My house is currently full of flowers. Tim's lovely bouquet is still going strong; Rebecca visited on Thursday (looking, I have to say, better than I have ever seen her: she's dieting and Zumbaing and taking up some outside interests, and it really seems to be good for her) and brought mauve chrysanthemums, which are beautiful; and Lynn has come up for the Bank Holiday weekend and brought some wonderful sunflowers. I'd better get as many flowers at my funeral, or I shall be most pissed off and will come back and haunt someone.
I went back to the practice nurse yesterday for stitch removal: round two, which went successfully this time. My tummy (outside) certainly feels a lot better for not being constantly poked by a bit of rigid nylon, although inside it's still a bit sore. The hospital nurse's estimate of 4-5 days was quite definitely over-optimistic. I do wish the Churchill was doing more to inspire my confidence.
We went into Bicester earlier today for the usual round of drugz-buying. The jig is up, I'm afraid, with regard to Superdrug, who tell me they won't sell me any more Solpadeine. While it's true that I do take too many painkillers - and there's a reason for this, duh - I do feel that this is entirely between me and my bloodstream, and no business of the nanny state. But there it is. We'll get around it, for the time being. Once chemo starts, I imagine it will bring all sorts of pain issues - and, I hope, at least partial solutions - of its own.
I do hate officious and jobsworthy types, though, so it's lucky I'm so saintly and sweet-tempered. Some people really are just asking for a smack in the face.
