I confess things are tricky financially atm due to mental illness preventing me from working as much as I'd like. If my photos have ever lifted your mood on an anxious or sad day & you'd like to support me by buying me a ☕ or a set of my wallpapers my ko-fi's here. Pls RT ty x:
https://t.co/VdhAlbFkLi
@silverpebble Wonderful! The park near work has little flurries of them this year. Haven't smelt them though. I think it sounds a great direction whether it's your inner flower fairy or your inner granny!
Meningitis can be very serious if not treated quickly.
The NHS website has all the information you need, including what to look out for and when to get medical help.
➡️ https://t.co/FlXxJRTbqp
Cases of invasive meningococcal disease have been confirmed in Kent. Sadly, 2 people are known to have died. It's important to know the signs of symptoms of meningitis and septicaemia. Get more info from @NHSuk.
🔗 https://t.co/3HjtZr5UtA
When I see patients w/ potentially serious conditions who are students, esp those living in halls, I always include advice to TELL A FRIEND/FLATMATE or SOMEONE on their corridor that they feel unwell in my safety netting advice eg when & how to seek review.
#Meningitis@kentuniv
It was a windy, rainy February morning. Even the church bells sounded muffled and iron-cold. Old Fox had persuaded Wolf to go for a walk, only a short stroll around the village, down to the Roman bridge and back, but Wolf was miserable and getting more and more growly with every step. The river had swelled to a fierce, churning brown, the ditches were full, the fields were flooded and every footpath was muddy and pierced with deep glassy puddles. Yet within the overcast land were the delicate heralds of spring – white plum and sloe-thorn and wild daffodils and the proud nests high in the elms and the snowdrops and crocuses on the Green and in the churchyard, and stopping at the bridge, Old Fox made Wolf stand and smell the air, that smell of brook water and rich earth and flowers, until he could feel the Great God Pan rise up inside him with all his wild, green, unfettered, woodwosed joyfulness.
The Nineteenth Window. Wolf was sitting in his warm bedroom surrounded by his Christmas shopping - bath salts and talcs and soaps and books and sheet music and diaries and boxes of chocolates.
He sat there and looked at them and apart from Pine Marten's new Leica camera, which he'd been guarding with his life since he'd bought it with the Doctor in Dorchester earlier that week, he simply couldn't remember who each one was for.
He began to feel the familiar quick-sand undertow of panic, of searching for something in a dark foggy field at night, when he noticed that each gift had a paper luggage label attached with the name of the recipient in the Doctor's handwriting, printed to make it less medical and more legible to Wolf.
He'd also written why Wolf had bought each present - "Babcia's favourite bath salts", "Old Fox has wanted this new music by Moszkowski for ages," "Miss Rabbit needed some new woollen mittens." And the panic ebbed, a sudden beam of golden winter light brightened the untidy room, and he was Wolf again and he was safe once more from the swirling, usurping darkness.
In this short video, Chief Medical Officer for The UK Sepsis Trust, Ron Daniels, talks about the signs of sepsis in children under five years old. https://t.co/ZJ9qnn2Uev #sepsis#patientsafety
What is a Charlie Card? Where can I get one? What legal rights to my regular medication will it give me?
Check out our new FAQ pages on our website, for people with epilepsy and for pharmacists: https://t.co/riEUObYPh1
#SUDEP#epilepsy#epilepsyawareness
@AnneLouiseAvery Have a little dose of brightness from Epping forest! This low cloud feeling will drift by. Have a lovely birthday and hope our pictures lift your spirits as your beautiful tales lift ours x
As the church bell sounded the last deep toll of the eleven, the wet, mizzling rain suddenly stopped and in the silence, a blackbird began to sing in the apple orchard by the memorial. Standing in his old great coat, still flecked with mud, the Doctor remembered another little blackbird calling in a wood where bodies lay. These were songs of God, he thought, longing for a cigarette, of a God who fell in strips of light in cottage parlours when the telegrams were read in trembling hands, in the piping larks who rose above the shelling, of the sudden singing of the Welshmen along the trench, rich and dark and as holy as Christmas night.