Sunshine and shopping lists

Thanks to the gentlest yoga class for ladies of my ilk, I slept exceptionally well last night, felt that worrying about anything at all was quite preposterously inappropriate, and floated around all evening, mellow as anything.  Heard 5 men in a taxi singing 'On the fifth day of Christmas...five go-o0-ld rings..' on my way home - first of the season, if marginally premature.

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Woke, late, to sunshine, feeling ready to take on the world.  But will settle for collecting the car from garage and picking up some food.

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My Mills & Boon moment lasted almost to bedtime, very relaxing, knowing the ending before you even begin.  Plenty of Regency derring-do, and barely a love rival.  Delightful.

Drunk

"You've cheered up", said a fellow creative type.  I thought he meant after the first couple of bottles of red, but no, over the last six weeks.  Overall, I suspect I have.  

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Happier if fragile this morning.  Please don't let there be any need for blood tests today.  I'll come out three parts alcohol to one part Soho MSG.   End of a delightful era;  farewell writing course;  farewell Groucho.  I could always sign up for the next level ..

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Cat's sitting staring at his crunchies, hoping they magically transform into, what?  Chicken breasts? Lightly steamed trout?

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Never e-mail drunk.  Luckily my recipients know me of old, and there were only a couple.  Christ, I hope there were only a couple.  What possessed me?

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Must be off to meet Pp & Mr Trustworthy.

Quiet night in

And so I spent another quiet night in front of the fire.  And suspect today will go much the same way.  Wise move.  Woke aching and felt about 103.  If it wasn't for the time difference, I'd be watching the US elections end to end.

Bright idea?

Please scan down 'my medical story so far' for upcoming medical appointment dates - and if you are free, kindly book yourself in!  They are all mid-mornings at UCLH, except 21st Jan which is 3.30pm.  It has been too long since I last ate at Il Sorriso, and I've discovered the wonderful Turkish Ev now, too.  So do join me.

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Have ordered vast quantity of dried fruit with intention of making Xmas cakes for all three households where I'll be spending the season.

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Entirely oblivious of Lewis Hamilton's triumph,  last night I escaped into a glorious BBC4 play, tracing the history of Mills and Boon.  And, joy of joys, discovered this morning that I'd dreamt spectacularly M&B-style, and remembered it!  All sweeping staircases, ripped shirts, and a terribly difficult decision:  how to choose between two exceptionally charming male admirers?  Review their postcard collection, obviously (or maybe they were etchings, or stickers, or short story ideas on postcards) - it was a dream, after all.  Cruelly woken by Rabbi Lionel Blue on too loud Radio 4 worriting over how to raise his aching body from a cosy bed.  

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No idea what the picture is.

Saffron slut

I'd thought they'd closed the restaurant down - anyone with half a mind could have picked up all they needed to start another: plates, air con unit, table cloths...  Then an apronned employee appeared, cuckoo-clock-like, out of a doorway and added more to this pile while I avoided being run over, photographing it.  Did she shoo me away?  Did she hell.  Will think twice before eating there.

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Mind you, my own kitchen sluttiness knows no bounds.  Cat turned his nose up at 3-day old chicken in his bowl (and there's me thinking, 'treat').  The rest of the bird is becoming risotto as I write (reliable Delia again).  And finally a use for that tiny salt cellar spoon - it fits easily into the saffron bottle, and I'd assumed there was no 21st century use for it unless and until I developed a monstrous coke habit.

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I'm too new to this ipod game.  How do people manage not to dance?  Tom Jones on the way home tonight.

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Celebrating: an entire day on only two paracetomol.  Could have done with more on the tube, but I was out of water, and haven't yet mastered the art of swallowing those fat codeine tabs neat.

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Have just done a £15 deal (thank you, Beverley of North Finchley) for a 1972 Singer sewing machine.  

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And an illuminating afternoon in Soho, writing.  Sick of your own voice?  Try the third person.  Now why ever didn't I think of that before.  Liberating.

Good day

Slept well.  But dratted wound plaguing me.  Giant dressing now to avoid sticking plaster on tenderised skin.

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A very long time since I last lunched at the October Gallery (above and below).   It doesn't feel like London.  Helpful Homoeopathic Hospital, as ever.  Had feet massaged there today while waiting for my little sugar pills.
I wanted to follow that sign.  Didn't.  Rare moment of conservative behaviour.
A peaceful few minutes at St Anselm & St Cecilia's on Kingsway.  So many hidden calm places. 
Haven't quite reached this level of desperation.  But good to know they're there if needed.
Who comes up with these things?  When asked, the Archbishop of Canterbury said, "I'd never have got into this whole church thing, if it wasn't for that poster at St Cecilia's..."

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.

As if by magic...

.. the shopkeeper appeared.  Or, the shed!  And it needs two months to bed down before it can be painted.  Serendipity.  
Not touching this laptop for 30hrs has slowed me down wonderfully.  I shan't forget that (well, we'll see).  JG came, shopped, cooked and RS turned up in perfect time to drink, eat and drive to synagogue in time for last night's service.   Pragmatic, these Progressives:  the entire service transliterated for those among us (me) who avoided learning Hebrew in our fabulously misspent youth.  Welcoming, but not claustrophobic, and none of that snide "Where were you during the boring bits of the year?" look that I sensed elsewhere.

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One minor hiccup: desperately needed a codeine, had purchased small enough water bottle for handbag in such haste, only realised it was fizzy when I opened it at an especially quiet moment.  So it goes.

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Today, efficient morning par excellence:  shed fitters 8-11am;  JG arrived in time for them to say "Good Yomtov" to her as they left;  taxi to shul arrived so swiftly, had to leave my biscuit uneaten.  Made up for it with £1 of jelly babies after another perfectly fine service.  

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But rather too many painkillers today - looking forward to some medical insight, soon.  Do tell me, o occasional readers, is the medical synopsis in the sidebar helpful?  Are you any less confused.  In fact, tell me anything!  I'd appreciate some feedback - is anything irritating, layout or content-wise?  Wanting more/less of anything?  Have had one request for fewer photos of vinyl.  Fair do's.

L - AC:  thank you for getting back to me!  I won't publish your details here.  But thank you.  Keep up the writing.

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.  

Soothed, slightly

My local psychotherapy services are really rather good.  Sensible top tips included:  keep writing and sleep on the sofa if you feel like it. 
Though I wince at the thought of all the damaged children who must have played with these.
This cat hasn't moved all morning.  Clearly set in for the day.  It's sunny out there, and I'm off for some spiritual healing [anything that keeps me lying down for an hour has to be good].   Did I tell you how I had such ants in my pants I couldn't sit in the acupuncturist's waiting room last week?  Pacing on the pavement, he had to come out and lassoo me in, steer me to the treatment table.

Lost in translation

Apparently, UCLH send their letters to be typed in India, back to Warren Street to be signed, and only then out to the GP.  Which explains why Dr S this morning had bugger all on file about my internal miseries.  Still, he was all sympathy, and referred me back to UCLH gastro-enterology on Wed 15th Oct, 12:30pm [KW - I'll be in touch] .  He's emigrating to a town of 5,000 in Canada next Wednesday.  Wise man.

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Rest of morning at interesting poetry workshop in somewhat dilapidated Haringey library (pictured);  breakfast on the bus;  woke tired;  Nursey and Doctor with my brain barely awake (still, makes a change to sleep past 5, 6am).

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Have improved layout to 24 pairs of shoes and a cat ii (17th Sept), if you're keen to see which pairs are which.

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Resisted purchasing gold lace embroidered ballet pumps from proper ballet shop yesterday.  Very proud of self.  It was the prospect of sewing the tapes in, and not being able to wear them outdoors that did for them.

Sally

Boldy, she sallies forth in her new correspondents.  Daisy Buchanan shoes, Jay Gatsby's unattainable dream.  Personally, I blame the parents.  Just what was she thinking, taking me to the Blahnik sale aged, ooh, 12? 13?  I fell in love, but came home empty-handed.  And all that autumn term, I hid my Kickers under the desk, avoiding Mrs Flashman's fines for subversive footwear.  She couldn't quite say why they were wrong - they were flat, sensible, after all.  Just not Mary Jane enough for the fee-paying world of Elstree.

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And all the while I refined my drawing technique:  bloody hated, loathed art classes.  My leaves refused to look like leaves, or flowers, flowers.  But I could draw my ideal shoe or a hostile horizon of trees if I only used straight lines, never a curve.  Well, it worked for me.  Could I be so bold in an art lesson?  Bah!  And so, these increasingly vertigious heels snuck onto the corners of files and worksheets, diagrams and revision notes (but never a sacred book, note).

And then I hit on decoupage.  Covered a file in Harpers & Queen and Vogue, thank you, my loyal inspirers.  I look at this file, over 30 years later:  nothing has changed.   The girl scout who loved James Bond; a certain ennui even then (O tempora!  O mores!);  a magpie selection of jewel colours and glimmer;  a touch of gardening;  only connect.  
Are our values fixed at birth?  Before?  They'll never change, will they?

It's all getting very interesting

What can I say?  It hurts.  Drugs, alcohol, homoeopathy and faith healing haven't fixed it.  Roll on Tuesday's ultrasound and an operation.

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In no particular order:  which officious lunatic is in charge of signage at Mansell's?  Who exactly is banksmam (Banksy's mum??)  Perhaps they mean banksman (crane operator).

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For £675 Persephone will deliver all 78 of their titles direct to my door.  For once, I resisted.  But if anyone wants to treat me to any one of them, be my guest.

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If I can convince myself to write with relentless cheer, I can send it all off to Reader's Digest.  They pay, you know!

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Woman in Queen's Square with two flat, floral arrangements, a London taxi and a red double-decker bus.  I just knew they were for a child's funeral.  So much for Reader's Digest.

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Drawn, magpie-like, to red/green/red/green.  Suddenly, it's everywhere, reverberating from every surface.  Stop.  Go.  Stop.  Go.  I don't know which to head for.

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And don't you just love the way someone painted 'Royal' onto the Homoeopathic Hospital after the Queen Mum gave them the nod.

A better day

Photo trapped on my phone of huge black rubbish sack full of my current prescription.  Nursie decided to stock up on seaweed, which would have been fine, but it was me wot had to drag it from chemist's to doctor's surgery.

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Still not quite with it - left handbag in unlocked car for over an hour.  Oblivious, enjoying Hebrew National lentil soup, with sesame bagel and smoked mackerel (but the ghee grabbed because closer to hand than butter was a mistake). 

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AC Milano!  I have a plan.. Are you ever free on a Thursday morning?  While renewing Grayson Perry's biography at the library today, discovered a new poetry writing workshop [first visit free];  it only started this morning.  10.30am-12.30pm.  You could try writing in English.  I could try writing.  It's 2.7km door to door for you, even closer for me..

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Final (we all hope) shopping indulgence of the week.  For less than the price of one decent pair of United Nude footwear, an entire year's supply of Associated Dairies clothing (only second visit this year - used to go fortnightly).  And I'll probably take half of it back anyway...  Promise not to descend into perpetual list writing, but here we go nonetheless:  3 pairs French knickers, 6 t-shirts (including one baby doll style, which wouldn't have been worrying if I hadn't found it in the children's section), 2 pairs jeans, 1 pair khakis, 2 jumpers (one on sale), and a pair of wellingtons (have been using same blue pair since aged about 12, and they're now half a size too small).  Have you noticed just the merest hint of self-justification creeping in?   Hmmmm. 

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And 4 pairs of pyjamas.  Now, why would anyone need 4?  Because I've been wearing the same singular pair since last October;  never needed them before the first bloody operation.  And why need them now?  Because you're constantly wandering around through the night, and it's no fun naked.  And because they're always in the wash because of the sodding hot flushes.

Isha Upanishad

    That is perfect.  This is perfect.  Perfect comes from perfect.  Take perfect from perfect, the remainder is perfect.  

    May peace and peace and peace be everywhere.

I don't need a mastectomy. After all.  Mr Trustworthy Surgeon all smiles.  Yes, it was ductal carcinoma in situ, but they've done (even more) lab work, and it was safely contained within the area removed 2 weeks ago.  And though there may be more out there, somewhere, why go digging for it.

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An estimated 10 weeks of daily, then increasingly infrequent dressings, until the wound heals.   Come back in a fortnight to check progress on healing, and then for a mammogram in 6 months.   Review hormone treatment in October.  Otherwise, ce'est tout.  C'est tout.  C'est tout.  Breathe.

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Meanwhile, for the abdomen: ultrasound next Tuesday (GG2, it could be you), followed by Mr Trustworthy Surgeon to interpret results. 

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And so to lunch.  And did we lunch.  Turns out the chef at Il Sorriso worked at the Carlton Towers not so long before I chambermaided there, and lovely Leo, all largesse, whose girth spreads magnificently over the chi chi tables out front, published the Hyatt's in-house magazines.  Today, prix fixe of bruschetta, heaven-sent pastas, glass of house, then a dessert wine, oh go on then, another, and that's so kind of you, a limoncello!  I say!  Taxi!  Neal Street, please.  The call of the shoe shop is so very strong.

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Love the brown ones best:  bastard child of Miss Marple and an Eames office chair.  Mies van der Rohe, you are the very architect of genius.  At first, I wavered, but, sensing that they'd have a remarkable effect on the opposite sex, I summonsed the attention of a passing heterosexual (these shoe shops never employ them, do they?) who, smiled, and the more he looked at them, the warmer he became.  Good reaction.  Bought shoes.  Also bought stripey shoes - S~S, they reminded me of the patchwork pixie boots last worn raving with a black unitard and Mr Chalmers in about, ooh, 1992.   

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And look, my lovely companion could double for Charlie Chaplin.  GG1 carried my bags to the very platform before staggering gamely off to teach a yoga class.  Brave she.  

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It's scarcely worth putting my notebook away any more;  I just have to get it back out a minute later.  This evening, a passing Italian writer, fascinated by the speed?  enthusiasm? with which I scribbled, switched seats to talk to me.  You deserve a more appreciative agent, AC Milano, and give writing in English a shot, your command of language was just great.

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And as for you, Ms Housicle, the skilled but strangely client-free life coach, I begin to wonder if self-employment is right for you:  it's your nature to give so much for free.  And you won't change that without a struggle.

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A very good night to you all.

Day in the life

Whatever next?  Always more news.  It's like trying to stem a river with a hankie.

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At the GP's yesterday, waiting for the nurse to dress my nastiness, the GP tapped me on the shoulder and invited me in "for a chat".  Now that is thoroughly unusual.  So I gave her an update, "You're very.. well-versed", yes, well, I have to be these days.

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It was the way she gave me a script for another 100 codeine, saying "Do they work?" that made me realise we're in for the long haul here.  I read the small print later - unwanted effects: addiction - my only current addiction is writing.

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Re-read a medical tome on mastectomy options yesterday, complete with photos.  First time round, I'd winced rather.  Second time around, I was rather blase.  Amazingly adaptable, the human mind.

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This Yardley's Lavender lady used to sit on the counter at one of my dad's earliest pharmacies (Leicester Square?  Hotel Russell?  Barkers of Kensington?).

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This blog has been viewed 1296 times.  Who are you?

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And as I gathered back in the silicone fairy cake cups from yesterday's lovely ladies, I thought, and soon my right breast will be made of this stuff.

"Does he wind it regularly?"

Took my dad's watch back to Collins the jeweller's in Muesli Hill - serviced recently but stops all the time, "Does he wind it regularly?" asked Mr Collins.  "Who?", I thought.  Ah, he thinks I had my dad's watch serviced, for my dad.  That is so sweet, so trusting of the universe.  That I'd actually have a live father.  Which of course I don't, haven't since February 1973.

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Had this wonderful brief vision of my father rising up from Bushey Cemetery, popping over to wind his watch, giving me a nod and a wink, and returning, silently, to his rightful spot.

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Dear Mr Collins, you really don't know, do you?  My whole family consists of dead people, or people with cancer, or people who have made it back from the brink, or people scarred by other people's cancer.  But bless you for your optimism.

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Made fairy cakes for the afternoon workshop ladies, and good thing, too.  Had to eat a good half dozen of them myself to keep my sugar levels up.  Wrote and listened and shared and talked.  A good afternoon. 

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.

Friendship ..

.. is bringing beautiful food, not once but every fortnight, for a year.

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... is not judging when I drink, smoke and disobey doctor's orders or swear in front of your children.

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.. is taking me to Chase Farm Hospital and joining a 5 hour queue for help.

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.. is taking me to sleep in your home at a moment's notice.

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.. is taking me to Finchley Memorial to have my wretched wound checked yet again, keeping me talking so I don't get scared while I wait for attention, and bringing me back to my door, without so much as a murmur.

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World's best friend award to my favourite teacher, S~s.

Any port in a storm

The GP and nurse patched me up; they've taken swabs lest there be an infection.  

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The Homoeopathic Hospital prescribed more "Calm down, dear" pills, and some "Slow down, dear" ones for good measure.  I stuck around for spiritual healing - these days I'll try anything that doesn't frighten the horses.  I left calmer, having had a clear, underwater Maldivian vision of a huge, slow, old, sleepy-eyed fish.  And on the train home I craved silence, not music.  

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Met this lovely man in the lift at Russell Square tube:  those flowers were on their way to a grand old lady's 100th birthday party.
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Photography my saving grace today:  Shooting Times in the Homoeopathic Hospital waiting room (a nice touch, I felt);  Her Britannic Majesty on the pharmacy wall;  people actually pay money to the Friends of the Hospital for the handiworked extravaganzas up top.

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If my body falls to bits over the weekend, I now have clear guidance on where to go and what to do.  And hopefully, my mind won't fall to bits before my name reaches the top of the counselling pile.

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I have to accept that life is not subject to my whims.  The control freak within battles against surrendering to that one.

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The GP's nurse will check me for any interesting developments on Monday; I am seeing Mr Trustworthy Surgeon with a GG on Tuesday;  and my ultrasound to clarify the gallbladder picture is now on 23rd Sept.  So, no more operations until after that date.  Time to slow down and heal.  If you catch me doing anything else, you have my full permission to intervene.