I was quite taken aback when I looked at the blog and realised that I only posted twice last week. That's a poor average for me, and even worse when you consider how little I actually had to say that wasn't all about yet more medical emergencies*.
Let me explain.
I have had a very busy week. Not with fun stuff like going to country shows, or shopping for gifts with a huge unexpected legacy, or learning to drive a monster truck, or anything like that.
It's been All About Work this week. I'd bore you with the details but I think I'd probably get the sack, so best not, really. Suffice to say it's been very busy and as a result I am waking up at 4am with a rising sense of panic most days.
It's not big and it's not clever, and it certainly isn't doing much for my appearance. I have developed huge dark rings under my eyes, an interesting pallor and lumpy flaky skin. Mmmmm-mmm.
When it hasn't been All About Work, it's been All About Fretting About Mr WithaY. Fretting is my own particular specialism in the field of domestic nursing. I am rubbish at the practical stuff, but boy can I fret myself into a tizz whilst not actually helping anyone.
So, well done me for that.
To be fair to myself, I am pretty handy in an emergency. I don't faint at the sight of blood, I can keep calm and sort stuff out, I can plan contingency stuff to mitigate the situation (sorry, this sounds like work again), I can even deal with hospital staff without clinging to their lapels and shrieking. But once things start to settle down and I am back home, I am frankly a bit crap.
The good news is that Mr WithaY is much better. His hand is slowly losing the swelling, and with a bit of luck when we go and see the plastic surgery people at the hospital tomorrow they will be able to tell him how soon he can go back to work, drive, play the bongos etcetera.
Fingers crossed. Heh.
Other news: Whilst on the train home on Thursday, I sat next to an elderly lady. She was very sweet, and we exchanged a few pleasantries as we got settled for the journey. It was a sunny-ish evening, and the carriage was a little warm, but one of the windows at the far end was open so now and again a gentle breeze could be felt. The sweet old lady was reading a book, or looking out of the window. I was listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and playing solitaire on my lovely, lovely iPhone. Not too bad at all.
All that was to change.
The guard, a large, cheerful chap, came stumping through, checking our tickets. He got to the group of people sitting around a table a couple of rows in front of me, and leaned across to open their window with his special key, announcing "You'll be wanting this open! It's very warm in here!" They didn't argue, probably because it was all done in a flash, and after all, having the window open is a bit of a change on the train.
The window fell wide open with a thud, and he clumped on his merry way, obviously feeling that he had done us all a favour.
The second the window opened fully, a howling gale whipped through the carriage, making my hair fly about wildly, and flicking the pages of the old lady's book over as she tried to read. She looked up at me sadly, and I smiled back in my "Ah well, mustn't grumble" way.
I put my hair up in a clip and tried to ignore the strong draught now wrapping itself around my neck. I looked along the carriage. People were putting coats on, huddling down in their seats, closing their books as they gave up trying to read. It was also incredibly noisy; now and again the stench of diesel fumes rolled in. Very nice.
When the guard came back, 20 minutes or so later, the sun had gone in and everyone I could see was wrapped in coats, red-eyed, shivering, clearly miserable.
Me: Excuse me....can you please close the window there again? It's very cold and draughty now. We're getting blown to bits here.
Cheerful Guard: It is a bit breezy, but if I close the window there's no ventilation. How far are you going?
Me: Past Salisbury. (we were approaching Basingstoke at this point, still well over an hour to go.)
Cheerful Guard: (patting my arm chummily) Well, you can go and sit in the front carriage. That has air conditioning.
Ah of course. Good plan. I will leave my seat and walk through the train to the front carriage, where I imagine there are also no empty seats, and people are sitting in the luggage racks. Just like in this carriage, in fact. And all the other carriages that other people have been trying before they gave up and came and squatted in the wind tunnel of despair here.
The old lady looked up at the guard, her hair whipped into a birds nest, her eyes red from the dust and wind, her book abandoned.
Old lady: (tremulously) It is very cold in here.
Cheerful Guard: (now stroking my arm in a rather offputting manner) Well, I am sorry, but there's nothing I can do.
Exit guard, still smiling with the sense of a job well done.
What? WHAT? Of course there is something you can do, you stompy, grinning, shiny-faced galoot. You can go and shut the bloody window again.
The people sitting at the table where the window had been opened had tried to close it a couple of times, but it kept falling open. Clearly it could only be closed by someone with a key to lock it back in place.
Other, other news: Mr WithaY and I went to Salisbury yesterday to go and see the new Star Trek film.
Loved it. I now have a deeply inappropriate crush on Mr Spock, and want to join Starfleet. It's just like being 12 again.
*I could write scripts for Casualty now.