Man Plots for Health

My Man’s not like me. He never puts his head in the sand, which is why months before we turned 40* he had begun researching head-to-toe health scans. He launched an assessment of the pros and cons of submitting himself (and me) to the probing and prodding of private physicians and their big medical machines. His rationale was thus: we’re getting older; we live in the UK where the NHS seems to look upon preventive medicine like some kind of voodoo; it’d be nice to know how we’re doing, and if they won’t do it, we will.

Truth be told, I didn’t really pay The Man much mind when he brought up the subject (which he did on a number of occasions over quite a few months). I’m ashamed to admit I might have even zoned him out. He’s not typically a frivolous man, but for some reason I thought his interest in a deep dive into the state of our physiology was a passing fancy.

Needless to say, when he told me he had made the appointment at the hoity-toity private clinic, I was a little taken aback. Of course, I couldn’t admit to any such surprise because then I’d be letting myself in for it, so I smiled and marked my calendar and thanked The Man for looking out for me. In this I was sincere. My Man’s penchant for keeping his eyes open and looking out for the future makes my future a much better one indeed.

A couple of weeks before our appointments, the clinic sent us a packet detailing what we should expect of our health scan, a process that would take all day.

A day off! A holiday!

An MRI; an EKG; blood and urine to be taken. We would have to fast before coming in; we would also have to bring in a sample of our stool.

How?

At the appointed hour we arrived at the main clinic, which was tucked away just behind the Tower Hill tube station. My Man insisted on using the GPS functionality on what I call his “fancy phone”**; I had checked the A to Z. We would have arrived faster if My Man’s pace hadn’t been slowed by his reading (the phone) and walking at the same time.

Mid way through our ‘experience’ – after blood pressure checks, pin pricks, complimentary breakfast, and a noisy hour in the shadows of an MRI, they put us into a taxi to Harley Street where some other specialist administered some other special test. The ordeal culminated in a consultation with a private physician to review the results.

We were well prepared for the likelihood that nothing of magnitude would be found, but lots of little somethings might be revealed.

In my case, four little somethings requiring further action were identified: cholesterol (high), iron saturation (low), thyroid problem (possible) and growth at the back of the throat / behind my noise (mystery).

Thus began a period of further poking and prodding, and increased annoyance with the topic of health care.

*We are not one of those fruitcake couples who decide to do everything together; it is coincidence that are birthdays are quite close together.

**iPhone

Commuters Exchange Interaction

I left later today than I normally do.

He had made it from the station down Putney High Street and was just crossing the small street that separates Nero’s from Starbucks.

Good job.

His sneakers looked new, brightly white. His t-shirt seemed well worn, it was a royal blue with some kind of white decal peeling away with age and wash – or else made to look that way. Something about 1979. I’d be surprised if he were even 5 years old in 1979. I wonder how old he is. Once again I wonder how long it takes him to get where he’s going. I wonder if by the time he gets there, he has to turn around and go the other way.

The myth of Sisyphus.

Putney High Street is full of people starting their days by going somewhere: professionals, school children, travellers (Australians or South Africans or Americans), hippies.

A strapping dude strolls along, putting his wallet back into the front pocket of his well-worn khaki shorts. His flip flops flip and flop. An Asian girl behind him seems rushed. She’s dressed in a stylish smart casual professional type of way: beige trousers, a different shade of beige tank top, covered by a different shade of beige cardigan and scarf. One of the shoulders of her cardigan slides down; mid-sprint, she pulls it back up and slows just behind our strapping young California-sunshine-boy. She taps him on the shoulder.

I wonder what these two share.

He turns. She’s holding up a fiver.

“Excuse me. You dropped this.”

“Hey! Thanks!”

Whatever further exchange they have disappears into the distance as I make my way to the ticket machines.

Ticket in hand, I enter the station shoulder to shoulder with another girl, who I suspect is heading toward Waterloo then on to The City. She’s wearing the uniform black (or dark grey?) knee length skirt, matching blazer, perhaps a flash of colour around her neck. Behind us a man seems to be addressing one or the other of us.

“Excuse me. Excuse me!”

I turn thinking he’s trying to get my attention.

Have I dropped something?

He’s a hunched-over, seriously overweight man in a hurry. He shuffles by, arms pumping, yelling out 'excuse me' to clear his way.

I can’t suppress a little chuckle. The Waterloo bound girl and I catch eyes and smile and laugh.

In the train I’m face to face with a girl wearing a retro sweater with those oversized buttons from a bygone day (the 60s?) sewn on the shoulder, serving absolutely no purpose that I can see.

I realise something I’ve never thought of before: I really hate those oversized buttons.

Pink Valise Spotted Twice

One day I am at Heathrow, Terminal 5, which is part transportation hub, part shopping mall. I have arrived early because I am without My Man, and I like to arrive early to airports, whereas My Man does not. I have time to sit and watch people and eavesdrop on conversations. It is my birthday, so I decide to do this with a glass of white wine and plate of salmon at the counter of the Caviar House & Prunier Seafood Bar, which seems to promise a healthy bite, yet a proper meal all at once. (It's not cheap; but it's my birthday!)

Unfortunately, the conversations are murmured and incomprehensible, or boring.

Then I hear a snippet, and my ears prick up. A child’s voice, a young girl. She’s seen something incongruous, which makes her laugh.

“Mummy! Mummy! Look at that boy … he has a pink suitcase!”

Titter. Titter. Titter.

I can’t help myself; I have to look.

The suitcase is not just pink; it is early-80’s Madonna, day-glo pink. The ‘boy’ with the suitcase is no boy, but a man. A black man, bald (or head-shaven), by the way he carries himself I reckon he's from sub-Saharan Africa; he's wheeling around a day-glo pink suitcase. The girl’s observation makes me smile. She didn’t see a man. She saw a boy. She associated pink with the fairer gender, but she didn’t seem phased by age.*

Days later I am ascending an escalator at Kings Cross. From my vantage point looking over and up to the top of the descending set of stairs, I see wisps of smoke above the heads of the downward heading commuters. Not the heavy, billowing, grey smoke of impending danger … the soft feathery white plumes that only come from a tobacco product.

Someone is smoking in the tube!

I am aghast at the audacity.

I look closer and realise the ‘smoke’ is an illusion. The shiny, white linoleum ceiling overhead reflects the movement of the downward heading commuters, and the reflection tricks me into thinking there is smoke.

Strange.

In the main station, the corner of my eye catches a wisp of day-glo pink. I look full on straight at the source of the hurtfully bright pink. It is a suitcase being wheeled by a black man, head shaven (or bald).

Look Mummy. That boy has a pink suitcase.

I’m in a rush, but still manage a smile.

I am rushing from St. Pancras, the Eurostar’s new digs, to Waterloo, the Eurostar’s old digs. I kind of feel sorry for Waterloo. I wonder if Waterloo hates St. Pancras. I imagine a civil war, North versus South. I think if Waterloo and St. Pancras got in a fight, Waterloo would win. It’s all brawn and pragmatism. St. Pancras is a bit of a sissy.

I’m in a rush, not because I’m late, but because I could very easily be if I don’t watch the time. I have platforms to cross, escalators to navigate and turnstiles to appease. I’ve worked up a good stride; it responds to the crowds, slows down, speeds up, steps to the left, the right, quick quick quick clip clip clip, swirl. My stride is all business. My head, however, is telling me that I need to slow down … not in this precise moment, but in a more general sense … life is going too fast, I need to pull on the brakes. I wonder if it's possible to slow things down when you're in a rush. Can your mind operate in slo-mo even whilst propelling your body in fast forward?

*Please let’s not have anyone taking offence with the possible (yet erroneously so, I’m sure) racial implications of the child’s use ‘boy’. We know what she meant.

Pollen Attacks During Night

We’ve got white sheets for late spring and summer.

Together with 2 sets of fluffy feather pillows, the Hungarian feather duvet I bought at Christmas, and the featherbed beneath the top sheet, sleeping is a luxurious event. The white sheets add a touch of therapy to the luxury, like you’re going to sleep in a Swiss spa and you’re waking up in a posh sanatorium -- something like you imagine The Priory (until you visit the website and you think to yourself, ‘That’s it? That’s where all the hotshot fuck-ups go?’).

Typically I wake up to find myself face-down with my pillows pushed up against the headboard. I stretch my arms up over my head, pull the errant pillows down, and put them to the job they were meant for: cushioning my head. On a typical Saturday, I might doze off again before opening my eyes. I might force a visit to the loo, but will shuffle back to bed with a mindset that tells me I’ve not yet awoken. When I’m ready, I’ll reach down to the floor for my laptop and a decorative pillow. The decorative pillow goes behind the feather pillows in order to give me more of a prop up. The laptop is powered on, and I ease into some weekend morning reading.

This Saturday is different. I can’t open my eyes. They are burnt shut and sealed with some kind of nasty, overnight crud. My nose is crusty. My tongue is dry. I actually touch my tongue with my finger to see if it’s really as bone dry as it feels or if it's just a relative sensation of dry. It is truly dry. Not desiccated dry, but no-moisture-to-the-touch dry. I must have slept with my mouth open, not able to breath from my nose. A general dull ache seems to emanate from about 1/2 inch from beneath my skull.

I hear My Man make some noises from the left. I nudge him. He hrmmpphhs and hmmmmphs. We confer and agree that we share the same symptoms. I crawl to the medicine cabinet to retrieve a couple of doses of relief, which induce a state of semi-conscious, sniffle-free reverie.

I'm glad for the white sheets as I come in and out of consciousness.

Commuter Restrains from Snapping

There is something obscenely incongruous with Waterloo station and all the dressed up ladies going to Ascot . They don’t’ seem like ladies at all. They wear too much make up and most of the get-ups seem cheap. Some shuffle unnaturally in heels they are obviously unaccustomed to wearing. Others hold their heads with an air of artificial regal-ity .

Is that what putting on one of those hats does to you?

Earlier in the day I’d been watching the BBC news from a hotel room in Brussels. Carol was delivering the weather from Ascot. She, like the women in Waterloo, was dressed up for the occasion.

She looks so frumpy.

I’m in a mood because I’m rushed, and a layer of travel grime itches my face. I’ve crossed the channel, from Brussels to London; I’ve crossed town, St. Pancras to Waterloo, on the Northern Line. I hate the Northern Line. It makes me think of deep mines and orcs. It wasn’t until I was past Angel that I realised I wasn’t even on the branch of the Northern line that goes directly to Waterloo. I’d have to change despite my best efforts.

Fuck. I hate the Northern line.

I need to wee; I want a coffee; I have to buy my return ticket to Most Important Client sight. I’ll miss the next train. So, I shift gears. No need to hurry if I’m going to miss the train anyway. Still the tawdry swarms of peacock-women, wobbling on their high heels get on my nerves. I wonder if they’ll look any better when they’re all together on the grass rather than mixed up among commuters and station workers.

All these thoughts have me distracted. I go to the turnstile of my platform. I balance my coffee and luggage and insert my ticket and make to go through. I’m not fast enough. The automatic barricade doors at the turnstile close in on me. I’m stuck. I feel like a twat. The lady whose job it is to stand at the turnstiles and monitor activity looks at me like I’m a twat. I would have thought I had just added a little excitement to her day.

Information Technology Misunderstood

I’m in IT, but I’m not a programmer/developer/coder. I’m not a DBA or tester or business analyst.

I’m not super technical but I’ve got enough knowledge under my belt to have realistic expectations, ask the right questions, and communicate things-going-on to the appropriate people. I operate in the grey area between the world of the techies and that of everyone else.

It’s difficult to justify my purpose to the techies, who are so certain that they are doing the real work: the building and delivering something real. I don’t believe they can know the levels of stress I endure whilst delivering my piece of the puzzle. They don't know I stand between them and poison arrows, jibes, barbs, sometimes thrown with a jovial pat on the back, but painful all the same.

Is it worth it?

More truthfully: it’s difficult to justify my purpose to myself. What I do is get things done by getting the right people into a room or onto a call and making them talk. I am an interloper, a negotiator, a back patter. I’m a nag, a bitch, a babysitter. I’m a pretty face and a charmer. A tap dancer. Juggler.

Do I like it?

It’s difficult to explain to the layman exactly what it is I do. As soon as I open my mouth to begin the explanation I see eyes glaze over in either boredom, incomprehension, or a mixture of the two.

As a child I wanted to be the first female president of the United States. Then I wanted to be the first female Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Then I wanted to be a teacher, then a writer. Where did I go wrong?

Did I go wrong?

I have a good job. I’m respected and well rewarded. Most importantly, my colleagues are, on the whole, intelligent, interesting, and good people. My moments of professional crisis mostly stem from feelings of inadequacy: I’m not trained; I’m not seasoned; I’m not really this; I’m a fake.

A woman with whom I once worked admitted something similar. She told me she sometimes pretends she’s an actress playing a role. Me too.

And it appears I’m convincing.

My mother finds it particularly frustrating that she doesn’t get what I do. I’ve explained it to her a number of times, and a number of times she just about gets it, but we both know her glimmer into my daily grind will be lost when she wakes up the next morning.

The last time I was home she asked how things were going in international trade.

Heartbeats Incite Questions

I’m sitting on the floor with The Dog. My back is against the door jam; my knees are pulled up to my chest; my left hand is resting on the back of The Dog’s neck. I feel a faint heartbeat. The Dog’s heart is pumping blood through her veins, and I feel it through a fistful of fur. It makes me think back to the previous Saturday morning.

I was reading the Internet and drinking coffee in bed. For a moment, I balanced my coffee mug on my chest, and in that moment my beating heart became incredibly audible (to my inner ear) as if the mug were acting like some kind of amplifier. In retrospect, I’m not entirely positive if I was actually hearing my heart louder than normal or feeling it more acutely; whatever the sensory mechanism, in that instant the slow, steady thud of my pulse became the star of the little play called My Life. I sat still, put reading the Internet on pause, and watched my pulse beat. Beat. Beat.

I feel the Dog’s pulse beat. Beat. Beat. I love this moment, don’t want it to end, am grateful because it was unexpected and stolen, but know that in the next few minutes the doorbell is going to buzz, and I will need to get up and go.

I’m early. It’s early: ten to six in the morning. The alarm clock went off at five. I jumped out of bed and so efficiently got down to the business of gussying myself up that I’m ready to go before the minicab is due to arrive.

I don’t normally get to Waterloo by cab, but today is special: the tube is on strike, and I have a Most Very Important Meeting with the Most Very Important Clients. This is a meeting that cannot be missed and for which I must look pretty my best and seem composed.

I’d rather spend the day with my face nuzzled into the soft fur on the underside of The Dog’s neck.

The minicab idles at a stoplight on the Chelsea Embankment. Ahead and across the river, the top of the Japanese pagoda pokes out from the green of Battersea Park. Further ahead loom the industrial twin towers of the disused power station.

My seat quivers beneath me. The silent rumbling of the idle car reminds me of The Dog’s heartbeat.

This isn’t a heartbeat.

It feels more like one of those spasmodic fast-flutter tics you sometimes get in your eyelid. I wonder why the spasms only come at the stoplights. I wonder if it has something to do with the car’s suspension. I realise I have no idea what suspension actually is and wonder at my audacity.

Who am I to venture a diagnosis?

That’s not all.

Who am I to be going to Most Very Important Meetings? Why do I have to get dolled up? How did this happen?

Four Ow!

A milestone. A time for reflection.





I pretend age is something that doesn't happen to me. It's one of those things that happens to other people.

Not me.

My Man thinks I'm delusional. He laughs at my youthful frame of reference which is revealed in everyday conversation, when I talk about this or that movie star as if they were older than me or reuse vocabulary learnt from 'the boys' in the office. I don't mean to put my head in the sand. I tell the truth without faltering and even volunteer my age. It's just that that number which is supposed to signify something about me is so far removed from me. It has nothing to do with me.

A little dose of delusion doesn't do any harm.

The façade might be (slowly) cracking. A gray hair was found (and plucked); a conversation about the new super fast speed of time was had: "And from here on out it gets faster and faster." Maybe I'm growing up. Maybe I'm taking my head out of the sand.

Maybe not.

Starbucks Unites Strangers

A part of me feels as if I have to apologise for my typical weekday morning cup of coffee.

I’m sorry. I’m really very sorry. Wait …why are you so sorry?!

It’s because I anticipate rankling the sensibilities of the anti-globalisation movement with the mention of my regular purveyor of caffeine. Two hotly-disputed syllables: Starbucks.

Fuck the anti-globalisation movement.

I brace myself for an impending tirade rather than relaying the heart-lifting anecdote that was meant to fill this space. The sentences I start, then backspace over, are all better suited for an apologist work, that if I were to complete could be entitled In the Defence of Starbucks. I curse Chris Martin and decide it best to put my fear of contentious material into the footnotes.

The story starts just like any weekday morning. I've arrived at the office, unpacked my backpack (laptop, glasses, security fob, pencil case, notebook, two mini packs of Sun Maid raisins, a banana, some hand cream, and my purse*). I turn on my computer and while it's warming up, I go to my cubby hole and take out my Thermos-style stainless steel cup. I grab the security fob and purse from my desk and head out to get my cup of joe.

After I've handed my cup to the girl behind the till, I recite my order.

Triple, skinny, extra-hot, wet latte.

I don't have to mention the size, because I've brought my own cup.

The girl behind the counter pauses for a moment, while she looks thoughtfully at my coffee mug. My first instinct is to think that she hasn't gotten the order. I doubt that English is her first language,...

it's probably Japanese; maybe Korean; let's face it ... your order is shamefully complex ...

but before I can repeat 'triple, skinny, extra-hot, wet latte' the girl behind the till holds up her hand in the international gesture for 'stop right there' and says, "I have something for you."

What the?

I try to look all nonchalant and cool like this kind of thing happens all the time, but inside I'm all atwitter. I wonder if Starbucks is going to give me a prize for being the best customer ever.

I'm sorry! I'm really sorry! ... No, no I'm not! Fuck the anti-globalisation movement.

I know that if I were really about to get some kind of prize from Starbucks, there would be bells and whistles and confetti thrown in the air. Still, I can't help but be a little excited.

The girl who had been behind the till comes from out of the back room and around to the front of the counter where I've waited just as I was told. She's holding an envelope just bigger than your average letter-sized envelope.

"My friend, she used to work here, she left this for you. The one from Chile. Do you remember her?"

I do. We used to chit chat over the counter while she heated my milk to extra hot levels.

I take the envelope in my free hand. I am slack-jawed, gob-smacked, and speechless.

What the?

I impatiently wait for the light at Kingsway and Great Queen to change. As soon as I can cross, I beeline it back to the office, back to my desk, where I set down my coffee and take a good hard look at the mysterious envelope, which has made the morning a little less run-of-the-mill.

Inside I find a note and a DVD.

The note thanks me for my positive energy and smile. She doesn't say that she thanks me for treating her like a human being even though she was just another barista, another nobody; but I sense that's what she means.

The DVD is a short movie that she directed. Turns out, when she's not serving coffee, she's making very funny short films.

*purse = wallet

Oh, and fuck the defense of Starbucks. I can't be bothered.

New European Casts Ballot

On Thursday as I locked my front door, I weighed the possibilities associated with a certain impending decision.

Should I go left or right?

I swung open the hip length iron gate that separates our front stoop* from the rest of the world, and while I closed it shut, I again thought about a most imminent decision.

Left or right?

Standing perpendicular to my yet to be determined direction on the edge of the pavement, I made what felt like a split second decision.

Left.

I turned left, the opposite direction to where my professional obligations needed to take me. Earlier in the week, I had received my official polling card in the post. The polling station was to the left; my left/right conundrum was really about whether or not to vote first thing in the morning or wait until the evening. I had checked the polling card, which had informed me that the polling station would be open until 10pm. I would have plenty of time to vote after work.

But I know myself. At the end of a work day, I’m single-minded. Like a homing pigeon …

or is it honing pigeon? Honing in on its destination? You’re a riot. Whatever. You’ll just want to get home. You won’t want to deal after work.

I temporarily ignored my professional obligations which were calling from the right. I had plenty of time to get where ultimately I needed to be, but I am one of those nutjobs who, for someone so seemingly whimsical and carefree, puts an obscene amount of energy into her work. The if-I’m-up-and-ready-and-nothing-else-is-going-on-why-not-get-to-work-early to-get-things-done kind of nutjob. Turning left, when work called from the right, required a taming of my nature.

What if there’s a queue?

You won’t want to do it tonight.

But I could get to work really early!

You won’t want to do it tonight.

So that is how I came to be voting in the European elections at 5 past seven in the morning. There were no lines. I was in and out of there in less than 5 minutes. The volunteers who checked my polling card, confirmed my address and wrote a number against my name, which was on a big list on their volunteer table, seemed to be of the same ilk as their American counterparts: retirees doing their part to keep the political mechanism chugging along.

The voting process itself seemed a bit ‘third world’.

Dare I use that term?

Makeshift wooden dividers, the height of your standard door and about a foot wide, offered a modicum of privacy. No curtains though. My vote was cast with a pencil affixed to the booth with a piece of string and an ‘x’ that marked the spot. I folded the paper into squares and dropped it into a slot atop a big metal box. A simple election. No electricity, no computers, no hanging chads, no chance of George Bush.

I felt a bit of a twat that I had to ask the nice volunteers for help.

*I reckon this is a very American term and not an entirely adequate description of the bit of private space that separates our living structure from the public pavement.**

**Pavement = sidewalk

Commuter Demonstrates Civility

At Green Park it’s a six minute wait until the southbound Jubilee train arrives.

It’s 8:00. If I’d caught the train I had just missed then I would make my connection at Waterloo. As it is, I’ll have anywhere between 30 and 40 minutes to wait for the next overland heading my way.

There are a number of leftover Metros on a steel bench along the platform. A fellow commuter and I have the same idea. He gets there first so he gets the most pristine copy. I take the next one. There’s still one more if anyone else fancies a read during the next six minutes.

When the train arrives, those of us on the platform see a disappointing picture through the train windows: shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek, commuters packed in like sardines.

That’s ok. People unload at Green Park.

Fortunately, it is true … commuters exit the train making room for those of us heading to Waterloo or beyond.

At Waterloo, getting off the train is a task. Not as many already boarded commuters alight as I had expected. I actually have to vocalise my desire to get off the train and squeeze beneath the armpit of a Canary Wharf -looking guy.

When I get to the doors it’s difficult to get out because of a swarm of commuters waiting to board. I utter a sarcastic ‘excuse me’ ….

What the fuck? Stand to the side to let us off!

As I wade through the mass on the platform, I realise there is no side for the waiting crowd to occupy. The overloaded platform spills commuters back into its entry where the escalator has dropped them off. I am a fish swimming against the current. I catch an announcement made from up above in the main ticket area for the benefit of commuters who have not yet even made it underground. They are being held due to overcrowding on the platform, and as soon as it clears up they will be allowed to pass.

I’m ashamed of my earlier reaction, my sarcastic ‘excuse me’. I have caught myself in the hurry-scurry of the city crowds forgetting what it’s like to be on the other side. I chastise myself.

Once I’ve made it out of the Underground and into the main train station, I buy my ticket and find a place to stand where I can watch the announcement board for my platform. I spend more time looking at the flow of London bound commuters than at the announcement board. People wearing sunglasses even though they are in the station. People with sunglasses on their heads. Slow people and fast people. Skinny professional women. An aging one who looks like a dragon. A tall, elderly, paunchy gentleman stands to my right. He has broken veins in his face and round tortoise shell rimmed glasses, a tweedy jacket and a pattered handkerchief that comes out of the breast pocket just-so. I think he is the type of man who would suffer from gout.

The commuters continue to swarm past in their suits and t-shirts and long hair and short hair and occasional Brompton. Everyone is in a hurry getting where they are going.

Suddenly, a youngish man stops just in front of the elderly, gout-suffering man.

“Mr. Kemp! Hello”

The young man seems surprised to have come across Mr. Kemp waiting at the train station; his surprise seems sincerely pleasant. Elderly, gout-suffering man smiles and answers the questions, but I get the impression he doesn’t recall the young man.

Something about the youngish man’s willingness to stop his hurry to say hello, his sincere fondness for and tone of respect toward the elderly man makes me feel good. I hope the youngish man maintains his nice demeanour all the way across town, whichever tube line he's taking.

Lint Attacks

One of the things I hate about allergy season is the abundance of saturated tissues, toilet paper, and paper towels* that litter the bedroom, the reception**, and fills the bin at a faster rate than any other season. I especially hate it when one of the many saturated tissues or wads of toilet paper or hard-on-the-nose paper towels makes it into the laundry machine by way of one of my pockets.

Of the three, the paper towel is the most resilient of the nose-wiping materials. It often makes it through the quick wash and spin cycle and even the extra hot 120 minute setting of our European style (ie inferior***) drier without too much damage. An avid recyclist might even argue that it could be reused.

The tissues and toilet paper on the other hand ...

Sheesh.

... those nose-wiping materials when washed in a pocket, disintegrate into a pocket full of super-sized lint (globs of lint, reminiscent of tissue or toilet paper, but utterly useless). Lint on steroids. What a tease when you need to blow your nose, you reach into your pocket, and pull out a handful of tissue balls the size of gerbil turds.

Don't know why you're complaining. Even a fresh tissue in your pocket, and you might not use it.

*Kitchen paper.

**Living room.
***[A brief moment of quiet supplication to the Europeans in audience, please do not take offence; I am the first to admit the flaws in the Home of the Brave; it is, however, fact that kitchen and laundry room appliances are far superior in the Land of the Free. God Bless Whirlpool. ]