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WHY WOULD YOU TRY TO KILL BEES

ESPECIALLY IF YOU'RE THE SORT OF PERSON WHO SUBSCRIBES TO A "NATURAL LIVING" COMMUNITY

BEES. ARE NOT FOR KILLING. MY FUCK. AT LEAST GET SOMEONE TO FIGURE OUT WHAT SORT OF BEES THEY ARE BEFORE YOU TRY AND FUCKING KILL THEM.

skjrghesgkueah;UJHREGJ;SERJGEGjKJRK


In other news, the Oxegen festival was a pile of fail. I left a comment in [livejournal.com profile] gothhippiegrrl's LJ about it,

Oh, it turned out to be a giant pile of fail; the disability provision was basically only any use if you had the right kind of disability aka wheelchair/crutches. They wouldn't let us in at the gate which was literally opposite our own gate, because that wasn't an authorised entrance. They insisted we had to go round to the disabled car park, which a) we were on foot b) it was a longish walk from the disabled car park to the main arena. They drove us round to the disabled car park, about three-quarters of a mile away, and we walked to the main arena. I figured as long as I could just sit down and be comfortable for the gig, I'd be ok to walk back to the disabled car park and James would have to walk back home from there and get the car to pick me up.

I didn't get to be comfortable because the seats at the disabled area were all too small and I couldn't trust them to hold my weight, so I tried to sit on the floor of the platform, on a bedroll James had brought with. Unfortunately, the bedroll was narrow and I am wide, and the floor was covered in muddy wet crud because it'd been raining, so after 10 minutes of trying to balance and in the process screwing up my arms, back and legs even further, I stood up. Because I was in so much pain, I went into autie sensory-overload meltdown when one of the songs had a siren in it.

At this point I just wanted to go home, and we were right near the gate closest to our house but we knew we wouldn't be allowed to use it. James asked the disability assistant to sort out some kind of transport for me to get to the authorised exit. We were then left waiting for nearly two hours, even after the gig had ended and everyone else had left the arena. I collapsed eventually, which got their attention and the medics turned up; James then had to keep telling them not to touch me and that all I needed was transport to the gate. There was a lot of faff while I was lying on my back on the hard, cold, damp, dirty ground crying with humiliation and frustration. Eventually they got a buggy thing and I got onto it. We kept saying we lived literally across the road but they said all the gates had been locked down and we had to go in an ambulance to the local hospital and transport home would be arranged from there, which is ridiculous. In the end they took us on the buggy to the bit where all the ambulances were and we got taken home in the sodding ambulance; the drivers were really confused about why it had taken so long to get me home when I lived 30 seconds' drive away.

Needless to say, I was in too much pain to go anywhere the next day or the day after and we knew the accommodations weren't in place anyway. The whole thing could have been prevented by a) them letting us in at the gate opposite the farm OR having some kind of transport from the disabled car park to the main arena and b) having a few larger chairs at the disabled podium. But there you go; you're only allowed to be the right kind of disabled person, that is, visibly disabled and using a mobility aid, and above all, Not Fat.



In other other news, I am unreasonably excited about going to see the new Harry Potter film, despite knowing that I will want to throw things at the screen at certain points. I can't go until Friday night at the earliest because every ticket within a 30 mile radius is booked, but EEEEEEE.

I have an appointment with a neurologist tomorrow, which will hopefully a) be the start of getting some control over my migraines, which really are the worst part of being me because they ruin almost everything and prevent me from doing nearly anything b) go better than the fucking awful endocrinologist appointment I had last week which was so unspeakably awful that I'm going to write a letter of complaint. The woman was dismissive, ignorant, arrogant, fatphobic, hostile, didn't bloody listen, and TOUCHED MY HEAD (scrabbling about in my hair) without asking first and then tried to make out that I was in the wrong when I freaked out. I'd go into details but it needs its own post, really, and I might make that post when I've written the complaint letter. James said he was tempted to ask her "Are you a real doctor?" I wish he had. He's been referred to the Marfan clinic in Dublin which means HOORAY he will get proper treatment and we will have a better idea of when he needs heart surgery (he has a dilated aortic root and a leaky mitral valve).

I miss being able to talk to people on IM. Our dodgy mobile modem interwebs is terrible and the connection drops at least once every five minutes, sometimes more like twice a minute, so the only chat I can use is Facebook Chat, and even that keeps cutting out.

I must apologise again (and explain to the newer people on my flist) for not being great at answering comments. Migraine is worse than ever, and connection is dodgy, and fibro thoroughly kicks my arse on a regular basis, and I am basically just rubbish at replying. However, I do make a very tasty clafouti, which I would never have thought to try had it not been mentioned several times by [livejournal.com profile] ailbhe, so thank you [livejournal.com profile] ailbhe*!.


*for some reason I really like typing the name "ailbhe"
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December 2010

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