Eye wonder

The differences in medical terminology between the US and the UK provide a rich seam for expat bloggers to mine. Have you ever thought, oh UK readers, how confusing it must be for Americans to hear they need to register at the doctor's surgery? What? There are plenty more, which I think I've blogged about before, but I'm not going to look for the link because (a) I'm not sure it's terribly interesting, and (b) I'm in the Honda customer lounge waiting while my vehicle to be serviced (I said "vehicle" not "car" - see how naturally I speak the lingo these days), and I'm determined to finish the post in the time it takes to do an oil change and a few other bits and bobs, with my new-found speed-writing skills. That's what blogging every day for a month does for you.

One of the new medical terms I've had to acquire is Pink Eye. When we lived in Scotland, it was Red Eye, but here it's Pink Eye. Aren't you glad you read my blog? Just think, you might never have known that fact in your whole life. And now, not only do you know why a pea coat is called a pea coat, but you know that Red Eye is called Pink Eye in America (or, of course, that Pink Eye is called Red Eye in the UK, depending on your point of origin).

On Saturday, 5-yo took a tumble, while she was running up and down some bleachers in a school gym. Bleachers are stands of raised seating, for my UK readers. Oh, it's just a new fact a minute over here at my blog today, isn't it? Anyway, 5-yo was running up the bleachers after her big brother and his big friend, and just at the point where I said

"This is such a bad idea. Someone will get hurt. No more running up the bleachers",

she tripped, and landed on her face. Stifling a desire to hoot "I told you so, why does no-one ever listen to me?" I picked her up, comforted her, and saw the beginning of what I sensed was going to be an impressive shiner. It would have been, I think, but for the application of arnica cream and the administration of arnica tablets when we got home. That stuff is miraculous. On Sunday morning, instead of having a swollen and deeply bruised eye, she had one that was a little puffy and a delicate shade of violet.

She looked in the mirror, and asked "Is this called Purple Eye?"

Ha. Finished the blog post, and car not ready. I win.

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Alexander McCall Smith

I'm following the novel Corduroy Mansions, by Alexander McCall Smith, which is serialised daily in The Telegraph. I love Alexander McCall Smith as a writer, so it is a daily treat. He has an eye for human nature which is both incisive and kind. I imagine he is a terribly nice man, who makes brilliantly witty conversation. If you ever have him round to dinner, please invite me too, and sit me next to him.

Anyway, this morning's chapter contains this brilliant comment on a US/UK difference, which (if I'd written it myself - a minor detail) would make for the perfect expat blog post.

"Americans do not mince their words – it is one of their great qualities, and indeed one of the great causes of misunderstanding between the United States and the United Kingdom, where words are regularly minced so finely as to be virtually unintelligible."

Wonderfully put. It also reminded me of when I was about 14 and in a schools general knowledge competition (hasn't general knowledge fallen from favour? what a shame). The question was the name of the area in London famous for butchers, and I gave the answer "Mincing Lane", which, though precociously brilliant, was incorrect.

My favourite Alexander McCall Smith novels are the ones about Isabel Dalhousie set in Edinburgh, but I also have a soft spot for The 2 1/2 Pillars of Wisdom, which are just too perceptive about life in academia for comfort, if you're married to an academic. The scene in which a German Professor of Philology, by a misunderstanding, has to give a lecture to an audience of American dachsund specialists, made me laugh so hard I nearly fell out of bed, but it also contains observations about education which are wise and spot on. Husband occasionally reads it to his Philosophy students in the last class of their course.

Who else has a favourite Alexander McCall Smith?

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Pea coat, the song on everyone's lips

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, the King and Queen of Coats decided to have a party.

A good time was being had by all, but the festivities were getting a bit out of hand, and things were becoming wild. In an attempt to control the chaos, the King decided to get the coats into small groups. He hoped that getting each together with its own kind would calm things down, so he arranged them by category, shouting out instructions. Unfortunately, at this late stage in the proceedings, some of the coats were beyond even knowing for sure what kind of a coat they were.

So the King got his Royal Trumpeters to gain silence with a catchy little fanfare that they'd learnt way back at Trumpet Pre-school, and announced in his most regal tones:

"If you're a pea, and you know it, clap your hands".

I make this up as I go along, you know. I'm sorry. It's just what I do. I should get out more.

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Pea coat, the question on everyone's lips

Why is a pea coat called a pea coat?

Several Google results say this:

The name 'pea coat' comes from the heavy twill material that the coat is made of. It was called pilot cloth, which became known as P cloth. The P coat became the pea coat.

I like my blog to contain educational content. Now you can all impress your friends next time pea coats come up in conversation.

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Pea coat

I bought a pea coat this morning. I'm very thrilled with it and with myself. Here is a picture of it.



(Ignore that spot in the middle - I was just sponging off a tiny mark and didn't think the damp spot would show up, but it does if you enlarge the photo.)

It's in a colour that seems to be known as teal, though who knows why. It was available in green, and that was tempting, because it would be linguistically so satisfying to have a pea green pea coat, but it wasn't really pea green, more of a muted lime, and anyway I preferred the blue. Though I did stop to wonder if the pussy cat was perhaps wearing a pea green coat when she went to sea in the pea green boat. That, too, would be linguistically satisfying, but I doubt Edward Lear ever gave much thought to it.

It is my birthday soon, and when Husband asked if there was anything I wanted, I said I would like to go shopping and choose myself some new clothes. This isn't such a treat for me as it sounds, actually, as I don't really like shopping. No, honestly. I can get into the swing of it, and then I have quite a good time, but the idea of a morning looking at and trying on clothes doesn't reach out and grab me. I have to psyche myself up. Odd, I know. I'm indecisive, and so I agonise over what to buy rather painfully. Plus I'm at that stage in life when changing rooms are more like confessionals. Today, for example, I discovered I have varicose veins on my right knee as well as my left. How did I not know that? And I haven't been shopping for clothes for six months, so there's the new body shape issue to deal with too.

For the past 12 years, whenever I've gone shopping for clothes for me I've almost always ended up browsing and making purchases in the childrenswear department, where it's much more fun. I do like new clothes and the nice feeling that comes with wearing them (phew, you're thinking), but the whole process of acquiring them leaves me a bit cold. One of the things I would do if I was overbearingly wealthy, would be to employ someone with excellent taste, who would tell me what I'd look best in, go and buy lots of outfits for me to try on in the comfort of my own home, and then take back the ones I didn't like. It would have to be someone who would encourage me to be more adventurous than I naturally am, and someone who could cope with indecisiveness in a client. I guess there are people out there who like that kind of career opportunity, and I'll tell you what. When I'm rich and looking to recruit, the first person who makes reference to this blog post will get the job. It will show either that they are reading my blog now and obviously you would all make fabulous personal style consultants, or it will show that they have done a huge amount of research into my past personal history, which would no doubt look good at the interview. Make a note, if you're a wannabe personal shopper to the rich. You never know when this might come good.

I wasn't on my official birthday shopping outing, but this morning, in Target (oh the high life) I spotted the pea coat. And I just knew it was ME. And it was $10 off. By the time I got to the fitting room, I had managed to acquire quite a few other items too. When I checked out, I found I had bought a pea coat, two pairs of cords (one in daring raspberry), three sweaters (and I didn't just consider how warm or how practical they'd be when I chose them), and two long-sleeved t-shirts (don't they make them deliciously soft these days?) I know this sounds extravagant, but (a) this was Target not some fancy boutique, and (b) you have to remember I'm not like you ordinary lovely people whose shopping instincts need to be curbed. I'm in need of encouragement, and this haul represents a healthy step towards making good a sadly lacking wardrobe. Plus it shows that I am capable of impulse-buying, which is an area where personal development is definitely needed.

You know what? I think I could develop a taste for this shopping lark...

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Mulkar

It's a rum deal when you can't even understand your own children's accents.

8-yo was talking to me about a film he wants to see, called Mulkar. Now, I'm quite used to movies, books, games and toys with odd names. It goes with the mother-of-small-boys territory (if you have boy babies or toddlers, you are right to be feeling nervous at this point). I don't know where it all started, but I suspect the Three Wise Men had something to do with it. It's impossible to keep up. Just as you've mastered the use of a few words of the world of Yu-gi-oh, along comes Pokemon, and just as you've mastered a few Pokemon words and are feeling smug about knowing there's an accent over that e in the middle, along comes Bakugan. Is Bakugan out in the UK yet? And in case you thought you had Bakugan sussed, your son will develop an interest in Star Wars and all its spin-offs, or Bionicles.

Do any of you remember Lego Knight's Kingdom? Perhaps it's still current, but I haven't noticed them in any stores round here recently. That was the worst. In days of old, knights were called knighty names like Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot. These days they have names like Sir Nasdaq and Sir Indesit. From the mighty realm of Vorsprung Durch Technik.

So yes, I'm quite used to made-up names being bandied about. For example, we own a DVD entitled Picachu. We really do. We have another entitled Squirtle. We also have The Battle of Metru Nui. See what I mean.

I've learnt that the thing to do with these names is to abandon all hope of remembering them, or of making any sense at all of how they relate to each other. It's very irritating for small boys to be interrupted by a keen parent with "ah, how's that Toa doing, there?" when he has a Visorak in each hand. Or "can I be Yoshi?" when you're not even playing Wii Mario Super Sluggers (okay okay, now I'm just showing off). No, the best thing to do, is to sound very interested, nod wisely, and let the names flow right through your brain without even attempting to stop them at a memory cell somewhere. Then you just have to bluff (what do you mean, you can't bluff? It wasn't THAT long since you were in the workplace.)

In my defence, I was driving while we were discussing Mulkar. As you all know, the average Midwestern mom vehicle is only a whisker shorter than a London bus. If I'm in the driving seat (which, being safety conscious, I always am when I'm driving) and your child is in the back, you really need an intercom system or some hands-free walkie-talkies to communicate with each other. Speaking of London buses, I'm thinking of running a string down the side of the car interior, with a bell, so that the children can indicate to me when they want me to stop. Anyway, I was driving, and the conversation went like this:

8-yo: Can I see Mulkar?

Me: Mulkar? Is it a good movie? Have any of your friends seen it? (buying time here)

8-yo: Yes, it's good. Can I see it?

Me: (thinks: darn it, I still don't know what genre we're in here) Um... I'll have to think about it. What's it called again?

8-yo: Mulkar. Mul-kar.

Me: Mulkar. Yes. Is that about... Mulkar?

8-yo: Mom! Mul... Kar...

12-yo: (joining in the exasperation) Mom! It's Mul... Kar... You know. As in Mul... Kar...

Me: Mul... Kar...? As in Mul... Kar...?

12-yo eventually spelt the words out for me. Have you guessed what it was they were talking about?

Click here to find out.

I'm wondering if it stars John Mulkarvich.

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A phantom

Hallowe’en is the time for ghosts and spectres. This Hallowe'en, I encountered a phantom of my own, one to whom I owe much.

There was a message on the answerphone reminding me of my medical appointment the following day. They do this in the US. It’s all part of the service to the customer, but it makes sense for the doctors too. I know they hate it when there’s a missed appointment. In our GP’s surgery in Scotland, they wrote up on a white board in the waiting room how many appointments had been missed the previous week, and a notice about how it wasted the doctors’ time. I was always tempted to write below “but how much longer would we all have had to wait if these people had turned up? Hurrah for them!” but I never did. I think the strategy worked, because the number did reduce over time. We were all afraid that they might move from a ‘weekly totals’ system to a ‘name and shame’ system, but I expect patient confidentiality requirements extend to reliability of appointment honouring.

My introduction to the American courtesy call for medical appointments came in our first few days here. We were staying with the sister of a colleague of Husband’s, and I answered her phone. It was her gynaecologist’s office calling to remind her of an appointment the next day, and I was acutely embarrassed at having to pass the message on when she returned home. I assumed that they had called to remind her of the appointment either because she was notoriously bad at remembering them and had missed several in a row, or because she had some very serious condition that demanded urgent attention, and they wanted to make absolutely sure she attended. And of course I didn’t know that every woman here has a gynaecologist, and they pop in to see them as often as you or I would go to the hairdressers. I think it was, actually, my first ever phone call in the US. Interesting to reflect that what now would prompt a quick “thank you for letting me know” on my part, then threw me into a tailspin of confusion and embarrassment. I exaggerate, but you get my drift.

So I received a message on my answerphone reminding me of the appointment next day, for a mammogram. “Huh?” I thought. “Shurely shome mishtake?” Then I remembered. When I had been back for the second of my diagnostic mammograms and ultrasounds, in April, and when they had said “nope, nothing there, you’re fine”, the radiologist had said “I’ll just make a note on your file to do an extra ultrasound, when you’re in for your annual screening in six months time". And then it got bureaucratic, because when I went to the front desk, it turned out that my annual screening wasn’t in 6 months time, but in 8 months time. When I suggested bringing it forward to 6 months time, the receptionist clucked her teeth and muttered darkly about the insurance not covering that. So I said I was sure that 8 would be fine anyway. But the receptionist said she should go and check with the radiologist, and when she came back, she said the radiologist’s response had been “oh, well, just make an extra appointment for 6 months then”. It was all very casual, just a fitting in with the bureaucratic demands of the insurance provisions.

That appointment, though, that appointment which has sat silently in the appointment book of the imaging centre since that day, that appointment served a purpose greater than I could have foreseen. For it was that appointment that caught my GP’s eye, when he got the report back. He phoned me and said, “I don’t like that 6 months appointment. Either there’s something there that needs investigating further, in which case 6 months is too long to leave it, or there’s nothing there, in which case it makes no sense to have a follow-up in 6 months”. Those of you who know the story, know that there was indeed something there, and that it did indeed need investigating further. Investigating, surgically removing, and chemically zapping.

Weird to think that an appointment which I haven’t even shown up to, has had such significance in my medical history… in my life, I would even say. I think of it as a phantom appointment. It has a presence, but it isn’t really here. An appointment to scan parts of me that no longer exist. The analogy doesn’t make sense if you analyse it too carefully, but it was the thought that lingered in my mind when I had puzzled out the answerphone message.

So I returned the call to the imaging center, and explained to the receptionist why I no longer needed the appointment. With a few taps from her on the computer keyboard, this phantom, like all good phantoms, sensed it had done the job it came to do, and disappeared into thin air.

Post-script

I know someone is going to ask why the imaging center failed to spot anything sinister, and gave me the all clear after two diagnostic mammograms and ultrasounds. I simply don’t know the answer to that, and in answer to what I anticipate will be your next question, no, I’m not going to pursue it. I prefer to concentrate on the living and the present, than the ghosts of shadows on mammogram films of the past.