Bad medicine...

In the famous words of Michael Caine in The Italian Job...'You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off'...

Such has been my life this past couple of weeks.  Let me give you an example.  I went to the doctor two weeks ago, looking for a cure for my crippling migraines.  All I was expecting was a prescription and some headache free mornings.  What I wasn't expecting was to turn into a foul mouthed harridan who became extremely aggressive to any poor soul who has happened to cross my path.

This week, this has included a local fox hunt (don't even get me started on that again, I've just about calmed down)  three ladies who were trying to coax me onto some march (I was on my way to breakfast, and nothing, but nothing gets between me and my waffles on a Saturday) and my internet (fully justified actually).

The doctor did as I hoped and scribbled out a prescription for a tablet which he felt should do the trick, but before handing it over to me, he said that he had to ask me some questions.  

'Are you pregnant?'

'Is there any chance you might be pregnant and not know about it?'

'Are you thinking of becoming pregnant in the near future?'

All of these questions were answered in the negative with a Roger Moore eyebrow to provided some added sarcasm.  

By Tuesday, I had realised that all was not well in the world of the Bird, and fed up of swearing like a Liverpudlian fish wife, I stopped taking the tablets and decided to take a look at the blurb re side effects.

Aaah....

Basically, fishwife mouth and loss of vision were the main contenders, along with headaches (unbelievable) and all of a sudden the hurting eyes and blurred faces on the television started to make sense.  Having had a couple of visits to the optician to make sure that there was no permanent damage (caught it just in time actually) my vision is almost back to normal.

So you can see why I was looking forward to a few days away with the much loved husband and woofers.  Three days in the New Forest was just what I needed.  On Friday, just as I was leaving Binland, having packed the Wobble Box the night before, a message appeared from the husband.

'Can't go.  In bed'.

And that dear reader, is where he still is having been diagnosed with an infection which has floored him.  The time away was cancelled and my weekend was spent in the company of all the films I can't watch with the husband in tow.

My doors were definitely blown off...