Let’s have a catch up shall we?
Tilly is still in Venice. She must be having a good time, because we have heard very little from her and nobody has called us to say that she has contracted cholera from falling in a canal. Yesterday she did send us a photograph of a huge egg with a face on it, captioned: ‘This is the president of Finland.’ We’re taking this as a positive sign.
Oscar is up to his eyeballs in Shakespeare. He won the part of Laertes in the Shakespeare for Schools audition and is performing at Leicester’s swanky, Curve theatre on Friday. We are all (except Tilly, who is still holed up with Finnish eggs) going to see him tomorrow. Dress rehearsal was yesterday. We asked him if it went well. ‘It was good except that Louis (who is Hamlet) moved too far up stage when I had to kill him and I couldn’t reach him with my sword.’ Hopefully this small detail will be ironed out by Friday.
Tallulah was supposed to be going to see Paddington II with her best friend this evening at the cinema. There was much waily, waily when it transpired that Bea is poorly and can no longer go. I quite fancied going to see it myself, so solely in the spirit of philanthropy I said, ‘I could take you instead.’ The look of sheer horror on her face was instant, and followed swiftly by ‘No thanks, Mamaloo (I hate that nickname for me. I thought Mooma was bad), I’d rather just not go.’ This was followed by an apology when she realised quite how terrible it sounded. I care not. I think it’s quite healthy for children to be horrified by their parents. If they weren’t, they’d never leave home, and as much as it distresses me when they do leave home (see my last post), I also want them to go eventually.
Health wise I have had a few ups and downs. I still wait, like patience on a monument, for my endocrinology appointment. There are rumours that it may be on 12th December. I am not holding my breath. I have had a couple of ‘normal’ days over the last week or two. These are followed by days of being as tired as a tired thing, because my energy is finite at the moment, and I have to be careful how I spend it. It’s a bit like hangovers. Now, if I drink to excess on one evening, I pay the price for three days afterwards. That.
After a few days of normal sleep, my insomnia has returned, which is clearly not helping the tiredness. The hot flushes have been receding for the most part, although last night they were terrible, so what sleep I did get was interrupted every hour by my need to drip about the bedroom shedding clothes.
I have not really mentioned this much on the blog, because frankly, there is only so much ill health one woman can witter on about, but for a few months now I have had a pinched sciatic nerve. It started when my joints decided they didn’t like the Decapeptyl drug I was on and went on strike. My hands were in a much worse state, so I limped on, ignoring the leg. It got worse with all the resting I had to do around my surgery, and despite stretching it and walking more during recovery, it has not really improved.
I can get about, but I do it with a fair amount of shouting ‘ooohyableeder,’ which is a very Leicester response to pain. Because Jason is not a native of these parts, he has found this quite annoying, and finally snapped this week, booking me in to see our friend, Peter, who is a physio. I went yesterday afternoon and spent what seemed like a decade, lying on his couch on my belly, while he thumped my buttocks. In between thumping, he would leave me to ‘go off’, and tell me to relax.
I am not very good at relaxing, particularly when someone is about to hove into view to wallop me on the arse, albeit in a therapeutic setting. It was exceedingly uncomfortable. I wriggled, and squirmed and lay there and tried to think soothing thoughts. Like so.
‘Breathe. Breathe. Slowly. In and out. That’s it…Bugger! Why did I put mascara on when I should have realised I’d be face down on a couch. Shit! I’ve got it all over the couch cover now. I bet I look like a panda. Breathe in, 1…2…3. Fuck! My bra underwire is really digging in now. Would anyone notice if I hopped off the couch, took it off and stuffed it in my bag? Of course, because you can’t hop off the couch, because your leg is in agony and you’d be mid bra removal and then Peter would come in to whack you on the buttocks, and you’d have to explain yourself. God! Why can’t I just RELAX? Argh. Think of beaches. No. You hate sand. Think of trees. I wonder if Oscar remembered his cloak for rehearsals. Ah fuck! Here comes Peter. This is going to hurt.’
Coupled with the desire to punch him because he kept prodding at my tender, hurty, bits, and the conflicting knowledge that punching your friend/physio is definitely bad karma. Plus the fact you’d have to roll over, probably piercing a lung with your errant underwire, and that would be karma right there, just for thinking about punching him.
Anyway. It was much looser when I left. It didn’t fall off in the car park, loose, for reference, but I could put my shoes on without screaming. So this was good. Last night though, I ached for England and when my hot flushes woke me, I limped, dripping around the bedroom shedding clothes. For the avoidance of doubt, it was not erotic.
To summarise. Yesterday, as I was lying on the couch, being pummelled like dough, Peter said to me:
‘Katy. Basically your arse is fabricating pain.’
My reply? ‘Peter. That is an apt metaphor for my life to date’.