chrishansenhome

I am finally back in St. Matthew's Court, but not after a lot of effort.

So Thursday I did all that I had set out to do: washed the bed linens, fixed Harold's computer, and finished packing. The computer was a pretty hairy experience. Harold (not a computer buff) said that when you turned it on, it just did nothing after the POST. I booted it in safe mode, rolled back to the last known good configuration, and booted again. It did work, but this particular configuration hadn't been one where the Ethernet connection was enabled. I found one that had, only to discover that the display adapter wasn't fully working in that one. After about an hour of futzing, I figured out which drivers I needed and got everything working. Of course, that then turned up the interesting fact that the last known good configuration was Windows XP Service Pack 1. So I spent another 3/4 hour downloading and installing Service Packs 2 and 3. Then there were 110 Windows Updates that had to be installed, and then some other ones...it was nearly 5:30 pm before I finished. However, my brother now has a working computer.

I had begun to soak my insulin pouches while I was doing this and forgot them. They then absorbed too much water and became quite distended. I shall have to wait for weeks while they slowly dry out.

So, around 7 pm our friend Linda drove my sister and me to the airport, after bidding farewell to Harold. I was apprehensive. Tales of woe about the TSA are legion and I had visions of going berserk like that gentleman last week and tearing off all my clothing at the barrier.

At bag drop I was happy for two reasons: first, I was exactly at the limit above which I would have had to pay a shedload of money for an overweight bag. Second, a large group of teenagers arrived after I did to check in, so I was in front of them, rather than behind.

Security was not too harrowing; I always get ready by taking off belt, removing wallet, keys, and everything from my pockets before I get to the security area. Got through OK; I was a bit apprehensive about the X-ray screening but it was fairly easy. Then I emerged and a very big, very beefy, TSA agent man of colour with a very bushy beard stood in my path and said something I didn't catch. Turns out I just had to wait until people cleared out of the bag pickup line.

Then came the long wait with crying children, large group of teenagers (the same one that I beat to bag drop), and too few seats. As the flight left at 10:20 pm, I figured that they would serve a snack before turning out the lights, and then a fuller breakfast than usual. As diabetics need to eat regularly, I had a roast beef and cheddar sandwich and a Diet Coke, plus a chocolate chip cookie for emergencies on the plane. Keep all this in mind.

More mindless waiting. One of the teenagers, lounging around (as teenagers are wont to do), leaned against one of the emergency exits and set a very loud alarm off, and then I boarded. Plane was full (I think they all are these days) and I sat next to an Indian guy who took out his noise-cancelling headphones and put them on immediately. No Chatty Cathy here, I thought.

Well, we took off and, about an hour later, the air stewardess came to me with a full tray (I'd ordered diabetic meals). I told her that as a diabetic nearly midnight was too late for me to eat and I'd already had dinner. I took the water, refused the food, and felt bad about it, but I didn't think it was a good idea to stuff myself when not hungry.

Then, of course, I had to endure the food smells for an hour while everyone else ate dinner (except for my neighbour, who was asleep).

So, as one does, I had to use the lavatory. When I returned to my seat, i tried to slither in without disturbing any of my neighbours. I started to slip, and grasped the headrest, which promptly fell off the seat. So, I tried to put it back, but it wouldn't stay very well. I just wedged it between myself and the seat and got about 1 hour's sleep before they fed us again and circled Heathrow for 20 minutes before landing.

The Indian guy, when he took off his headphones, ended up being a Chatty Cathy, but I just had to man up and take it.

Terminal 5 is one of the wonders of modern technology, but there is one problem: it's too big. We got off the plane and walked for around 10 minutes before getting to the train, which would take us to the main building and Immigration. Of course, a couple of escalators were out of commission, forcing a long shuffle out of the train and up to the Immigration hall. I was by then too groggy to note that since I have an electronic-tagged passport, I could have used an automatic machine to read it and verify my status here. Instead, I waited in line, got through, and went down to collect my luggage.

In contradistinction to the Boston arrival, my bag was already on the carousel when I arrived there so I got out almost immediately. Off to the Heathrow Express and then arrive at Paddington. The taxi rank used to be to the right as you got off the Heathrow Express. Well, they've constructed a new one, but (like everything nowadays) it was far far away and in another galaxy, it seemed. It's now to the left, all the way at the rear of the station and up an escalator. Got home £25 later (but with a very nice taxi driver, who I will thank here).

After all this aggravation, I guess I was due for a pleasant surprise. There's always a pile of post when I get home, and it's never really pleasant to go through. So many magazines to read, letters from hospitals, and misdirected post—I normally despair.

There were two letters from Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs. These rarely are good news. However, when I opened the smaller one a cheque for £511.66 fell out! It was a tax refund for the year 2008-2009. I was flabbergasted! I had no idea I was due one. (Note to USans: if you are a wage slave and have no or few investments, no matter how much you make here the tax removed from your paycheck is considered sufficient and you don't have to actually file a tax return. However, this means that if you are due a refund HMRC takes its own sweet time in returning it.) Being greeted by a cheque is one of the best ways to return home, only exceeded by greeting HWMBO when he returned home after work.

I'd like to thank all those who took the time to see me, have a meal with me, or just hang out with me—you know who you are, vasilatos, rsc, jwg, momshapedbox, Sarav, Bob, Margaret, Zeke, and especially Fraf. And, of course, thanks to the family, now enlarged with proto-sister-in-law, nephew, and niece. My brother put up with me injecting my insulin at the kitchen table, wanting to watch BBC World in the morning, and cooking soup he can't stand.

I don't know when I'll be back, but I will try to come back within a year, the state of my feet permitting. I'll also try not to break the seat back on the plane and eat better.

Oh, and happy 86th birthday to Her Majesty the Queen! I am well and truly back!

Well, I haven't really blogged for a while (the Twitter posts notwithstanding), so I suppose a short update is in order. On June 4th I was kicked out of the hospital with loads of antibiotics and other medications in a bag. HWMBO came to help me home; we took a taxicab as hospital transport is only for patients (short-sighted, that). I went home with the £10,000 vacuum pump still attached to my foot and my PICC line still in my arm.

Not much else has been happening as Professor Edmonds has forbidden me from walking around. I am allowed to "potter" around the house, though. The scene which greeted me when I got home was a bit daunting. HWMBO, with all his great qualities and I love him dearly, will become like the Collier Brothers when I go to the Grand Lodge Above. He piles stuff up anywhere, including my post, which I asked him to put next to my computer. The back garden is a tip, with lots of nettles and various other weeds poking up through the underbrush. I bought a new lawn mower, as the old one had crapped out, and got holy hell from HWMBO, but we are waiting for a few nice days to be able to put it together and tackle the back garden. I think we need a gardener (Fat chance of that, of course—). I don't fancy being a back-seat driver as HWMBO tries to mow the lawn, which is something he's never done before.

I have mastered the art of sleeping with the vacuum pump tube passed over my body to the pump housing which is stacked on the floor. I don't like it, but no choice unless HWMBO and I change sides in bed, which is not bloody likely.

The District Nurse (=US visiting nurse) has come every day except those days I go back to the Foot Clinic. I take a bottle of antibiotic which they infuse into my PICC line. However, on Tuesday the PICC line wasn't working…the plunger of the syringe wouldn't push the liquid into my vein. Panic. We call the Foot Clinic and the Professor says to give the antibiotic intramuscularly by injection and they would try to clear theline on Thursday. Well, no lignocaine with this injection so while the original prick didn't hurt at all, when I tried to sleep on my sides it felt like there was a needle in the bed poking into my hip. Wotta pain.

Today I went into the Foot Clinic by hospital transport. I have been forbidden to take the bus (I might have to stand waiting for it or stand while riding it) so I was told last night to be ready for 7 am. You guessed it…it didn't arrive until 8:30 am. Well, that was a pain. When I got there, I was seen by the Inpatient Wound Specialist who has been taking care of me in the hospital. She said that the wound was healing very well and thinks the vacuum pump will come off for half the week starting on Monday. However, my foot and leg are a bit swollen (probably because I can't walk on them very much but also don't elevate them enough. So I have a compression bandage on my foot and leg as well.

The nurse in the Foot Clinic cleared my PICC line, but the IV Nurse wants to have a word with me to PICC my brains about the line, which is a new kind they're trying out. I'll give her an earful. The line is too narrow and the closure clip too fiddly (as compared with the other one I had, which was wider with a better clip). The other one never clogged, and it was opaque, so if blood ever got into it I never knew it. This one is transparent, and I must say I freak out when blood wanders in from the vein. I find that blood is much more use inside me than inside the PICC line.

So I'm back home. I have to do my US taxes, as the deadline for out-of-country filers is June 15th (we get two extra months). I also have to do my friend Carol's, which is a chore I do only out of pity, really: she is a cancer survivor who is out of remission now and I don't have the heart to tell her that I really don't want to do it any more. She has a very complicated return (she has two properties in Hawaii which she rents out, as well as some Social Security, military pension, and the like). I am always totally exhausted when I've done it. Luckily mine is very simple for 2009: about £10,000 in wages and that is it. 2010 will be even better, as I am not earning anything and won't have to file a return.

...and that is filling out my US tax return. The United States, in common with only one other country in the world (the Philippines, if you must know), taxes its expats.

I don't owe anything, and haven't owed anything for the past 14 years. There is an exclusion of foreign earned income (which is really the only kind of income I have) and this year it was $82,400. I made less than half that (being fully employed only three months last year) so I was free and clear. However, I still have to file the silly return.

I think this is the year in which I need to make my decision on whether to renounce my US citizenship. I am getting more and more fed up each year filling out this stupid return when I have no intention of returning to live in the US ever (my health issues would make that impossible anyway: I'd have no way to pay for health insurance or health care until I was 65) and when the only benefits I get from being an American citizen are that I can vote in Federal elections and get into the citizens line at airports.

This has nothing to do with patriotism: I'm as patriotic as the next guy. But being a British citizen now claims most of my allegiance, as I spend most of my time here and I feel fully British. If I could only get rid of the damned American accent then the transformation would be complete.

The rules have changed regarding renouncing citizenship. However, as I have no assets in the United States, no tangible assets here in the United Kingdom except a savings account, and my total net worth is probably under $100,000 US, I think I would escape any lingering rules on these matters.

So why do I hesitate? I suppose it is like when I became an Episcopalian in 1988. I had wanted to change for many years, but only got up the nerve after years of dithering about it. I need to talk to a lawyer and settle this once and for all.