There and back again

Before I launch into a 'what I did on my holidays' blog post, just let me show you this

This is what the other-half prepared for his lunch recently.  It's cold shepherds pie and cold mushy peas on toast.  Yes really.  There are no words but I had to share the horror with you.

Moving on, I've just spent two glorious weeks in France.  Eygalieres to be precise, down in sunny Provence where the food was a great deal better than anything the other-half could dream up.

But by golly it was hot.  When we arrived it was 41 degrees C (that's 105 in Fahrenheit) and it rarely dipped below the mid to high 30s for the duration of my visit.  Given the mostly cold and rainy summer we're having in England it was a welcome, if sometimes draining, relief.

Anyway we had a good mooch around the area and it had a kabillion picturesque streets,

 

more lavender and Roman ruins than you could shake a scented centurion at,

fountains and hill-side towns,

markets and shops filled with fabulous food (no cold mushy peas in sight),

and seriously big fuck-off castles.

Sorry for the language but whilst I'm lowering the tone here's a picture from the house we stayed in.  Sis no 3 said it looked like a donkey's arse.  We somehow resisted the temptation to play pin the tail on the donkey.

We also visited the asylum where Vincent Van Gogh spent some time, which was a surprisingly uplifting and tranquil place.

We also went to the moon

Not really (had you fooled there didn't I).  This is the top of Mont Ventoux, which forms part of the Tour De France.  There were lots of cyclists around the day we drove up too, I've never seen so many enormous calf muscles in one place.  Here's the other-half and I posing in the clouds at the top

Naturally I tried to befriend any cat I came across.  But they were mostly rather aloof and haughty.  I won this one round though by sharing a ham baguette with him.

I have about 300 more photos but I will spare you and just finish with a picture of me, out of my tree on wine at the local Bastille Day celebrations looking like I'm attempting a Gallic shrug (I hadn't been on the abisnthe, honest).

Anyway, I'm back in rainy old blightly and this week has seen a return to reality with a rash of pre-planned hospital appointments, including a CT scan.  Yes it's CT time again and also time for the agonising wait for the results to find out what the sodding cancer is up to.  Here's hoping my current chemo is still keeping it in check.  Fingers crossed.

Still standing (just)

(Get it? This is Mitchells Fold, a stone circle in South Shropshire. If anyone tells me that standing stones are not the same as a stone circle and so my caption doesn’t work, I will throw a hissy fit – so don’t.)

Today was looking at wigs day. I went to the recommended hairdresser and was ushered through to the back room – very hush hush. I felt like I ought to be buying black market sausages or nylons or something. I expected a room full of wigs but it was mostly a room full of catalogues. And what catalogues. Some of the wigs were OK but there were an awful lot that would’ve gone down a storm with the cast of Crossroads. The deal was that I select three, they are ordered and if I don’t like any I don’t have them and we start again. This could run and run. The ones I chose (the non-Crossroads selection as I like to call it) should arrive at the hairdressers in seven to ten days. Seven to ten days! By that time I could be laid low due to chemo (although still no date for that) so it could be tricky. I’d better order some head scarves pronto. Anyway, the woman helping me was very nice having been through the whole yucky process herself umpteen years ago. By the way, did you know there is such a thing as wig shampoo? No, nor me, but now we are all a bit wiser.

While I was typing the above the other-half escaped to the barbers. He volunteered to have his hair clippings collected to start on his own version of a wig for me, also involving an old swimming cap and some chest hair (his not mine). Truly I am blessed.

This afternoon I went back to the GP. For drugs. By the time I write these blog posts (usually late afternoon/early evening) my mood has settled a bit, but I’m afraid that, due to anxiety, up until around 4pm I am a total, to use a medical expression, basket case. OK I may be overstating that a bit, but it’s fair to say that I am not the happiest of bunnies in the morning, as my poor put-upon other half would testify. While the GP came up with the goods – stronger prescriptions and instructions to mix them together and include alcohol if I like* (and no, the doc’s name is not Pete Docherty) his comments about how my anxiety was entirely justified given the seriousness of my situation did not exactly lessen my worry. Also he told me that the type of chemo I’m starting on is Big Serious Stuff and will probably make me feel truly grotty. I know I should appreciate his honesty (and I do, to a point) but sometimes I could do with more fluffiness and less reality. Almost every medical person I’ve seen since the start of this whole palaver has been to the Doc Martin school of reassurance.

Oh well, my first dark and stormy of the evening (dark rum and ginger beer for you lesser mortals not ‘in the know’ about Bermudian drinks – ta to Sister No 1 for introducing me) is going down a treat and my usual, happier evening-self is emerging, hurrah!

(* I should point that the doctor didn’t actually recommend mixing medication and boozing my socks off. He just said that the drugs wouldn’t interact with each other in a bad way and one or two alcoholic drinks wouldn’t be a problem.)