Is it March already? Blimey. I always feel a bit shortchanged by February somehow. But then, as if by magic, overnight it turns into March, and Spring is here, and things seem so much better after all.
Mr WithaY went for a long walk yesterday afternoon around the lakes between here and Salisbury - he has to plan, undertake and document three different long walks with reams of wildlife data for three different terrains as homework for his bushcraft course - and while he was out he saw three kingfishers. One on its own and a pair flying together. I've seen kingfishers once or twice on the river through the village, but never more than one at a time. I love them, they are incredibly colourful and vibrant, like humming birds.
I didn't go with him on his walk because I have been limping around with a massively damaged knee this week. It was sore - well, they both were - after our sterling decorating efforts on Monday. I'm too old and creaky to spend long periods of time kneeling on the floor, it seems, but by the time I woke up on Tuesday morning it was a bit sore. And, alarmingly, my foot and lower leg were feeling weird too. More stiff than painful, really, but overnight it got worse.
I woke up in the middle of Tuesday night aware that my right knee was really hurting, and moving it made it worse. Fuck. I limped into the bathroom and found some painkillers which allowed me to go back to sleep, albeit grumpily.
Clearly all the kneeling had caused something to swell up inside the knee joint which had impacted on the nerves or tendons or whatever the hell was twinging all the way to my big toe every time I moved my foot. I spent much of Wednesday sitting on the sofa whining for ibuprofen and tea, doing bits of hand-sewing and knitting, in between getting up and walking around and swearing about my much my leg was hurting.
Fortunately by Thursday things seemed to have begun to resolve themselves, at least in part, as my knee was still making horrific graunching cracking noises when I moved it, but my foot and lower leg were back to normal.
Today, you'll be thrilled to know, I am sporting a sexy neoprene knee brace which Mr WithaY found in the back of a cupboard, and am not swearing quite so much. We will see how things go.
I hate being old and crap.
Showing posts with label grumbling and whining like an old back axle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grumbling and whining like an old back axle. Show all posts
Friday, 2 March 2012
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Splash
I've been going to the gym for the last month or so. It's an attempt to stem the encroaching tide of middle-aged "can't be arsed-ness" and also to reduce my bulk to less vile proportions.
I have actually got a bit heavier, which is dispiriting, if not unexpected, and I can't see any real difference in my shape yet. However, I am already feeling stronger, and I sweat more when exerting myself. Niiiiice. Apparently, according to the nice gym staff, that's a common side effect of exercising. You get sweatier.
So. Heavier. Slightly more muscular. Sweaty. I bet you're all having a little private far-away moment just imagining that, aren't you?
The most difficult part of the entire business is getting into a routine. I am trying to go early in the day, to be there before 0900, do my routine, get home, get showered, get dressed and be ready to get on with my day by 1030 at the latest. The downside to that is that I don't eat before I go, which might be a bad thing. I may have to get up at the crack of dawn to have some porridge first.
I do 10 minutes on the cross trainer* to start with, which is ok, as long as I don't look at the timer counting down. I try to watch the TV screen above my head, where they show the BBC News with subtitles. There is a good deal of unintended hilarity caused by those subtitles, with the interpreters having to publish rapid corrections as they go.
If I can't see the TV screen, I look down into the swimming pool. Sometimes there are dozens of small children having swimming lessons, which is also hilarious. They are all so earnest; watching them splashing about like minnows, whacking one another in the face as they attempt backstroke takes me back to my own awful school swimming lessons.
The school I went to in London, way back in the early 1970s, took us to a concrete outdoor pool for lessons. It was very shallow, and I have distinct memories of regularly scraping my feet and stubbing my toes on the rough concrete bottom of the pool as I was learning to kick. I never knew what the swimming teacher's name was. It sounded like "Mr Vinehoff" but everyone in the class had a different opinion what it actually was. We couldn't hear him introduce himself over the splashing, shrieking masses and nobody had the nerve to ask him what his name was.
I don't think they taught us how to swim, as such. I think it was more along the lines of trial by ordeal, where they threw us into the water and if we didn't drown we had to go back to school and learn about the metric system and decimalisation.
The school I went to in Chichester took us to the municipal baths for lessons, in a bus. We seemed to spend about twice as long getting to the pool, getting changed into our swimsuits, getting dry afterwards and getting back into our uniforms than we ever did in the water. I remember the sense of achievement I had when I swam 100 yards. It was slow and inelegant, like so much of my school sporting career, but I did it, and I got a certificate to prove it.
I also jumped off the diving board. There was a low board, a springy plank on the edge of the pool which was perfect for doing "pirate walking the plank" impressions when the teacher wasn't looking, and everyone could jump off that. Well, it was practically the same as the edge of the pool. You had to be a real chicken to flunk that one.
Then there were the Other Boards. I definitely jumped off one of those, but my memory fails me here. I can't remember if it was the the middle board up a flight of scary rickety metal steps, or the "fuck me that's high" board at the very top, up abut four flights of steps. I have a nagging feeling that I did go off the top board, because I can recall the terror when I had jumped; that feeling that there was no going back. When I hit the water I went almost to the bottom of the pool - 12' 6" deep, whatever that is in metric** - and it was scary trying to get back up to the surface before I ran out of air. I didn't do it again.
It may have been something we had to do for a swimming badge with the Girl Guides.
We had to do so many odd things with the Girl Guides. That's a whole blog post in itself.
Anyhoo. Swimming flashbacks aside, I am enjoying the gym, and any day now will develop one of those bodies that you see on TV, memorably described by (I think) Terry Pratchett as a stocking full of walnuts.
I can't promise photos.
*See much earlier, older joke somewhere in the blog archives about this being a piece of gym equipment, not a grumpy muscular man in a singlet
**I learned NOTHING at school. Not a bloody thing.
I have actually got a bit heavier, which is dispiriting, if not unexpected, and I can't see any real difference in my shape yet. However, I am already feeling stronger, and I sweat more when exerting myself. Niiiiice. Apparently, according to the nice gym staff, that's a common side effect of exercising. You get sweatier.
So. Heavier. Slightly more muscular. Sweaty. I bet you're all having a little private far-away moment just imagining that, aren't you?
The most difficult part of the entire business is getting into a routine. I am trying to go early in the day, to be there before 0900, do my routine, get home, get showered, get dressed and be ready to get on with my day by 1030 at the latest. The downside to that is that I don't eat before I go, which might be a bad thing. I may have to get up at the crack of dawn to have some porridge first.
I do 10 minutes on the cross trainer* to start with, which is ok, as long as I don't look at the timer counting down. I try to watch the TV screen above my head, where they show the BBC News with subtitles. There is a good deal of unintended hilarity caused by those subtitles, with the interpreters having to publish rapid corrections as they go.
If I can't see the TV screen, I look down into the swimming pool. Sometimes there are dozens of small children having swimming lessons, which is also hilarious. They are all so earnest; watching them splashing about like minnows, whacking one another in the face as they attempt backstroke takes me back to my own awful school swimming lessons.
The school I went to in London, way back in the early 1970s, took us to a concrete outdoor pool for lessons. It was very shallow, and I have distinct memories of regularly scraping my feet and stubbing my toes on the rough concrete bottom of the pool as I was learning to kick. I never knew what the swimming teacher's name was. It sounded like "Mr Vinehoff" but everyone in the class had a different opinion what it actually was. We couldn't hear him introduce himself over the splashing, shrieking masses and nobody had the nerve to ask him what his name was.
I don't think they taught us how to swim, as such. I think it was more along the lines of trial by ordeal, where they threw us into the water and if we didn't drown we had to go back to school and learn about the metric system and decimalisation.
The school I went to in Chichester took us to the municipal baths for lessons, in a bus. We seemed to spend about twice as long getting to the pool, getting changed into our swimsuits, getting dry afterwards and getting back into our uniforms than we ever did in the water. I remember the sense of achievement I had when I swam 100 yards. It was slow and inelegant, like so much of my school sporting career, but I did it, and I got a certificate to prove it.
I also jumped off the diving board. There was a low board, a springy plank on the edge of the pool which was perfect for doing "pirate walking the plank" impressions when the teacher wasn't looking, and everyone could jump off that. Well, it was practically the same as the edge of the pool. You had to be a real chicken to flunk that one.
Then there were the Other Boards. I definitely jumped off one of those, but my memory fails me here. I can't remember if it was the the middle board up a flight of scary rickety metal steps, or the "fuck me that's high" board at the very top, up abut four flights of steps. I have a nagging feeling that I did go off the top board, because I can recall the terror when I had jumped; that feeling that there was no going back. When I hit the water I went almost to the bottom of the pool - 12' 6" deep, whatever that is in metric** - and it was scary trying to get back up to the surface before I ran out of air. I didn't do it again.
It may have been something we had to do for a swimming badge with the Girl Guides.
We had to do so many odd things with the Girl Guides. That's a whole blog post in itself.
Anyhoo. Swimming flashbacks aside, I am enjoying the gym, and any day now will develop one of those bodies that you see on TV, memorably described by (I think) Terry Pratchett as a stocking full of walnuts.
I can't promise photos.
*See much earlier, older joke somewhere in the blog archives about this being a piece of gym equipment, not a grumpy muscular man in a singlet
**I learned NOTHING at school. Not a bloody thing.
Friday, 19 November 2010
Austerity measures for Dummies
I went to the supermarket today. That felt like a bit of an achievement, given that I can hardly breathe half the time, and the rest of the time has me coughing repulsively. Anyhoo, I went in armed with too many re-usable bags and no shopping list, never a good combination.
I resisted the temptation to buy bargain hot pies, or huge 25-bag multipacks of crisps, or gallon vats of cheap ice cream (a decision I have been regretting on and off ever since, I might add) and stocked up with all manner of sensible meat-and-potato meal makings. And vegetables. And washing up liquid. Yes, I am that sensible.
In my trolley were two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) for Father-in-Law WithaY, who has recently developed a taste for them. All seemed uneventful as the shopping was scanned and beeped and tagged and tracked* by the nice till lady.
She scanned the two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) then said "There's a Buy One, Get Two Free" offer on these. Do you want another tube of the same flavour?"
Me: No thanks, I only want the two tubes.
Till lady: But there's an offer on! You can have another one and get three but only pay for one!
Me: (packing potatoes and washing up liquid into a bag with grim efficiency) But I only want these two. Really.
There was a slightly accusing silence as she carried on scanning groceries and I packed bags, the two tubes of Pringles sitting folornly on the end of the conveyer belt like unwanted game show prizes.
Till lady: Well then, I will take off one of these tubes from the bill so you get one free. But you could have two free. Do you want two free?
Me: No.
I must admit that by this point I was interested to see what happened next, and prepared to argue cogently for my right to have just two tubes of Pringles if I wanted to.
This happened next:
Till lady: Oh! Gosh, that's strange.
Me: What is?
Till lady: It's taken both tubes off the bill. So...um...you get them both free. I think.
She fiddled about with the till for a bit, then slid both tubes down the counter to me as I continued cramming tins of beans and pots of probiotic yogurt** into the bags. There was a queue forming behind me, which may have affected her decision making.
Till lady: Yes. You get them both free. We'll just have an extra tube on the shelves now.
Me: (Warily) So...I get them for free? Are you sure?
Till lady: Yes. You can take them.
Me: (not touching them) Really? I don't want to take them without paying for them.
Till lady: (pushing them towards me encouragingly) But you get two free! So you can take those.
I relented and put them in my bag, paid for the shopping - not the Pringles, though, obviously - and left the shop without setting off any alarms.
All the way home I tried to work out how she had arrived at the conclusion that "buy one, get two free" can be converted into "buy two, don't pay for either of them." I am still not convinced by her logic, and am waiting for a knock on the door from the Fraud Squad.
Other news: I have bronchitis. Again. I went to the doctor on Tuesday. He listened to my chest, told me cheerfully that he's heard me sounding much worse, and gave me a prescription for the scary syphillis pills he prescribed at the end of my last bout of Black Lung.
He said "Chest infections usually only last five days or so. Let's see...how long did your last infection go on for? Hmmmm....December till.....oh. May. Well, yes. You were obviously a bit unlucky, weren't you?"
Yes, in the same sense that Cornwall is a bit wet at the moment.
He also commented "Oh, you've lost weight." I nodded, and was about to expound on my slow but steady progress when he said sternly "I hope it's not because of all the stress*** you've been dealing with?"
No, not stress, but thanks for asking, doctor. Eating fewer pies and drinking less cider, mostly.
I told him how much weight I intend to lose in total in order to be a non-overweight person according the the BMI scale; he advised me not to pay too much attention to BMI figures, and to weigh "as much as you feel comfortable with." Interesting advice, which I intend to ignore.
I am still up and writing my blog at 1am, by the way, because when I lay down in bed I start coughing hard enough to make my eyes shoot out of my head and slam into the bedroom ceiling. And that gets old fast.
Big day tomorrow. The auction house is coming to Father-in-Law WithaY's place to take out all the stuff that is going to be in a sale next month. So, hopefully I will be able to get in and give his place a bit of a clean and spruce-up once it's a bit less crammed with antiques. And then who knows, we might even sell it.
Which would be nice.
*I'm sure that we are all being monitored via our shopping.
**I'm on antibiotics. I have bronchitis again. Yay me.
***Shit Storm From Hades, although that is receding a bit now. More on this anon.
I resisted the temptation to buy bargain hot pies, or huge 25-bag multipacks of crisps, or gallon vats of cheap ice cream (a decision I have been regretting on and off ever since, I might add) and stocked up with all manner of sensible meat-and-potato meal makings. And vegetables. And washing up liquid. Yes, I am that sensible.
In my trolley were two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) for Father-in-Law WithaY, who has recently developed a taste for them. All seemed uneventful as the shopping was scanned and beeped and tagged and tracked* by the nice till lady.
She scanned the two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) then said "There's a Buy One, Get Two Free" offer on these. Do you want another tube of the same flavour?"
Me: No thanks, I only want the two tubes.
Till lady: But there's an offer on! You can have another one and get three but only pay for one!
Me: (packing potatoes and washing up liquid into a bag with grim efficiency) But I only want these two. Really.
There was a slightly accusing silence as she carried on scanning groceries and I packed bags, the two tubes of Pringles sitting folornly on the end of the conveyer belt like unwanted game show prizes.
Till lady: Well then, I will take off one of these tubes from the bill so you get one free. But you could have two free. Do you want two free?
Me: No.
I must admit that by this point I was interested to see what happened next, and prepared to argue cogently for my right to have just two tubes of Pringles if I wanted to.
This happened next:
Till lady: Oh! Gosh, that's strange.
Me: What is?
Till lady: It's taken both tubes off the bill. So...um...you get them both free. I think.
She fiddled about with the till for a bit, then slid both tubes down the counter to me as I continued cramming tins of beans and pots of probiotic yogurt** into the bags. There was a queue forming behind me, which may have affected her decision making.
Till lady: Yes. You get them both free. We'll just have an extra tube on the shelves now.
Me: (Warily) So...I get them for free? Are you sure?
Till lady: Yes. You can take them.
Me: (not touching them) Really? I don't want to take them without paying for them.
Till lady: (pushing them towards me encouragingly) But you get two free! So you can take those.
I relented and put them in my bag, paid for the shopping - not the Pringles, though, obviously - and left the shop without setting off any alarms.
All the way home I tried to work out how she had arrived at the conclusion that "buy one, get two free" can be converted into "buy two, don't pay for either of them." I am still not convinced by her logic, and am waiting for a knock on the door from the Fraud Squad.
Other news: I have bronchitis. Again. I went to the doctor on Tuesday. He listened to my chest, told me cheerfully that he's heard me sounding much worse, and gave me a prescription for the scary syphillis pills he prescribed at the end of my last bout of Black Lung.
He said "Chest infections usually only last five days or so. Let's see...how long did your last infection go on for? Hmmmm....December till.....oh. May. Well, yes. You were obviously a bit unlucky, weren't you?"
Yes, in the same sense that Cornwall is a bit wet at the moment.
He also commented "Oh, you've lost weight." I nodded, and was about to expound on my slow but steady progress when he said sternly "I hope it's not because of all the stress*** you've been dealing with?"
No, not stress, but thanks for asking, doctor. Eating fewer pies and drinking less cider, mostly.
I told him how much weight I intend to lose in total in order to be a non-overweight person according the the BMI scale; he advised me not to pay too much attention to BMI figures, and to weigh "as much as you feel comfortable with." Interesting advice, which I intend to ignore.
I am still up and writing my blog at 1am, by the way, because when I lay down in bed I start coughing hard enough to make my eyes shoot out of my head and slam into the bedroom ceiling. And that gets old fast.
Big day tomorrow. The auction house is coming to Father-in-Law WithaY's place to take out all the stuff that is going to be in a sale next month. So, hopefully I will be able to get in and give his place a bit of a clean and spruce-up once it's a bit less crammed with antiques. And then who knows, we might even sell it.
Which would be nice.
*I'm sure that we are all being monitored via our shopping.
**I'm on antibiotics. I have bronchitis again. Yay me.
***Shit Storm From Hades, although that is receding a bit now. More on this anon.
Friday, 30 July 2010
Eating out
You'd think that going out for lunch would be a straightforward exercise, wouldn't you? Leave the house at about lunchtime, travel somewhere that serves food, have some food, come home? Easy.
Even when you factor in the relative immobility of one of the people involved, how hard is it to go out and eat? Not very, would be the answer.
Well, that answer would be WRONG, my friend, wrong. West Wiltshire on a Tuesday lunchtime is a desert. A food desert.
Admittedly, Bestest Mate and I have previous form in this area. It has been known for us to go out for dinner, drive miles, sit and wait for hours fruitlessly*, and then end up eating a home-delivered pizza at 11pm because things went terribly, bizarrely, wrong in an entirely unpredictable manner.
So. We hopped (in my case literally) into the car and drove out to a local farm shop where they serve nice lunches. But wait! What's this? It's closed on Monday and Tuesday? Arse! Not to be daunted by such a minor setback, we continued on our way.
Every so often there would be a conversation as follows:
Me: Ooh, I've never been down this road before...I think it might lead to FUCK SLOW DOWN a nice pub HORSE! HORSE! yes, there it is...shall we stop there?
Bestest mate: Looks shut. Let's take a closer look.
Me: Mind that bloke...THAT BLOKE THERE...yeah it's shut. Arse. Keep going on this road...there'll be another pub in a HORSE! minute.
And so the long day wore on. He's not a really terrible unsafe driver or anything, I was just a bit jumpy, what with not being able to drive at the moment, and my ankle hurting like hell every time we went over a bump or round a corner.
We drove the entire length of the Wylye Valley, only finding pubs which were shut, occasionally glimpsing a pretty church or row of thatched cottages which we ignored in our feeding frenzy. Eventually we turned onto the main road back towards the village, and decided to stop at the rather splendid Indian for lunch. It was just closing.
Nothing for it but to head back to the house, and go over to the local pub for a sandwich then. But no...they'd stopped serving food. Admittedly by the time we got there it was after half past two, but we still felt disgruntled.
We ended up having a sandwich back at the house, and watching a DVD** while I sat with my foot up and whined how much my ankle hurt.
On that subject, I went and had an X-ray earlier this week, and got the result over the phone from a nurse this morning. Apparently there is no "obvious bone damage" but there is "significant soft tissue damage". And, helpfully, because I had the accident 3 weeks ago if it was a slight fracture it would be healing by now and might not show up on an X-ray. So. Probably not broken, but possibly broken. Yeah, that helps.
I can hop around a bit more easily, but I still can't drive as I can't hold my foot in any other position apart from "flat on the ground" without a good deal of discomfort, and stabs of pain in my anklebone. So I am wiggling it about in short busrts, and taking painkillers when it starts to really play up.
God, I'm old. Nothing works properly these days.
*also meatlessly, fishlessly, chiplessly and puddinglessly
**Tropic Thunder. He hadn't seen it, and I still find it amusing.
Even when you factor in the relative immobility of one of the people involved, how hard is it to go out and eat? Not very, would be the answer.
Well, that answer would be WRONG, my friend, wrong. West Wiltshire on a Tuesday lunchtime is a desert. A food desert.
Admittedly, Bestest Mate and I have previous form in this area. It has been known for us to go out for dinner, drive miles, sit and wait for hours fruitlessly*, and then end up eating a home-delivered pizza at 11pm because things went terribly, bizarrely, wrong in an entirely unpredictable manner.
So. We hopped (in my case literally) into the car and drove out to a local farm shop where they serve nice lunches. But wait! What's this? It's closed on Monday and Tuesday? Arse! Not to be daunted by such a minor setback, we continued on our way.
Every so often there would be a conversation as follows:
Me: Ooh, I've never been down this road before...I think it might lead to FUCK SLOW DOWN a nice pub HORSE! HORSE! yes, there it is...shall we stop there?
Bestest mate: Looks shut. Let's take a closer look.
Me: Mind that bloke...THAT BLOKE THERE...yeah it's shut. Arse. Keep going on this road...there'll be another pub in a HORSE! minute.
And so the long day wore on. He's not a really terrible unsafe driver or anything, I was just a bit jumpy, what with not being able to drive at the moment, and my ankle hurting like hell every time we went over a bump or round a corner.
We drove the entire length of the Wylye Valley, only finding pubs which were shut, occasionally glimpsing a pretty church or row of thatched cottages which we ignored in our feeding frenzy. Eventually we turned onto the main road back towards the village, and decided to stop at the rather splendid Indian for lunch. It was just closing.
Nothing for it but to head back to the house, and go over to the local pub for a sandwich then. But no...they'd stopped serving food. Admittedly by the time we got there it was after half past two, but we still felt disgruntled.
We ended up having a sandwich back at the house, and watching a DVD** while I sat with my foot up and whined how much my ankle hurt.
On that subject, I went and had an X-ray earlier this week, and got the result over the phone from a nurse this morning. Apparently there is no "obvious bone damage" but there is "significant soft tissue damage". And, helpfully, because I had the accident 3 weeks ago if it was a slight fracture it would be healing by now and might not show up on an X-ray. So. Probably not broken, but possibly broken. Yeah, that helps.
I can hop around a bit more easily, but I still can't drive as I can't hold my foot in any other position apart from "flat on the ground" without a good deal of discomfort, and stabs of pain in my anklebone. So I am wiggling it about in short busrts, and taking painkillers when it starts to really play up.
God, I'm old. Nothing works properly these days.
*also meatlessly, fishlessly, chiplessly and puddinglessly
**Tropic Thunder. He hadn't seen it, and I still find it amusing.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Grumbling
Hm, it seems that Blogger is eating comments. This has happened in the past - I've had an email notification on my iPhone saying there is a comment waiting to be moderated, and then when I login to Blogger on the PC there isn't one there. Very odd.
I can even see who it's from and what it said via the email, so it's doubly annoying not to be able to add it to the blog.
So, based on my imperfect memory of the comment, here's my reply: Mr London Street - you are quite right, it was a shit remake.
Other news: Mr WithaY and I are both still poorly. I have been signed off work for another week, as I am still coughing like a bastard, although I am slowly recovering. I keep thinking I am ok, so try to do something mildly domestic like ironing, or cooking lunch, whereupon I cough till I almost pass out. It's all very tiresome and unpleasant.
The weather over the weekend was depressing, cold and wet, adding to the general air of malaise and gloom in the WithaY household. What with that and the carefully-planted beans looking as if they are all dying, it's been a bit sad.
Mr WithaY has been cheering himself up this afternoon by researching Kentucky long rifles online, and I have been looking at guitar websites. Part of me is thinking I ought to sell my Rickenbacker as I seldom play it, but the part I am listening to says "No! You'll never find another one!"
One of the many things I hate about having a chest infection is that I can't sing. At all. Hell, I can barely speak. And that means that my enthusiasm for playing my guitar drops away to almost zero, and my fingers soften up and then I get cross when I do try to play because it hurts so much. Gah.
Well, now that I've spread a little sunshine, I will go and make supper.
I can even see who it's from and what it said via the email, so it's doubly annoying not to be able to add it to the blog.
So, based on my imperfect memory of the comment, here's my reply: Mr London Street - you are quite right, it was a shit remake.
Other news: Mr WithaY and I are both still poorly. I have been signed off work for another week, as I am still coughing like a bastard, although I am slowly recovering. I keep thinking I am ok, so try to do something mildly domestic like ironing, or cooking lunch, whereupon I cough till I almost pass out. It's all very tiresome and unpleasant.
The weather over the weekend was depressing, cold and wet, adding to the general air of malaise and gloom in the WithaY household. What with that and the carefully-planted beans looking as if they are all dying, it's been a bit sad.
Mr WithaY has been cheering himself up this afternoon by researching Kentucky long rifles online, and I have been looking at guitar websites. Part of me is thinking I ought to sell my Rickenbacker as I seldom play it, but the part I am listening to says "No! You'll never find another one!"
One of the many things I hate about having a chest infection is that I can't sing. At all. Hell, I can barely speak. And that means that my enthusiasm for playing my guitar drops away to almost zero, and my fingers soften up and then I get cross when I do try to play because it hurts so much. Gah.
Well, now that I've spread a little sunshine, I will go and make supper.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Involuntary detox
Why thank you, yes, I have lost weight.
How?
By following my very own weight loss plan. It goes thus:
Days 1 - 31 Acquire (and hang onto - this is important) a severe chest infection. This will start you off properly by helping you to lose your appetite and begin toning up all the muscles in your upper body as you cough for hours on end. Make sure you have at least two courses of antibiotics during this premiminary period.
Days 32 -35 Pick up a bout of post-antibiotic gastroenteritis. Spend 72 hours in bed, shivering, vomiting with terrifying suddenness and running (carefully) to the toilet. Eat nothing but one banana and a bowl of plain rice (on Day 35) during this period. Make sure you drink lots of water to make all those trips to the toilet worthwhile, though.
Day 36 Weigh yourself and go "Hmmmm.....lost a stone."
I might write a book. It's clearly a very successful method.
I can almost see my cheekbones again. Almost.
How?
By following my very own weight loss plan. It goes thus:
Days 1 - 31 Acquire (and hang onto - this is important) a severe chest infection. This will start you off properly by helping you to lose your appetite and begin toning up all the muscles in your upper body as you cough for hours on end. Make sure you have at least two courses of antibiotics during this premiminary period.
Days 32 -35 Pick up a bout of post-antibiotic gastroenteritis. Spend 72 hours in bed, shivering, vomiting with terrifying suddenness and running (carefully) to the toilet. Eat nothing but one banana and a bowl of plain rice (on Day 35) during this period. Make sure you drink lots of water to make all those trips to the toilet worthwhile, though.
Day 36 Weigh yourself and go "Hmmmm.....lost a stone."
I might write a book. It's clearly a very successful method.
I can almost see my cheekbones again. Almost.
Sunday, 3 January 2010
Foaming
If you were wondering why it had all gone a bit quiet over here, it's because I still have a fucking chest infection, and feel like shite. It went away for a few days, then came back with extra phlegm and coughing just to remind me how great it was first time around. So, back on the phone tomorrow morning to try and get an emergency appointment with the doctor, more antibiotics, and probably some steroids to help me breathe. I am SICK of it.
I have had it for over three weeks and it is boring, painful, alarming and disgusting in turn. Lucky old Mr WithaY gets to hear me cough, choke, splutter, gag, retch and then swear about once every six minutes. How nice for him.
On the plus side, my finger is healing up nicely. I will have an Interesting Scar to add to the many others. Don't you agree, scarred knuckles make a woman look extra-specially elegant? I bet Audrey Hepburn had knuckles you could grate cheese on.
Added to the docker's cough I have going on, I am quite a catch, let me tell you.
Other news: We have more fish in the aquarium. All the "old" fish are still alive, and the "new" fish are looking cheerful too, so we are very pleased. Mr WithaY has been doing all the scientific stuff with pH testing, and water changes and gravel sucking* and the like, and so far, so good. We now have:
5 x freshwater shrimp
7 x glowlight tetra
5 x leopard cory
6 x pentazona barbs
1 x dwarf Gourami
We also had some teeny snails, but Mr WithaY hoiked them out and disposed of them, bloody freeloaders.
Also, the dishwasher was blocked**. We've had it for about 4 years, and it has always been great. A simple arrangement, but it works. We put dirty greasy dishes in, a little while later it beeps, we take nice hot clean dishes out. It's like having a robot slave in the kitchen, which, frankly, is what I was hoping would happen in the Twenty-First Century.
Anyhoo, today it beeped, I opened it and instead of hot clean dishes there were hot wet dishes and several inches of hot grey water in the bottom of the dishwasher. Gah.
I did what any self-respecting modern woman would do: removed the filters, then poked ineffectually in the water-filled hole with a long spoon before going to ask Mr WithaY to fix it.
We both considered the problem from all angles, poking with the spoon in between discussing probable causes of the blockage, and how much a plumber would cost if we had to call one out next week.
After an hour or so of this useless flapping about, Mr WithaY decided to pour a bottle of Mr Muscle sink unblocker into the dishwasher and leave it for 15 minutes, as per the instructions. Once the 15 minutes were up, we ran the empty dishwasher on a Rinse Cycle, congratulating ourselves on our amazing fixing skills.
It beeped.
We opened it.
We closed it again hastily, great clouds of toxic, corrosive Mr Muscle bubbles spilling up from the drains, in danger of seeping out of the edges of the door.
We looked at one another in horror.
"We've fucked up the dishwasher!"
"No we haven't. It's just a bit....frothy."
"How are we going to get rid of all that deadly poisonous foam? We can't put our hands in it or we'll strip ourselves down to the bone!"
"Hmm. Let's run another rinse cycle and see what happens."
Mr WithaY is a fan of the "Let's See What Happens" school of thought.
We ran another rinse cyle. Then a third. We poured several jugfulls of tap water into the dishwasher, hoping to wash away some of the Foam of Death. We ran another rinse cycle. After what seemed like many hours of this, the foam level subsided by inches.
We were winning.
If you've never stood in a kitchen on a Sunday afternoon listening to the noise a dishwasher makes as it drains, trying to establish what a free-running drain sounds like, you've never lived, that's all I can say.
*I think there is a more technical term for it, but it escapes me.
**I didn't say it was interesting news.
I have had it for over three weeks and it is boring, painful, alarming and disgusting in turn. Lucky old Mr WithaY gets to hear me cough, choke, splutter, gag, retch and then swear about once every six minutes. How nice for him.
On the plus side, my finger is healing up nicely. I will have an Interesting Scar to add to the many others. Don't you agree, scarred knuckles make a woman look extra-specially elegant? I bet Audrey Hepburn had knuckles you could grate cheese on.
Added to the docker's cough I have going on, I am quite a catch, let me tell you.
Other news: We have more fish in the aquarium. All the "old" fish are still alive, and the "new" fish are looking cheerful too, so we are very pleased. Mr WithaY has been doing all the scientific stuff with pH testing, and water changes and gravel sucking* and the like, and so far, so good. We now have:
5 x freshwater shrimp
7 x glowlight tetra
5 x leopard cory
6 x pentazona barbs
1 x dwarf Gourami
We also had some teeny snails, but Mr WithaY hoiked them out and disposed of them, bloody freeloaders.
Also, the dishwasher was blocked**. We've had it for about 4 years, and it has always been great. A simple arrangement, but it works. We put dirty greasy dishes in, a little while later it beeps, we take nice hot clean dishes out. It's like having a robot slave in the kitchen, which, frankly, is what I was hoping would happen in the Twenty-First Century.
Anyhoo, today it beeped, I opened it and instead of hot clean dishes there were hot wet dishes and several inches of hot grey water in the bottom of the dishwasher. Gah.
I did what any self-respecting modern woman would do: removed the filters, then poked ineffectually in the water-filled hole with a long spoon before going to ask Mr WithaY to fix it.
We both considered the problem from all angles, poking with the spoon in between discussing probable causes of the blockage, and how much a plumber would cost if we had to call one out next week.
After an hour or so of this useless flapping about, Mr WithaY decided to pour a bottle of Mr Muscle sink unblocker into the dishwasher and leave it for 15 minutes, as per the instructions. Once the 15 minutes were up, we ran the empty dishwasher on a Rinse Cycle, congratulating ourselves on our amazing fixing skills.
It beeped.
We opened it.
We closed it again hastily, great clouds of toxic, corrosive Mr Muscle bubbles spilling up from the drains, in danger of seeping out of the edges of the door.
We looked at one another in horror.
"We've fucked up the dishwasher!"
"No we haven't. It's just a bit....frothy."
"How are we going to get rid of all that deadly poisonous foam? We can't put our hands in it or we'll strip ourselves down to the bone!"
"Hmm. Let's run another rinse cycle and see what happens."
Mr WithaY is a fan of the "Let's See What Happens" school of thought.
We ran another rinse cyle. Then a third. We poured several jugfulls of tap water into the dishwasher, hoping to wash away some of the Foam of Death. We ran another rinse cycle. After what seemed like many hours of this, the foam level subsided by inches.
We were winning.
If you've never stood in a kitchen on a Sunday afternoon listening to the noise a dishwasher makes as it drains, trying to establish what a free-running drain sounds like, you've never lived, that's all I can say.
*I think there is a more technical term for it, but it escapes me.
**I didn't say it was interesting news.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Cold
As is traditional with a holiday coming up, I have gone down with a cold. Arse*. I woke up on Tuesday with a really sore throat, but put it down to my extensive muttering about protestors making me miss my train.
Yesterday I felt tired and chilly, but assumed I was just well, tired and chilly.
Today, however, I have a proper cold. Headache, shivery, sore throat, slightly snotty in a kind of "Oh you just wait till you try to go to sleep" kind of way.
And I still only have half a mobile. I can receive text messages but for some reason am unable to make or receive phone calls. I shall have to call the helpdesk tomorrow if it doesn't resolve itself overnight.
*Not a cold arse. I have one of those too, being a girly, but a cold. Arse.
Yesterday I felt tired and chilly, but assumed I was just well, tired and chilly.
Today, however, I have a proper cold. Headache, shivery, sore throat, slightly snotty in a kind of "Oh you just wait till you try to go to sleep" kind of way.
And I still only have half a mobile. I can receive text messages but for some reason am unable to make or receive phone calls. I shall have to call the helpdesk tomorrow if it doesn't resolve itself overnight.
*Not a cold arse. I have one of those too, being a girly, but a cold. Arse.
Monday, 9 March 2009
Grumpy
I am fed up. I hate Mr WithaY being away, and I am missing him hugely.
My lovely Mum has had a couple of days where she has not been doing as well as we had hoped, so that is upsetting, and I feel really low.
Still, my back is much better.
Other news: The new light I bought for the sitting room is a piece of crap, and looks awful. That was twenty quid well spent then.
My lovely Mum has had a couple of days where she has not been doing as well as we had hoped, so that is upsetting, and I feel really low.
Still, my back is much better.
Other news: The new light I bought for the sitting room is a piece of crap, and looks awful. That was twenty quid well spent then.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Grumpy
Well, I have had a rubbishy couple of days, feeling sorry for myself with a nasty stomach upset. Couldn't have gone down with it last week, when I couldn't get to work anyway. Oh no, had to wait till this week when I was supposed to be in London doing lots of meetings.
I think I am over the worst of it but the last thing I want is to be on a train for 2 hours and suddenly realise that in fact, no, I am not over it at all.
Gah.
And it was pissing down with rain all yesterday. The snow shark is still there, but looking a bit sad and misshapen now.
But, today the sun is out. Hurrah. I feel less crap than I did, and things are looking up.
I think I am over the worst of it but the last thing I want is to be on a train for 2 hours and suddenly realise that in fact, no, I am not over it at all.
Gah.
And it was pissing down with rain all yesterday. The snow shark is still there, but looking a bit sad and misshapen now.
But, today the sun is out. Hurrah. I feel less crap than I did, and things are looking up.
Friday, 30 January 2009
Invisible
I am having the day off today because it's my birthday, and I want to enjoy doing stuff just for me.
In reality this means I will do all the washing, most of the ironing, clean the place and probably go and get the shopping.
Yay me.
Last night I realised with a sad shock that I am officially invisible now. I have reached the age where people don't notice me any more. It was all most disipiriting.
I was in the office till quarter to 7, because I wanted to get what I was doing finished, so I could take today off. So I got the 7:20pm train out of Waterloo, at least an hour later than usual, and thus saw a completely different commuting crowd.
I sat at a table, and was joined by a large elderly chap, a young lady with lots of bags, and a chap who, it transpired, knew two or three other people in the carriage. They all started chatting, I put my iPod in and settled down to read my book.
Now and again I would hear snippets of the conversation through my music, and the girl opposite me smiled at me in a friendly way whenever we made eye contact, but I was too tired to want to indulge in "strangers on a train" chat, so continued reading.
After what seemed a very long time indeed, the refreshment trolley arrived. I got my purse out to buy a bottle of water; there was much rummaging for wallets and so on from pretty much everyone else around me too. The chap next to me gestured expansively at the girl, and said "After you" so she asked for a glass of wine.
As she tried to hand over her money, he said "No, no, no!" and waved his own at the trolley attendant. "I insist! Let me buy you a drink! Put that away!" etcetera etcetera.
The chap opposite then asked for a beer, which the older chap made a song and dance about paying for as well. It was all rather awkward. The trolley attendant was very patient, getting the money eventually, after lots of jokes had been made about the lack of decent whisky on the train. How he must have laughed. Inside.
Once all the palaver had died down, I asked for a bottle of water, was given it, and paid for it, at which point the girl opposite me and the younger chap looked really embarrassed. The older chap continued bragging expansively at the other two, occasionally glaring at me if I moved, thus disturbing his huge flappity arms as they lolled into my half of the seat.
So. What do you think? Was I ignored because:
(a) He assumed I was a miserable grump who didn't deserve to be offered a drink along with all the other people at the table?
(b) He simply forgot to ask me, and possibly felt terrible all the rest of the way?
(c) He was making a point that those who didn't listen attentively to his endless anecdotes were therefore not in the "offered a drink" club?
(d) I am simply invisible now, being too old and raddled to be offered a drink?
Well, anyhoo, it's my birthday. I might make myself a cake in a bit.
In reality this means I will do all the washing, most of the ironing, clean the place and probably go and get the shopping.
Yay me.
Last night I realised with a sad shock that I am officially invisible now. I have reached the age where people don't notice me any more. It was all most disipiriting.
I was in the office till quarter to 7, because I wanted to get what I was doing finished, so I could take today off. So I got the 7:20pm train out of Waterloo, at least an hour later than usual, and thus saw a completely different commuting crowd.
I sat at a table, and was joined by a large elderly chap, a young lady with lots of bags, and a chap who, it transpired, knew two or three other people in the carriage. They all started chatting, I put my iPod in and settled down to read my book.
Now and again I would hear snippets of the conversation through my music, and the girl opposite me smiled at me in a friendly way whenever we made eye contact, but I was too tired to want to indulge in "strangers on a train" chat, so continued reading.
After what seemed a very long time indeed, the refreshment trolley arrived. I got my purse out to buy a bottle of water; there was much rummaging for wallets and so on from pretty much everyone else around me too. The chap next to me gestured expansively at the girl, and said "After you" so she asked for a glass of wine.
As she tried to hand over her money, he said "No, no, no!" and waved his own at the trolley attendant. "I insist! Let me buy you a drink! Put that away!" etcetera etcetera.
The chap opposite then asked for a beer, which the older chap made a song and dance about paying for as well. It was all rather awkward. The trolley attendant was very patient, getting the money eventually, after lots of jokes had been made about the lack of decent whisky on the train. How he must have laughed. Inside.
Once all the palaver had died down, I asked for a bottle of water, was given it, and paid for it, at which point the girl opposite me and the younger chap looked really embarrassed. The older chap continued bragging expansively at the other two, occasionally glaring at me if I moved, thus disturbing his huge flappity arms as they lolled into my half of the seat.
So. What do you think? Was I ignored because:
(a) He assumed I was a miserable grump who didn't deserve to be offered a drink along with all the other people at the table?
(b) He simply forgot to ask me, and possibly felt terrible all the rest of the way?
(c) He was making a point that those who didn't listen attentively to his endless anecdotes were therefore not in the "offered a drink" club?
(d) I am simply invisible now, being too old and raddled to be offered a drink?
Well, anyhoo, it's my birthday. I might make myself a cake in a bit.
Sunday, 9 November 2008
Bites
It sounds like the end of the world outside. Rain lashing against the windows, high winds, mysterious crashing noises from the garden, the wailing of the damned. Brrrrr.
And, just to make my day perfect, I have a cold. Bloody great. Was just about recovered from the bronchitis (bar the occasional lung-busting coughing fit) and now I am the vile Queen of the Snot People. Lovely.
Ah well, I can drag my weary carcass to London tomorrow and make everyone feel uneasy as I sniffle my way through the day. It's good to have plans.
Mr WithaY's kind mate who brought him home from Heathrow came round for lunch today, and showed us the rather fab DVD he is making with all the podcasts from the shark-tagging trip. I had assumed that they did all the tagging from inside a cage under the water.
No no no.
They were in a very small inflatable boat, jabbing at the sharks from above, as other members of the team dangled revolting bits of dead fish in the water, jerking them away from the shark just as it thought it was getting a nice mouthful. They have photos of one of these small boats with a huge hole bitten in the side, after one of the Great White Sharks decided she had had enough of this treatment. Gah.
I'm very glad I had no idea that was all going on.
So. Time for a bite (heh) of supper and then an early night, and then tomorrow a long day up to the Smoke. But Mr WithaY is home, so at least I won't be coming home to a cold*, dark, empty house, to eat my meagre supper of bread and scrape** and cry myself to sleep***.
*Well, warm, but you know, dramtic license
**Fresh pasta and ice cream, but not in the same bowl
***Watch Futurama DVDs and then have a nice bath
And, just to make my day perfect, I have a cold. Bloody great. Was just about recovered from the bronchitis (bar the occasional lung-busting coughing fit) and now I am the vile Queen of the Snot People. Lovely.
Ah well, I can drag my weary carcass to London tomorrow and make everyone feel uneasy as I sniffle my way through the day. It's good to have plans.
Mr WithaY's kind mate who brought him home from Heathrow came round for lunch today, and showed us the rather fab DVD he is making with all the podcasts from the shark-tagging trip. I had assumed that they did all the tagging from inside a cage under the water.
No no no.
They were in a very small inflatable boat, jabbing at the sharks from above, as other members of the team dangled revolting bits of dead fish in the water, jerking them away from the shark just as it thought it was getting a nice mouthful. They have photos of one of these small boats with a huge hole bitten in the side, after one of the Great White Sharks decided she had had enough of this treatment. Gah.
I'm very glad I had no idea that was all going on.
So. Time for a bite (heh) of supper and then an early night, and then tomorrow a long day up to the Smoke. But Mr WithaY is home, so at least I won't be coming home to a cold*, dark, empty house, to eat my meagre supper of bread and scrape** and cry myself to sleep***.
*Well, warm, but you know, dramtic license
**Fresh pasta and ice cream, but not in the same bowl
***Watch Futurama DVDs and then have a nice bath
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
Slippery customer
Picture the scene. A large lady of a certain age* is resting on a satin chaise longue**, reading an improving book*** and nibbling on candied fruits****. From time to time she coughs delicately***** into a fine lace handkerchief.
Her beloved spouse returns to the family home, flushed with the success of his latest garnering mission.
"Hello darling" he says, cheerfully, bending to kiss his radient wife gently on the cheek.
"Hello darling," she replies. "Did you find what you needed at Mole Valley Farmers? I know you wanted to examine their range of excellent solid fuel stoves and fireplaces." We talk like that in the WithaY household.
"Oh yes," he replies. "But look what else I got!"
What does one say? No etiquette book I've ever read covers this eventuality.
The man is away at the weekend for a 3 week trip in a boat off the coast of Mexico, tagging huge fuck-off sharks. With a load of divers. And he comes home from Mole Valley Farmers with a litre of lambing lube.
For his wetsuit, I now know.
Well, I had to ask.
*42
**red sofa
***Terry Pratchett
****digestive biscuits
*****makes noises like a cat bringing up a furball
Her beloved spouse returns to the family home, flushed with the success of his latest garnering mission.
"Hello darling" he says, cheerfully, bending to kiss his radient wife gently on the cheek.
"Hello darling," she replies. "Did you find what you needed at Mole Valley Farmers? I know you wanted to examine their range of excellent solid fuel stoves and fireplaces." We talk like that in the WithaY household.
"Oh yes," he replies. "But look what else I got!"
What does one say? No etiquette book I've ever read covers this eventuality.
The man is away at the weekend for a 3 week trip in a boat off the coast of Mexico, tagging huge fuck-off sharks. With a load of divers. And he comes home from Mole Valley Farmers with a litre of lambing lube.
For his wetsuit, I now know.
Well, I had to ask.
*42
**red sofa
***Terry Pratchett
****digestive biscuits
*****makes noises like a cat bringing up a furball
Sunday, 12 October 2008
Whinging
Lordy I am tired of being ill. I still have bronchitis, I am still coughing like Old Man Steptoe and I am still on a ton of drugs. Gah.
No news, no exciting events, nothing of any note other than more bloody whinging about being ill, which everyone is sick of. Especially me.
The single activity this week to take me out of the village consisted of driving to the railway station and buying my season ticket. I got about halfway before I had to pull over because I was coughing so much I thought I might explode my eyeballs out of my head.*
Have done a bit of ironing, a bit of laundry, a bit of cleaning, all in short bursts because I can't bloody BREATHE.
Gah. And Pah.
*I didn't, but it was close
No news, no exciting events, nothing of any note other than more bloody whinging about being ill, which everyone is sick of. Especially me.
The single activity this week to take me out of the village consisted of driving to the railway station and buying my season ticket. I got about halfway before I had to pull over because I was coughing so much I thought I might explode my eyeballs out of my head.*
Have done a bit of ironing, a bit of laundry, a bit of cleaning, all in short bursts because I can't bloody BREATHE.
Gah. And Pah.
*I didn't, but it was close
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
Chest update
Not what you think, probably.
I have been diagnised with acute bronchitis. Yay me! I'm cute!
I have a big box of extra strength antibiotics the size of marbles, which I have to take two (TWO! They're enormous!) twice a day.
Also, to add to my joy, I have a box of steroid pills, which I have to take six of once a day.
I read the enclosed leaflet.
Side effects include vomiting, psychosis and "hairyness". Reminds me, I must watch "An American Werewolf in London" again sometime.
I have been signed off work for "up to" 10 days but I think I will see how I feel after the end of this week and then decide whether to go in or not early next week.
I'd sigh deeply but it would make me cough.
I have been diagnised with acute bronchitis. Yay me! I'm cute!
I have a big box of extra strength antibiotics the size of marbles, which I have to take two (TWO! They're enormous!) twice a day.
Also, to add to my joy, I have a box of steroid pills, which I have to take six of once a day.
I read the enclosed leaflet.
Side effects include vomiting, psychosis and "hairyness". Reminds me, I must watch "An American Werewolf in London" again sometime.
I have been signed off work for "up to" 10 days but I think I will see how I feel after the end of this week and then decide whether to go in or not early next week.
I'd sigh deeply but it would make me cough.
Hack III - The Revenge
So. Absolutely nothing of any interest has happened to me in the last few days. Mainly because I have been spending my time alternating between:
1) Coughing until the top of my head feels like it is coming off and my lungs will shortly be appearing out of my nose.
2) Trying not to cough, then remembering that I am supposed to in order to expel the goo demons inhabiting my lungs.
3) Taking antibiotics. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. They've prescribed me the ones they give to people who have been exposed to Anthrax. Which makes me feel a bit special and Secret Agent-y.
4) Drinking water. It says I have to on my Anthrax-b-Gone pill packet.
5) Crying like a big girl. This mostly happens at night when I am exhausted and unable to sleep because of activities (1) and (2). I am currently exiled to the spare room, so that Mr WithaY can get some sleep and doesn't try to kill me in the night after I keep him awake with activities (1), (2) and (5). On the plus side, I get to wake up and do the "Where am I?" thing every day, looking adorably like Clara Bow.*.
6) Listening to my chest rattle. This is both gross and alarming but unavoidable when I lay down to begin my nightly cough/hack/weep/cough routine.
7) Phoning my new boss and trying to croak down the phone at him until he understands that his shiny new team member is both unreliable and a sickly old bat. He must be delighted.
8) Trying to read the huge scary heap of documents I brought home last week and realising I am so far out of my depth with my new job that I don't even know where to start.
9) Trying to get another appointment with the doctor** to see if I am improving or just sinking into a Romantic Poet stylee decline.
Still. Mustn't grumble.
*In my head
**2.30 today. Hurrah. They just called me back.
1) Coughing until the top of my head feels like it is coming off and my lungs will shortly be appearing out of my nose.
2) Trying not to cough, then remembering that I am supposed to in order to expel the goo demons inhabiting my lungs.
3) Taking antibiotics. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. They've prescribed me the ones they give to people who have been exposed to Anthrax. Which makes me feel a bit special and Secret Agent-y.
4) Drinking water. It says I have to on my Anthrax-b-Gone pill packet.
5) Crying like a big girl. This mostly happens at night when I am exhausted and unable to sleep because of activities (1) and (2). I am currently exiled to the spare room, so that Mr WithaY can get some sleep and doesn't try to kill me in the night after I keep him awake with activities (1), (2) and (5). On the plus side, I get to wake up and do the "Where am I?" thing every day, looking adorably like Clara Bow.*.
6) Listening to my chest rattle. This is both gross and alarming but unavoidable when I lay down to begin my nightly cough/hack/weep/cough routine.
7) Phoning my new boss and trying to croak down the phone at him until he understands that his shiny new team member is both unreliable and a sickly old bat. He must be delighted.
8) Trying to read the huge scary heap of documents I brought home last week and realising I am so far out of my depth with my new job that I don't even know where to start.
9) Trying to get another appointment with the doctor** to see if I am improving or just sinking into a Romantic Poet stylee decline.
Still. Mustn't grumble.
*In my head
**2.30 today. Hurrah. They just called me back.
Saturday, 4 October 2008
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
Hack
I have a chest infection.
Marvellous.
I went to the doctor today as I have been coughing more and more since Saturday. He listened to my chest, and said I was rattling. Ugh. I have a week's worth of antibiotics and some really horrible cough medicine.
One amusing thing. It wasn;t my usual doctor, and as he looked at my records on the computer, he seemed puzzled.
Doctor: Have you ever been much (pause) heavier than you are now?
Me: Um, no, I think this is about as fat as I've ever been*. Why do you ask?
Doctor: Well, according to your records, you weigh 245 Kg. How tall are you?
Me: Five foot ten.
Doctor: That gives you a body mass index of about 75. (Looks at me again) Hmm, that can't be right.
He then insisted on weighing me, just to make sure I didn't in fact weigh as much as a small bus.
So. Even a trained medical professional had to check that I am not quite so huge that walls would need to be demolished to get me out of his office. Gah.
*Thanks for asking you git
Marvellous.
I went to the doctor today as I have been coughing more and more since Saturday. He listened to my chest, and said I was rattling. Ugh. I have a week's worth of antibiotics and some really horrible cough medicine.
One amusing thing. It wasn;t my usual doctor, and as he looked at my records on the computer, he seemed puzzled.
Doctor: Have you ever been much (pause) heavier than you are now?
Me: Um, no, I think this is about as fat as I've ever been*. Why do you ask?
Doctor: Well, according to your records, you weigh 245 Kg. How tall are you?
Me: Five foot ten.
Doctor: That gives you a body mass index of about 75. (Looks at me again) Hmm, that can't be right.
He then insisted on weighing me, just to make sure I didn't in fact weigh as much as a small bus.
So. Even a trained medical professional had to check that I am not quite so huge that walls would need to be demolished to get me out of his office. Gah.
*Thanks for asking you git
Sunday, 7 September 2008
Black Dog
Apart from spending much of Friday night, Saturday night and early Sunday morning having a hideous stomach upset, things have been quiet. Just as well, really, all thing considered.
I still feel shaky and sore, but that might be because I haven't eaten much over the last 48 hours.
Well, apart from the large Moroccan meal we had on Saturday night when our mates came over for dinner. They brought their lovely dog, who was perfectly behaved and a delight to have in the house.
She (the dog) spent the evening lying on the sitting room carpet in front of the fire, wagging her tail and rolling over to have her tummy rubbed.
I think I might try that myself.
Other news: Tomorrow will be interesting, my boss is back from her holiday and will find out that I have accepted that other job. A mate told me today that the commute will either get me really fit or kill me. I hope it's the "fit" option.
I still feel shaky and sore, but that might be because I haven't eaten much over the last 48 hours.
Well, apart from the large Moroccan meal we had on Saturday night when our mates came over for dinner. They brought their lovely dog, who was perfectly behaved and a delight to have in the house.
She (the dog) spent the evening lying on the sitting room carpet in front of the fire, wagging her tail and rolling over to have her tummy rubbed.
I think I might try that myself.
Other news: Tomorrow will be interesting, my boss is back from her holiday and will find out that I have accepted that other job. A mate told me today that the commute will either get me really fit or kill me. I hope it's the "fit" option.
Thursday, 17 July 2008
Inner Dolphins
In a vain attempt to revive my flagging good nature by flooding it with inner dolphins, I went to the gym after work. Bloody hell it was hard.
Also meant I didn't get home till 7pm which is quite late for me.
As I pulled into the drive, Mr WithaY was scampering towards the gate clutching his longbow and a quiver of arrows.
Oh how I wish I was kidding.
He stopped and waited till I got out of the car, and then explained "I'm off to next door's! They've got archery targets in their field!" It was said in the same tone of voice as an excited child might tell you that they are going fishing for tadpoles.
So, off he went to do some archery for a bit while I had some supper and watched repeats of Friends on TV to try and unwind after a frankly crap day in the office. We both had a very nice time, thank you.
Other news: Bloody secret police have been out in force today trapping speeding motorists. I saw two unmarked police cars* in the same village, and then two police speed camera vans within about a three mile stretch of road on the way to work. Must be coming up to Wiltshire's Trapped Speeding Motorists quota time again.
*They had their top secret police lights flashing, which is how I knew what they were. In case you thought I might be psychic. Which I'm not.
Also meant I didn't get home till 7pm which is quite late for me.
As I pulled into the drive, Mr WithaY was scampering towards the gate clutching his longbow and a quiver of arrows.
Oh how I wish I was kidding.
He stopped and waited till I got out of the car, and then explained "I'm off to next door's! They've got archery targets in their field!" It was said in the same tone of voice as an excited child might tell you that they are going fishing for tadpoles.
So, off he went to do some archery for a bit while I had some supper and watched repeats of Friends on TV to try and unwind after a frankly crap day in the office. We both had a very nice time, thank you.
Other news: Bloody secret police have been out in force today trapping speeding motorists. I saw two unmarked police cars* in the same village, and then two police speed camera vans within about a three mile stretch of road on the way to work. Must be coming up to Wiltshire's Trapped Speeding Motorists quota time again.
*They had their top secret police lights flashing, which is how I knew what they were. In case you thought I might be psychic. Which I'm not.
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