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Showing posts from July, 2017

My brave face...

Some of you are probably aware by now of the delightful arthritis which took up residence in my left foot several years ago.  This has been the reason why my bank manager no longer looks me in the eye if I happen to go into my local branch, as much money has been spent on various treatments, shoes, orthotics, gadgets, physio...the list is endless... over the last three years in particular.  Last year, I headed off to hospital for the day while they stuck a few injections of cortisone into my foot.  This was done under general anesthetic, because my consultant told me in no uncertain terms that 'it would bloody hurt'.
So I had 52 glorious days of pain free trotting about before it came back.  Finally getting back to see my consultant, he suggested that I have it done again, but this time under ultrasound guidance.  He said, and I quote, 'The pain is about the same as when you give blood'.  Well, that would be ok.  As a blood donor, I know that it can be a little uncomfor…

Love is in the air...

Did any of you watch Love Island?  Having three males in the house, there wasn't much choice as to whether I watched it or not, but having got over the repulsion of the perfect bodies on show, I quite enjoyed it in a very shallow kind of way.  Over the first few episodes, I would look at the girls and dream about when I once looked like that.  
Actually, I have never looked like that.  Even at my peak, I probably would have looked more like Marilyn Manson than Marilyn Monroe.  The thing is, the girls these days have a lot more 'aids' which they can call on to perfect their beauty.  We never had boob jobs, padded bras, fake fans, teeth whitening or permanent make-up (although there have been a couple of mascaras I've used over the years which were a little reluctant to shift).  What you saw was what you got back then.  These days, I'm sure that the Trade Descriptions Act could be quoted on many an occasion.   I can just picture some poor bloke saying, 'Well, I wa…

Out on the tiles...

Picture the scene if you will.  I am sitting in my lounge with my feet both tucked into my electronic foot massager (the latest gadget for my arthritic feet).  Reg has his head on my laptop, so I'm fine as long as I don't need to type any numbers.  My jeans are damp from the knee down having walked the dogs in the rain, finally ending up at the allotment to evict some weeds, which has left me with dirty fingernails.  My hair, never at its best when damp, has given up all hope of lying flat and looks like I have been plugged into the mains for an hour.
Thank goodness I was alone.
The husband never asks me what I have been doing in the afternoon when I finish work. He assumes that I come home, walk the dogs, do some pink jobs like ironing or getting a scorch mark out of a pair of white jeans (these belong to son number one and are rapidly becoming life's biggest challenge) and then flop down on the sofa with a cup of tea to write my blog.  He's not far wrong actually, but …

Cherry...

I took the husband to see Dunkirk on Wednesday night.  I have been waiting a solid week before finally getting round to see this, and to be honest, to say that I was excited is like saying that Lee Evans feels the warmth a little.
The husband was thrilled, as it meant that yet again, he could indulge his desire for a rum and raisin milkshake.  We parked the car and walked into the cinema.  Now I'm more than happy to walk through the main cinema doors, but the husband always has to go through the small side door which leads straight into the ice cream parlour.  It's almost like he can't cope with the extra ten metres and twelve seconds which he would lose by taking the longer route.
Anyway, through the side door he trotted, dragging yours truly behind him.  'Off you go to the loo then', he said gesturing to the Ladies in the foyer.
'Not sure I need to go', I said.
'Yes you do.  You had a cup of tea at 7.00, so if you don't go now, you'll need to go i…

Splish-splash...

Yesterday afternoon was spent with my great friend Mrs P and her beautiful Rottweiler, Neville.  Our dogs are good friends and when my two realise where we are heading, there is a mass free for all on the back seat as they vie for the first sighting of their big friend.

My two tend to look like a pair of those novelty slippers which do the rounds at Christmas when compared to the regal Neville.  You know the ones I mean.  The ones which last till about New Year, as by then you've fallen down the stairs twice and an ear/antler/nose/claw/eyeball has been chewed off by the dog.  As far as I am concerned, they are right up there with lavender scented padded hangers as far as Christmas presents go.

Anyway, we had a great walk, even though it was drizzling.  Both Mrs P and I agreed that it was that kind of rain where you felt like you weren't getting wet.  Until you stopped of course, at which point you felt like you'd been in a monsoon. But as I said to her, we're not biscu…

Keepin' it real...

I have been taken over by the male of the species in the house.  Both sons are now here, and coupled with the husband, who although very much in touch with his feminine side is most definitely male, and the two dogs, I am living in a blue world.
I have recently noticed that the tumble dryer seems to go on at inopportune times.  The boys have taken on board my request that it should not be used over the summer as it is so expensive, so choose instead to leave it running for an hour or two while I am at work, thinking that I'll never find out.  Stupid boys.  I'm a mum, and it's my job to know everything, even the things I rather I didn't.
They always make a schoolboy error because they leave their clothes in the tumble dryer, heated to temperatures of Amazonian extremes, the elastic on their pants almost liquid and their socks small enough to fit the dogs.  There's also the matter of the tropical rain storm which has hit the inside of the utility room window.  Dead giv…

Sleeping in...

The husband is in the doghouse yet again.
Let me explain.  Several years ago there was some discussion as to whose side of the bed the radio alarm should go on.  Historically it had always sat on my side as I was able to change the time on the alarm without searching half an hour for a pair of glasses,or resorting to looking like Jackie Chan as squinting was required if the glasses remained unfound.  
He suggested that it might be an idea to have it on his bedside table because I had a lamp, a kindle, my phone and various inhalers scattered across it.  (I am asthmatic, so they can never be more than an arm stretch away).  The husband's bedside table was bare, except for a tin which claimed to be 'Dad's Saving Up Fund for Tools'.  To date this remains empty except for several euros, three washers and a large bolt which I was too nervous to throw away in case it was important.  Anyway, he felt that he was quite capable of having the radio alarm on his side, so one Saturday…

Our house...

Saturday dawned with me being in my own bed rather than camping at daughter number two's bijoux flat.  
Now this should have been a moment for rejoicing, and would have been if the husband hadn't spent the last two nights having the complete bed to himself.  Waking up nose-to-nose with him, I realised that violence may be on the agenda if I wanted to coax him back over to his side of the bed.  Slowly bringing my left leg back, I gave him a swift kick on the shin.  I am assuming it was the shin, as the resulting yelp was quieter than it would have been had I aimed a little higher I think.
So, quickly feigning sleep, he grunted and grumbled and hoisted himself over to the left hand side of the bed, and went straight back to sleep.  I stretched out and dropped off too, but woke up again with the birds singing, and the husband snoring in my face.
'Oh dear God', I said, rather too loudly as it had the desired effect of getting him back over to his side, and giving a sigh, I th…

The hospital song...Part 2...

So, going on from yesterday, the trouble with doing my unexpected Florence Nightingale on daughter number two, was that I had come unprepared.  I had been expecting to be coming home on Wednesday evening having tucked her up into bed with a cup of tea. What I wasn't anticipating was that on Wednesday evening I would be washing my knickers in the sink and wondering whether daughter number two had anything suitable in her wardrobe which I could borrow to wear the next day.  
I came up with the grand idea of stretching my drawers across a clippy hanger and hanging them up at the bathroom window to dry overnight.  Goodness knows what my daughter's neighbours must have thought seeing the vast drawers flapping in the breeze. At my age, dental floss type knickers are no longer an option, and I'm more of a Harvest Festival Knicker wearer (all is safely gathered in).  So these glorious drawers flapped all night at the window, and obscured the streetlight so I didn't need to pull…

The hospital song....Part 1

Just as you're pottering along quite nicely, thankful that the stitched head, decapitated thumb and torn calf muscle are behind you, life throws you a curveball.  Not so much a curveball actually, more a cannon ball fired from ten metres by a sniper renowned for his 100% accuracy record.
This was the call I got from daughter number two on Wednesday afternoon.  I was on my way to see her after finding out that she'd spend several hours in A & E the night before. I was only going up to make sure that she was eating properly as it sounded like the treatment she' received at the hands of the NHS was more than adequate.
And then the mobile called in the car as I was halfway there.  Poor daughter number two. She was sobbing her heart out, and between the tears and the bouts of vomiting, I got the gist of what she was saying.
'I'm on my way sweetie', I said, putting my foot to the floor.  'Mummy's coming! Hold on!'
Well, I'm not the fastest of drivers …

Mirror, mirror...

You'll remember from yesterday that I have been asked to try these gorgeous face creams courtesy of a friend.  Now I am not expecting any miracles.  I'm sensible enough to know that the days of looking twenty five are way behind me (around twenty eight years behind me to be precise) so what I am looking for is to be able to look in the mirror, and say each morning, 'Well love, you look the best you can'.
So yesterday morning I tried the Carrot and Mango Cleansing Butter... It smelt delicious, and for a moment, I did ponder what it would be like on a lightly toasted bagel, but wisdom got the better of me, and I popped some on my raddled old mush and massaged it in.  Well I felt like a queen (a regal one, and not the Lily Savage kind).  Reluctantly wiping it off, it left my skin feeling really smooth (vastly different from the acid laden face wipes which strip several layers off my face each night - if I keep using these, I imagine that I'm going to resemble Skeletor i…

We go together...

Apologies for going on the missing list  yesterday.  This is what happens when the husband plies me with cider over a length of time.  Six hours to be precise.  By the time I got home, I was bang in the middle of the hangover I should have had on Monday morning, so as you can imagine, humour had taken a back seat.
Anyway, life (and my head) have returned to normal, so it's time to catch up.
Exciting news for me actually.  I have been approached by a lovely local girl, and asked to try out some gorgeous face creams, potions and lotions, with a view to telling you all how I feel about them. Now as we all know, I am a sucker for anything which promises miracles in the wrinkle department, and short of laying myself on the ironing board, I have tried just about everything to halt the wrinkles, jowls and lines which seem to be squatting on my face. (Definitely squatting, as they weren't invited that's for sure).
So over the next couple of weeks, I'll let you know how I'm ge…

Back together...

Me and the crutches have fallen out.
It's not been the best of relationships to be honest.  Over the past week, although they have been quite supportive, they have also given me blisters on both hands, and several nasty bruises around my upper arms where my skin has been pinched.  Actually, my arms look like I've had one of those tribal tattoos done, so there'll be no spaghetti straps for me for the next few days (just as well summer seems to have taken a well earned break, as I can get my cardies out again).
Yesterday was judgement day.  As you know, I was whittled down to one crutch last week, with instructions from the physio to 'put all my bodyweight onto the crutch rather than my foot'.  Easy for her to say.  I seem to have developed an interesting gait since Wednesday, leaning over to the left at a 45 degree angle and looking like I've had one too many sherberts if you know what I mean.  
So yesterday I was on my own in the house for the afternoon.  The male…

Baby driver...

On Wednesday, I suggested to the husband that we might go to the cinema at the weekend.
He gave me that look.  The one which asks:
Has it got foreign subtitles? Is it a slushy romance which might involve a heaving bosom? Does a dog get lost/get hurt/die in it? Will you be crying all the way through it? Does it involve two gay cowboys? (He's never recovered from Brokeback Mountain)
Well I surprised him with the trailer for Baby Driver, and he agreed that it looked like something he might enjoy at a push. Despicable Me 3 was his last choice, so you can see what I am dealing with here.  Barry Norman he isn't.
Now we are fairly spoilt around here, with a relative smorgasbord of cinemas to choose from. However, since going to see Despicable Me 3 a couple of weeks ago, all cinemas bar one have been scrapped as far as he is concerned. Why is this?  Well firstly this particular cinema does his favourite rum and raisin ice cream, so when we went to order, the girl behind the counter asked whet…

Tumble and fall...

So it was back to the physiotherapist yesterday to see whether all the sitting around I'd done had worked.
Now my physio operates out of a small prefab at the top of a hill, and there are three parking spaces there.  This wasn't an issue when son number two drove me there on Monday, as he merely slowed the car down to a crawl and pushed me out of the passenger door.  However, yesterday I drove myself there, and on getting to the carpark, it was obvious that there were no spaces, even for my Mini. Reversing back out onto the road, I drove down the hill into town, where I drove around two car parks before finding a space where I could leave myself enough room for me and the crutches to get out.  
I now had to climb the steep hill to get to the physio.  On crutches.  Now I have navigated this hill on many occasions, usually with a squiffy husband or sister in tow, but doing it on crutches took it to another level. Gravity was not on my side, and I had to throw everything forward to…

In my secret life...

I'm starting to like my crutches.  Here's what I achieved yesterday...
Tea in bed (I can't carry my mug further than the microwave, and even that involves an element of sliding it across the work top in a 'Set 'em up Joe', sort of way.
Dogs walked by the husband - in the pouring rain while I was drinking my tea.  This was excellent, as it meant that I wouldn't have to do a rescue job on my hair before work.  
Ironing board and iron were set up, hangers retrieved from bedrooms and hanging rail brought in to kitchen.  Son number two also put the bar stool there so I could sit and iron. Perched on it like a slightly overweight budgie, I managed to do at least half of the ironing.  And the best bit?  I left it all there for one of the males in the house to put away later.
At Binland, I had my mug washed and filled with glorious tea at least three times, by colleagues who have so many more important things to do than pander to my every need.   I then came home and go…

Walking back to happiness...

So 48 hours into crutch use, several things have become apparent.
Firstly my tea consumption has been slaughtered by around 90%.  This is because I can't make my own tea and carry it to my final destination.  Either I drink it by the kettle, which is not very relaxing, or I wait until some kind person utters those wonderful words, 'Fancy a cup of tea?'  Luckily, I am surrounded by kindly souls at work in Binland,who made me several cups of tea yesterday morning. Of course, it helps that my office door has to be passed en route to the kitchen, so I have taken to leaving the door open and doing a passable Darth Vader impersonation every time I hear footsteps heading my way.  There were many references to Peg Leg, Stumpy and Long John yesterday, but keep the tea coming, and I forgive them anything.
Coming home to an empty house yesterday afternoon, I was gasping for a cup of tea, and had to wait till the Bookkeeping Queen, Mrs B-T appeared.  Coming through the front door with a…