Ten is a bird you must not miss

Crikey. More magpies than I think I have ever seen in the car park as we left the Churchill this afternoon. Enough for a wish, at least, if not a letter. Maybe even something better.

All of which I deserve, if you ask me.

Two weeks ago - almost exactly - I was watching Merlin when I started to be violently sick. Do not be like that: I like Merlin. It quickly became clear that this couldn't be left until the morning, so I had to drag poor Judy out and beg her to get me (and the bear, and the go bag) to the Churchill. It only took two hours - or was it four? - to get this organised with the Churchill, who finally found a bed for me on the Lower GI ward. Sounds nasty, but it wasn't as bad as it might have been - I managed to get a first-class bed in a side room, with its own telly and all, so I had privacy, and didn't even have to miss Downton. And the staff there were very good. Way better than on Oncology!

Of course, it couldn't last, and they dragged me back to an Oncology bay by the end of the week. Ah, well. While it lasted, it was good. I was there for the weekend: then they moved me to the Sobell House Hospice, where I have another side room. The Hospice is very pleasant - rather like a cottage hospital in a children's book from the 1950s - although, obviously, I would rather be home - safely - and well. But, for now, I shall be grateful for how lucky I am.

I have had something of a problem with isolation, being in hospital for so long with no access to the outside world. Apparently there is WiFi in the Day Treatment Centre though, so I may take the netbook with me when I go back.

Currently I am on what they call "weekend leave" - which makes me feel as though I should have an ankle tag. Well, I do, pretty much: I have a hospital name band on each wrist, my PICC line, and a morphine pump with a subcutaneous attachment. The pump is a wee bit large and bulky, and has (of course) been dropped several times, but it gives me some relief, so again it is something to be grateful for.

The problem remains the same and shows no sign of getting better. I am expecting/hoping for a permanent ascitic drain to be installed at some point, which I hope may give some relief. Other than that - well, let that remain behind the veil.

Speaking of being behind the veil, I damn' near was myself, or so I thought for a bit, when an exceptionally clumsy doctor informed me that I had only a few weeks to live. Ulp. What?! But then he caught me in the corridor shortly after and said no, he had read my charts wrong and things were not that desperate.

Um. Better that way round than t'other ...? I don't really know what to say. Other than, of course: twat.

So, here I am back home, if only for a short time. It's lovely, although I'm still a bit panicky. But, as Judy pointed out, the Hospice can't keep me forever. If only there were some way to have a nurse on call constantly when you're at home!

Thank you to everyone who has been so kind and supportive, with gifts and their time. I'm too tired and wobbly to reciprocate fully or in kind, as I would like, but I am very thankful.

Most of all, as you might imagine, for Judy. I can't even begin to tell you how wonderful she's been, or how grateful I am, or how much I owe her - for these two weeks, and for all the time since I've had cancer, and for all the years before. I never said it enough, and I'm sorry for that; I wish there were some way to make it up now.

I suppose everyone wishes that. I am sure there were eight magpies in the car park. That should be plenty - ?

Overly interesting times

We've been shopping today, or trying to shop. I want a new winter coat. I've been approved for disability living allowance, and even got a back payment, so I can afford to buy myself a pressie. If I can find anything I like. What I would really choose to do, if I could, is send my old coat through a time machine and have it new again. It's excellent - lovely and warm, and so big it wraps around me twice - but I've had it for at least ten years, more like fifteen, the corduroy's all worn flat and the cuffs are frayed to shreds. Nothing lasts forever, try as you may.

But before we went shopping ... well, where do I even start?

I might as well pick up where I left off last Monday, when I said I did not have a good feeling about the week. How very right I was ...

Monday, in all fairness, was not too bad. Okay, it began with cat wee and a tax demand, but it continued with a call from a nice district nurse - one from another area, who made no fuss at all about the dressing change, I would've liked to have kept her - and a lovely long visit from my brother, who I hadn't seen for ages what with one thing and another, and ended up with a trip to Caro's (Judy's car still terrifyingly leaking coolant), for yummy food and cuddles with kittens. Cuddles with kittens, like Time, is a great healer. Are a great healer. Whatever. That sentence isn't going to work whatever I do to it.

Tuesday: our neighbour knocked on the door to ask if he could prune our tree a bit where it hangs over his wall. (It's a greengage tree, and the fruit is absolutely delicious - when it has fruit, and when we can reach it.) Yes, of course, I said, we'd been thinking about getting someone in to cut it back, but we couldn't really afford it. Oh, by the way, he said, did we know that our fence posts had rotted through, and the fence was very likely to blow over if we had a strong wind, taking Judy's greenhouse with it ...?

No, I did not know that. Huh. New fence. Wotthehell, it's only money. It grows, after all, on trees.

On the plus side, Mr Next Door is a builder, and Judy went round later, came to some arcane arrangement with him whereby he would handle the fence replacement, and came back waving a hairdressing flyer and with an appointment for me with Mrs Next Door. It turns out that the extension that Mr built a few months ago is not, as I'd assumed, a playroom for the kids, it's a teeny-tiny hairdressing salon for Mrs. And jolly lovely it is, too. Lucky Mrs.

The rest of Tuesday was chemo, which was singularly un-noteworthy, other than that there were a couple of different nurses on duty. One of them a man. Gasp! I've been going to chemo so long, I know all the nurses there, so that came as a bit of a shock. Not much of one. Just a bit. So: chemo; sleep. It's the way of the world.

I had meant to ask Judy to take me into Bicester on Wednesday to see if I could get my hair cut there - I had to get rid of the granny curls, they were driving me mad - but it was one of those post-chemo days when I could barely drag myself out of bed, so I was very glad that I only had to pop next door instead. Mrs did a lovely job and sent me home with a very fetching elfin cut. Alas that I do not have an elfin body to go with it, but such is life. Alas also that, without a professional's tender care, it becomes more reminiscent of TinTin. But we care not. Our mind is on Higher Matters. Well, no, our mind was mostly on going back to bed.

Later on, Judy phoned Lynn to find out whether she was still good to come and catsit over the weekend, since we were supposed to be going down to Bristol for my sister-in-law's surprise birthday party - only to discover that poor Lynn had food poisoning, which is nasty enough in its own right (don't I know it), and also screwed up her diabetes. So the whole catsitting question had to remain up in the air.

I don't think anything particularly disastrous happened on Thursday. Judy got up spectacularly early, took the car up to Aylesbury for servicing, came back with the world's ugliest courtesy car, and then we went and had lunch with Sabine at the garden centre (it is funny how heavily garden centres feature in middle-aged life). The saddest thing about that was all the yummy-looking cakes they had - the sort of cakes one could only dream of as a kid, when our mother's idea of a treat was a rock bun - which I couldn't even fancy. The sandwich I ate took its best shot at killing me as it was. Back to bed for me. This happens a lot.

Friday. Lynn was feeling well enough to come up, which meant we were all set for Bristol, so hurrah! on both counts. Foolishly, we relaxed for a few minutes ...

... just long enough for JennyCat to come home at eleven o'clock at night, slink upstairs without eating, which is most unlike her, and, when checked, turn out to have blood all over her mouth and be in a state of shock ...

As were we. Fortunately autopilot kicked in, and we phoned the out-of-hours vet (a £103 surcharge? Sure, that's no problem!) and rushed her round for a checkup. The vet looked her over and came to the conclusion that she'd hit her face somehow, had possibly fallen or been hit by something, and that she had a broken tooth that would have to come out. It'd be fine for the weekend though, she said, they'd have her in for surgery on Monday; could we just make sure she got a painkiller in the meantime ...?

Um, Lynn? You know how all you usually have to do is open and shut the back door and make sure there's food down ...

I am abusing ellipses like nobody's business. This must stop.

At this point I came to the conclusion that the Bristol trip was Cursed. First the car, then Lynn's tummy, now this. But Lynn assured us that she would be fine. And, as it turned out, she was. But I worried every moment that we were away.

I was stressing hugely about the Bristol thing as it was. My brother had put a lot of time and effort and expense into organising it, and I am very, very fond of my brother, and I was scared to death that something would go wrong. But nothing did. Judy and I had a hassle-free drive down, checked into a Premier Inn that was much nicer than the horrid Premier Inn in horrid Manchester a few months back (except that their rather strange idea of a twin room was a big double bed and what I think was a stripped-down sofa, or daybed, or a truckle bed or something. It was quite cosy, actually), got tarted up, insofar as that is possible, located assorted friends, found our way to Tim's house, and joined the throng. Tim had invited something like forty people - I didn't count them, but there were a lot - to the house, and then hired a bus to take everyone to a restaurant in Chipping Sodbury (there was no reason for that piece of detail, I just wanted to say 'Chipping Sodbury', because I am twelve) for a meal and entertainment by ZHL Strings, who are a collective of musicians that you have probably encountered if you've been to Covent Garden at any time; they usually play in the downstairs bit. Anyway, Michelle likes them, that's the point. So you see why I was stressed about things going wrong. But, as I said, they didn't. Judy and I stuck to the people we know: my sister and brother-in-law, who it was lovely to see, if people must live in Penzance what can you do? - and Sabine and her family (Simon, who is five, was vastly underimpressed by the band), and Gary and Linda, who were kind enough to give us a lift there and back so that I didn't have to wait for the bus to leave. And this is as good a place as any to plug The Poisonous Seed, which Linda wrote, which is a Victorian mystery that actually is Victorian (I have read so many historical novels that feature 20th century people in corsets), and which is excellent. There.

It was a very pleasant evening. I wasn't able to eat much - I didn't dare touch any of the canapes, delightful as they all looked (well, apart from the things that looked like poached eggs in a pastry tart, I didn't fancy those at all), and, once again, was left lamenting over CAKE, but what I did have was v good indeed. A+, would eat again.

All too soon I was flagging like a big wussy wet girl, so back to the hotel we went (thank you again, Gary and Linda), fell into bed, got up early-ish on Sunday and raced back home to find out how our poor JennyCat was doing, to say nothing of how Lynn was coping.

Lynn was coping capably, naturally, but the poor JennyCat was very quiet and sad and sorry for herself, and was mostly huddling in a corner behind the futon. I know just how she felt, I often feel like doing the same myself. The other two cats were none too happy either, being well aware that Something Was Not Right.

And so to Monday, when Jenny got taken into the vets to have her tooth taken out and a general check-up for anything else that might be lurking (nothing was), and I got to have my monthly chat with the consultant.

Who told me that my CA125 levels were up again, and that I might as well not bother with the sixth and final round of chemo (I'm going to have it anyway, though). And that, other than that and a scan at the end of it, they were going to give me a 'treatment break'.

I'd like my second opinion now, please. Otherwise my new coat, when I get it, may last another fifteen years, but I won't be around to see it.

And that would be sad. Would it not?

Like I said, nothing lasts forever. If you want me, I'll be behind the futon.

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.

Mamma mia!

My mother died two years ago today.

Before I say anything else, I should explain that she was 93 years old, in reasonably good health, still lived in her own house, had relatively recently, thanks entirely to my sister's tireless efforts, agreed to have both a cleaner and a carer, and, so far as anyone can tell, died peacefully in her sleep. We should all only have it so good.

Do I miss her? I wish I could say yes, but I really don't. I don't miss the monthly duty visits, two agonising hours of sitting in her living room trying desperately to spark a conversation or find any point of mutual interest - or, in my case, trying to get her to hear me at all; she either couldn't, or pretended she couldn't. I don't miss the constant worry, even after she'd agreed to have help about the house, that she might fall, or someone might break in, or ... I don't know; all the things you do worry about with very old ladies. I certainly don't miss the mess and the smell - yes, again, even after she'd agreed to have help. I used to clean as best I could while I was there, but it was never enough. And we couldn't, in sheer self-preservation, have visited her any more often than we did.

It is a little odd to think that her house, as it was, is gone - either demolished or renovated, I don't know which, but you certainly couldn't have moved straight in there the way that it was. But, in a way, that hardly matters: it still exists in my head, unchanging as it was over the 30-some years my parents, then just my mother, lived there. The paperback books, shelved in no particular order, all tilted to one side or the other and, apparently, never touched; the shelf of ornaments they'd had ever since my childhood - the Scandinavian painted horse, the ginormous purple brandy balloon, the horrid Aborigine head that used to frighten me when I was a kid; the hugely expensive Bang & Olufsen stereo unit that, again, had been untouched in all the time they lived there; my father's wretched collection of ornamental bells; the windowsill with its proud display of dead flies and photos of every one of my parents' children and grandchildren except me ... It's all still there, and I don't think it will ever go away.

What I do miss is somebody who would give love unconditionally: who would always be there with a hug, an understanding word, a cup of tea, a shoulder to cry on. But I never had that - none of us did. That wasn't who my mother was. It was probably very good for us, and extremely character-building. Still, sometimes I think I could have done with a little less character and a lot more sympathy. Who knows? Either way, ain't never gonna happen.

I wonder how my mother would have dealt with cancer? I suspect she would have treated it much as she dealt with Hitler: with the utmost contempt. She'd've had anything cut off and/or out that needed to be cut, gone through treatment with dogged stoicism, and probably beaten the crap out of the thing. I don't need to wonder how she would have dealt with me having cancer. She would have found a way to make it my fault.

So, there you are. She was a difficult and not a very likeable woman, but she was an individual, and she took very little nonsense from anyone. You could, I suppose, do worse. And she's the only mother I'm ever going to have.

I myself am at present being far less stoic. I had two weeks in between the end of my fourth and the beginning of my fifth cycle of Taxel, because of the neuropathy in my fingers. I was almost starting to feel human by the beginning of this week, although still so tired that a walk down the main street in Bicester was enough to wipe me out, but one dose of Taxel and I'm back to a state of general uselessness, unless anyone knows of a good use for sleep. Judy and I have just been to Brackley to shop, and I was too wobbly to drag myself around Tesco. I've been lying out on the bench in the garden, but it's starting to get too cold for that. Winter is going to be a drag ...

I had a bit of a scare on Monday morning, when I woke with a temperature of 102 (Fahrenheit, that is, of course; else I wouldn't be typing this now). I don't know what caused it; I was together enough to do all the things I needed to do - phone the triage team for advice, get an emergency appointment with my GP, call my brother and ask him not to visit (woe!), contact the district nurses - and, by the time I got to the GP's, things were back to normal. But something definitely happened. I just don't know what, and I suppose we never shall find out.

The main thing is, I was well enough for chemo on Tuesday. I had to throw a bit of a tantrum in there; because I'd had to put off the district nurse the day before, my PICC line dressing hadn't been changed, and the DTU nurse tried to tell us we'd have to get the district nurse in to do it the next day because they (the DTU) were too busy. Cue tantrum. She changed the dressing. I win!

The moral of this story is, save your tantrums for when you need them. Most of the time I am very good and quiet, and just let them get on with it.

It didn't help that I was tired before we went into the DTU, having spent the previous hour talking to a woman from the Maggie's Centre. I don't say this wasn't useful; just that I can only do one thing per day, and we really do need to remember this. The upshot is that I have an appointment with a counsellor next Friday, so we shall see how that goes.

My mother would have been disgusted. She would have had no truck with what she would have called 'trick-cyclists'. However, she's not here. I am. So, STFU, Mother!

Bless you, dear, wherever you may be. How I hope there is not a hereafter.

This is not the news I'm looking for

So, this is what happened at the hospital yesterday:

I'm currently on a regimen of three weeks of Paclitaxel, followed by a week off. One side-effect of Taxel is neuropathy - numbness/pins and needles/pain in the fingers and toes. I've had very bad pains in my fingers for the past couple of weeks. I assumed that the consultant would accordingly change my drug to one that wouldn't have this side-effect. However, she didn't. From what she said, there aren't that many drugs options available. I was on Carboplatin before, but she says we can't go back on that. The only other possibility she mentioned is an oral chemo, and she didn't sound very certain that would be effective. So I'm having an extra week off chemo, and she's prescribed some vitamin B complex pills that might help with the neuropathy.

In other words, if I want to continue cancer treatment, which - being neither suicidal nor an idiot - I do, I'll have to put up with the side-effects of Taxel. Which might involve permanent damage to my fingers and/or toes.

None of which I find very reassuring.

Kind of sick of all this, to be honest. As who, I am sure, is not.

The last thing on my mind

No, Churchill Hospital, please pay attention. This is your arse. This is your elbow. Do you think you can remember that for five minutes together?

What have they done this time, do I hear you ask? What they did this time was send me a pre-chemo consultant appointment for 2.50 pm next Tuesday (one of those appointment times that may as well be called 'or any time we can manage to fit you in'), when I have chemo booked for midday on the same day. I know that time is meaningless, but the whole going backwards business is terribly complicated and I have never fully mastered it.

I think I have managed to get everything sorted. I phoned Dr Nicum's secretary on the Friday before the Bank Holiday - who knew there was a Bank Holiday last weekend? Took me by surprise, I can tell you - and she finally got back to me on Wednesday with a new appointment at 12.30 pm on Monday. Which rather begs the question: if they had a free appointment for 12.30 on Monday, why didn't they give it to me in the first place, especially after Judy yelled at them last time? Anyway: I also spoke to the Day Treatment Unit, who said they'd see what they could sort out so, what with one thing and another, we should be okay. Oh, and I have also remembered to phone the District Nurse and ask her to try to come before we have to set out for the hospital ...

All well and good, then, except - I am so tired; I really don't need all this running around trying to rearrange things, and all the telephone calls, and all the hassle. Can't they bloody well just get it right first time?

The whole business of chemo might be academic; my finger ends are now hurting really badly, and I do mean really badly, which is almost undoubtedly Taxol-related neuropathy (my feet aren't too good, either, although they do currently have pretty turquoise toenails), and I think it's time for a change of regimen. Regimen, regimen, REGIMEN. I thank you. I just hope the consultant agrees.

Come to think of it, it's about time I saw Shabani again; last time I saw her was July. The rest of the time it's any old random consultant who happens to have picked up my file, and I'm never completely convinced they've actually checked it before they start talking to me. But there's nothing I can do about that.

Oh, I had a random thought the other night, and managed to catch it before it died. When I was ickle, and I do mean very, very ickle, 16 or so, I used to volunteer at my local hospital - taking round cups of tea and then doing the washing up, thrilling stuff like that. In all the times I've been in the Churchill, I've never seen a volunteer. Does that not happen any more? Why? If anyone says 'health and safety', I shall look at them unless they can produce concrete evidence. Poor health and safety. They got blamed for Springsteen's Hyde Park gig getting cut off mid-song, you know, and one person there was so upset that he published an online rebuttal - for which he probably got into terrible trouble. But about 90% of stupid health and safety stories are made up, mostly by the redtops. I uterly diskard them.

What have I done since the last time I posted? I actually did manage a few measurable achievements: I've shelved my 'books read and reviewed' pile, and managed to sort out a dozen or so for Oxfam while I was about it, and I also now have the tidiest chest of drawers, pants drawer included, that you can imagine. This last was mostly courtesy of the most dreadful fit of insomnia that hit on Sunday night and, so far as I can tell, affected everyone in the house. Well, everyone apart from the cats.

'Everyone' included Lynn, who came up to stay for the above-mentioned surprise!Bank Holiday. I believe she's coming to babysit next week, too, as Judy is off to tidy up Penny's house. If anyone would like to come and tidy mine, please don't be shy. The carpets are all filthy, just for a kick-off, and there is enough junk in the garage for a trip to the local tip every day for a month.

I have also LibraryThinged the last few books remaining that needed doing - of mine, that is, there are plenty of Judy's still to do - and made a banananana cake. Not both at once.

Wednesday was a very busy day, with one set of visitors in (my line manager and the HR lady from work bearing a scary Official Form), one visit out (to Caro's, to see her current kittens - Aurora's current kittens, technically, I suppose - who are named after Judy and me, and a trip to the garden centre to buy a housewarming pressie in between the two. I paid for it on Thursday; I was so ill yesterday that I seriously considered phoning the hospital - but I will always try not to do that unless I'm practically dying. Having said which, when I went to bed last night I did wonder rather whether I'd be waking up again. But I suppose I was just over-tired; I've been pretty much okay today. For certain stated values of 'okay' which = 'crappy, but it could be worse'.

Anyway, the kittens were lovely, and I may or may not have made girlie squeeing noises. You be the judge. And also, someone sent me a surprise!Bodhisattva from my wishlist today, which is not the sort of thing that happens every day. Thank you v much, SG!

Somewhere in amongst all that we went out for a drive in the country and accidentally found Claydon Hall. That is, I knew it was there, I just wasn't entirely sure where 'there' was. One day, when I think I can do so without spending the next day wondering if I'm about to breathe my last, we must go and do the tourist thing there.

Which led me to find this: Parthenope's Owl Book, written by Florence Nightingale's sister, Lady Verney. I believe she is the Lady Verney after whom the Lady Verney High School in High Wycombe, popularly known as the Lazy Virgins' Home for Scrubbers, was named. That was the High School I didn't go to. Who knows, maybe I would've been better off if I had done. God knows Wycombe High School did me no favours.

(This has been much on my mind of late because of the A-level results coming out. Apparently Bs and Cs don't count at all any more - and I heard a Paralympic athlete on the radio this morning being quite miserable about his bronze medal - which makes me wonder, why even bother any more? Why not just have pass and fail grades and have done with it, since it seems to be going that way anyway? Mercifully - for all concerned - I have no children, and shall, god willing, never myself have to take another exam, so it's all moot.)

Did you know I have no A-levels and never went to University? Does it show very much? One day I will explain How Things Were in Them Thar Days, but I don't have the strength at the moment.

I've been ill for well over a year now, and it occurred to me to wonder today what things were like this time last year. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to find out. They were like this: super-tired, unable to eat properly, panicky and prone to insomnia. What a long way we have come. Wait, no - we have made practically no progress at all. Will you get on with it, please, Churchill? Just go ahead and bloody well fix me, already!

I mean, how hard can it be?!

Pants

If I should die unexpectedly - which isn't entirely out of the question, which, I suppose, means it wouldn't really be unexpected, but wotthehell - then please do not judge me too harshly on the evidence of my underwear drawer. I do sometimes fold my pants neatly, but other times I just think "Why?" and "Wherefore?" and "Inasmuch as which?" and then it all goes to hell.

My wardrobe's in a bit of a state, too, I never did sort out winter and summer clothes this year. And then there are all the books I've read that're waiting to be reviewed, and all the books I've reviewed that're waiting - ever so patiently - to be shelved, or Oxfamed, or whatever. All in all it's a bit of a mess, and I really do hope I don't die for a while yet so that I have a chance to sort it out.

From which you will gather that I'm feeling a bit under the weather and sorry for myself. I am indeed, but it's probably nothing more than post-chemo wossname. This was my third week of poxytaxel, so the side-effects have had time to build up. I hope they'll build down again, or whatever the term is, over the course of next week, which is my week off from treatment. At the moment I'm suffering from a triple whammy: the chemo is making my skin smell, I'm extra-sensitive to smells anyway, and a rat appears to have crawled into my mouth and died. My finger ends are very sore - I just bit off all my fingernails this morning, as they seemed to be adding to the sensitivity, and it actually does appear to have helped a bit - and I'm very tired, headachy, and shaky.

It's Not Nice. And I really do hope it's bloody well worth it. I expect a full accounting from the consultant next time I see her - something, btw, for which I don't yet have an appointment - and if the tumours haven't shrunk this time, then I shall want to know the reason why.

I shall want to know, but you can bet your boots I'll be too polite to ask.

It has been a busy, busy time since last I updated, a time of many visitors. You will recall that I whine bitterly when left alone for too long and not entertained 24/7, but, on the other hand, having to stay conscious and interact with humanity is very exhausting. But worth it! Please keep coming! Sunday before last it was Nairne (lemon cupcakes); Monday was the district nurse, who doesn't count, but in the afternoon we went out to see Rebecca and her husband, and their lovely kittens (caramel cupcakes). Tuesday was an uneventful, aside from an unplanned and unexpected fit of weeping, chemo session (no cupcakes at all, but free coffee and biscuits, and a sandwich that appeared to have escaped from the 1960s: two slices of white bread with margarine and one slice of filling. Still: free, so it's all good). On Wednesday Penny came down from Brigg (Hotel Chocolat tasting box!! We have a winner!!!), and on Thursday she and Judy went off to the quilt show at the NEC in Birmingham (no food was involved here, but Judy brought me back a pair of enamel earrings. Not quilted).

What I am very much hoping is my final birthday pressie for this year (because it's getting embarrassing; I'm really not that nice) popped through my letterbox sometime during the course of that week: a tummy chakra Trollbead from LM. Thank you, my dear! It was most timely; I put it on a chain and wore it to hospital on Friday, that being the high point of last week: my ascitic drain!

Ascitic drain #5, was this, or only #4? I have lost count, and it really doesn't matter, however many it is it would be too many. Drains are so nasty. They say they give you lots of local anaesthetic, but you can feel them poking around at your tummy and then, all of a sudden, BARBED WIRE THROUGH YOUR INNARDS, and even a big, grown-up lady such as I has a hard time not to snivel like a great weedy wet. Other than the treatment, the Churchill didn't do too badly; not perfect - lots of hanging around, lots of miscommunication - but everything turned out all right, and I even got to go home the same evening, which is a first. Just as well too, probably, as Judy and I had left poor Penny languishing on her own at home. Fine hosts we are.

On Saturday it was my turn to be left Home Alone, as Penny and Judy drove down to Gloucestershire to see Penny's mum. That's a lie, actually, I wasn't Home Alone at all, Lynn came up especially to babysit. It is a bit embarrassing to need a babysitter at my age, but, it's true, I'm not comfortable being in the house on my own any more. If I were taken ill, I'm sure I could get myself taken care of - but the bad cats are another matter. As I understand it, you actually can't leave them to fend for themselves, it isn't legal - and I wouldn't anyway. Of course. So, Lynn is really mostly there to babysit the cats, who actually quite like her (this, with our cats, is saying something). That makes me feel better ...

Lynn went home early on Sunday afternoon, Judy and Penny came back a few hours later, and there was Indian food. Hurrah! Never mind that I can only manage a starter and a Naan bread, hurrah! notwithstanding.

On Monday it was like a very small-scale version of Piccadilly Circus in our sitting room, as the district nurse came and went, Penny prepared to depart and my brother and his wife and bear arrived. (The bear had come to pay court to my own bear, Theodosia, as it appears they are of a like age, and who is to say that bears do not need love like the rest of us?) Michelle had booked a local hotel so that she and Tim could stay overnight and spend some extra time with us, which was a lovely thought. So, having more time than usual, we set out to see the sights of Bicester. One problem here: there really aren't any. The best we could manage was Bicester Village, and the best thing about that is the gelato stand ...

... food does seem to feature prominently in these blogs, doesn't it? No wonder I have never faded into a wide-eyed cancer waif.

And so to Tuesday, and another uneventful chemo session, only notable for my brother rather than Judy being with me. It was actually his birthday, and I don't know whether taking your sister to chemo is really something most people would aspire to by way of celebration, but hey. He got to witness me flaking out on Piriton, which, I believe, is very amusing. It makes the nurses laugh, anyway. And it was nice to have him around for longer, even if I was only semi-conscious for some of it.

Just about the only one of the usual suspects we haven't seen around here of late is the Gentleman Caller, and there is a very good - or maybe a very bad - reason for that: the poor old GC has been in hospital himself, in Cheltenham General, suffering from pneumonia. Judy and I drove down there to visit him yesterday. I am pretty sure that the universe occasionally sends me to other hospitals to remind me not to bitch about the Churchill so much. Cheltenham General is built on a Victorian core, and is an absolute maze inside - we walked miles to find the GC's ward, and then again on the way back, and I am pretty sure all we really had to do was abseil out his window - and ... well: a bit depressing, to be quite honest. And it has no facilities. The Churchill has a posh coffee shop - okay, it's a Costa; it has a coffee shop - and a rather nice boutique, and a wig shop, and a decentish W H Smiths in the lobby, plus a Friends' Cafe upstairs, and a restaurant somewhere so far away I have never bothered to go looking for it. CG didn't have anything like that. There was a WRVS shop, but even that was closed. I had originally had the tactful intention of just saying hello to the GC and then leaving him and Judy to talk, but I ended up staying. It is a little bit odd having a conversation with someone else's Gentleman Caller in their pyjamas. (He was wearing the pyjamas, I mean. Obviously.) I am glad to report that he seemed very much better than he'd sounded when Judy last spoke to him and, in fact, we heard today that he's being sent home tomorrow. Which is excellent, and I hope he takes better care of himself in future. He is a very nice Gentleman Caller, as Gentlemen Callers go.

It's possible that a long drive the day after chemo might account for how rotten I feel today. Never mind. We didn't do much today except go and do a Tesco shop in Brackley. And tomorrow we are expecting Lynn again, to come and stay for the weekend. There is never a dull moment.

Actually, there are plenty of dull moments. And plenty of scary, or at least worrisome moments. But why focus on those? Life is poo enough without fussing about the bad bits.

Pants, in fact. Hurrah for visitors and friends and cupcakes and anything else that will take my mind off it all even for a little while. Hurrah, and thank you! I may be a snarky old bat, but I really do appreciate it.

Sorry to bring this up ...

It has been a slightly unusual week this week, internets. I don't necessarily say better; just different. Which I suppose is good in itself. Apart from the food poisoning ...

We set out with a Plan. Judy was going to take me to chemo on Tuesday, bring me back, then go up to Penny's for the rest of the week, to help her with the funeral arrangements and getting the sorting on the house started. Lynn was going to come up after work on Thursday evening, go to work from here on Friday morning, and then spend the weekend, so that I wasn't in the house on my own for too long. And Wednesday I'd planned to take the bus into Oxford and ... I dunno, look at stuff, since I can't afford to do anything else much.

It started out okay. I got my bloods done on Monday, and we rolled up at chemo, as scheduled, on Tuesday. Boss nurse Rose sent me to sit down, and told us they were trying a new system. I don't know what the new system is, but it doesn't seem to be much of an improvement on the old system, there was still an hour's wait before anything happened. And, as usual, the pre-meds knocked me out, so I slept through most of the actual treatment. Which is a pity, really. As I've said before, chemo is now the main (often the only) social event on my calendar, to the extent that I've started dressing nicely for it, and putting all my jewellery on. A full set of jewellery, that is; not all the jewellery I possess. Obviously. Else I wouldn't be able to lift my head up for all the earrings. When I start putting on make-up for it, we'll know I have a real problem.

Somewhere in amongst all the excitement (I use the term loosely), the chemo team arranged for the district nurse to do my bloods and dressing changes in future, and sent us home with a big bag of ... stuff. Blood-taking and dressing-changing stuff I assume, I don't know. Let's see how that goes. Seamlessly, I am quite sure. As what does not?

So, anyway, chemo over, and back we came via the pretty way. I went to bed; Judy packed and headed northwards; I got up, had dinner, watched some TV; went to bed again. Got up; threw up; threw up some more; went back to bed.

Rinse and repeat, and add in stomach cramps that eventually turned into the inevitable and, just to crown the joyful moment, a nosebleed that wouldn't quit. Several hours of this had me vaguely worried. If there'd been someone else in the house I would have phoned the 24-hour oncology number; but, if they'd wanted me to come in, (a) how would I have got there, and (b) what about the cats? I daresay we could have found some way around point (a), but point (b) is more or less insuperable, particularly given the nature (generally hostile) of my darling puddytats. I suppose, at a pinch, I could have stuck a note and the spare key through Mrs #10's door - Judy feeds her cat, who is a well-behaved and civilised creature, while she's away - but it would still be difficult. So, no phoning. I put out a plea for help on Facebook, but that wasn't very effective. Not really surprising at four in the morning, I suppose ...

Eh, well. I'm still here, so no harm done. It's just lucky it was no worse, that's all. As it was, the only victim was a perfectly good white nightie, now white no more but steeped in gore. Also typical is that it should happen then, when I've been perfectly fine throughout the rest of this chemo.

Somewhere amongst the general unrest I texted my brother to ask if he could come and see me on Wednesday, and emailed Lynn to ask if she could come down a day early. Tim didn't get my text until midday on Wednesday, by which time it was a bit late, but all I wanted to do by then was sleep anyway, so it didn't matter. And Lynn gets a special gold star for very heroically dropping everything, packing her bags, and coming to my rescue.

I was very glad to see her.

Of course (of course!) I've been fine ever since. Still, it's good to have someone around. Just in case. I do wish there were more people I could depend on, but what'm I going to do, magic up a team of golem? Useful as that might be, I really don't have the wherewithal.

Lynn has just gone home - I hope it wasn't all one-sided, and she enjoyed seeing the cats (Molly has now decided she likes her and lets her stroke her, she said, drowning in pronouns) and spending time in the garden, especially as we've had some lovely weather the past couple of days. Hurrah! for lovely weather, while I'm about it; it makes everything seem less awful.

Judy should be back soon. And I think I am going for a lie-down.

Oh, we have some good news, for relative values of 'good'. When I staggered round to the Co-op yesterday, I saw that the Polish shop next to Domino's has closed down - so, not good news for Polish people, sorry about that - and there's a sign in the window saying that a pharmacy will be opening there in September. Which will be a pharmacy (just) within walking distance, which is something I very much need.

I only said it was good. I said nothing about exciting. Please: this is me.

Arse, meet elbow

And another Churchill!fail. Yesterday, you will remember, I didn't get the tummy drain I was promised because I had a radiographer appointment but no bed. And they promised faithfully that they would fit me in tomorrow.

Today I had a phone call from Omar, the doctor I spoke to on the chemo ward on Tuesday - the one who organised, or not, the drain in the first place. Tomorrow I have a bed. But the radiographer doesn't work on Fridays ...

Can I come in Monday? No, I can't come in Monday. I'm having a PICC line inserted on Monday,and I don't know how long that will take. I can't come in Tuesday, either; I have chemo on Tuesday. Oh, and by the way, I'm in pain right now.

So he went away for a bit, and then he came back and said okay, they'd insert the drain on the ward. (I've had this done before, and it seemed to work okay.) Can I come in first thing tomorrow?

Assuming we can get out of bed and through the traffic, sure. When's 'first thing'?

10.00? he suggests. Or no: make it 9.00 so they can do bloods first.

I only had bloods done on Monday, before chemo, but whatever. At this stage, I'll say yes to pretty much anything.

So, there won't be time for an update tomorrow morning. Judy and I, my bag and my bear, will once again be wending our way through the commuter traffic, in the faint but pursuing hopes of who-knows-what.

Stay tuned.

Things can only get better, and if that's not true I don't want to hear about it

Lord, I thought having a panic attack in a Portakabin was bad enough. Things have been even more exciting since then, with another panic attack taking me to the out-of-hours clinic in Cowley Road; the next day, Bank Holiday Sunday, we went to five chemists and took four hours to get the drugs the doctor there prescribed. Actually, all we could get was a reasonable facsimile thereof, but the pharmacist at Woodstock Road chemist should get a medal for services above and beyond; he went to unheard-of efforts. On Tuesday evening I had massive stomach pains and Judy took me to A&E. I can't tell you much about that, as they gave me morphine, but I have a distant impression of many people running around and being terribly helpful and efficient. So far, so good, but it all went wobbly when I got transferred to the Churchill; the only bed they could find me was on the colorectal ward, and the nurses didn't know what to do with me. They put me on nil by mouth and didn't let me have my drugs. Unsurprisingly, I had another major panic attack the next morning and had to sign myself out without having a drain. In retrospect, a very stupid thing to have done, but, at the time, the only option I could tolerate.

I have a lot of people pulling for me - the gynae-obs Macmillan nurses, the people at the Sobell House Hospice, my own doctor - but sometimes I think that just one person doing the right thing would be preferable. Especially as they will keep changing my medication. "What're you on? Yeah, that's good, but THIS might be better, try that instead!" We're thinking of asking the pharmacy for a frequent flyer discount (yes, I get my drugs free anyway, but it's the principle of the thing). And on Friday we got a phone call to tell me I was in hospital having a drain. I wasn't. I might have been if anyone had told me I should be ...

Good news: current batch of painkillers and tranks are working quite well, which is good, as I'm in bloody agony. I think that the ascites has pushed up into my chest cavity again: my breathing's not too bad, but the pain, front and back, means I can't ever get comfortable, I'm constantly being sick, and I can't eat. Which may be as well, given the circumstances.

I have an appointment with the oncologist on Monday morning, and, I believe, a bed booked for a drain (I'll believe it when I see it) directly after. I expect to be on the ward overnight, which will, again, be entertaining, as I'm supposed to start chemo on Tuesday. Anyway: my brother is coming with us for extra reinforcement - I am a liberated, capable, intelligent women, or I am when I am not stoned out of my mind and in pain all the time, and Judy is a liberated, intelligent woman WITH A FREAKING DOCTORATE,  but even so, when we talk we find people looking behind us for the grown-up (gggggrrrrrr, incidentally) - so I hope things will get more bearable soon.

In amongst all this, the ShadowCat was, on Friday evening, seen to have a huge wound on his bum, and had to be snagged when he came in on Saturday morning (no, he is not allowed to be outdoors overnight) and swept off to the vet to be treated.

Did I mention that yesterday was Judy's birthday? Quite possibly the worst birthday ever no?

The envy of Sisyphus

I'm sure things aren't meant to be quite this hard. I had to call the out of hours doctor again last night - I was sick and fever-y, and had very bad tummy pains. This time, by way of variety, they sent us along to an out of hours clinic in Oxford, which was, I suppose, preferable to waiting in the house for someone to (possibly) turn up. Preferable for me, anyway; maybe less so for Judy, who doesn't like driving in Oxford, especially at 1.00 in the morning. Anyway, the doctor there wrote me out a prescription for some new stuff. Hurrah!

Today we went out to get it filled. It took nearly four hours, five different chemists, a call to the Sobell House Hospice helpline on a mobile fast running out of charge, and a consultation between pharmacist #5 and the out of hours clinic - which, of course, had a different doctor on duty by then - to get it done. Actually, it still isn't the exact prescription, the pharmacist got the doctors to agree to let him dispense something similar. God bless Woodstock Road chemists for services above and beyond, but is it any wonder I get stressed?

On Tuesday, when everyone gets back to work, I'm going to phone the Macmillan nurses and see whether we can get a check done to see if I need ascites drained again. I hope not, because it really hurts, but then again, so does pretty much everything. I also want to see if they'll consider giving me my first dose of chemo on the ward in case of side-effects. I was fine last time, but I was also a lot healthier last time. Well, no, that's not true, I had the chest problems then, but my stomach wasn't so bad. Anyway: chances are they'll say no, but it's worth a shot.

I wonder how many people just give up and die of cancer because they're tired of having to bloody well fight all the time?

Better days (I would like some)

- Major panic attack Sunday night
- Three-hour wait for out-of-hours doctor
- Discovery that there is only one out-of-hours doctor for North Oxfordshire almost triggers another panic attack
- Routine appointment with oncologist on Monday morning
- Nausea, headache, hurty tummy
- Asked if I could lie down
- Got to lie down for the next two days in bed on hospital ward
- Totally unprepared, had to send Judy home then back again to pick up clothes and wash stuff
- EKG, X-rays, CT scan, ultrasound, stomach drain
- No sleep. Bajillions of sympathy to the poor lady with pneumonia, but ...
- Not much fun, but, as the tummy draining doctor said,
- "If anything goes wrong, you're in the right place"

None of this was much fun, actually. However, the good news is that my oncologist came to see me, put her hand on my arm and looked intently into my eyes and assured me they "hadn't given up yet".

So I should bloody well hope.

Although ... although you're not supposed to say so, sometimes the thought of just dying quietly in my sleep is quite attractive. But shhhhh! Don't quote me. Everyone thinks I'm being Terribly Brave. Poor fools, little do they know. Inside, I'm screaming.

Countdown to D-Day

You know, I actually haven't any idea what the 'D' in D-Day stands for. Isn't that shameful? I assume I must've been told, at some point in the past fiftyveryodd years, but it's gone. Gone with the wind. (Even more shamefully, I could tell you the plot of that.)

Anyway, I think that E-Day would be more apposite: 'e' for 'evisceration', given how airily the consultant was rattling off his list of things that might have to come out. You can have my ovaries, matey, but you take my small intestine from my cold, dead hands!

Which is, just remotely, possible, as there is a 2% chance of the operation being fatal. However, I prefer to take this as a 98% probability that it won't. Man, am I just PollyfuckingAnna, or what?

So: the operation date is 25 April, probably a couple of days in intensive care afterward, and then an estimated 10 days on the ward after that. So far, so quite nasty enough. The official letter came through this morning, though, which tells me to report to the ward at 10.00 am on the 24th. That's a whole extra day of my life you're stealing there, Churchill! What they want to do with me that day, I do not know. Probably nothing: just leave me bored to death and on nil by mouth. Eh, well. Could be worse. At least we do still have a bit of an NHS, at least for the moment.

On the upside, I'm reporting to the Jane Ashleigh Centre - everyone calls it Jane Asher, that's inevitable - which is quite new and modern and pleasant, insofar as a hospital ward can be. I don't know whether I'll get to recover there, too. The oncology ward is not actually as bad as I'd been told, but Jane Ashleigh is nicer.

It's funny how one's mind works ...

Yes, yes, okay. Get it out of your systems, and don't forget to tip your waitresses.

Everyone quietened down now? Then I shall continue.

Anyway: it's funny how one's mind works. With a major operation hanging over me, not to mention that 2% chance of not coming out the other side, all I can think of is "How am I going to put my toenail varnish back on?" and "I won't be able to shave my legs!" (Our friend Penny points out that women's legs are supposed to have hair - she got a bit cross with the JLo ad for lady razors last night - but I have to admit, I do prefer mine without; that was about the only good side-effect of chemo.) When I consider how hard I always am on people who make a fuss about losing their hair during chemo, I should undoubtedly be ashamed of myself. I'm not, of course. I figure this is just displacement activity, and if I were a cat I would probably be washing my bum.

Are you not glad I'm not a cat?

Being bored

My dear mamma used to tell me that only boring people were bored. This is a painful thought; I must be positively stultifying, because, as things stand at present, I am pretty much climbing the walls - or I would be, if the walls in our house weren't made of cardboard, or close enough, and probably wouldn't take my weight. I'm thinking of poking out my own eyes just for the sake of something to do.

I still can't walk very far, and I hate having to depend on Judy to ferry me around. And people have stopped coming to visit, the novelty, presumably, having worn off. I can't say I blame them; since I never go anywhere or do anything, I have nothing to talk about. Hence: boring.

What can I do? Cook? I'm just not that enthusiastic about food at the moment. Garden? The garden is Judy's domain, plus the last bit of garden work I did knocked me out for several days afterward. The same goes for housework: I try and keep up with what really needs doing, but it's knackering. I did sew a button on a jacket the other day. I damn near broke out the flags and bunting to celebrate that achievement. Retail therapy is out of the question, as there's no money coming in - which is depressing enough all by itself. As for games ... I swear, when I come out the other side of this, assuming I do, I shall never want to play another game again.

About the only thing I have been doing is reading, and then writing snarky reviews of better writers than I am. (Here if you were wondering, which I doubt you were.)

And just about everything is depressing: the news, the weather. The fact that the most excitement I'm likely to have in the near future is major surgery, which will then involve a long and grim-sounding recovery ...

It's being so cheerful as keeps me going. But, honestly, I think I'm about to grind to a complete .

The first cut is the deepest

Hello, blog.

The last time we spoke, as you may remember, I had had a post-chemo check-up which had been indecisive, to say the least, as the oncology team hadn't then come to any real decision. However, then I had a phone call to say that they would like to do a second laparoscopy (funny things some people do for fun), to get a look inside my innards and see what's going on there. To judge by the way Crabby has been carrying on recently, he has joined the Tiller Girls - remember them? Eh, ask yer Mam - and is practising his high kicks, the artful wee blighter.

So, anyway. Today we have been to the JR - and where the Churchill is relatively new and shiny, as hospitals go, the JR is, to put it bluntly, a grothole - for what we thought was a pre-op assessment. It turned out it wasn't for that at all, though, it was to talk to the head of the oncology team, the lovely Mr Sean Kehoe and his sweater. (He really is quite lovely, but his sweaters look like his Mum knits them for him for Christmas. And who knows, maybe she does.)

Actually, Sean did most of the talking, he was discussing things that might have to come out, depending on what the laparoscopy shows, and by 'things' I mean 'bits of me'. Quite honestly, by the time he was through it would have been quicker if he'd just made a list of what would be left. Scary and depressing. I was doing okay ("Ha! What's a spleen or two between friends?") until he implied that I might be on the guest list for the next Poobaggers' Picnic. No disrespect to the current Poobaggers; much like the nursing profession itself, I admire them without wishing to be a part of their number.

I do hope it won't come to that. Quite aside from the fact that I don't want to lose bits of me, I am sure god gave them to me for a good reason, just thinking about a fortnight in hospital, some of it in intensive care, is enough to spark a panic attack. But as I responded so well to the chemo, and my cancer markers are now so low - down to 100something from somewhere in the thousands - I'm hoping there's very little in the way of tumour left.

Anyway, however it turns out, I'm sure we'll deal with it. I must admit, I do rather wish it were all over, though. Whatever novelty value there was in being ill has long worn off, and I just want to get back to what passes for normal. Or something a bit nicer than normal, I think I've earned that.

Oh, and a quick bitch about hospital waiting times - we were hanging about so long that I read nearly the whole of The Penelopiad. It's a slender volume, true, and I already knew the story, but nevertheless ...

What we don't talk about when we talk about cancer

While I'm waiting to go into hospital - probably; the Churchill seems to be at complete cross-purposes with what we were originally told - I'm going to say a couple of things you're not supposed to say.

#1: Why me?!

The obvious answer is 'why not?' But, in theory, I should have been a low cancer risk. There's no family history. I haven't smoked in over 20 years, and then it was only the odd social drag in the pub. I don't drink a lot, I eat healthily - mainly vegetarian - I'm not hugely overweight, I used to walk a lot and do yoga and Zumba.

I'm not saying that people who do tick those boxes deserve it, that would be stupid. Nobody deserves it. I'm just ... surprised, I guess. Maybe I was just standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Better me than a lot of people, it's true: I don't have kids, or a glittering career. But I don't have to like it.

#2: I am absolutely shit scared.

You aren't supposed to admit this. You're supposed to be Brave and Cheerful. Well, sorry. I'm not scared of dying, so much (I'm not thrilled about it either), but I know that both the illness and the treatment are going to hurt like hell and the best I can hope for is to be as unconscious as possible, as much as possible.

Yes, I am a wuss. The truth is out.

To be fair, I might be less scared if I had more confidence in the hospital. They're supposed to be very good, but I haven't seen much evidence of it so far. They've been leaving me hanging for weeks at a time; then two departments both wanted me in for treatment at the same time; and this morning they phoned with completely conflicting instructions from the ones we were given on Monday. Is it any wonder I'm worried?

Anyway: if they sort themselves out, this will be my last post for a few days. Thank you again to everyone who sent good wishes. If prayers and hugs and positive thoughts could cure cancer, I'd be bouncing about like a wee spring lamb by now. Please keep them coming!

And if anyone local could spare the time to visit me, that would be best of all. It's going to be pretty damn miserable in there.

Invisible girl

I had a brief period of 'up'ness for a while there, but it was only brief, of course. The SN chat went well, but I couldn't help but count the people who were not there. Some of them had good reason, but the others? And it was inevitable, I suppose, that after spending an evening on the computer, chatting and sharing and having fun, that there would be a let-down afterward.

The LJ challenge for anonymous fic came to an end, and I posted my two stories in my own LJ - to almost no reaction at all: several of the usual suspects didn't comment, and absolutely no outsiders. It was rather bitterly disappointing, the more so since I thought they were both good stories. But, as I should have learned by now, you can't make people like your writing, any more than you can make them like you. If only we had that power ...

I had all-but forgotten that I'd written something for the most recent flashfic challenge, too - possibly because that passed almost entirely without comment. I don't really know why I persist in writing for that community. I suppose it's just bloody-mindedness - 'You can ignore me all you want, but this is my fandom, and I'm staying!' I do not know what I did to make these people dislike me so. It is very strange.

Always a glutton for punishment, I've nonetheless set up (by proxy, because we know what would happen if I tried to do it) a SN Secret Santa. The very first thing that happened was that we were told it couldn't be Secret Santa. Because that's ... racist? Or at any rate exclusionist. I would have said it was inclusionist, since everyone is welcome and, indeed, encouraged to take part, but I know better than to try to reason with these people. It makes me tired, though. Tired, and cross. As do so many things.

It's been busy but unnoteworthy at work all week. We switched on to new servers on Tuesday and Wednesday, but that went reasonably uneventfully. I've booked some leave from the middle of this week to the middle of next. I should be more cheerful about this, and I suppose in a way I am. But I know I shall end up doing nothing and feeling as though I'd wasted the time. And then get back to work and find masses of stuff piled up waiting for me, and probably at least one huge disaster brought to the full horror of discovery.

We didn't go to the French market this weekend after all; I was too tired, I've been in bed almost all weekend. And we also didn't go and see my mother, which we should have done. We'll have to do it next Saturday, as we have a christening on the Sunday. Which should be amusing: J and me, in a church!

Has anything nice happened? I had an IM chat with an LJ friend the other day, which was lovely. I never initiate conversations, and, if pinged, I always worry whether I'll be able to hold up my end of the conversation, but this went fine. We talked about writing, and then got on to the bitter, bitter subject of the film version of The Dark is Rising, which we feel all right-minded people should boycott like the plague. And I've seen the pilot for Dirty, Sexy Money, and loved it - it's a bit like Brothers and Sisters, but with much richer (by which I mean 'wealthier' not 'better drawn'), more fucked-up, and thoroughly nastier people. WeeJosh's character from Six Degrees would fit right in there, and then he and Peter Krause could compare Baldwins. Wait, that sounds rude. Never mind. If only I had Photoshop skills (or Photoshop, for that matter), I would attempt to merge photos of the two of them from the respective shows, preferably both in their lovely designer overcoats. Dan and Casey, ten years on! That would be cool. But only because I am a nerd.

A depressed nerd. Is there anything lamer?

All the pretty horses

When last we saw Our Heroine, she was considering a stack of ironing slightly taller than herself. Those who know her will be astonished to hear that she actually got on and did this. (That's enough third person, as though I were not schizoid enough on a good day.) I ironed pretty much every skirt I possess, and was justly proud of myself. Now all I have to do is never wear any of them again, and that should last me for life. Oh, wait, I see a flaw in this plan.

I had one day in at work last week, on the Wednesday and oh. My. God. Yet another crisis came home to roost. The Very Important Flyer that I had been going to check on Thursday, that I hadn't been able to check on Thursday because the designer had done it wrong, and then couldn't check on Friday because the printer hadn't got it back to me, and that I had had to leave for L to check instead because I wasn't going to be there and which I left perfectly clear instructions for ... I don't know what L's idea of proofreading is, but two of the images were printed in the negative, white on black, and she hadn't spotted it. The fallout was tremendous, and is falling still, as everyone runs for cover and blames it on everyone else. Not to join in the trend, but how it is anyone's fault but L's I do not know - how in the world didn't she spot it?! So, even though I was off for the rest of the week, I didn't really enjoy it, or the weekend, because I was plagued by the nagging sense of DOOM, no matter how I tried to take my mind off it.

I was in no mood, by the time I got home, to go anywhere but, of course, I had to pack, say goodbye to the cats, and get a train down to London. P turned up on cue and was shown the ropes - or, more to the point, the cat food and poo bags - given free run of the computer and anything else she might wish, and promised that, next time she came down, I would try to stay awake and cook a proper meal for her instead of falling back on take-out. Or at least make cake. She gave me a lift to the station, which was most welcome; I packed one change of clothes, some underwear, a nightie and a pair of shoes into J's rucksack, added a spongebag and a bottle of water and a book to read (it was a very bad book, I ended up dumping it on the train), went to pick it up, and fell over backwards. I do not know how it managed to be that heavy, unless there are actually lead weights sewn into the lining. However. Caught the train safely although, rather alarmingly, I appeared to be the only person on it - no wonder fares are so bloody high! - and made it safely to L's in Vauxhall, in spite of some uncertainty of being able to find the way again. L is very depressed about her own work situation, and I think appreciated having a sympathetic listener. (I do sympathise, of course, but at the same time, I also sometimes wish I were surrounded by more cheerful and more positive people; the fact that everyone I know is depressed I am sure does not help at all with my own state of mind.)

Managed to get a decent night's sleep on her sofa, although it isn't really very comfortable, and, since I didn't have to leave until around 9.30, had a nice lie-in, and even managed to scribble down notes for a fic for leiascully's anonymous challenge over on LJ - of course, I couldn't type them up until I got home, so whether or not I would be able to read them again was touch and go ... Minor panic at Vauxhall station, as Esher, for some reason, does not show on any of the boards, but, much to my surprise, the man in the ticket booth cheerfully confirmed both the train and the platform. It was a very easy journey, I found the printers' meet-and-greet people with no trouble, and after a few minutes of stilted conversation their car came along and gave the group of us who'd come on that train a lift to Sandown (where we encountered foot and mouth precautions at the entrance, which cast a bit of a blight). Got up to the function room ... and found myself all on my own in a crowd of strangers, not a sign of M and L anywhere to be seen.

Now. Being on my own in a crowd of strangers is my #1 favourite thing in all the world, coming in a narrow squeak ahead of 'dining in restaurants on my own' and 'going into a pub alone'. I wandered over to the window and took great interest in the scenery. Every so often someone strolled along and struck up conversation; the only problem with that is that when I'm nervous, my accent pitches upward by approximately three Viscounts and a Marchioness, and I sound like I'm about to launch the Royal Yacht Britannia. Topics of conversation included the racecourse ("I'd never really absorbed just how big the track must be!"), country roads in England with a visiting American ("Is Oxford far from here?" "Yes, but not by your standards"), and the exact definition of a furlong, which I only got wrong by times 10 (22 yards one chain, ten chains one furlong, eight furlongs one mile ... hey, it's been a long time, don't judge me!). Survived all this, thanks to several sustaining cups of coffee, and sat through a lecture on The Future of the Printed Book - all I have to say on the Future of the Printed Book is that in the 80s I was writing BG fanfic in which people used booktapes, and that now it's the tapes that are obsolete, not the books - and then another one by the visiting Americans (flown in specially! announced the company president, who only a few moments previously had been assuring us that the company was doing all it could to reduce its carbon footprint, bless him). I do not know what the visiting Americans were selling. They had had a very good idea that would do something very useful and that everybody ought to have. That's about all I could make out. M and L arrived mid-lecture, having been stuck on the M25, along with quite a few other delegates, apparently. And then there was Pimms - which is yummy, btw - and then there was lunch.

I have got to say that, although there were a lot of other elements to the day, my abiding impression of it is oh my god, the food. I have never seen so much food in my life. There were pastries with the coffee - I didn't have one, because I'd got breakfast in Tesco on my way to the station, but they were there; lunch was three courses, and just when you thought it was safely over they brought out enough cheese to feed an army of mouses; and only a couple of hours after that there were sandwiches and not just sandwiches but also more cake than you could throw a damn stick at, if that's your idea of a good time. Torn between 'Well, it would be rude not to' and 'If I do, I'll be sick' I opted (for once) for abstention, but oh, lord, the waste. I do hope that either the printers took home doggie bags for all the people who didn't get to come, or that the restaurant staff ate the leftovers behind the scenes.

In the afternoon there was, of course, the racing. I'd expected to be bored - I never watch racing on the TV, and when Mummy has it on, as she often does when we're round there, the best one can say about it is that it saves trying to think of conversation - but it turns out to be quite different live; just seeing the horses is a thrill. I didn't do any betting, being both cautious and poor, but it was just as enjoyable without a personal stake. I did a lot of walking, in between the stands at one end and the parade ring at the other (it was the first time I have ever seen a jockey up close and, frankly, I am scared; they seem to come in only two kinds, 12-year-old boys and 40-year-old men of exactly the same body type but bearing a strong resemblance to the Winged Monkeys in The Wizard of Oz), and, in fact, wandered all over - they have an awfully frightening statue there of the Queen Mum, but just her face; it was a beautiful sunny day, perfect and green and quintessentially English, and it would have been absolute paradise if not for the nagging fear in my stomach over the ongoing work crisis. But I tried to quench this by, eg, referring to the first race as the Catfood Special. Listen to these descriptions: 'Just limited promise'; 'Some modest signs of ability'; 'Very nearly leading'; 'Half-sister to a speedy winner'; 'It takes imagination to envisage her winning'. Poor, poor, pretty horsies!

I actually did nearly bet on one race, on the sole grounds that the horse I fancied really was incredibly pretty; but she only came in second, so I guess it's as well I didn't.

It all wound up eventually, and I made my way home, with rather more difficulty than the other direction - the courtesy bus to the station took ages to arrive. Got back to L's and collapsed, rather. We had been planning to go to the Indian that night, but I was still so full it would have been a waste, so I suggested that I come back to the flat after I'd had a wander round London, and we should go to the Indian on Friday instead. And so we did.

'Wander round London' is literally what I did on Friday; got a Travelcard, went into town, and pretty much rode around on buses all day, from the centre to Hackney in one direction, and then out to Chelsea in the other. I had a few strolls here and there - along the South Bank, and then along Victoria Embankment - but my feet were still pretty tired from the previous day. The closest I got to tourism was that I thought of looking at Westminster Abbey, because I never have. But, as it turns out, I never shall now, they're charging a £10 entrance fee. Stuff that for a bunch of dead people ... says the woman who blew nearly £50 in Lush in the King's Road ...

We had a lovely meal at the Indian, although I was still a bit over-stuffed, and didn't manage to eat the filling to my dosa. And then home, and very glad I was to get back to my own bed, and my own computer, and my loving pussycats. Phoebe had quite obviously missed me and was quite upset, so I was glad to be able to stay in bed for most of Saturday and give her lots of cuddles.

After that, everything went back to normal pretty fast. I typed up the fic I'd written at L's place on Saturday morning and posted it to the challenge - which has a lot of excellent fic up, including a House fic that's as good as anything I've ever read (I don't really watch House, but never mind), and I'm glad to see that there are several Sports Night authors on there who are not me. I'm only sorry that the challenge isn't getting more recognition. I tried my best to pimp it, but people are too busy with the Fandom That Eats All Other Fandoms, may it rot in hell, to pay attention to anything outside of that.

And so it goes. I actually managed to write a second fic for the challenge on Sunday, so at least I'm doing my bit, even if nobody else is interested.

It was weeJosh's birthday at the weekend and so, being an utter saddo, I left a card for him over on his MySpace ... and noticed in passing that his status has gone from 'single' to 'in a relationship'. Quite unrelatedly, I'm sure, he has also lost the 'straight' tag, but I suspect that this is merely an accident and does not mean that Ethan has come up to scratch, more's the pity.

And now ... back at work, tired as ever, unhappy as ever, bored as ever, lonely as ever ... But all this proves that I can have a nice time, and I am not depressed. All I need is something to bloody well do!

Nights and days of the living-but-only-just dead

I've been terribly tired all this weekend. That's not really news. I'm tired all the time, but this has been worse than usual, even by my standards. Generally, if I sleep through Saturday, I manage to drag myself up and get a few things done on Sunday, but not this time. It may have something to do with the weather - it's terribly humid; in fact, on Friday I had a dizzy spell - I went up into town to get a card from the bookshop, couldn't get a sandwich because the place (the town, not the bookshop) was packed with schoolkids, so had to go back down to Tesco and I think it was just that bit too far, I wasn't at all sure I would make it back to work, I nearly phoned the office to ask if someone would come and collect me, but how weedy would that have looked? I have three packages from eBay I haven't even opened yet, emails to answer and a bed to make (since I did, at least, manage to haul off my bedclothes and stick them in the washing machine), and you might as well ask me to climb Everest for all I feel capable of doing it.

I should, actually, be feeling quite chipper (it's a word!): lovely friend L (yet another L) sent me a cheering-up pressie out of the blue, the New Album has leaked, I wrote a drabble that got halfway decent feedback, and lovely friend P came round and screencapped weeJosh's scenes from The Darwin Awards (I am, in fact, quite capable of screencapping, but the DVD drive in my computer is fked), so nice things have happened. But the tiredness sort-of cancels all of that out.

I've got two days' leave upcoming, and really must try and put them to good use and not just waste them. But it doesn't look hopeful.

Half-past week

J has gone out tonight, to investigate rumours of an SF group meeting in North Oxford. This suits me just fine, as I felt rotten at work all day - absolutely exhausted and slightly sick - and really didn't feel like cooking. If J's not in, I can just have cheese on toast or something, and not feel guilty about being a Bad Housewife.

I don't know whether the SF group will amount to anything; I don't really read SF much any more. J does, so she may find some like-minded people there. But we're so isolated here, I'm ready to clutch at almost any straw. We very rarely see anyone at all, with the honourable exception of P, which is why I've ended up so badly dependent on the internet. And the internet, as we know, is a fickle friend indeed, the person you were laughing and squeeing with and IMing back and forth yesterday will have abandoned you for shinier (and, let's face it, more interesting and less depressed) pastures tomorrow. J left a note to say she'd be back soon if her nerve failed, but she's been gone a while, so presumably it didn't. She is very brave no matter what, I would pretty much rather never see anyone ever again, ever, than walk into a pub full of strangers.

Terribly bored at work at the moment (I always say that: 'at the moment' - "I'm a bit down at the moment," "I'm a bit overweight at the moment," and so on, as if I thought it were ever likely to change). Sometimes I wish I could take some courses and learn something new, something that would let me do something different, better, more interesting. And then I think: but what? And then I remember that I'm pretty much crap at everything I try to turn my hand to. And then I get depressed. Unsurprisingly, I suppose.

Speaking of which, I made a major effort today and looked up some local counselling services on the internet. But at £50+ a session ... it's just not do-able.

And so we remain as we are. Which is a grim and dispiriting thought indeed.

There's a revival of Rent opening in the West End. Maybe I'll see if I can get a ticket for that. What I need is a theatre buddy, but I suppose a theatre group is out of the question.