Truce

This is me last year writing obscenities on a Scottish beach.  Note the posture, I now seem to be stuck in this position, read on for more exciting details.

 

 

 

Firstly, Allotment Wars update (as I know people will have been having sleepless nights worrying about the situation).  We seem to have reached an uneasy truce with the stinkers (otherwise known as the Allotment Management Committee).  I sent them an email saying ‘back off chum, I’ve got cancer’ (only nicely) and I got an email back from them saying ‘oh alright then, but do better next year’ (only nicely).  They then blew it a bit, as one committee member sent an email to another committee member with all the previous emails attached and a note saying simply ‘nice one’.  I’m pretty sure the dimbo copied me into this by mistake.  I’ve resisted the temptation to write back demanding to know exactly what they mean by ‘nice one’ but instead am keeping the offending email for ammo should the Great Allotment Battle recommence.  In the meantime thanks for the suggestions re weed killer and seed bombs.  Nothing is being ruled out. 

Other than that it’s all ow, ow, ow here at Discombobulated Towers.  I’ve got backache and am hobbling around pathetically.  The cause of the backache could be chemo (aches and pains being one of the possible side effects), or it could just be backache or, and this is what’s playing on my mind, it could be a Sign of Something More Sinister.  Having cancer, if you’re a wuss like me, means that every little ache or pain becomes a cause for worry.  Oh well, I’ve got another scan in the middle of August so my insides will be inspected then.  Actually, if I’m honest, I’ve always been a cowardy custard when it comes to aches, cancer or no cancer.  Over the years I’ve been convinced I had rabies, ebola and a slight case of leprosy.  No, not all at once, what do you think I am, some kind of mad hypochondriac? 

Told yer

Hello big boy

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about going to a reclamation yard which had a huge dog.  Well, I went back there today and this time got photographic evidence of the existence of the Hound of the Baskervilles.  I have nothing to add other than told yer so, oh and do you think I should introduce the dog to the allotment committee?

For an ideal of scale, those paws are the size of dinner plates

More arsery

Yesterday I mentioned that my three-legged monster cat, Cyril, is a total arse.  I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to come to this realisation but having finally got there Cyril is now re-enforcing my opinion of him on an almost hourly basis.

It’s a warm, sunny day here today, so placed my chair in the shade in the garden and pondered the sheer loveliness of nature in all its summertime glory.  Cyril came and sat companionably on the grass next to me as I watched the bees buzz from one flower to another.  I got up to examine a butterfly at close range, admiring the filigree of its wings and mulling over how the short but beautiful nature of its life could be a metaphor for our own time here on Earth*.  Then I glanced back at my chair.  In the two nanoseconds since I got up Cyril, the sneaky little git, had jumped into my place and was giving me a smug look daring me to move him.  I’m sure if he could have stuck two fingers up at me he would have.   

Up yours

Not only haven’t I thrown him off my chair I have (honestly) been moving him and the chair around the garden so he keeps in the shade.  The cat is an arse and I am a doormat.  That said only one of us is stupid enough to wear a furry black and white cat suit in this weather (and it isn’t me).

I also strongly suspect that Cyril has a pocket in his furry cat suit in which he keeps his note book containing his list of Things That Must Be Destroyed.  At present I believe the list reads as follows:

• Jigsaws
• Sofas
• Bathroom rug
• Bedroom rug
• Anything made of toweling
• Closed doors
• Humans’ ability to relax

But I have a sinking feeling that this is only the tip of the iceberg.

* - I might have been delirious, suffering from heatstroke at this point

One year on

Look, I had hair, and the other-half had yet to drop a huge clanger

A year ago today the other-half and I got married.  At the risk of being a big softie and all un-cynical (don’t worry normal service will be resumed shortly) it was an absolutely fantastic day.  It was warm and sunny, we were surrounded by friends and family, the venue was definitely my cup of tea (old, rackety and owned by, erm, eccentrics) and I spent many hours in a gentle beer/wine cloud of fluffiness.   

My ideal home.  Of course, if it was mine, I wouldn't let oiks like me get married there.

The tree house - scene of near knicker trauma

Which is just as well as, as in addition to the loveliness, I had to cope with trying to hold my skirt down (the ceremony took place in a tree-house like affair and the breeze was determined to reveal my big-flesh-coloured-suck-it-all-in-knickers to the world) and my husband calling me by the wrong name during his speech – that part was more Eastenders than Friends but memorable nonetheless.   Apparently the first wedding anniversary is paper.  £50 notes will be accepted.

A year on.  I’m afraid the scales have dropped from eyes.  I have to face the truth, no matter how hard I try not to.  No, this isn’t about the other-half.  It’s the growing realisation that my cat is a total arse.  Sorry, there’s no other way to put it.  Yesterday he went missing from the garden again I was in bed (recuperating from chemo side-effects) so I chucked some clothes on over my pyjamas and wobbled about the streets and the Very Busy Road calling him and rattling cat biscuits.  I gave up after a bit and went back to bed only to find, a couple of hours later, that he hadn’t left the garden at all and had been deep in undergrowth ignoring me.  Then at 4am this morning he went beserk charging about the place making as much noise as a fat three-legged cat can (which is a lot) until I got up and fed him.  He is now, at 9am, fast asleep at the foot of the bed.  Well, he’s had a tough night.  And so have I. 

The best laid plans

It's all very well going to a 4-5 hour chemo/herceptin session with a fully loaded Kindle and a huge bag full of books and magazines, but what happens when your glasses break only an hour into treament?  Much wailing and gnashing of teeth, that's what happens.

Other than that all OK, apart from low iron levels and the need for iron tablets.

A long dull day.  Now at home enjoying the solace of my spare pair of glasses.  I've got some reading to catch up on. 

Allotment Aggro

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned the annoying letter we had from the Allotment Management Committee.  I wrote:

There is outrage and fury at Discombobulated Towers.  We have had a very snotty letter from the allotment management committee saying and I quote (to show what a twonky bunch of pillocks they are) “the level of cultivation of your plot this year is limited in its scope and not consistent with the objectives of the society and the obligations of membership”.  So far this year the other-half has planted sweet corn, carrots, kale, broccoli, swedes, radishes, lettuce, courgettes, tomatoes, squash, cabbages, peas, beans and raspberries in between working and insulting looking after me.  Words fail me.  Honestly put some people on a committee and give them clipboards and the next moment they're goose-stepping all over the place.  I’m tempted to storm round to the head honcho’s house, pound on his door and shout “I’ve got cancer I have” (well there’s got to be some perks).  But revenge is a dish best served cold – and preferably by a hired assassin.  In the words of the immortal Father Jack ARSE BISCUITS to the lot of them.

Well, in the spirit of not-letting-things-lie and Advanced Grudge Holding I am still miffed about the whole situation.  Here is a picture of the allotment when we took it over last year

No work required there then

 And this is it about three weeks later when we’d cleared it.

An action weeding shot - oh the excitement

  It’s currently planted up (apart from a quarter which is covered in plastic to keep weeds at bay).

And here's a picture of the cat-that-hangs-around-the-allotments-all-day.  I'm not sure if he's a committee spy but look at the walk and the set of his ears.  He looks like he thinks he's very important. 

A dodgy character

We are dithering about whether to keep the allotment or give it up after this year’s harvest.  It’s great to grow your own veg but the committee is such a total and utter pain.  Other allotment holders have moaned about the committee to us – about the sending of rude, grammatically incorrect (the horror) letters and apparent disapproval of women having allotments with no male assistance.  Did I mention the plots are on the other side of a worm hole in space and time and so are permanently set in 1950?  If you’ve seen the film ‘Grow Your Own’ you’ll have an idea of the sort of thing I mean.  One of our neighbouring plot holders is all for staging a coup and taking over the committee but, even though I’m revolting, that does sound like work.  I’m not very good at effort.

Also I had romantic notions about allotments as the sort of place where everyone would be friendly, offering jars of handmade pickles tied with gingham ribbon and inviting you round for a glass of plum wine in the shed.  While some people are really nice others are incredibly grumpy.  There’s one couple in particular that send us running from the allotments as soon as they arrive.  The bloke continuously shouts at his wife telling her she’s doing everything wrong.  If she ever came down to the plot by herself I’d tell her that if she wants to hit him over the head with a shovel I’d happily help her dig a trench and bury him.  Mind you, he’d probably come back and haunt her telling her the grave was sub-standard.

Anyway, there you have it, my allotment dilemma.  I expect it will be on national news soon.

Chemo tomorrow, so I’ve been downloading like crazy on to my Kindle.  I’m on steroids too so I’ve ironed bed linen, something I only ever do when I’m in a steroid frenzy.  My mum would shake her head at me as she used to iron everything, including knickers.  She once even starched my tiered skirt (shut up, it was the 70’s) I looked like one of those knitted ladies people used to put over the spare loo roll.

Phwoar!

Phwoar look at my lovely chest!  I went to the local auction with the other-half and sisters nos 1 and 3 and came away with a late 17^th century oak coffer.  I am chuffed.  Especially as it was a snip (less than a quarter of the price of something very similar in the Posh Antiques Shop, which I had been coveting for a long time).  It’s a little bit pongy (the other-half says it smells of old churches) so I’ve chucked a couple of lavender bags in it but I don’t really care as it is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.  Will I be as smug when I discover that it’s full of woodworm?  Probably not, but for now I am a happy bunny.

I've been up to all sorts over the last week.  I had a good poke around at the Reclamation Yard with the Very Big Dog (sadly no picture but he was HUGE, I'm talking Hound of the Baskervilles size).  I've been back yet again to The Plant Nursery with the Very Big Cat.  Below is a picture of said cat trying to cadge some of my sister's bacon sandwich by looking regal (it didn't work).

Give me bacon now, you peasants.

 

I’ve met up with pals and work colleagues R and D and caught up on all the gossip.  Had a lovely surprise present from L.  I’ve eaten out a couple of times and, joy of joys, had (a limited amount of) alcohol.  And, like everyone else in England, I’ve been rained on relentlessly.  At one point the other-half and I got absolutely soaked (I’d forgotten my brolly).  I, of course, was brave but the other-half moaned that, and I quote, “it’s raining down the back of my shirt and going into my knickers”.  My hero. 

Cyril (my three-legged monster cat) has taken to waking me regularly at 5am.  Sister No 1 has taken pity on me and is looking after Cyril for a few nights so I can get some kip.  I pop round to see the cat (and my sister of course) regularly.  Cyril either runs away from me or ignores me.  So in revenge I'm including a recent photo of him looking quite portly and very daft.

Ha!  Who's got the last laugh now Mr Snooty-Pants.

So, all in all, apart from the weather and moody cats, it’s been a pretty good week.  More socialising is planned for this weekend in advance of the next round of chemo on Tuesday, after which my normal whinging will resume.  Bet you can’t wait.

P.S
Have you seen the website about the chap and his dog texting each other?  I think it's hilarious (but then I am a bit odd) 

Many rivers to cross

Yes, obviously I WAS struggling for a title and a photo.  Give me a break will yer!

I saw the oncologist today.  It wasn’t the anti-Dougie or Daddy Dougie but the woman-I-saw-last-time-and-can’t-think-of-a-funny-name-for.  Anyway she’s pleasant and so far she’s second in my league table of oncologists (the anti-Dougie holding first place).

It was a case of good and bad news. 

The good news is that the lump in my breast has shrunk.  Not much, but it has shrunk, and that’s the first time this has happened since diagnosis (nearly six months ago).  The lump in my lymph node and mets in my lungs remain unchanged.  So on the whole things seem to be starting to move in the right direction, albeit slowly.  The oncologist is hopeful that carrying on with the current flavour of swamp juice will see further shrinkage.  Which leads on to the (sort of) bad news:

I’m going to have to have more chemo.  I’m going to have another two loads (still at three weekly intervals) and then have a further CT scan.  Depending on the results of the next scan I may have a further two lots of chemo after that.  The swamp juice is taking its toll.  I may have mentioned once or twice that I'm feeling tired.  I think after another four lots (which would take the grand total to ten) I may well be on my knees.  Oh well, means to an ends and all that.  And as always I was very relieved to hear that nothing had grown.  Well, apart from me.  I've put on weight.  I told the nurse this was due to biscuit therapy.

In other news … there is outrage and fury at Discombobulated Towers.  We have had a very snotty letter from the allotment management committee saying and I quote (to show what a twonky bunch of pillocks they are) “the level of cultivation of your plot this year is limited in its scope and not consistent with the objectives of the society and the obligations of membership”.  It goes on and on in this verbose vein.  So far this year the other-half has planted sweet corn, carrots, swedes, radishes, lettuce, courgettes, tomatoes, squash, cabbages, peas, beans and raspberries in between working and insulting looking after me.  Words fail me.  Honestly put some people on a committee and give them clipboards and the next moment they're goose-stepping all over the place.  I’m tempted to storm round to the head honcho’s house, pound on his door and shout “I’ve got cancer I have” (well there’s got to be some perks).  But fear not, I will restrain myself.  Revenge is a dish best served cold – and preferably by a hired assassin.  In the words of the immortal Father Jack ARSE BISCUITS to the lot of them. 

Fifty shades of rhubarb

Where's he gone?

Yesterday was the other-half’s birthday.  I failed to get a present.  I didn’t get organised in time, forgetting that my post-chemo slump would mean I wouldn’t be leaving the house for the week before the big day.  The poor bloke even had to make to with a hand-made card from me.  I know a hand-made card sounds thoughtful and creative but my artistic abilities are less than zero.  If I tell you it involved the dreaded clipart you’ll have an idea of the sort of standard I’m talking about.  It’s a good thing that simple things please simple minds (see picture above) and I don’t think he minded too much.  He was also cheered by my graciously allowing him to watch two back to back episodes of ‘Nothing to Declare’ (or as I prefer to call it ‘Shouting in Airports’) without complaint, a visit to our sophisticated chum in Bridgnorth, and having bangers and mash for tea.  So the day wasn’t without its compensations I hope.

Its scaniexty time here again.  I had a CT scan last week and get the results in a couple of days time when I see the oncologist.  This is to see if the new type of chemo is doing anything and what further treatment I should have.  Of course I have run through every scenario from being told that it’s all been a terrible mistake and there’s nothing wrong me whatsoever to hearing that I have a matter of minutes left to live.  If my finger nails didn’t hurt (yet another chemo side-effect) I’d be biting them.  And also there’s the vexed question of which oncologist I get to see.  Will it be the anti-Dougie, his less-communicative boss Daddy Doogie or A.N.Other.  If any of you have telepathic powers please send thought-rays ensuring I get the anti-Dougie – he’s a bit scary but the one I’ve liked most so far.

During the post-chemo yuck phase I tend to stay in bed with a books, ipad and a pain-in-the neck cat (more on the cat later).  The trouble is I can’t find anything I really want to read.  I’ve tried ‘good’ books, gardening books, chick-lit, hen-lit, children’s books and more magazines than you could shake a free eye-brow pencil at … but nothing really grabs me.  I’m moderately partial to ‘Country Living’ magazine at the moment, but then there’s only so much gazing at pictures of idyllic English country gardens and adverts for bunting that I can take.  Any suggestions?  A warning though – should anyone so much as even hint at ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ I will not be responsible for my actions.  Things are not that dire yet!

The cat.  Oh where do I start?  As you may already know, if you’ve been paying attention, I have a three-legged monster cat called Cyril.  I got a three-legged cat thinking he wouldn’t jump over the very high garden fence on to the busy road.  I was wrong.  This means that Cyril is only allowed in the back garden under supervision.  When I’m confined to bed Cyril usually joins me.  However last week he had a bee in his bonnet about wanting to be outside.  It was quite warm so the bedroom window was open.  Cyril tried to escape out of the window by squeezing through the slats of the closed venetian blind.  Luckily, as he’s an increasingly rotund cat these days, he got wedged in the blind and I managed to drag him back before he’d leaped to his doom.  He’s thick in the belly and head that one.