I am supposed to be in London right now. Daniel Kitson is doing a gig at the Battersea Arts Centre tonight and I have had tickets for months. I was supposed to be hanging out with Alex and Connor and Andrea, some of my favourite people in all the wide, wide world, seeing one of my most favourite performers in the wide, wide world.
Instead I am here, in my pyjamas, nursing a cold and having spent several hours this morning writing to the Parliamentary Ombudsman for Health, because the way that University Hospitals Leicester are choosing to treat my ongoing gynae issues is belittling, shaming and at times, downright fictitious. So that’s good news for women everywhere, and me in particular.
I don’t get colds very often. I don’t have time what with gynae excitement, menopausal misery and stress related exhaustion from carrying the woes of the world on my shoulders. It seems however, that as January is the month that keeps on giving, it decided to give me a streaming nose, sore ears and a throat and chest that have been lightly sanded but yet to have the final coat of varnish. I feel rather like I am carrying a small homunculus on my chest. It’s not a great look for me.
It’s also very sad that we have run out of biscuits and snacks, and were it not for the fact that I found an emergency panettone kicking about in a cupboard I would be pulling out my plumage, feather by feather. As it is, I have drunk 423 glasses of water and eaten quite a lot of Italian sponge cake, which is keeping me going.
According to my last blog I was about to go and see the head at Tallulah’s school to take her to task for their dick moves about her skirt. Luckily she seemed a really nice lady (she is new, poor woman), and she fully acknowledged the dickishness and apologised for it and suggested some things they could do to make sure that this does not happen again to Tallulah or any other girl at the school (I am not excluding boys. It’s just it’s an all girls’ school).
I was super impressed and managed to remain calm and equable at all times. We have various CAMHS meetings next week to make sure we have done everything we can to ensure that she’s being properly supported from now on. When the systems work, they are magnificent.
And I would like to point out that there is nothing more disarming, even when you’re in a frothing rage, than someone saying, ‘Yep. Sorry about that. We really buggered that up. Shall we look at how to fix it?’ Genuinely, it’s like magic. If only the hospitals could bring themselves to do it from time to time instead of passively aggressively saying sorry not sorry and implying that you are some kind of deluded harridan and it’s not their fault that your uterus fell out on their shoe.
Also Tallulah did well in her mocks, which considering what she is going through, is mightily impressive and means that were she to be firing on all cylinders she would probably own her own island somewhere and be running it with scary efficiency and a lot of aptitude. I’m warning you all in advance. It will happen.
I got home feeling tired but chipper that things were going well. Shortly after that I got a call from Bread (Tilly’s boyfriend) who was rather upset because he had a nasty rash and had just coughed up a load of blood. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he is on annual leave, which just proves what a massive pain in the hole January is.
Anyway, I saddled up my trusty steed, zoomed across town in rush hour, picked him up and zoomed all the way across town again to go to the only walk in centre that the CCG haven’t de-commissioned (only because it’s not in their area, otherwise I’m sure that would be but a distant memory too). We sat for two hours, which was not bad, considering, and then he got diagnosed with a chest infection and hand, foot and mouth disease. Hooray! I have put up the plague bunting and fumigated the curtains.
We went to the pharmacy, picked up his prescription and toiled across town again. We were starving hungry and stopped at MacDonalds’ whereupon it declined my card and Bread had to rescue me so we didn’t get mowed down by a group of angry customers furious with me for slowing up their ability to buy chicken nuggets. It was one of those moments where I nearly cried in public, but managed not to. Go me. Broken by my inability to buy a banana milkshake.
I dropped him off, stuffed down my dinner wrapped in my coat, sitting amongst the debris of Tilly’s house, and headed home. By the time I got in, it was half past ten and I allowed myself to properly cry all over everything, because really it was a bit much, all things considered.
In better news, I went to art class yesterday and did a painting I was really happy with, and spent two hours thinking about paint while nobody cried on me, asked me about medicine or sexual politics or made me look at a spreadsheet. Also there were no cats. So that was lovely. As was spending a couple of hours after class catching up with Kim over coffee, because I have not seen her properly since before Christmas and that was far too long.
By last night I was feeling super poorly. So poorly that I ended up watching Rick and Morty with Oscar. He was surprised at my interest until I told him that I had just sat down and hadn’t got the energy to get back up again. If I were a twelve year old boy I could totally see the allure of Rick and Morty, but as a 46 year old with a cold, there are too many poop jokes, and I say this as a woman who rates scatalogical humour quite highly.
Despite feeling deathly, I still managed to cook dinner, wash up, sort out the cats and drop Tallulah at her sleepover before I gave in to the lure of bed.
This morning I had to get up because the dishwasher chaps were coming. I cleared all the surfaces, sorted out more cats (I swear they are proliferating) and emptied all the cupboards they’d need access (the dishwasher men, not the cats. They need access to everything apparently) to before they arrived. I managed to do it because God love them, they were giving me a new dishwasher, and apart from my art class, it’s the best thing that’s happened this week. It’s not that I mind washing up. I’m not too posh to roll my sleeves up. It’s that I mind washing up what everyone else ‘forgets’ and I mind harder, re-washing what everyone else has supposedly already washed when I pick it up to put it away and find food welded to every surface. If I ever do run away to the Chattering Order of St Beryl’s, they will all die of botulism in a week.
Tilly has been today and her and Jason have emptied some more of her room and put some things that have been lurking on the landing in the loft, and taken some things that have been lurking in the loft, out. Jason bought a new printer and fitted it, and what with one thing and another it seems that things might be improving, bit by bit. Jason also has a plan regarding the damp in her room, and I am glad about that, but also not very interested in it. My question was ‘will my house fall down?’ When the answer was, ‘no’, I forgot to listen thereafter, but I am very grateful that I don’t have to think about it myself.
And now I’m going to drink my 424th glass of water and eat some more cake, because it’s good for what ails ya.