Sliced and Diced, diced and sliced -- and re-boobed

I've got new boobs. Well-after nearly two weeks, I should say hello first. So-hello--and I've got new boobs. Was it worth all the pain? Was it worth the hospital stay from Hell? I'll tell you in six months, when all the swelling should (allegedly) go down.

It truly was the hospital stay from Hell. I decided that it was just so aggravating, trying to email, and blog-all on my phone, which just didn't want to cooperate. So I thought I would wait until I got back to my little shoebox home in North London-and I nearly didn't. Read on...

The surgery took place on Wednesday, the 26th. I was told I would be first on Mr. H's list; instead, I was last on the list. I wasn't taken to the operating theatre until after 6pm-and I was really nervous, since they started operating at 8:30 AM. So I wondered if they would be so rushed that they would screw it up, in a big hurry to finish-as if there was a taxi outside with the meter running. I mentioned that to the anesthetist, who reassured me that Mr. H and his colleague, Mr. S, have a lot of stamina and are well used to operating for many hours at a time. Of course: it's the NHS, like a conveyor belt, one operation after another after another. I was told that I should feel grateful, since many operations had to be cancelled due to lack of beds.

Ewww...I'd been fasting since before midnight the night before-and that was fine, because the food was so bad I didn't miss not eating. I thought it was really toxic waste on the plate. In fact, I wondered if I turned the lights out whether or not it would glow in the dark-or perhaps start moving. So, needless to say, I got friends to come and visit and bring food. Most of the patients on the ward did that; there was always the smell off pizza in the evenings. I have to say I was tempted.

I woke up in the recovery room-and I was terrified, because I was completely disoriented, and it reminded me of the way I felt after the gentamicin poisoning. I kept saying that I was disoriented-and it was clear that I was panicked. So a doctor came over to me and told me that it was a common reaction to the anesthesia, and that I would be fine in a couple of minutes. I remember saying that I couldn't be in Hell, because everyone was wearing white. Everyone laughed-and I asked for pain medication. I felt like someone had hit me in the chest with a speeding train.

So here is the short version of my two weeks in Hell. Mr. H. didn't come to see me either before or after the operation. I asked the registrar why-and she told me that consultant surgeons always send their registrars, unless there is a serious problem. They only stop by if the patient has private coverage-so, if I had either paid for the surgery myself or had an insurance company to pay for me, I would have had at least one visit by Mr. H. Welcome to the NHS-that doesn't feel very fair.

Some of the nurses would get my vote for Nurse Ratched of the year. They were that nasty-but then, I had a few things to say when some of them were not wearing gloves, or ignoring the directive to wear surgical gloves when dealing with the chest port. So, they weren't happy when I criticized their work-or, in some cases, non-work. In fact, there was only one nurse who was any good, and did things by the book-and actually seemed to care about her patients. She was great; I would not give the other ones the time of day-or the job. I couldn't help wonder why some of these people wanted to be nurses. They sucked.When I was told I was finished with the antibiotics last Monday night, and that I could go home on Tuesday, I wanted to do cartwheels down the hall. But-I couldn't lift anything, I couldn't raise my arms-and I've never been able to do a cartwheel. So much for that.

On Tuesday afternoon, the ambulance that had been booked to take me home was really, really late. They got it completely wrong, and I ended up sitting in the transport lounge, waiting for transport and making a real pain in the ass of myself. I kept getting up and asking where my drivers were. The guy at the counter kept shrugging his shoulders. Hmmm... and when the ambulance drivers finally arrived, they got lost.

Yes, that is what I said: they got lost. All they had to do was go straight, turn left, go up the hill, turn right and they would have been there. Bob's your uncle-except when he isn't. They took me on a tour of London that lasted 45 minutes (it should have taken ten- fifteen in traffic). I had this feeling that I might be in this ambulance for hours. When I finally got to the door, they blamed the GPS for giving them the wrong directions. It was the GPS-not stupidity. Right?

I stayed in on Wednesday, taking the Tramadol they gave me before I left. It didn't do a lot for the pain, and when I had to return to the hospital on Thursday for my infusions, I found myself crying in pain. Boo hoo. What can I say? I'm a crier. In fact, I was sobbing at one point. So I'm a sobber.

Friday, Saturday and yesterday I just hibernated. I told myself that I was having an existential crisis. Actually, I was just feeling very sorry for myself, and wondering why I put myself through not one, but two operations. What was I thinking?

I'm nearly at three years since the mastectomy-and three years since a very narrow escape. But, every time I looked in the mirror-when I forced myself to look at my chest in the mirror-I saw a sunken chest, prominent ribs, and a huge scar that ran from armpit to armpit. Every time I would try to wear some of my nice, skinny t-shirts I would notice-total flatness. They didn't fit. And all I could think when I looked in the mirror was: shit. I had cancer. I was lucky. I'm okay now. Only a lot flatter.

Would I recommend the surgery to anyone who just wanted to have bigger boobs? Hell, no. Screw the vanity, the pain just isn't worth it. As for reconstruction after cancer-I'll have to wait until the swelling goes down, everything is healed, and I have a good look at the end result. Then-I'll tell you!

I got really depressed after I left the hospital. There was so much pain. Apart from that, I'm not allowed to carry anything heavy for the next six weeks. Of course, I asked the registrar to define "heavy" (I'm such a pain). She said no lifting the vacuum cleaner, no stretching too far, don't do anything to mess up the work or I would have to have another operation to fix the damage. Yuck. So in six weeks I will have dust bunnies eight feet high. I'll need a mask and a flame thrower just to get into the apartment. Ewww.....So no cleaning floors, either. And now it will be two weeks since the surgery on Wednesday evening, I'm bored, my apartment will soon begin to grow all kinds of interesting (and probably unidentifiable) things...so I did laundry. And I was careful. I also walked for an hour. Boy-after more than a week of not walking anywhere, that was kind of difficult, but I knew I had to do it.

I did try to cheer myself up by thinking of funny things (I highly recommend that as part of getting yourself out of a depression). I thought about Mr. H, the surgeon, and the fact that he couldn't be bothered to at least stop in the room to see if I was still breathing. But he's the boob architect. He is the man people go to post-mastectomy for reconstruction. I wonder if he gets bored, seeing all those boobs, day in and day out. It isn't like anyone has anything spectacular. Once you've seen one, you've seen them all: different shapes and sizes, but a boob is a boob is a boob-unless maybe someone has two nipples on one side, or there is a nipple that resembles sprouting broccoli. Wouldn't that be different.

Then I thought about proctology. No idea why-I think that my annual colonoscopy is coming up over the summer, and, let me tell you, I don't know how anyone could ever like anal sex. I have had the hosepipe shoved up my ass, and I have been able to look at the inside of my intestines. So what? Nothing unusual, but bloody painful. And who would ever want to be a proctologist anyway? Some weirdo with a thing for assholes (and I mean that literally).

This random thinking had me smiling, and I'm feeling better. But - boobs? Proctologists?

Just saying...

Alas, poor Easter bunny...

I've never spent Easter weekend in the hospital before-so there's a first time for everything. And-surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. I've been freaking out all day, too. More surgery. Damn!

I was going to save my chocolate bunny for Easter Sunday, since I'll be stuck here. However, since I already bit off the bunny's head, I figured-what the hell, I decapitated him, so I might as well finish the job.

I highly recommend a Lindt's chocolate bunny if you're under stress (it was delicious).

My surgeon came to see me and have me sign release papers-just in case. I've seen that all before-so I signed, and after he left I snuck out to Starbucks. How convenient-it's just across the road. Had my Kettle Chips (last week), had my chocolate Easter bunny (I felt so guilty about biting off his head-I just had to eat the evidence), and I had my Starbucks (grande cappuccino, extra shot, lots of chocolate on top, if you're interested. Or not).

I'm good to go-and this is only the second time I've ever blogged from my phone. I'm becoming a true techno-geek.

I'll write again soon-possibly full of painkillers. I hope. Either that-or Jack Daniel's. One lives in hope.

Nearly at the finish line

I'm in the hospital-and there's no wifi, so I'm writing this on my phone. I got this little warning-the browser isn't supported, and weird things might happen. So if it suddenly turns into hieroglyphics-or repeats itself- I'm not having an Essex moment. Truly!

Last week I was getting everything ready for my admission-which suddenly happened on Wednesday.  My friend came down from the north- and thank goodness for that, because she's taken over my kitchen. This is a good thing, because most of the meals aren't things I recognize. I keep looking at the plate to see if things are moving-and I poke the stuff to see if it pokes back. So far-no. I don't know what I would do if something moved-probably whack it with my shoe.

It was one disaster after another: I raced to the hospital and was told I would have to wait four hours for a bed-then I was told to sit and wait in a corner-facing a wall. Well-you know I wasn't having any of that! So I had a frank and honest-and loud-discussion with the nurses, and twenty minutes later a bed magically appeared. There were bloody bandages in the bin in the bathroom-and it took a lot of complaints-and twenty four hours for the bin to be emptied. The room was dirty. But the bed was clean, so that was something. As far as I know, I haven't caught anything.

Medications were delayed, antibiotic infusions were screwed up-and I felt like screaming. Plus, I didn't expect to be in here until next week-so you can imagine how royally pissed off I am. I got so frustrated that today I didn't go outside to walk. I cried. Still-on Wednesday at this time-if it all goes according to plan-I will be back in the room and asking for morphine-or something strong. Or-they can just give me a bottle of Jack Daniel' and a straw. Whatever.

I did bring a Lindt's chocolate Easter bunny with me. I thought I'd wait until next week-since I might be here for Easter Sunday. I really like Lindt's chocolate-and the bunnies are all wrapped in gold colored paper, and have little bells around their necks (obviously I need to start getting out more).

So I looked at my bunny-and I bit his head off. Now I have a headless chocolate bunny-but he was delicious.

More later-if they don't kill me off, that is.

Tick Tock: it's the final countdown

Only ten days to surgery-and I don't know why I am so anxious, because this should (hopefully) be the last operation I will have for a long, long time. But I am still worried, even though my surgeon is excellent. I truly am hospital phobic-and for very good reasons (obviously).

I did try to calm down by watching the CNN coverage of Super Tuesday. Oops-that turned out to be a bad idea. I know I said that people who vote for the Donald must be redneck dipshits-but, hey, there seem to be an awful lot of redneck dipshits coming out of the woodwork. It's really discouraging.

So then I decided-after the Donald got seven states, which just amazed (and horrified) me-that anyone who votes for Trump should be horse-whipped. Please, people, really: on what alternate universe would Donald Trump EVER be capable of taking the job as President of the United States, the most powerful country in the world (at least, for now. He will destroy that, clearly-not to mention our reputation abroad, which is already suffering).

What is Donald Trump besides a total putz?? People will be emigrating by the thousands. No, by the millions. I'll go first.

I'm getting such a lot of stick over here. This is a country that had the odious Tony Blair in power-and now David Cameron, who is equally odious. Of course, we had Bush. Enough said. And (I like the word "odious"; it fits politicians perfectly, don't you think?) the equally odious Obama. Did he do anything besides take credit for Bin Laden (credit for something that had nothing to do with him at all) - and go golfing while the bank crisis was in full tilt?

I'm almost glad to be going into the hospital. I'll practice my English accent (ewww. Horrors-necessity, not desire!). I might just pretend to be mute.

I might still start packing. If everything goes to shit in November, I will be moving to Iceland. I went to Reykjavik many years ago-but it was closed.

I'm wandering around like a lost fart. Still anxious-not sleeping well, and that is reflected in the fact that I have cleaned my kitchen twice in the last week. I'm sure I will clean it again (in the middle of the night) before I go in for the operation. That's fine; I'll need the rest.

I wonder if I can get Kettle Chips in Iceland...and Starbucks. Obviously.

Greetings from the land of sheep shaggers

After two weeks of resting my leg (ouch. Ouch. Boo hoo. Ouch. Nothing else to say in two weeks) I am finally okay and ready to resume life. But-wait, there have been some interesting developments.

My friend lives in Dublin. She loves reading this blog-says it is hilarious, and most people over there don't have any love for the English, so she's been passing every post to her Irish friends. (goody). However-and there is a however-she now has an English partner. It's bad enough that he's English-but he is from (horror of horrors) Essex. So he read the blog and has taken exception to my taking the mickey out of the Brits. He has taken particular exception to my laughing about Essex. Well, keep reading, and see if you don't agree with me.

First of all, he said that not all Englishmen have very small willies. I wonder how he knows this...I did ask, but got no reply. Obviously, he's been checking out every other British male he can find. It reminds me of something one of the French cabinet ministers said about British men: she said they're almost all gay. Well--so how does he know about other men's willies? And he also said that he is highly offended by my comment about sheep shaggers. He states that most sheep shagging is done by Albanians and Greeks. And how does he know this? I asked. He just does. What a plonker. So, if you are reading this and are Albanian or Greek, I was given this load of crap by a twit from Essex-and just the fact that he is from Essex means that anything he says is probably untrue. He's from Essex; he can barely walk and talk at the same time, so don't take anything he says as gospel. I don't know any Albanians, but I do know that the Greeks have enough problems (financial screw-ups, defaults on loans, and, of course, thousands of migrants stuck there with no place to go because none of the "partner" countries want to take them) without some Essex twit offering pronouncements when he probably can't even spell Albania. Or Greece. Or Essex.

I have to say that my friend stood up for me-and I told her to keep him away from my blog, because he is a total ass. I also said that I thought she had more taste and better judgment. Ewwww....Essex.

Having said all that, now I have to tell you how I finally got over this pain in the leg and knee. I spoke with my friend Dani, who is also a very fine acupuncturist. She told me to hobble over to the train and come out and see her. And where does she live (and practice)? Errr...Essex. But-she isn't from there originally. She isn't English, either. And I have been checking over the past fifteen years to make absolutely certain that she has not contracted the British Braindead Disorder. So far, she is still fine. But I do wonder how long she will stay that way.

So, last Thursday I did the three hour journey to Essex - and about 15 needles later, I began to feel a bit better. I'll go back again in April-it'll take that long to recover from three hours there and three hours back.

I was struck by the fashions: all neon and spandex (and that was just the men). I nearly fell over going back to the station as I looked at people who had their huge guts hanging over spandex pants, and clearly thinking they looked terrific. They looked something, that was for sure.

I always look in shop windows-especially boutiques-because they can tell you a lot about the people who live in the area. And I turned the corner to walk down the hill to the station-and there it was.

Hanging in the window of this little shop (exclusive, I was told by someone near me, who looked at my jeans, sniffed, and walked away) and saw-a neon and spandex catsuit. It wasn't just neon: it looked like someone had thrown a can of paint on the top and allowed it to drip down. In blues, and greens, and neon urine yellow, as well as bile green. It was hideous, and I started laughing. Now, looking down I saw a pair of gold sneakers (called trainers here, but still gross, whatever anyone calls them). Gold sneakers. And it gets worse.

Right in the middle of the window, staring out at me, was an envelope clutch. It was just about large enough for someone's phone, keys, lipstick, tissues, can of mace...and smack across the front was: a pair of lips. That is what I said: a huge pair of bright red lips-covered with (sit down) glitter and sequins. Pardon? Yep. Essex fashion, along with the bleached hair and abundance of cheap (not gold) neck chains. Glitter. Sequins.

I stood there, transfixed, and thought that the only thing that would make it even more tacky would be if the lips lit up. I waited-but I was disappointed, because nothing happened. But I laughed so hard I got a pain in my side. In fact, I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself-not that anyone here would know the difference. I laughed all the way to the station.

You know, I think there are two parts to Europe (and we are still part of Europe-while everyone is fighting for the referendum to either take us out or keep us in). One is what everyone calls the "Continent": France, Italy, Spain, etc. And the other part is Britain: the Incontinent.

It hasn't escaped me that today is Super Tuesday. I'm as gobsmacked at those hideous outfits last Thursday as I am that anyone would even entertain the thought of putting Donald Trump in the White House. Trump? He would need an extra room just for his hair.

I first thought that only rootin' tootin' gun totin' redneck dipshits would vote for Trump. But-it seems like even normally intelligent, thinking people are looking at him and thinking he would make a great President.

What?????? I am already taking a lot of stick over Trump (as I did over Bush); God forbid he ever got elected, I would never go home. Ewww. And I'm not the only American who feels that way. In fact, I would have to leave here because the abuse would be too much. In fact, I would have to find another place to live-me, and millions of Americans who would make big tracks out of the USA.

 Don't come here-that would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire (of Hell). Syria isn't really recommended- but- I hear that Iceland is very nice in November.

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!