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.