ADRIENNE'S HIV BLOG – Hivine's Weblog

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

Archive for March, 2010

Lily the Pink

It could be the metatonic (sounds like a heavy metal band) but for some reason I woke up feeling happy. I was suitably shocked. What was this strange unaccustomed emotion coursing through my veins? Happiness – and not in the Ken Dodd sense as blessed with more of his share of a penis. Well, at least not the last time I looked.

Maybe its my new meds, but more likely it’s down to the twice daily imbibing of my recently discovered medicinal compound, metatone, which apart from tasting like a delicious liquor, also seems to be doing me the power of good. Perhaps it’s the same one that Lily the pink lady from Liverpool invented? If you are as old as me you might remember the much sung song by The Scaffold, but then again, if you are as old as me and especially if you have HIV, you will probably be suffering from both long and short term memory loss. Metatone contains vitamin B of course, known to help with depression and is a wonder vitamin as far as I am concerned, so if you are feeling down give it a try and –

“Let’s drink, a drink, a drink to Lily the pink, the pink, the pink, the saviour of the human race, cos she invented, medicinal compound, most efficacious, in every case.”

Like my famous predecessor Lily, I may be feeling in the pink, which in economic terms means in a good financial position, but where my bank and my credit cards are concerned I am definitely in the red. To be ‘In the pink’ means to be in perfect condition, especially in regards to health, which hardly applies to me. In the nineteenth century being in ‘the very pink of the mode’ also applied to fashion. The colour pink was chosen to epitomise the pinnacle of quality because Elizabeth the 1st was an admirer of the Dianthus flower (pinks to me and you). If someone is tickled pink, or you tickle someone pink, you cause the recipient to glow with pleasure. This particular recipient sadly hasn’t been made to glow with pleasure for many a while, in fact I can’t remember the last time. Pre HIV I suppose, if I ever had a life before it – I can’t remember what that was like either.

In feng shui terms, pink should be in the south life area (where’s that?) I’ve heard of South Park but to be honest it’s a bit too rude for me, although I love ‘Shameless’ and you can’t get much ruder than that.

In the 4th Chakra, which is the heart chakra, pink is the colour of emotional love of self and others, as in great universal love – and not the catalogue I hasten to add, although I do believe their summer range this season strongly features pink and flesh tones. When this chakra is blocked there is no need to take out your plunger, call a plumber or even ‘Drains r us’ – simply wear lots of pink. Flamingos are festooned in pink all the time and so was Barbara Cartland, but I wouldn’t fancy lounging my life away on a sofa swathed from head to toe in varying shades of pink like she used to do, or worse still standing on one leg all day with a bent u bend for a neck.

It’s certainly been a hard few months for me (what’s new?) and in the words of yet another song, “It’s been a long hard lonely winter.” Awful, terrible things have happened, beyond imagination, but …“Here comes the sun…. here comes the sun… its alright.

 Well, some things are not alright. I lost my driver and I’m not talking Miss Daisy here. I’m talking about my brand new computer. Where did my bloody driver drive off to I wanted to know? Whilst I was searching for it I somehow caused a head on collision, a multiple pile up in cyberspace and the whole caboodle crashed on me. I don’t know about you, but if my computer, or my car, is not running well, then neither am I and I cant rest until I cure it. But there is no such thing as an NHS help line, alternative remedies or even a pc friendly garage where computers are concerned, you have to consult cyberspace. In the meantime, losing my driver is driving me crazy.

And as for my car, that’s also falling to pieces. The electric locking system no longer works and you have to stand for hours twiddling the key to left and right looking furtive like a car jacker in the hope that it will yield. Eventually it always does, but not today and I was already late for an appointment. I was parked outside the local courts of justice. A group of skinny hoodies were huddled on the steps smoking and waiting for their case to be heard. They watched me with interest from under their hoods, hoping to pick up some new car jacking techniques from this asbo granny. They got more than they bargained for as it turned out as asbo granny was forced to hitch up her skirts and climb in through the hatchback – very ungracefully I have to say, as the hips are not what they were, with much cursing and swearing. Being outside the magistrates court I presume there were CTV cameras in action, so you’ll probably be able to catch me on you tube, this time as the granny jacker.

However, aside from all that, I think I’ve discovered the solution to the following – depression, old age, extreme poverty, enforced shopping at Aldi and Lidl and the lack of retail therapy, which every woman needs. It’s easy, aside from imbibing metatone every day, you simply rediscover what you’ve already got – a bit like altzeimhers, when every day you go somewhere and it feels like your going to a different place because you’ve forgotten you’ve been there before. I started with my wardrobe and rediscovered items I’d forgotten I had. That was all jolly good fun, but I have to say, no where near as satisfying as having a good old spend at the Trafford centre. I then moved on to my appearance, as in my face. The creams and potions do not seem to be working, so I thought I’d try some natural remedies. I recalled the words of the renowned Mexican Philosopher and beauty expert, Hector Ramon Alfonzo Gonzales. Well, Hector to me. Dear Hector was my taxi driver when I was in Mexico for the World AIDS conference 2008, although he didn’t know what I was there for of course. He thought I was just another tourista open for ripping off. But nevertheless a bond of friendship grew between us as we sat sweating together for hours in his non air conditioned taxi in the midst of the traffic jams of Mexico City

“Adriana,” he’d shaken his head sadly, had a quick spit out of the window and sighed in-between honking his horn, “Why you khave so many wrinkles? We have same age, but look me, I khave no wrinkles.”

What he was saying was undoubtedly true, nevertheless, at the time I wished he would concentrate more on the road and less on my arrugas, not to mention refrain from gobbing at passers by.

“Khow you do that Hector?” I asked him in my perfect Spanish, not in relation to the gobbing, “Khow you have mejillones (cheeks I think or it could mean muscles, either way it was a compliment, unless it was the fishy kind of course) as smooth as a ninos culo – baby’s bum.

“Ees simple,” he took his hands off the wheel and momentarily ceased honking and gobbing to demonstrate his technique, “Every night when I feenish driving my taxi, I put khoney on my face, like thees (he patted his mejillones) and you Adriana must do the same, promeees me you weel do it.”

I promised. I even promised to send before and after photos. I lied of course. It felt quite pleasant when I applied the honey to my arrugas and obviously it tasted nice too, so I plonked a few more dollops on my nariz (nose) and tried to plaster the cracks at the side of my boca (mouth). I then went to bed leaving it to have a good soak in and went to sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling like I was in some kind of torture chamber, my cara (face) stretched tight like I was wearing a mask, my pelo (hair) glued to my mejillones and my moustachio stuck down – only joking – well?

I decided to investigate Hector’s honey theory at a much deeper level and sure enough, there was quite a lot about it on the world wide web. Dear Hector however was not the first to come up with the honey theory, he was pipped at the post by Rasulullah sallallahu alaighi wassallam (I am not making this up) who mentioned the numerous benefits of honey more than 1400 years ago. The Chinese, of course, have known about the health benefits of honey for centuries and believe that it increases longevity.

“Tea made with honey and cinnamon arrests old age and keeps skin fresh and soft. Life span also increases and even if a person is a 100 years old, starts performing the chores of a twenty year old.”

In my experience, twenty year olds perform very few chores and where males are concerned, especially sons, this can extend well into their thirties and beyond.

Honey also allegedly reduces cholesterol, so for those of us who suffer from increased cholesterol thanks to the meds, we could come off those horrible statins and drink lots of brews (Lancashire for tea) and eat honey and butties (Lancashire for sandwich) instead.

This is the recipe and I am seriously going to try it an report back.

2 Tablespoons of manuka honey mixed with 3 teaspoons of cinnamon powder mixed in 16 ounces of tea water can reduce the level of cholesterol in the body by 10% within two hours. It can also help with arthritis, strengthens the immune system and protects the body from bacteria and viral attacks. Does that mean attacks by the HIV virus as well? Wouldn’t that be great if instead of the highly toxic cocktail of pills we have to stick down our necks every day all we had to do was drink a nice cup of tea.

“I like a nice cup of tea with my dinner, I like a nice cup of tea with my tea, and when its time for bed, instead of taking meds, I’ll have a nice cup of tea.”

The HIV Virus ‘in the pink’

If I want to stay feeling ‘in the pink’ maybe I should dye my hair pink too? It’s better than a blue rinse when all is said and done. I can remember the time when all ladies of a certain age (i.e. mine) had a blue rinse on their permed heads and looked like blue cauliflowers.

Maybe I’m feeling more ‘in the pink’ because I made the decision to change my meds. Which all goes to prove us ‘pozzers’ should take control of our medication and if it doesn’t suite us, insist on a change of regime. Take control of our meds as well as our heads, and our hairstyles.

There has been recent talk of an HIV cure – scientists have discovered some form of, as they describe it, smoking out the virus. Well, I have been trying that for years, but obviously I’ll have to change my brand of tobacco, along with my meds.


Some Mothers!

Happy Mother’s day, the day when traditionally children pay their respect to their mothers. In times gone by young British girls and boys in service were only allowed one day to visit their family each year, this was usually on mothering Sunday. What a great idea. Bring back the old days I say!

Mother’s day is celebrated in many countries around the world in different ways and there are many theories about how it began.

Back in 1938 the German government issued an award called The Mothers Cross, ‘Mutterkreuz’, although this was mainly to encourage women to breed more children for the master race. Criteria against being honoured were unfeminine behaviour, smoking, drinking or doing poor housework. No Mutterkreuz for me then – unless it was mutterkreuzing on someone’s yacht.  

If you want to do something different for your mother this year, for £20 you can adopt a word. Some of the words you could choose in relation to mothers were, selfless, care, shoulder, nurture, protect. Thinking about offspring, in particular sons, they should have added wallet, cash, why not, gimmee gimmee and take.

The charity ‘I Can’ is for children who struggle to find words they need to communicate. Some of the Celebrities chosen words were, Graham Norton- frolic, Stephen Fry –wordy, Paul McCartney- gift, Liza Tarbuck –squit. (oh please!)

I had a quick look to see if positive was still available and yes it was.  “Great news, this word is available for adoption. Adopt it now and give it a happy home. Look after it and give it plenty of exercise. It will be exclusively yours for a whole year.”

 I also looked up HIV – that was still available too. It’s just a shame that after a year I couldn’t give it back.

International Women’s Day



Monday the 8th of March is International Women’s Day – It should be declared a national holiday and all women should have a day off. But women never have a day off, we all know that. Women go through such a lot, especially mothers.  I read somewhere that a mother is only as happy as her happiest child and that is so true.  I had some very heart breaking news this week and I know there is one mother, not to mention one auntie, whose life will never be the same again.

You never know what people are going through. It amazes me that we can carry on sometimes in view of what life throws at us.

Although now is hardly the right time, I think I will definitely have to give up smoking. And not just for health reasons. It seems these days every time I nip out for a crafty fag I am approached by a total nutter.  Yesterday for example I was invited for lunch by a dear friend in an attempt to cheer me up. I nipped out mid course for a crafty rollup, like you do, and within the space of two seconds one had zoomed in on me. “Excuse me love, could I buy a fag off you?”  This is rubbish as there’s no way these tobacco predators are going to cough up-apart from in the literal sense.                                                                                                                                                                                                                        “Sorry, I only have roll ups,” I apologize. This is a good tactic because then they think you are as hard done to as them, which you are of course, otherwise you wouldn’t be smoking filthy roll ups.                                                                                                                                      

 “Thanks love; I’m a paranoid schizophrenic have you got a light?” He lowers his bald head for me to inspect the scars of where they operated on his brain. “Then there’s me elbow.” Don’t these people know I’m squeamish and very likely to faint? “And me leg,” he rolls up his trousers, “Walked into a into a power line on the railway.”

“Oh dear, were you having a bad day?” (maybe not the right thing to say. I do wonder sometimes what I learnt on that counselling course at uni)

“Mi dad wouldn’t give me three pounds for a packet of cigarettes.”   He looked about ninety so god knows how old his poor dad was.  “Then I heard the voices.”

“Well very nice to meet you, sorry, have to get back to my friend now.”

 “I don’t suppose you could spare three pounds could you love?”

“I am absolutely skint. I might not look it but I am.”

 “Never mind love, you’ve got a beautiful smile, can I kiss your hand? “

“No,” I snap rather too quickly.

“I haven’t got rabies,” he growls.

“Well, I’ve got something far worse,” I laugh and he thinks I’m joking.

A similar thing happened when I was at Euston waiting to catch a train back up to Manchester. Went out for a Starbucks and a fag and was swarmed on by fag poachers, beggars and Big Issue sellers. One Big Issue seller was particularly persistent and kept harassing me. I listened to his hard luck stories and his problems with homelessness, addiction, various medical problems etc. Not that I wasn’t sympathetic, I just wanted to be left in peace.  

“Well, we all have our crosses to bear, look at me for instance I’m HIV positive.”

“I’m so sorry,” he flung his arms round me and started to cry. I tried to push him away because he was snivelling on my coat. “I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s alright, really, just leave me alone.”  I wished I’d never said anything. He went away much to my relief, but then he came back.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he started again, resting  his dishevelled head on my shoulder.

I do hope he didn’t have nits.

There’s a moral there somewhere!