Yesterday got off to an overly dramatic start: *hunting growl* said one of the cats, and then vanished under my bed and made thumping noises for some time. "I hope that's not what I think it is," I thought but, of course, it was: when I went to look, there was a dead mouse! on my bedroom floor!
I know most cat owners are used to this sort of thing, but I've never been much good at it. I managed to get rid of the corpse by throwing an old teatowel over it and picking it up between the dustpan and the cat litter scoop, but I can't get under my bed to see if there are ... bits. And what if it had fleas?!
The NuCats are the most terrible little murderers, and once brought down a wood pigeon between the three of them. I suppose I was lulled into a false sense of security by the old cats, who weren't catching anything much at all toward the end of their days.
I miss the old cats. But I suppose it was nice of whichever NuCat it was - I suspect Molly, but it might have been the boy; Jenny would probably have eaten it outside - to bring me a prezzie.
It was a day of many gifts, as then the postman arrived, burdened with numerous items, including but not limited to:
- One (1) glossy brochure from the NatWest bank, showing me what my accounts have been doing through the medium of bar charts, pie charts, and any other kind of chart you care to imagine (the NatWest Bank: "WE'VE GOT EXCEL, AND WE'RE NOT AFRAID TO USE IT!!"). Dear NatWest Bank: did you use my money to produce this, by any chance? Did I say you could, or ask for it? I didn't think so. But I suppose you'll go your own way, whatever I say, so carry on.
- Three (3) nighties, which eBay claimed were cotton but turn out to be brushed cotton, or cotton jersey, and long-sleeved into the bargain - no good for hospital - but I can't be arsed to send them back. My optimum nightie for hospital is light cotton, short-sleeved or sleeveless, because hospitals are always too bloody hot, and - and this is important - ankle length so as to disguise those stupid pressure socks they force you to wear. This simple-sounding formula is surprisingly hard to fill. We may end up having to make our own. (I then looked at sewing patterns on eBay, and had hideous flashbacks to high school sewing lessons - our domestic science teacher was one of those bullying old ladies who put you off a subject for life - so I may just go without. After all, are my short, chunky little legs really anyone else's problem?) (Answer: no, but I am as much a slave to cultural conditioning as anyone.)
- One (1) letter from the Churchill which, at first glance, I took to be another reminder of my appointment for the 12th. On second glance, it turned out to be for another clinic, also on the 12th: the first one's at 10.05, and this one's at 11.00. Cutting it fine, there, Churchill. So, of course, I had to phone and check that this was okay, as I am not convinced that the Churchill's left hand always knows what its right hand is doing, in fact, I suspect that its left hand doesn't even know what its left hand is doing. I may be doing them an injustice. I hope so, they may be cutting me open again at some point in the future. Anyway: it turns out that yes, this is fine, so we'll see how it goes. How nice to be so in demand.
- One (1) copy of the senior consultant's letter to Dr Nicum, which scared me to death: I read the diagnosis as 'serious carcinoma'. When Judy got home, she took one look and pointed out that the word was actually 'serous'. Oh. Um. Okay, just one moment while I hand in my copy-editor's badge ... No carcinoma at all would be favourite, but I'll take what I can get.
- One (1) lovely get-well card from my YBP people (formerly colleagues, latterly customers - it's complicated) in New Hampshire, which they sent to Blackwell and Blackwell forwarded on, which gave me an excuse to ring my line manager and chat for 20 minutes or so. You would not believe how much, at this point, I wish I were well enough to go back to work;
- and one (1) cheque from the probate people in respect of my mother's estate. This is a godsend, and the timing couldn't be better: it's not a huge amount - not enough to retire in comfort and live on for the rest of my life, for example - but it's just over a year's salary, so it's a cushion. (I'm not being cold-hearted, btw: my mother was 94, almost perfectly healthy, if batty, and died quietly in her sleep last year. We should all be so lucky.)
Now I have the worry of figuring out where the best place is to keep the money - not, I think, down my bra front and, again, we should all have such worries. Maybe the NatWest can suggest something sensible, in between playing with their graphs.
I also had a phone call from the chest clinic to let me know that they'd made a new appointment for me - 18th October, which is a bit of a wait, but what the hell, I'll take it. My chest and back do hurt, and I'm very short of breath, but it's bearable. There are plenty worse off. Just look at just about anyone else's cancer blog!
Oh, and I ate two meals yesterday, where the value of 'meals' = 1 x sardines on toast and 1 x small omelette + packet of MicroChips. The sardines were in tomato, and I put mushrooms in the omelette, so there was even a vegetable element. Sort of.
Today I feel heavy and bloated which, again, is unpleasant. I suspect that the liquid they drained off my tummy during the laparoscopy has all come seeping back (well, not the same liquid exactly, but more of where that came from). I'm going to go and curl up around a pillow for the duration.
Just had a text from my brother to say that Michelle is out of theatre and they tell him her surgery went well. Fingers crossed for recovery - both, obviously, for their own sake, and because these are people I would be hard put to do without.
