Tuesday, 7 August 2012


This is no good.  The whole point about blogging is to make a daily record of things wot you do and wot you think, etc.  I have failed.  Here follow the excuses.
A couple of weeks or so ago, I ate something that did some sort of damage to my insides.  I thought I had recovered from it a few days later, but an innocent mince pie shortly after set it all off again.  But it was worse.  The docs are onto it now though and even I now think I’ll probably live.
I’m not very often ill.  Well, I have very bad manflu most winters (despite my flu jab).  In fact I get it much worse than anyone else in the world.  But, apart from that, I am rudely healthy.  Maybe because of that, because I don’t know what it’s like to experience real pain, I suffer excruciating agonies from little things like the odd stubbed toe, or - you know how sometimes you are walking through a doorway, carefree, incautious, swinging your arms, and you catch your wrist on the doorhandle?  I’ve done that and practically died from the suffering.  So I thought, you’re always making a fuss, everybody has these little knocks and spills and just brushes them off, this is just tummy ache, no blood or bones sticking out, live with it.
But, actually, I think every internal organ in my body was inflamed and protesting.  I tried to eat something small and digestible, but the digestion process was worse than the hunger.  It was as if one of the cogs had slipped off its mountings and was causing all the moving parts to clunk and grind off-centre.  Since I didn’t want that to happen, I didn’t eat for a bit.  Even drinking seemed to cause the gears to mesh wrongly.  You could hear them from a mile away.
I couldn’t not eat Christmas lunch on Christmas Day though, so, although nothing had passed my lips for two days, I had a taster plate of turkey and sprouts and other yummy stuff and . . . seemed to get through it OK.  There was no real pain now, but the aching didn’t go away.  And lying down at night to sleep was as uncomfortable as lying on a concrete floor.  (Yes, but only once, when I was younger.  Murder on the knees!).  Then suddenly I went yellow.  It was a bit of a shock.  I’d been white and pink and red and brown and even green before, but never yellow.  She thought I looked awful.  But beauty is in the eye of the beholder and Mrs Chang down the chippy commented on how well I looked when I popped in for our Christmas supper treat.  So I went to the doctors.
I’ve now had lots of poking around the abdomen, a vast selection of blood tests, a urine test (if anyone’s interested, it was a most impressive teak colour), and am due in the hospital again for some other tests in a few days.  The doc has actually rung me up twice in the last week (which is supposed to make me feel better, I’m sure, but makes me a little uneasy).
So – good news.  I stopped taking handfuls of paracetamol every couple of hours some three days ago.  I can get off to sleep now in a certain position, if I hold my teddy slightly differently, and sleep though half the night comfortably.  I can eat normally now, provided it’s porridge or chicken broth.  I had a spot of venison stew tonight, rather than see all that lovely food thrown away; it was delicious and, as I write, no protest movements down there.  I have rediscovered Ribena.  Today, for the first time for a while, I went outside (it was raining, but it was so nice to get out and DO something that I didn’t care) and I pruned our cherry tree.  All being well tomorrow, I shall finish off the front garden maintenance before the winter comes.  That really is a major advance from sitting on the sofa, feeling sorry for myself, and watching b/w movies (= dozing) all day.
On the debit side – I haven’t had any alcohol for 2 weeks, not even a drop of all that fabulous stuff I got in for Christmas.  But actually I felt so happy to see everyone else enjoying it, (and I was part of it) that I haven’t really regretted the abstinence.  I haven’t had any coffee either.  That’s more of a lifestyle problem.  I really haven’t had any urge to drink anything but Ribena for the last fortnight, yet they don’t serve it, sadly, at Hemingways or Mirabelles, so I haven’t been there either.  I bet Norma has been serving someone else while I’m away (fickle hussy).  No fry-ups either, though I have to say, I could do justice to a full English, given the courage.  But my derring-do has evaporated and I’m stuck in the safety of the chicken broth trench for the moment.  Oh, I scrambled some eggs this morning and ate those avariciously without regression.  That’s another plus point, isn’t it.
Anyway, there we are, that’s what I’ve been doing.  Or not doing.  I became horribly and frighteningly weak too, which is my real excuse for not visiting here.  Just walking to the living room sofa was enough to send me into a sort or narcolepsy, never mind typing, or thinking even.  Anyway, as you can see, especially if you measure health by number of words, I’m improving.  I’d like to be less conscious of my internal organs.  I’d like to do something constructive without feeling depressed at the thought or exhausted after.  I’d like to eat some battered sausages and chips and drink with them a nice bottle of Rioja.  I'd like to be pink again.  But that’s enough of my New Year Resolutions.  What are yours?  
Right, now to get back into this blogging thing.
Please don’t send condolences or positive messages; I’m sure I’m OK.  I probably just need a holiday.

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