Stymied

Sweethearts in varying degrees, some of you negligible, do you know the link between codeine and bananas? No, it’s not potassium.

A postcard will not suffice. Send me a long letter.

Hugs and kisses,

U

Trust me – I am not a doctor

The Angel who is so healthy that anything untoward will send him straight to Google and prepare his deathbed asked for a second opinion (mine). I prodded (for about five seconds): “You’ll be fine.”

“Really, Mama? Fine? What’s the alternative?”

U

See you later

One moment you learn Liz Taylor has died. What do people expect? Con still waiting for whatever question I am supposed to answer (and I will), emails  and dishes stacking up, unlike Ramana who, naturally, always answers and washes both in a jiffy. Myself proud that I managed to reply to cousin wondering whether I am still with it. I am not.

And then to top it all I phone doctors’ practice. Appointment was 0920 (why they are so precise considering how long one has to wait  after appointed time does NOT beg question. Only contempt. Not that I mind: Who doesn’t welcome time to think when not expected to do anything? So come 0840 I am still in state (Jean and Cynthia will know what I am talking about – rubbish) I phone surgery. They will put you on Verdi’s four seasons whilst waiting. Season four (that’s winter) you’ll finally be able to report to receptionist how very sorry you are that you will not be able to make appointment to see doctor because I am TOO ill. Don’t tell me about self pity. Congratulate me on my survival skills. Receptionist grateful as to info. I am now booked in  a week from now. Let’s hope I’ll be fit enough by then to limp it over there.

U

Short

Sweethearts, let me throw myself at your collective bosom to bring me comfort: Yesterday I was sinking, today I am SHRINKING.

Had bone density scan this morning as part of which they measure your height. Make that shrinkage. Last time I measured my height, circa 1975, I am sure I stood 166 cm tall (that’s 5 ft 6) or at least that’s what I told the passport office.

Today I am 5 ft 4.5 in (163 cm). I ask you: When did those 3 cm slink off, unnoticed? I can only comfort myself with fact that doctor taking measurement was shorther than me and probably didn’t do it right, or maybe she wasn’t wearing her glasses.  I wonder how soon I’ll be Gulliver in the land of giants. Not that height matters to me. Particularly as, for reasons I don’t hazard to guess, people always think me much taller than I am; particularly when I am sat down.

U

PS Don’t worry about the bones. Rays revealed that I am pretty dense.

PPS   And how SHORT are you? I can see the line up now. Dear god in heaven: Con will be towering above the rest of the herd with GM deliberately sagging at her knees to make herself shorter than U (that’s me). BHB will plead need for wheelchair to beat us all or, if in contrary mood, she might climb on a chair to trump Con. In which case Jean will climb up a ladder. Daphne will fly off to the nearest branch to get a better view. Looney cops out by offering to take group photograph. And Ramana will strike a pose.

Order, order

Before I pen the second instalment of script “That Woman” – giving Con and GM time to go out and buy earplugs to blend out echo – a brief observation: There are projects which one regrets ever having started. Still, what goes in must come out as your mother will have told you on memorable occasion of you swallowing  a button. Before Conrad takes my swallowing  button as a four year old  as further evidence let me tell you: What exactly? Crap, I now have two options, no three: I can stay in neutral and say something along the lines of how much it did NOT hurt against all expectation; I could observe that I am not as tight arsed as some (which being below the belt is a no go area); the third – being so enchanted by my own voice – I have now forgotten.

Yes, the project: Five weeks ago I started sorting out old photos. Since I never do anything by halves (such an unfortunate trait) naturally every work surface, including the dining table, has been covered in photos and old letters ever since, to be archived into a system as yet evolving. Before any dent could be made into chaos I succumbed to that mother of all swine flus, quickly followed by its piglet. It basically wiped out a whole month. Now I am in recovery. I am normally so full of beans I can’t stand this floundering. Head held high dragged myself to doctor in vain hope of instant cure who told me to take it easy and REST. What does he mean ‘rest’? It’s what I’ve been doing.

Anyway, in between wondering at the miracle of being that woman of no name, this afternoon I used pocket of sudden energy to blitz. Oh did I blitz. At least we can eat in style again. If nothing else.

Don’t you love bones? Jean, being a dog lover, will no doubt know what I am referring to.

Mwah,

U

Doolally

Brief update:

Despite your assurances and my total and utter character defect of not knowing when to give up I can now confirm that red Bambi has gone to the big wide heaven where all staplers meet their forestaplers. On the upside I have found pages 489 to 490 of my Paperback Oxford English which will now allow me to look up and use words like monocolyledon, mop, mood and mother country. Mountain ash being a rowan tree.

Magpie being a continuing source of disappointment to me denies all promises he made to translate wisdom of Graf Herr von und zu Klutter, Monsigneur de Clutteur – the most noble of many a ghost in the loft. As I neither have a loft nor a cellar (not even a broom cupboard) I have now turned into my father’s daughter and am so organised, sorted and recylced I have just started tackling the last bastion of anyone staring their last will and testament in the face: Old letters and photographs. Oh dear. Phoned my mother this afternoon, inquiring whether it really was necessary to send THREE congratulatory cards on occasion of arrival of her grandson no.  3 (Apple of my Eye). Her being in grip of acute tooth ache I was not able to extract coherent answer. Did you know (how would you) that my maternal grandmother was one of the first female dentists in this country? Oddly, and my four year old self was baffled by this, when that ghastly drill went the way of her own mouth she immediately needed to go to the loo. It was my first introduction into the – to me – fascinating subject of how soma (body) and psyche connect and use each other to express mal content.

U