�Hmm, not only can I not be arsed to go to the gym, I cant even be bothered to put on a pair of normal shoes when I go to the shops. However, I recognise that I am a big ole flabby lardarse. If I buy these Workout Slippers, it will not matter that it is 2 in the afternoon and I have yet to get dressed, I shall shuffle down the road to the Tesco Garage, purchase 10 B&H, a Ginsters pasty, a Wotsits multipack and two litres of Vimto and be back on the sofa before you can say �Jeremy Kyle Marathon�. All the while, my snuggly footwear shall be working its magic and I shall emerge, lepidopterally-speaking, from the cocoon of my own crumb-strewn front room, orange fingered and purple tongued, yes, but with the legs of Cyd Charisse! Oh, look! I am wearing yoga pants, too! Surely just the act of wearing them will cause me to be limber and willowy and my chakras will instantly align. This exercise lark is a doddle � don�t know what all the fuss is about!�
If you buy these, I will hunt you down. I will then take your stupid slippers off you and give them to my husband, who will wear them for a month. They will now be slightly greasy inside, their fur will be matted and grey. Shiny patches will have developed. You may then have them back IF you put your face right in them and give them a long hard sniff. Actually, no. You cant have them back even then. You can just sniff them and then go away again, empty footed.
Hello little pixelfriends! How are we all today? Im obviously feeling a little feisty. This is mostly because I have to confess that I was wrong about something and doing that actually properly hurts my heart. I am never bloody well wrong about anything. I change my mind sometimes, sure, but Wrong? Pshaw! The very thought!
Anyway, the thing that I was wrong about was Docetaxel, which is not the mild-mannered kindly-chemo drug I was bigging it up to be in my last entry. No. It is truly the drug of Satan and all his minions and it has been most royally kicking my arse since last Sunday. Not only has it been kicking my arse but it has also pushed me in the stinging nettles, told me my mum dresses me funny and made me eat a worm.
OH. MY. MUMMA-FUDGING. GOOD. GRAVY. I have been soooooooooooo ill.
Somebody (sorry, cant remember who) left me a note suggesting I ought not to be having a little drinky now and then and advising �alkalising and avoiding sugars� or something like that. I had to look that up because I wasn�t sure what alkalising might be � I don�t think we do such grown up things here in Englandshire, we tend to rely on a stiff upper lip, the occasional tot and a fried breakfast to rally us from almost all ailments. Anyway, that mystery commenter will doubtless be delighted to hear that I have not touched a drop of alcohol since well over a week ago. I also haven�t had any coffee or tea. This is mostly because Docetaxel has made EVERYTHING (that�s every drink, every morsel of food and anything else I might deem it necessary to put in my mouth) taste of ass. Tea tastes like a compost bin. Coffee tastes like a compost bin, with mud. Orange juice, fizzy pop, milk, squash and beer = ass. Whisky�.Im actually too scared to try some. My mouth�s sore inside and SOOOOO dry that lots of foods are completely off the menu (toast, crackers, bread, rice, tuna, cake, biscuits, chocolate � oh, bloody hell, there�s 100000�s of things) and everything I CAN eat�.yep, you guessed it, tastes like ass.
Added to that, Docetaxel does some weird shizzle to, well, to every bit of you really, so by last Sunday I also felt like I was being repeatedly shot, at point blank range, on my bare flesh, with a paintball gun. All over, in a random pattern (can a pattern BE random?) � so �shin, knee, rib, forearm, neck, shin, shin, foot, thigh, hand, face, rib, neck� etc etc until I cried. But that hurt as well so I had to stop. That particularly delightful sensation went on, day and night, until last Wednesday.
Then the fatigue kicked in � when even �having a bath� required half a day�s planning and a (really quite long) nap afterwards. That�s kind of ongoing, tbh, although I have dragged my arse to school yesterday and today and will deffo try to last the whole week, for my sanity if nothing else.
L and I had a bit of a chat, in which I convinced him to confess that he is not managing to look after me very well and that �at home� is not necessarily the best place for me to be when I am chemo-sick. I spoke to my mum and she has agreed that it might be best if I go over there for a couple of days after the next lot of chemo. L hasn�t ever really had to look after anyone when theyre sick � not even kids � and he�s proper rubbish at it. He tries, but he just doesn�t �get� how to do it and, well, he kinda makes you feel worse.
So, thats enough about that. There�s BOUND to be some other stuff I can share with you, huh?
Trouble is, L just came in from a pool match and is already questioning me at a rate that would leave an inquisitive toddler reeling: Can I get you a drink? Were you just going to bed? Did you have a nice bath? Onandonandonandon, without any kind of pauses in which I might�ummm�answer, perhaps?
����.There! he�s gone now. After asking me �can I get you anything� for the 4th time and me losing it and snapping �I HAVE BEEN HERE ON MY OWN SINCE 7 O�CLOCK, IF I WANTED ANYTHING DO YOU NOT THINK I WOULD PROBABLY HAVE GOT IT MUSELF BY NOW?�, he has gone to wash up.
Aaaaaand relax.
Sunday afternoon we went to Chichester again so Jooj could maybe try on a prom dress or two before deciding what she�d like me to make for her. There�s only two evening dress shops in Chichester � the first one we went in was FULL of chiffon, sequin-crusted confections with MASSIVE skirts, in all kinds of colours that don�t exist in nature. It was also full of orange teenagers with hair extensions. They were ducking into changing rooms with armfuls of tulle and emerging like My Big Fat Gypsy Rainbow. Jooj had Docs on and needed a hairwash. We�d been to Wetherspoons for lunch (smoked haddock and mozzarella fishcakes taste like ass! Who�da thought it?!) and she was full of burger and chips. Her face was ashen as she backed towards the door. �Not HERE, mum, PLEEEEASE�, she hissed.
So we went to the other place, where an absolutely charming couple talked us through �prom options for the edgier teen� (retro-cat! They have Iron Fist shoes!), before getting Jooj to try on a couple of dresses that she NEVER would have picked out for herself, but which all looked fabulous. She had her eye on a corset and mini-crini which was in the window and the ever-so-nice sales lady looked at Jooj, and at the window display, and back at Jooj and said �that colour (rose/gold) wont suit you AT ALL. Here! We have it in THIS colour! And produced the same outfit in steel grey.
It looked so fabulous that I bought it. I have saved myself some very long nights of sewing but I am quite a bit poorer in terms of actual cash money. Ah well. There�ll be photos for those that are interested��.but not til Prom Night!
GRRRRRR, Now L�s come in and put the TV on and is providing a helpful running commentary and disproportionately loud bursts of laughter. If I was blind, or the programme was a particularly pithy documentary needing clarification, I could understand the use of the commentary. But its a re-run of Family Guy. There�s just no need. I�ll have to finish this off later.
I have a fascinating geriatric birthday party to tell you about.