If my head wasn't throbbing I might be seething.

I used the toilet in an hotel where I had recently had a bite to eat. The spare toilet rolls were on a low wooden stool (you know the pretend rustic variety) right underneath the hand dryer. Adjacent to the hand dryer was the soap dispenser then next, but lower, the cloakroom basin. Being thoughtful, I could see that my foamed or soaped hands might drip onto the new toilet rolls, even worse than that, my wet hands would certainly soak them. I bent down to lift the stool with its cache of toilet rolls, out of harm's way. As I straightened up, I caught my forehead on the corner of the hand dryer or maybe it was the corner of the soap dispenser. Ouch! and more bl***y ouch! A red lump quickly appeared.

Could I find a useful member of staff; of course not. I went into the bar, spoke with the barmaid and showed her my injury which was throbbing and pretty livid by then and I was getting that way myself. When I asked her to mention the occurrence and the reason for it to her manager, adding "it was a stupid place to put spare loo rolls" her reply was, "put it in writing to the manager."

There was no concern, no, trace of sympathy, nothing humane at all. A bit of attempted TLC would have been nice, but then is that too much to expect these days?

I'm now off to sooth my throbbing brow.

The issue of medicating unwilling patients arose today. In this instance there is the issue of mental capacity, the ability to make limited choices.

Cognitive capacity is a question which will arise in many care cases and in particular with people with dementia. While an individual may not have the ability in law to consent to certain events, should not be signing formal papers, may not be safe to care for himself or herself, even a reduced ability to make choices still must be respected in daily living.

A large number of dementia sufferers can and do make some choices in their daily lives, like what clothes to wear, whether they want to go out or not, whether they feel like having a wash, choosing a meal, or taking medications.

Even if there is a very low mental ability, a person in need of medical treatment cannot be forced to take it, nor can anyone be forced to take medications, not without other legal actions first being imposed for the purpose. Rightly, that would be extreme and a last resort; it would involve the assessment of professionals of other disciplines.

At what point should intervention be considered? This is a vexed question, one which, I am sure even doctors do not like to arbitrate upon.

Tonight I started to research dementia using Alzheimer's (Scotland). The first link took me to advice for dementia sufferers. The different types of dementias and some common early symptoms were laid out very briefly and extremely simply. There was a section on discussing matters with your GP, involving your interested relatives or carer/s, the kinds of specialists you could be referred onto and the types of testing that might be done.

The publication for all its simplicity, covered a wide spectrum of issues, like the drugs that are known to assist, herbal remedies and their effectiveness, if any, and useful stimulation (also that which may not be useful).

At the end of the booklet was a fine listing of other relevant publications.

Two main thoughts struck me.

First, most people don't go into researching the information available early enough to really benefit the sufferer, because the understanding of what may be developing and detectability of the early stages is difficult; even doctors may not recognise what is happening and they investigate for other illnesses.

Second, there is denial, disbelief understandable human defence mechanisms, and distress. By the time you do some research, it could be a problem well developed, so that, information contained in the early stage booklet brings awareness of systems and resources, rather too late. By then you may be in need of information on the progression of the disease, guidance on resources for the sufferer and any other help for the carer/s.

The Duchess of Cornwall has removed herself from the impending memorial service to Diana Princess of Wales, bowing to public opinion, says the announcement from Clarence House. There are two main characters who remain living and who were involved in that ménage a trois mess. In my view they should both absent themselves.

I've been browsing through little books again and I just must share these:

"Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?"

William Shakespeare 1564 - 1616

"A compromise is the art of dividing a cake in such a way that everyone believes he has the biggest piece." Ludwig Erhard, 1897 - 1977

AND

You know you are getting old when the candles cost more than the cake."

Bob Hope 1903 - 2003

You either get it very, very right or you get it stunningly wrong. Tonight it was absolutely right! The two-handed amateur cast of Educating Rita were brilliant in the exposition of the play. The scene setting and clever minimal set changes lent themselves well to the overall production and finished presentation.

The delivery of the typical Northern, Liverpudlian repartee was beautifully timed. The humour within the tragedy of the characters, who both inexorably moved on to their different fates, was offered in true modern comic-tragedy style yet, as I am sure the author, Russell, desired, we, the audience were left with wistful and good feelings at the end of the play and wanting more.

The fact that the guy who acted Frank, the intoxicated university tutor, could not 'do' accents, therefore, acted with his usual soft Scottish one, did not matter a jot. Rita was a brash, colourful character who handled the Liverpudlian accent and speed of speech with confidence.

Most people in the audience knew the two actors and the young director of the play; they are local people. My one regret was that the individuals who worked behind the scenes did not appear for a well deserved round of applause at the end of an evening of excellent entertainment.

The Israeli Blogger had just finished reading, (it was a great recitation), an entry from her blog, highlighted in Woman's Hour today 22nd August 07(BBC Radio 4). It was, as she said "an Israeli thing". There she was, on her way to a rendezvous in an orthodox Jewish café, to eye up the possibility of a prospective marriage partnership. There was a lot going for the chemistry, even down to tolerating the stricter style of daily religious life, even the wearing of heat generating clothing in sweltering heat, however, in the final analysis, she could not give up her secular Saturdays.

Just then a high pitched voice broke into my reverie "Mum... if you ever feel like finding me a nice Jewish boy with a prospect to marriage, please do so."

I jerked back to my senses. "Me?" I said incredulously, "find you a nice Jewish Boy? How do you propose I do that?"

Cheeky grin on Sprog's face "Well, it could be any nice young man"

"I wouldn't dare, find one for yourself?" I say.

According to research we in the U.K. are;

1.Below the level of eastern block countries for our cancer survival rates;

2.There are inherent dangers in cardiac patients and people with other
chest/breathing difficulties being transported distances to obtain appropriate medical care;

3.And if you live in North London, where patients have to be transported through dense London traffic up to TWELVE MILES to have heart and breathing problems dealt with, you are likely to have even weaker survival chances. Even weaker than what? Someone who has to travel hundreds of miles for similar treatments?

Analysis:

Okay, we are keenly aware as consumers that our medical services can be well below first world country standards. If you live, as I do, in a remote area such lacks are even more pronounced.

Transporting of patients over huge distances is a perennial requirement here; when available (note 'when')helicopters have to transport severe life-threatening cases to not one hospital but two, sometimes even, three. Often the first is a triage and holding station, the second is another triage and specialist assessment and the third is the one where the specialised resources reside, if all that is needed doesn't exist at hospital number two. Two hops can be made if it is clear from the outset what services are needed that do not exist in the region. The examining doctor needs to be familiar with regional resources The distances covered are about 300 miles, if within Scotland.

For the very infirm, limited ambulance transport just might be available either for county out-patients' requirements (40 miles round trip) or regional ones 240 miles round trip. Otherwise, you may be fortunate to be squeezed into a taxi with several other frail people, to meet up with a hospital service minibus 50 miles down the road. For other ambulance needs, perhaps a maternity emergency that can only be dealt with at regional HQ, an ambulance would have to be found and a midwife organised, this, sometimes with difficulty.

I have absolutely no sympathy with twelve miles for a North London Hospital, I heard bemoaning the problem in its own terms this morning. This is a hospital I became extremely familiar with last year. A filthier, dirtier medical establishment in the U.K. I have yet to see. It is no wonder Chase Farm Hospital near Enfield is a failing hospital. In my view, it would be safer, if any of our hospitals can be construed as safe, to go elsewhere, even if it is three or four miles further on.

The variables used in the research models would be worth a quick look just so we could say "I could have told you so, without the expense of research". However, in days when everything we query has to have evidence to back it up, such basic facts have to be 'researched' to point out the obvious.

Why is it when we get back from holidays or a little break, we feel tired and sometimes, weary? There is a great deal of truth in the jest that we all need another holiday to get over one.

It has been really exciting watching the development of the hay in the field behind the house. The excitement stems from the agricultural battle with the disgusting weather we've been having. At various time the field looked like a herd of elephants stampeded through it and when sodden, which was more often than not, wet horizontal clumps of growth lay across the field in heavy sticky waves. Following gales that had lifted the clumps, sometimes the growth would be seen standing proud and flailing in the wind, like magic. Mother Nature's might had dried them off sufficiently to allow the green stalks to proudly stand, vertical as they should be.

Surprisingly, the hay ripened, then perversely it was forced flat by more gales searing through from the North Atlantic and this was followed by more rain, with very little respite from it.

Late last week the farmer cut the hay. It was too damp for baling and had to lie in the field. We were really hoping for steady dry weather. It rained, and how...

But, cheers! Yesterday it was very windy, sunny and dry. Very early this morning, the farmer and a couple of workers were out turning over the dry top layers of hay. We watched and waited. The day got brighter and warmer and the newly turned hay dried quickly. D

Tonight, well before the drizzle of rain started, the baling was completed and the field is now proudly and picturesquely littered with big, fat, dry, covered bales of hay which will provide winter feed for the livestock.

There we were, tootling along in a nice, shiny clean car when we came up behind a tractor pulling a trailer with a sky high load of wet hay (or something mucky looking but not smelly). Squidgy brown blobs blew their way straight as an arrow on to the windscreen, the bonnet, lights and the roof of the car. Each squidge that landed, did so with a definite flattening, spreading plop. The windscreen wash fluid smelt quite refreshing as the washer blades spread the muck evenly across our line of sight.

When a little clarity returned, we overtook the gungy load and got blasted by an array of squidgey side swipes. Just then, the sky began to drop baubles of rain. By the time we got home, there was some bodily evidence of the squidge assault, but the worst of it had been washed away.