lime pickle, open the beers and wine, and have a very jolly time with the friends. I was looking forward to it immensely. You know where this is going...

Wednesday evening, as I was chopping garlic, I began to feel a bit queasy, but hurriedly dismissed it as too many herbs and spices. I should've known. Three of our four young children had been ill for the past couple of weeks with a nasty vomiting / diarrhoea bug, turning our house into a bomb-site of tissues, bowls and disinfectant. One child throwing up is hard enough - but three is a possibility for great sanctification (I'm not sure that was achieved). Mummy and Daddy were pretty whacked...and our 3-month old, though in the clear so far(!) was pretty miserable with a cold, and not wanting to feed much at night because of it. (No he didn't sleep either.) Thank GOD my wife hadn't come down with the bug - now that would be a disaster!

Anyway, I soon realised that my increasing nausea wasn't caused by the aroma of coriander, and spent the whole of that night tossing and turning in bed with a fever. The following day (happy birthday) was spent heaving into a toilet. At about 3 in the afternoon, I shivered my way downstairs into the festive kitchen, all cheerfully arranged with banners and things dangling from the ceiling lights. I forced myself to eat half a chocolate croissant 'to celebrate', but an hour later, wished I hadn't. We cancelled the party. The chicken tikka masala is in the freezer. And the rest of the day was spent in bed, watching the Waltons on DVD.

Today, a little better. Still in bed, still watching the Waltons. (It's actually pretty good, especially when you have a high temperature). I reckon by now everyone's forgotten about my birthday.

:o(

Party's been re-arranged for next week. I shall have to remind them what it's all about. I mean if Her Majesty can have two birthdays, and she's a Protestant, why can't I?!

Farm street beauty

I was booked to interpret for a Deaf priest at a Deaconate ordination last week. (Yes I am a sign language interpreter).

The ordination was at Farm Street Church of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception in Mayfair, London. A Jesuit place - but don't let that put you off.

What a church! Amazing. I was immediately awestruck upon entering this magnificient house of God. Built in the early 19th century, before man's clever mechanical devices and internet-based architecture-software packages and screwfix catalogues, the church stands like a cathedral hidden away down a fairly residential ordinary road not far from Bond Street. (I say ordinary - in the upper-middle class, too much money to spend on our 1.2 children & room for a pony, kind of ordinary).

I was fairly stressed as I ascended the outside steps. I was supposed to be there at 10.30am ready to start interpreting at 11, when the Bishop was to commence the ordination Mass. I needed to be sitting in the sanctuary, hidden behind a pillar, in view of the Deaf priest, my client, who would be sitting opposite me, on the other side. I would also need some minutes to familiarise myself with the order of service, the names of the candidates, and the litany of Saints. Vital preparation time for a sign language interpreter, let me tell you.

I left home well in time to have arrived by 10.15. Loads of time. No stress. I hate to be late.

However, at 10.50am (ten mins before kick-off) I was still sitting (or rather standing up) in the over-packed train crammed full of disgruntled football supporters and crying fed-up children, miles away from central London. The train was going nowhere, my fellow passengers had been tutting and sighing for over45 minutes, and the guard was apologising every 10. I was beginning to sweat profusely, and had worn out all charitable peaceful thoughts and was now offering prayers of desperation and impatience. Finally, the blasted train gets moving....but backwards. All the way back to Wimbledon Park where we had to get out and get a tube. I arrived finally at the magnificient Farm Street church at 11.30...and had to 'sneak' on to the sanctuary in full gaze of 50 priests, one Archbishop and an African Congregation. Whoops. Just in time for the litany of Saints.

The rest of the service went by without a hitch - except when one of the candidates started addressing the congregation in Swahili. (I don't understand Swahili, so was unable to interpert at this point) with me having to remind myself to use Catholic signs, rather than the Protestant ones I am used to using (there are more Deaf protestants it seems, than catholics).

Anyway, when it came to an end, I afforded myself a few minutes to wander around the church. Here was a temple that reaches towards Heaven. A place which causes you to look up and with awe. Isn't that what a church should be? A place that speaks of the majesty of God, rather than these Ikea-style modern monstrosities that pass off as Catholic churches today but draw more attention to man than to the Most High.

poor dentist

I had taken a day off work today to have my first crown done. Only to receive a call at 9.00 this morning to say that my dentist has gone home sick and my appointment will have to be re-scheduled for 3 weeks time. Very annoyed, as I had brushed my teeth especially hard after breakfast this morning, and even flossed.

No doubt the impoverished dentist had found out that I had opted for the NHS version, meaning she'd lose out by about £300 for my refusal to have it done privately. Probably thought it would be better to go home sick. Shouldn't be so cynical.

Anyway, I'm off to have a biscuit. Then some sweets.