|The throbbing metropolis of Clun|
My last couple of blog posts might have given the impression that I’m a grumpy old sod enjoying wallowing in misery. Admittedly being grumpy is one of my favourite hobbies but even so I can’t pretend that life has been all woe and wailing of late.
I’ve been out and about in the countryside again and bought a urine coloured glass chicken from a junk shop in Clun. No home is complete without one.
|Five pounds well spent|
For those inclined to disagree, I simply say that you are either born with taste or you aren’t. Take that as you will.
Other good stuff? I went to N’s third birthday party and sat in the sun being waited on hand and foot. I had a lovely visit from P (with flowers and chocolates, not that I’m mercenary you understand) during which I talked her ears off and had a bit of a self-help session on the subject of allotment committees (P is a long-suffering allotment holder too).
|Covent Garden comes to Spa Street|
And I also had a birthday with more good things than you could shake a knitting needle at. I’m starting a learn-to-knit course at the end of the month so one of my presents was a knitting bag. Shut up. I’m 51. I’m entitled to a knitting bag if I want one. Anyway watch out come Christmas time, if the knitting takes off, it’ll be balaclavas all round.
Sis no 1 has been saving the day with her meals on wheels service. We had that pie again and heaps of courgette muffins (or zucchini muffins to translate for my pals in Australia and America, although I do wish you’d learn to speak English proper like what I do). I know courgette muffins sound disgusting but they are truly delicious, honest.
My hand seems to be on the mend. The morning after I last posted the swelling had gone down so much that I could see my knuckles again, so I opted out of going to hospital. I spend so much time there anyway that I really didn’t fancy an additional and probably unnecessary visit. In fact I’ll be there on Saturday for a heart test (to check that the Herceptin isn’t causing any problems) and then it’s time for another bout of swamp juice on Wednesday.
Cyril, the three-legged monster cat, ended up going to the vets as he was quite poorly. I’ve got my priorities right. I ignore the GPs advice about going to the hospital but make sure that the cat goes to the vet. Anyway a couple of injections later he seems on the mend and is back to incessantly demanding food. The vet thinks he probably just ate something yucky in the garden. Very likely, as he’s been murdering and eating butterflies all summer.
My hair is continuing to grow and I’m now back on the shampoo and conditioner lark (after a few months of just dunking my head under my grimy bath water).
Now just in case you think I’ve turned into some kind of dreary middle-aged Pollyana, skipping around the streets finding things to be glad about, fear not, I’m still more than able to be a glass-half-empty type of person. For example, I’ve discovered that the returning hair situation is not all good. I went to the supermarket the other day and found people treating me very differently. For the past few months complete strangers have been very nice to me as I wandered about, hat or scarf on head, obviously bald underneath. But now my hair has grown, and could simply be a short (if very severe) hair cut, the softly softly approach has stopped and people are once more barging me with shopping trolleys, rushing to beat me to the queue for the checkout and generally not treating me with the respect I so richly deserve. I may make a large badge saying ‘I’m poorly, I am’ in a desperate attempt to prolong the kid glove treatment. Yes, I know, I have no shame.