Cannabis oil dose for cancer cure:
1st-4th day; 0.0078125 grammes (0.0026041666 x 3 times per day)
4th-8th day; 0.015625 grammes (0.0052083333 x 3 times per day)
8th-12th day; 0.03125 grammes (0.01041666 x 3 times per day)
12th-16th day; 0.0625 grammes (0.0208333 x 3 times per day)
16th-20th day; 0.125 grammes (0.0416666 x 3 times per day)
20th-24th day; 0.25 grammes (0.083333 x 3 times per day)
24th-28th day; 0.5 grammes (0.016666 x 3 times per day)
28th day onwards; 1 gramme (0.333 x 3 times per day)
I have been diagnosed with cancer and will be keeping an up to date blog of my fight against the dreaded C.
Just after coming back from Finland in April 2013, I went to the doctor with a suspicious looking lump on the back of my heel where I have always had a mole.
That was just the beginning and now one year and eight months ago.
More to follow.
Tuesday, 9 December 2014
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
From Sophie
Dear dad,
I am so glad you were my dad; we had such great family adventures together.
We were all so lucky to have parents like the two of you. I wish I were able to give my children the colourful, varied, fantastic childhood that you gave to us.
We were different to the other expat families; we broke the rules.
You showed genuine kindness and compassion to many Gambian people.
You didn't send me away to boarding school, I stayed with you. Other families may have thought you had done the wrong thing, but I learned so much from that experience, I am so grateful
I know what it feels like to be a minority; I was the only white girl in my school; you can't learn that every day.
Thank you dad for showing me all walks of life, experiences, the landscapes, the culture, the smells!
What a fantastic childhood.
Who else spent weekends in the mountains, motor boat rides to islands, yacht races and sat around fires chatting to the night watchman with chickens to chase in the garden?
Those memories are so precious.
You taught us to think outside the box. Normal is boring.
We are different but not so different. We are, I hope, still acceptable.
We Cox's try to get on with all sorts.
I feel you have taught us to empathise. I learnt that because you were an honourable man with a great sense of justice and values.
Your continued support and care of Ebrima and his family, who were our extended Gambian family, was unprecedented.
If I can teach my three children such lessons, I would feel proud as both you and mum should.
Thank you for being my beautiful dad and thank you for marrying my wonderful little mum.
You are a hard act to follow and we will always miss you.
Love you dad.
I am so glad you were my dad; we had such great family adventures together.
We were all so lucky to have parents like the two of you. I wish I were able to give my children the colourful, varied, fantastic childhood that you gave to us.
We were different to the other expat families; we broke the rules.
You showed genuine kindness and compassion to many Gambian people.
You didn't send me away to boarding school, I stayed with you. Other families may have thought you had done the wrong thing, but I learned so much from that experience, I am so grateful
I know what it feels like to be a minority; I was the only white girl in my school; you can't learn that every day.
Thank you dad for showing me all walks of life, experiences, the landscapes, the culture, the smells!
What a fantastic childhood.
Who else spent weekends in the mountains, motor boat rides to islands, yacht races and sat around fires chatting to the night watchman with chickens to chase in the garden?
Those memories are so precious.
You taught us to think outside the box. Normal is boring.
We are different but not so different. We are, I hope, still acceptable.
We Cox's try to get on with all sorts.
I feel you have taught us to empathise. I learnt that because you were an honourable man with a great sense of justice and values.
Your continued support and care of Ebrima and his family, who were our extended Gambian family, was unprecedented.
If I can teach my three children such lessons, I would feel proud as both you and mum should.
Thank you for being my beautiful dad and thank you for marrying my wonderful little mum.
You are a hard act to follow and we will always miss you.
Love you dad.
To my dad
I got back from Finland in time to see dad before we closed his eyes.
It was an overwhelming experience made special by all the family being there together.
We cried and hugged and found and gave comfort with dad right there with us.
Looking into his eyes before he went is a moment I will cherish for ever and I thank him for giving me that - he knew I was coming and he was decent enough right to the end to hang on for the wayward lad, the prodigal son.
Poor mum was with him throughout the horrible ordeal which only got worse the longer it went on.
I am really happy to have spent last summer at home with them both. He came home after his first stay at hospital when I arrived back at the beginning of July. He was weak but he got stronger and after a little while mum and I had him up and walking again.
'She's an angel your mum.'
She really is.
We believed there was hope - that is the only way you can go on - but dad was frustrated and mum and I would catch him sitting back in the conservatory looking up at the sky, contemplating.
It's a horrible thing to have gone through, to have suffered in that way and although it is little consolation we can thank all the carers for doing all that they could.
But no one deserves his praise more than mum who was there, who was always there and always has been there, tending to his needs and staying at his bedside with no sleep towards the end.
The last words he shared with anyone were the last words he shared with mum in that little room with two hospital beds crammed into it three days before I arrived: 'Let's go now, Let's go home.'
'We will David, we will. But it's dark now. We'll go in the morning. We'll put the beds next to the window and we'll look out at the little birds in the garden.'
You needn't blame yourself mum, you needn't beat yourself up about anything; you did bring him home, I see him everywhere. I see him in his favourite chair in the conservatory. I see him sitting at the small dining table where we would have lunch together. I see him in his pyjamas and dressing gown making the tea before taking it upstairs to drink with you.
In earlier times when we all lived together standing at the worktop carving the Sunday roast.
At the larger table where we as a family would eat, dad at the head of the table, a glass of red at hand.
Sitting in his chair with the Connolly leather from when he worked at the stock exchange.
In the garden doing his leaks.
In the green house.
And in the studio throwing a new pot.
There are millions of memories that all of us who had anything to do with him will hold in our hearts for ever.
It's easier for some of us who didn't see the last days of torture.
And, mum, it's easier for me.
I see him everywhere and it's good and I can only hope, mum, that soon you can replace the memories of those last few days in Clarke Ward with visions of happier times because...
you did bring him home.
Your beautiful boy is home.
It was an overwhelming experience made special by all the family being there together.
We cried and hugged and found and gave comfort with dad right there with us.
Looking into his eyes before he went is a moment I will cherish for ever and I thank him for giving me that - he knew I was coming and he was decent enough right to the end to hang on for the wayward lad, the prodigal son.
Poor mum was with him throughout the horrible ordeal which only got worse the longer it went on.
I am really happy to have spent last summer at home with them both. He came home after his first stay at hospital when I arrived back at the beginning of July. He was weak but he got stronger and after a little while mum and I had him up and walking again.
'She's an angel your mum.'
She really is.
We believed there was hope - that is the only way you can go on - but dad was frustrated and mum and I would catch him sitting back in the conservatory looking up at the sky, contemplating.
It's a horrible thing to have gone through, to have suffered in that way and although it is little consolation we can thank all the carers for doing all that they could.
But no one deserves his praise more than mum who was there, who was always there and always has been there, tending to his needs and staying at his bedside with no sleep towards the end.
The last words he shared with anyone were the last words he shared with mum in that little room with two hospital beds crammed into it three days before I arrived: 'Let's go now, Let's go home.'
'We will David, we will. But it's dark now. We'll go in the morning. We'll put the beds next to the window and we'll look out at the little birds in the garden.'
You needn't blame yourself mum, you needn't beat yourself up about anything; you did bring him home, I see him everywhere. I see him in his favourite chair in the conservatory. I see him sitting at the small dining table where we would have lunch together. I see him in his pyjamas and dressing gown making the tea before taking it upstairs to drink with you.
In earlier times when we all lived together standing at the worktop carving the Sunday roast.
At the larger table where we as a family would eat, dad at the head of the table, a glass of red at hand.
Sitting in his chair with the Connolly leather from when he worked at the stock exchange.
In the garden doing his leaks.
In the green house.
And in the studio throwing a new pot.
There are millions of memories that all of us who had anything to do with him will hold in our hearts for ever.
It's easier for some of us who didn't see the last days of torture.
And, mum, it's easier for me.
I see him everywhere and it's good and I can only hope, mum, that soon you can replace the memories of those last few days in Clarke Ward with visions of happier times because...
you did bring him home.
Your beautiful boy is home.
Friday, 28 September 2012
M/42 Swedish military bike Restoration, Hermes by Nymans
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| M/42 Swedish Military Hermes bicycles by Nymans |
I made a trip to a scrap yard here in Finland last week to look at some old military bicycles that had been left out to survive the elements. I'm not sure how many Finnish winters they had been left there but they were not in a very pretty state.
 |
| Hermes Nymans Verstäder badge |
 |
| Hermes logo under the badge |
 |
| Three Crowns and date of 1956 on inner tube |
The inner tubes bore the Swedish Army Three Crowns mark and the name Varnamo. Värnamo is a municipality in Sweden and there is a Varnamo Rubber UK but I haven't been able to find anything about Varnamo and inner tubes from 1956.
 |
| Original 1956 inner tube with working valve |
 |
| Varnamo brand on innertube |
A later replacement inner tube was totally disintegrated.
 |
| Front wheel with drum brake |
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| Drum brake removed |
 |
| Cleaned drum brake in lock position |
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| Drum brake in free position |
 |
| 6 Volt 0.5 amp bottle dynamo |
 |
| Dynamo manufactured by ASEA (Swedish general electric) |
The finished bike had taken little over 7 hours to dismantle, clean and reconstruct. All that really needed doing was to replace the tyres, reconnect the wires for the dynamo, repair the rear light fitting, and free up the brake drum and lever mechanism.
A closer inspection of the rear hub reveled it was a one speed NOVO coaster brake hub manufactured by Husqvarna although Nymans usually installed a torpedo hub.
A closer inspection of the rear hub reveled it was a one speed NOVO coaster brake hub manufactured by Husqvarna although Nymans usually installed a torpedo hub.
With the Nymans badge putting the bike pre '47 and the rear hub post '45, the bike was probably manufactured between those years. However, my source in Sweden informs me that the frame number suggests a date of 1944, making it 68 years old when I found it. And all the parts it came with are still in perfect working order.
These were manufactured at a time before mass consumerism was the norm. Things were built to last, unlike in our modern throw-away society. I wonder what the average age is, in the west, for objects like refrigerators, TV's and washing machines? Five to ten years, perhaps? A refrigerator made in the old USSR from the 30's still works today, and yes, light bulbs can be made to last a lifetime.
These were manufactured at a time before mass consumerism was the norm. Things were built to last, unlike in our modern throw-away society. I wonder what the average age is, in the west, for objects like refrigerators, TV's and washing machines? Five to ten years, perhaps? A refrigerator made in the old USSR from the 30's still works today, and yes, light bulbs can be made to last a lifetime.
I think the bikes probably saw active service from around 1944 until 1956, when the inner tubes and tyres, which were also dated 1956, were changed. I imagine they were then taken out of active service, covered in green paint over the original grey and auctioned off whereupon they ended up in Finland.
I shall have to remake the saddle which had totally disintegrated but initial rides have proved this to be the most comfortable and solid-feeling bicycle I have ever ridden. Yes, at over 26 kg it is a heavy bike, but like an old Rolls Royce it wafts along with no rattles or squeaks. When you ride over a bump on one of these, you glide over it.
The Swedish bicycle company Kronan founded in 1997 has its roots in this very bicycle. In the '90s two Swedish university students supplemented their income by buying and restoring M/42 army bikes. When they ran out of stock, they applied for the rights of the original design and had them manufactured in Taiwan and assembled in Poland.
Perhaps I have stumbled upon the last of the remaining stock of original M/42s or could there be more out there in the many scrapyards dotted around Finland?
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| Finished and all in working order. |
Perhaps I have stumbled upon the last of the remaining stock of original M/42s or could there be more out there in the many scrapyards dotted around Finland?
 |
| Frame number stamped under the crank indicating a 1944 date of manufacture |
 |
| Swedish Army three crowns stamped on top of the handle bars |
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| Front lamp manufactured by Bosch in Sweden SP L1, probably from the 60's or even 70's |
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Indigenous tree species in Finland
I shall be adding links and pictures to this list and notes concerning uses and fruits.
Softwoods:
Pine (Pinus sylvestris)
Spruce (Picea abies)
Common juniper (Juniperus communis)
Common or european or english yew (Taxus baccata)
Hardwoods:
Silver birch (Betula pendula)
Downy birch (Betula pubescens)
Common or european alder (Alnus glutinosa)
Grey alder (Alnus incana)
Aspen (Populus tremula)
Rowan, european mountain ash (Sorbus aucuparia)
Oaklef mountain ash (Sorbus hybrida)
Swedish whitebeam (Sorbus intermedia )
Teodori rowan (Sorbys teodori)
European bird cherry (Prunus padus)
Littleleaf linden (Tilia cordata)
Norway maple(Acer platanoides)
Common or english or pedunculate oak (Quercus robur)
Common or european ash (Fraxinus excelsior)saarni
Wych elm (Ulmus glabra)
European white elm (Ulmus laevis)
Crab apple (Malus sylvestris)
Common buckthorn (Rhamnus catharticus)
Alder or glossy buckthorn (Rhamnus frangula)
Hawnthorn (Crataegus monogyna)
Goat willow (Salix caprea)
Bay or laurel willow (Salix pentandra)
Black maul. almond or almond-leaved willow (Salix triandra)
Dark-leaved willow (Salix myrsinifolia)
No known English name:
Crataegus rhipidophylla
Salix borealis
Softwoods:
Pine (Pinus sylvestris)
Spruce (Picea abies)
Common juniper (Juniperus communis)
Common or european or english yew (Taxus baccata)
Hardwoods:
Silver birch (Betula pendula)
Downy birch (Betula pubescens)
Common or european alder (Alnus glutinosa)
Grey alder (Alnus incana)
Aspen (Populus tremula)
Rowan, european mountain ash (Sorbus aucuparia)
Oaklef mountain ash (Sorbus hybrida)
Swedish whitebeam (Sorbus intermedia )
Teodori rowan (Sorbys teodori)
European bird cherry (Prunus padus)
Littleleaf linden (Tilia cordata)
Norway maple(Acer platanoides)
Common or english or pedunculate oak (Quercus robur)
Common or european ash (Fraxinus excelsior)saarni
Wych elm (Ulmus glabra)
European white elm (Ulmus laevis)
Crab apple (Malus sylvestris)
Common buckthorn (Rhamnus catharticus)
Alder or glossy buckthorn (Rhamnus frangula)
Hawnthorn (Crataegus monogyna)
Goat willow (Salix caprea)
Bay or laurel willow (Salix pentandra)
Black maul. almond or almond-leaved willow (Salix triandra)
Dark-leaved willow (Salix myrsinifolia)
No known English name:
Crataegus rhipidophylla
Salix borealis
Saturday, 15 September 2012
At the lake
15th September 2012
Twenty-two minutes to get to the lake over six kilometres away on a mono-speed bicycle.
I get that down to 17 minutes on the return journey. It was getting dark and cold. I was in a hurry and the thought of getting into my hot sauna seemed to provide the impetus necessary to add some extra rotational force to my pedalling legs.
...
Chris unchains the oars and little rowing boat, we load up our rods and paddle off around the lake skimming the banks with its reeds and marshy edges. We fish with rubber lures which are lead-weighted at the heads. They cast beautifully.
Halfway round Chris hooks and lands a pike. It's not big but would make a decent meal. Chris says the white flesh is difficult for him to distinguish from cod which I find difficult to believe - I imagined pike or most lake fish to be muddy tasting. The water is very brown here but translucent brown in the shallows. Chris says its from the peat.
The pike makes a disturbing croaking sound and before I know it, Chris has unhooked it and put it gently back into the water. It swims off.
My dinner swims off.
I am having more luck hooking the lilies than any fish and on the way back I volunteer to row. We've been on the water for one and a half hours so it's a good distance back.
...
I get that down to 17 minutes on the return journey. It was getting dark and cold. I was in a hurry and the thought of getting into my hot sauna seemed to provide the impetus necessary to add some extra rotational force to my pedalling legs.
...
Chris unchains the oars and little rowing boat, we load up our rods and paddle off around the lake skimming the banks with its reeds and marshy edges. We fish with rubber lures which are lead-weighted at the heads. They cast beautifully.
Halfway round Chris hooks and lands a pike. It's not big but would make a decent meal. Chris says the white flesh is difficult for him to distinguish from cod which I find difficult to believe - I imagined pike or most lake fish to be muddy tasting. The water is very brown here but translucent brown in the shallows. Chris says its from the peat.The pike makes a disturbing croaking sound and before I know it, Chris has unhooked it and put it gently back into the water. It swims off.
My dinner swims off.
I am having more luck hooking the lilies than any fish and on the way back I volunteer to row. We've been on the water for one and a half hours so it's a good distance back.
...
The dark lake, like a gypsy's crystal ball reflects another world. Autumn is just starting here but in the upside down world it is easy to imagine the arrival of spring in New Zealand, the land of my birth.
First signs of Autumn
15th September 2012
A solitary nettle protrudes above the wild raspberries in the chill autumnal air. The green leaves of the fruit bushes are interspersed with rusty weeds lacking the suppleness they once enjoyed, like stiff and wizened old folk. The trees in front of my window still harness the green naivety of summer but strangely it is the interior branches that host the older leaves. Now yellow and as if punctured by a dirty nail dappled with brown spots which will soon spread like the veins in a blue cheese.
Beyond, a sliver birch still stands tall and green. One neighbour is a patchwork of green and yellow while yet another is almost completely transformed and will soon wear its full autumn cloak.
Low clouds puff along to the north as a heart-shaped hole of turquoise opens up like a beacon of hope. Through the hole, cumulo clouds form with bright tops touched by the sun.
The wind rustles through the leaves.
Perhaps this afternoon it will be sunny.
A solitary nettle protrudes above the wild raspberries in the chill autumnal air. The green leaves of the fruit bushes are interspersed with rusty weeds lacking the suppleness they once enjoyed, like stiff and wizened old folk. The trees in front of my window still harness the green naivety of summer but strangely it is the interior branches that host the older leaves. Now yellow and as if punctured by a dirty nail dappled with brown spots which will soon spread like the veins in a blue cheese.
Beyond, a sliver birch still stands tall and green. One neighbour is a patchwork of green and yellow while yet another is almost completely transformed and will soon wear its full autumn cloak.
Low clouds puff along to the north as a heart-shaped hole of turquoise opens up like a beacon of hope. Through the hole, cumulo clouds form with bright tops touched by the sun.
The wind rustles through the leaves.
Perhaps this afternoon it will be sunny.
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