Stabby

Which one is best?  Helpful clue: I made the brown one

Despite the indisputable evidence that I'm rubbish at all forms of craft (remember the dress that didn't fit and my foray into crochet?), I recklessly bought a felting kit from a lovely shop in Bishops Castle.  The kit sat ignored for months and months in the land that time forgot, otherwise known as the cupboard under the stairs.  Then motivation arrived, in the scary shape of sis no 3, and hey presto I give you two felted cats.  I didn't have a clue what felting involved before I started.  The kit basically contained wool and some scarily sharp needles with which to repeatedly stab the yarn.  It was unreassuring to say the least to find that the kit also included a plaster (or band aid for any American readers) for any needle related mishaps.  Thankfully I didn't need the plaster but then I was already feeling pretty stabby due to an eye test a few days earlier.

During a routine examination the optometrist spotted that I have one pupil bigger than the other.  This is not a good sign.  In fact, according to my consultation with Dr Google it means instant death.  I informed my oncology team who gave me the once over and then sent me for urgent CT and MRI brain scans.  The most common places for breast cancer to spread are liver, lungs (got the t shirt for those two), bones and brain.  So it was a scary wait for results. Luckily for me the scans were clear.  I still have to see a ophthalmologist but I'm feeling pretty relieved for the time being at least.

I've had lots of CT scans but the MRI was a new experience.  It was nowhere near as claustrophobic as I feared but it was just as noisy as everyone says it is.  To mask the clanging and banging I was given headphones to wear during the scan.  But I wasn't impressed the music selection pumped into my ears.  Given that they were looking for a brain tumour I think the first song 'Crazy' was a bit of a poor choice, then as the machine rattled and whirred I had 'Good Vibrations' piped through.  Do you think they were taking the piss?  I tried to give the radiographer one of my hard stares (via the mirror contraption above my head in the machine) but he was unabashed.  Git.

If the whole pupil thing wasn't worrying enough I also developed another very frightening symptom.  I've had a couple of sudden attacks of not being able to breathe.  During the attacks I can't speak and make horrible gasping noises.  The second attack happened when I was out for Sunday dinner with the other-half and two of my sisters.  It's not a subtle attack and my poor family didn't know if I was choking on food, going to throw up or what was going on.  I staggered outside and after a few minutes my breathing gradually returned to normal.  Thankfully my GP is sure this is a harmless spasm of the larynx.  It hasn't happened since and I'm not putting my name down for it again.  I don't recommend the experience.

I think I love my GP as not only did he calm my fevered brow over the breathing thing he also completed the form I had from the government querying my right to receive state benefit.  I'm waiting for the official response from the powers-that-be but am hoping the GP's input will make them wave the white flag, the bastards.

On a happier (but no saner) note a few days ago the other-half and I got up at the crack of dawn on a frosty morning to go hare spotting.  We did see a couple leaping about but they were too far away for a photo.  But just to prove that I was out and about bright and early on a very cold morning:

Now here's hoping for warmer weather and a happy, peaceful Easter for everyone.

Steamy weekend

As part of the never-ending celebrations of this year being the other-half's half century, we got together last weekend with several of his old childhood chums (also all 50 this year) and headed to the wild delights of Bridgnorth.  In their younger days they misspent a deal of time in this particular town.  This was all before my time so I don't want to know the details, after all what happens in Bridgnorth stays in Bridgnorth.

In between drinking and eating and more drinking we decided to take a trip on the Severn Valley Railway, an old stream railway running between Bridgnorth and Kidderminster, this being the sort of thing that people in their 50s do.  I loved it.

What's not to love?

Although I'm just a little bit too young to remember steam trains being in general use (I am!)  the carriages on the train were just like the ones I remember, all wooden and lovely and with windows that actually opened (unlike today's hermetically sealed trains which almost give me panic attacks).  I only took one interior photo (more on that in a bit) but found this on the internet which is the more or less the same as the train we travelled in and the ones I remember from my childhood. Thems were the days!  Except I never went first class of course.

Picture from here, with apologies for swirly thing

We got off at a village stop and headed straight for the pub.  Where more regrettable aspects of modern life were revealed.  Have you ever seen such a thing as this:

It's a travesty!

I tell you the country is going to hell in a handcart!

While I'm moaning about reprehensible things (like modern trains and 'ploughman's lunches'), the other-half behaved disgracefully on the train.  Look what he did

Look mum,  no head!

To be fair to modern train designers, the above (ie a twit sticking his head out of a moving train) is probably the reason that train windows no longer open and the doors are remotely controlled by hands unseen.  What a nitwit!  We had words.  He was unrepentant.

Anyway it was a lovely weekend and helped keep my mind of this Thursday, when I get the results of the latest CT scans, oh fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck (which is much like the sound the train made as it trundled through the Shropshire countryside).  Till next time (when I'll be either gleeful or miserable), stay tuned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summer shenanigans

I've had a busy few days and I'm in the mood to bore you with them now, so stand by.

Firstly the other-half and I (and lots of his family) went down to Guildford to help celebrate a family wedding.  It was lovely.  Happy couple, lovely atmosphere, delicious grub, 10/10.

We then spent the night in the noisiest hotel in the world.  We were kept awake by the sound of people coming back from hen/stag nights and other weddings, so for the most part although they were noisy they were jolly.  Not so on the third floor however (we were on the second floor which obviously attracted a better class of drunk).  One of my sister-in-laws* was on the third floor (say no more) and she had the thrill of listening to a drunken argument taking place in the next room at daft o'clock in the morning complete with random door knocking and the added delight of the row continuing when the guests woke up in the morning.  Deep joy.

(*You may have noticed that I allocate my three sisters numbers, nos 1, 2 and 3.  It may seem odd that I don't extend the same 'courtesy' to my sisters-in-law, but there are seven of them and it gets a tad confusing to say the least, especially as they won't keep still for five minutes).

After our sleep deprived night, we went on our weary way to Cornwall, where we stayed in a holiday cottage for a few days with two of my sisters-in-law and their husbands.  Those of you with no lives of your own will remember that I did the same last year.

Last year the weather was spectacular.  This year we feared the worst.  Monday was cold, rainy and increasingly stormy as the day wore on.  To add to the meteorological drama I decided to throw in some excitement of my own by suddenly feeling like, to use a medical term, a bag of bollocks, feeling incredibly cold and developing a rapidly increasing temperature.  The other-half rang my local chemo helpline and they said he should call an ambulance to get me to the local hospital.  He sensibly pointed out that we were in deepest rural Cornwall and it would be much quicker if he took me to hospital himself.  

This might sound a bit over dramatic but one of the problems with chemotherapy is that it can impair your immunity so infections can take hold very quickly and sometimes very nastily with the risk of neutropenia.  

So the other half and I and one of his sisters (riding shotgun) headed off for Truro hospital.  I did feel somewhat let down by said sister-in-law refusing to stick her head out of the car window as we drove along in the teaming rain and shout nee-na-nee-na like an ambulance siren.  Some people are just so unhelpful!

Anyway, we got to the hospital and I had urine and blood tests, an ECG and a chest x-ray.  But other than low pressure and a slightly high heart rate they could find nothing.  They suspected an infection of some kind but couldn't trace its source.  My white blood cell count was OK so thankfully they didn't keep me in but sent me home with a bucket load of antibiotics.  In fact the doctor looked at me and said "Hmm, if you were on a desert island I wouldn't bother having you airlifted off".  I'm still not sure if that was meant to be disdainful or reassuring.  Anyway, on the whole, the way and speed with which I was treated at Truro A&E was impressive. 

So we drove back in the dark and increasingly stormy night to the holiday cottage.  By this stage I was already feeling much better and let myself be plied with tea, toast and sympathy.  It was almost worth having felt grotty and enduring the scary car journey home.

The next day I felt fine.  The weather had transformed itself into warmth and sunshine, so we set off on a walk where we came to a beautiful deserted cove

complete with seals

and gorgeous wild flowers.

The walk ended up in the local pub, which is where it all went a bit haywire.  I'm afraid alcohol was taken, and quite a lot of it by me.  If I tell you I ended up playing pool and being a right old sweary Mary at the same time I'm sure you'll get the picture.

The next day was, of course, hangover hell.  Eventually I managed to get outside in the sunshine and walked (in a rather fragile manner) through a stunning meadow of buttercups

and along colourful roadsides

Seeing farm animals who clearly felt much like I did

(don't worry he wasn't dead, just having a snooze).

Sadly, the next day was time to come home (for a pre-arranged hospital appointment, big sigh).

Since coming home, as well as treading the straight and narrow, I have been lazing about (much like the pig only not in a cute way)

(please note that is WATER in the glass),

pottering in the garden with Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) taking residence, not very helpfully, in a seed tray.

Home isn't such a bad place to be.  Cornwall is stunning but, if I say so myself, I'm pretty chuffed just sitting and looking at my tiny garden 

I know it's too chaotic for a lot of people's taste, but it's exactly my cup of tea.

Hoping now for a couple of quiet-ish weeks so I can regain a bit more oompf to carry on with more summer shenanigans.  Ta ra for now.

Wildness in Wales

I've been rushing around like a long dog of late, having a fine old time with barely a chance to wash behind my ears let alone put fingers to keyboard.

Firstly, I headed down south to see my new great nephew who weighed in at walloping 10lbs at birth and, at three months, is a beautiful big chappie.  

I also saw some old friends, had a good laugh and stuffed my face with lovely grub.  I spent some time in Ware as part of my travels.  It's my kind of town with cat statues,

helpful red arrow as I know some of you are a bit slow

excellent (albeit disused) cat flaps,  

and even tombs with paws

Then, no sooner had I returned to Shrewsbury than we set off for a few days in Pembrokeshire.

We'd arranged to stay in a tiny and remote cottage with no TV or mobile signal, thinking we'd have a beautifully peaceful time.  As the holiday approached we realised, with some horror, that this meant we might actually have to talk to each other.  Thankfully, as you'll see from the pictures, we were able to survive this trial with the help of red wine 

Compact but cosy

Red wine saves the day (yes, those are the other-half's legs)

View from front door

The cottage was set in 6 acres of stunning (even in November) gardens

I have got a zillion more photos like this but if you'd like to see more about the house and garden the best place to go is the official website Dyffryn Fernant. 

While we were in Pembrokeshire we went to the small but pictureseque city of St David's.  It being November we almost had the place to ourselves, in fact we did have the old ruined and atmospheric Bishops Palace entirely to ourselves

 

As we walked around, despite being the sole visiors, we sometimes got the impression we were being watched

Lest you think this was a very staid and boring visit let me assure you it was danger packed with tall towers to climb 

sometimes I preferred to remain on terra firma

and every manner of peril, as the signage made all too clear

See I know how to live on the edge, I do

My favourite is the sign on the bottom left.  I think it's meant to warn people of the danger of bumping their heads but, to me, looks more like someone realising they've locked themselves out or left the bath running.

The danger theme continued into the following day when we went for a walk.  First the good news, I was able to walk much further and higher than I thought I could (in early summer I could barely walk 400 yards without puffing for breath, thanks to the cancer in my lungs).  While I was hardly mountain goat-like in Wales I was able to walk a good four miles and take on some steepish inclines, albeit slowly.

me, striding manfully upwards

We'd walked uphill from the pink building.  You may now gasp in admiration.

However, it would be remiss of me to claim that I didn't have some help in getting to the top of the hill. As we neared the top we saw several horses around the rocky outcrop including a foal.  We didn't go near the horses but just skirted around the edge.  This didn't stop Devil Horse from trying to kill me though.  A huge black horse came snorting towards me with murder in his eyes and evil in his heart.  

Here he is.  Have you ever seen anything more scary?  The stuff of nightmares

I walked away as briskly as possible, wishing there was a tree to climb, but could hear his horrible hooves and nasty snorty horse breath getting closer and closer.  The other-half turned looked at him and said, with some feeling, "that is NOT a nice horse".  Apparently he was also doing the kicky thing with his back legs too.  We managed to scramble over a fence and up, up and away from the mad, demented beastie.  When we were a safe distance away we turned and waggled our bottoms and then stuck our fingers up at the horse, not wanting to let him have the last snort.  The horse gods in the sky must have been watching us though as from then on the foot path signs disappeared and we ended up going on a much longer walk than intended and, for the last half hour, in a substantial downpour.  But what did I care, for I had escaped from the jaws (and hooves) of doom.

The rest of the stay was calm, tranquil and horse-free.  Even though I got heaps of exercise I suspect I put on lots of weight as I ate like a (shudder) horse.  And here's the proof, do you think my bum looks big in this?

 

A quick health update before I go.  I've been continuing with the TDM1 chemo trial and all seems to be going OK.  I have yucky scans at the end of the month and see the oncologist for the results in the middle of December by which time I will be almost as anxious as if I were being chased by a homicidal horse, but for now I'm trotting along not thinking about it too much, which works for me.

Oh, and just when you thought I'd finished, a final cheery note.  Two days ago I became a great aunty yet again.  Congratulations to all concerned.  The dynasty continues!

King of the world

Me?  Blowing my own trumpet?  Never.

I have been doing battle with my ex-employer (the local council) and I have emerged victorious, yay me.  The ratbags* decided to make deductions from my notice-period salary as I was also receiving a state benefit (Employment Support Allowance).  I checked with the Benefits Bods and the Citizens Advice Bureau and both advised me that my employer was wrong, wrong, wrong.  There followed an exchange of emails between the ratbags and I, where I gamely bandied about phrases like ‘custom and practice’,‘unlawful deductions’ and ‘employment tribunal’.  After some initial resistance, a white flag has been waved and I will be getting a full refund.  Disco Del 1 – Ratbags 0.

(*I should point out that my ex-employer was only a ratbag about this one particular thing.  When it came to sick leave, sick pay and early retirement they were helpful, kind and cuddly.  So they’re not all bad.  Look at me being all magnanimous in victory.  I hope you’re wearing sunglasses as my halo must be dazzling.)

Anyway the refund will go towards the new kitchen.  If it ever happens.  We are still waiting for quotes from a couple of builders.  If they went any slower they’d be going backwards.  Makes you wonder how long it will take them to actually build if merely quoting takes this long.  The other-half is tearing his hair out.  I am rising above it.  Although it’d probably be more truthful to say that I haven’t got enough space in my addled brain to worry about builders and my forthcoming surgery.

My latest brain melt down has seen me lose a whole box of Tamoxifen on my way home from the chemist on Friday.  So I have been without medication all weekend.  I’ve phoned the doctor and groveled and hope to get a replacement prescription this afternoon.  I will guard it with my life.

In other tales of stupidity, all my previous talk of healthy living came to naught over the weekend, when I slid off the wagon.  A friend rather selfishly had a birthday (you know who you are!) so I had to drink champagne and red wine, it’s the law.  The next morning was not great.  I am back on the wagon again.

It’s still chilly here but on Saturday we put on a thousand layers and went for a stroll.  And look, the snowdrops are out!    

 

So maybe spring is just around the corner.  But just in case it isn’t and you’re in need of cheering up, here’s my latest YouTube find.  The best clip of a cat riding on a sheep’s back you’re ever likely to see.  Enjoy.

Anyone want a cat?

Not only does my three-legged cat, Cyril, have views about which TV programmes I should watch (see above for his disapproval of The Simpsons, stupid cat) but he has tried to escape again.

It was only a couple of days ago that I posted about the panic he caused me. Well this morning he did it again. This means that he is now under house-arrest until such time as we can get the height of the garden fence increased (by about 10 foot!) or employ full-time border guards.

While I’m writing about my endless trials and tribulations I should also point out that my post about the extreme youth of my oncologist has led to everyone (ie 4 people) I’ve spoken to about it deny ever having heard of the awful Doogie Howser TV programme, making me doubt my sanity. One friend even managed to get it slightly muddled up with Hong Kong Phooey – note to self: must get more intellectual friends. Anyway you doubters made me google and lo! - Doogie Howser DID exist (well the TV character did). Here’s the proof. I suspect you just blanked it out because the reality was too dreadful to remember. It’s my duty to make you face the truth!

On the domestic front the other half continues to snuffle, cough and sneeze for Britain. I left him, pale and loitering, on the settee today and headed into town for anti-viral hand wipes, disinfectant and the like – although I suspect I may be shutting the stable door after the horse with man-flu has bolted.

The face of evil?

At the risk of sounding full of self-pity (me?), I’ve got enough to worry about at the moment without added palaver from within the Discombobulated household.

Nevertheless this morning Cyril, the three-legged cat, decided to cause me to have what my dad used to call ‘a set of jug handles’.

(I’ve just googled ‘a set of jug handles’ and got nothing. So I suspect that my dad might well have made the saying up. He did stuff like that. For example, I have happy memories of dad wandering around the garden singing ‘they’re off said the monkey, they’re off said the monkey, they’re off said the monkey, as he sat on a circular saw”. I digress.)

This morning Cyril, the three-legged cat, caused my already incredibly high anxiety levels to reach the stratosphere.

The reason for selecting a three-legged mog from the rescue centre last year was that we live near a Very Busy Road but have a small garden enclosed by high fences/walls. A cat with a missing corner we reasoned (foolishly) would be unlikely to attempt to make a bid for freedom. Especially seeing as the ungrateful blighter is allowed free access throughout the house, sleeps on our bed, has a diet of Sheba and Dreamies and is worshipped by me on a daily basis.

This morning, just after Cyril had been let out for his morning constitutional, he disappeared from the garden. This caused me horrible, horrible panic. I threw on a revolting selection of clothes (over my revolting jim-jams), chucked on my wellies and ran down the street screeching ‘Cyril … Cyril’ in an increasingly desperate wail as I headed nearer and nearer the Very Busy Road dreading what I might find. My other half meanwhile also quickly put clothes on over his pyjamas (only his jim-jams are from Fatface rather than Matalan, let us discuss the unfairness of that another time). He spotted the escaping mog in next door’s garden and called me back from my panicky search.

After much apologising to the neighbour (who was entirely gracious given that he was trying to get off to work) and general faffing about in the neighbour’s garden Cyril decided to launch himself at the fence and managed, in an extremely ungainly fashion, to get back home. Cyril is now only allowed supervised access to the garden. The other half is thinking of building a watch tower. I am collapsed in a heap, hyperventilating. Cyril is asleep on the sofa looking innocent. Where did I go wrong?