That was the week that was...and wasn't

I haven't died yet. I have melted, wilted, and left puddles of sweat all over London-but I haven't died. Pretty good, I'd say-except for the sweat.

This is the first time since I started this blog that I have taken so long to write-I've missed it, too. But the last 11 or 12 days have been a bit tough. And I seem to have developed the British disease-not the rude, obnoxious braindead stuff, thank goodness, but the irresistible need to bang on constantly about the weather. It's always the weather-or football-everyone seems preoccupied with one or the other. Go figure. And everyone I know back home will laugh when I say that it has been a brutal two weeks, because it has been in the upper 80s-and 90s-and that is unheard of here. People can tell you when we had a real summer: 1976, way before I got here, and 2006 (very hot). I said to someone the other day that in 2025 everyone will be saying "do you remember the summer of 2013?". Funny. Boring, but funny.

Add to all this that I never tan. I stopped looking at people's chests-a good thing, because I'm not a perv, I just looked and felt a bit envious-but I have noticed people with huge boobs and huge stomachs-and that's just the men!! Some look like they have swallowed not only the football, but the whole team. It's amazing how sunlight and heat create creepiness...and I do not tan. I turn the color of beetroot, suffer (never in silence, are you kidding?), then peel...and then I revert back to being so pale that I look like I am ready for embalming. Ewww...there is no justice.

Well, I dropped myself in the pile of poo this week-in a big way. And, between the Tamoxifen's side effects and the heat, all I did was what was absolutely necessary: the doctors, the dentist, pre-admission tests at the orthopaedic hospital (I go in at the end of next week), and getting the house ready for my friend to have her holiday from cats, children and her family. She gets to clean and cook, but also to shop and go to museums. A good deal for both of us...

I dropped myself in it because I am indirectly responsible for Andy (the minister) sacking David (he of the let's do a mastectomy film and put it on YouTube) as pastoral associate. Apparently, David had guidelines he was supposed to follow-and he ignored them. Add to this the fact that, when he was visiting, he spent all his time telling me about his depression, suicidal tendencies, and bipolar disorder-for which he takes no medication. So Andy said, that is it, no more. I think he's right to sack the man (it was a voluntary job, unpaid) . Now David is threatening to sue Andy for defamation, and he tells me that I am responsible, and he is spreading the most incredibly nasty (and untrue) stories to anyone who will listen. I had the misfortune to take a call from David last week, and he was very threatening-I advised him (forcefully, I might add) to abandon his vicious and sick vendetta...but he won't do that. Instead, he wants his ten pints of blood. If he can't get Andy's-mine will do.

I think this experience has finally taught me about the value of setting boundaries. My ex-husband used to say that if there was one nutcase in all of London, he would find me (I did remind him that I married him, and that didn't go down very well...but I knew what he meant). Is it empathy? Sympathy? Compassion? Total stupidity? Perhaps a bit of all of the above.

Now I just shut up, and I don't offer sympathy to anyone. Just-shut up, keep my head down, and keep my radar topped up so that if I see a wacko I don't get tempted to be sympathetic. Instead, I will give in to the temptation to run a mile-in the opposite direction!!

There will always be people around who have lost their marbles. The trick is to recognize them-and to run like Hell!!!

Anyway, I'm back. I should probably invest in a mask...