Green eyed monsters

Cyril, the three-legged monster cat, is worrying me.  He has been very quiet of late.  He eats his food without complaint and seems content to stay in the garden in the (intermittent) sunshine rather than launch himself haphazardly over fences towards the Very Busy Road.  I'm sure he's trying to lull me into a false sense of security while secretly planning something designed to torment and distress me.  I've been a cat slave for many years.  I know the score.  The below, courtesy of Henri Le Chat Noir sums it up.

Now, try not to get too excited but, wait for it, wait for it ..... the front garden is finished! 

Before:

The start of it all and scene of much swearing

And after:

See that length of drainpipe at the back of the picture?  That nearly caused a divorce.

You wouldn't believe the problems such a small patch caused.  Anyway hats off to the other-half for getting it done, although if he never mentions drain pipes to me again it will be too soon.

Unfortunately the day after this little patch of paradise was completed we went to visit a friend who had just moved house.  Her new garden is truly spectacular, and huge.  The poor other-half was absolutely green with jealousy.  He spent the evening pouring over the internet looking at properties for sale in the sticks with impressive gardens.  At least that's what he told me he was looking at.

I feel a bit like I'm in limbo land.  I'm going to see my employer's Occupational Health bods tomorrow about the possibility of early retirement due to ill health.  I think this is just a preliminary stage and the whole process could take a while.  Also I'm waiting for the effing appointment with the effing onocologist on Wednesday which, if I think about too much, makes my half-inch long hair stand on end and my knees knock.  So let's not think about it and watch some rubbish tv instead.  And eat cake.

Effing effing effity eff. With brass knobs on

Warning.  Angry blog post ahead.  Look away if you don't like swearing.

Today I went to the effing hospital to see the effing oncolcolgist to get the effing results from my effing CT scan.

To save me from repetitive strain injury please imagine I’ve typed the word ‘effing’ (the real non mealy-mouthed version) after every other word in the rest of this post.

The results of the scan were not yet available so I have to go back next Wednesday.  I’d be hacked off about this under normal circumstances but I’m doubly pissed off as a few weeks ago, when I was given a scan date just two days earlier than the date I was due to see the oncologist, I rang the hospital to check that the close proximity of dates wouldn’t be a problem.  I was told in no uncertain terms by an obnoxious fuckwit in the radiography dept that the results would be ready in time.  On Monday when I went for the scan I bravely reminded the staff that I would be seeing the oncologist on Wednesday.  ‘That’s fine’ was the response.  That’s fine my arse.

I made my feelings about the situation known to the oncologist (Daddy Dougie) and he did lower himself sufficiently to apologise.  Meanwhile I’ve got another week of vileness waiting for the results. I'm sure I don't need to spell out to people how scary it is waiting for scan results, unless of course you happen to work in my local hospital's CT scan dept.

I am an effing grumpy, stressed out and rather sweary bunny.

On the plus side I’m going to see a friend tomorrow and she has just collected two rescue cats (mummy cat and kitten).  If a kitten-fix doesn’t cheer me up then I don’t know what will.  Stay tuned for further ranting.   

On my trolley

Look carefully, this is not Cyril but a French look-a-like.  Actually on closer examination you can tell Le Chat has got a lot more savoir faire and je ne sais quoi than Cyril.  Not to mention an extra leg.

Last time I posted I was happily off my trolley on steroids.  Now the steroids are finished and I’m back to being moany post-chemo person with tiredness and joint aches.  I don’t see why I shouldn’t inflict my whingey-ness on you, life isn’t all cats-in-planes I’ll have you know.

Actually I’m beginning to come round a bit now from the usual post-chemo grot, which is just as well as I had to drag myself off to hospital at nine o’clock this morning for a CT scan (and I don’t really do nine o’clock in the morning anymore as a general rule).  I see the oncologist for results on Wednesday so it’s scanxiety time yet again.

The three-legged monster cat has been fairly sedate in recent days, no doubt he’s planning something horrendous.  Meanwhile the other-half has been doing battle with guttering which is, I’ve been told at length, No Laughing Matter.  The great guttering crisis has to be sorted out before the front garden can be finished apparently.  Place your bets now as to which unlikely event takes place first, front garden completion or the end of the world (Mayan version).  

PS.  Have just seen highlights of last night's closing ceremony for the Olympics and was treated to the vision of Boris and Dastardly Dave Cameron dancing.  I feel the world may already have ended.  All bets are cancelled.

Squadron Leader Cyril

I can now reveal the secret construction project I mentioned last time I posted.  Hold on to your hats it’s impressive.

Cyril (three legged-monster cat or, to give him his new name, Squadron Leader Cyril) now has his very own plane.

Awaiting scramble on a warm summer evening

 Now this relaxed picture might give you the impression that everything to do with this major construction project was calm and controlled.  Let me disabuse you of that idea immediately.  The plane, a fantastic present from nephew no 1 and his long-suffering wife, came in a flat pack (two words to strike fear into the heart at any time).  The assembly instructions were Ikea-ish.  They merely consisted of a set of very small and ambiguous drawings.  The ground crew (the other-half and I) decided to put the plane together as a team.  I will draw a veil over this experience other than to say divorce papers were nearly served.  However, we are now both origami masters and domestic harmony has been restored.

Here is the Squadron Leader inspecting our work

And here he is in the cockpit (a hint of madness in his eye):

And then disaster, he pranged his kite:

(Yes I KNOW my house is a mess.  I can't build planes AND do housework you know)

You'll be pleased to hear that the ground crew has made repairs and the plane is airworthy once more as the aerial shot below proves (although sadly pilotless)

My nephew's cat, Wing Commander Cookie, had a similar experience in her plane.  See below, my nephew's wife managed to get the prized shot of the pilot's entry into the cockpit.  I defy any cat to get into their plane and maintain their dignity:

More boringly I had another lot of chemo and herceptin yesterday.  All went well.  I'm now in my usual steroid frenzy, up at daft o'clock and, as you've probably guessed, faffing about with lots of cats in planes photos.  Beats doing housework.

Under construction

Remember a thousand years ago when I said the other-half was working on transforming our very small front garden?  Well, work is continuing but prepared to be stunned and amazed by the latest change.

Here is our front garden wall before:

Boring

And after:

Lo!  The Great Wall of Spa Street. 

If you look to the left you can see the other-half moaning as he loads rubble into the car.

And just to labour the point, a close up (of the wall not the other-half, I wouldn't inflict that on you):

With huge thanks to the brick laying skills of the other-half's brother

The metal inserts originally came from a church and were used to cover heating pipes.  I only hope that they got to the reclamation yard (where we found them) by fair means.  I don't want a wall with bad karma.

However, there is something else under construction which is even more exciting than our thrilling garden wall.  Is such a thing possible, I hear you ask.  Yes it most certainly is, I reply.  Hopefully I will be able to report further in the next couple of days.  Stay tuned, if you can bear the suspense.

I have a rash of doctors/hospital appointments looming over the next couple of weeks, including chemo, a scan and the scary wait for results.  So, as well as exciting construction projects, I can promise you a good deal of whinging.  I'm really selling this blog to you aren't I?

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.

Full up

Guardian of the dung heap

It’s been all go since I last posted.  I’m now all full of another lot of swamp juice, herceptin and I’m all freshly CT scanned (results next week). 

Chemo day wasn’t particularly inspiring as my white blood count was initially deemed too low for me to receive treatment (this would have meant a week’s delay).  Before every chemo session I have to go to the GP the day before for a blood test.  In this case as chemo took place on Monday the blood test had been done on Friday.  So the chemo nurse took another blood test on Monday morning and thankfully my white blood count had recovered over the weekend.  Hurrah for the steroids which I’d started taking on Sunday and which the nurse thinks did the trick.  Have I mentioned that I love steroids?

Also, while I’m whinging, my veins have started to rebel.  There was a bit of a struggle with the blood test and getting the needle-y thing in for the chemo.  The nurse reckons the blood count palaver and the vein mutiny are part of the chemo taking its toll.

On a more positive note my heart scan was OK so I was able to have herceptin and I didn’t have an allergic reaction.  However, my blood pressure dropped after treatment and I had to stay at the hospital until they were happy that it had reached an acceptable level.  This was not helped by a dopey health care assistant who kept forgetting to take my blood pressure at the required intervals.  The nurse was not impressed.  Neither was I.  That’s the medical moaning over with.

The other-half has now started working like fury on the front garden, lowering the wall to incorporate railings.  In between dismantling the wall, during the frequent rain showers (which cause more inventive swearing on behalf of his nibs), he is pouring over salvage yard websites for railings in case the ones he’s got don’t fit the bill.  It all makes my brain hurt.  We have stacks of smelly compost in the back garden ready to go round the front of the house when the Great Wall of Spa Street is finished.  The compost pongs.  Cyril loves it, the little stinker.

Domestic woes

Trapped in a tower of woe

Discombobulated Towers is a place of woe – and, as a baldy, I can’t even do a Rapunzel and  let my hair down out of the window so that a passing prince can rescue me.

Firstly we are enduring an Invasion of the Ants.  The creepy little gits are emerging from the skirting board and scurrying all over the place.  Bait stations (poison that the cat can’t get to) have been placed in strategic places but we seem to have super ants that are, so far, resistant to our attempts at extermination.  

The other-half and I have had words.  Or rather he has.  He’s used his skill at creating swear words (usually restricted to football players) on me.  Yesterday he made lunch.  Big brownie points for him you might think.  But he asked a million irritating questions about it while I was trying to watch telly.  The questions were along the lines of ‘shall I cut the sandwiches into triangles or squares?’, ‘should I spread the butter from left to right or right to left?’, ‘do you want your tea stirred clockwise or counter-clockwise?’.  Now, you may find this hard to imagine, but I might have been just a tad terse and maybe just slightly shouty when I said ‘will stop asking so many bloody stupid questions’.  The other-half’s first response was to stop speaking to me.  Strangely he seemed to think that I would find this a terrible punishment.  Once he realised I was relishing the silence he changed tactics started speaking to me and called me a ‘bog pond’.  Charming.

Other that being infested by creepy-crawlies and having a verbally abusive other-half things here have been fine.  I had a lovely lunch out with my pal C, popped into my old work place for a good chin wag, had a yummy dinner at sis-in-law no. 5, had a visit from sis-in-law nos 4 and 6 and went out for a meal with J and M.  So I’ve been making the most of feeling full of beans. 

Its chemo day tomorrow with added herceptin (heart scan permitting) so in a couple of days I’ll probably be back to moaning about being tired but in the meantime it’s steroids time – which means double energy.  Yippee!

In which order is restored

Sadly not a picture of the front garden, which is still a work in progress

Hurrah, at last I’ve started feeling much better.  I am making hay while the sun shines, as I know next week, after another lot of swamp juice on Monday, I’ll be feeling grotty again.  But that’s ages away, so I’m sticking my fingers in my ears, singing tra-la-la and pretending it's not going to happen.

I’ve been out and about a bit seeing friends and yesterday my old mucker M came up all the way from Hertfordshire to see me.  Ta M.  She also made me eat too much lunch but I forgive her. 

The other-half has been watching football and getting so het up in the process that he’s been inventing new swear words and also using combinations of old swear words that are incredibly imaginative but sadly unrepeatable here.  Anyway I’m impressed.  All this swearing is much more interesting than the yawn-fest which is any sport at all in my opinion.  Given my loathing of all things sporty, and that after Euro 2012 we've got Wimbledon followed by the Olympics, this could be a very long summer for me.  I think I might start competitive swearing too.

Flopsy bunny

That's me, in the middle

A couple of Easters ago we had a family get-together in Wales and, unbelievably, had unseasonably warm weather.  Sis no 2 had bought us all chocolate bunnies.  Sadly we went out for the day leaving two of them near a window.  The picture above shows what we found on our return.  It also demonstrates how I’ve been feeling recently – a very flopsy bunny. 

The last lot of chemo has banished my bounce and made my ears droop.  It’s only a week and a half until I have another load of swamp juice and although I’m not looking forward to it, it isn’t all bad news as at least I’ll get another three days worth of steroids and so, hopefully, will be rushing around like a maniac for a few days.  This will be a welcome change.

Acutally, I have been feeling a bit more lively over the past couple of days and got out and about yesterday with Sis No 3 and Nephew No 2.  Neph No 2 caused some distress to his father while watching Euro 2012 by referring to goals as ‘points’ and then some distress to me by referring to football as ‘soccer’.  This is what comes from being born and bought up in Australia.  However, I have graciously forgiven him as he presented me with some very fancy tea from Fortnum and Mason, the sort of tea that requires respect in its serving.  I will be trying it in the next few days using a teacup and saucer, wearing a floral dress and possibly employing the services of a butler.  A tea-tasting report will be posted here.  Stay tuned for more excitement.

Fat cats

The glorious Nelly.  She was just a bit BIG BONED, alright?

There is talk of a distressing nature at Discombobulated Towers.  Talk of restraint, self-discipline and fortitude.  Talk of, wait for it, … putting the cat on a diet.  When we got Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) from the rescue centre last autumn he was sleek and slinky.  Now after nearly a year’s worth of pampering he’s got a paunch.  The vet commented on it a couple of weeks ago and I have to say it was quite noticeable yesterday lunch time when he was rolling around on the sofa sharing my ham sandwich.  I can’t think where I’m going wrong.  I don’t have a particularly good track record with this sort of thing.  My previous cat, Nelly, was ginormous (see above).  In my defence I have had other cats of normal build but they tended to have other problems of the type illustrated below.  

So it may be time to grasp the nettle before Cyril becomes a proper little porker.   Stand by for much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Talking of wailing and gnashing of teeth this latest lot of chemo has been truly knackering.  I’m feeling better than I was a few days ago but the ‘bounce back’ from this type of chemo is much slower than from the previous type.  It is so frustrating to not be able to do anything without needing to lie down for ages afterwards.  Yesterday I was whinging so much about it that the other-half hoovered the house from top to bottom simply because he’d rather listen to the drone of the vacuum cleaner than the drone of my moaning.  Result!

Chemo blues

Stuck in the chemo dungeon

Oh for the happy days of last week when I was off my trolley on steroids, rattling around the countryside and talking the hind leg off a donkey.  Now I'm on day two of lying in bed feeling like I've been trampled by said donkey wearing hobnailed boots. 

Flu-like symptoms are par for the course with the chemo I had on Friday so this isn't a massive surprise, but it's still not much fun.  I'm limited to the type of pain-killers I can take as I musn't take anything which can mask a temperature rise - so nothing containing paracetamol.  I am keeping sales of ibuprofen bouyant so there's an investment tip for you.  My temperature has been troublesome over the past few days, spending a fair amount of time just below the point where the instructions are to ring the hospital.  Not good for a natural born panicker like me.  So far today my temperature has been a bit lower, also I've started a ten day course of antibiotics - so fingers crossed this will keep the gremlins away.

So there you have it a bit of a whinge-fest of a blog post.  But I don't like to suffer alone, so thought I'd share, I'm good like that.

Dimbo Del

I’m on the naughty step.  In my last post I said I had to take steroids for three days prior to my latest chemo treatment on Friday.  I took them and whizzed around like a over-wound clockwork toy.  I should’ve realised something was wrong when I started ironing sheets (this is most unlike me).  It turned out I’d misread the instructions on the steroids packet and should have taken them for only one day before chemo, then on the day of chemo itself and also the day after.  I confessed all to the chemo nurse who was mightily relaxed about it I’m glad to say.  I still have to continue taking the tablets (in fact just had the last load) so I’m still a bit of a whizzy head as well as a scatty head.  I cannot even be trusted to follow simple written instructions any more.  If any work pals are reading this you should thank your lucky stars I’ve been signed off, I’d be even more of a hindrance than usual at the office.

Chemo went OK yesterday, no allergic reaction to the new treatment thankfully.  The side-effects (flu-like symptoms apparently) usually start around 3 – 4 days after treatment so if I go all quiet you’ll know why, that and going cold turkey from the steroids.  I’ve also been given a week’s worth of antibiotics as I’m even more susceptible to infections.  I’m getting to be a bit of a quick draw McGraw with my thermometers now so I’ll be keeping an eye on things.  Next week I have a heart test and if I pass that I will also start on herceptin.  Here endeth the medical report.

The other-half is off today for a huge family wedding which I'm mightily miffed to miss but it really wouldn’t be a good idea at the moment (I’d either be manic or asleep).  Many, many congratulations to the canoodling love birds T and J.  I’m sure everyone will have a fantastic time and I’m looking forward to the stories and photos the other-half brings home with him.

My chum T is coming over to baby-sit me for the day.  He’s the one who disapproved of me going to watch the Olympic torch.  Goodness knows what he’s going to make of the plastic solar-powered waving queen now stationed in the front window of the house in honour of the Jubilee.