Maimed but not dead- Revenge of the senile vagina brigade?

The senile vaginas would probably call it karma. Of course they would. So it must be karma when all their bits shrivel up and fall off. Huh. Serves them right, too.

I was planning on giving Easter eggs, then writing to tell you about the mixed emails I got about vaginas. I don't really understand why the word vagina upsets people who are perfectly okay about the word fuck.Seriously?
I'm the one who took a poll of every woman I know-and a few men,too- about size. No wonder British men are so-well, British- with penises the size of gherkins and balls the size of chick peas. I wonder if someone would get all huffy if I said testicles? This being England, it's doubtful if they would know how to spell the word. Or what to do with them.

Enough about balls-especially since so few people have them.

Easter-and I was walking through the park with a friend of mine, discussing Brexit. As you do. We were on the pavement, it was mid-morning, bright and sunny-and some imbecile on a bicycle came up behind us, pushed me and knocked the crutch out of my hand, said a few nasty words and off he went, laughing. It was deliberate, there were no cameras anywhere, and really no way to identify the bastard. I hope he gets run over by a bus. Very un-Christian, but hey-seven hours in A&E, heavy blood loss, big gash from knee to ankle-and surgery the next day. Plus four weeks of antibiotics. So-happy Easter to me! I'm finally able to walk.

What the hell! It's been a tough few weeks. And my swear box is so full, I could fly to Australia. I spent a lot of time listening to the political disaster in Parliament-then shook my head and had to keep away from the news. Insane. Makes your teeth clench and your ears bleed. It all made me want to throw things.

So here we are at the end of a very unpleasant (for me, at least) couple of months. Time to move on. And past time to push myself out of the depression that hit me hard at Easter. It's history.

It was exactly six years since the cancer surgery. Some anniversary! But I saw the surgeon on Monday, and he reminded me. So you had six more years than you expected, he said. And when are you going to start living?

If that isn't a good swift kick in the ass, I don't what is.