ADRIENNE'S HIV BLOG – Hivine's Weblog

HIVINE is written by HIV positive women but still with a sense of humour

Archive for May, 2008

Cloth Ears

Friends, Romans and hiviners, lend me your ears – because I can’t hear a thing out of mine since I got off that bloody plane. Well, I can but everything seems far away as though I am living in some sort of muffled dream. This in some ways could be considered a blessing, at least where my son practising his beat matching and DJ skills are concerned, but no good whatsoever when I am trying to answer the telephone or engage in a simple conversation with my friends, such as did I have a good time in Ibiza.

The answer to that is a most definite no – and I wish I’d never gone, struck down with a BUG as I was on the very first day and returning with a hacking cough, which is known in the trade by the Benidorm saga louts as the ‘Benidorm Bark’ – even though I wasn’t actually in Benidorm itself, but it was close enough, in fact I swear I could hear them all coughing, or should I say barking, from across the water.

I couldn’t wait to get on that plane and come back home, but first of all the flight was delayed for five hours because of the bad weather and I had to sit in Ibiza airport all night with a stale cheese boccadillo. Then when we finally took off, the pilot announced that because of the severe turbulence they’d encountered on the way we would be flying at a much higher altitude than usual in an attempt to avoid the electrical storms. I am terrified of thunder and lightening on the ground let alone whilst being tossed through the night skies.

Why do pilots say these things? They must be sadists. They should be gagged and forbidden to give weather reports, especially bad ones. I retreated under my coat, swigging my bottle of wine, trying to pretend I was on a number 27 bus. When we started our descent, my ears went and two days later they still haven’t come back, turning me into a proverbial cloth ears.

I have just discovered that ‘cloth ears’ is a Lancashire expression which actually originated in Blackburn during the industrial revolution in the cotton mills, which were very noisy places and often caused the poor mill workers to suffer from deafness due to a build up of cotton dust in the ears.

“Oi cloth ears – are tha’ deaf”, was a commonly used expression and one often directed at me by my dad. Another thing I discovered in the Urban dictionary was the ‘cloth eared elephant’ which to my great disappointment had nothing to do with elephants. Instead it is some kind of strange ritual practised by men and involves the act of turning your pockets inside out and letting your penis hang out of your fly, resembling an elephant.

Dumbo presumably.

Then there is the ‘clothes horse’ which can either be male or female and is a person whose main pleasure in life is derived from dressing fashionably. An innocent enough pastime, but then I made the mistake of clicking on ‘cloth sex’, which is a term for someone who has sex with an inanimate object that resembles a human, i. e. a doll or scarecrow.

A Scarecrow – who would want to have sex with a scarecrow?

The world is a puzzling place at times. There is a website actually telling you how to make your own homemade scarecrow should you so desire, not specifically in order to have sex with it, but which would look good in your garden, although it might scare the birds away, not to mention your visitors. There are scarecrow festivals apparently in Lancashire or deep in the heart of the Yorkshire dales where at a certain time of year, scarecrows take over the whole village and you can see over 100 life-sized scarecrows as well as life-sized Yorkshire people. War of the Roses aside, I think I might just give that one a miss.

I don’t know what to do about my ears. Maybe I’ll try one of those Hopi candle things, although it’s a bit like the old Walter Raleigh joke about tobacco and the stupidity of smoking – “You do what Walt, you roll up some dried leaves, then you do what Walt – you put them in your mouth and set fire to them?”

The same goes for the Hopi candle – “You do what Walt? You take a candle
and then – wait a minute – just run that passed me again Walt – you stick it in your ear Walt – and then you light it?”

Come Fly with Me

Tanit the Goddess of Ibiza

So off I came on my ´Jollies´ to Ibiza after looking forward to it for weeks, determined to really enjoy myself. If anyone needed a holiday, everyone kept saying, even my son, it was me. I would get some much needed sun on my poor old vitamin D deficient bones, swim in the crystal clear waters, and eat lots of fresh fish etc. with strict orders from my son not to drink too much red wine or sangria.

Hello……. was he serious.

¨Have a really good time mum, ´ he waved me off, valiantly trying not to show his jealousy.

My suitcase wasn’t overweight for a change because I’d only packed typically touristy summer clothes, floaty white tops from Matalan and New Look, Blackburn’s equivalent to Primark. Not a liberty bodice, woolly sock, or pair of knitted underpants in sight.

Before I left my CD4 count was 641 the highest it has ever been and I was feeling great health wise. Invincible in fact.

I lasted precisely one day.

‘The best laid plans of mice and men.´

But hang about, I wasn’t a man and I wasn’t a mouse and mice don’t come on holiday to Ibiza do they, although quite a lot live here and so do rats as in unsavoury vermin of the human species.

This is where I went so sadly wrong, vanity prevailed and I took off my vest whilst watching flamenco on Cala Jondal beach, where the sun beds really are beds, round ones with cushions and cost three hundred euros a day. James Blunt allegedly owns a house on this exclusive beach and Peter Stringfellow often comes over from Majorca in his speedboat in the summer, but then Peter never wears a vest, not even a string one, he only wears a thong.
But as ol´blue eyes Frank Sinatra sang, “Without a thong the day would never end and when things go wrong a man aint got a friend …….without a thong.”
So at least Peter´s not a ´billy no mates´, although at his age he deserves to be if he insists on going around displaying his ageing behind, especially in Ibiza, though I suppose it would be worse in Soho or the Charing Cross Road, his other preferred stomping ground.

Anyway, the next day it was pissing down with rain and I woke up with a sore throat and things have deteriorated ever since, resulting in me having to take to my bed wearing a pair of borrowed socks with a bad case of constipado, which means a streaming cold in Spanish and has nothing to do with constipation, although the rate I´m going I´ll probably end up with that as well. For the time being a hacking cough will have to do and I am now I lying indisposed, still wearing the same borrowed socks, flat out on the sofa being a total couch potato, feeling very out of sorts and extremely bad tempered ……and talking of spuds, I got into a heated dispute with Luis about his statement that if it wasn´t for the Spanish there wouldn´t be such a thing as English Fish and chips because they introduced the potato to the world. When my mum was alive, her and Luis, both of them over patriotic, used to argue constantly and Luis would deliberately wind her up by saying things like Shakespeare wasn’t English for example or that Gibraltar was still Spanish and they wanted all the holes, as in secret tunnels used during the war, filled back in.

Anyway, I arose from the couch to check out the true facts and Sir Walter Raleigh introduced the potato to Ireland along with fags, so I can hold him personally responsible for my two main vices, although I didn´t actually know that he was gay.

As the only English television channel available to me, instead of “Coronation Street” and “Britain´s Got Talent”, I was forced to watch 24 hour BBC World News, where I became further infuriated by an interview on “Hard Talk” with an extremely annoying woman called Elizabeth Pisani, who for the past decade has been a so called expert ´on the ground´ whatever that means, behind the statistics on HIV and AIDS. She was talking about the HIV mafia in which she includes herself and said that HIV was spread by high risk behaviours that only minorities engage in and that catching HIV was not that easy.

I beg to differ.

She went on to state that In most countries outside Africa, AIDS is not ravaging the population as was once feared and that figures have been ”beat-up” and presented in such a way as to imply that we all could be at risk.

Hello you stupid woman ….. We ARE all at risk.

She also states that the efficacy of HIV drug treatment in wealthy countries has led to complacency in behaviour, particularly among gay men, which in turn has led to a rise in infections. She should get her facts straight….as a so called expert she should know that the highest rise in new infections is amongst heterosexuals and women. I could have quite happily strangled her when she referred cynically to the, as she put it, so called “innocent wives.”

Anyway, I am starting to feel a bit better now that it´s nearly time to repack my bag and come home, although like Robert Burn´s poor timorous beatstie in his “Poem to a mouse”, oh what panic was in my breastie thinking I might end up in a Spanish hospital again. I´d better light a candle to Tanit the healer and goddess of Ibiza who grants rebirth and regeneration and is supposed to make women strong.

It´s a shame we don´t have gods and goddesses in Blackburn, although we did have Barbara Castle I suppose, who gave women the right to pee freely in the town centre, which they do especially after a night on the lager. And we still have Jack Straw of course.

The Spanish word for straw is pajeta, but take care if you are asking for one in a bar, because like many Spanish words it can have a double meaning, which in this case relates to masturbation.

Knitting Nancy

Knitted Scottish underpants with hand stitched diamond crotch!

My lovely cousin who is battling with cancer is about to start a course of radiotherapy which, as we all know, is not lying on the sofa listening to the Archers.
In order to take her mind of the impending horrors and inevitable loss of body hair, albeit only in her nether regions, which although it sounds like it has got nothing to do with Holland or Dykes, has taken up knitting with an unwanted ‘Teach Yourself to Knit’ kit she’d given to her granddaughter for Christmas and subsequently found hidden in the airing cupboard. The way she described herself in her email was sitting in the garden with a straw hat plonked on her head, wielding very fat needles, knitting a very fat scarf and a matching very fat hat. She sounded ‘very’ angry to me, as opposed to fat – and justifiably so, considering what she has already been through and has yet to go through and I could just picture the scene with her clacking madly away to ease her trepidation, disturbing the birds and the wildlife.

Women throughout the centuries have taken to knitting for various reasons, although as a general rule, at least as far as grannies and expectant mothers are concerned, anger or violence isn’t usually a part of it. Aside from during the French Revolution of course, where women became identified with extreme violence and were actively encouraged to sit and knit during the trials and executions, counting the severed heads as they rolled around them. There was the odious Madame Defarge for example, who sounds more like a Mancunian drag artist, clinking her sinister knitting needles in Charles Dickens, ‘A Tale of Two Cities,’ and in the Mel Brooks film ‘History of the World,’ there she was at it again, but by this time she had become so poor that she’d run out of wool, so had to sit there simply rubbing her knitting needles together in a threatening manner. I’d better advise my cousin to make sure she gets stocked up with a good supply of yarn and maybe even a spinning wheel or an alpaca, otherwise she might end up with no balls like that drag artist and female impersonator Madame Defarge. But then again, my cousin is one step ahead of the game as she resides in Wales and although there are no executions as such, one thing they are not short of is sheep, so no danger of running out of wool there, or lamb chops for that matter.

You may be contemplating taking up knitting yourself, although knitting yourself would be a bit ambitious I feel unless you are an experienced knitter, so a doll or a teddy might be easier to start off with. If you are the none violent type however and feel that the long pointed needles are a tad dangerous, you could either choose big fat James as in blunt ones, like my cousin, or alternatively try a Knitting Nancy, which for the uninformed is a type of anorexic wooden doll with four nails knocked around the hole at the top of her head, through which the crocheted wool (I initially wrote crotch there by accident, which may or may not have been a Freudian slip) coils through her like my cousin’s about to be hairless nether regions, like woolly entrails, after which you can wind the knitted coil round and round in circles to make handy coasters, woolly frisbies or jolly tea cosies, which can also be used as hats in an emergency. Rather than rolling your own fags, which although cheaper is extremely bad for your health, you could try your hand at rolling your own knickers instead and whilst on the subject of healthy pursuits, if you really fancy a challenge, a dunlopillo styled bathing suit. But I have to warn you that this highly absorbent garment would be of no use whatsoever and would hinder your chances of securing a gold medal if the challenge involves the next Olympics, or swimming the channel.

Knitting Nancy is not to be confused with Knitty Nora however, the school nurse whose job it was to check pupil’s hair, as opposed to pubic hair, for nits, or for that matter the esteemed author Nancy Bush (I will refrain from an obvious joke here about crabs) who has written a riveting book I heartily recommend my dear cousin should rush to Waterstone’s to buy entitled, ‘Knitting Vintage Socks,’ which is described in the review as a fascinating peek into the brain of a master sock designer.
What’s a vintage sock when it’s at home? I’ve heard of bobby socks and knee socks although I would prefer to wear my socks on my feet – but vintage? Unlike wine, socks are hardly things that improve with age are they, even after years of fermentation, although my son’s dirty socks often smell like they are fermenting, especially if they have been encased in his barrel like trainers for any length of time, or trampled like grapes on the threshing pit of his bedroom floor. Besides, the socks in our house haven’t got time to age as they tend to mysteriously disappear to wherever socks mysteriously disappear to. At least one of them does, leaving their abandoned partner suitably bereft, not to mention decidedly odd and condemned to a life of solitude and old age. Perhaps that’s what the master sock designer meant by a vintage sock or maybe she’d been listening to the parody of the Def Leppard album, ‘Socks of Ages,’ which presumably pertains to cotton socks, as in blessed, or holy socks of which there are a whole congregation residing in my drawers. If you delve further into this fascinating peek into a master sock master’s brain, aside from finding out how to knit ‘Evening Socks for a Young Lady’, you will also discover all about baby’s bootikins, which sounds to me more like the sequel to Russell Brand’s confusingly bestselling autobiography, ‘My Booky Wook’.

There appears to be a whole underworld of websites and blogs devoted to knitting where the authors wish to remain anonymous – I wonder why! For example; ‘Knitters Anonymous’, ‘Sock Knitters Anonymous’ and wait for it – ‘Blond Knitters Anonymous.’ There is probably a relevant joke about blondes and knitting, but one doesn’t spring directly to mind. On one of them it says; ‘Bad Day? Just knit a sock.’
Hello – if I’m having a bad day, the last thing I would want to do is make myself feel even more down at heel by knitting a sock, or even thinking about one.
On the ‘Sock Knitters Anonymous’ forum, another knitter writes – ‘A new sock! I’m still working on coupling.’
That sounds more like it.

More facts about the multifarious uses of yarn possibly aimed at younger knitters can be found on the cooler, more update site, ‘The Chicks with Sticks Guide to Knitting’ and if that doesn’t get your needles clacking and you are of a more devout nature, maybe you should try, ‘To Knit is Divine’, random ramblings about knitting. Here you can discover how to knit as the author describes it, the much desired, ‘Diagonal Ripple Dishcloth’. This particular knutter as opposed to knitter actually makes these knitted dishcloths to give as gifts – note to my cousin, I do not want one for Christmas.

In yet another website devoted to knitting and believe me there are thousands, so whoever said life was too short to knit (i.e. me) was wrong, we are informed that the knitting Nancy can also be described as a corker or a knobby. The author of this philosophical site called ‘Yarns and Musings’ was very excited by the fact that she’d found some for sale in her local dollar store and had immediately splashed out and bought two, because as she quite rightly pointed out, you never knew when there was going to be a knobby shortage. Being American, this ardent knobby enthusiast obviously has deeply ingrained cheerleading as well as nancying tendencies, because she informs us that knobbys can also be used for making pom poms. Well, all I can say to that is, you’d need a big knobby for one of those.

If you find like Miss America that you’ve really taken a shine to corkers, knobbys and in particular nancy’s, you can then join ‘The Knitting Nancy Secret Society’, where you can learn how to make a knitted necklace. Who needs diamonds I say or pearls, or should I say purls, when a girl’s best friend is obviously her knitted necklace. Not much of an investment I would have thought and I’m sure Marylin would have agreed with me and Mr Cheap as Chips David Dickinson, so no point in trailing it along to the Antiques Road Show in a few years, or Cash in the Attic.

There must be some weird connection between knitting and life threatening illnesses because when I was first diagnosed, in an attempt to take my mind off the horror of my new found status I also took up knitting. I deliberately chose a complicated pattern although I wasn’t sure at the time if I would live to see the finished garment out. I knitted so furiously trying to get it completed before I popped off, my balls got all tangled up. And talking of balls, in the process of my research I came across a genuine knitting pattern for a ‘Willie Warmer.’ Being devised by a man, size in this case obviously did matter and we are advised that if we didn’t have our partner’s exact measurements, knitting it too big was far better than knitting it too small, but if you must guess, he suggests, make it too big, as your man would then be complimented rather than offended. Mind you, this advice comes from a man who calls his own male member Captain Willie, so say no more. I would suggest that if you really want to pander to your man’s ego, just go out and buy him an oversized Christmas stocking and stuff it full of nuts. Captain Willie sadly declined however to give the answer to the burning question on many a gay man lips, which is – how many balls does it take to make one willie warmer?

The Willie Warmer is great idea for kilt wearers though and is probably where the idea originated. Maybe my cousin should knit herself one of those for after her radio therapy. I met a Scottish man who actually owns a pair of knitted underpants that his mother knitted for him, which he still wears to this day. Maybe it’s time he thought about changing them. Talking of Scottish men’s underpants and willies for that matter, when we drove to Manchester on Wednesday, we got caught up in the motorway traffic caused by the 120,000 Rangers fans travelling down from Scotland to watch the EUFA match against Russia. Subsequently, every hundred yards or so along the hard shoulder there would be a line of men peeing on the grass – some wearing kilts, but to my great disappointment I didn’t see evidence of any willie warmers. Mind you, willie warmers in any shape or form are about to become redundant, so don’t bother to get your needles out, because coming soon, according to a site called ‘mostly harmless creative solutions’, which range from weight loss to mental disorders, is the electrical testicle warmer – just plug it in and warm up. Haven’t these people heard of Global warming and the threat this is posing not only to the planet but to mankind as a whole. Testicles produce sperm when they are one degree cooler than the body, so if all the human testicles were one degree warmer, the human race would die out in one generation. Maybe that’s what mostly harmless creative solutions are secretly plotting to do.

Throughout the course of time there have been many famous Nancy’s – Nancy Reagan and Nancy Sinatra to name but a few – and even more famous Nancy boys such as the adorable Sean from the knicker factory in Coronation street and we mustn’t forget Graham Norton, the biggest Nancy of them all. Then there was Nancy Sykes of course, the wife of the dastardly Bill and now Andrew Lloyd Webber is looking for a brand new Nancy in his programme, ‘I’d Do Anything’ and I think some of those Nancy girls would by the evil looks they give each other when they surround the poor Nancy who has been voted off like a pack of wolves and triumphantly rip her choker off. According to an exclusive backstage interview of the wanabee Nancy’s by the Mirror, when asked if they’d use their female charms to get ahead, one wanabee Nancy said she might take Lord Webber out for a nice meal and even indulge in some mud wrestling, but only with her clothes on, but she didn’t say whether this would be before or after dinner. Desperation and the desire for stardom and success can drive people to extremes and another wanabee Nancy proclaimed she would not be averse to giving Lord Webber the odd wink. Another more extreme wanabee would apparently even go as far as cutting her left foot off and the one from Blackpool said she would go naked if the part called for it, but only with chicken fillets. Did she perchance mean nuggets?

The formula for knitting as taught to me by my mother and her mother before her, is always start with a bit of fourply, then stick it in, wrap it round, pull it through, knock it off, which always sounded a bit rude to me and still does. But knitting can have that effect on a lonely old spinster like me, especially if I’ve been working with too many corkers and knobbys. Alas, no more corkers or knobbys for me it seems, but as this particular positive Nancy wanabee sings – ‘If you don’t mind havin’ to go without it, it’s a fine life.’
Although, if I’d never ‘ad it in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this celibate as opposed to celebratory position now – and my status could have been celebrity rather than positive.

I did come across one really eccentric but lovely knitting site called ‘Soul Mate Dolls’ by Noreen Crone-Findlay, where you can buy a pattern to make a tiny doll called ‘The Angel of Knitting’, which I might have a go at making myself. Maybe we should ask her to come up with an HIV Angel – we could certainly do with one of those.

Two’s Company and Tree’s a Crowd

I had my pussy willow trimmed today and it was a painful as well as a traumatic experience – both for me and even more so I would imagine for the poor tree. I’ve been putting it off for way too long, but it was getting to the ‘Pussy Galore’ stage and threatening to wipe me out, like the fictional female character who bore this unfortunate name from the James Bond film ‘Goldfinger’, although apparently they did briefly consider changing her name to Kitty.

I was obliged to employ a tree surgeon to do the job because as you probably know, trees are a protected species these days and you can’t just let any old Tom, Dick or Harry loose on your pussy willows. I did consider going to B&Q to buy my own chain saw when he told me how much it was going to cost me, until I found out you have to be properly trained to use one, because if you’re not careful, they can flip back and slice you in two and I didn’t fancy cloning myself. There are also people who will come if your tree has died and turn it into a sculpture. ‘Chain Saw Jack’ for example, who professes he can transform your stump into a totem pole, although his name, along with the words ‘stump’ and ‘dead’ sounds a bit off putting to me and more reminiscent of something out of ‘Chainsaw Massacre.’

My nice young tree surgeon wasn’t a mass murderer however and neither did he use a ladder. Instead he attached himself to various ropes and like the aforementioned Pussy Galore, who was a lesbian trapeze artist in the circus before 007 got his hands on her, became an abseiling Nicky Clarke or Charles Worthington as he swung like a performer from Cirque du Soleil giving my pussy willow’s old fashioned beehive an extreme makeover.

Talking of beehives, I think he must have disturbed the colony of monster bees, who like HIV are now trying to move in with me against my will. Luckily, in this case I can prevent this from happening by closing a window and there must be an HIV joke here in relation to the ‘window period’ but I can’t quite think of it. Alternatively, I could try shooing the monster bees out with a wet tee towel, or at a pinch swatting them with my latest copy of ‘Therapy Today’. But having Buddhist leanings I am averse to do this, anyway, I haven’t read my copy of ‘Therapy Today’ yet and probably won’t tomorrow either, or the day after. But aside from failing to keep up with my continued PD as a counsellor, I owe a lot to bees, as honey was the mainstay of my diet when I was pregnant. In fact, I consumed so much of the stuff that it was a wonder my son wasn’t born with black and yellow stripes.

I kept a careful eye on Tree man as he turned somersaults and swivelled through the air, clutching his
handy half moon shaped sickle, asking me which of the tree’s trailing dreadlocks I wanted him to lop off next. But as has happened to me on occasions when I’ve put myself in the ‘Edward Scissorhands’ of an overenthusiastic hairdresser, he lopped too much off one side, then had to compensate by lopping lumps, or in this case branches, off the other, ending up with the poor tree being left with a surprise fringe, which in hairdressing terms is a fringe that starts at the top of your forehead making you look permanently surprised, which is better than looking permanently bored I suppose. There would be nothing worse, I would imagine, than living with a bored tree – apart from living with a bored teenager of course.

Apparently, there is a hairstyle called the ‘Croydon Facelift’, which is a tight ponytail worn at the top of the head giving the effect of a facelift. According to ‘Hairstyles of Today’, I am currently sporting an ‘Emo’, which is any hair that is spiked, coloured or shaggy, as opposed to a Rod Hull’s Emu – although in my case, there is a comparison to be made, as although my hair is not emerald green (at least not today) I have often been described as a gangly bird with a scraggy neck and a high squeaky voice. However, in view of my age and ever increasing wrinkles, maybe it’s time to have an extreme makeover myself and update to a ‘Croydon Facelift’.

Hairstyles are often associated with celebrities and I would say that my poor pussy willow now has a baldie Phil Mitchell as opposed to a Barbara Windsor bouffant. Talking of Cockneys and cockney rhyming slang, there are still a few places available on the ‘Nelson’ (as in Mandela) workshop at Body Positive North West in Manchester, or to give it it’s correct title, the Mandala Project – so sign up today if you already haven’t.

After my abseiling tree surgeon had gone home, I took great delight in getting out my hosepipe. I love getting my hosepipe out, so maybe Freud was right and I, along with the rest of the women of the world, am suffering from penis envy. Or maybe it’s just plain straightforward peeing envy and the facility men have to get their hosepipe out at any given moment and pee (or do whatever they do with it) anywhere they like. For me, it’s probably more the fond memory I have of my dad making rainbows with the spray from the hosepipe caught in the sunlight. Rainbows also make me think of my Irish granddad and the verse from the poem Wordsworth’s Ode of Immortality he used for the eulogy for my grandma Annie, which we also used for my beloved mum when she passed away.

The rainbow comes and goes
And lovely is the rose….
But yet I know…
That there hath passed away a glory from the

Isn’t that beautiful.

People go to more and more extreme measures to entertain themselves nowadays and one can only wonder why they wish to subject themselves to such torturous proceedings. People take up Abseiling for example allegedly for ‘fun’ and for the adrenaline rush of balancing on a precipice and lowering yourself over the edge. You can even have your stag or hen parties incorporating such activities, which could also include potholing and scrambling, although I’d rather go to Blackpool or Dublin myself. The only scrambling I’d be interested in on a hen night is my brains – or being a hen night, eggs of course. I’d sooner take up tree hugging as my poor pussy willow looks as though it could do with one, as so could I. But I think I’ll give it a miss, because aside from what my neighbours might think, as the Irish always say, twos company and tree’s a crowd.

You can also take up Tyrolean Traversing if you so desire, which is described as an exciting activity which you will want to do again and again. I don’t think hanging over a precipice dangling between two ropes is something I would wish to repeat, even if I’d been daft enough to do it in the first place. Although apparently, it’s a popular sport especially in the north and there are many traversing venues within easy reach of Lancashire, so I know what to do next time I’m feeling bored – I don’t think.

I didn’t know this, but the pussy willow, as with all willows, provides a compound called ‘salicin’, which is similar to the active ingredient in most over the counter painkillers. So that’s it then, I don’t have to buy any more aspirin, I’ll just boil up a few catkins. I see that poor man who grew roots and is half man, half tree, may be cured, so there is hope. If they can cure him, surely they can find a cure for HIV?

Although I think that will take more than a few catkins.