I can turn you inside out

Last week started out promisingly enough, with a relatively uncomplicated call from the district nurse, a lovely visit to see Caro and her Maine Coons, including teeny-tiny mega-cute kittens, and a (again, relatively) pleasant trip to chemo - many chatty ladies in attendance this week; I don't get the full benefit of the chat, since I lapse into a coma as soon as they show me the Piriton, but I can hear it going on around me, and it's better than sitting in stony silence. And I was awake while nurse Debbie was holding forth on how the Fifty Shades trilogy ("I'd started, so I had to finish," she said) would make one decent, reasonable-length book if they cut out all the sex scenes. Although even so, I think she was being too kind.

Then I was sick on Tuesday evening. Violently sick. How sick? See title. Other stuff too, but I'm not going into that. It was all most unpleasant, to the point that I wondered whether we should contact the triage team at the Churchill - but Judy said they'd probably just tell us to call the out-of-hours doctor, and you know how well that works, so we didn't.

And that was pretty much it for the rest of the week. I did manage to drag myself out of bed on Friday, to keep my counselling appointment at the Maggie's Centre and talk to a very helpful and efficient lady about applying for Disability Living Allowance, but even so they had to do most of the talking.

I really have trouble considering myself disabled, by the way. Okay, I can barely walk as far as the corner shop, and I'm asleep something like 18 hours a day, but nevertheless ... But if that's the label I have to wear to get the benefits I need, then I suppose wear it I must.

I'm never that sick after chemo, either. I'm never sick at all after chemo. The Carboplatin used to upset my stomach occasionally, thereby necessitating emergency stops at Sainsbury's in Kidlington (they have customer toilets, I didn't just poo in the car park), but all the Taxel usually does is make me tired. Tireder. This was more like food poisoning; but, on the other hand, it's the second time it's happened - the first was when Judy was away and I ended up sending out pleas for help to the internet, pleas that went unanswered as the internet, unlike Faron Young, is asleep at four in the morning - so I don't know.

Nothing new there. I don't know anything much. Certainly nothing useful.

This week? Well, so far this morning my sister-in-law's birthday present has failed to arrive, there was a wet patch on the doormat under the front door (the cats? But the cats are usually so good), and I had a letter from the Inland Revenue telling me I owe them £150. Also the car is leaking coolant as though there were no tomorrow, and we have to go down to Bristol at the weekend.

I do not think I like the look of this week.