Not such a muggins after all...

I'm a day late in wishing everyone a happy St. Patrick's Day-late as usual, rather like that well known airline, Every Landing Always Late. But this time, I have a reasonably okay excuse: CBT, also known as Chinese Bad Tummy. Food poisoning. My friend and I decided to go for a Chinese, and that was fine, except that I completely forgot that there is a reason why I haven't been to this local place in over two years-and that was the reason! I won't elaborate: if you've ever had a bad meal out, you already know the consequences.

So, I hope that everyone got wasted, drunk and disorderly (if that's your thing, I hope you went for it), and as long as you didn't hurt yourself or anyone else-or topple into oncoming traffic, or catapult yourself out of a window, I don't see the harm in celebrating. The pubs around me were filled with people who were so paralytic they were gripping the walls, the floors, the bars, each other...it was great fun to watch, at least for as long as I could, under the circumstances!

I've been feeling like a real sucker for awhile; it isn't the first time I've been played, and it probably won't be the last, because I know what it feels like to have cancer and have no help or support (at least, in this country; my friends were very supportive, but they're all across the pond, which does a lot, but not when I need someone nearby).

I discovered - just before the food poisoning-that my neighbor does, indeed, have cancer, and it seems to have metastasized, because he was too afraid to go to get it checked out. This came from his neighbor, who is his closest friend-and, although I criticized him in my last post, it turns out that he is badly in debt, so he couldn't help out. Now Mr. X (yes, I know-another one) is in hospital awaiting surgery, my friend (the one who said I'm a muggins) has gotten rid of the stuff that Mr. X wanted to sell, I got some money back, and everyone's happy. Well-Mr. X can't be too happy, but at least he is being looked after. So things turned out okay (ish) in the end.

Things aren't so great at home, though. Apart from freak snow storms, Trump is still screwing up our country. Nobody shot him yet-unfortunately. What he needs is some Chinese food-laced with rat poison. Very appropriate, I'd say. But, of course, I am a pacifist...

Things are pretty much the same here. The Scottish government is battling Parliament, train drivers are striking, transport is a nightmare for people who spend thousands of pounds every year to commute to work, people are just killing each other for no good reason, and the NHS is in such bad shape that nobody knows how long it will be before the entire system collapses. It's the usual: SSDD (Same Shit, Different Day).

As for me, I'm keeping my head down and trying to avoid being caught in the crossfire. I was coming back from the hospital the other day, and two black women started screaming at some white guy, claiming that he called them the "n" word. They screamed obscenities and threats at top volume, and they were so far over the top that most of the rest of us (the bus was full, and there were a lot of young children on it, too) became very apprehensive. These two deranged nutters just kept screaming, and threatening. If they'd been sane, they would have taken it down a few dozen notches. But he said that he didn't call them anything, and they started cursing at him and at everyone else. If you'd heard them, you would have thought they'd escaped from some mental asylum. And they were looking around, trying to find allies in their abuse; the rest of us (wisely, I thought) didn't give them the satisfaction of engaging with them in any way. I thought there would be cheering when the two loonies left the bus-but no, we all just breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Why didn't the driver kick them off? Because they were clearly demented, and he wasn't going to risk his life getting involved. Too many innocent people have died for much less.

I felt badly about this for a couple of days-although I felt worse about my poor, sick guts-and I can't help but think that people like these two should be under sedation-and treatment. But the NHS is crippled, and slowly dying. A friend of mine called me the other day-I'd left him a message asking him about his wife, who was seriously ill with a malignant brain tumor-and updated me. He said that the chemotherapy worked, and she seems to be turning the corner, although they've now found a new tumor (but a smaller one). He said that he didn't think they would do another course of chemotherapy on her because of monetary constraints, but they will try radiation. I was shocked: no chemo because they're trying to save money?  Don't lives matter? Obviously not.

So there you have it: the update. Next week I have one hospital appointment, the following week I will (I hope!) be told that this motor neurone thing is a load of nonsense, and for the next few months (apart from the infusions, which will be for life), I am a free woman. Yikes! All that cleaning, I will be busy! And back to the gym.

I've had seven years of hell, and seven years of being what I call a "professional patient". I've spent more time in hospital clinics (most of it waiting to see someone) than I have doing anything else. Now I feel like I'm being paroled. Of course, that is usually when something bad happens-so maybe I'll just wait and see. Starbucks is calling.