Amateur Brain Surgery

The Nurse had one hell of a Christmas and New Year.

It took the best part of four days to limp from London to her home town, Brighton, and she’s been as busy as a particularly vicious and scary bee ever since, getting her new identity in shape.

Her teeth were her first priority. It’s no good trying to be inconspicuous with filed pointy gnashers, but thankfully all The Nurse had to do was track down and blackmail a former Amateur Brain Surgery Club member – now (hilarously) a dentist – to get them sorted out. You should see her gorgeous new pearlies, which cover her real teeth perfectly.

Second came a new name. After digging up one of her secret cash stashes, buried for convenience in the graveyard off Bear Road thirty years ago, she could easily afford a false identity. Thank goodness for Dodgy Dave, another old ex-brain surgery cohort.

Third, somewhere to live. It was easy enough to knock off the old bat in the smart Kemptown house that The Nurse now ‘owns’ and bury the body under her small but very pretty city centre patio. Amazingly it doesn’t smell too bad out there, all things considered… but then again that’s the beauty of cold weather.

This evening The Nurse sits on her new leather settee, hunched over her new laptop, poised to write her first rant of 2012 and her first  as a free woman. If you didn’t know any better you’d think she was a respectable, smart widow about town. The thought makes her grin in a most unladylike fashion. Oh what fun this is going to be.

What’s pissing The Nurse off this evening? David Cameron’s Christian shenanigans, that’s what. OK, it was a couple of weeks ago. She’s been otherwise occupied. But it rankles like fuck.

The Nurse quite likes Cameron. Oddly, he appears considerably less Conservative than Tony Blair. But she objects strenuously to his call for Britain to declare herself a Christian nation. That’s just divisive. She thinks it’d be much more sensible to declare ourselves a secular nation that tolerates all religions, no matter how potty, whether it’s  Pastafarianism or the the spectacularly nutty Christian God botherers.

Crikey. Admittedly that wasn’t much of a rant. But it’s difficult to generate a decent head of steam and vent your spleen effectively when you’re warm, wealthy, nice-looking and popular amongst your very nice neighbours.

She actually babysat for one of the buggers last night. If only they knew she was a psycho killer with an unfortunate taste for soft, tender, well-cooked infant flesh!

It’s a fact. We’re all living longer and populations around the world are ageing. Some more gracefully than others.
At the end of 2009 the UK office for National Statistics reported that the proportion of the UK population aged under 16 had dropped from 25% in 1971 to around 19% in 2008. In parallel with this the proportion aged 65 and over increased from 13% in 1971 to 16% in 2008. It is anticipated that this trend will continue and by 2031 22% of the UK population will be aged over 65.

In the United States there are now more people aged 65 and over than ever before. In 1900 there were 3.1 million Americans in that age group and by April 2010 this had increased to 40.3 million. And as more baby boomers reach their 65th birthdays it is anticipated that this number will increase more rapidly.

Life expectancy is increasing and many of us can expect to live into our eighties, nineties and even beyond 100. Not only are we living longer, we are staying fitter and healthier into our old age. But some see an ageing population as a potential burden on society. They are worried that the proportion of the population of working age will dwindle making it tough to maintain living standards for the dependent older population.

The answer must be revision of the way in which we retire. Instead of ceasing to work at 65 we’ll need to consider a more flexible, gradual retirement process, perhaps opting for part time work or consultancy roles in order to provide the benefit of a lifetime’s work experience.

I for one don’t want to completely stop working as I enjoy the stimulation that my work provides. It has been found that keeping the brain active can help prevent the onset of Alzheimer’s disease which is enough for me to keep working until I drop.

My plan is to get old disgracefully. As I’ve matured I’ve become increasingly less likely to become embarrassed and much more confident. For example, my singing skills are abysmal but I love to do it so I recently took to the stage at a local talent night. I picked one of my all time favourites (Great Balls of Fire) and tormented the assembled audience to my rendition of this timeless classic. The lovely people in the audience all clapped politely but it was suggested that I shouldn’t give up my day job any time soon.

So I am now compiling what is quickly becoming a very long ‘bucket list’ of other things that I would like to do before I finally shuffle off this mortal coil. Fortunately for other people there are very few singing performances in the list although I have always wanted to ride through Brighton naked while singing God Save the Queen through a megaphone, but I shall put that one at the bottom of the list.

If you want to blend in, come to London.

The Nurse, having tidied herself up somewhat in a Swiss Cottage public loo, cuts a reasonably inconspicuous figure in the big smelly.

There’s nutters galore here. A middle aged lady limping along with a Margaret Thatcher hair do, filed pointy teeth and a thunderous expression doesn’t stand out too much. Especially in a place like Oxford Street, where the loonies of the world congregate. Stand there long enough and you’ll eventually see every booby on the planet shuffle by.

Right now she’s hanging around outside the Lloyd’s of London building in The City, admiring the funky metal tubing, reminded momentarily and pleasurably of escaped intestines.

Last night she broke into a posh flat along a leafy London street and slept like a baby in the softest bed she’s experienced for decades. Then breakfasted well in a stranger’s spotless contemporary kitchen, hooking out a tin of grapefruit, a stray avocado and a chunk of fragrant pink and yellow Battenburg.

Tonight she’s walking through the wee small hours, hoping to hit Sussex by Christmas day. At this stage in the game, sleep isn’t an option.

The Nurse imagines she can taste the salty tang of the sea on the westerly breeze but it’s probably wishful thinking. The channel’s siren call always did bring out the best in her. Or the worst, depending on your perspective. If you object to having your skull trepanned when you’re least expecting it, you probably won’t like her much. If, on the other hand, you think carrying out amateur brain surgery on unwitting victims without their permission sounds like fun, she’ll see you in Brighton.

The Nurse doesn’t laugh very often. She’d laugh more if life was fucking funny, but it ain’t. Not for her, at least.

Five miles short of the ugly north London sprawl, struggling through dense, winter-dark woodland, she’s just fallen arse over tit into a filthy, stinking pond.

There isn’t a swear word in existence that can describe how she feels right now. So she’s made up a new one. Which, unaccountably given the circumstances, just made her giggle… easier said than done with a mouth full of mud.

Next time you need it, why not try ‘FUNT’? What does it mean? Fat cunt, of course.

Enjoy.