It's a cat's life

JP says I mustn't sack the cleaner, even though she arrived an hour and a half late (doctor's appointment). So instead of her marching orders I gave her a cup of tea. She is trying to distance herself from Sweet Smiley Boyfriend. The Home Office have helped with this by moving him to Heathrow.

Chemotherapy is meant to be cumulative (each bout leaves you feeling that little bit worse), but if anything I've felt better this cycle than the first one, the only side-effects being fleeting fatigue and an eye infection. Third dose is next Wednesday so we'll see if this trend continues.

After four months of enforced leisure, I'm starting to get just a teeny bit restless. I even contacted work to see if I could do some bits and bobs from home. Can't go into the office - too many bugs - but could do stuff remotely if systems allow. Not sure how much there is to do though because the Government is closing us down.

Oscar, on the other hand, has no qualms coping with a life of langour. He has been in this position most of the day.

From the sublime to the ridiculous

Nottingham City Council has created wildflower areas in Woodthorpe Park, and they are beautiful. The park has played a pivotal part in my recuperation; a place to walk, rest and observe. I assess my fitness by whether I can get up the hill without stopping.

Speaking as a resident, I'm impressed with the City Council. They're good at doorstep recycling, and even collect bulky items. They keep parks and gardens nice and they lay on festivals and free stuff over the summer. They have shipped a load of sand into the Square and created a beach area. Great for kids.

Some employees speak less highly of the Council. I was talking to someone who recently moved into their new HQ building. He says it's swish but has ridiculous rules:
- The carpet is colour-coded and staff can't walk on certain colours
- Employees are not allowed to keep food in the fridge
- Eating at desks is banned; you have to go to a special room, even to eat a mid-morning banana or a bag of peanuts.
- If you hang a jacket on the back of your chair a floor-walker will confiscate it.
- You can't leave a bag under your desk, you have to book a locker for the day.
- People whose special needs require a lowered or raised desk can't sit with their teams but get ghettoised together in a different area.
He said adhering to all these rules wastes alot of time.

This all seems a bit barmy to me. If rules are seen as arbitrary or pointless they alienate the workforce. Speaking as someone who's fallen foul of clear-desk policies in the past I think such measures discriminate against creative people who tend to be more messy.

Phone freakery

The landline rang at ten past midnight, jolting us out of the first stages of sleep.

I picked it up. Said "hello." Nobody there. I depressed the receiver in order to dial 1471, but the line stayed open.

Then a female voice with a faintly discernable American accent hissed: "You're gonna die," and put the phone down.

1471 revealed no caller's number.

Freaked me out a little, I can tell you, despite JP's assurances that this would be either completely random or a wrong number, and nothing whatsoever to do with me.

Why do people do these things?

She was right about one thing though, whoever she was. I am going to die. So is she. We all are. It's the only sure thing.

For the moment, however, I prefer to concentrate on living.

The boat that rocked

We took Sally Slipknot for a little sail at lunchtime out to Shardlow. Here she is looking serene in the sunshine.

It wasn't always so. We bought her a year ago from a geezer with a lot of home-made tattoos. He advised us how to avoid mooring fees by moving on every two weeks.

Perhaps the name should have been an indication. Slipknot - called after the thrash metal band of the same name. When we phoned up to register ownership there was a long pause on the other end of the line then the man from British Waterways said: "Slipknot. We know that boat well."

Turns out she'd had several ASBOs.

We also noticed that whenever we went anywhere in her we got hailed loudly by certain other river-users. Usually the ones you hear long before their boats come into view.

"I've had some times on Slipknot!" one said wistfully. Seems she was a party boat!

Her life may be dull by comparison now but at least she has loving parents and a nice secure marina to call home.

101 uses for a wig

Forgot to take a wig-stand to Somerset so had to improvise.

Talking of wigs, when we took a stroll round Watchet Harbour I noticed I wasn't the only one wearing one. There were drag-artists out collecting for Carnival. This got me thinking about the many and varied potential functions for a wig. Here's a few to be going along with:

- Alysa (formerly Alister) wears them to enhance her new gender identity
- Brian two-doors-down used to collect maniquin heads from skips, put them in his upstairs window and dress them up in wigs and hats. When he took the display down passers-by complained they missed the show.
- Some people wear curly ones while getting very drunk and pretending to be scousers
- Sonja (not her real name) has several wigs from when she worked for a private detective agency.
- Becky's step-mum's dog performed unspeakable acts with hers
- The court of Louis XIV wouldn't be seen out without them
- When Joy worked as a nanny for Orthodox Jewish families in London, the women would don wigs to cover their already luxuriant hair before leaving the house. Think it's a religious thing.
- Andre Agassi wore one to play tennis.
- We saw a lot of silly red and white ones during the World Cup.
- Judges wear full-bottomed wigs on ceremonial occasions.

Any more for any more?

Meanwhile I cycled seven miles today - not bad for a chemo-head!

Stampede!

When I went for my morning constitutional across the fields, the cows coolly let me pass, but when I came to return the mood had changed. First one began to follow, starting off slow then breaking into a gallop. Others joined the pursuit, and before I knew it the whole herd was hurtling towards me.

I cleared the gate with seconds to spare. Shows I can still run.

Here they are, shortly after the charge, looking like butter wouldn't melt.

Just what the doctor ordered

It's so healing here, just breathing the air does a power of good, like taking in sweet nectar.

Walk three fields and you can see the sea in one direction and Glastonbury Tor in another - just discernable in the haze on picture two. The cows let me pass this time.

And even the cider is pure!

Room with a view

We have retreated to my Uncle's rural idyll in Somerset for a few days. This is one of the views from the house. There are ponies frolicking in the next field and geese gaggling round the watering hole.

The clouds are dispersing and weather's looking favourable for the next few days.

Doubtless we'll find our own watering hole later. The cider's good round these parts. Wonder how it mixes with steroids?

The conundrums of a cosmic cleaner

We hired a cleaner to help make life easier through my recovery. She turned up, larger than life, and blitzed the place. She can come again, we thought. Since then, it's been like this:

Week one: She corners me in the kitchen with tell me about her love-life. She married a China-man, but didn't love him. She loved an Iranian, but couldn't be with him. She divorced, and is now in love with a Nigerian, who's gone back to his wife, so she's waiting for him. In the meantime she's dating another Nigerian.

Week two She tells me she's a medium and talks to the dead. It doesn't surprise me - I guess they, like me, are a captive audience. I'd rather she didn't conjure up any ghosts in my house though. She says the Dyson will do her an injury so she brings her own Henry.

Week three: The first thing she says on arrival is: "I could kill me sister.." I sense a drama coming on and decide to absent myself. More cleaning gets done that way.

Week four: No show due to illness. Fair enough.

Week five: She brings a friend. Double trouble? More like Buy One Get One Free. They do twice as much cleaning for the price of one.

Week six: No show. Car broken down. Fair enough, but I wonder if she may be unreliable. We decide to give her one more chance.

Week seven: She brings her sweet Nigerian boyfriend. He's very shy and smiley but he doesn't mind the Dyson. Makes a good job of the hoovering.

Week eight: She is fascinated by Charlie, the artist, and stays a while after her shift to watch him work.

Week nine: (this week). Shows up late. Sweet smiley boyfriend has been arrested. He's currently in an immigration detention centre.

The saga continues. Watch this space .....

It is nice to have clean windows and dusted surfaces.

Two down

ONLY four to go... That's a third of the way through.

I can do this!

Still only a Class D hangover. No swingball this time on account of the weather but have found chocolate and Ealing comedies to be therapeutic.

Bought some new headgear on line - including this rather fetching little red cloche hat. Makes me look like a baroness from the roaring 20s - all I need now is a silver cigarette holder.

On steroids for three days. Among the listed side-effects are: excitability; delusions; euphoria; moon face; hirsutism.

Perhaps if I overdose on them the hair will grow back!

Any fool can wear a white coat

Just been to see my oncologist who was mysteriously absent so they sent someone from the subs bench out instead. Someone who appears to have missed out on her basic training.

After telling me I was 'fine' she said: "have we taken a blood sample from you today?"

I told her they'd done one yesterday and should by now have the results, hence the purpose of my visit. She went away to find them, came back and told me once more I was 'fine'. Begs the question - how did she know the first time if she hadn't looked at the results?

She also asked me if I had my next chemo booked in. I told her it's tomorrow, hence the purpose of my visit.*

Not sure she even knew who I was let alone how I was.

Not convinced she knew what she was doing .....

She finished off with: "You're fine.. off you go," and with an exaggerated flurry of the hand, dismissed me.

Some doctors are almost autistic in their lack of people skills. Actually that's unkind to people with autism.

Meanwhile the World Cup may be over but not in our street. Someone's bought the neighbour's kids a vuvuzela. It'll be b flat major all summer..



* Before each chemo you go for blood tests then see the oncologist to get the results and check you are fit for the next chemo.

The artist's way

Charlie (the artist): "Look at my ear."

me: "Your ear's not very interesting."

Charlie: "You can't concentrate for two minutes. You agreed to sit for me so you must be prepared to go through some pain, so sit STILL and look at my ear."

me: "You could at least have got some piercings."

Charlie - looking at picture and shaking his head: "This is going to be a bit intimidating,"

Me: "For who?"

Charlie: "For people looking at it. It's a bit Freddy Krueger."

Great.

He's coming back today for a second sitting. Here is the painting so far. It's NOT flattering!

Paranoid

First time out in public wearing a wig and EVERYONE can tell.

Today, I can read minds, and they're all thinking: "that's a wig!" Every single person's laughing at me - or worse - pitying me.

"It looks great" they tell me at the hairdressers. But they're lying.

Walking down the street on the hottest day of the year, I'm itching to pull the thing off. Then in the taxi with the windows open it's in danger of being blown away. I hang onto my head, and the taxi driver knows. He's thinking "keep your hair on!"

The woman in the wig shop said it would 'settle down'. I hope she's right.

Looking forward to four months time when my real hair grows back thicker than before.

Hair today

But at this rate it'll be gone tomorrow. It's coming out in handfuls.

Oscar has an annoying habit of shedding hairs everywhere, clogging up the Dyson. Now I'm adding to the problem.

Jo the hairdresser is on standby to cut it all off if it gets too much (or too little), but for now there's still enough attached to be viable, just. She will also style the wig for me. Hairdressers are used to this, apparently. There's a lot of it about.

Meanwhile while I still have hair Charlie the artist is coming round to paint me. He used to do mostly abstracts - like the one in the pic - but is diversifying into portraits and wants people to sit. When he asked he implied it might be onerous.

I can sit - I've got time on my hands - how hard can it be?

It'd better be flattering, though!

Angry middle-aged woman

To Messrs Cameron, Osborne (and Clegg),

It was NOT the public sector that caused 'this mess' NOR was it the Labour Government, it was your mates in the financial sector.

Penalise them, not us!

Attack the Civil Service at your peril. In so doing you are biting the hands that feed you. You need someone to implement your policies, such as they are. You will need someone to clear up your mess after the big bonfire is over.

It seems to me that you have come in, taken a superficial look at what's around, and decided to slash and burn all that you see. Anything built up by your predecessors must go.

And that is fine, because you wouldn't know what it's like to try to teach - or learn - in a crumbling classroom. I don't suppose that happened at Eton.

Coalition, my arse! This lot are more right-wing than Thatcher. Anyone who voted Lib Dem to keep the Tories out must be feeling well pissed off.

I think we should take to the streets, like they're doing in France, and bring this bunch of amateurs down. Give 'em a long hot summer of protest and see what they're made of.

Rant over! I feel better now. Have not felt this incensed about politics since the 1980s!

The music room

On Saturday my husband bought me a tambourine to cheer me up. Now I can accompany him on guitar! He is from a musical family, his Dad is an accomplished organist, his brother's a brilliant drummer, and JP of course is one of the best guitarists in the world.

All attempts to make me musical so far have failed. Of the many instruments in this house, three are officially mine; a violin, a penny whistle and a ukulele, none of which I can play. In the 80s, Jules and I once sang backing vocals for a Nottingham band called Big Day. (Remember them? No?). I can still recite the lyrics. Our lines went: "It's Friday night/too tired to face the crowds/where's your party dress?/you used to like your music LOUD!" Sadly Big Day never made it Big and they didn't ask us again!

Now percussion is a different matter because all you need is rhythm, so I have high hopes for the tambourine. And it seems to have worked, because things steadily picked up as the weekend progressed - I can almost feel those good cells multiplying.

Low

JP took two days off so we could go somewhere nice on the boat but I took a dip yesterday and felt too washed out to move much. Think it's the low red blood count. Starting to pick up a bit today.

My problems are nothing compared to Jane's. In the past ten years Jane has had three primary cancers and each time bounced back with renewed zest for life, looking amazing. Sadly in the last few months she developed a secondary which has now metastazied in her brain. There's no cure but she is researching available treatments and is looking at the possibility of cutting edge gamma knife surgery which has proved successful in treating multiple brain tumours.

We went to see her in the Derby Royal, where they are exploring all her options. She is being very brave in the face of such a devastating prognosis. The new hospital is impressive; light and airy with lots of private room provision and all single sex wards.

Meanwhile the list of breast cancer survivors I know is growing exponentially. It seems nearly every day I meet someone new who's experienced it. While mooching round Holland and Barretts recently I got talking to the store manager and discovered she had it seven years ago. She says to pop in for a chat any time I need support.