Boxing Day

Well obviously it isn’t Boxing Day, but IT just is three months today until Christmas.  No need to thank me for the reminder.

Last weekend, even in the midst of deepest chemo-gloom, I wearily managed to do some on-line shopping (for me).  It really is remarkable how nobly I soldier on.  Today Cyril and I leapt with joy; me at the delivery of my new stompy winter boots and Cyril at the box the boots arrived in.

I also ventured out today for the first time since Thursday (when I went to see Ross Noble, v funny, big tick).  Today I provided the laughs myself by going to the hairdresser and asking for a trim.  I think the hairdresser thought I was a bit loopy seeing as my hair is still incredibly short, but nevertheless he trimmed away at the wispy bits round my ears and the bits that make me look like I’ve got a hairy neck (probably because I have got a hairy neck) and so I’m freshly shorn and ready to go out and about, as long as I remember to scrub my neck and ears first, I’m so high maintenance these days.

Not much else to report apart from being rained on relentlessly like the rest of Britain.  A month’s worth of rain in a day.  And, Australian and American chums, that’s a month’s worth of British rain.  As my mate T said, that’s a lot of big dollops.

 

In disgrace again

This is me last year sulking while walking in the Scottish Highands.  Picture that same dejected look only now with less hair.

Firstly a rant.  Why do the blogging gods hate me?  I'm having problems highlighting the links in this post.  Usually I can show them in royal blue all beautifully underlined, this time they are grey with no underlining, ie practically invisible.  And I can't work out why.  Argh.  Anyway I know most people (rightly) ignore links but just in case you're interested the links in this post are 'lovingly crafted garden' in the next to last paragraph and then in the final paragraph 'Lauire, who helped me massively' and the two 'here's.  Now back to whinging of a non-technical nature.

I’m one of those people who can never, ever do anything wrong without being found out.  For example I have only once travelled in a first class train carriage while carrying a second class ticket (this was 100 years ago when I was young, wild and rebellious).  I was travelling for one stop, a journey of about 5 minutes.  I got caught out and was given a very public ticking off by the train guard.  Oh the shame.

Yesterday I went to my GPs for my pre-chemo blood test.  The first thing the nurse asked me was what the hospital had said about my hand (I hurt my hand last week and the GP advised an x-ray).  I had to confess that I hadn't been to hospital.  She gave me a very stern look and was about to give me a good old fashioned talking to, but I headed her off at the pass by saying, truthfully, that the swelling had virtually gone and that I was sick and tired of hospitals.  Trust me to get a nurse who had actually read my notes before the appointment.  There is no way I could ever take up a life of crime, I’d be behind bars in next to no time.

So, talking of hospitals, I’m off for herceptin and swamp juice today (heart and blood tests permitting).  I’m all set - my kindle is full of new downloads and my bag is full of snacks.  In fact I’ll probably be rolling to chemo as I can feel waistbands tightening after too much good living.  I had a lovely meal on Friday courtesy of sis no 2, ate out with J and M on Saturday and then had pizza yesterday lunchtime with sis no 1.  Let’s hope the chemo chairs are reinforced.

While I’m stuck at hospital all day the other-half plans to stand vigil over the lovingly crafted new front garden.  One of the neighbourhood cats is using it as his personal litter tray.  Without going into too much detail we believe the culprit is a very large cat going by the em, deposits, he leaves behind.  He doesn’t even attempt to bury it.  I feel he is cocking a snook at us.  The chief suspect is Big Brown Bad Cat who we also believe has been largely responsible for Cyril’s escape attempts.  Yes, the evidence is circumstantial but damning nonetheless.  We have bought heaps of cat-deterrent powders and the like.  There is now such a concoction spread all over the soil that should a passer-by flick a cigarette butt into the garden the whole thing will probably go up in a spectacular ball of flame.  Needless to say none of this has put off the phantom pooher.  Oh well, if the other-half catches Big Brown Bad Cat in the act today I should be coming home to a new and furry Big Brown Hat, which would be very handy as the temperatures are dropping and my relatively newly exposed ears are freezing.

PS.  On more of a cancery note, Oct 13^th is Secondary Breast Cancer Awareness day.  The Breast Cancer Care website is trying to promote the day and has made some short films about living with the condition on a day-to-day basis.  One of the participants is Laurie, who helped me massively when I first found out that I had secondary cancer.  If you’re interested her film can be seen by clicking here, (although a word of warning the film doesn't seem to work on iPads).  And more info, on promoting the awareness day can be found here.

Fun in Clun (and other good stuff)

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).

I had a surprise and spectacular bunch of flowers, thanks S and H!.  

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.

In the wars

I'm feeling sorry for myself.  As well as battling a grotty cold (on it's way out I think but dragging its heels), I've been afflicted by a nose bleed and now I've got a hurty handy.  I forgot to let go of the handle when walking through a door.  I know I struggle with multi-tasking these days but being unable to walk through a doorway is taking chemo-brain to new extremes.  Anyway I went to the GP and he thinks my owie warrants a trip to hospital for an x-ray.  Sigh.  At least he said it'd be OK to wait until tomorrow morning when A&E shouldn't be busy, the doctors will have just changed shift and it'll be drunk free (apart from me).

Also, to cap it all, Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) wasn't at all well this morning.  He seems to have perked up a bit as the day has worn on but I'll be keeping my eye on him and if he's still off colour tomorrow I'll be manhandling him into the cat box (one handed) to take him to the vets.

Normal service will be resumed shortly, I hope.

Hairy Maclary

I’m on day four of being stuck in bed and I’m not impressed.  As well as the usual post-chemo yuckiness, I seem to have caught a cold.  At the moment my world consists of grot and snot.  Just thought I’d share.

Although I’ve been totally inactive my hair has continued growing (as the particular type of swamp juice I’m on now doesn’t always cause baldness).  It’s definitely coming back curly (I always had straight hair before).  The colour is indeterminate as yet but there are some definite grey bits including a fairly large patch at the front.  I think I’m going to be the proud owner of a Mallen streak:

Picture from here

 

In which case I must redouble my efforts at feeling better.  I can’t lie around in bed all day if I’m going to be a Mallen.  I need to be out and about molesting peasants and being horrible to widows and orphans.  I take my responsibilities seriously.

This message is brought to you by STEROIDS

I’m happily off my trolley again on my last of three blissful days on steroids.  I had chemo and herceptin yesterday and all went well.  The chemo unit at the hospital is always a surprisingly cheery place, I hesitate to recommend it, but you could do worse.  Nevertheless it was close to a six hour visit and my kindle came into its own.  Thanks work pals for getting it for me and dragging me into the 21^st century.  It’s so much easier to sit with a kindle on my lap rather than rifling through my enormous bag (known on the unit as my chemo sack) for books and setting off alarms as I slightly dislodge the needle-y IV thing in my hand.  Also I get to feel smug while nodding and smiling at the other kindle users sat about me and cast looks of pity at those poor souls still reading vellum manuscripts and papyrus scrolls.  If only they could make a kindle that smelled like books I would be truly happy.

On Tuesday all four of the Discombobulated Sisters were in the same county (not to mention country) at the same time.  So the unheard of happened.  We went out for a jolly jaunt in the countryside, just the four of us.  I don’t remember the last time this happened but I like to think that it isn’t a Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse style portent of doom (although it could easily have gone that way).  Anyway it was sunny; we had heaps of fun and lashings of ginger beer.  We went to Acton Scott Historic Working Farm (pushing small children out of the way to see the piglets), back to the Dower House Gardens at Morville, had lunch in a newish place in Church Stretton (thanks for telling me about it M) and then had a drive around the rolling hills.  This entailed sister No 3 valiantly driving over the Long Mynd with sisters nos 1 and 2 refusing to look over the drop as we climbed the hill and all of us squealing and breathing in at the sight of another car coming our way (the breathing in being essential to make the car smaller and therefore ensuring the squeeze past other vehicles on the narrow road would not see us tumbling into the abyss).  

Church Stretton from the Long Mynd, in other words, the great outdoors

 

When we reached the top of the hill we got out of the car for a look around and a breath of fresh air.  Sis no 2 loves the countryside but holds a deeper and more sincere affection for John Lewis.  As she tip-toed back to the car, avoiding sheep poo, she got talking to some cyclists and asked them how many miles they’d done.  “We like to do about 65 miles a day” came the breezy reply.  Sis no 2 wrinkled her nose and responded with a heartfelt “ooh I’d rather be shopping”.

As I told sis no 2 repeatedly, she has no romance in her soul.  Unlike me.  I strode about the Long Mynd, thought about life, the universe and everything and drifted back to the car not caring a hoot about whether or not I trod in sheep poo.  I should probably point out that I was travelling in my sister’s car so I wasn’t going to have to clean the poo off the upholstery, otherwise I might have been a bit more wary with my feet.  To be fair, I do have a lovely photo of sis no 2 pretending to be Julie Andrews on the top of the Long Mynd but I daren’t post it here as I’m too frightened of her (my sister, not Julie Andrews, although come to think of it ...)

Anyway I am now full of the joys of the Shropshire countryside and may take up poetry and turn this into my Blog of Poems.  Don’t worry, only joking, don’t unfollow me, please.  But I will leave you with possibly my most favourite nature poem, written I believe, by the great Spike Milligan:

Return to Sorrento (Third Class)

I must go down to the sea again

To the lonely sea and sky

I left my socks and vest there

I wonder if they are dry

Also, while I’m in a versifying mood, here's my favourite poem of all time, by

I-don’t-who, but taught to me by my dad when I was knee high to a grasshopper:

Little Robin Redbreast

Little Robin Redbreast

Sat upon a pole

Undid his breeches

And did a sausage roll

Last day of the steroids today.  Normal service will be resumed shortly.  Expect the usual doom, gloom and misery in a few days time and that’s a promise.

Tick, tick, tick

You may think this is just a cat.  You are mistaken.  It's a ticking time bomb.

I knew I was right to be alarmed by Cyril’s (the three-legged monster cat) apparent docility.  The storm clouds are gathering.  Cyril is chipped, a wise move I felt in view of his escape attempts.  But I’ve made a terrible mistake.  I’ve had a letter from the chip manufacturers and, guess what, the chip he has had inserted is one of a faulty batch.  Now the manufacturers have tried to sound all reassuring, saying that the vet just needs to check it out and maybe insert another chip if the current one isn’t working properly.  Ha!  They aren’t fooling me.  Reading between the lines it’s clear that there is, in fact, an evil cat overlord at work.  All he needs to do is flick a switch and all the cats implanted with the ‘faulty’ chips (including Cyril) will rise up to destroy their human slaves.  I’m keeping a wary eye on him and if he starts making his way upstairs with a kitchen knife clenched between his teeth I’ll be ready.

On a more mundane note I’ve had my appointment with the oncologist.  There’s been no change.  This was both disappointing and pleasing (yes, conflicting emotions, truly I am a deep and complex woman).  I really wanted to be told that the cancer was shrinking but, on the other paw, I’m relieved that it hasn’t grown.  So the plan is for me to have two more lots of swamp juice (chemo) and then carry on with the herceptin and start on tamoxifen with another scan in November.  So it’s a case of keep on keeping on.

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.