It's Panic Saturday (ho ho ho)

Black Friday. Cyber Monday. Now Panic Saturday. It's the last weekend before Christmas, and that is why someone has chosen to call this a panic day: because it is the last chance to buy presents before the big day. And you should see the fighting!

This is more like fight club: people turn into savages. The prospect of buying anything, no matter how cheap and nasty it is -as long as it is on sale- seems to bring out everyone's inner Neanderthal. People punching each other over marked-down televisions (not expensive ones like Sony, but no name ones, like...? who??), women ripping dresses so that someone else won't be able to buy them, and, of course, the prize: I saw someone punch someone in the face over a pair of Uggs. Uggs!! These are supposed to be made in Australia (at least, originally), and they are probably called Uggs because that is Australian for ugly. Ugly. Yuck. Australia has gotten even with the Brits for all the people sent to Oz as a penalty. These things are - well, awful. Buy Uggs if you want to go outside and look like a Yeti. Bring out your inner Essex: everyone will see that you have absolutely no taste whatsoever. And people do battle over this crap? Ewww!

I'm just keeping my head down. I went to the Tate Modern the other day (I took my life in my hands and braved the idiots),and saw the Alexander Calder exhibition, which was excellent. I did my infusions at the hospital on Thursday, and now-hallef****ing lujah, I have a week off. No doctors. No tests. No hospitals. No nothing. I am a free woman. And I won't know what to do with myself, it has been so long since I have been free.

I've also started a swear box (would you believe). It's in pounds sterling, since that is the local currency-and a pound is worth somewhere around $1.50, so I am ripping myself off. But every time I use a four letter word (which I do a lot outside, as people practically knock me over because it takes a modicum of intelligence to look where they are walking), it's a pound in the box. As we get closer to Christmas, and tempers become more and more frayed out there, I will soon be trading my shoebox for a suitcase. At the current rate, by next Christmas I should be able to buy a trip to the Bahamas. Perhaps I'll just be able to buy the Bahamas.

I was cheered by the news that Britain has finally put an astronaut into space. Of course, the Russians and Americans did this nearly half a century ago...but the Brits are treating this like nobody else has ever been in space before (it's like the Olympics, where Britain came a distant and humiliating third place, and everyone was so busy slapping themselves on the back that I was surprised that the hospitals weren't filled with people who dislocated their shoulders).

I must say that I was pleased, though. After all, someone finally has the intelligence to become an astronaut. It just goes to show you: sperm banks and surrogacy really do work.

The other item that hit the news was Keith Richards-the ancient pop star is complaining about migrants coming to his village. When all the photos of those poor people hit the news, people in this country wanted to know why David Cameron (you remember him: the tool who is Prime Minister) didn't want to take what his European counterparts believed (and still believe) refused to take Britain's fair share of migrants to be resettled here. There was a huge outcry. And now, people (not just Keith Richards, but many others) are saying we should take the migrants, but don't put them in my village. We don't want them next door.

The unfairness of this position really rankles me. I would swear, but I save that for times when I have to deal with idiots outside-or when I fall over, which I am happy to say is a rare occurrence these days. Isn't it our responsibility-as a country that has so much-to care for those who have so little?

People say that I should write this blog about my progress after gentamicin (and cancer), and leave my political views out of it. But-I want everyone to know what it is like for an American to live here-not a rich pop star or actress, but just a working stiff, one of the worker bees who actually works (or, worked-up until gentamicin finished that possibility forever).

Everything that happens outside affects everything that happens in here - it's a vestibular thing. I get upset, or I don't sleep well, or I'm overtired, or the weather changes, or I don't eat well or drink enough water-all these things affect my balance (and my ability to get more back). And nothing winds me up more than idiocy-except, perhaps, injustice.

I just keep my head down, and I keep resolving to keep my mouth shut-but you know that isn't going to happen in a hurry. Even Parliament is filled with punch-ups. Shall we leave the EU? Shall we stay? If we stay, why do we let Brussels dictate what we can and cannot do? And so on. The country is falling apart, the NHS is a mess, and the politicians-well, they're politicians. They couldn't even put on a nativity play-because they couldn't find three wise men. And there is a great deal of doubt as to whether any of the politicians have a penis and a brain. Many don't seem to have either.