Fruit, falsies and fame

Thirteen days into Lent and I'm still being saintly and not playing Fruit Ninja.  I have found myself doing more juicing but sadly chopping up real fruit isn't the same at all.

A very poor Fruit Ninja substitute

The other half has given up chocolate and puddings.  This has led to some heated debates as to what is and isn't included.  Apparently it's alright to eat cheesecake and chocolate flavoured biscuits.  Yeah, me neither.

Opening the post today was massively exciting.  My knitted knocker arrived.  I tried to take a photograph but just couldn't do it justice.  Knitted Knockers knit or crochet prosthetic breasts in an amazing range of colours (mine is stripey!) and, best of all, charge nothing whatsoever for the service (not even postage).  What a bunch of good eggs they are!  Find out more about them and their fantastic knockers by clicking here.

Also today fame came knocking at my door.  And me, being the shrinking violet that I am, have been Facebooking and Tweeting about it all day.  So, apologies to those of you who've heard it already endless times, but I'm now writing a blog for Vita, the online magazine for the Breast Cancer Care charity.  I'll be writing one blog post a month for them for the remainder of 2014.  To see my March effort click here.  And to think you lot knew me when I was nuffink!  I'll still be blogging here though so, one way or another, there is no escape from me.

Ancient history

It seems a thousand years ago (not the more realistic four weeks) that I spent a sunny week in Normandy with the other-half, sis no 3, her other-half, nephew no 2 and four Australian reprobates pals.  It was brill.  I saw the Bayeux Tapestry, visited the D-Day landing beaches, mooched around beautiful countryside

and ate and drank like a king (a king with a serious alcohol and cheese problem that is). 

Food wise the only low point was the discovery of the Mysterious Inedible French Sausage (MIFS).  I’ve forgotten the proper name of this monstrosity (probably due to some kind of minor post-traumatic stress) but if you can imagine the smell (and taste) of animal innards that have been boiled for a week in rancid pond water you’ll have a faint idea of the vileness of which I speak.  Both the other-half and I accidentally ordered MIFS (at different times) and are now receiving counseling. 

The high point for food?  Was it the delicious fish?  The cider?  The wine?  The lovely gooey cheese?  All close contenders but the winner was:

Tim Tam Tastic

Thanks Aussie Pals for turning up with the goods.  I have to admit that Turkish Delight flavour was a step too far even for me, but the others (especially honeycomb) were manna from heaven.  Of course, I tried the Tim Tam Slam (biting off two diagonally opposite corners and then slurping tea through the biscuit) – delicious but deeply disgusting for other people to witness.

However, lovely as all the above was, most of the holiday was spent here:

 

On a previous holiday, three years ago with the same mob, we invented Speedo Snooker (© Me), and we continued the contest this time.  Speedo Snooker is a game of strategy and skill (obviously not to be undertaken when full of cheese, wine and cider) where each player has two minutes to pot as many balls (in any order) as possible.  I humiliated myself regularly at this game purely to make the others feel better about their own prowess.  My brother-in-law is a fanatical Speedo Snooker player.  He also adores golf (I know).  Anyway I won’t be going on holiday with him again as I have just realised he loves any sport which involves hitting a small ball with a long stick.  This can only mean that the next thing on the agenda will be polo.  The only thing I know about horses is that they can’t climb trees, and I’ve no wish to discover any more about them than that.

And yes I did go swimming in the special swimsuit with the weirdly absorbent false breast but I’m wussing out of showing you photographic evidence.  There are two photos.  In one I have my face all screwed up and the other looks like I’m having a good scratch (I wasn’t, honest).  So, instead, here’s a photo of me strolling around a French garden in my two euro sunglasses (second hand stall at a market), any likeness to Dame Edna quite accidental.

If you think this is bad just imagine what the swimsuit snap would be like

These glasses have a very yellow tint and make every thing look sunny.  The lady I bought them from called them ‘optimist glasses’.

Anyway, all that was ages ago.  I’m now back in England, the temperature has dropped and I’m back to tucking my vest in my knickers and turning the central heating on as soon as the other-half leaves the house.  I’m also just over a week away from getting the results from my latest CT scan – maybe I’ll wear my optimist glasses for the appointment.  Wish me luck.

Del's diary

Darlings, my life has become a giddy social whirl.  Lunch here, dinner there and a trip to Monaco since I last posted.  Call me Jackie O.  Oh alright, if you're going to be picky I suppose I could point out that the meals have been in pubs and I might have accidentally typed Monaco instead of the more honest Anglesey, but you catch my drift.

Anglesey.  Better than Monaco any day of the week.

And what's more this leisurely life is set to continue, how on earth I'm going to squeeze in chemo next week I just can't imagine.

To add to the excitement, my new false breast for swimming (mentioned in my previous post) has arrived.  It cost ten pounds and, truly, I got what I paid for.  It appears to be a piece of sponge, super absorbent rather than water-proof.  So I will have to wring it out as I emerge from the water, very elegant.  Also the helpful washing instructions say 'do not iron'.  That's a bit of a shock as obviously my major requirement of all prosthetic breasts is that they be flat as a pancake.

Anyway I'd better dash, got to polish my diamond tiara for my next social engagement.  Toodle-pip.

Not for those of a nervous disposition

Picture from here

A word of warning, this blog post contains Too Much Information.  Read on at your peril.  However those of you brave enough to face the challenge will be rewarded with cat pictures at the end of the post, and where else on the internet will you get to see pictures of cats?

I really am quite wary about saying this but I am continuing to feel not-too-bad-at-all-thank-you-very-much, and that’s even after my third cycle of the trial chemo which I had last week.  Fingers crossed this continues. I walked into the town centre and back by myself today (a round trip of a couple of miles) something I haven’t felt well enough to do for five months. 

Although I was very pleased to be able to undertake the arduous trek, the trip wasn’t entirely successful as I failed in my quest, which was to buy a sarong.  Silly, silly me.  It’s nearly August so, of course, the shops had all their new autumn stock in.  Great if you wanted a padded jacket or polo-neck jumper but crap if you wanted anything vaguely summery.

At the risk of really tempting fate and the evil cancer goblins I am toying with the idea of going on holiday and have been a reckless little devil and bought a post-mastectomy swim suit designed not to reveal lots of rubbery false boob.  I’ve even ordered a waterproof prosthesis in the unlikely event of me actually getting in the water.  As this will not be used very often (maybe less than once) I have bought the cheapest model on the market – could be a disaster in the making.  At the very least, given my utter uselessness at swimming, I’m hoping it might act as a flotation aid, although seeing as it’s just on the left-hand side I could end up swimming in circles.

The choice of mastectomy swimming costumes is (in my opinion) very 80s.  They all seem to have massively high cut legs (some sort of compensation for the wearers’ lack of bosom perhaps).  I’m not much of a one for tampering with nature and/or pain and/or itchiness and the idea of waxing anything anywhere (much less in the front bottom area) is enough to make me pass out.  However some sort of action will have to be taken as, when I tried the swimsuit on, it looked like Chewbacca was trying to escape.  To make matters worse, when I turned round and looked at my rear view in the mirror instead of seeing my bottom and legs there seemed to have been some sort of explosion in a mattress factory (probably due to my belief that ice cream is a major and vital food group).  Anyway I have solved all my swimsuit problems with the purchase (on-line) of an industrial strength sarong.

If you’ve got this far, well done.  You’ve read all I have to say (today) about false bosoms, hairiness in unmentionable places and out-of-control arses and, although you’re probably a bit green about the gills, you’ve lived to tell the tale.

Now your reward.  I went back to Shropshire Cat Rescue last week and look what I saw, heaven!