Days 4-12/82 of isolation

Days 4-12 of isolation have been spent doing, well, fuck all really. A high was receiving my 'shielding letter' in the post, because it clearly stated in black and white that I needed to remain at home for 12 weeks from the date of the letter, which was 21st March, and 2 days earlier than I started!!

I've applied for season 6 of Hunted,  somewhat succeeded at teaching my nan to use an iPad, and I'm dreaming of a trip abroad. I've been thinking of the dozens (hundreds?) of people I've met on my travels, and even heard from a few, and I hope they're all doing okay in their parts of the world.

I've also been watching a lot of daytime TV and saw that medical students have been green-lighted through their finals. In lieu of their final 6 months of training, I've written a handy list of top tips which I'm certain is a fair substitute (they must be read in the voice of a ruddy faced, upper class, middle aged man):

1.  If in doubt, Google it. It’s quicker than the BNF.
2. It’s wise to rule out a period before admitting for a PV bleed
3. If the nurses are worried, you should be too
4. Make the nurses tea whilst they sort it all out
5. Stick ‘em with the pointy end
6. If you’re sending them to labour suite, do try to make sure they’re pregnant
7. Paracetamol if they’re hot
8. Co-amxoiclav cures most things…
9. …unless they’re allergic to penicillin. Then add in adrenaline and chlorphenamine.
10. IVDUs are notoriously honest
11. Do try to make sure they’re anaesthetised before operating
12. A FBC buys valuable time
13. If their heart stops, push push, blow blow!
14. If 13 fails, try electrocuting them
15. Messy handwriting disguises an ill-advised plan

Love Emily x

Days 1-3/84 of isolation

This post comes from Rushden, Northamptonshire and is one of the less exotic places I've visited (although I think you need the same jabs). I'm staying with my parents because sadly I've been informed that I'm "extremely vulnerable" and "at risk of dying" if I catch COVID-19, and ordered to "remain at home for a minimum of 12 weeks". I thought Rushden would be better than Nottingham as I'm able to have my own bedroom and bathroom, and work has allowed me to work from home (plus Darryl has a cough).






Writing this blog has kept me sane in times of incarceration and isolation before, so I'll keep on going whilst being clear I write it for my benefit, not your amusement (although if you enjoy it... bonus!). I've always aimed for the tone of this blog to be 'quite upbeat, considering' and that's what I'll try to maintain, but please accept my advance apologies if it turns into a millennial snowflake version of Anne Frank (on a significantly less inspiring scale).




So what have I been up to? Bugger all.




Love Emily x

London, March 2020

I’m writing this post with a low-level yet constant anxiety and a mild terror of how my health, professional life and family will cope with the coming months. Ordinarily a trip to London wouldn’t warrant a blog post yet, peri-COVID19, it felt like a border had been crossed by venturing within the M25. London was deserted: we got seats on the central line, and a table at a bar in Soho.

The weekend was an unmitigated fail, which started badly with a detour through the suburbs of St Albans and got progressively worse. We’d pre-booked parking at a local Waitrose car park however spaces were scarce and we left Darryl’s car precariously wedges between a pillar and a Land Rover. The hotel was boiling hot and above the Circle and District lines, so every 7 minutes the room shook. There were a collection of disturbing stains on the carpet and sofa, and the bedroom area of the suite was barely bigger than the double bed. 

A vegan breakfast was included which we hoped would be the redeeming feature, but our optimism was misplaced. Instead of a vegan fry-up it was a continental breakfast with all dairy-containing items removed, no-one serving coffee, and dollops of peanut butter all over the surfaces. We cut our losses, decided to get breakfast at Waitrose, and checked out. I didn’t realise that Darryl had left a scathing review, but the receptionist did, and mentioned it. We were offered a full refund in exchange for removing the review, which Darryl refused in favour of his integrity, and didn’t pick up on my telepathic screams of “take the money and leave the review!!”. 

A couple of hundred quid down, we traipsed to Waitrose to drop our stuff in the car and have breakfast, completely forgetting about Sunday trading hours. We walked 3 sides of the rectangular building to find the car park entrance, which was shuttered down until store opening. We found the only open place (McDonalds), and sat their with our luggage eating hash browns. At 11:00 we returned to the car, and discovered the Range Rover dented a door.

Love Emily x

Tirana; Albania and Ohrid; North Macedonia

On Thursday evening I arrived in Tirana, the capital city of Albania (country #48). The owner of the hostel I stayed at picked me up from the airport, and drove a lap of the city to point out landmarks for me to visit the next day. The bed in the hostel was marvellous, and I woke up on Friday ready for a day of exploring.

I’d pre-booked a guide, Adam, who was built like a brick shithouse, had a dashboard lit up like Blackpool with warning lights, used to play for the Albanian U21s football team, nearly played for Middlesbrough but didn’t for visa reasons. He now smokes like a chimney and likely has emphysema, alluded to a history of people smuggling, casually mentioned spending a few nights in the cells, and proudly stated his father was the “4th most powerful man” (?where). Despite all of this he was just as friendly as the other Albanians I’d met, I immediately trusted him, and he drove me through the snowy mountains to Ohrid in Macedonia (country #49).

Ohrid is a tiny city which sits on the shore of the aptly named Lake Ohrid. There’s a castle and some churches with gorgeous views of the lake, but more importantly a shop which sold postcards and a post office. Adam commended my fast walking pace, and rewarded me with a free 90 minute walking tour of Tirana when we arrived back in Albania with the time that we’d saved by not dawdling.

This was a busy day, and my flight home was scheduled for 21:15 but was predictably delayed. All this made for a knackered Emily who was not in the mood to respond to the first “could any doctors or nurses on board please make themselves known” announcement I’ve heard in 75 flights, and anyway, I am neither a doctor nor a nurse. No-one answered, and eventually the crew lowered their criteria to “anyone with any medical training at all” which I had to concede did include me. Some woman had gone slightly too hard on the sauce and had a woozy moment, but was conscious and very clearly fine. I applied a facial mask which was shaped like a cup so the oxygen just puffed out of the sides rather than into her airway; not that it mattered because she didn’t need it, I just felt like I had to do something because a lot of people were watching. I’ve heard tales of doctors being given free tickets with BA for dishing out a gram of paracetamol on a flight. WizzAir’s offering? Charging me the full €2.50 for a Pepsi bastard Max. 

Bottom line: I’d totally recommend Albania as a place to visit but screw Wizz Air.

Love Emily x

Las Vegas, NV - Death Valley, CA

I wasn’t looking forward to visiting Vegas as much as I now know I should have been. I included it on my itinerary mainly because it was ‘there’, in relatively close proximity to the Grand Canyon. 

What a city.

I arrived mid afternoon, after the temperature had cooled to 42c. I stayed at the Golden Nugget which isn’t one of the more obscenely extravagant resorts in Vegas, but still felt ludicrous compared to UK hotels, for example, the pool had a water slide which went through a shark tank! My 19th floor room overlooked Fremont Street, and had an objectively quite average (but, after days of washing from a water bottle with a bar of soap which I seem to be allergic to, subjectively brilliant) shower. I rinsed off the layer of dirt which I’d hoped was a tan, filled the bin with ice, and started drinking whilst getting ready to go out. 

I started my evening in the Golden Nugget casino. I left without much less than I started with, but I think I made a net profit when the free drinks are factored in. From there I watched the light show in Fremont Street, and then boarded a party bus for a lap of the city. From there I went to the Bellagio, the Venetian, and ended up getting free entry to a pool party at Encore. The bag search to get into this party was the most thorough I’ve ever had, and the guy who got me free entry seemed to think there’d be a problem getting my EpiPens in, but it turned out to be fine. His concern over the adrenaline issue, and the extent that he went to to explain its purposes to the door staff, was actually really helpful because it detracted their attention away from my bottle shaped breasts and allowed my vodka to stay in my bra. I’m very glad that plan worked out because it was $25 (yes, twenty five dollars) for a single and mixer, the robbing bastards. 

The pool party was immense, and unlike anything I’ve ever been to before. Officially there was a strict ‘no drugs’ policy but the extent to which this was enforced seemed inversely proportionate to the amount staff were tipped. I was sitting on the edge of a pool fully clothed, and a drunk Norwegian guy fell over and knocked me in. I left soon after, but even at 1am it was so hot that I dried out in half an hour. From there it was back to the Golden Nugget, via Stratosphere, for a tad more gambling.

As I didn’t expect to fall in love with Vegas as much as I did, I didn’t really factor a hangover into my travel plans. At 8am I was in the hotel lobby, still pissed, waiting to get on a bus to Death Valley. Also in the lobby was one of the guys I went to the pool party with, and got an Uber back to the hotel with. He was researching the phone number for the nearest British Embassy, having already called Encore, Bellagio, the Uber driver and half the people we were out with last night to ask if they’d seen his passport. He should have called me, because he gave it to me at the pool party to put in my bag. He clearly had no memory of this and it took a lot of effort to control my urge to exploit that fact for my own amusement, but I managed to because he looked so feeble, worried and hungover. 

Although the air conditioned bus to Death Valley was a good environment to sober up in, it didn’t prepare me for the heat outside of it. It was 46c (yes, forty feckin six degrees Celsius) and I realised I made bad choices. At no point during marathon training did I have sweat pouring out of me in the way I did today, but the beauty of the desert made up for it. 

I’ve now pitched a tent at the foot of some hills in Bishop, near to some gorgeous hot springs, and ready for an incredibly early night.

Love Emily x

Los Angeles, CA - Grand Canyon, AZ

Los Angeles, CA - Grand Canyon, AZ

Country #46 (an embarrassingly late entry), = USA.

I arrived in LA on Saturday, and stayed at a great hostel in Santa Monica for 2 nights.   Whilst there I did nothing particularly noteworthy, just chilled on the beach and had lunch with a UK work colleague who was also in the area. 

On Monday I went to Joshua Tree NP, and on the journey there the natural beauty of North America became apparent. I always loose perspective when huge numbers are involved, and all I’ll take from being told how many UKs could fit into Texas (for example) is “it’s bigger”. But when you’re in USA, particularly driving through countryside, you start to appreciate the scale of the vastness a bit more. Everything is bigger, mainly because there’s space for it. You can drive for hours and not see a town or another vehicle, in a way that isn’t possible in the UK. 

From Joshua Tree I set up camp just outside Lake Havasu City, right on the banks of the Colorado River. It was 36c so I enjoyed a swim in the open water, again, something that isn’t possible in the UK. Lake Havasu City is strange, in that there’s the original London Bridge right in the middle of it, with a ‘British theme park’ type feel to the place. 

After inwardly sniggering at the American replication of Britishness I swung by the Grand Canyon - my main reason for choosing this route. My guide suggested we put paper bags over our heads in the car park and form a sort of conga, ushered along in the right direction by her, which I agreed to. She lined us up against a railing, counted to 3, and told us to remove the bags. I’m so glad I agreed to make myself look silly for 5 minutes because removing that bag meant I felt the full extent of awe at the Grand Canyon in one go, rather than catching a glimpse from the horizon and then seeing a little bit more as I got closer. Again, when massive numbers are involved, I struggle to appreciate scale. I knew the Grand Canyon is 200 miles long, and the name very much implies vastness. What I didn’t expect was there to be nothing else on the horizon, only Canyon which was obscured by more Canyon. I hired a bike and cycled around some of the rim, hiked the Bright Angel route, and watched the sunset at Yavapai Point. I then camped underneath the stars, and woke early this morning to take a helicopter flight over the Canyon. 

As I write this post I’m on a bus en route to Las Vegas, where I’ll be for the next couple of days. 

Love Emily x

Brussels; Belgium

Darryl and I have birthdays quite close together, and we’re now in the habit of clubbing together and buying each other a mini break. This year our birthday treat was a long weekend in Brussels, because we both love beer and chips.

We flew from Manchester, which we will never be doing again. The hotel we stayed in the night before we flew (Manchester Airport Britannia) knocks Birmingham Apollo off the podium for the Shittest Hotel We’ve Ever Stayed At Together prize. It’s only redeeming feature was the price, which was cheaper than a mid-stay in the airport car park, and literally hundreds of people had reasoned a night there and a return Uber fare to the airport was a better option than paying for parking. Consequently, when we turned up on a Friday evening, we had to make our own parking space on the periphery of legality. Inside the hotel was phenomenal, mainly because it had been decorated in the 80s and left to rot ever since. Wall decorations were nailed to the wall to prevent theft, and there was an urn glued to the windowsill (ashes not included). Like hell were we eating at the hotel restaurant, so we ordered pizza, ate it in bed, and watched a documentary about Beverley Allit. 

It was not a pleasant stay or a restful night sleep, and we were both tired and grumpy when our alarms went off at 5am. We ignored hotel convention and drove ourselves to the airport, and parked at terminal 2. Unfortunately our flight departed from terminal 3, which was 2 miles away and there are no shuttle buses connecting the two. We couldn’t get an Uber (probably because they were all at the Britannia) so got a Hackney cab, much to the drivers amusement. 

We landed in Brussels, got a bus from the airport into the city centre, and found our hotel, which unfortunately appeared to be in a ghetto. There were bags of rubbish all over the pavement, accompanied by a rotten smell. Expectations of the hotel were suitably lowered, which meant we got an even better surprise when we got upgraded to a suite overlooking fountains. 

We ditched our bags and went to explore the Grand Place, and were apparently the only tourists in Belgium unaware that the Tour de France was departing from Brussels that weekend. We saw the launch, and started on the beer. It probably should have been telling that TripAdvisor’s 4th Best Thing To Do In Brussels is ‘go to Luxembourg’, because we found there wasn’t much to do aside from drink and chortle over a statue of a urinating boy. We visited Delirium Cafe both nights, and on Sunday evening we stayed in our hotel bar way past closing time. Eventually we took the hint and retreated to our suite. Once back in the room, Darryl said something uncharacteristically sweet, along the lines of “I don’t ever want to be with anyone else”.  I laughed and replied “well you’d better marry me then”, to which Darryl said “alright” and fell down on one knee. I hadn’t twigged that he was proposing and instead thought he’d fallen over, so I got down on the floor too, and now we’re getting married. 

The next morning felt almost one night stand-ish, in that I had a hangover and the awkward task of trying to work out if the other person, in the cold light of day, wanted what had happened the night before. We gave each other the option of blaming it on beer but agreed it’d be a nice thing to do, and went ring shopping. 

The flight home was delayed because of Ryanair’s cabin crews collective inability to count. After half an hour on the tarmac they announced that there was a positive discrepancy between the expected vs actual number of passengers on the plane, and between them they all got a completely different headcount. Eventually the mystery was solved: an off duty crew member had taken a spare passenger seat on the plane but confused everyone by helping with the counting but not including himself in the numbers.

We landed, got an Uber to the wrong terminal car park, and successfully gambled on Darryl’s car battery starting.

Love Emily x