An alter ego

Watched a really fascinating You Tube video, well several really, about creating a Drag Queen personality and how it empowered those who did.
Equally fascinating was the number of women creating a drag Queen image to overcome their body image or general self consciousness.
The transformation of both men and women was amazing and it got me thinking........who is my Drag persona?
Hunting on Google I found a drag name generator and after a few questions (no email required, yay) I got a name;
Monica Tension
I loved the play on words and enjoyed playing with the concept of Monique Attention coming from it.
Ok Monica, time you were borne, who are you?
Travelling on the train to Hastings I allowed my mind to become her and speak. She was funny, oh so funny, and unapologetic.
She wasn't racist, sexist or phobic, far from it, but Lily Savage, you have a relative. Letting my mind just wander I had to be careful I didn't laugh out loud at the outrageous things she was saying.
When I got off the train I decided to enter her world. I would walk like her, talk like her and for just this few hours allow her to become.
Well, buying coffee at one of the seafront outlets ended up a total laugh.
From fed up to laughing, the vendor gave me my coffee and wished me a brilliant day. I could still hear her laughing as I walked away.
No rudeness, no sexual innuendo, no smut as Lily would say, just playing with words and things I'd noticed.
Monica had the power to entertain and brighten days. Now that's a positive aspect to have rediscovered.

The value of listening

Readying myself to go and pick up my friend from Bexleyheath and take her to a private doctor's appointment,  I was reminded of an occurrence many years ago.
A student in one of the year 10 classes (this makes her about 15 years old) was in her favourite lesson, English literature. She had been a late developer and I had worked with her as a tutor for many years, bringing her from an inability to read at aged 8, to one of a book worm by the time she reached Secondary school.
She loved to read everything from Enid Blyton (I know, not PC but superb quality English) to Bronte. She adored discussing  the work and was becoming a very skilled analyst of plot lines, character study and the like. It seemed obvious therefore, she'd excel at English Literature.
But she wasn't.
In fact, her English, which had been heading for the top grades was plummeting to the lowest. Her mother and I were worried. That old disaffection was creeping in.
I asked her what was the problem and after a good half hour of, I hate the teacher, she's always picking on me, I don't like school anyway, we started to get to the real issue.
"She gives us work sheets," she said staring down at her bed, " and we're supposed to sit in silence and go through the questions."
"Ok, a bit boring, but go on." I looked at her, knowing how she hated this style of learning but hoped she give me a clue as to what it really was deep down in her brain.
"Well, I just sit there. No point in me doing it. I just don't see it, " a pet phrase of hers came out which she'd not used for some time.
"What do you mean? I don't get it, what don't you see?" I looked on hopefully.
She swirled at the bed cover, it drove me mad, she was avoiding again.
"Come on, it's me remember, you wont get shouted at. What is it you just don't see?"
"I, I can't read it?" She stammered, "I tell her I can't see it and she doesn't understand....." she dissolved in tears, " I hate school!" She exclaimed with all the anguish of a teenage girl.
I wanted to laugh with relief but didn't, that would have been cruel and she was so distressed.
"I hate that style of learning anyway and she uses stupid type, I just cant read it! Why can't she use the type you do? I hate her!"
I stopped her going on, she was working herself up into school-refusing again.
We checked she was happy everywhere else, she was, we worked out if she could skip English she'd be fine. Mm. I came to the conclusion I'd cross that bridge later.
We finished our session with some serious discussion on the characterisation of the Inspector out of An Inspector Calls I wrapped up the session.
Chatting with mum on the phone later, I explained the problem. She took her daughter to the opticians and diagnosed coloured glasses for reading. They looked fabulous on her and she loved them.
Sometimes just real listening makes all the difference, and in this case, averted an escalation of something small into something major.
So what was the point of this recollection? The friend I was taking to see a private doctor had not been listened to either, but by the NHS sadly and her problems had gone on undetected for years.
She came out at the end of her appointment and half smiled, half grimaced; she had some answers. Finally, she had been listened to and finally she was given the referral she needed to see the specialist she required, and yes it was serious and potentially life threatening.

Being listened to; not a fraud

With age and a very physically active life, comes the pains and broken bits of all that's built up over the years. For me, gardening, DIY, horse riding, motor bikes, swimming, gym and all the rest has worked my spine to a partial standstill. Overwork and accidents have damaged areas, strained others and caused deterioration in the rest.
So, when I attended the doctors for support, advice and suggestions, the answer has been one of pain killers, phrases such as, "well, it comes with getting older" and, "is there anything else I can help you with?"
Not quite the supportive NHS I would hope for. Instead of being listened to I felt rushed (only got 10 minutes at most), a statistic and just a number in a long line which needed processing so as to tick the performance targets of the day.
I gave up!
Harassed, in pain and cajoled by friends, I gave in and booked a private doctor's appointment.
The best thing I ever did! I see her, I have 30 minutes, she gives me her un-divided attention, she listens, asks questions and examines me. A first! Amazing!
She agrees I have a degree of scoliosis forming; she can feel there are other issues developing; she gets me a neurosurgeon's appointment for two days later!
Wow!
In thirty minutes, I have an idea of what the problem is, I have a referral to the neurosurgeon and I have an appointment. That is more progress in those precious thirty minutes than I've had in 35 years!!
Long live private doctors! Once I've seen the consultant I can then work out, do I take this as fait accompli to my NHS doctor and go on a waiting list, or do I bite the bullet and pay?
Watch this space.......