Sri Lankan Grey Hornbill

I took this picture at Kosgama, Sri Lanka, in a wooded area close to a house. There were two hornbills. One of them settled on a branch and I managed to zoom in and take this picture. In the picture you can see the hole in the Kithul tree. This is obviously the entrance to the nest of the couple as they were hovering around all the time.

'Bella' and the 'Old Royalists'.

Your Excellency, President of the Old Royalists Association, ladies and gentlemen:

As I am not much of an after-dinner speaker, when the President asked me, I offered to do the washing up instead. The President assured me that this was not one of my tasks; he had already enlisted my husband for that; he is not much of a washer-upper either. I asked your President how long I should speak for. “About five minutes would be adequate” he said. I said “with this mixed audience, it’s a little difficult to know where to begin”. He said, “begin on the fourth minute.”We are privileged to be here, in these grand surroundings, being wined and dined in style. But not as lucky as the man who won the lottery recently; he heard about the advances in modern transplant surgery, and decided he would benefit from a new brain. He went to see a specialist – finally saw him after the outpatient appointment had been cancelled seven times. The specialist said there were several brains in stock. Old-Josephian’s brain was £5000; old-Trinitians brain was £10,000; or you could have an old-Thomian brain for £20,000. “Doctor, I want the best” said the lottery winner. “You’re in luck” said the brain surgeon “We happen to have just one old-Royalist’s brain – a very special offer at £50,000.” The lottery winner was amazed. “Why is the old Royalist’s brain so expensive?” “Simple” said the specialist “it was hardly ever used.”

I understand that the old school provided the boys with facilities for all sport, but not golf. Although I don’t play golf, I happen to live near a golf Club. One morning, there was a tramp asleep on the doorway to the Clubhouse. He was smelling strongly of drink, his hair was matted, his eyes bloodshot. There were some empty bottles as testimony to his night’s work. A tired dog lay asleep at his feet. The Club Secretary arrived. And fearful of arriving golfers, nudged the tramp awake. “Disgraceful” he thundered through a clenched moustache, “what the hell do you think you’re doing here? This is private property, an exclusive Club with televised tournaments. I demand you leave at once.” The tramp rose, collected his clothing, moved slowly away from the Club Secretary; then turned and froze him with a glare, and said, “This is no way to attract new members.” My husband has now been accepted to be on the waiting list for membership.Tonight’s dinner has been very well organised; everything seemed to work like clockwork; the room and the tables look stunningly beautiful; the music as always is exhilarating; all of us are itching to get on the dance floor. We also wish to compliment the chef and the team for providing us with a wonderful meal. It is quite unlike another London Hotel, where a visitor was ordering his breakfast. He said he wanted two boiled eggs; one so hard it was like a bullet, the other scarcely cooked at all. He wanted three pieces of toast, each absolutely black on one side and not toasted at all on the other. And also some cold coffee. “Oh sir, we can’t possibly do that” said the astonished waiter. “Why not” said the visitor, “you did it yesterday.”My husband, an old Royalist, remembers of his schooldays, only that the school was next to the Racecourse. This has made a lasting impression on his life. The hospital where he works in Ascot is also next to a Racecourse. The bookies know him by name. As one of their best customers, he regularly receives expensive gifts from William Hill, Ladbrokes and Corals, in return for his continued and unwavering support. I got some insight into how he picks his losers. Last year, he lost £100 just on the Derby; he lost £25 on the race; then lost the other £75 on the action replay.The Royalists have been tremendous hosts. Like the American Indians outnumbering General Custer’s troops, we the guests have outnumbered our hosts. That is because the guests have always enjoyed the hospitality of the Old Royalists, and keep coming back to this most enjoyable function. As I conclude, I am reminded of the rather complacent businessman who, having delivered an after-dinner speech, turned to his neighbour (who happened to be Oscar Wilde) and said “Now tell me; how would you have given that speech?” Oscar replied “I think perhaps under an assumed name.”And like Lord Atkin, who was the fifth speaker after dinner, I have to admit that I have two speeches. A long one and a short one. I propose to give you both. The short one is “Thank you.” The long one is “Thank you very much.”

Guests: the toast is . . . . our hosts, the Old Royalists

'Bella' on retirement.

I said to Sunil that the best way to keep myself occupied in retirement is to have a baby; his shocked response was this story. With the help of fertility experts, a 65 year old woman had a baby. All her relatives came to see the newest member of their family. When they asked to see the baby, the new mother says “not yet”. A little later they ask again. Again the mother says “not yet”. Finally they say, “When can we see the baby?” And the mother says “When the baby cries”. “Why do we have to wait until the baby cries?” The new mother says “because I forgot where I put it”.

I don’t plan to grow old gracefully though:

If my body were a car, this is the time I would be thinking about trading it in for a newer model. I’ve got bumps and dents and scratches in my finish, and my paint job is getting a little dull, but that’s not the worst of it. My headlights are out of focus, and it’s especially hard to see things up close. My traction is not as graceful as it once was. I slip and slide and skid and bump into things, even in the best of weather. My tyres are stained with varicose veins. It takes me hours to reach my maximum speed. My fuel rate burns inefficiently. But here’s the worst of it – Almost every time I sneeze, cough or splutter – my radiator leaks. Well, I am not quite there yet. But with the help of my friends and colleagues, I hope to put all this right, until I look like a well-maintained vintage car.

I have enjoyed my time as a doctor and a radiologist. I never set out to be a radiologist. I wanted to be a rheumatologist. I went for my job interview at Reading, and was duly appointed Registrar in Rheumatology. My two prospective Consultants who had interviewed me got talking to Sunil who had accompanied me. Sunil was keen on a career in Paediatrics, and was doing general and neonatal paediatrics at the time, and was looking for a more senior post. Within a few moments of talking to Sunil, the senior consultant Ian Meanock came and asked me whether I minded stepping down to the SHO job, so that Sunil could be offered the Registrar post in Rheumatology. I didn’t think I had a choice in the matter, as the decision seemed to have been made already. Sunil then decided on a career in Rheumatology, and I was left with the task of finding any other speciality – and I ended up in Radiology. I had done my MRCP in preparation for a career in Rheumatology. So when I switched to Radiology, I had to start at the bottom of the ladder again. This was not nice. So, after a shaky start, I began to enjoy radiology.

It can’t be such a difficult speciality to master. Once I had to take my 6 year old son to work with me for a few hours. I took him to my room and gave him a few books, and asked him to keep quiet and read, while I did some reporting. A little while later, I left the room for a few minutes, came back and saw him using my dictaphone, saying, “Heart size normal, lung fields clear. Heart size normal, lung fields clear. Heart size normal, lung fields clear”.

I started here as a Consultant in 1975 and have enjoyed every minute - well, may not be every minute, of my working life. I am sure all of us have moments of frustration; but all in all, work was always a great pleasure.

I have relished my career as a radiologist. I have eaten up every ounce of information that came my way, and dealt out as much compassion as I could, even if I didn’t always feel like it. I have tried to maintain a balance in my life, and hold on to my sanity. You would have to judge if I succeeded or not.

We have made many and close friendships among Consultants, other hospital staff, and GPs. I thank you for the years of companionship and support you have given me.

Bringing up two wonderful sons has perhaps been my best achievement, but I must let you know what they think about this. One day I walked into the sitting room and found it terribly messy, and started telling them off. One of them immediately said to me, “It’s not our fault mummy, we have been badly brought up”.

As you probably know we are working part-time at the moment so that we can wean our body and soul to full retirement. Though it’s been a wonderful 30 years I am also looking forward to doing as I please in full retirement, and not necessarily living by the clock all the time.

The next stage may be a nursing home, but I found an alternative! No nursing home for me. I am checking in to the Holiday Inn. With the average cost of a nursing home reaching £100 per day, there is a better way when we get old and feeble. I have already checked on reservations at the Holiday Inn. For a combined long-stay discount and a senior’s discount it is £53 per night. That leaves £47 a day for: Lunch and dinner at any restaurant I want, or room service, laundry, gratuities and special TV films. They provide a free swimming pool, and a gym. Most have free toothpaste (though I may not have teeth by then), and all have free shampoo and soap.

TV broken? Light bulbs need changing? Need a mattress replaced, maybe often? No problem. They fix everything, and apologise for the inconvenience. They treat you like a customer, not a patient. £3 worth of tips a day will have the entire staff scrambling to help you. There is a bus stop out front, and OAPs travel free. The disabled bus will also pick you up, if you fake a decent limp. To meet other nice people, call a church bus on Sundays. For a change of scenery, take the airport shuttle bus, and eat at one of the nice restaurants there. While you are at the airport, fly somewhere; otherwise, the cash keeps building up. It takes months to get into a decent nursing home. Holiday Inn will take your reservation today. And you are not stuck in one place forever; you can move from Inn to Inn, or even from City to City. They have a night security person, and daily room service. The maid checks if you are OK. If not, they call an ambulance or the undertaker.

Before I reach the nursing home stage, there are a few things I wish to have:

Before I go, I’d like to have high cheekbones, and

be thought of as thin

And I’d like to learn to tap-dance, salsa and spin

I’d like to have a theme song, and plenty of bling

When I enter a room, I’d like an orchestra and

choir to sing

Before I go, I’d like Robert Redford, just once, to

slide his fingers down my back, from my

neck to my waistline

But I’d like to have a waistline before I go

I’d like, when offered a choice between duty and

sin, to not immediately choose duty

But I’d like a couple of offers before I go

Isabella's view of Sunil Liyanage, her husband.

Forty years is a long time. How did it last so long, and what is our secret. Let me tell you.

St Francis prayed for serenity to accept the things that cannot be changed, the courage to change the things that can be changed, and the wisdom to know the difference. God has not given me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, nor did I ask Him for it. So I went ahead with the courage to change the things I should.

When I married Sunil, I knew he was very kind, very generous, very romantic, terribly polite and very considerate. You might think for a moment that he was faultless; but he did have one or two faults that had to be changed.

The major fault was that he did not know where or how to shop. He bought me presents from John Lewis’ and Daniels’. I would accept the gifts with a big, false thank you, and other signs of appreciation; I would quietly retrieve the receipts from his wallet, and return the gifts to the shops. After 2-3 years of this, I thought that something had to be done. I introduced him to shops in Bond Street and Knightsbridge, and of course Tiffany’s. Until then, he had thought that Tiffany’s was a café serving only breakfast.

He thinks that he is a very good driver. Then, why is he always teetering on 9 points? And attending Speed Awareness Courses? Here is our typical journey to London, with him driving:

I swear that he drove through a red – not a

yellow – light,

Plus he’s doing 71 in a 50-mile zone

And he’s in the wrong lane if he plans to take a

right.

I mention all this in a loving, respectful tone,

While alerting him to the fellow crossing the

street,

And the fact that he’s way too close to the car

ahead.

I speak in a voice so gentle, so soft, and so sweet

That he really should be ashamed of what he

just said.

But as undeterred by his words as I’ve always

been,

I suggest putting on the headlights because its

dark,

Observe that he almost collided when he cut in,

And point out that a stop sign means stop –

full stop – not slow,

And that if he makes that U-turn we’ll probably

die.

But I never convey either rancour or reproach,

Hoping that one of these years he’ll be grateful

that I

Am not merely his life companion but also his

driving coach.

When I drive, he can convey his message to me without any words. If I hit the kerb, he leaps up from his seat as though someone had put a hot poker up his … He applies brakes from his passenger side. He ducks or moves away in his seat from an imaginary impending collision. So I may not be such a good driver as he is; but I have only 3 points.

Marriage, they say survives on communication. We have excellent communication – but it’s only one way. I talk and he doesn’t. He doesn’t even listen to what I am saying. At dinner, I talk and he does not. Occasionally, he grunts an approval. But I know he is not listening when the grunt is badly timed. One day I decided to keep quiet to see if he would notice, and say something. He did finally speak – and you know what, he said something about cricket. Am I bowered?

He used to speak twice a day, and that was to the dog. “Good morning Polo, how are you”, and in the evening, “Good evening Polo, how was your day”. But that also stopped when the dog died.

Over the years, we have worked out a few essential things in life:

How long his mother should visit

How much is enough insurance

That overseas travel has to be in comfort

Hotels have to be 5 star

Diamonds are not a luxury

But thermostatically, we are incompatible.

Lately I am in the kitchen in my sweater and fleece-lined jacket; he sits there in a short-sleeved shirt, asking whether he can open the window to let some fresh air in. May be we have to start eating in separate rooms.

Sometimes I am in bed, hot and gasping for breath; he is right beside me in flannel pyjamas asking whether I could keep the window closed. May be we’ll have to sleep in separate rooms.

So there is a 65º F separation between us.

We seldom argue. In fact we never argue. You can’t believe it, can you. Because you need two people to have an argument. If there is a disagreement, I want to sort it out with a few words naturally. But he goes completely silent. He knows that his silence works me up, much more than any number of words can. Eventually, I give up – obviously defeated.

I like to dance, and he does not. We would go to dances and balls; and all the other husbands would have taken their wives on to the dance floor, and I would sit there waiting to be asked; and I’d wait, and wait and wait. I went through a few events like this; and then I started asking him to dance. One day, on the way back from a dance, I told him very gently and very softly, but in no uncertain terms, how it’s done. Now he is so frightened that when the band strikes the first note, he is up by my side asking me to dance. So that’s sorted.

So I have changed him to my liking in many respects, and am still working on some of the others. But I wouldn’t change him for the world.

He is a wonderful husband and father. He is extremely generous to me and the boys. He has never said No to anything I wanted, but I must say I am a woman of thrift, and have not demanded much.

Here is a poem I came across, and it is suitable for today:

He is my friend

He likes me when I am dopey, and not just when I am smart

I worry a lot about pythons, and he understands.

My toes point in and my shoulders droop; and

there are wrinkles on my face

But he says I look good.

He is my friend

He likes me when I am grouchy, and not just

when I am nice

I worry a lot about werewolves, and he

understands.

There are hairs growing all over me except on my eyeballs and my teeth

But he says I look good.

He is my friend

When I had a flat tyre I called him

When I broke my leg I called him

When I cut my finger I called him.

He is my friend

He would try to save me if there was a tidal wave

He’d hunt for me if kidnappers stole me away

And if I was never found again

He can have my toothbrush.