Sad Day Today

Today I have had some very sad news. A good friend of mine is losing a good friend of hers to kidney failure. This friend has been with her through thick and thin, bad times and good for over 10 years. He is the light of her life, her constant companion. He has cheered her up in her darkest hours, comforted her when she felt sad, and brought joy to her when she found none elsewhere.

Now his days are numbered. I hope that his passing is peaceful and without pain and that my friend can find light in her life with her precious memories. Coming so soon soon after the death of my dear Malmesley this news seems to have affected me greatly. I am crying with her.

The selfish sex

Today I am paying the price for the last 4 days of tending to my mother. Four days of hauling shopping a distance ten times longer than I do for myself, of repeating everything I say, and anyone else for that matter, at least three times, and having to shout at the top of my voice most of the time, of having to sit on a dining chair which is most uncomfortable because that is the best option, of waiting on her hand, foot and finger and of two three hour drives. One there, one back.

I wouldn't mind if all this was appreciated, I rather think it isn't. It is expected and because I have been too unwell recently to visit more often I am told more than once that life is difficult when you are not well.

Excuse me? I am the one who had to give up work at the age of 37 because of some illness the powers that be do not want to treat. I am the one who was bedridden for 12 months though I know I got off lightly by ME standards. I am the one who then developed Fibromyalgia and yes you guessed it, no treatment for that either, and to cap it all I get RA. A cruel joke as my sister already had it. Of course hers' is much more serious then mine, that's why we are on the same medication even though we are a continent apart, indeed her illness is so bad she manages to work a 40 hour week whilst I have not worked outside the house since 1992. The final straw is a chance remark by an acquaintance that my Mother is always much more capable when my sister visits than she ever is with me.

So today I pay. I am yawning for a pastime. I am struggling to make sense of WH's paperwork he left on my desk on Sunday morning. I have a thumping head and my vision is blurred again, not due the plaquenil, no, it's been OK for over a week now. My speech is slurred and I feel foggy. Typing this has taken an hour and constant corrections. Most of all I crave red meat and chocolate a sure sign I have overdone things. I am trying to ignore that as I must lose the weight the steroids have given me.

It takes about a week to get over these visits completely or 3 days if I do absolutely nothing meanwhile. I then have another 2 weeks before I have to do it all again.

Yesterday in The Times Alison Wolf asked if Women were the Selfish Sex.
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,7-2107744,00.html
The answer from this one is a most definite no.

My home town

I always think of this statue when I am thinking about Birmingham. It's probably not the conventional one people think of but it is outside the old Birmingham Register Office and so has a particular significance for me.

In the course of my digging ino the family past and investigating my family tree I have had cause to order countless copies of certificates from there. I have only once ever ordered in person, the rest of the time I email the long suffering staff and and on most occasions the certificate is on my door mat the following morning. Whenever there has been a query a lovely gentleman telephones me to check that whatever he has found is actually the certificate I want. How about that for service?

If it was not for their help I would never have found my great grandmother's death certificate; she was registered under a totally different name. They have also provided more poignant reminders of my past, my own father's death certificate and my my parent's marriage certificate.

On February 27th the Register Office moved to a new building in Holiday Wharf. the new website gives the following information: The specifically designed Register Repository will house over 17,000 registers, which contain details of all the births, deaths and marriages registered in Birmingham since 1837 over 5 million entries. The registers will take up over a fifth of a mile of shelving.
Impressive stuff, I bet they are glad to have moved.

In my mind, however, they remain in the same place, at the end of an email.

This week, mostly

I'm reading.....

the Birmingham Evening Mail, my mother's local paper. Takes me back to 21 years ago when I lived here. Not a lot has changed!

I'm eating.....

utter crap. The highlight of each day is lunch out, either at a garden centre or a supermarket. Yesterday I did have some passable local homemade faggots but the veg tasted like they had been cooked in 1916! Today, cod and chips beckons.

I'm watching.....

squirrels running up and down on the trees outside and over the garage roofs. I can see a big drey in the distance where they all seem to disappear to. There is a lovely flock of Goldfinches too, reminds me of home.

Born and Bred

I am in Birmingham, the place of my birth and where I was bred. Or is it?

My Mother would consider herself a Brummie through and through. Her parents were born in Birmingham but there the trail stops. Her maternal Grandmother was from Dublin but with a Polish name who knows from whence her family originally hailed, our trail ran cold a long time ago, the maternal grandfather was also living in Dublin, a baker by trade; that is all we know of him. My mother's father's family were less complicated, the male line came from Worcester and were axle forgers, whole families and several generations of them, mostly called Stephen. The female line came from Gloucester, three sisters apparently abandoned by their parents who all lived in close proximity, their families intertwined around a house in Weaman Street they owned for 60 years.

My father was another kettle of fish completely. His grandfather had walked to Birmingham from Wales in the 1860s and began adult life as a miller as was his own father. He ended up with grocers shops. My father's father travelled, the family moved from Birmingham to Portsmouth and back again several times and Portsmouth was where my father was born. His mother was from a long line of stonemasons from Stafforshire who travelled round the Midlands working on churches. On one of these trips, my great grandfather had met his wife and they married and moved to Birmingham. Even she had a tale to tell because her mother was German and how she had ended up in a small Warwickshire village we will probably never know.

So here I sit, the product of all these different places. Not really bred in Birmingham at all.

Why

"Is it not bizarre that certain psychiatrists --- most notably those of the Wessely School --- persist in their belief that they alone have the undisputed right to demand a level of “evidence-based” proof that ME/CFS is not an “aberrant belief” as they assert, when their own biopsychosocial belief system that perpetuates such an aberrant belief about the nature of ME/CFS has been exposed as being nothing but a myth?"
The Model of the Myth, Eileen Marshall, Margaret Williams. 17th March 2006.

http://www.meactionuk.org.uk/The_Model_of_the_Myth.htm

"Many international non-psychiatrist researchers have demonstrated that patients with ME/CFS do suffer from such multiple symptoms and that these can be shown by relevant testing, but such is the stranglehold of the Wessely School that these tests are not permitted to be carried out in the UK. "

More on the Myth, Eileen Marshall, Margaret Williams, 21st March 2006 http://www.meactionuk.org.uk/More_on_the_Myth.htm

Just one question here. Why???

Until this strangle hold is released, patients with ME/CFS will never get the treatment they deserve.

Scenes of a life past.....6

A new working system had been proposed with more pay and longer hours, 39 rather than the 30 that most of the lab staff did. Those were the terms under which I had been employed. A new Supervisor had been recruited to help oversee all these changes and to lead the way forward. The old hands reacted with a strike, the union became involved and talks ensued. Eventually a tentative compromise was reached, some parts of the old rota stayed and some would disappear. There would still be 2 working patterns but that would carry on until all the oldies left. The end of the tunnel was in sight until one fateful morning the week before I had started.

Dave had been on the telephone to the personnel department sorting out my contract. He was standing in his customary place at the hatch between the two offices. The personnel chap had asked how the mood of the rest of the staff was. “Oh they’re facing up to reality now” said Dave, “One by one they’ll all get married, pregnant and then leave, then we’ll be OK.” Except for Steve. “Oh he’ll get fed up and leave when his harem has gone. Sooner the better really. You could get trained monkeys to do what they do, do it better and pay them peanuts. Monkeys have more brains than this lot.”

What Dave had failed to realise was that the hatch had been open into the clerk’s office. Steve had been in there looking in the bottom of a filing cabinet for some new labels and was hidden from Dave's view. Steve had heard every word, he was also the Union rep. War was about to break out.

Brotherly love

The depressed painter is in residence. He arrives each morning to a hot cup of tea, he reaches for it greedily and whilst he drinks it we chew over the 16 or so hours since he left. This morning he has a chill. "I've taken more paracetamol over night than they have in Boots." It's a wonder he's here at all then.

He talks about a music project he is involved in, he's on the internet. I ask him what he plays, "The fool, mostly." Then he reverts to more familiar subjects. "Mother went out his morning, don't know why she had to in this weather. Well, I suppose it's stuff for my brother again. He doesn't appreciate it you know. Mother cooked roast lamb on Sunday, all the works and do you know what, my brother ate it in his dressing gown. Disgusting at his age. He pushed the meat round the plate, left the table and went to his room. Absolute waste of time Mother cooking it." I nod encouragingly. "He disappeared after that and I heard him come back about 1am, woke us all up. Next morning he had no hair! Don't know where he'd been."

"The hairdressers perhaps?" I offer, "On a Sunday?"

Brother is a local councillor, "He fills the living room with all his junk, all his papers, his lap top and everything. There's nowhere to sit, not that I have time what with the garden, washing up and cleaning his room for him. I told him, he'd have to sort himself out!"

The next night the living room had been cleaned, "Nice as pie he was last night, he even helped me with my computer. I bet tonight will be different, he's got a meeting and then he doesn't even bother to come in for his dinner. Don't know why Mother had to go out specially just to buy him some bananas."

And so it goes on. I suggest stress counselling or just move out. "Couldn't do that, what about Mother?"

I suspect Mother might rather like a spell without her two offspring arguing like 10 year-olds. After all they are both in their 50's.

Drought regulations

Four weeks into the plaquenil experiment I have been for a liver scan. Routine tests had shown a raised liver function result. A retest showed it was back to normal but by then the treadmill was set in motion. An ultrasonic liver scan beckoned. I should have gone another day at 4.30pm. The instruction leaflet said to eat or drink nothing before the appointment. I phoned up and pointed out that I did not want to go all day without any medications; I asked if perhaps I could have one drink to take them with, "Oh no nothing at all." I changed the appointment to 8.30 this morning.

I awoke, uncharacteristically, with a raging headache, nausea and blurred vision. WH had to take me, as I was incapable of driving. The test went OK except for two things, an absence of hospital gowns: "We would normally ask you to remove your clothes and put a gown on. However as we have no gown could you please remove your clothes then put your jumper back on," and an over attention to the area where I have been nursing a broken rib since moving some furniture about 3 weeks ago. I gritted my teeth prompting the question of how much trouble I had been having with my 'tummy'.

"None at all" I replied to a puzzled expression.

After it was all over I asked why drinking was not allowed and was told it was because a drink will obscure the gall bladder which is one of the areas being studied. "Why do you ask?"
I said that I had been unable to take anything for the headache and also my other morning meds.

"Oh you can have sips of water for tablets, that's OK"

Well my question is this, why don't they tell you that on the leaflet? It would no doubt save a lot of discomfort.

This week, mostly.....

I’m reading…..

Cooking with Fernet Branca; James Hamilton Patterson. This is the funniest book I have read for a long time. It is the story of an ex-pat living in Tuscany and his wild and wacky neighbour Marta, a composer from the ex-Soviet state of Voynovia. Highly satirical it will destroy most people’s perceptions of the Tuscan idyll. His recipes have to be seen to be believed.

I’m eating….

anything which is not cooked with Fernet Branca. I will definitely NOT be eating Fish Cake, Alien Pie or Otter with Lobster Sauce.

I’m watching….

the last of the siskins before they start their summer migration, skeins of Canada geese which go honking up and down this valley at dawn and dusk each day and the little chaffinches resplendent in smart breeding plumage, flitting about in the oaks trees opposite my house.

Baking for Britain

No, not what I have been doing but the name of a brilliant Food Blog I have been reading.

Amongst the plethora of writing which are Food Blogs one stands out head and shoulders above the rest, Baking for Britain. http://bakingforbritain.blogspot.com/

This is written by Anna a Brit who sings the praises of British food, almost as a worship and this can't be bad after the poor press British food has had across the world. I had been staring to think that all all the best Food Blogs were either written by Continental Euopeans or by those from across the pond.

I love the way the writer goes into all the details of the food history and other little titbits, the wealth of information about the origins of the dish in question and the finally the recipes themselves, enough to want you, nay beg you to try them out. Give this a read, you will be pleasantly surprised.

I have paid my own homage to Britsh tradition this morning and made WH 18 cornflake cakes which now sit in the kitchen cooling. Unfortunately they are a long way short of the standard of Baking for Britain, the sentiment is there if not the execution.

Cornflake cakes

4 oz bar Cadbury's chocolate

Sufficient cornflakes to be coated with chocolate

Melt chocolate on half power in the microwave (about 4-5 mins)

Stir in cornflakes until they are covered with the chocolate

Spoon mixture into individual bun-cases

Leave in a cool place until chocolate had set.

If it's over there, it's on its' way here

Or..... The next big thing

Antenna toppers, or as we would say arial toppers.

I read about them on another blog so you dont get any phone calls from me http://poohnatic.blogspot.com/

They appear to be decorations based on a ball which you put on your car arial and from the number of websites I found on a Google search they are pretty popular. Wonder how long before we see them over here? Not long I should say, perhaps I ought to start the craze.

One of these would be nice http://www.spcaec.com/images/content/pagebuilder/12174.jpg. I particularly like the black cat.

Would have put a pic here but the upload does not appear to work.

One step forward, two steps back

What a strange ailment ME is. I bet I'm not the first to have said this. Just when you think everything is hunky dorey the illness jumps up and bites you on the metaphorical bum. It did that with me today.

The last few weeks have been Ok-ish, battling with the plaquenil and the RA, but my ME and fibro symptoms have not been too bad. The cynical of those amongst you will say that it is because I had my mind on other things. But no, really I have been OK, as long as I get to bed before 11pm and get at least 9 hours sleep I am fine. No need to sleep in the afternoons, no crushing tiredness and even the night sweats have disappeared; that is really saying something. You can't conjour up those by just thinking about them, after all, by definition, they occur when you are asleep!

Today I awoke feeling tired. After a breakfast of a banana and a hot cross bun I went to fetch some stuff for WH, a matter of driving to the builder's merchants, have them load the car, then drive to the supermarket. By the time I arrived in the supermarket I was foggy and shaking. I know from past experience my blood sugar had dropped drastically. I know I need to eat protein to restore it. I went into the coffee shop and asked for chicken and a side salad. They don't do that. I had to have chicken and chips AND a side salad. I was in no mood to argue. I paid up and sat down. The food came and I ate a few mouthfuls but just couldn't get it down, too tired to eat. I forced myself. After 40 minutes of sitting I felt revived enough to go round the store clutching a trolley, I only wanted a few items, the bill came to £18 proving I did not buy much.

Now I'm home the fog is returning. This must be the start of a flare, although I have not had this particular symptom for over 5 years. At one time when ever I went anywhere I had to go and sit in a cafe and have a drink or a snack even if I had eaten less than an hour before. I can usually go out for 4 hours at least, not today, one hour and I was floored.

I'm planning very lazy days tomorrow and Monday. On Tuesday the decorator will be here and I can't stay in bed then....or can I??

Telephone troubles

My telephone has been hot today. First off, I get the usual calls from WH as he does in the mornings when he is away. Strangely, he is not giving me lists of tasks nor does he want phone numbers texting to him.

Then my elderly friend calls, she has to make an appointment for a scan at hospital and she wants to check I can take her. He daughter lives only 4 miles more distant than I but Ho Hum she's unavailable. Funny.... we don't even know the date yet. Friend calls back again, she has been offered 3 appointments, non of which are in Taunton at the regular hospital, one is in Chard, one is in Weymouth and one is in West Mendip which neither of us has ever heard of. We decide on Chard, being the nearest. She calls back, that appointment has gone. She calls the GP to check exactly what scan she must have as there seems to be some confusion at the hospital. The GP rings her back, she has been offerd two more appointments. She tries to book the first and is told that that too has gone. She books the second regardless and hopes thatIi can go on that date. Her daughter has meanwhile called again and said she is unavailable. Surprise, surprise.

In the midst of all this the builder's merchant calls. The paint they are mixing is not recognised by their machine. I give them the code again. Their number is incorrect. They try again. Then they call me again. The number is still incorrect. I read it out to them from the previous tin yet again. 'Oh I was still using the wrong number, I'll try again' they call back a third time, 'What was the number again?' This time they get it right 'Yeah, the machine is mixing it now, it will be on the delivery.' Thiry minutes later they phone me again. 'We can't deliver today, could you collect it in the morning?' I have waited all day for this.

WH phones a few minutes later, "Can you go (to a different builder's merchant) and get me some stuff cut. It should fit in the car if you put the seats down. Oh and by the way I ordered a load of timber from the first place, you'll have to fit that in too."

Sometimes I wish I was disconnected.

I've been here before

Next Tuesday sees the return of the depressed painter. (See Feb archives, Back in the Office). This time he will be painting the living room and I am preparing for the mental anguish caused by having such a depressing personality in my house for 4 days. I am stocking up on Goat's milk, he finds this less depressing in his tea, and also taking the kettle etc upstairs so I do not have to keep disturbing him by trying to get in the kitchen.

I will be glued to the computer for all 4 days and intend to be very busy transcribing my portion of the 1861 census so that he can not disturb me with his tales of woe. If he gets unbearable then I shall have to go shopping. His work remains meticulous so I have to find a way of ignoring the melancholy.

Right now I am emptying the room, carrying 400 books in ones and two upstairs and dumping them on my newly fitted bookshelves. The rightful occupants are still in the garage. I though the end of all this upheaval was in sight. Now the goal posts have moved again and the end is a dim and distant vision.

Announcing

Today I have added a new feature to this blog.......... a message board. Why not join us and see what we're talking about.

There is a link in the right hand border.

or bookmark this link

http://com4.runboard.com/bstraightjacketchatboard

See you there.

This week, mostly

I’m reading…..

A Thousand Days in Tuscany; Marlena de Blasi. The true story of a chef/journalist and her Italian husband’s move to Tuscany and the people they meet and the food which they cook and eat. Wonderful scenes of a life in the sun.

I’m eating….

Casseroles. I have finally replaced my huge old enamel dish which had become chipped. I am now the proud possessor of a six pint earthenware one in a shade of Kalahari Blue. So far we have had lamb shanks in port and orange and Christmas spiced beef, bit out of season but it certainly goes with the weather. Next on the list is Fowl Down in Rice, a Caribbean speciality.

I’m drinking….

Tesco’s fiery ginger beer. It certainly helps with the nausea from the plaquenil. However I would not need to drink so much if only I could remember to take the med at the right time, before food. I always remember just after. Blame Fibro Fog.

Bye Bye Malmesley. 4 May 1990 to 13 March 2006

It's very sad here.

Malmesley has not been well this past week. We thought it was his disgusting teeth playing him up again. He was due for a 'dental' on Wednesday. He never had anything wrong with him, only the worst teeth the vet had ever seen. Yesterday he might have had a stroke. He was weak, had lost most of his weight and was a very sorry sight. He was still purring for England but that was about it. Last night I fed him from my fingertip. He prefered to purr rather than to eat.

As I suspected, the vet said that there was not much hope; it wasn't a stroke but several thromboses and a weak heart so we left him there and said our goodbyes. He was still purring. The end of an era which started when he was born under the chair in my bedroom in a heatwave. I did not want to see him afterwards, I want to remember how he was.

Malmesley was the last link with Ratbag my first cat. He was her big boy son. The biggest of the litter who always lay at the bottom of the pile and all the others walked all over him. He broke the first joint in his tail at a week old and to this day had a tail with a right angle bend at the end.

Since the day he was neutered over 15 years ago he shared my bed. I woke up each morning with his huge paw aroung my finger, until last week that is. It seemed like an omen. We will remember him chasing leaves, swinging on his mother's tail, riding shotgun on Ratbag's back through the cat flap and knocking himself out in the process, his love of snow, his dopey moments when he would fall off the window ledge , jumping in the hedge and missing, sliding down Garfield-like and landing in a heap, the time he brought a redwing in at 11pm on a freezing night and let it fly aroung the room, the time he stalked a tame rook for 3 weeks then left a heap of inky feathers on my doorstep. I could have killed him.

All those memories. Happy times we will never forget.

You had a good innings Malmesley. We loved you.

Great Dixter

Yesterday I went to a fascinating talk given by Fergus Garrett the head gardener of Great Dixter in Sussex.

Great Dixter was the home of Christopher Lloyd who died in January, aged 84. A Tudor house with a famous twentieth century Arts and Crafts garden, Great Dixter was bought in 1910 by Nathaniel Lloyd, author of some books on brickwork and topiary, and was restored by Sir Edwin Lutyens. Nathaniel designed the framework of the garden and it has been planted with great flair by his son, Christopher Lloyd, the reknowned plantsman and horticulturalist.

The Great Dixter charitable trust was set up by Christopher shortly before his death to try to save the garden and to secure it for future generations. They even have a blog!

http://greatdixter.blogspot.com/

Scenes from a life past.....5

When it was time for breakfast they all went together leaving me alone in the lab, Jane was nowhere to be seen. I was frantic, the phone was ringing, numerous tanker samples kept appearing and then some chap in blue overalls arrived with a crate full of cardboard and asked me to test his cartons for bleeders. I had no idea what he was talking about.

“You know the red dye, or didn’t they teach you that yet?” I admitted I didn’t know.

“OK I’ll do it for you then,” His eyes twinkled he took a large dark brown jar from the cupboard and tipped a small amount of the contents into each milk carton. He carefully shook each around then held them over the sink and squeezed hard. We then examined each carton along it’s seams to see if we could see the dye.

“Bleeders, look. If the carton leaks you can see the dye ‘bleed’ out,” I thanked this little kindly man who had said his name was Howard. “Well you have to learn somehow and this lot won’t help you much, miserable gits,” with that parting shot he left and returned to the dairy.

About ten minutes later there was a lull in the proceedings and I tried to quickly tidy up the mess I had all around me. I grabbed a lot of used samples and tipped them into the pig churn. It was only as I let the last carton drain I realised what I had done. The rest of the lab staff arrived back from their break in time to see me hastily shoving the pig churn out of the door and onto the steps where it would be collected later. The contents were a bright shade of raspberry pink.

The weekend starts here

I am always hopeful, I'm a glass half-full person and look on the bright side. I am therefore hoping the last of my decorating related work will happen tomorrow. I only need a bathroom floor repaired, some non slip flooring fitted, 7 shelves put up, about a dozen pictures and my collection of carpet beaters hung.

Doesn't sound much does it? I thought that I was on to a winner. I fetched the flooring, dragged the shelving supports up the stairs and rounded up all the other stuff. WH said he'd start tonight. ........After we visit the grandkids. So that's a non starter then; we won't be back until 8 and then we have to eat.

That leaves tomorrow and Sunday. Apparently you can only put up shelves if it doesn't rain. Something to do with rounding the edges, an outside job. Heavy showers are forecast. The shelves will have to wait. The flooring might well get laid and the floor repaired. I'm going out all day. "Good job" says WH, "I have to take the sink and the wc out." To lay flooring? So that will be an all day job then.

Perhaps the shelves will get done on Sunday. The weather forecast is certainly better; sunny intervals. "Oh good I'll be able to rotovate Mother's garden."

What about my shelves?????

Bored, bored and extremely fed up

The cats that is, not me! It has rained continuously here for 3 days, the back garden is under water and everywhere is damp and muddy. The younger cats are totally fed up as they hate rain so are staying indoors and trying to find entertainment.

Malmesley, the ginger elder-statesman, at almost 16, has seen it all before. He is sleeping his way through it, apart from the odd occasion when senility leads him to sit on a garden chair for 10 minutes then wonder why he is getting so wet. Coming back through the cat-flap in the kitchen, with a disgruntled expression on his face, he then goes to the front door to see if it raining that side of the house too. It is indeed, so back he slinks onto his special chair and dreams of sun and the birds he almost caught.

Goggins, at 14, is sulking and still pining for WH. He had a quick trip out, got his feet wet, his long fur even wetter, so comes skittering back indoors and sits sodden in the middle of the lounge waiting for someone, anyone, to grab a towel and dry him. He moans his displeasure then goes grumpily back to his regular post on the sofa.

The grey twins, at only 3, are bored to distraction. Misty, the smaller of the two, stands at the cat-flap for ten minutes banging it from the inside until I chase him away. He dives past me then shoots into the hall and wees up the wall. Yuck. I know he has done it out of spite. I spend the next few minutes scrubbing with disinfectant whilst two beady eyes watch from the top of the stairs and I swear I can see a hint of a grin.

Meanwhile Nelson is growling on the bed. He is fighting with the quilt cover and chasing his tail. This goes on for several minutes, his eyes flashing white and the growling getting louder. Suddenly a yelp and he has bitten his own tail hard. He jumps up to look for the perpetrator and runs down the stairs before they can get away. Seconds later he is back closely followed by Misty. A writhing, growling, heap of limbs lands on the centre of the bed. They spring apart and glare at each other from opposite sides, tails lashing and teeth chattering. Eventually they give this up and jump onto the window cill, one looking through the window at the rooks outside, one underneath trying to catch his tail.

And so it goes on. The action moving round the house over time, the main bedroom, the back bedroom, the kitchen, the lounge. Only when the tumbling mass of fighting cat lands on Goggin's tail does he bat an eyelid and immediately jumps up to smack his attacker sharply on the nose. The twins turn on him then, united in chasing him onto the window ledge where they can't reach him without disturbing Malmesley and they're too frightened of his wrath to attempt that. It goes quiet.

Misty siddles into the hall and gets the mat up from behind the front door. Nelson looks on, bemused. The mat starts to walk towards him so Nelson disappears behind the sofa and falls asleep. A paw emerges from the mat, Eureka, it has found his hazelnut lost a month ago and now just the thing to entertain a bored little cat.

An hour later Misty is still roaming around and tries to annoy me by jumping onto the desk and walking on my keyboard. I put him on the floor, he bites the leg of the chair and bats my ankles. Not for nothing do we call him Mr Naughty.

A cloudburst and heavy rain against the window wakes Nelson up, Misty rushes down to him squeaking all the while. The action begins again, another few rainy hours to occupy.

Well it's done

My happy, friendly, peaceful sanctuary is no more. The self destruct button was pushed and it went. I thought it was likely last week although others were more doubtful, but events took a turn for the worse and the little pools of hate and mallice turned into a river and then flood, spilling over everything and anyone that it touched. Even the 'impartials' turned partial. The decision was made for me. I could never stay in a place like that whilst friends were hurting and gagged. I decided to give notice.

And you know the strangest thing, one of the missing returned. To gloat, to revel, to dance on the bombsite before the dust had even settled.

Today we move on, sadder and wiser but knowing where we stand.

"A true friend will always stab you in the front,"

Oscar Wilde

This piece is dedicated to my good friend H who dared to ask a question.

Dodecanese Day

All over the Dodecanese today is a local bank holiday to celebrate the incorporation of those islands with the rest of Greece in 1948.

The literal translation of Dodecanese is "Twelve Islands" although there are 16 inhabited ones and 27 in total. The Dodecanese have a distinct character and architecture due to their successive rulers - Venetian, Ottoman and Italian. Of the inhabited islands Rhodes and Kos are among the most popular and cosmopolitan in the Mediterranean. Kalymnos is famous for it's sponge divers, Tilos claims to be the last paradise in Greece, whilst the volcanic islands of Nyssiros, Lipsi , Pserimos and Halki are totally untouched by massive tourism. Symi is a picturesque small island which is popular, Karpathos is dramatically beautiful, Agathonisi and Kassos are hilly and difficult to reach. Patmos is the island where Saint John the Divine wrote the prophetic Apocalypse (Revelations). Leros is relatively quiet as are Astypalia and Castellorizo.

The Greek Revolution started in 1821 and managed to gain the independence of Greece in 1832; but the treaty signed in London did not include the islands of the Dodecanese as part of the newly built Greek State, and they remained under Turkish occupation. The Italians took all the islands of the Dodecanese in 1912, and stayed there until 1943, when the Germans took over. In 1945, the Germans left and the islands stayed autonomous until 1948 when all Dodecanese Islands joined the rest of independent Greece.

All across these islands today there will be parades, girls dressed in their traditional costumes, bands playing, wine drunk and general feasting and celebration.

This week, mostly

I’m reading…..

Crazy Water, Pickled Lemons by Diana Henry. ‘Enchanting dishes from the Middle East, Mediterranean and North Africa’. You can just feel the sun reading this. Jason Lowe’s photography is great too. Sadly I won’t be cooking much of this as everything has liberal amounts of garlic, WH’s pet hate.

When he’s away though……



I’m watching…..

all the local children playing on the green in front of my house. Fed up with this bitingly cold winter, now the days are longer and brighter, TV and play stations are abandoned in favour of football, tree climbing and chasing the local cats whilst wearing high heels and a tablecloth. The sound of laughing, shouting and children just being children heralds the start of another happy, outdoor season.


I’m wearing….

my lovely blue, soft, zip-up fleece. It disappeared during the decorating onslaught and has just resurfaced in a drawer I forgot I had. I know, I know, blame ‘fibro fog’! Lovely to make it's acquaintance again especially as the weather is still rather unseasonal, and to snuggle down into the comforting, outsized warmth.

Two weeks on

I have taken 14 plaquenil now and some of the side effects are beginning to be noticeable. Firstly my eyes are quite blurred sometimes. It was starting about an hour after I have taken the daily dose and lasting about 2 hours. Yesterday however they remained blurred most of the day. Today is more of the same and I haven't even taken today's dose yet. My right eye is worse than the left. Will give this a few more days to see if it abates before I start rattling the GP's cage. Am having a routine eye check next week anyway.

Secondly my skin has become very dry and on Saturday it was itchy and red. Not sure if this is a side effect or what? Cold weather effects maybe?

Another noteworthy symptom is that my hands are stiff again in the mornings. Surely not already? I only had the cortisone shots 16 days ago, it should have lasted longer than this. My left shoulder is twinging too. Last time the '8 month solution' lasted 8 weeks, this time only 2 weeks. I am depressed now as I know that within 3 weeks I will most likely have two frozen shoulders again.

I was told this RA was agressive, I didn't realise it was positively war-like.

All quiet on the western front

WH has just left for a week working in London as he does periodically. All is peace and calm after the last three days of the television turned up loud, music blaring from the CD player, and noisy, animated and frequent phone calls. The holdall, resident in the centre of the lounge since Thursday, has gone. The padded shirt, spilling saw dust and plaster at every turn, has resumed its' rightful place in the back of the builder's van. Three pairs of boots, left under chairs, in doorways and in strangely singular isolation have been gathered up, re-partnered and removed. Catalogues, price lists and scruffy drawings on scraps of paper have gone too, leaving their posher relatives, the VAT receipts, on the desk to be filed. The newspapers are tidied and put in their righful place. The TV controller is by the TV where it can be found easily, no hunts down the side of the sofa this week.

Within ten minutes of the van driving off round the corner all is peace, quiet and tidy. The five of us remaining are silent until Friday when it will all explode again. Malmesley and Misty enjoy the empty bed and lie in the warmth of the morning sun knowing they can sleep undisturbed all week. Nelson looks for his temporary bed in the holdall then scarpers to play with his brother next door. Only Goggins, sad to see his hero depart, sinks glummly into the sofa, to a warm and wood-chip scented spot, where he waits in abject misery until he can share this place once again.

As for me, I enjoy my week of doing what I want, when I want; sleeping, eating and generally revelling in the luxury of being alone, just me and the 4 cats.

Hummingbirds

This site is one I will return to again and again. Just reading Jodi's description of a typical day reminds me so much of how I was and how some friends of mine are now. It's a great resource for those with ME/CFIDS.

The link explains why it is called Hummingbirds. A brilliant analogy.


http://www.ahummingbirdsguide.com/hummingbirds.htm

Fibromyalgia ... from possible diagnosis of fibro to life beyond

This is a brilliant site I have found which I want to hang onto until I have more time and energy to read it in depth. Sounds like a woman after my own heart.

Decision time

A place where I spend a lot of time with close friends has recently become a horrid place to be. I no longer want to go there though some very good people still visit. I wish I could enjoy their company elsewhere. It is so, so sad.

The rot started with the death of one of us, not sudden but expected, and the victim's considered choice, though neverthless still hard on the group. There are some who will never get over it, the anger is as sharp now as it was three months ago. There are those who still yearn for what was and those who don't understand at all. There are those who try to understand and move on and rejoice in a life well lived. But still there is a huge gap, a void created by this passing.

Lately the gap is not so evident but others seek to fill some of those spaces. There is discord and darkness where once was harmony and light. Secrets are shared and spread. Fights have broken out, some characters have left completely after weeks of hiding, we know they were peeping, the evidence was there to be seen. I wonder if they have enjoyed all this strife.

I am sick of backbiting and sniping and cat calls. I am sick of power struggles and complaints and moans. Above all I am sick.

I may return there. I may not.

Blueberry Muffins

The recent re-vamp of part of my kitchen, coupled with a chance remark from Youngest Stepdaughter, "You always used to make me Swiss Rolls to take to Brownie Cake Sales," has lead me to a renewed interest in baking.

I started with WH's favourite Sultana Cakes, then I made an excellent Swiss Roll to prove that I could still do it. Today WH is driving home 200 miles in this early morning to arrive in time for a late breakfast. I just have made Blueberry Muffins.

The air is scented with the vanilla sugar smell of baking. The coffee is on and he should be home in 20 minutes..... just long enough for the cakes to cool to an edible temperature.

Scenes from a life past.....4

The canteen was a site to behold. It was a long room with windows on the one long side overlooking the front yard and the main road and on the opposite site looking out on to the dairy below. The shorter walls and the areas of wall under the windows were tiled in a sort of dirty turquoise colour. There was an orange tiled floor and red and black tables arranged around the walls with orange chairs up to them. I was fascinated to look through the windows on the dairy side and to see the milk bottles flying off the filling machines and into the crates. Lots of men and a few women all wearing dingy blue overalls were stationed along the conveyors and appeared to be just staring at the bottles. In the centre of the canteen on the road side was a servery with a kitchen behind. There seemed to be two sitting areas, one each end of the room.

I was still watching the amazing site below me when Dave asked “Do you want anything to eat or not?” and directed me up to the counter where two assistants stood holding long steel spoons over a several deep tubs of steaming food.

“Oh we knew you’d be first in today, always are when it’s curry.” I let Dave go first whilst I surveyed the options. I settled for sausage and chips and a cup of coffee. I reached into my handbag for my purse. Dave loaded his tray with a huge plate of curry and rice, two slices of bread and butter, apple pie and custard and a cup of coffee into which I noticed the server put a tablespoon of instant coffee and virtually no milk. I thought perhaps she didn’t like him much either. Dave advanced to the till, then turned back, fixed his eyes on my purse and asked “Could you pay for mine? I forgot to bring any money in today.”

I duly paid up and followed Dave to the left hand end of the room and sat at the first table we came to. By then other workers were drifting in, mostly men in either white or blue overalls tucked into Wellington boots and wearing little fabric caps. They all seemed to sit at the far end, the other side of the servery, as our end remained strangely empty. Dave tucked into his meal with relish almost lifting the plate so he could shovel the food in faster. He finished the curry in record time and wiped round his plate with the last of his bread. He took a deep draw on the coffee. “I wish they would make this stuff stronger,” he spat out, rising from the table, cup in hand and going back around to the counter.

I heard him ask for another cup, "and this time, make it strong."