NINE YEARS IN THE LIFE OF BRIAN Brian Reynolds

nine years in the life of brian

NINE YEARS
IN
THE LIFE OF BRIAN.
Brian Reynolds

Chapter 1

"Blame it on Cod"

....and the cold skeletal claw closed ruthlessly onto the nerve centre of his body, rendering his very soul into a calcified, brittle, helpless state, his anguished screams echoed unheard into the relentless void as he slipped, writhing, towards the cold, gaping, black chasm of oblivion.....

Enough! Too scary...
So anyway, here we go.
Multiple Sclerosis is the incurable condition my body has.

When people discover this they usually step back. They look shocked. Then they offer sympathy. All of this is well meant and is appreciated. But I don't really want it.

I want something which is no longer available to me.

Normality.

I'd like to be treated as normal. Unfortunately that's wishful thinking on my part.

Things can never again be what I used to know as normal.

I'll start when Multiple Sclerosis first began to affect me. I'll tell some of the things that happened up until my working life finished.

I was a head chef. In 1987 I was working in a small hotel in a village on the coast of Northumberland.

The Easter holiday was approaching. As always the hotel staff were as prepared as possible for the expected, insane seeming, headlong rush of day trippers. All of these Newcastle folk getting away from the city crowds.

All together, at the same time, to the same place.

All to do the same things. Every individual, apart yet linked, demanding lunch in the same pub, all demanding to be served immediately.

All ordering fresh cod "n" chips! Don't you hate that stupid "n"?

All thinking that the cod has just been caught. Therefore they've got to have it.

And they've got to have it NOW !

And after all this was a fishing village over one hundred years ago. Then some big flipping storm altered the course of the river, filling the harbour with the nearest sand dune, cutting off a church and rendering the small fishing fleet to the unhappy state of redundancy.

Lunch-time was suddenly upon us . . .

Francey, my second chef, was up to his armpits in chips. I was wrestling cod. The order board was overflowing with hastily scribbled orders. A million cod "n" bloody chips.

The three bars were jam-packed with seething throngs of those who were escaping from the madding crowd. Another member of the kitchen staff was buried in salad garnishes. Another in batter. Another in sweets.

The manager, Alan, donned an apron to lend a hand. And we tried, nay, we did our best to fill the countless gaping maws of starving day trippers with food.

Then . . . horror.
We ran out of cod !
Unforgivable.

Alan dug some "fresh local" Norwegian cod from the depths of the freezer. He then started the not very legal task of rapid defrosting in the microwaves, in sinks of hot water, ovens, passing cats, anywhere and everywhere that was warm in a desperate attempt to keep up with demand.

That was Good Friday.

The whole weekend was equally as demented - every breakfast, lunch, bar meal and dinner . . .