I spy with my little eye...

I spy with my little eye, something beginning with C. Umm...got it. It's Cretin. Or, in this country, the plural: cretins. They are absolutely everywhere. Last week one of them nearly shoved me down a set of concrete steps because he was in a rush. He was passing me, and called me a silly cow. So I told him he was a fat, ignorant bastard. But - the fat, ignorant bastard was in too much of a hurry to do anything about it except glare at me. And I held up the crutch with the intent of slamming it into him if he even dared to try something.

That was the only confrontation I had since I last posted. And I didn't even use the F word. Not once. Well, good for me, I learned my lesson with the Neanderthal outside the hospital two weeks ago. Of course, I have called a few people inbeciles...but not fucking imbeciles, so that doesn't really count. I am watching my temper-discretion is the better part of being punched in the face, or stabbed in the chest. I quite like having my nose in the middle of my face-and I have gone through a lot of pain with this chest; in a few weeks I will have the final reconstruction, changing the current implants for permanent ones. I don't want anyone to screw that up (plus, being stabbed in the chest would be a little bit painful, I suspect).

I just keep reminding myself that many-perhaps most- of the current crop of idiots are descended from thieves, rapists, murderers and lunatics-and that is just the royal family-so what behavior can I reasonably expect from them? And what can you expect from (biological-maybe) males whose idea of a great night out is to go to the pub and drink themselves comatose, then go out and shag anything that is still moving: their sisters/mothers/daughters-anyone. No wonder there is so much inbreeding in this country. They say that Britain is where men are men-and the sheep are nervous. Just go out into the countryside; all the sheep stand with their backs to the wall and have their legs crossed. No wonder sheep go around in packs. But, since most of the men are probably the size of pinheads, the sheep are probably pretty safe anyway. Poor sheep. Glad I'm a vegetarian. I'll bet that at Christmas even the turkeys aren't safe.

I also keep reminding myself that the average IQ in this country is 80-but I think it's more like 40. And my friends (yes, I do have British friends-but they don't know about this blog, or I would have been beaten up by now) are either the exceptions, or the braindeads are in the minority. It does feel like a very large minority- and I hope it isn't the majority.

I still believe that the majority of people in this country are decent, polite (ish), and reasonably kind. But I also believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, so what do I know? Oh, yes- and I believe that the television works because it has little people running around in it. And the Brits say that we Americans don't have a sense of humor (or irony).

I've done all the things I was supposed to do since I last posted-except go to the gym. I struggled. For some strange reason I woke up one morning with severe pain in my left leg-and I do mean severe. I could barely walk, and I tried to find out why-with no success. So I thought about the symptoms (easy: pain, pain and more pain), and I hobbled around and decided that I didn't break anything, or I wouldn't be able to walk at all. So I consulted the Great God Google-I went to some of the education sites (like the National Institute of Health). On a hunch I checked out the vitamins I'm taking. I know that Tamoxifen has side effects (because I've experienced them over the last two and a half years). But vitamins? Could it be possible?

I am-or, rather, I was-of the school of thought that maintains that if a little is good, a lot is probably better. So, instead of taking a little vitamin D3 I took a lot. By a lot I mean 10,000 units a day (rather than a more normal dose of, say, 2000). Vitamin D isn't water soluble, and remains in the liver-and too much can cause all kinds of problems (including muscle, joint and nerve pain). Oh, bugger (and there is another pound for the swear box).

I did this research last Monday, and stopped taking the D3 just to see if stopping would have any effect. I didn't do anything else, really. I mostly rested my leg when I didn't have to walk. And today the pain is beginning to subside. So that's another lesson learned the hard way (for me, what other way is there?).

We just got through another Valentine's Day, and I feel like I need to mention that, because I'm sure a lot of women are flying solo, just like me. I'm happily divorced, and the longer I stay solo the more I realize that I no longer have to live with someone snoring in my ear, or nicking the duvet-or leaving the toilet seat up (yes, that is a pain-especially in the middle of the night, when I sometimes got up to go and got a nasty surprise). And I had to contend with his mother, who hated that he had married an American in the first place. She once told me that English women darn their husbands socks when they have holes in them. I turned around and said that if he wants his socks mended-rather than buying new ones, like we Americans do, because we aren't stupid, he should sew them himself, since he isn't crippled. That didn't go over too well-but I let her know that I couldn't care less what she thought. That is how to handle the mother-in-law from Hell.

Did you know that numerous studies have shown that married men live longer-and so do single women? Now there is something to ponder!

Punxsutawney Phil to the rescue

Yesterday was Groundhog Day-and I was really looking forward to it. The tradition, the rituals-they're so much fun, and at the moment, all across America, we all need a bit of fun. Here in this country, though, people can't understand what the fuss is about.

So yesterday I was in yet another confrontation with a local moron. I was talking to an acquaintance over a coffee,when someone she knew decided to push in and demand to know why Americans make such a fuss over a pig. So I said that if she thinks that a groundhog is a pig, she has as much intelligence as she has manners:none. But she kept going, really nasty, and said that nobody in this country would worship a rodent. I thought: thank you, God, for this perfect opportunity...so I shot back that the braindead Brits worship rodents in the form of scroungers and parasites - ie, the royal family. They live off other people, I said. Aren't you incredibly cretinous to even give them the time of day? I asked. I thought she was going to have an aneurism. She turned beet red, and I said that if she was going to be so obnoxious and so obviously ignorant and uneducated ( like the rest of the population, I said), she should keep her idiocy to herself and go and interrupt someone else.

So that was yesterday- and it's another confrontation I didn't want to have, since the last one (last Friday) nearly got me beaten up. Sometimes I am just too aggressive for my own good.

And Monday was -get this- National Sickie Day. And these idiots call us stupid? Well, it seems to be the day when more workers call in sick than any other day in the year. I don't know who makes these things up, but I found it really hilarious. Apparently, the number one excuse for not going into work is a sick child-only good if you have small children, obviously. It gets a little dodgy when you have children in their 20s. And the number two excuse is having to go to a funeral.

I can relate to that excuse. When I was working and I didn't feel like going in, I killed off my grandmother and said I had to go to her funeral. I didn't feel badly, because she was already dead-so I decided that she wouldn't mind. This, of course, only works twice (unless you're a Mormon). I also killed off my grandfather, my parents, siblings - I killed off my entire family. Several times. No wonder they're not speaking to me.

I had several weeks of running to the hospitals for various tests. Every day was something else: I've been magnetized (again), bled, poked, prodded-I think that if I had stopped moving for more than a few minutes, someone would have been ready to dissect me. As far as all the scans were concerned, if you stood next to me you were in danger of never being able to have children.

On Friday I went for my very last scan (for now, at least)-which turned out to be absolutely normal. But before that I had to go to the bank; as I turned the corner, minding my own business, some Neanderthal came up and tried to push me out of his way. He could have gone around me-there was plenty of space-but no, he decided that he wanted to move me. So he pushed. This was the third time this happened on Friday, and I turned around and said (in a normal voice, I don't shout): are you blind? What the fuck do you think you're doing? Now-I do swear, but I don't swear outside my house (unless it is very, very quietly). But I just let this asshole have it. And he started to scream at me at top volume. Now, this imbecile had to be at least six feet tall, and quite big, and he started to scream at me for swearing. Then he said he didn't see the stick-did I think he was a horse (or, as he said, because these plonkers don't speak decent English) "an 'orse"-so I said maybe the back end. By this time he was screaming, and I calmly said that he could have seen me, he pushed me deliberately, and that he is clearly a braindead Neanderthal with no manners whatsoever-and a nutter for screaming at the top of his lungs, because I'm not deaf. Then he screamed that I am an old lady, and that all old people should be shot. I then snapped at him and called him a blind imbecile with a tiny little willy and a face like a baboon. He looked like he was going to take a swing at me-so I said you've got everyone's attention inside the bank (there was a long line inside and the door was open), show us what you've got so we can all have a good laugh on a Friday. He turned and stormed away, still calling me an old lady and saying a few choice words (not so) under his breath.

This was not my finest hour. I know I should button it, but I just got fed up with these useless cretins pushing- they do look, but they push anyway. Maybe they think I can just sprout wings and fly so that they don't have to move. There are times when I don't even want to leave the house-and that is ridiculous, because then I am allowing the local braindead Neanderthals to make my life a misery. But this has been going on for a very long time.

The last thing I want to do is get in the habit of swearing at people-it only reduces me to their level, and that is pretty low, considering that they are bottom feeding, scum sucking reptiles (yes, I called him that, too). But I can walk out of my house and go in any direction, and find foul-mouthed, shrieking harpies, This is London, and they are everywhere (this is England, and they are everywhere). I must stop myself from cranking it up a few notches and becoming one of them.

So what did I do at the weekend? Well, I discovered during all my consultants' appointments last week that all the tests were negative. Every system is functioning perfectly-I only have some mild lung damage (called bronchiectasis, if you are an anorak, as I am). Every other organ system is absolutely fine. That was such great news I wanted to celebrate-so I called home, and told all my friends the good news. This means that everything I was told by the alarmist, vicious incompetent Matt Buckland was a lie. As if I didn't know that already.

Then Friday happened, and I went back to my little shoebox and stayed there. I walked very early in the morning, went to the gym when it opened at 7am, did only what I had to do-and then sat. I was so demoralized that I just sat. I did clean my kitchen, but not until Monday. I just sat. At one point, I decided that my life is just a huge cosmic pile of stinking shit. But that feeling of hopelessness and depression didn't last long. I changed my mind.

The whole depression/hopelessness/misery attitude stayed with me from Friday to yesterday afternoon.  I picked myself up and cheered myself up when I realized that it was Groundhog Day-and that is about tradition, about ritual, about celebrations and partying. Who cares if poor old Phil gets it wrong more often than he gets it right? So do I. I just hope that, having dragged the terrified groundhog out of its burrow to be met by the world's press and then tormented and verbally abused, someone gave Phil lots of treats, fed him, gave him a cuddle. I wonder: how do you know whether Phil is male or female? Just wondering...

I'm back to normal now, and taking myself to see Spotlight, which should be a great film. I couldn't go to the movies two years ago; even last year it was difficult, because I would stand up as the lights came up and come close to falling over. I'm still getting better. Despite all the odds-the infections, the surgeries, all that-I'm still getting better.

What I need isn't a bag of Kettle Chips (although that would be nice). What I need is an attitude adjustment. I can't allow these imbeciles to change me into a harridan, someone who hates everyone. I need to put things into perspective. Since nearly all the hospital appointments are finished, I will have plenty of time to do that. Although...the last time I decided to change my attitude I discovered that I had cancer. So maybe I'd be better off making these plans silently!