Personal Well-being: Lavender

Personal Well-being: Lavender

In 2000 my wife took a course in Anatomy, Physiology and Massage at our local technical college.  This involved learning about pure essential oils.  She was keen to learn as much as possible about the materials she was using, she related the following story to me:

 A scientist carelessly touched his hand on a hot Bunsen burner.  The only liquid immediately available was Lavender oil.  He poured it over the burn, which miraculously eased the pain.  Moreover, the skin didn't blister.

That's the story, you can believe it or not, but I will attest to the efficacy of Lavender (Lavendula angustifolia) from personal experience.  I burned my hand on a soldering iron so, June applied the 'Essential Oil'.  It immediately salved the pain and there was no blistering.  In 2001 I purchased a small 10ml bottle of the essential oil of Lavender for £3, I have used it and I've recommended it to my friends for burns ever since.

I occasionally, (once or twice a year), experience a form of migraine that results in a dull ache and lights swimming across my eyes, obscuring my vision.  My only recourse is to go into a darkened room and try to sleep it off.

I'd heard that Lavender was recommended for headaches, so when I next had an attack I poured a little Lavender onto a tissue and held it to my nose for ten to fifteen minutes.  Incredibly the attack was over within the hour.  I have had several migraines since and it worked every time.

That small bottle is still two thirds full and still works as described after seventeen years, its efficacy undiminished.  I thought it was expensive at the time but I now think it was cheap considering the pain and discomfort it has alleviated.  Every First Aid box should contain a small bottle of Lavender oil!

I'm told it's primarily used for headaches but, paradoxically my wife can't stand the smell, it gives her a headache...

Personal Well-being: Bringing up trapped wind.

Personal Well-being: Bringing up trapped wind.

Trapped wind can be uncomfortable at best, and at worst downright painful.  It has at times been mistaken for a heart attack.  Not much fun at all!

Bruce Forsyth passed away last week.  Thinking about him reminded me of his appearance on the Michael Parkinson chat show twenty years ago.

Somehow the conversation turned to things that impair a stage performance.  One of the most unlikely things mentioned was 'trapped wind'.  Bruce then proceeded to demonstrate his method of relieving 'trapped wind':

Lean forwards, until your torso is parallel with the ground.

Drop your left shoulder suddenly and at the same time twist your torso so you're facing to the right.   "Burp, Bururp!"  Not something you do in polite company or on a TV chat show, but Bruce did.

I remembered it and when I next needed to relieve trapped wind I followed his instructions and it worked!

I have used it ever since, without fail, and passed his advice on to colleagues and family who also agreed that it worked for them.

It really does works, and it's free, so give it a try!

Personal Well-being: How to relax?

Personal Well-being: How to relax?

When I feel tense, or get muscle cramps, I recall the teachings of the comedian Bernie Winters who said he learned how to relax by watching his St.Bernard Schnorbitz:

The dog stretched long and slow, tensing every muscle even neck face & scalp.  Then he relaxed each muscle slowly so he could tell the difference between tense and relaxed.

Bernie said he would lay on his back, close his eyes, tense every muscle for up to a minute, then slowly relax them:

"Feet feet go to sleep."  He would feel his toes and feet relax further.

"Calves calves fall in halves."  After a time his calves would begin to relax.

"Thighs thighs go to bye-byes."  He would wait patiently until his thighs relaxed.

"Pelvis pelvis make like Elvis!" 

"Tummy tummy flat like mummy"

"Chest chest take a rest."

Hands, lower arms, upper arms, neck, face, and brain; he had a rhyme for each.  As he lay there a mist would swirl in his closed eyes and he would try to see through it. 
Breathe in deeply to a count of ten, then exhale until it would be uncomfortable to continue.  Repeat five times...

At this point I invariably fall asleep; if not I will roll over onto my left side in the recovery position and drop off to sleep in minutes.

 I find it particularly helpful when my mind keeps running over the events of a busy day; what went right, what went wrong, what should I have said/done!?  

 After ten to fifteen minutes my mind is clear, it's easy just so long as you don't think of a pink rhinoceros with a beach ball...

Personal Well-being: Body Types

Personal Well-being: Body Types

It pains me that so many people are obsessed with how they look.  Yes, you can improve your physique within the limits of your body type.

Body types do not in any way relate to good/bad health or personal well-being.

Understand, there are three distinct body types:

Ectomorph  (Slim).

Endomorph (Body builder).

Mesomorph (Rotund).

I'm a mesomorph, as are the other members of my family to a greater or lesser extent.  One thing I know is that we will never be able to display a six-pack; that's a fact of life but bears no reference to our fitness level.

In my lifestyle, I believe we should do everything in moderation.  Excessive eating, drinking or exercise, are not conducive to good health. 

Put simply, common sense and moderation will always work in your favour.

Neither the ectomorph nor mesomorph will ever achieve the physique of an endomorph, so stop trying and be yourself.  

Just enjoy life in all its variety!

Personal Well-being: Peppery, Dry Gritty Eyes?

Personal Well-being: Peppery, Dry Gritty Eyes?

 Many of us work long hours, frequently late into the night, in front of a glowing computer screen.  Is it any wonder that we suffer from dry sore eyes?  We don't blink enough, we don't take frequent breaks, so we are our own worst enemies.  There is another growing breed who suffer from the same symptoms, the 'games players' who can't or won't pause that game to take a break for fear of being eliminated. 

 You need an eyewash to keep your eyes healthy.  The finest eyewash is freely available & costs nothing.  It is your own tears; if you are able to cry at will then you'll never suffer from sore eyes.  Unfortunately few of us have that ability.   But, a good substitute is 'Saline', slightly salty water.   The main problem is not the constituents, water & salt, but the quantities of each required to mix 'false tears':

1.    The foolproof method I use is to mix a supersaturated solution of salt. Add a teaspoonful of table salt to a small quantity of boiling water.   It's important to stir vigorously and add further salt until there are undiluted crystals remaining; this is a supersaturated solution of salt.  Pour the liquid into a dropper bottle, (available at most chemist shops)' taking care not to transfer the un-dissolved salt.  Allow this to cool.

2.    When you need to wash your eyes out, fill a standard eye-bath (20ml) with very hot water:

·    Add 6 drops (less than 1ml) of supersaturated solution into the hot water and stir well.  Leave it to stand for a few minutes.

3.   Everybody's eyes vary ever-so-slightly so the solution may need fine-tuning but, it will be within +1 or -1 drop. Start with 6 drops of saline if your eye feels raw add a 7th drop of saline this will be the required mixture for your eyes in future.  If there is too much salt your eye will feel itchy.  If this is the case, discard the eye-bath contents & start again adding one drop less.  Ideal for tired eyes and irrigating dust, dirt, or an eyelash from your eye. 

    One small dropper bottle will last a month or more and cost a few pence, or two packs of salt from McDonald's.

   I have used this remedy effectively and with confidence for thirty years.  It was recommended to my mother, by the surgeon who removed her cataracts.  He maintained this simple salt & water solution is closer to natural tears than any of the proprietary brands of eyewash.  

Warning:

This remedy has been used by me with no ill effects, however,  be advised that you try it at your own risk.   If in doubt consult your physician.

What you wish for.

What you wish for.

   Albert was nearing his eightieth birthday.  He’d lived alone, for two years, ever since Hillary passed.   Both their children, Danny and Janet, wanted him to sell up and go live with one of them.  But, he just wanted to be left to grieve, alone with his memories.   Every day he looked at her possessions, but couldn’t bring himself to sort through them or even consider disposing of anything. 

 So many memories, even the little things, his eyes focused on a tourmaline Brooch; a souvenir from a walking holiday in North Wales.   He could still hear her happy laughter and picture her lithe bronzed limbs climbing easily up the miners’ path on Snowdon, one hot August day during that Indian summer of 86.   

Then, as always, his mind made the comparison, with her pale ravaged frame, at the moment she was taken from him.   His face crumpled, and salt tears stung his cheeks.   Incontinent eyes marred his every good memory; driven by that final traumatic scene.   He turned away, too much pain, he would sort through her stuff tomorrow, or the next day, he had all the time in the world.   But, what was the point without her?

   Through the tears his eyes focused on a small gold box, he smiled again.  She called it her wishing box; she would whisper her hopes and desires into it, then when she considered they’d been fulfilled, she would open the lid and whisper “thank you.”   He picked it up and opened it.   Gazed into the plush yellow velvet interior.  He saw a tiny spark glitter momentarily, then it was gone, a dust mote he surmised.
   

The box was empty.   She had always guarded it covetously, explaining that it contained her dreams, her aspirations.   He understood that and why it was now empty.  She was gone and those dreams went with her.

“Gone forever…” he said, “If only I could speak to her one last time?”   His voice was cracked and croaky; the last time he’d spoken aloud was at Sainsbury’s checkout a week earlier.

.-...-.

‘Not gone forever, old man, not while you still live.’   In his mind, her voice was kind, gentle and loving, just as he remembered it.   He waited expecting the pain and the hurt to crash in on him but instead, as he closed his eyes, he could see her beautiful youthful face smiling back at him.

“Is it really you?”  He asked, feeling foolish for doing so.

‘You’re looking thin Albert, you’re not eating well, you need food inside you to keep you healthy!   Into the kitchen with you, old man,’ she ordered.

Before he realised it he was scraping dried food off pots, pans, plates and utensils.   In no time at all it seemed, the distinctive aroma of bacon, eggs, beans, toast, and fresh coffee, pervaded the house, whilst the radio played a memorable fifties tune.

 “I can’t eat all this,” he protested, “I’m out of practice…”

‘Of course, you can, old man, eat!’ 

From habit, he did as he was told, just as Radio 2’s Terry Wogan announced the next song was dedicated to Albert and Hillary Vincent, whose love would never die…

 ‘When I fall in love.   It will be forever…’ the deep rich voice of Nat King Cole crooned from the radio as he ate.

 ‘Our tune, old man,’ Hillary whispered.  

He smiled again - Old Man - they shared the same birth date; he was just two hours older than her but it had always been their private joke.

 ‘Come on now eat up, we have work to do.   This place must sparkle like a diamond when the kids come tomorrow.  Can’t have them thinking the place has been neglected,’ she chided.

Albert looked around with a critical eye, “I do seem to have let things slide a little bit don't I?” he smiled.

 ‘Come on then get to it they’ll be here first thing, for sure, bright and early.’

 “What?” he said, scratching his head.

 ‘It’s our birthday, silly, 14^th May?’ she reminded him patiently.

He looked at the digital clock Danny had given him for Christmas.  Time, Temperature, day and date, sure enough today was the 13^th May…

.-…-.

  They knocked several times before Janet fished out her door key.

“He didn’t double lock again Dan,” she said.

“How many times have I told him...   Dad?”

The house was silent but spic and span, just as mum would have left it, the faint aroma of bacon and eggs still lingered.  

“I think he’s found himself a girlfriend,” said Janet with a smile, “Dad?  Where are you?   It’s Janet and Danny.  We’ve come to see that you have a happy birthday; we’re taking you out for a meal.”

They looked askance of each other, before entering the bedroom, they wouldn't want to embarrass their father, but, Albert was alone. He was sitting up in bed, a contented smile on his face, with the wishing box open in his lap.

“Dad?”

“He got his wish,” said Danny in a trembling voice, taking her into his arms, shielding her, “he’s with mum now.”

 She looked up at him. “How could you possibly know that?” Her lips quivered, her cheeks were moist with tears.

 “Look at his face.  When did you last see him smile like that?”  He laid Albert down gently and closed his eyes.  Danny wore a bittersweet smile on his tear-stained face.  “We love you Dad,” he said.

  Janet leaned forward, kissed him on the forehead and took the wishing box from his cold hands.  “Give Mum our love Dad," she whispered.  Then on impulse, before closing it, she said:
"Thank you.”

The Legacy ~ Part 1

The Legacy ~ Part 1 

   It all began when my estranged grandfather died leaving me his house and its grounds.

We'd not been on speaking terms, for some years, so I was surprised to receive a letter from his solicitors inviting me to the reading of his will.   I remember it vividly, why didn’t I listen to my wife Elaine and tear it up?

"Clive Alexander Perry," intoned the solicitors’ clerk.   I was the only person left in the room yet he peered around with a questing myopic gaze.

"That's me," I said.

 He started reading... "To my indomitable grandson Clive I leave the family estate, which stands in one and one-half acres of private woodlands, and cultivated gardens.   The land and buildings have been under Perry stewardship, for a dozen generations.   I expect Clive will learn to love and cherish it, as I have, continuing a family tradition by becoming its custodian.   Should he choose not to do so, another will be appointed to take on the task.   To this end, I impose the following conditions.   Namely, that 'the custodian' should take up and prove permanent residence, on a daily basis, for a period of not less than three months, prior to taking up stewardship," He paused and peered over his spectacles in my general direction.    

 “Is that quite clear Mr Perry?"  He asked.  So, I nodded, but he continued to wait...

It wasn't exactly Buck house, but it certainly wasn’t a ruin.   The furnishings were serviceable; mostly antique and excellent quality.  Then there were one and a half acres of prime Essex countryside encircled by a forbidding six-foot granite wall; privacy assured.   It would certainly be worth a bob or two I thought.   It seemed I would not come out of this situation too badly after all.   Despite having been a complete ass-hole, to poor old Grandpa Perry, during his later years.  

The silence and his questioning gaze persisted.
"Yes," I said.

"The estate had a book value of £1.2 million at last valuation," the clerk continued.  
"Mmm," my mind was far away, hatching schemes for spending the 1.2 million.

"There will, of course, be inheritance tax, the current rate is 40%," he added.

I nearly choked; the reality of the situation was not as simple as I’d thought.   But, after some quick mental arithmetic, I cheered up.   Yesterday three-quarters of a million was beyond my wildest dreams.   All I had to do was to remain in residence for three months.   Just answer the phone, at 08:30am & midnight, and talk to the solicitors’ clerk.   Simple!

So, what could go wrong?   Well, I hadn't counted on Elaine’s reaction.  

"If you think I'm giving up my comfortable semi to live in that monstrosity for three months you can forget it!   It’s a cold, damp, rat-infested ruin!”

 She’s a little emotional, with a tendency to over-react, but her pronouncement had the ring of finality.   Well, that’s my wife…

 "My career is more important than a rundown estate out in the sticks; I need to be here, close to the city, where I can keep my fingers on the pulse--" she ranted.

"It's only thirty miles fer cry sake and you've never been closer than ten miles..." I interrupted her flow.  But, when her mind’s made up, nothing will budge her.   So I resigned myself to fulfilling the requirements of the legacy; alone.  

I walked outside, "Thank you, Grandpa Perry," I yelled at the sky, assuming he'd headed off in that direction. 

.-…-. 

   I tied up the loose ends in my life a week later by dropping two suitcases inside the main hall and took up official residence.

  Opening the refrigerator, I sniffed gingerly at the milk, expecting the worst.  It smelt and tasted quite fresh.  The bacon, eggs, butter, cheese, and bread were fresh.  Maybe somebody had come in the previous day to restock, a neighbourly act?   As I recall, Perry hadn’t been very neighbourly.  I sat down and ate a hearty breakfast, it was good, so I helped myself to seconds.   Halfway through, I got to thinking about that refrigerator.   The more I thought the stranger it seemed.   It was incredibly large for domestic use; covering a third of the kitchen wall, extending from floor to ceiling, it was more like a bank vault or a hotel deep freeze.  There was no manufacturer’s name, logo, model or serial number on it, but it looked brand new.   Yet I knew for a fact, it had stood in that same spot for as long as I could remember, since before I was born, and I hadn't set foot over the threshold in eight years.   It had a brushed steel finish but did not feel cold to the touch.   On impulse, I took out my pocket knife and attempted to scratch my initials on it - a recessive vandalism gene at work - "so what?"   It would soon be mine anyway but, it resisted my worst efforts.   At this point, my hackles rose.   I was ready to run away.  From a refrigerator, I thought?   If my friends get wind of that I’ll be a laughing stock.  

‘Fight your Dragons’, was dad's favourite saying, so I walked right up to it and opening the door…

   A closer inspection of the contents showed they were quite normal.   They were fresh but, cool to the touch, nothing was actually cold.  There was milk, eggs, bacon, butter, cheese, bread, booze, cash boxes. 
"Cash boxes!?"   
Two of each I observed identical pairs.   I could swear there had only been two bottles of milk, but there were two inside and one-half empty on the kitchen table.   On impulse, I removed one of the cash boxes, surprised to find them there, the box was locked.   I searched the large bunch of keys the solicitor’s clerk had given me.   Sure enough, there was a small key…   
"Yes!” I said, as the box opened.   
My mind went wild at the sight; it was completely stuffed with cash.   Large-denomination notes, new crisp twenties and fifties,   Thirty neat packs (3'x2'x6') still bearing official treasury bands with the words 'Bank of England £1000' printed on them.   I counted each stack, without removing the band, my mouth was dry from licking my fingers, £30,000!   I was suddenly fearful and checked the serial numbers, watermarks, and holograms, this time my pessimism was unfounded, all the notes were genuine.   I recovered slowly and stashed the money in my briefcase.   I'd often dreamed…   But, I would have to spend three months here before I could consider fulfilling dreams.   Best not think about it, I can do patient.   Trembling with excitement, and feeling thirsty, I quaffed the remaining milk straight from the bottle.   It didn't have the desired effect; did I see beer in there? 

 "Yes,” I reached in and grabbed a large amber bottle, then stepped back in shock.   There were still two cash boxes inside.   A quick glance at the kitchen table confirmed, a third identical box sat on the table empty.

   I sat down and stared at it listening to an ancient timepiece ticking away tiny fragments of my life.   I drank the beer slowly and deliberately, it had warmed a little before I binned the empty bottle.   I was determined, not to be intimidated, I would ignore the red tin box on the kitchen table…   As an afterthought, it followed the bottle into the rubbish bin.  I returned to the refrigerator, for the second bottle, and there on the shelf were two!   I removed one and closed the door it wasn't going to spoil my evening.   Next time I looked there were only two bottles left, I ignored them, my math was correct, instead, I took a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt scotch whiskey and went in search of a glass.   “Two minus one equals two,” I recited.

   At some time during the evening, I dozed off.   Just after midnight, I awoke vaguely aware the phone had been ringing for a spell.

"Yes," I said.

"Ah!   I was about to give up on you, just needed to know you are still there, I'll ring again in the morning goodnight," said the solicitor’s clerk.  

 I awoke in time to prepare and eat breakfast before the phone rang.

"Look here," I said, "you can hardly expect me to dash home every evening before midnight just to hear you bid me goodnight, I'm not Cinda-fella you know…"

"haha, very droll!  It was your grandfather’s stipulation."   He answered frostily, "you can stick with it or move on and give somebody else a chance, the choice is yours but, if you fail to comply even once, the legacy is forfeit."

"But, what if I had an accident, and was taken to hospital…"

"Then you would lose everything!   Be there at midnight and at 8:30am for the next ninety-one days,” he said.  

"What would happen to it if I did default?"

"I imagine your grandfather has made a clear stipulation regarding our course of action in such an eventuality.   Next in line would have to meet the same stipulation."

"You have a list?"

"We will speak again tonight," he said and hung up. 

After breakfast, I placed £10,000 in each of three manilla envelopes placing them in my briefcase.   I drove into the centre of Dorriton, and opened accounts for £10,000 each in the two main banks, and £5,000 in the Building Society.  Next, I visited a prestigious local jeweller where I purchased platinum and diamond ear studs and a matching pendant, on sale or return for £4500, subject to my wife's approval.  I ordered a necklet and bracelet, with matching one and a half carat blue diamonds for £15,000 leaving a deposit of £500.   I ate at a local restaurant and bought a new Mercedes car at the local dealership.  I promised to pay cash the following morning, inferring I’d won a large sum on the lottery.   Back home I placed the jewellery in the refrigerator; I’ve decided, from now on, to call it ‘the box’.   Helping myself to a bottle of beer, I settled to watch horse racing on TV.   Later, I took one set of jewels.   I finished my beer and returned the jewellery to the store accepting a cheque for £4,500, which I deposited in one of the banks.   I drew £5,000 from each of my accounts and placed it in the box with a bottle of fine Cognac, noting as I did so there were two jewel cases in 'the box'.   I closed the door; reopened it to remove a bottle of Cognac.  I checked the serial numbers on the two stacks of £10,000, which confirmed my growing suspicion, stack for stack the numbers were identical.  I would have to bank the money in different locations and allow time for the notes to be well circulated; I could therefore not touch the two cash boxes, each containing £30,000 for at least a month.   I settled down to drink my Cognac in front of the TV and was again roused at midnight by my friendly neighbourhood solicitor’s clerk.

To be continued/...