Hello, world

I've been knocked further off my perch by bugs and germs this past week than by anything in a very long time.  After a sleepless night coughing my lungs up, overslept and missed my Nursey appointment.  Receptionist from hell "Well, she won't see you now", "Yes, she will..".  Stood there, unwashed, no breakfast [must remember pills when I get home] swaying slightly, waiting to be sorted.  

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Unexpectedly lifted out of feebleness and self-pity [slef-puty briefly, may stick with that in future] by a newspaper article:  music dilates the blood vessels, John Denver in particular, so it goes.  Now strangely, for someone currently listening to Gilbert O'Sullivan (effortlessly following the Undertones - how does that Genius software work exactly?), I have no John Denver.  But the ipod's back on its hub, after a week's silent misery.  Instant cheer.  And look, the camera's back, and I'm a yoga teacher again (well, technically), and the magic of Dabur's Meswak toothpaste may yet cure me of all my ills.

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Sorted the paper quagmire on my desk;  pleasantly surprised by forgotten scraps that had settled to the bottom.  New 'to do' list of 20 or so, none of which look as daunting as yesterday.  I'm clearly recovering.

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The Tubes 'Don't Touch Me There' reminds me of so very long ago.  Was it Suzi I queued up outside Hammersmith with?  Or she who vanished?  

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Clearly in danger of listing every song as it comes on.   So I'll leave you all in peace now.

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Nursey a little too pleased with herself as she made thrice weekly appointments for me, all the way through to 2nd January.  Isn't there a chance I might not need them by then?  Thank you everyone for generous offers - reckon I'm sorted for hospital escorts to the end of January now, and even have a couple of you in reserve for emergencies.

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All's well at 43 Conway Street

Grumpy bugger exited neighbouring house, saying "It needs a lot of restoration", I replied "I think it needs none whatsoever".  I could eat that shade of green.
Beautiful day in Fitzroy Square.  Evans and Evans, the nylon-overalled sisters who ran the dairy way back when I worked in the government quango a stone's throw away, is now a cafe, the exterior just the same.  Glory be.

Cut out an awful lot of figures in the waiting room today, couldn't bear to look up and see woman in terrible state having panic attack.  Moved rooms.  Got lost in 'Somerset Memories' on the tube, then lent it to Philadelphia woman looking a little lost herself in same wretched waiting area.

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Mr Radiotherapy said, "Very unusual set of circumstances.  They're being very thorough with you", and maybe they'll never crack the intestinal pains and shrug and call it Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  We'll see.  Mr Oncology said, "It will heal", and that somewhere in the very, very small print on the Tamoxifen label, it warns of liver upsets.  Not to bother going back on Zolodex (I'd have turned it down flat if he'd suggested otherwise), quality of life vs. minimal improvement in my stats.  That's all until breast surgeon check-up next Tuesday, and gastro-enterology the following week.

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Honest lot, Mr Oncology, medical trainee and Breast Care Nurse.  Conversation re: footwear preceded all the medical stuff.  So, if you're reading this, Nurse H, I'm e-mailing you a shoe shop link. xxx 

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Just time for one more decent set lunch with JS at Il Sorriso before home, with selection of silver polishes, and range of oils for sun-bleached garden tools.  Will do comparison test.  Original spade and fork from 60 Greenway, lost to view for a decade, left in storage by MP erroneously in the drawer beneath a bed.  Now happily in use again with me.

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Listening to Annie Whitehead trying valiantly to put a modern twist on the trumpet solo.  We can all dream.

To the good people of Pewsey

Grateful thanks for orange ginger marmalade, and more Bob Azzam.  

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Slept plenty, on sofa yesterday (never did get out for the afternoon) and last night (despite mystery stomach upset).  Dearest Donut, aged 5 1/2, gave me a hug, his mummy and I are prettier than the prettiest girls on X-Pactor, apparently.  What a charmer.

Jubilate!

I've discovered Photoshop!  Remember those Norma Lu Meehan cut out dolls?  Turns out they were a collector's item..  And there I was, setting about them with the scissors.. Oh well.  Life's too short.
Which sensible soul dragged me away from the Cancer Research shop's window display last week?  Well, tough:  you weren't there today, were you?  I now have Wimoweh, and The Leaving of Liverpool...
Not to mention 'Knock three Times...
.. and Baby I'm A Want You  ...  Let your Love Go
.. Give me Back My Heart...
To Sir with Love...
I used to belong to Dean-o's fan club, you know.  Maybe I shouldn't share such revelations..
.. the Streets of London....  and Mrs Adam's Angels...  Yes, yes, I know I could have bought them all on i-tunes.  But this way is so much cheaper, and more fun, and I get the joy of the cover artwork.
Fairies knitting at the bottom of my garden...
I slept in (could it have been the booze?  Thank you S~S), but not too late to catch the dew, or to see Nursey first appointment.
Lavender dandruff in my lounge;  but S~S mastered the lavender corn dolly.
How exactly do I change the sheets with you sleeping there?
Nursey has put micropore on my prescription, saved me a couple of quid.  And I'm trying Vitamin E and iron (for my feeble skin, and the anaemic breathlessness), and antihistamines for the skin reaction to any sort of covering now.

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And one further Oxfam indulgence, 'Fate has been kind', the memoirs of The Rt Hon Pethick Lawrence PC.  What a life,  two world wars, an Eton childhood to the last days of the Raj, to imprisonment for supporting the suffragettes, to bankruptcy (including forfeiture of his club membership, a cruel blow) to Parliament and poetry writing.  How come I'd never heard of him?  

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Sunniest of days.  I'm getting out there.

Farewell, Cape Cod

If no-one objects, I've removed Cape Cod - that side bar was getting mighty long.  How familiar are you with Russell Square environs?  You can trace my journey from tube to Hospital... I keep meaning to go to exhibitions at the Horse Hospital. 
Poor bird, its little feet encased in concrete.  Wonder if he ended up too heavy to fly.
Now would you just look at that price label.  All I can say is:  that was as fine a Saturday night as they come, and thank you Stuart Thompson.
Precious GG1 or 2 (I still haven't worked it out), sorting out her winter kit at the Cycle Surgery in Holborn, while I sat on the step, reading from, alternately, little B's 'Tell the Time with the Pooh', 'What's the Time, Maisy?' and John Diamond's 'Snake Oil and other preoccupations', all the while panting for breath.  Could it be anaemia?  Hmm.  Madam also reckons ms Shulman won't write back, because that would only be acknowledging that I'd made a valid point.  Perhaps GG's right, but if so, what a twisted world we inhabit.

And there's more (whose catchphrase was that?)  S~S due for our fortnightly indulgence this evening.  Life is far from bad.  Song for today:  'Mississipi Goddam', Nina Simone - echoes my tempo and level of frustration perfectly.  

Oops

Got so lost in filing old clothing and footwear receipts, somewhat drugged up, entirely forgot that I hadn't done blog today.  Sorry if you are at all dependent on daily fix.

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Pleasant father and son team building shed in back garden as I write.  Off to the hairdresser's now. Always a cause for celebration - I have hair that can be cut!  Yeay!  And eyebrows that can be tweaked!  Fantastic!  First day in what feels like forever that I haven't got a hospital or doctor's appointment (in fact, ratio is about 5:2, medical:vaguely normal).

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Am considerably calmer than yesterday.  Just got thoroughly steamed up and grumpy at prospect of not knowing where I am all over again.  But now accept that this is the status quo, and any apparent certainty is wholly illusory.

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Am investigating having a cleaner.  Codeine consumption remains constant.  Work phoned, they miss me.  Can't entirely claim that the feeling's mutual, well, I suppose I miss the normality - but the idea of doing anything remotely challenging right now is fairly preposterous.  Had to ask for seat on tube yesterday - didn't cry, unlike last time, so am perhaps acclimatising to being a bit dog sick.

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Photos of current hippy musical choice to soothe my weary soul, both Ashtanga mates of old, Annie chants very simply in her yoga studio, accompanied by Glen (can be purchased on ashtanga.com or shaktisharanam.com);  David is the professional musician, putting his tracks together in a studio in Bangalore, very upbeat.

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Really must go.  

Well. Now what?

A slew of saturated notebooks (and only this year's, and only the ones I could readily lay hands on).  Ah me, O my.  Now what?  
Have tidied all eight desk drawers and poured a generous glass of wine.  Found Bob and Alf in a drawer, from years back, Greenwich Market, I think.  Had intended framing them, but blogging makes all other forms of display redundant.  Tom Jones 'Green Green Grass of Home' just segued into Amy Winehouse's 'Me and Mrs Jones'.  Ouch.  Will try making greetings cards.  Is there anything on tv?  B*gger, b*gger, b*gger.  Every Tuesday they change my world:  a week's (too brief) approximation of certainty - gallstones, no more cancer.  Replaced today with, what?  Fear?  Anticipation?  Exasperation, mollified only slightly by drugs and alcohol.  Whatever happened to yoga?

Sunday in the Park with George (Gershwin)

This is England, the England of my imaginings.  Where people plant fir trees on their allotments for fear of offending the neighbours;  where the brass band plays after Sunday lunch just a bowled ball away from the municipal planting.

Fine food, drink, company, conversation, and as eclectic a range of reading matter as you'll find at the best of lending libraries:  Quiltmania; Financial Times Wealth; Soul and Spirituality; the Guardian, OK! and the Reader's Digest (Humour Special!); and the immaculately edited IEEE Software.  Grayson Perry and John Diamond came back home unopened.
Mr T had to cross two bottles of Puligny Montrachet Premiere Cru off his cellar book, and was it ever worth it.
Christmas decorations are on sale at Debenhams.  J looks a treat in her new Paul Costelloe, it took determination to get her there.   Country Cousins have tracked down more Bob Azzam. Down to four codeine a day.  Six medical appointments this coming week.  Please slow down, life.

Exeat

Struck a deal with Nursie. She'll give me a spare dressing in case I leak, and I'll run for the hills overnight (well, Guildford).

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Like my travel costume? If only. I tend to a relentless round of black t-shirts from a morbid fear of bleeding. "This smart tri-tone gabardine suit was worn by Mrs Gladys Aker... bookkeeper at the South Bend Watch Factory" (Indiana?)

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Overnight (rubbish for sleep) music: soundtrack to Bugsy Malone 'You could have been anything that you wanted to be' - it's the choice of tense that lends poignancy, because the melody's so entirely upbeat; Lykke Li 'Little Bit'; Abba 'So Long'; Duran Duran 'Girls on Film'.

It's an interesting life on codeine..

I do love my tea towel collection..

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If only this milkman had taken his concept onto 'Dragon's Den', I suspect he could have a successful franchise operation by now.

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So, yes, codeine.  On the plus side, I floated up to Woolworth's ever so slowly (no hasty movements, pain-inducing), only to discover at the checkout (discounted silver solar garden lights, 6 for £6), that I'd left my wallet at home.  Luckily J Opp fancied a wander, came to meet me, got me out of hock at Woollies, and then pottered around Ally Pally (wedding show today and glorious Belgian sweetie stall, marred only by the humourless vendor's refusal to let me photograph her spectacular wares - so I snapped them on my phone, just can't figure out how to upload images, sorry), and to lunch at lovely Chiro's cafe (fine affogato today.  Bliss).

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I-pod on shuffle today, from Adalberto Alvarez to Ian Dury via Mott the Hoople, Boy George and Barry Manilow. Interesting.

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The new shed's sitting patiently in the front garden, waiting for the manufacturers to do a straight swap with one that hasn't been pre-assembled, as it won't fit through my small but perfectly formed 1890's back door.  I will have to live with a selection of garden implements under the dining room table a little while longer.  No great hardship.

All gone!

A heroic effort by my next-door-neighbour, with moral support from an extended team, and lo!  No more shed.  

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Spent plenty of yesterday resting;  trying to make corn dollies out of lavender (not particularly successfully);  Last Night of the Proms on tv;  not particularly mobile.  Slowest I've been in weeks.  Good.

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Don't read this with your breakfast...

A haimisheh Warhol for light relief.  Now leave this blog unless you can cope with gore.
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Phoned Oxford in a bit of a flap last night;  BBIL very wisely suggested I take a codeine; fell asleep ten minutes into The Belles of St Trinian's (Alistair Sim, none of that Russell Brand nonsense); woke to go to bed with my hot Badam milk;  undressing, cross-eyed, my scar tissue had opened a full inch giving me a far too clear view of the depths within;  panicked.  Phoned my Breast Care Nurse, knowing it to be pointless, but at least thinking mine might be the first message she hears when she plays them back in the morning.  

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Tried NHS Direct, "Your out-of-hours service will phone you back, and if appropriate will call you into their clinic";  "What if I can't get there?  Can't they send someone round with a needle and thread?";  "In these situations people usually call a taxi or a friend".  Good point.  Friends.  Why hadn't I thought of that?  Phoned J Opp [is everyone called J? J next door, cousin J, lifelong J known here as S~S, or even J in America];  no answer;  knocked on her door - 12.15 pm by now.   She didn't answer;  stood in my dressing gown in the middle of a road so silent it could be a movie set for some post-nuclear nightmare, saying "Sh*t, sh*t", and by a mercy, she looked out of her bedroom window.  "I'm knocking because you've got a car...";  as I explained, the GP phoned back, talked me down, convinced me I needed nothing doing right then, and that my miserable wound would do something called secondary healing, which is far better than being stitched, which risks sewing an infection in.  I could always go to the surgery in the morning to have it packed.  

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Keep thinking, "but I'm meant to be having a skin-saving mastectomy:  how will that work if I haven't got any skin?"

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Tom Jones singing 'Sex Bomb';  an unusual choice, but I'm finding playing everything in alphabetical order a wonderful source of eclectic distractions, suits my continual mood-swinging.  Skipped 'She's a Lady' to Razorlight's 'Somewhere Else', far more appropriate.  Sorry neighbours.  Full volume this one. "I really, really wish I could be somewhere else than here".

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Ever tried EFT?  Repeat aloud:  "Even though [insert current crisis here] I completely and unconditionally love and accept myself".  Ha blinkin' ha.

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[Wrote all the above waiting for Dr's Reception to open.  Dr Limbani (who he?) plus female chaperone will see me at 9am.  No nurses available.]

Late!

. .but somehow still turning the laptop on.  It's an addiction.  Listening to Bob Azzam & his orchestra playing Tintarella di Luna (1950-something), and if anyone else knows what I'm on about, I'm well impressed;  followed by Richard O'Brien singing the Time Warp, innocent of all irony.

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Must go.  Appointment at 10.

xx

Hot Badam, madam?

MP pointed out my readership hadn’t shrunk thanks to the amateur photography, more that people were relieved that I wasn’t seriously ill. It hadn’t entered my head.
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There was a time when Jim Henson’s puppets released records. “Halfway up the Stairs”, Kermit’s nephew sung, ponderously, “is the stair where I sit. There isn’t really any other quite like it. It’s not at the bottom. It’s not at the top. But this is the stair where I always stop”. I’d add it to my playlist, but don’t dare encourage little B's interest in the turntable: he finds thumping it immensely satisfying (maximum adult response guaranteed, having bust the previous one). His mother has been reduced to saying, “B! Naughty Step! Now! f – I’ll pay for another one”.
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The sheer horror on MP’s face on spotting the industrial quality margarine – the fairy cake cookbook recommended it, and was spot on. Lifting the veil is seldom wise.
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I slept midnight to 2am: what did they give me? I feel no pain. Haven’t taken anything since they took the drip out.

A good night's sleep

With a little Abba whenever I woke. Feeling remarkably calm. Off to hosp at 6.3oam.

Journey without end

The lovely Flo (in Mr Trustworthy Surgeon's team) thinks I might need my gall bladder out, and should have an ultrasound to check further - such an Alf Garnett sort of a problem, gall stones. And I was bumped to the end of the ECG queue because I didn't hear my name being called - 'Young, gifted and black' at full volume. Serves me right. Comfortingly, the ECG looked entirely normal; on schedule for breast op, Monday.
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Had a "lemmeouttahere" moment, disorientated down endless unfamiliar corridors. Someone helped. It's the compassion that brings on tears.
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Wonderful J will be with me from Sunday night, and see me home from what should, hopefully, be day surgery on Monday. Now they tell me I'm not meant to be alone for the following 24 hrs, so, team, if anyone wants to do a bit of footfall-sitting anytime between Monday evening & Tuesday evening, just let me know... The hospital letter says I'm not meant to operate machinery blah blah, but a kettle?!
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I will give you full access to my (embarrassment of an) ipod, eclectic bookshelves & (well-stocked) fridge. I intend cooking Indian & cupcakes for Sunday - I'll make extra.
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xx f

Hello team

Knitted a sock for the paper fan that lives in my handbag – if my i-pod can have one, why not my fan?
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While the rain drizzles, I intend uploading a number of 45rpm’s. No cake-baking today – purchased ingredients, but forgot tin. Or maybe I’ll borrow one..
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Hours slept – 7

• Bits of me that hurt - 3
• Painkillers so far today - 1

Well! I'll go to the foot of our stairs

... or should it be the top? My colloquialisms have rusted over.
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Such a lovely day. I hope you are all proud of me for turning the computer off and slowing down. Admittedly, I started off with some fairly frenetic, randomised cleaning, before focussing in on the stereo system (yes, I know they're not called that now, but you should see the age of it). I was brave enough to work out what each wire did, and consequently chucked a few away, hoovered up dust from before the era of dry rot, scraped off candle wax from whenever I last had a party where an unmentionable Welshman decided he could dj better by candlelight (about 1993?), and triumphantly, plugged in the new-fangled creation that enables me to upload Rod Stewart from vinyl to i-pod. Except inside the sleeve was Baghdad Cafe.
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Moving swiftly on: you get three guesses... KW, S~S, and possibly even SHW (wonder if you're out there ~ KW, did you know she's been coming from Wimbledon to Brent bleeding Cross weekly for a year and we haven't met???); anyhow, you should be able to figure it out if I say Dibden, circa 1985. Yes, it's our kitchen curtain. I brought it back from East Street market (or was it a trip to Italy, S~S?) & you all thought it was the most tasteless thing you'd ever seen, but let me put it up for privacy's sake. How did it survive the years? MP & I found it today, back of the linen cupboard.
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We had such a good day. Sun came out. Bought young B an alphabet muriel (as the much missed Mrs Ogden used to say), and a lovely storybook called 'Where's My Cuddle?'
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As queen curtain-maker to the great & good, MP made small but significant improvements to several soft furnishings for me, and I slowed down enough to stitch a button to one place & a frog to another. Her departing words (having watched over me to ensure I cooked) were, "Now, I want you to eat your supper, and then choose one project, and every time you stray, go back to it". A natural yogini, clearly. Even as she said it, I knew that I'd end up turning the computer back on & writing. But, I'm tired. I'm a bit ache-y, and I reckon I'll read & then turn in early. Let's see if I can manage it.
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I almost feel as though I've been dreaming this past month - had to take out the hospital printout I've been living with since mid-July to show MP, like pinching myself, grim phrases .. "positive for markers ... morphologically would suggest carcinoma .... suggestive of malignancy"; and as I tidied, came across my half-packed bag, readying for another in-patient stay. No wonder I'm weary. Have just spotted delightful get-out clause even on the pathology report, "Data is correct at time of printing but may be subject to change". MP's father-in-law, hot off the plane from foreign climes, said "Is she going to sue?" No. I suspect the best thing is to move swiftly on, endeavour to enjoy every moment free of grim diagnosis, until the next time. Waiting for the other foot to fall. Again.

Mornin' all

No idea who Mr Daw was, but what a lovely bit of calligraphy.

Have e-m'd you, KW.

Ah! the weekend! Even if I am round-the-bend still, no-one medical can get to me with new information until Tuesday - bliss. Looking around my 101 incomplete projects, wondering which would most cheer MP to see in progress when she arrives later? She won't care, will she? Seeing me slow down is the priority. My overnight 'to do' list consists: fry mustard seeds for rasam (knew something was missing); try baking; try yoga.

Very kind new neighbour at K&L's asked me if he could do anything to help in the garden. I really should have been courageous enough to say I'd forgotten his name. Will try later.

Barry Manilow on the ipod (watch that readership plummet), but a girl needs her distractions. If I write nothing further for many hours, it will because I am indulging in genuine, three-dimensional human interaction, not a bad idea, eh?

The triband took a bath

In the habit of using whatever comes to hand to make a cat-proof lid for my water glass - but I shouldn't have used my phone. Please, no-one text me until I've sorted out a replacement!

O generous gardeners, home-made bread, jam & Andy Warhol. Want a link to your classes on this site? Valuable feedback: it appears GG are not alone in their confusion re the sequence of recent medical events - I am too. How is it possible for the GP to have a diagnosis of recurrence on my files dated June, and yet for me to be oblivious until 21st July & then not be scheduled for surgery until some point in September?? No wonder my 'local recurrence' is already 3cm in diameter. But there's at least one good reason to delay until Sept: S~S will be here to bring me heaven-sent food in hospital again. There's an upside to anything if you think about it long enough. Thought of you as I admired the fern collection late last night.

NB ~ if he finds reading all this a bit squeamish, would you tell that little south coast imp that I so fondly remember him in class. I can't rank my students, but if I ever did, he'd be right up there.

Playlist.com is very stubborn - it won't locate Mr Reed's 'New York Conversation' for me, and it's never even heard of precious Mahaliah Jackson or Arvo Part. Perhaps I'll write another list somewhere. Moby playing 'God moving over the face of the earth' as I write - Beloved brother-in-law would call it music for bedwetters.

'There's a lot on it', said one GG, weighing her words with care. This is true. But there could be a good deal more. I was seriously considering typing up my entire holiday diaries at one point & attaching scenic photos.

Apologised to Harriet, the Breast Cancer Nurse (henceforward HBC - almost a bank) for being so crotchety on the phone, she told me not to worry, my reactions were normal, "Don't you dare call me normal. Nobody's ever called me that before, and they're not starting now".

Morning coffee from my HM Prison Holloway mug, now there's quality.