Yet another chapter in the continuing saga of one woman’s close encounters with Health Care.

I know that January is a largely soul destroying month. Credit card bills from Christmas land in your letter box, the weather is trying it’s damnest to sap your energy, strength and will to live and your gut is slowly encroaching on your belt line. But if anyone has a little good will to spare to direct my way on Thursday, it would be much appreciated.

I’m a little apprehensive regarding the particular procedure I’ve got to undergo as it’s the first one I’ve ever had that will involve actual honest-to-god cutting. It seems like a terrible contradiction: In college, I let a girl called Serena stick a needle though my nose, using nothing but an ice cube for anesthetic, but the idea of a qualified professional poking a hole in my belly while being blissfully unconscious fills me with un-nameable dread.

NOTICE: FOR ANYONE WHO IS EASILY PUT OFF BY TMI ABOUT PEOPLE THAT YOU ONLY VAGUELY KNOW FROM THE INTERNET, PERHAPS YOU WOULD LIKE TO CLICK ON ANOTHER BOOKMARK NOW AND ENJOY THE NEWS, GOSSIP OR PORNOGRAPHY SITE OF YOUR CHOICE.

The procedure is called a laparoscopy/hysteroscopy. The laparoscopy involves a very tiny incision being made under your bellybutton (Just for the record, this does NOT make your butt fall off. I’ve been made aware of a certain childhood myth perpetuated by sadistic adults that leads one to believe if your bellybutton ever comes undone, it will result in the loss of your posterior. THIS IS NOT TRUE) so that the surgeon can insert a tiny camera and have a good old nose around your lower abdomen. The hysteroscopy is pretty much the same but involves another camera being inserted into another notorious female orifice to get a view of the womb. (or a womb with a view, to quote another tired joke.)

The NHS, being terrifically over stretched, simply can’t investigate all fertility problems. A lot of you know (although some of you don’t) that we’ve had to deal with 2 miscarriages in the past year and a half. The lack of support that we experienced from the NHS was breathtaking; both during and after. I was fobbed off twice by GP’s who curtly said, “Oh, it’s very common,” as if I had a cold, and we were offered no aftercare or even sympathy. Of COURSE it’s common. Medical science believes it occurs in up to ¼ of ALL pregnancies, but this fact doesn’t make up for the crushing disappointment. Not being willing to suffer through a 3rd before qualifying for NHS investigation, I’ve been blessed enough to have been thrown a lifeline by AXA-PPP.

I didn’t deal much with insurance companies in the States. I was covered fully under my parent’s phenomenal insurance until I graduated from college and after that, I had only catastrophic coverage while living in Minneapolis, before I moved to the UK. My dad was always the one who spent hours on the phone with the people determined to screw you out of cover despite the fact that you paid for it monthly.

But for some reason, AXA-PPP doesn’t seem to operate this way.

Me: Oh great and merciful insurer, I’ve got to have an unpleasant procedure involving my nether regions. In the name of all that is holy and just, I beseech you to pay for it seeing as how, you know, I give you money every month for just this eventuality.

AXA Rep: Erm, yeah, that’s fine. You’re covered.

Me: ……………………………….

AXA Rep: Ma’am? Are you still there?

Me: I HAVE called an insurance company right? This isn’t the Samaritan’s hotline or something?

AXA Rep: Do you need anything else?

Me: Will you marry me?

I HAVE AN INSURANCE COMPANY THAT ACTUALLY DOES WHAT IT’S SUPPOSED TO. No fighting, no disputes. In the depths of despair, all I must do is remember them and feel that my faith in mankind is restored.

So on Thursday, spare a thought for me and my bellybutton. We’re both hoping for smooth sailing.

Somewhere out in the far reaches of the solar system, there are 2 bleeping boxes silently whizzing through space. These boxes, launched into space in 1977, have passed through the heliopause, outside of which our sun holds no dominion. In addition to millions of dollars worth of technology, these boxes also serve as mankind’s ambassadors in deep space. Their golden records contain mathematical maps pointing back towards earth, diagrams of human beings and sounds from all over Earth, including a recording of a made in 1927 by a bluesman called Blind Willie Johnson.

One has to wonder what those who discover the Voyager’s golden records will think of the Blues. Chances are Blind Willie Johnson would have something particularly wise and laconic to say on the subject.

The Rock Star and I were watching Wim Wender’s documentary “Soul of a Man” last night; one part of a seven part series for PBS featuring different directors (including Clint Eastwood, who is an accomplished blues pianist, by the way.) and their take on the blues brought under one banner by producer, Martin Scorsese. I have to admit to being a bit late in “getting” the blues, although The Rock Star has been a huge fan for a decade or so. I’ve picked up a good deal of my musical taste from him (which is lucky for both of us. I can’t imagine what might have happened if I couldn’t stand Guns N Roses.) and have come to admire not only the music, but the rich tradition behind it. Without the blues, there would have been no rock and roll. Rock was just the blues sung faster by white people.

Record company exec #1 (circa 1950)- Well, we got all this black music that sells okay, but what do you reckon we have to do to make some real money off of it?

Record company exec #2 (circa 1950)- I’ve got it! Hey you! Skinny white kid with the funny hair! Yeah, you! The one who can’t stop shaking his ass! Come here! Plug in that there guitar and speed these 12 bars up!

Skinny kid with the funny hair who can’t stop shaking his ass- Thank ya vera much.

The blues are an acquired taste. And these are 10 of the songs and artists that acted as my primer, so I thought I’d share. They’ll have you howling, “WHOOOOOA, BABY” in no time.

1) Dark was the Night, Cold Was the Ground- Blind Willie Johnson- Ry Cooder called it a “The most soulful, transcendent piece in all American music.” Serious hairs on the back of your neck kind of stuff. It’s inclusion on Voyager’s golden record served to further validate the work of a man who died penniless in the late 40’s, living in the burnt out ruins of his house.

2) Hard Time Killing Floor Blues- Skip James (as recorded by Chris Thomas King)- Old blues recordings are sometimes hard to get next to due to the quality and often modern recordings are more palatable without losing the spirit of the original. Chris Thomas King, for any of you who’ve seen “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?”, played Tommy Johnson in the film, subject of the famous “Devil at the Crossroads” myth and cousin of legendary bluesman, Robert Johnson.

3) Come On in My Kitchen- Robert Johnson (as recorded by Keb Mo)- Johnson, who recorded some of the most covered blues songs in history, didn’t live to see his 30th birthday. In true blues tradition, legend has it his whisky was poisoned by a jealous husband. If you didn’t die from alcoholism, a beating after cheating at cards or jumping out someone’s bedroom window, you just ain’t got the blues. I got turned onto Keb Mo (real name, Kevin Moore; not a particularly inspiring blues name) while working in Borders in Minneapolis and we received one of his promotional CD’s. I played it whenever I was stuck back at the music information desk and thoroughly annoyed all my colleagues. The Rock Star has seen him twice and I’m very jealous.

4) Boom Boom and House Rent Boogie- John Lee Hooker- John Lee Hooker, at the time his autobiography was published when he was in his 80’s, was still going to bed at night with 2 blondes at a time. House Rent Boogie is more of a narrative than a song, and one that seriously tickled the Rock Star and me.

5) Mannish Boy- Muddy Waters (as recorded by Muddy Waters/Johnny Winter)- Chances are you know this song already- it is the classic parodied blues tune.

When I was at summer camp as a kid, we used to play “the Blues Game” at night in our cabins, taking turns making up songs about each other. They tended to go something like this:

Kid 1- His name is Mike…

Rest of the cabin- Da NA na NA na.

Kid 1- He better cover his head…

Rest of the cabin- Da NA na NA na.

Kid 1- Cause at 3 in the morning…

Rest of the cabin- Da NA na NA na.

Kid 1- Gonna put a snake in his bed!

Then the cabin would collapse into laughter and Mike would attempt to destroy everyone involved. This usually went on all night.

6) The Constipation Blues- Screamin Jay Hawkins- Hawkins was a serious oddball character in the Blues. I suppose you could call this a parody, but it’s definitely good for a laugh. Anyone who’s ever been stopped up can probably claim to have suffered from the blues.

7) The Thrill is Gone- BB King- “Blues Boy” King is probably the best known modern Blues performer of them all. At 80, he’s still touring. We’re hoping to catch him on the UK leg of his tour this year.

Pride and Joy- Stevie Ray Vaughn- A lot of people were rocking up the blues in the 60’s through the 90’s, but few did it better than SRV. “Texas Flood” is a must-own album.

9) Riverside-Kenny Wayne Shepherd- Kenny Wayne Shepherd owes a lot of his style to SRV (whose amp he sat on as a boy and listened to the great man do his thang.) but brings a fresh approach to texas blues/rock. This isn’t a traditional blues piece, but it’s brilliant and soulful nonetheless.

10) Burning Hell- Joe Bonamassa- a relatively new kid on the blues scene, but with serious axe skills and a gravely voice, he completely incinerates the stage.

Whoa, baby.

I am in the middle of a task for which many will think me foolhearty. I am in the process of moving this blog.

This doesn’t sound like a Herculean labor, but being alotted to a person who likes all of the spines of her book series to have the same cover (even to the extent of sending away to other countries so that I have a matching set) it’s going a little slowly.

The Rock Star has turned me on to Word Press which allows greater freedom and control over the whole show. Unfortunately, since I have been blogging for almost exactly a year, this means moving every single blog post over manually and changing the time stamps. Not only that, but (are you ready for extreme anal retention?) I decided to move my comments as well. (which ALSO require moving manually and changing the time stamps. I am a total headjob.) You know, just so it’s all neat, tidy and together. (I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. You can better believe that I will NEVER do it again.)

At some point in (I hope) the not too distant future, I’ll be able to give you an address with which to update your blogrolls.

Back in high school when I was fit and athletic, I spent 4 years on the school swim team. During my first two years on the squad, we had an ultra cool, ex-surfer cartoonist as a coach who also taught history, so we hung out in his classroom after school until the bus came to take us to the pool. (Our school’s football team was WAY too good to have money diverted away from them so that a bunch of pansy swimmers could have their own pool to practice in. Because, as any high school football player will tell you, “swimming is for fags.” It really is better that we let them get on with banging their heads together.) Apart from being responsible for the graphics on a particular brand of t-shirt that is easily recognizable in the US, our coach was also responsible for broadening our cinematic horizons. One film he brought to our attention was the 1966 Woody Allen classic called, “What’s Up, Tigerlily?”

American International Pictures had bought the rights to a Japanese action film entitled, “International Secret Police: Key of Keys”, but then thought that it might be confusing for Western audiences. Allen was commissioned to completely remove the soundtrack and write his own plot involving the quest to find the world’s greatest recipe for egg salad. It goes without saying that I have my own copy.

It is due to my love of this film that I particularly enjoyed this little bit of nonsense that my father sent me this morning. Give your own Woody Allen treatment to any number of Bollywood classics here.

Here’s one I made earlier.

According to NASA, this is happening somewhere in the universe. We have to believe them of course, because…well…no one else has got the Hubble hanging around in their back garden.

But OH MY GOD, THIS IS HAPPENING SOMEWHERE IN THE UNIVERSE AND I WANT TO GO THERE.

I’ve never really intended for this blog to be a sounding block for any kind of issue. Just so that you know that.

A couple of weeks ago The Rock Star picked up the first season of The X-Files as an impulse purchase from Tesco. We do this a lot. It’s easier than going to Blockbuster for a couple of reasons. One is that the Blockbuster nearest to us has roughly 100 DVDs and half of them have titles like “The Erotic Witch Project” and the other is that both The Rock Star and I suffer from a disorder that keeps us from returning rentals on time, incurring late fees more substantial than some small country’s GNPs.

I was a big fan of the series for the first 4 or 5 seasons. The writing was fantastic, the chemistry between the two leads fizzed, (and aside from a nose that you could have evacuated half of London to during the Blitz, David Duchoveny was not entirely unpleasant to look at) and it never failed to give me a dose of the willies. I’m a pretty jumpy customer under normal circumstances and I think I’ve said before that when alone in the dark, I’ve always considered the danger from vampires much more pressing than rapists or muggers, so The X-Files managed, at least 3 or 4 times a season, to give me some other reason to want to wet the bed. Upon the most recent viewing I was delighted to renew my fear of going to the toilet after watching the two 1st season episodes following the exploits of the amazing stretchy guy, Eugene Tooms, who’s modus operandi included coming up drains and down chimneys. For at least two weeks after I first saw the episodes, I remember fervently wishing that I was a man every time I went into the bathroom so that I could avoid turning my cheeks to the enemy who was undoubtedly waiting for me around the U-bend.

While re-acquainting myself with this weekly dose of sci-fi drama, I came across an episode which just about stunned me rigid. Titled “Beyond the Sea” it followed Scully and Mulder in their quest to save two kidnapped college students and the story of the condemned man who has the wherewithal to help them…If he can be convinced to do so.

Luther Lee Boggs (played with startling distinction by under-appreciated character actor, Brad Dourif) is an inmate in a North Carolina penitentiary, a week away from a death sentence from which he has already been once reprieved, only seconds before being carried out. The experience, Boggs claims, allowed him to become a conduit for the souls of the dead to speak though him and show him visions of the past and the future. Mulder, who sent Boggs to prison in the first place doesn’t believe his divinatory claims, but Scully, who’s just lost her father, believes that his soul is trying to speak though Boggs and becomes rather more emotionally involves with him than she’s knows is good for her.

The further plot of the episode is insubstantial, really, but Dourif’s spectacular performance carries the piece along, instilling Bogg’s creeping dread of his impending, unnatural death in the viewer. The veins in his forehead bulge, his face contorts in terror and the blood rushes to his face when he shouts at Scully,

“Don’t underestimate my fear of dying and don’t downplay my terror of going back to that chair. I know my hell’s going to be to go on back to that chair over and over again but in this life, my one and only life, I don’t ever want to go back again! Ever!”

But Boggs does go back to that room.

This morning, the State of California executed a blind, wheelchair bound 76 year old man who could not walk to the gurney to which he was strapped down in order to be given a lethal injection. No one could argue that he was innocent, nor that his crimes against his fellow man were not heinous or pre-meditated.

Dr. Martin Luther King, who’s birthday was celebrated in most schools and workplaces in America on Monday would most likely have said this for Clarence Ray Allen. And Tookie Williams. And probably Luther Boggs.

“The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. Through violence you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence you murder the hater, but you do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate…. Returning violence for violence multiples violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. “

I must confess to getting a large chuckle out of Clive’s blonde joke. It’s definitely worth reading until the end!

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Last week, when I found myself spending more than my allocated 2 minutes in front of the mirror in the morning, trying to coax my hair into some kind of shape that least resembled something dead on the road, I decided that I was in desperate need of a haircut.

Back in the States, as a broke student, a penniless actor and a fiscally challenged book salesperson, I had only to stroll down the street to the local Hair Cuttery; where the inept cut the hair of the desperate. This east coast/Midwest chain of barnet worriers was the refuge of beauty school dropouts and amateurs hopeful of being “spotted” by up-market salons and one could often get a hit or miss cut for around about 7 or 8 dollars. In my mind, playing Russian roulette with my hair was a risk worth taking when one considered the next nearest alternative; a $35 dollar haircut with a “stylist” who used the fact that they worked in a place full of white walls and mirrors as an excuse to charge a lot of “money.”

Gone, however, are those heady days of mediocre or tragic cheap haircuts. On a miserable Saturday afternoon in Aylesbury, my wallet shuddered as I stepped into a Toni & Guy franchise.

I’ve always had a vague fear of the women who work there. They sport haircuts that put one in mind of post-modern literature; you don’t really GET them, but you sure as hell recognize them when you see them. The purpose of these styles is unclear. Are they trying to show that they’re hip and edgy? Is the message, “We’re not afraid to be bold and experimental?” Because to me, these cuts say, “If I’ve done this to MY hair, just imagine what I might do to YOURS!”

Here’s what I got for 50 pounds: (for those of you in the US, that’s $88 according to the exchange rate today, Jan 16.)

A shampoo.

A glass of water.

A haircut.

A blow-dry.

A distinct feeling that I’d just been had.

The Rock Star and I are utterly crap at thinking of things to do.

It’s Friday night and while we know we probably SHOULD stay at home and clean up the boat, we would rather do something fun. However, neither of us, despite our combined secondary educations, can think of anything to do. We went to a film on Wednesday and out to dinner on Monday and Wednesday, so we’re a little stuck for things we can do that a) we haven’t already done this week, b) won’t cost an arm and a leg or c) won’t get us smelling like the bottom of an ashtray.

Any suggestions?