you say you want a revolution . . .

One of my Christmas presents from my scrummy daughters was to go out to Tea, a much deserved of a capital T Tea, in a quite-near-to-us-V-posh hotel. 

We dressed up, brushing the mud off our shiny boots and set forth in our finery to sample the delights of minding our Ps and Qs* in a completely overindulgent and as irreverent a way as possible.

A starched white linen cloth on an old oak table with perfectly folded napkins was set for us in a bay window overlooking the gardens which were gorgeous even in the rain. 

The Tea, brought to us on a triple porcelain tray, of small, crustless, rectangular  sandwiches; perfect, warm, crumbly, melt-in-the-mouth scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam (that was more strawberries than jam) and assorted exquisitely presented and delicious homemade cakes including crisp and chewy meringue (just how I love it), chocolate brownies, fruit slices and mince-pies, was enough to feed far more than the three of us.  It’s amazing how we exclaimed over the humble sandwich, normally the last resort of comestibles chez nous, but so delicious when so daintily cut and presented and with such yummy, if sometimes unidentifiable, fillings.  We licked jam and cream from our fingers (but in a refined manner), stopping only to ahh and ooh over the sheer unadulterated delight of consuming more calories than is good for one or even three.

Resting for a breather half way through, hands resting lightly on rounded tummies, some of us surreptitiously undoing a button, our chatter turned to the serious subject of New Year’s Revolutions as they’re known to us since a sweet but serious small child, who shall remain nameless, but wasn’t my first born, titled her first list of future aspirations way back in the mists of time (1995). 

Firstborn, who has been resolving the same issue since she was 5, said she would endeavour to keep her room tidy, or at the very least ensure there was a pathway between the door and her bed. Baby-Doc resolved to exercise more frequently and eat more healthily, and me? I resolved to not get married again. We didn’t want to set ourselves up for failure so we impressed on Baby-Doc that her’s was a ridiculous aspiration and she should go for something more achievable.  In the end we all agreed to not to get married (some of us again).

Sor’ed as they say in all the best establishments around here.

So to you all who may pass here I wish you the very best and everything you deserve for 2013, and may the rain seldom fall on your parade.

MAY HEALTH and HAPPINESS BE YOURS

(and mine please)

*what are Ps and Qs?

Baby-Doc and Firstborn

no entry for old women ...

Well here's a thing! I just knocked on my neighbour's door. The door of Kirsty-Cat, so called because she has 8 cats, to deliver the cat food that she had asked me to pick up for her, having spotted me venturing out in my wellies and snorkel, and having less sense than her. It was 11.30 mind when I sallied forth, and her still in her pink dressing gown. Anyway the knock wasn't answered. My ever over imaginative mind leapt to all manner of dreadful things that could befall a maiden in just her pink dressing gown, specially one who was finishing off a number of bottles that we hadn't completely emptied over this drinking holiday. So I rushed off, fetched her spare key and looked for the body. It was nowhere. The rain continueth, the wind bloweth mightily and her car was still there, as were her wellies and dogs. I trotted next door to Sensational-Susie's to ask her if she'd spotted KC's body floating past and here's the thing! The thing I started with, SS wouldn't let me in. "Is KC here?" I asked, peering round her to see what she was hiding, 

"Eh yes" she said, shiftily. I was momentarily distracted from her general demeanour of guilty secretiveness on noticing her thigh length boots, not waders mind, which would be sensible, but more of your man eating boots. 

A sheepish KC appeared round the door in full glam makeup and hairdo. 

"?!" Quoth I 

"Eh, we're having a little photography session" 

"?!"

"And profile writing..."

I begged them to let me in to watch and 'advise' but they shut the door in my face! 

Honestly I was laughing with them not at them, meanies. 

When I've posted this I'm going back over to demand entrance or peer through the letterbox. I shall take my phone and hopefully sneak a picture or two for your delectation. 

I have to admire them, I wouldn't have the nerve to put myself out there, but I wish to be included vicariously, that's only fair. I'll take bottle of something fizzy, that'll get me in.

a country for old men ...

I have drivers you know. 

Old men mostly, on whom time hangs heavily, so they find nothing better to do then become hospital transport drivers for the unable but not actually about to croak on the way. Some of them are so decrepit that I often wonder whether I should take a first aid course in case I’m called upon to deliver a burst of resus en route. And they’re all, without exception, quite mad.  Today I had Bill, he reeks of smoke, drives one handed and talks incessantly about his life in the army whilst looking at me and not the road.  I cling to the door in fascinated fear as he recalls his time as a cold war warrior doing nothing very much except in the Middle East where he appears to have taken delight in actually having an ‘enemy’ to fire upon.  He has a chest that rattles alarmingly on each painful inhalation and a wheezing productive cough that sees us stray regularly into the opposite carriageway.  It would be an ask too much were he to conk out and I required to perform the kiss of life. I’m sorry to say I just wouldn’t, but I would be sorry for his demise.

Sometimes I have Harry who is a touch on the over-familiar side. He is given to patting me with his gnarled old retired parachutist hand and calling me sweetheart.  Surprisingly, for I don’t like being man handled, I quite like him.  He doesn’t reek of smoke and his tales of daring do are laced with a hint of the secretive and imply he was where the action was in an undercover way, parachuting behind the lines and saving the world. He never comes right out and says it, but I’m given to understand, and I make sure I look like I do, that he walked the hallowed hallways of the SAS and stormed more embassies than you’ve had baths. As a rule Harry also stays on the correct side of the road and keeps at least one eye on the road even if the other is wandering where it really shouldn’t in a man of his age.

John, came across country 80 miles to pick me up the other morning.  He appeared a relatively normal looking old chap, quite dapper so also probably ex-military.  Like Bill and Harry, John is a widower and fills his days with ferrying the needy hither and thither. I’ve only had him the one time, probably because he decided to overtake on a blind bend and couldn’t help but notice me screaming about the oncoming vehicle that suddenly hove into view.  He spent the rest of the journey apologising and I’m sure I tried to reassure him that it was fine but my general demeanor of tension and the way I clung white knuckled to the door handle belayed the lie.

Martin is a nightmare. He believes he’s a cut above the rest and talks about himself in the third person. “Martin’s just going to look at his map” he says brightly whilst whipping out his OS and obliterating the windscreen and view of on coming traffic, but continuing to travel at the maximum speed limit. He also wears shorts in all weathers and has knees that should be illegal so offensive are they.  “Martin loves a jolly jape” he tells me as “Martin was in the ‘city’ and fun was in short supply”, “Martin loves transporting the old and feeble (he calls us patients) about the countryside for their pleasure” (really Martin, to hospital?)  and “Martin is an all round good egg”. Martin needs to fuck off I’m keen to tell him but after all, I think, I’m grateful for the service even if the risk of imminent mortality is greater traveling with these old geezers who, when all is said and done, have worked all their lives and find they can’t stop. 

So who better to take advantage of them and their, without exception, pristine vehicles for a pitiful mileage allowance. Non other than our beleaguered NHS. So while the Hospital administrators and private companies circling like sharks make a pretty penny from the system, our pensioners are upholding the system and without whom many of us would fail to even receive the care and treatment available to us.  

I’m so grateful and so angry all in the same breath.

II ... I>

You know, I had written a long, tedious and boring post about how my nearly ex-husband wowed the judge and I didn't, so he has ended with 75% of our joint assets because he lied under oath and the judge believed him and not me. 

But this ______________________________________________________________ is a line in the metaphoric sand and if I don't move on past it, I will become more bitter and twisted than I already am, which is quite dark and twisty enough for both of me.

It's tricky though isn't it? Moving on. Easier to say than do. And doing is some how important because if you don't 'do', what ever it is; you stay stuck like some log jam of nothingness while the river of doingness and life flows round you. And when I say you, you know I mean me, don't you?

So how, good people, do you do it? Where do you find the purpose in your daily bread? 

You would think, wouldn't you? That having been nearly dead, I would grasp life in both hands and say woohoo!  I would know what it was I'm supposed to be doing. I should feel grateful, but instead I feel guilty.  I feel ... paused. II

And I don't know where the I> play button is.

pandora's box

I am nicely medicated since having a melt down after the last day in court so I sailed serenely to the gallows yesterday expecting the worst and indeed getting it.

In short the delightfully misogynist judge questioned why I went ahead with the purchase of my little house the day after being diagnosed with what the medics thought at the time was terminal cancer.

The uncontested divorce on the grounds of domestic abuse was presumably before him, but he chose instead to tell me I had voluntarily left a comfortable 5 bedroomed house with paddocks for my ponies and a rich husband, and therefore it was my own fault that I was living in a tiny terraced cottage and living on benefits.  In his opinion I should have stayed with my husband as there were plenty of bedrooms and space for us both.  He concluded I was the architect of my own downfall and couldn't then come whining to the court that it wasn't fair.

The judge has gone away to contemplate his judgement which will be handed down in 3 to 4 weeks.

Surely by now I have reached the bottom of Pandora's box and there must be something in what remains for me?

private diary

I have little time for Facebo*k except when someone puts a link to something vaguely interesting and / or maybe humourous. Similarly Twitt*r on which I follow more organisations than people. But I still like blogs and they feel like private conversations although clearly they’re not.  That’s bizarre isn’t it? FB where the only people seeing what you post are supposed to be ‘friends’ feels like it’s shouting to the world look at me and my totally uninteresting life. The whole format of it is somehow irritating and intrusive ... or is it just me? 

It’s not that I have any secrets, sadly. But when I am moved to say something it isn’t to the FB audience, in fact it’s to no-one in particular but definitely not them; even though some of them are also some of you.  And I couldn’t possibly put a link on FB/T to advertise the fact that I’ve written something either. oh, no, no, no.  That’s as bad as FB itself. Not, I hasten to add, that I disapprove of those that do, it’s just doesn’t have the right ‘privateness’ feel for me, which as we have already concluded proves I am maladjusted and ridiculous.

Still, as this is secret, private and confidential, I’d just like to tell you about my day in court.

The whole day was spent in cross-examining me.  You would think given the scrutiny I have been under by one professional or another this last year or so, that I’d be up to the challenge.  Most sadly not, my mind vacated its admittedly feeble grasp on proceedings the minute the Judge told me that I was open to criminal prosecution in his opening sentence. I had signed, and under oath although I wasn’t particularly taking note, a document in which I had made some glaring errors, or bare faced lies if you’d like the Judge’s opinion. I signed this last December, actually I was in hospital at the time and had to leave and be taken to a solicitor and then returned to the hospital where I had a lumbar puncture.  Not something to which  I was looking forward and I imagine it may have been on my mind. I say ‘imagine’ because I have very little recollection.  The allergic reaction to the chemotherapy had robbed me of my ability to walk and had cause encephalitis and ataxia. I couldn’t actually read what I had put some weeks earlier when my ‘please-god-soon-to-be-ex-husband’ had come round shouting and threatening me and advising me in his own sweet way what should be included on the form. I was fully expecting this to be my last Christmas and indeed the palliative care team were on full alert and it was looking increasingly likely that I wasn’t counting months, and weeks might be stretching it.  Did I care about some form? Not much if I’m truthful. Which apparently I’m  not. I did try and point out that my priorities and thoughts were somewhat taken up with trying to stay alive and that I had reached by Christmas (form signed 22 December) the deadline (pun intended) to which His Honour replied that as I had signed the form I had therefore survived. Hmmmmm.  He didn’t really get it I’m afraid. He also didn’t believe that I had succumbed to pressure from p-g-s-t-b-e-h even though the grounds for the divorce (uncontested) are on p-g-s-t-b-e-h’s unreasonable behaviour including violence. 

It took all day for the kindly and understanding Judge to conclude that I was a stranger to the truth and a dastardly criminal to boot. 

We reconvene next week for part two where I’m expecting to be hung drawn and quartered and p-g-s-t-b-e-h gets to have his say about my moral ineptitude and frightening demeanor that he has had to tolerate these last few years.

Plus, my cat is ill.

have you heard the one about ... ?

There are so many people who are clever it’s sickening. Sickening, obviously, because they’re cleverer than me. And there’re just so many of them.  Most people I know in fact. 

Just yesterday, three quarters of the way through an average bottle of fizzy with the Sensational Susie and her visiting friend from London (and without any pre-warning whatsoever) she announced that her friend (the Remarkable Rhona) had annoyed her by talking in the past pluperfect third person subjunctive, or some such bollocks. I had no idea what she was talking about. It’s not that I didn’t have an education once, indeed I even did a term of Latin before being thrown out.

It’s just that if I did ever know what she meant, I don’t now.

In fact the more I think I know, the more I know how much I don’t know, and furthermore anything I might once theoretically have known, and been able to expound on with some authority (in the past pluperfect subjunctive if necessary), has seeped through the gaps between my synapses and is no more. I wonder what it was?

Suddenly I realise that for quite some time I have not been holding up my end of the conversation with any great alacrity. Furthermore, it has come to light, just moments before the punchline, that the jokes I once relied upon to disguise the fact that I had no real intellect or knowledge deeper than Mr Google can provide, have deserted me en masse. 

I sit bewildered, bemused and quite clueless. 

In part I blame my children who have turned out to by far more intelligent than me (this is all their father’s fault) and with whom I can no longer hold a conversation unless it revolves around what the dogs have chewed up today or what’s on special offer in the shop.

In a moment of introspection and angst I mentioned this to them this weekend after reporting the SS/RR conversation which I didn’t understand. I said I thought it might be caused by the ‘year’ I’ve had, but I am relieved and absolutely delighted to report that they say, and with some authority for they have known me all their lives, that I have never known what I’m talking about, and have seldom been able to deliver the correct punchline to the jokes I tell.  In fact I’m no different, intellectually-wise to how I have ever been! 
I just have different hair.

But just so you know ...

A pleasant fellow driving down a quiet Wiltshire lane was just passing a farm yard when without warning a cockerel ran into the road in front of him. Whack, the cockerel disappeared under the wheels of the car in a flurry of feathers. The man being a careful driver and a kind man to boot, was much shaken by this experience and devastated to discover the cockerel was quite dead. So being an honourable sort of chap, he pulled into the farm yard and rang the doorbell of the farm house. When the farmer appeared he said, somewhat nervously, “I think I have killed your cockerel, please allow me to replace him”.  The farmer looked him up and down, but this being Wiltshire wasn’t going to argue with a generous stranger, so replied, “Suit yourself chum, you’ll find the hens round the back.”

mwah ha ha ha ha ha 

back where I belong

if you have been here before, you will know that I had a perfect life ...

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

(excuse me)

... that in 2009 I had a broken back. You will also know that I went to have it repaired and I was allergic to the general anaesthetic, and I crashed upon the table causing all sorts of mayhem and malpractice. When I eventually awoke in ITU, I was not the happiest of little bunnies.

Since then things have headed steadily downwards,
or is it the angle I've been looking at it?

I've managed to have untreatable cancer and 6 months or less to live, but have been treated and am here a year later.  (with hair) (after a fashion) (not a recent one)

My marriage has crashed around my ears, but I've been too ill to save it. So I have lost a violent and controlling husband but gained independence that is breathtaking in it's glory, and also two dogs that I would never have been allowed,

but I lost Freddie my gorgeous pony.

I also seem to have broken another bone in my back.  sigh
L1

Is this circlical* d'you think? Or just another bend in the road?

*apparently this word doesn't exist, but you know what I meant didn't you?

bad hair day

I hate my hair with a passion. Not with quite the same volume of passion as I hated no hair, but close enough that any bright spark telling me to cheer up it’s an improvement, is likely to be just that bit less bright at the tone of my riposte that no it fucking isn’t... well much.

It has grown in spirals, not Pre-Raphaelite curls, but a tight perm of the sort an 85 year old great-grandmother might think was a bargain if the new trainee did it for nowt, as a practise run, just before dying it blue. 

I pray* that when it’s grown longer than its current two inches, an estimate obviously I can’t straighten it out properly to measure, it will start to be affected by the same gravitational force to which the rest of my body seems prey. At the moment it seems to be growing up, which is more than can be said for the rest of me.

*not to a god, which brings me nicely on to the WI, who are rife in this village and insist on doing good works and serving tea and cakes at every turn. This is all fine and dandy, and may even be tasty, but two teas in and they want you to be on some committee and baking cakes.  I may have the hair of an aga-saga old bat, but I draw the line at baking.  Such was the verbal content of my moaning, droning and groaning to my neighbour, the Sensational Susie. Her real name because she would never have time to read crap such as this. 

Never have I had the misfortune to meet such an upbeat and amazing woman who thinks nothing of trekking across the Himalayas in her lunch break. No, seriously, at the age of 60 something she leads trekking holidays in the most forsaken places on the planet and can drink a bottle of vodka in one sitting. When she’s home from these expeditions she’s riding her bike up vertical hills and also (if the WI are to be believed) the local male population.  Although she did apprise me of the fact that in her experience, which I can only imagine is manifold, Russian men are the best kissers. 

She has decided the best medicine for my current state of glass-half-emptyism is drinking what’s left in there, refilling and exercise.  As her idea of a short walk is 10 miles and her idea of a short drink is several of them one after another at at least 50% proof, we’re not off to a great beginning. I’m blaming it on the rain as it makes my curly hair into coiled and compressed springs that would take an eye out if only anyone got that close.  But she is not to be thwarted and has decided if I can’t walk far enough, one drink and I fall over then asleep, and refuse to bake, then it's the ‘rights of way’ committee for me; the only village group, according to Susie, made up entirely of men.  While she wields a large and to the rest of us, unwieldy heavy duty strimmer I can co-ordinate the working parties so she is on the ones with the few remaining men who haven’t had the benefit of her attentions. Then when I’m stronger, I can apparently ‘join-in’. 

She’s the sort of bad influence I needed 30 years ago. 

lights off ...

do you think much about climate change? 

I do, now and then. I am today. At times I get worked up and worried about it.  It’s no good thinking that it doesn’t matter because it won’t happen in our lifetime because it already is.

But it’s not so bad is it? We’re coping, sort of. There may be a few starving polar bears because the ice floes are melting and it might be a very hot summer in Downtown US of A. Australia’s burning and there’s a gaping great hole in the ozone over the Kiwis. There are droughts where it should be raining, and there are floods and tsunamis that make us gape in horror.  But you and me, we’re alright Jack, aren’t we? 

I can't remember all the maths, but you can find it here ( http://m.rollingstone.com/entry/view/id/29695/pn/all/p/0/?KSID=fc477700061462cb2a3c4fbd0e1a18d4 ) if you have the heart, the concern and the interest to read it all.

It’s about oil mainly,  and fossil fuels, and the burning of such that causes the greenhouse gasses that are causing the planet to hot up. And up. And the hotting up is disastrous to us little warm blooded creatures, we just can’t stand the heat, even out of the kitchen. 

What’s more clever scientist and geologists and even the oil companies themselves have worked out how much more we can burn before we all melt. Frighteningly, very, very frighteningly, we have oh so much more available to us than is good for us.  Some five times more than is good for us.  It might be still underground but it’s for sale in the share prices of all the big Oil companies.  So do they want us to say leave it where it is, don’t drill, mine, frac, leave it, leave it, we’re all going to die? Nope cos then their stock price will plummet and they won’t be as rich as they were. They might even be as poor as you and me but their grandchildren may live to thank them, but perhaps not while toting a Gucci handbag. 

That’s lucky we can blame it all on the oil companies then isn’t it? Especially we here in blameless little UK (who lead the industrial revolution), because big bad USA and big bad China are currently the worst culprits.  But everyone of us who thinks nothing about jumping into our cars, turning the heating on because we’re a tad chilly, having a nice cold fridge, a nice widescreen TV, even turning on the lights, using our laptops (cough) are all using fossil fuels. Even if we have a nice safe nuclear electricity generator up the road, or a field of wind turbines, it’s simply not enough.  Apparently only one little country in the whole world has managed to reduce their  carbon output (oh yes, if you like, footprint), Germany. They are streets ahead of the rest of the world but the good they do is gnats’ piss compared to poison the rest of us are pumping out.

But if the German’s can do it and make Porsches economical (snort) there must be hope, surely we can put the welfare of the world and all its occupants (except cockroaches who will survive anything and everything) before making money. Are we really all going to hell in a handcart because some rich bastard somewhere is protecting his mighty $?

Say it can’t be so, and while you’re at it get on your bike, the peddling kind.

so, moving swiftly on . . .

Did you see Eric Idle in the closing ceremony of the 'lympics?

I waited, wondering whether he'd say shit and he did!

It was the best bit.

"So always look on the bright side of deathJust before you draw your terminal breath
Life's a piece of shit when you look at itLife's a laugh and death's a joke it's trueYou'll see it's all a show keep 'em laughing as you goJust remember that the last laugh is on you ..."
Eric Idle

tears of a clown ...

I’m a bit down.

My lovely soon-to-be-ex-husband demanded, and was granted by the court, a full and detailed prognosis of my condition and recovery to ascertain my future earning potential.

I had to read and sign it off when it arrived yesterday, to authorise its forwarding to him and the court.

Now I knew that I fell in the cancer-likely-to-return-and-see-me-off category but I also knew I wasn’t at the most likely of the likely, and frankly I didn’t want to know the percentages. If I thought about it at all I was thinking maybe 49% v 51%, almost a 50/50 chance I’d cheat the grim chap and his swiss army knife.

It came as a bit of shock then to see my lovely upbeat oncologist (really, no sarcasm here) only gave me a 20-30% chance of getting away with a cure and making it to retirement age.

Only yesterday (before I knew it was winging its little electronic way to me) I told a friend that I didn’t think I had as yet let myself believe I was out of the woods and skipping down the lane homewards, but obviously I had because today I just can’t bear it. 

And I want someone to just hold me and let me weep.  But there’s no-one here and I can’t bear that either.  I daren’t let go of the tiny shred of togetherness that I am grasping with the mere tip of my broken nails for fear of upsetting my children who are celebrating my recovery. So I’m writing this to you, whoever you are, because you’re all I’ve got this minute in this moment, and I’m sorry, so sorry because I’d rather be hit by a bus then go through a lingering, hateful, painful, miserable illness again when I haven’t yet got over it the first time.  Right now I want to go to sleep and not wake up because I’m too scared and weak and frightened to face the future.  

Thats all.

Mrs Tiggywinkle

It's good drying weather n'est pas? For washing I mean. The washing and drying of clothes to be perfectly clear. The washing machine exerts a sort of hypnotic effect on me, when it's on that is, and going round.  I find myself watching it and the clothes therein going round and round, and admiring its ability to move things from the front to the back just by going round and round and round and round ...
And isn't it funny that the load gets smaller the wetter it gets. Things shoe-horned in with a foot, suddenly have space at the top. Most things get bigger with water added but not clothes, perhaps it's the lack of air, or the water pressure, or some physics that Vicus will explain.

Just now as I watched the jolly clever machine in action, I thought about my mother's twin-tub.  Most people of my great age, and who lived south of the Watford Gap will surely have been brought up with a Hotpoint (I think) Twin-Tub. North of the gap I imagine it was a river bank, with a washboard or even rocks, probably still is. (Do not judge me harshly for that comment, my family hailed from Macclesfield so I know that of which I speak). Anyway it had a circular thingy that I imagine the powder went in, on the top of the thingy that swished back and forth in the water to wash the clothes. When washing was being done it had a very distinctive smell of washing powder and hot rubber and the round thinging always seemed to be full of fluff, (thinks), actually perhaps it was a filter.

Then, after a time determined by the washer-woman (my Mum) the clothes would be lifted out with an enormous pair of wooden tweezers and deposited in the spindryer, which was round and not square like the washing bit. This was in itself a fascinating procedure (for those of us with a washine machine fixation) that involved placing a little rubber doiley on top before sliding across the upside-down-glass-bowl shaped lid and waiting for take off. The machine would then dance around the kitchen vibrating the hell out of the house until the hose, hooked into the sink, ran dry. After that it was pegging out stuff which held no interest to me until I was much, much older and my OCD set in. Then I had to be in sole charge of pegging-out because otherwise it just isn't done right. How CAN people peg out socks not n pairs, it just isn't right.

My Granny, the one from Macclesfield, was obviously late to the joys of twin-tubs having only moved south in her mid-forties.  She never got the hang of the spin dryer and would leave it going for several weeks until all clothes were 7 feet long and 2 inches wide.  It became so embarrassing to see her out in the hours of daylight in this strange distorted apparel, that when I started work I bought her an automatic washing machine which spoilt all her fun, but started my endless fascination with watching clothes go round and round and rou ...

Oh the embarrassment ...

Back in he days when I had a rich husband, if he had been particularly nasty I would take my revenge by buying very expensive things. Spite shopping I called it and it's why in my now impoverished state I still tote a £700 Mulberry handbag. I would upload a picture of it because it's that good, but the iPad won't let me. Indeed the iPad is also a nifty bit of spite shopping.

Anyway, today I was in the metropolis known as Devizes, mooching around the second hand shops as is my want these days, when a bright young thing serving in one of them admired my handbag and pointed out a similar one but in tan. Mine being black. Thinking I might pick up a bargain I inspected it closely. It had been stuffed with all manner of interesting stuff to show its perfect lines. And I was impressed with this idea, much more satisfying than screwed up brown paper. I was flicking through a diary that had been in the bag, after returning to it a rather nice tortoiseshell hair clip, a silk scarf and a exquisite little mirror, and wondered whether the bag came with the contents,
"How much is it?" I asked "and does it come with the contents?"
"eh no," she replied, "it's my bag. I was just pointing out the similarities with yours."
I returned her diary to the bag and zipped it up smartly. I backed out of the shop in a confusion of heartfelt and profuse apologies.

Oh god, I still haven't got over it.

And there was a very nice mirror in there (shop, not bag. Although there was one in the bag as I think I may already have mentioned) but I am far, far, far too embarrassed to ever go back there.

In fact I may never go out again.

No sex please we're British (ish)

When my parents divorced and the joint properties were sold, my mother moved to a new house by the sea-side. She treated herself to new bed on her move, an all singing and dancing affair that lifted your head or feet or both I imagine, at the press of a button. I didn't think much about it at the time but it was a single bed. She wasn't that much older than I am now, so this morning I am pondering the significance of the singleness. Especially as when moving here to my single existence, I bought a double bed. Currently I sleep with one or two dogs and assorted passing cats so there's not much room for anyone else, but did I buy a double (and it never crossed my mind to buy a single) because somewhere in my subconscious I don't want to sleep alone? ? ? It's a worrying thought because I believe that I quite like living alone. It's the first time in my life that I have done this. I have never before lived in a home that didn't contain at least one other human being. And it's liberating. And selfish, in that I only have my self to please, not counting of course the two dogs, four cats, four chickens, two rabbits and two ponies that need attention now and then. I eat when I like, sleep when I like, watch whatever I like on the telly and the remote is MINE. That will change a bit in a biggish sort of way when I return to work sometime in the nearish future, but not the essence of doing as I please. Now I'm starting to feel better I feel like a kid let loose in a toy shop, so why suddenly am I looking at my bed and wondering why I bought a double. Why would I want to share this oh so peaceful and self centred existence for god's sake? Perhaps I need a cold shower which is funny because I did unexpectedly have one this morning as the boiler seems to have gone on strike. It wasn't as much fun as those mad Scandinavians claim. And yesterday I made red currant jelly. Perhaps my subconscious is trying to save me from myself before I turn into a mad old cat (dog, pony, rabbit, chicken) woman with a shopping trolley and woolly hat. Which is another striking coincidence because when I was in hospital last month they gave me a brown woolly hat from the chemo hat and wig corner because no-one else liked it but I did. I wonder where I can get such a useful thing as a shopping trolley? (ps I did put paragraphs honest, but blogger as decided to ignore them again, perhaps because I'm using the iPad?)

Gimme gimme gimme

For once I seem to be in agreement with the government (which has come as a bit of a surprise).  I have to say I applaud their stance on legalising gay marriages. Frankly if two people think they can hack it for eternity why not let them have a go?  Don't we all enjoy the schadenfreude of hope over reality?  What possible harm can it do, and how can it be anyone else's business?  I'm not actually clear what the difference is between a legal civil partnership and marriage, and frankly I can't be arsed to googlise it, thought it was a case of semantics, but obviously there must be a difference or there wouldn't be the fuss. And would you believe it, those making the biggest fuss are those narrow minded individuals who also think that heaven awaits if you love thy neighbour. If it wasn't so inequitable it would be funny. 

I used to have a husband, or two, but have found that they are superfluous to a calm and peaceful existence. Not that I think marriage is necessarily always frought with tension and murderous intent, I know many a happy couple who haven't spoken to each other in years let alone summoned up the energy to engage in a spot of marital sparring.  But now and then, like right now this minute, I could do with a man. I hate to admit it, but I find my self somewhat stuck...

...behind this.

Blah blah blah blah (blogger has pinched the paragraphs, other errors are proudly my own)

It's not been the best week of my life, but I've had worse I suppose. The death of Freddie, though, unleashed fathomless grief, wailing and general OTT blubberiness. Much more so than for example, another marriage down the pan, being diagnosed with cancer, and any manner of things that have gone tits up in the last year.  Maybe it was the culmination of it all, and this vaguely crossed my addled mind as I sat in the middle of the field last Monday, snot and tears running down my face and into my mouth as I howled like a banshee, although louder I imagine. I don't recall ever having cried this much or this desperately before and it wasn't cathartic just bloody messy.  I went back later that evening to see my other ponies and it happened again, I emerged like hurricane swept tree, leafless, nearly uprooted, battered but to my own amazement, still standing; I think it's gone now and if I feel the wave of it approaching I can mentally run. So, wrong metaphor, not a hurricane, a tsunami.  Now, if someone mentions Freddie, in fact writing this, then the tears fall but not the howling, with luck that was it, thank all the gods and little fishes, big ones even. I started with the jolly chemo again this week. I don't give it much thought before I arrive at the hospital, a coping mechanism because I'm not brave or strong and am constantly terrified, but like all strong emotions I can't spend all my time in a constant grip of terrifiedness or dogs, cats, chickens, rabbits, ponies and visitors would never get fed and watered and I'd be dead. Luckily I have a butterfly mind that's easily distracted and while the direction it can take is a matter usually out of my control, I can follow along and tamp down anything I don't want to address with some success. The only downside is too vivid an imagination which can make the most minor procedure into a massive undertaking. Apparently, so I have read on the net, that source of perfect accuracy and fact, that imagining something is the same as experiencing it and your body knows no difference. I can't say that I believe this 100% because I'm sure George Clooney in the flesh would be a better bet than in my imagination, but hey who knows?   When I was in hospital at the beginning of May being debulked of all the bits I can apparently manage without I was panicking about a) the anaesthetic, having previously crashed in theatre and being allergic to GA n'all, b) cannulas which are getting harder and harder to insert as my veins get more and more battered. My mind whisked over recovery without much conscious thought to how I would be afterwards or the pain I might be in. I didn't address what would happen if things went wrong and I was still alive.  As a result I wasn't prepared to die, but i was prepared for the fact that getting a cannula in was going to be a nightmare of epic proportions and indeed it was (was this because i imagined it would be?), in the end I refused to let them have another go, there are only so many holes a girl needs about a body.  This is the power of imagination (and battered veins) then, when you're scared and stressed veins collapse, in fact if it doesn't go in first time, they collapse in case you're being stabbed by an adversary as opposed to a doctor, to prevent bleeding i guess, arteries are worse and if you've had arterial blood taken you have my sympathies, they're not doing that to me again either!   What I wasn't prepared for was the amount of pain a blocked gut can inflict. I had what's called ileus as a result of a kink in my intestines when Mr Surgeon stuffed them back in after their sojourn on the table. Well I've had 2 children, a kidney stone and arterial blood taken and I can tell you this was worse! And made worse by the fact that their are very few decent nurses left in the employ of the beleaguered NHS. The majority of ward staff are untrained health care assistants, some are brilliant, most are one step from useless. The NHS is still excellent, treatment (mine anyway) has been second to none but there is no ward care. How this stupid, greedy government thinks that a profit can be made from the sick when there's insufficient money available to staff hospitals is beyond belief. And the money wasted is shocking.  I was in a gynae hospital across the road from the General and had to go over for a CT scan. Because it involved crossing the road, an ambulance had to be called. There were two emergency ambulances available but as this wasn't an emergency one of them was not allowed to spend five minutes ferrying me across, instead an ambulance with a two man crew was called from Poole, some 60 miles away. A porter could have pushed me across in moments, but the worry was he might have pushed me under a bus and the hospital has no insurance for wayward patients crossing roads in the 'care' of hospital staff. They tell me that they built a tunnel connecting the two hospitals but when it was 4/5ths finished they ran out of money from that particular jam-jar. The cost of ambulancing patients across as now exceeded the cost of finishing the job 8 times over and that's in 18 months, different jam-jar though, so that's ok. To return to this weeks chemo, (I bet you can't wait, that's if you've got this far along with my verbal diarrhoea) I made a particular point of not thinking about how they would get the cannula in until the moment the lovely chemo nurse (and they are ALL lovely) had my arm in her hand and I went into meltdown, the veins vanished as if they never were and my blood stopped dead in its tracks. She tried heat pads and beating me senseless but when she tried digging around in there not a vein to be found. It hurts when there's no vein but that's not the main objection I have although it's pretty high up he list, I just don't like needles and the more I have the more pathetic I get about it, I think it's verging on a phobia now. The lovely nurse sent for an older more experienced colleague who thankfully managed to cannula  my other arm. As more and more people have managed not to find a vein, I can now feel when the needle is actually in the right place or not. Not a skill I wanted to add to my repertoire of body knowledge, I'd rather know where my G spot is.  Anyway the stuff dripped through and I had a visit from a great friend who first helped me when I had Freddie as a foal and he was a wild and untouched colt straight off the New Forest.  We cried buckets but not the howling snotty stuff, just the sadness of a young life cut short through illness, and we tried not to make comparisons because we were in the oncology unit and there are plenty of young lives here that will be cut short.  But then we also talked of other things, and there was laughter as well as tears. And despite the chemo and cannulas I'm getting better. It truly is a miracle. Nine months ago they didn't give me six and here I am boring you all to gnawing off your own arms and there is a chance the cancer won't come back. I fall into the most likely to come back category but I'm not at the shit end, I'm at the less likely of the likely which is good from where I'm sitting. And have I learned anything at all from this experience? Yes i have learned that there are people who really care about me. People who i don't even know very well who are thinking and worrying about me and wishing me well.  And I count anyone reading this who has been kind enough to comment.  Knowing you have worth even in a small way makes a real difference to feeling life is worth the living of.  But in general I still feel the same about most things as I did before (except the ex, who came round the eve before chemo to have a shout at me, which he does from time to time in case I should be managing too well without him, yes thanks). I do know that thinking how I might feel about a situation is very rarely how I'll actually react in reality, but that's probably true for most of us. Day dawns whatever shit you're in and life plods on. It's not being brave, strong, special, at least not in my case, it's just being alive and that's enough. 

the law's an ass?

before you start I can't find my glasses so I can't see what I'm typing.  I'm just waiting you see, for my friend to collect me and take me to Court. Crown Court.  I've never been in one before but I'm there to today to see my soon to be very ex husband become an actual very ex husband.  It's all very complicated and messy and I won't go into all that, but he was very keen to tell me how very difficult the last 6 months have been for him.  I didn't like to mention what a great time I've been having. I doubt actually that anything will be resolved today, the final hearing is next month and I'm sure it will go to that. It hangs over me. but only like one of the many axes tipped to fall on my neck if I move in the wrong direction.  I've never been bright enough to play chess well, but by golly I feel like a pawn just now. Perhaps I should try upping my game and be the Queen - is she the one that wins? I always liked the horsey one best, but it moved in mysterious ways.

Ozzie Di came to see me yesterday. If I was clever I could link her blog but I'm not and I can't see anyway.  She was cold and wet and I had to lend her some wellies so we could go for a walk in the mud. It was fantastic to see her even slightly damp, we ajourned to the pub out of the rain and had lunch and wine and then went to the bluebell wood to look at the damp and not quite out bluebells. It wasn't all bad though because we met a dog called Annie with 3 legs which was interesting. Di (being Australian) remarked to the owner that she seemed to be missing 25% of her dog but this is Wiltshire so it went way. way over the head of said owner who replied "thas as maybe but she's only got 3 legs you know". I patted the three legged dog and the ownerd patted Bertie and Bailey and remarked on the squelshieness of the ground that Di was slowly sinking in so I took her home for another glass of wine (Di not the 3 legged dog and owner, but I will look out for them in future - my wavelength I think).

Di went back on the train to London in the rain, she promised she'd bring sunshine but she's saving that for when she returns next month after my op. It's going to be a sunny May, Di says so.

Is that the time? Boo, still 1/2 hour to go. When I saw my doc last week she advised me to go looking like death, in fact she said, go how you're looking today.  I don't know whether reapers are allowed in Court, but I have put my little Swiss Army knife in my bag as a substitute.  I will wear my long black raincoat with hood too.  Although I fancied I looked more like the Black Widow (off the adverts) than the Grim Reaper but who am I to argue with medical opinion, they have got me this far.

It's a tricky one though isn't it?  Dress up, dress down, go in my pjs, glam it up and wear my wig (ugh), don't wear it and look like a demented poodle - will this encourage sympathy from the judge?  And what is it with chemo hair eh?  Why has it grown back curly and dark (not counting the grey bits boo hoo) - it's a very annoying length of about an inch and it looks like a fright wig. Well it frightens me when I look in the mirror, I don't look like my mother, I look like my grandmother.  And I tell you something else, which is probably too much information, but what the hell I'm on a roll here, other hair, that was curly is now straight! I don't think it's changed places (oh please god no no no and everyone is being too polite and not telling me? aaaarrrgh) because the hair on my head is very soft and babylike, but as I said, poodle.

Anyway, I think I will just have a walk around and panic a bit more and then decide to change and look more formal and then change back into my jeans but a smart jacket then a hoody then a long frock which might drag in a puddle so long boots but they need a clean so short boots and smart trousers that need ironing so ...

18:23 UPDATE

It was shite, it couldn't have been any fucking shiter and the final hearing has been put off until October because apparently I'm ill and can't decide for myself whether I'm up to another court hearing or not.

Is the law an ass? It's a fucking imbicile.

Forgive me while I just murder someone.

more the merrier

"there seems to be something in my bed..."

yes!

meet Bailey

not dead yet

no not a bit of it, despite the fact that I shouldn't still be here, not only am I here, but I think getting better.  My doctors are kean to point out ad nusaeum that there is no cure but I'm off to be debulked shortly. This means that Mr M my surgeon is popping inside and leaving with everything he can take that I don't need anymore.  After that I have a bit more chemo to suffer through and then with luck and a fair wind I should be cancer free, at least for a while, and a long while with more luck.

Lucky, lucky, lucky me.

Thank you mistress Luck!*

*and of course all those who had faith in me, sat with me, visited me, contacted me, sent me words of hope and succour, were there for me and never gave up xxx