Just like a bad case of food poisoning

I'm finally back online-and we're now into the 70s, as opposed to 100F and rising. For now. So I'm not sloshing everywhere. Yet.

Yesterday I stopped writing early so I could go to Starbucks-I really, really wanted a flat white, my weapon of choice (because carrying a gun is illegal-not that lots of people care, and carry them anyway).

I decided to go to see Baby Driver, which I thought would be a good film. It was, and the bonus for me was to hear the Simon and Garfunkel track at the end of the movie. Air conditioning? Seriously?

I advised you not to talk to anyone over here, and to be really cautious, because most (not all, but a lot) are braindead, rude, obnoxious, and threatening. Knife crimes are high, and people are now throwing acid  in people's faces and blinding them. Sick? Well, yes-a good reason to keep eyes averted (while you still have them) and mouth firmly shut. But me? You know better by now-and I live here, so I should know better. Ummm...

I walked out of the cinema, humming Baby Driver, and as I began to turn the corner, some imbecile decided to push past me on the crutch side-right next to the corner of the building. Now, wouldn't you see that someone is on a crutch, a bit wobbly, lifting the stick to turn left-and wouldn't you take a few seconds to let them turn before coming around them? Of course you would. That takes a functioning brain. And manners. Oh, no-this woman pushed me and tried to get around me, crashing into the crutch, tripping, and falling over. What a moron! I just looked at her-and she went off like a rocket. You tripped me! No, I said, you tripped over the crutch and nearly knocked me over. No, she said, I tripped you? Who fell over? I could see that she was mental-so I watched what I said, because the moron just wanted to fight. She then went on to say that I should remember what area I'm in (no shit. Wood Green, one of the really crap, crime ridden and dangerous areas of London), and that if she wasn't so nice she would hit me. I just looked at her-and said oh really - and walked away. I was waiting for a punch-or knife- in the back, but she was either just full of hot air or on drugs, or just a nutter. Lucky escape. I could have told her off-but I just kept my mouth shut. Mostly.

My ex used to say that if there was one crazy person within a fifty mile radius, that person would find me. He was from the northeast, my favourite part of the country-where they actually like (mostly) Americans, so I always thought I was pretty safe there. But-no, I seem to attract nutters wherever I go. They just turn up; they just keep coming back, they're really like a bad case of food poisoning: they don't want to go elsewhere.

I know: moan, moan, whinge, whinge, kvetch, kvetch. I have done so much of that over these seven years that I have bored myself rigid. So now I need to stop. Well-at least slow down-because dumping on the Brits is justified. And fun. And I had years of being on the receiving end, so now it's time to get my own back. There is truth to the saying: don't get mad, get even. Unless you're over here: then get very, very quiet.

My new neurologist, Dr N (I've used Dr A and Dr B so many times, I forgot which one was which), told me that I've had a huge setback, and that, considering all the surgeries, cancer, CVID, etc., I'm doing remarkably well. He said that I just need to keep walking, keep fighting (not other people, though) to improve, keep positive (not so easy!! I'm really beginning to prefer animals to people. I'm even beginning to prefer coffee to people), remember that it will take longer than it will for people who haven't had serious illnesses...he went on to say that he has many patients who have had vestibular destruction in only one ear, but they don't do one percent of what I've managed to do. They sit. I guess they sit and rot. I don't sit. I fall over, but I don't sit. And rotting? That's for vegetables. I'm not there yet.

I'm really lucky that I got a supportive vestibular specialist-in fact, I'm really lucky that, after so many years at that crap hospital (Royal London), I've got a really good team at the Royal Free. And-by the way-I discovered on Monday that I'm not imagining things when it comes to the implant.

I've sprung a leak. Yes, one implant is leaking, and that is why I'm in so much pain. I haven't done anything: haven't fallen on it, or knocked it, I've been really careful-but it's leaking. So both implants are being removed. I'm going to have this done at the end of August.

I will -once again - be completely flat. I will have a six pack chest. I will have a nice, flat space to put my laptop. And I was initially a little upset-but I also won't have pain. And I'm cancer free. So I'm not  so upset after all-although I did buy some really nice bras, and now I will have to stuff them full of -tissues? Kleenex. If I need a tissue, I'll know where to find it.

Sometimes life just sucks

All of us have a sucky day-or week-or, sadly, month- or, sometimes, year. Or seven in my case. Well, boo hoo. Moan, moan, whinge, whinge, kvetch, kvetch. You know how it goes. I haven't had a sucky life (yet), so I can consider myself very lucky.


I can bust a few myths, now that I'm cooled down and back at the computer. We had a blistering hot week last week, and right in the middle of it I had to go to central London to meet my new neurologist, the person who took over from Dr. D, who (sadly. Really sadly) retired. And it was the height of the heatwave, and temperatures soared to 100F. I can almost hear my friends in Florida, Pennsylvania, New York-and everywhere, saying "you call that a heatwave??". Well-it is for England. Railroad tracks and roads were buckling, it would have been entertaining, but in the absence of air conditioning-in the absence of air (period), it was just bloody hot. Is this what hell will feel like? Oops-well, yes, I nearly forgot where I am.


I sloshed my way into the hospital to find that they had only fans. So I had to race another patient (I was faster) to a seat immediately in front of a fan (the fan was about 12 feet away, behind a desk), where I proceeded to dry out. Anyone think a hot, sweaty, pissed off stranger is sexy? If so-you're really weird.


Who says that things happen in threes? I always heard that-but we've had four terrorist attacks in two months. There goes that myth, busted. And we know there will be more to come, because there is such a palaver about "human rights" and what is "PC" that people who probably should be watched closely aren't watched at all.


We've had a fire in a 24 story block of flats in one of the richest boroughs in London-yet there was only one way in, one way out, one staircase for 120 flats-and no working sprinkler system. It turns out that the cladding on the outside of the building was-flammable. Flammable! Incredible. And horrifying, because over six hundred tower blocks around the country are found to have the same unsafe cladding. Welcome to England, where incompetence reigns supreme and where poor people die.


Another myth is the myth of manners, intelligence and politeness in the UK. We all know about that bucket of fertilizer (aka sack of shit) because I've told you all the stories. I went to my Tai Chi class on Tuesday night and some beached whale in a pink tutu gave me grief about having an embow crutch. She clearly has an issue with crutches. Or women who don't wear lycra that is so tight they are in danger of bursting like an overstuffed sausage, probably asphyxiating anyone with fifty feet with all their flying fat. I admit I lost my temper, called her Jabba the Hut, and said that she should keep stuffing her face until she explodes. Then she hurled more abuse and I offered to go to reception and get someone to help her out by ordering a fork lift. That went down well...??


So here are some tips for survival over here:
1. Don't get engaged in conversation with anyone. You never know if they're armed. They probably are.
2. Never get involved in an argument with someone who is the size of Jabba the Hut-unless you are the size of Moby Dick, in which case drown them with something out of your blowhole.
3. Never get involved in a dispute with someone who clearly hasn't had a wash since-puberty. Not only will you have to suffer the stench, but you will be ducking anything they have that's crawling on them-and can probably jump. High. And far.


I'm going to Starbucks. I'll see you later. And there's more. Lots more...

Not dead yet-but back in the battle (again. Or still

I know it's been a month-and I'm still not dead, although I've felt like I'm stuck in the first circle of Hell. We've had two terrorist attacks in less than a month, and I've had a few dramas of my own.

I've been feeling severe dizziness for a couple of months-dizziness and nystagmus (meaning that my eyes don't focus properly and move around all on their own). That is all down to gentamicin, the gift that keeps on giving. So I've had a tough time blogging-in fact, I've had a tough time walking!

I did the hospital routine - mostly because I had to - and tried not to fall into traffic. I tried to get an earlier appointment with the Queen Square people, who are the go-to guys for vestibular destruction; they have no appointments until July, and no matter how much I called them and cajoled them, they just didn't seem interested. Very, very frustrating.

So that was me, no contact with anyone except by telephone. What on earth would we do without computers, emails, mobile phones? Have some peace and quiet, probably.

The day that I had an MRI was also the day that I heard about the Manchester bombing. I can tell you that I was really upset-not depressed, but angry. How dare these maniacs target children?How dare they target anyone? To be fair, the Mancunians really stepped up to help each other-but they won't return to normal for a long time, if ever.

Then we get another terrorist attack, this time in London-London Bridge and Borough Market are popular areas for tourists, for shopping, for dining out-and eight dead this time. I could not believe it- and we're on alert for another one, somewhere, some time. These nutters just never give up.

It's interesting to note that, looking at the photos of all the terrorists, they are incredibly ugly. No wonder they believe that they will end up with vestal virgins looking after them in Paradise-so they're stupid, too. Where they're going won't be Paradise-and any vestal virgin would look at them and run screaming for the exit. They've probably never been laid.

I borrowed a friend's old laptop to post this, since you might think I got either blown up, shot, or abducted by aliens. 

Nope-still here, and although this is taking three times longer than usual, I'm not giving up. People here are calling each other brave, and resilient, and refusing to give in to terrorists. Of course-cowering in fear only gives them more power. And I know more than a little about resilience, courage and the refusal to give in or quit. I know a lot about that; it's been seven years, and I'm still going. I'm like the Energizer bunny.

We've had another election-I think they all suck. Now we have a "hung Parliament"- you only have to look at all the male MPs to see that nobody is well hung.

Iceland is looking more attractive by the minute.