BrambleDigger's blog

The boy is back! (Well, most of him is)

2009-06-19T09:57:06Z

Greeting, one and all. All hail the return of the BrambleDigger. All gifts and cash offerings should be left in a LARGE pile on the table at the side of my chair. I still cannot bend down too far. Socks are bloody impossible, so my feet are all on show. By that, I mean that all of both of my feet are on show - not that all of my feet are on show.........I think? So - I'm out. Discharged on Wednesday, only 5 days and two hours after I was wheeled out of the Operating Theatre! I'm not home at the moment - because the hospital insisted that I had someone with me for the first few days, I'm staying with a friend and I'm very grateful to her for putting up with me. I'm working on a laptop, which is not the most comfortable of devices, with an 8" long scar from bellybutton to dangly bit (me - not the laptop) so the next few blogs will be on the short side (Thank goodness for that, I hear you say!) And have I got some stories for you - from the lady breeder of racing pigeons to the 'A' Level Work Experience Student who wanted to watch my operation – from the ex-military gentlemen demanding immediate attention (yes, there were two of them) to the farting contests with a little old lady in the corner bed. There is so much more to tell. However – the most important thing to say is that I'm assured the operation went well and there is no likelihood of the cancer returning. I'm in a bit of pain and I'm still finding the catheter a challenge but, for all you blokes worried (like I was) about the slice and dice, the operation was a breeze, I didn't find it too tiring because I was sound asleep, and the aftercare at Salisbury was fantastic. Thank you for all your good wishes and I'll write again soon. I'm a bit on the sleepy side now and need a brief doze. Much love Steve xx

Tis the night before Opening, and all through the house.............

2009-06-11T21:14:29Z

Hi Folks, It’s me again! Well no, that’s not quite right, is it? It’s always been me – never been anyone else. So, I suppose, it cannot be me again, can it? At the third stroke, the time from BT will be………….. So – here I am, sitting in front of this wretched machine – we’ve all got one and love or hate them to a greater or lesser extent – but still we use them and still we moan about them. Especially the updates – Oh dear me, especially the updates. Have you tried to install the latest one from Microshaft? It’s 14 items long and demands a reboot at the end. So? So, when you start loading the update, a little dialog box comes up in a very friendly manner, and gives you permission to carry on using your machine (YOUR machine, mind) while the update is installed. There’s nice of them, look. That’s exactly what I did. Last night, I started the update and then – stupidly – settled down to watch something on one of the many Catch-Up channels. I’ve said before that I don’t have a TV. I don’t believe in paying a silly amount of money for a TV licence, when I can see as much as I need on the internet. Whether that is morally correct is not an argument I want to have. The internet is a free source of material and, if the BBC didn’t want people to watch its free Catch-Up service, why spend £40m on a web site which allows you to do just that? Halfway through what I was watching, the update finished. Then, every ten minutes, another little dialog box popped up to remind me to restart the machine. It drove me to the point where I stopped what I was watching and did the reboot, just to get rid of the daft little pop-up! When it restarted, I couldn’t be bothered to carry on watching the film. Damn computers! Who’s a little Mr Grumpy, then? It’s Thursday night now – Tomorrow at noon, I have to be in Salisbury Hospital for the Grand Opening. Will there be a marching band and banners and ribbons? Will there hell. Oh no – but I don’t care. This time tomorrow, I’ll be rid of the nasty little cancerous bugger and good riddance. It’s been a very brief encounter with the C word, during which time I’ve made a load of new friends here (and made a few people laugh, I hope) and I want to come back and see you all again, when I get home in a couple of weeks. Will you have me????? Have you seen Debs lately? Buttercup’s Blog is looking good and is just as witty as the one she used to write here. Shame she seems to be having no end of trouble getting back on here again. If you need your daily fix of Debs and her recipes, stop by here http://debsdailydelibs.blogspot.com I’m off to my pit now – no more blogs until I get back home in a couple of weeks. Then I’ll bore you all with the gory details and some more insights into the daft way I see people – my hospital bed should provide a whole new raft of ideas. I’m taking a pen and paper – Salisbury, beware! See you all again soon Much love Steve xx

The Blood Donor team didn't want me - but everyone else had made their own plans!

2009-06-05T22:38:28Z

I knew today was going to be bad – and I was right. Not really bad bad – and not all day – the worse was the last part of this afternoon. Well, really only the bit at half past six, when the Donor Carer at the Blood Donor session told me that I would never – ever – be able to give blood again. I suppose I can understand the reasons why – they don’t really have a grip on whether cancer spreads through blood transfer – they don’t know a successful way of killing any cancer cells in donated blood – but it still hit a very raw nerve. Never mind – I went back home (with a bit of a tear in my eye, if I’m truthful) and decided that there must be other ways I can help people. Then I looked on this site, read the new comments and PMs that I’ve had over the past couple of days and discovered that I seem to be helping, just by writing about my day’s happenings. Perhaps I should start the Cross Chronicles – especially since Debs seems to have been banished into the internet underwear, with her poxy server and everything. Come back, Debs. We all miss your Daily Deliberations and it seems like some folk are going hungry because they don’t know what to eat unless you tell ‘em. There – egg risotto with eight-cheese sauce, deep-fried bladderwrack, lamb’s lettuce and sweet poached peacock testicles – Done! Continuing the “Couldn’t Make It Up” theme of recent blogs, much of the rest of my day seemed to swing from ‘Odd’ to ‘Odder’. It started with a phone call from a young lady who works for a well-known carpet supply company. She said that their man was waiting outside one of the ‘Big Houses’ that I look after and he needed to get in. Could I help? Always wishing to be nice, I said something along the lines of “Yes, of course I can help.” For some reason, this seemed to flummox the poor girl, because there was a very long silence, during which time my coffee got quite chilly. Then she realised that she was talking to a ‘SmartArse’ and she asked the question again, this time not giving me the chance to transition from SmartArse to Grumpy Old Git. “Yes, our man is waiting outside the House and would you unlock the place for him and let him measure up for the new carpet? Please?” Ever the gallant fool, how could I resist? Five minutes later, I’m standing outside the Big House, with the Carpet Man (How did I know he was the Carpet Man? He had piles! Boom, Boom!) Two minutes after that, I’m standing outside the Big House and the Carpet Man has done what he needed to do and has flown. Carpet – flown – flying carpet???? Oh, forget it. All that build-up just for two minutes......now where have I heard that before? Back to the office and a very brief meeting with The Accountant – he of the dull and boring ringtone (see yesterday’s First Aid Course blog) – who very nicely asked me if the firm would be paying me while I am off sick? Hang on – isn’t the Accounts Department supposed to know these things? The alarm bells started making very deep inroads into an already well-formed headache. I’m going to be off work for anything up to ten weeks, starting next Friday, and the Accountant doesn’t know if he should pay me! Oh Glory! We consult the Staff Handbook. It says nothing about sick pay, other than “…..payment of any amount other than SSP is considered to be discretionary and is confirmed in the individual’s Employment Contract.” We consult my Employment Contract and …….can you guess …..it says that sick pay is paid in accordance with the relevant chapters in the Staff Handbook. Then the music stopped, we changed partners, someone took away one of the chairs and off we went again. I left a very confused Accountant with the spoken words “Perhaps you should get this sorted out with The Boss.” And the unspoken words “I’d better get festering paid……Sunbeam ” Oh, that headache was coming up roses, alright! Thus did my day progress, lurching from grief to catastrophe, as is ever the way on a rural Estate. No – it’s not really that bad – but there are days when everything you plan is chucked straight down the pan by a series of unconnected events which all demand immediate attention. At odd points in the day, three separate people turned up for appointments they insisted I had made with them – and about which I had no recollection. They couldn’t all be wrong, could they? I’m losing my grip….(just wait ‘til after the operation – you’ll have nothing to grip, then. That’s for sure……) By the way, was it just my day that went from Morning to Afternoon, without that rather brief moment called Lunch? The period from 2 to 4:30 sped by, up until the point where I had a call from an engineer employed by one of our security services. He had to make some changes to the alarm systems on another Big House and needed me in attendance to confirm alarm codes and such. Now that’s fine; it’s nice to be wanted. But this was yet another appointment that everyone else but me seemed to know about. What was happening to me……cue spooky music and deep echo…..I’m entering the Twilight Zone..!” Down in the basement of this 17th Century house, the alarm engineer sets to work. He needs to talk to the security monitoring station, whips out his super-smart mobile phone and……..no signal. He asks me to check my phone – and, with the signal I got, I could talk to Australia if I wanted – so he uses my phone. More changes to the system and he still cannot use his phone – so out comes mine, again. And again……. OK – so maybe this isn’t so funny, but when I explain that the changes he was making involved adding a new bit to the alarm, so that it would still be able to call for help if the main phone line was cut – by transferring the outgoing alarm call to a mobile phone network….. …..the same mobile phone network that the engineer’s own phone was on……. …you will see why I was getting that little bit twitchy! Anyway – it’s fixed now. All it really needed was a longer bit of string, two more baked bean cans and some sticky-backed plastic. Life was so much simpler then………. “sigh”………. It’s nearly half past very late at night and I’m just off to my pit. This has been my last Friday, ‘intacto’. Only six more days until I get my very own catheter and I can’t wait. Tomorrow, I’ve got some plans to tidy up my garden. Take it from me – it’s gonna pour with rain! See you soon Much love Steve xx

The First Aid Course - properly, this time!

2009-06-04T22:32:14Z

Recipe Take thirteen people – 11 men and two girls – who have all worked with each other for years; add a trainer who has a specific subject to teach in a set timeframe; mix well with a large sprinkling of mickey-taking and laughter, together with an element of embarrassment and nerves. Cook gently in a sun-baked training room for six hours. Turn out when finished. The subject was Emergency First Aid and, for most of us, it was the second / third / fourth time we had taken it. (The course should be taken every three years at the moment, but that will change in October when it becomes necessary to attend Refresher Days each intermediate year). The start time was 9 o’clock and a good few made that the start of their day. Not Muggins here, though. With the prospect of an eight to ten week ‘holiday’ coming up, I have to get as much work done as I can, so that the guy who is keeping my seat warm has an easy ride. So – after my usual 7:30 start – I made my way through the country lanes to the training room in one of the farm complexes, about 8 miles from the office. The sun was shining, the birds were calling and it was going to be a great day. Usually, I enjoy training days, whatever the subject. I guess I enjoy being with people and watching what they do. I’m fairly comfortable with being me and don’t give a damn how others see me. There are some people who take themselves far too seriously, thought, and they are the ones I just love to watch. Our friends today included:- the Land Agent – from yesterday’s blog – trying to look cool in a pair of jeans and an open-neck shirt showing just too much of the chest wig. Oh and don’t forget the wrap-around designer shades, with some sort of bling on the side arms, the Gamekeeper – sporting a clean shirt and trousers for a change, not clothes smothered in deer or fox blood and other gore and slime (it’s a foul job, but one that needs doing on a rural estate. I am so very glad that his Lordship does NOT do fox hunting or game bird shooting – at all – ever! The Gamekeeper’s job is to keep the vermin from destroying crops and trees – and I am so very sorry, Bambi-lovers, but deer do destroy trees) two Foresters (father and son), hard, strong and with both with a wicked sense of humour and several chain saw scars (remember – it’s a First Aid course?) several Landsmen – tractor drivers, sprayers and seedsmen, all wearing their work clothes and boots because they start at daybreak and had mostly completed a full day before the start of the course, two office girls (both in their 40’s but I like to call them girls, it makes them giggle. Am I nasty?) Oh yes – and me. Sitting quietly – watching – and ready to report back to you lot. We got the housekeeping out of the way quite quickly and started on the course proper. Out came the Annies – life-size plastic dolls, but only head to abdomen, no arms or legs. At this point, I seemed to bear the brunt of all the jokes about dolls – and blow-up dolls – and “…..make the most of it while you can, Steve….” (do you get the picture? I’ve made no secret about my prostate operation next week, nor about the probable after effects.) I enjoy people taking the rise out of me – because it allows me to get my own back later on! And I did – with knobs on! The trainer was very good – demonstrating various stages of CPR and then getting us to practice on the Annies. Then we moved on to the various surveys we should carry out on the ‘patient’, in order to assess how much damage has been done. Now, I’ve worked in an office environment all my working life – and that started in October 1969. The worse injury I’ve seen is a bad paper cut – although I did seriously ruck the carpet in one office, when I slid the desk instead of lifting it! Even the ‘construction site’ side of my life has been very, very safe. Perhaps I’m lucky – or perhaps my ability to see the funny bits in life that others don’t has also helped me see risks and dangers that others don’t, as well. I’m not sure. We soon moved from working on the Annies to working on each other. In pairs, we surveyed bodies, assessed risks and checked for further damage on shoulders and chests, hips, arms and legs. For some reason the two girls stayed together. I said I would be very gentle, but they still declined. No spirit of adventure, these youngsters! Getting our partners into the Recovery Position seemed impossible to achieve without a great deal of hilarity and some minor name calling. Of course, it had to happen – when you have six pairs of people working on the floor in a fairly small space, with the instructor walking around the room making sure all is well, someone will get trodden on. I’m sure the swelling on my finger will go down soon. (and yes, it did go in the Accident Book!) The rest of the morning followed much the same pattern – watching the instructor then repeating the same on our partners. Pretty standard stuff. At one point, we started talking about previous accidents suffered by members of the class – with scars being gleefully exposed for all to see. Perhaps it is as well that this course took place before my op, and that I’m not having a perineal incision. “Come and look at this, girls!” No – I don’t think so. When’s lunch? With sandwiches and curious pancakes rolled around mayonnaise with tiny bits of meat (are they called wraps?), crisps and cakes (really healthy) all dutifully consumed, we started on part 2, with the gory pictures of cuts and fractures, amputations and burns and many other vomit-inducing images. Why after lunch? Then we were sent out to get the first aid kits from our vehicles. Although mine isn’t a company car, the firm still provides a lot of safety gear, including my first aid kit. I’ve had it for….oh…….two and a half years? Before I took it into the training room, I thought I’d better take it out of it’s plastic wrapper! We went through the contents and discarded all the stuff that was out of date – that would be most of mine, then! Anyone want a nice green lunch box? Then it happened – the inevitable – a phone rang. Loud and slightly …….. well, you know they say that dogs look like their masters? Well, I believe that the same can be said of ringtones on telephones. Mine, for instance, is a really up-beat salsa number. Our office Accountant – all drab, dusty and boring – uses a slow and very dreary fugue by Bach. Echoing around the training room, the mobile phone rang on, using the crowing of a cock. Eventually the Land Agent answered it…didn’t you just know it was his? Of course, he couldn’t silence it, or tell the caller he was in a meeting. Oh no. He had to take the call – he’s quite an Impotent Person (sorry – typing error – that should have been Important?) Up he gets and walks out of the training room and, for some reason, we are drawn to the window. We can’t help but watch as he struts up and down outside in the sun. Up and down – up and down – up and ….. is that why they are called mobile phones? The day is coming to a close and we canter swiftly through choking and epilepsy, diabetes and sunburn, drowning and log-rolling (yes, really! It’s where you have to turn a seriously injured person over, using six people, without causing more damage to spine or neck) The final bell and it’s chairs on desks time, a quick home-time prayer (only readers over 50 will remember those) and back to the office at half past three. Except I’m the only dipstick who goes back to the office. The other three, who work out of the same office as me, beggar off home! Life’s not fair…. Tomorrow is Friday and I am supposed to be giving blood – except I’m persona non grata now. But I’m going anyway, just to say goodbye – and get a free bag of Hula Hoops. Thank you for being patient Much love Steve xx

The First Aid Course

2009-06-04T20:12:07Z

I'm so very sorry, my friends. I'm having a really black evening for some reason. I've been writing for an hour or so and just binned it all because I wasn't happy with it. Can't blame chemo-brain - can't even blame booze - I'm just a bit down. No - I'm a lot down! However - like Tigger - I'll bounce back. Soon, I hope. Thank you all for the fantastic comments on the recent blogs - I love writing and I love entertaining you. I just cannot do you all justice right now. Much love Steve xx

Hump Day

2009-06-03T22:54:22Z

Today was Hump Day. Not that I was asked to feed the camels at work. They wouldn’t trust me to do it, even if we had any. It’s just ….. well, Wednesday is the hump of the week, isn’t it? Just a normal scabby day, really. Not much to interest anyone, unless you happen to like maintaining old cottages and farm buildings – that’s what I do to make the days pass. I work for two rural landowners and look after all their buildings; 154 cottages, 6 working farms and three Grade 1 listed stately homes. All surrounded in thousands of acres – sorry hectares – of Hampshire / Dorset farmland. The sun has been blazing down, I’ve been out of the office most of the day and all is well in my world….. Until……. I had to go to a meeting to discuss the problems I have been having with Estate water mains. There was the Estate Land Agent and his assistant, the water company’s Billing Manager and his assistant, the water company’s External Operations Manager (no puns there about operations being internal, please. Just be grateful, his job title used to be Underground Manager – even worse) and his sidekick. And little ol' me. Best bit of the meeting was that the Land Agent brought some chocolate biscuits along. “There’s lovely,” I thought, until I found out that he had raided the office petty cash and put them down on the slip as “…stationery.” With him, though, it should have been “…stationary”. **the way I remember it is that the stationery for paper and stuff is the one spelt with an e for envelopes. The other one is for things that don’t move – like Land Agents** After the meeting, the Land Agent decided he wanted to look at some of the problems I have been experiencing with water mains (not water works, that’s something else and ….hang on a minute…I’ll be right back………….) Sorry – had to go. Where was I? Oh yes…..off we go on a tour of part of the Estate. Not for us, the tedium and drudgery of the tarmacadam public roads that you plebs use. Oh no! Those of us who work for the Landed Gentry have our own private network of lanes and tracks. I could, if my car could stand it, travel the eight miles north to south and the ten miles east to west of ‘my’ Estate and only do about 500 yards on public roads. Anyway – off we go in convoy. The Land Agent in his big 4x4 – the Water Board blokes in their big 4x4 – and me in my Fiat. Bugger the Ozone Layer! (I don’t mean it – please don’t complain) Hang on........Look again at the sequence – big 4x4, big 4x4….and me. Along dry, dusty gravel tracks. Mile after mile….. I started out with the sunroof open and all of the windows down, happy as Larry (whoever he is). That lasted about 30 seconds. First the windows came up – still the dust came in. Then the sun roof got closed – I start to swelter in the heat, so on goes the air conditioning. By this time, my dark blue car is a sort of grimy yellow under a layer of all the dust that the other two are kicking up. I’ve got the wipers going, the screen wash going, the air-con going and my temper ….. going! Just another day at the office??? Bah! Humbug! I’m looking forward to tomorrow. It should be a fantastic source of stories to tell you all. I’m going on a First Aid course! Another one – we are sent every three years. It’s mostly for people who work away from an office environment, what they call ‘Lone Workers’. The idea is that if we have a heart attack, we can call for help and then resuscitate ourselves. I’m going to ask if we can learn basic surgery. I just might be able to deal with my prostate myself and cut out the middle-man, so to speak! I’ll tell you how I get on, tomorrow evening. Much love Steve

You Couldn’t Make it Up – Part 2

2009-06-02T20:14:42Z

After yesterday’s long epistle, I thought I would leave the actual clinic story until today. Give you all a bit of breathing (and in Carolannt’s case, peeing) space, as it were. The clinic was quite bland compared with the journey up there but – as befits a great National Health Hospital – Salisbury could still spring a few surprises. Marly asked about parking at SDH (Salisbury District Hospital) and was surprised when I found a parking space so easily. The reason is that there are acres of parking and even more space around to allow the hospital to develop It is new-ish and build on top of a hill, just south of the city, with open farmland all around. They also charge an arm and a prostate to park – but I don’t find that a problem. I’ve got a job and I’m not going there that often. That sounds really condescending, but it’s not meant to be. I am very lucky that I don’t have any debts, I pay my rent on time (alright, that’s a whole load of money, but I’ve got to live somewhere) and what’s left over in the bank is mine to do with as I wish. It is a problem, however, for the patients and visitors who go there every day – sometimes twice or three times a day - or have to park for long periods. I know parking charges bring in a good lump of cash for the hospital – and those of us who live within the SDH catchment are fortunate to have such a good hospital – but there must be a better way. Over to you Mr Politician. No more serious stuff for now – back to the clinic. When I sat down, like a good little boy, I found myself next to a pile of new magazines, mainly Woman, Good Housekeeping, Hello, and many other periodicals with a feminine slant. Not one car mag, aeroplane mag, even gardening mag (although I’m not a gardener, anything would have been nice during the hour-long wait) I was also sitting facing the biggest television screen I have ever seen in my life. It was huge….shiny gleaming with chrome…..massive………..and off! I spy with my little eye……….Have you ever played that on your own? You either win every time – or lie and make the other you have another go! Or you cheat and change the thing you’ve seen, but you always get found out! I thought about going for a walk, but I didn’t think I would be able to find my way back easily without unwinding a ball of string as I go. Anyway, I left the string in the car, today. If I got lost, I might miss my place. At least they didn’t have those numbered ticket dispensers you see in some clinics. I remember going to one hospital – it might have been Bournemouth – and the wait was so long I dozed off. When they called my number, I snapped awake, jumped up and ordered half a pound of honey-roast ham and a piece of Stilton! Back to Salisbury – the wait came to an end when the nurse called my name and off we went into a small consulting room. Now we went through all the basic housekeeping which ensures that I will not wind up having the wrong operation – having bits removed that I still need or having things inserted into places where they really would not normally be welcome. The two MRSA swabs were fun. As you all know, you stuff one up your nose and the other one into your groin. The nurse wouldn’t help with either one. Spoilsport. Then the urine sample. She handed me a bottle, about three inches long and an inch across – then asked me if I could manage or did I need a funnel. I really didn’t know how to take that…….did she mean that I seemed so infirm, my hands would shake and I’d splatter all over the floor? Suddenly I understood – she thought I was hung like the proverbial pit pony and……… Moving swiftly on, we did the blood samples for cross-matching and so on. I told her my blood type and explained that I was a blood donor. “Hmmm, sorry,” she said. “You probably won’t be allowed to do that again, I’m afraid. They might not want you, now.” Funny, but that hit me very hard. I’ve enjoyed my Tony Hancock experiences. (Go on, just add a comment if you know what the hell I’m talking about. Let’s see how many of you have lied about your age!) Then we were done. I had to wait to see another nurse who would explain all about the admission next Friday, the surgery and how I would feel afterwards (I already know that one – festering sore!) I went back into the waiting area and sat facing the TV again. This time it was on; it was the Tricia Kilroy-Silk Opera or something, people shouting and swearing at each other, accusing each other of all manner of sexual antics and dishonour; shouts of “Bring on the DNA. Bring on the DNA.” as if it was some kind of punk-rock band. In the words of a grand old stager of radio….”Is it me?” Not for long the dire daytime TV – my name was called and another small consulting room beckoned. More questions about who I was and did I know why I was there. Then came the first obstacle. The nurse described the incision as being from belly-button down. “No,” said I. “That’s not what it said on my letter – it’s supposed to be a perineal incision.” “Oh dear – we haven’t done one of those in years. I go and check.” And off she went. Now let me say, quite clearly, that I didn’t want a perineal incision in the first place (or the second place, come to that.) I had set my heart on a damn great scar and I was bloody well going to get one. I just felt a bit miffed that they could send out a letter with the wrong information on. What if I was a model / stripper / porn star? I wouldn’t want a festering great scar running down my abdomen, would I? My modelling career would be completely finished. Come to think of it, whatever scar they leave, my days of being a porn star are over, anyway. Which way is the Job Centre? Back she came. “No, sorry, the incision will be down your abdomen.” Secretly I breathed a sigh of relief. In a pub, I could now roll up my shirt, brag about how long I was on the operating table and display the badge of honour, a six-inch scar running down from my belly button. Imagine doing that with a perineal incision! I’d have to stand up and drop my trousers and knickers, put one leg on the table, lift what was left of my tackle up out of the way so that everyone could see the scar, and then they would probably need a magnifying glass. Getting dressed again might be a bit of a problem – depends if the landlord throws my trousers out as well as me! Back in the consulting room, we discuss pelvic floor exercises. I’ve now got a leaflet telling me why I need to do them and how to do them correctly. No pictures but loads of words. One classic line is “…imagine you are trying to stop yourself breaking wind….” Now that WILL be a new experience! I’ve also got a leaflet about the catheter and bag. I don’t know why but this is the one element of the whole operation that really gives me the most worries. But I’ll deal with it – somehow. Then the nurse told me one final gem of information – one that made me giggle for the rest of the journey back to work. It made me think about it all afternoon and, worryingly, I couldn’t wait to get home in the evening and try it out. But it was strange. I tried it dry, but that hurt, so I ran myself a bath and did it soaking wet. That was better, but the bubbles kept getting in the way and messing it up. Then I pulled the bath plug and turned the shower on – that was it. That was the way to do it. I tried a heart shape, a triangle – even tried a landing strip. In the end though, it all had to come off – I wasn’t going to let some young slip of a nurse shave MY pubes. I’d probably make a right fool of myself! That was yesterday – tonight, I’m sitting at the PC and it’s itching like blazes. How do you girls put up with it? PMs only please!!!!!!! More soon, Much love Steve

You couldn’t make it up………really you couldn’t!

2009-06-01T21:25:44Z

I’ve always thought that I’m a wordsmith – a bit of a writer (although I have no idea which bit!) People that know me well certainly say that I’m an Artist – but they usually precede the word Artist with another word, far too rude to place before your tender young eyes. However, I’ve had the kind of day that just could not be imagined. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin……. Last night, I had set the alarm for 07:00 this morning – my reasoning was simple. Get up at 7 – then a leisurely shower. Leave home at 8 and be up in Salisbury Hospital car park well before 9, my allotted time for the Pre-Operative Assessment Clinic. I hate being late – I would far rather be early and get my breath back. I needed to find this particular department, so I allowed myself a bit extra ‘Getting Lost’ time. The first part of the morning went like clockwork! The alarm chirruped and the shower doused my fit, tanned and extremely well-toned body with steamy hot water. (At this point, you may need to re-read line 1). Anyway, back in the bedroom to rummage for clean socks and nether garments. In the drawer they are, all neatly laid out in rows of ascending shade and colour (Yeah, right). As I pulled the second sock on, the blighter split at the heel. Hop across the bedroom and find another pair of black socks. All my socks are black. It confuses the hell out of the washing machine, because no matter how many go in, I can always pair my socks up when they come out, because they are all the same length and all the same colour – black! Except for the brown ones. And that odd tartan pair that Great Aunt Emmie gave me for Christmas 1988. Sorry – I got carried away for a moment. Clean socks and other bits on, the next decision is whether to throw on a pair of jeans, then come home after the hospital trip and change into my work gear – or start off smart, just in case I’m late getting back. I cannot go to work in jeans – the boss would flip completely. Posh frock it is – time is ticking on and I need to be out of the house at 8 on the dot. Shall I have breakfast? No – because they are bound to check the weight I wrote on the form, and I did take a tiny weenie liberty with a few odd ounces! A quick trip to the bathroom just to help the weight down and – at two minutes to 8 – I leave the house. Unlock the car, sit down, key in the ignition switch and……..nothing. Just to be on the safe side, I try again. Nothing. Then, because it hasn’t turned over twice before, I try again – because it is sure to start this time, isn’t it? Hah! Snowball – hell – hell – snowball. You know how it goes! Think – what now? I know! I’ve got one of those power-pack things – if only I could remember where it is……. In the garage? Open the squeaky door (why don’t I keep the car in the garage?) and …….no, it’s not there. Run at full speed back home (please re-read line 1) and open the cupboard under the stairs – and voila! There it is………completely discharged from the last time I used it, two years ago! No hope there, then! Back to the car again and try the key (because, of course, the Flat Battery Fairy has paid me a visit, charged the battery and left me 50p on the seat) Nope. The only thing on the seat is a rather faded stain which could well have been from the curry pasty I had a couple of weeks ago – at least, I hope that’s where it was from. No - the wretched car simply refuses to turn over (for those who have even the remotest interest in cars, it’s a Fiat which, I am assured, stands for Fix It Again Tomorrow) Then, that moment when the light dawns like the sun shining through the burgeoning clouds of doom across a rainswept valley……….. (Get on with it, man!) The car is parked on a slope. It’s a downward slope and the car is facing down it. That means…….that I can pop it into gear with the clutch in, turn on the ignition and, at the finely judged moment, release the clutch and ……presto. The car starts and the journey can commence. Yay and a swift dance around the car to Radio 4’s Today programme. (Don't knock it untill you've tried it!) A quick check at the time and I’m 15 minutes behind schedule. Still, 45 minutes from home to Salisbury? Piece of cake! Sadly, the other drivers on the road had not read my tightening timetable. Every driving dipstick with no eyes and only half a brain – get out of my damn way, I’m in a hurry to get to the hospital – was parked across the precise piece of road that I wanted – no, needed – to be on. Especially the dozy lady in the maroon Ford Fiesta Zetec, who clearly had NOT read the owner’s manual well enough to know that there were more than three gears in her car and just because she wanted to drive at 30 miles an hour in a 40 / 50 / 60 mile an hour area, there were others who damn well didn’t. Hmmmmm! Anyone who knows the 17 mile road from Ringwood to Salisbury will be able to confirm that there are only three places where it is safe to pass a slower vehicle. There are loads of floral tributes at the roadside where people have tried to prove otherwise, but there really are only three. And every festering one had traffic coming the other way! Not for all the other twisty, winding, unsafe bits. Oh no! Just the three safe passing bits. But there was one saving grace – because of the lady in the Ford Focus Zetec, I drove past one of those camera cars, Road Safety Vehicles they’re called, at 21.5 miles an hours – in a 50 zone. I drove past so bloody slowly, I could see the bloke inside the van, laughing like a demon! But no speeding ticket for me this time, thank you very much, Mr Nice Policeman. Time was ticking, but I knew that, at the next set of traffic lights, Zetec Lady would carry straight on to her shopping destination in Salisbury and I had to turn left to get to the hospital – and then she indicated to turn left towards the hospital and my world began to turn in very slow motion. Four minutes to nine and I’m two minutes (and a lady in a Ford Focus Zetec) away from the car park….. Two minutes to nine and I swing my trusty steed into the public car park, got a ticket from the lovely barrier machine thing……..and……….and………hunt for a space. Quick – over there – next to that gap in the hedge that I can squeeze through and save a few seconds off the sprint (please re-read line 1) to the hospital building. Salisbury is one of those hospitals where, no matter where you go in, it is never anywhere close to where you need to be. I entered on Level 2, I needed Level 4. Don’t take the lift, they are always slow – use the stairs. The stairs are closed for cleaning, or the Bank Holiday, or someone’s birthday or something – take the lift. Step out of the lift at Level 4 and it’s just after 9 o’clock – not too bad, but where the heck is the Pre-Operative Assessment Unit? Aha! A sign, follow the arrows……(don’t you dare do the “Arrows? I didn’t even see the Native American Indians!” joke, Drew. I know your sense of humour) Then the markings ran out, just as I got to what I thought was the end of Level 4 / my tether / the world. (delete that which does not apply) Then a lovely lady pushing a trolley took pity and asked if she could help. “Pre-Op Assessment?” I asked, hopefully. “Just there, dearie,” she said, pointing to the green double doors there beside me, with Pre-Operative Assessment Unit, emblazoned right across them in three inch high letters. “…..and the ophthalmic unit is two floors above and off to the left.” With that, she left me standing there. Some people can be very hurtful. Finally, just after five past 9, I approached the reception desk, quaking with fear and trepidation. I wiped on my very best, super-smarmy smile and apologised for being a bit late. “That’s alright, love,” said the receptionist. “We’ve only got two nurses on today, so we’re running about an hour late. Take a seat” Needless to say, I did as I was told. Thank you for getting this far – I said you couldn’t make it up. Much love Steve

Almost there.....

2009-05-30T09:56:07Z

Well, I might not be a regular poster at the moment (although I do have All Bran for breakfast every morning), but I would like to share the start of the end of my cancer with you. Monday is Pre-Op day – a trip to Salisbury for all the form-filling, prodding and poking that, I’m told, is vital for the safe completion of my operation. I’ve got to be there by 09:00 – do you think I’ll be able to swing a whole day off work? I’ve started to read through the booklets and fill in the questionnaires – and I would like to share just a few of the wackier thoughts spinning around in my poor, underused brain. Before anyone complains – I know I’ve taken them all out of context. I just think they are fun. Firstly – my scales are wrong! I cannot possibly weigh that much! Perhaps it’s all the dust that seems to have accumulated on them since I last ventured their way. Bugger – no! I’ve given the scales a dusting with a wallpaper stripper (I said it had been a while) and changed the batteries – but I’m still £$% stones and *& pounds. Can’t be right, can they? Next – on to the booklet, from the hospital, which takes 12 A5 pages to explain the anaesthetic and the effects on my poor old body thereafter (perhaps not too much of the ‘old’, please) . I know we all have the right to know everything that’s going to happen to us – and we all have the right to make informed choices – but I just want to sleep. If a complete stranger is ferreting around in my lower abdomen, hooking out my prostate and making me – I hope – much better, I really do not want to know about the finer detail. I’ve seen the video – and wished I had changed channel! Dreamland for me, please, and the sooner the better. Next, a lovely little pamphlet about the day of admission. Salisbury Hospital has this glorious place called the Surgical Admissions Lounge (it’s on the second level of Heathrow Terminal 5, just past the Duty Free area and the KFC stand) It is where all the frightened people gather to find out when they will be taken to theatre. I’m not taking the mickey, it’s a good idea. Better than sitting by your bed in a ward full of people who have already had their operation and really don’t feel like talking to a bloody newcomer who still has the chance to escape. The list of things I need to take with me includes a nightie and something to entertain myself whilst I wait. Now, at this point, I had all sorts of ideas – most of them far too rude to share here – but I thought about taking a copy of Playboy and making the most of it – because I sure as hell won’t be able to enjoy myself that way AFTER the operation! At least, not for a while……! Something I hadn’t appreciated was that, although I will not be able to eat for six hours before my admission time, I can drink clear fluids, like tea or coffee, up to two hours before the op. Clear fluids? Now then, where did I put that bottle of vodka? Apparently, if I arrive early for my appointment, I do not go into the Surgical Admissions Lounge. I have to go into the Discharge Lounge. This brought several pictures into my tormented mind:- 1) Someone walking around the lounge, letting off a shotgun 2) Hundreds of tired travellers waiting for their baggage to appear on carousel 3 Or 3) A room full of people with various orifices oozing mucus and pus (I said my mind was tormented) Could it, perhaps, mean that the Nurse will come up to me and usher me out of the door, telling me I’m all better and that they would be sending a letter to my doctor? Can’t you see it – an endless circle of admission and discharge – a relentless tide of patients, head down and shoulders slumped, shuffling round and round and round and………. Another amusing bit of guidance is halfway down page 7. To fully appreciate this gem, I need to explain that my operation will involve a perineal incision (you girlies who have had babies will probably know about this – blokes will need to use Google) The advice I have in front of me is that – for 48 hours after the operation – I should not ride a bike! The last page carries an absolute diamond. Not in what it says – but what it doesn’t say. I quote “If you have a wound, you will be told how to look after it.” What it doesn’t tell me is how many times I should feed it, whether it will need house-training, if it wants to go out alone – or with a group of friends –am I being unreasonable in insisting it’s back home by 10pm and – most important – will it scare the burglars away? Answers on a fifty pound note, please. That’s it for now – I’m off to polish my saddle. Much love Steve

The Journey gets more .......interesting??

2009-05-21T21:30:15Z

Back again - did you miss me? No - I didn't think so ;-( Well, the next part of my journey has been confirmed. I'm to go under the knife on Friday 12th June. A quick radical prostatectomy in my lunch break and, according to my boss, I'll be back at work in no time......yeah, right! Has he any idea? Not a bit. Others in the office are more in tune. They keep popping in to see me, just to make sure I'm OK. It's very nice, but a bit of a distraction. It's when I'm at home - on my own - that the gremlins hit me. (Check back a few blog posts and you'll see what I mean) At work, with all that's going on and everything I've got to get under way before I get sliced and diced, the concentration keeps my head in order - just! Now, at least, I can see an end to my problem. Strange, isn't it? I have a problem. Six or seven months ago, I didn't have a problem. Now I have a problem. Soon, this little prostate of mine will come out and my problem will be all over - apart from dealing with the possible aftermath of incontinence, impotence and a bloody great scar above my bikini line - how will I ever pose on the beach again ;-) I'll be cured - like a well hung ham..........Wait! Hold on to that image.......! But just think of the rollercoaster ride....last year, no cancer - this year, cancer - next year, no cancer (I hope). I will be able to wear that badge that says 'I'm a cancer survivor' - but I've done nothing! Not battled, not had to take huge quantities of Chemo, not been microwaved. Nothing - just a long sleep while they rummage around my abdomen, then six weeks off work. I know I've been lucky and - perhaps - speaking too soon. Who knows what else they will find when they open me up - but I really am feeling a bit of a fraud. Many of you have suffered for years - been members of this site for years. Me - I joined in March and here I am in May, waffling on about a cure. I read the other blogs and I feel so deeply guilty that, after 12 June, I'll need no more treatment and yet lots of you have been undergoing chemo or radiotherapy for ages - with no end in sight. Just where is the fairness? But it's not my fault, is it? I have what I have. It can be dealt with. It could have been so much worse for me...... Sorry. I'm beginning to go into dark places again. Why me? Why have I been spared? So many of you are........ I'm so very sorry....... I need to handle this my way..........but I promise - after my op - I'll come back and try and help anyone else I can. Much love Steve

Christchurch / Ringwood / Lyndhurst / New Milton

2009-05-09T19:57:36Z

This might be strange - might even be ban-able - but I don't care! I have spent all day today - and will spent all day tomorrow (Sunday 11th May) directing parking at my employer's stately home! The gardens (all 30 plus acres of them) are open to the public, just for this weekend. If you are anywhere near, come and have a look - bring a picnic and spend all day wandering around the beautiful landscaped grounds. Admission is £5 per adult and all the proceeds go towards the upkeep of the village church. Please say Hi - I'm the big bloke in the yellow hi-viz jacket directing traffic in the car park. Where is it? Hinton Admiral - on the A35, east of Christchurch. Open from 11:00 to 5:30 tomorrow - Sunday 11th. See you there Much love Steve xx

Am I doing the right thing………?

2009-05-04T02:48:20Z

Well, I never expected to be posting like this. It is 6 minutes past two in the morning on Bank Holiday Monday, a time when all normal mortals in the New Forest are tucked up nice and cosy in their leafy burrows. Steve, as you can see, is not. I am sitting at the keyboard of my faithful old computer, waiting for the paracetamol to take away the mother of all headaches, caused by yet another session of Australian Shiraz. Yup – it was self-inflicted and I’m not after sympathy. I had a great Sunday, got invited to have Sunday lunch with friends in Salisbury and had a really wonderful afternoon and evening with them, watching them get through beer and wine and brandy, while I enjoyed the best of Adam’s Ale. No – I’m not TT, it’s just that I will NOT drink and drive. When I was younger, (a lot younger!) I killed two cars and nearly killed myself, by driving when I was so drunk I shouldn’t even have been allowed to walk. So I believe that it will be third time unlucky for me. For the last twenty odd years, if I have car keys in my pocket, then I will not drink. (Hang on a minute while I polish the halo……..) But when I got home, the wine box came out while I sat and caught up with the outside world by reading all my e-mails…….sorry, both my emails. Interesting, though. One was for a product which absolutely guaranteed to give me the biggest erection ever seen (That will be useful – I’m having my prostate removed soon) and the other was for a website which offered ladies who would ……… OK, enough said. Nothing new in either of those e-mails. We all get them and we all dump them or our anti-virus software dumps them for us. But it was enough to start me thinking. (that in itself is a dangerous condition for me to be in) Couple that with the wine and I spiralled down into that black place again……….. The question that I kept asking myself is….Am I doing the right thing? To recap, I’m a 56 year old bloke, living alone on the edge of the New Forest. I have been diagnosed recently with locally-advanced prostate cancer – and I have maintained, ever since PC was a possibility, that the prostate should come out. I’ve written it before on this blog – cut the beggar out and be done with it. But last night, I got to thinking. ….. At this point, dear Reader, I am about to take you on a journey into a bloke’s psyche – you might want to switch over and see what’s on the other side. You have been warned………! As a young man, there are only two things that are important – the size of your car and the size of your penis. Sadly, that ridiculous state of affairs is often carried through into adulthood, with a bloke fretting about the size of his ‘best friend’ all through his twenties, thirties and beyond – peeking over at the man next to him in a public toilet, or gawping with disbelief at the massive display exhibited by the super-studs in the porn movies. In exactly the same way that ladies fret about the size of their boobs or their bums (and all you girls have done it at some point in your lives!), blokes worry about the size of their appendage. Not that there is much you can do about it – I don’t believe a word of those penis growth e-mails – and anyway, it’s not what you’ve got, it’s the way that you use it. But – and here, if you will pardon the phrase, is the rub – am I doing the right thing by saying that the prostate must come out? Consider……. At 56, I hope I have another 20-something years left in me. Prostate cancer is not an aggressive beast and probably takes 15 – 20 years to get to a point where life is threatened. So, I could just leave the cancer alone – keep the prostate – and be able to have an erection if ever I need one (Note the word ‘if’, not ‘when’ – if nothing else I’m a realist!) I would still be …..(big roll on the drums and clash of cymbals…)…’A Man’ However – if I have surgery to remove the little devil – there is a chance that I will suffer from a bit of incontinence (I can live with that – and anyway, it’s not for too long) and there is also a very strong chance that the nerve bundles each side of the prostate will be damaged and my ability to have an erection will be compromised. So the question I’ve been pondering is this:- Have the surgery (get rid of the cancer – and probably get rid of the ability to stand up and be counted) Or Not have the surgery (keep the cancer, which might spread in many years time – but also keep the ability to be …..(another big drum roll and clash of cymbals…)…’A Man’ Do you see my dilemma? I know the answer – cut it out. But you can’t help thinking, can you? When the sun rises on Bank Holiday Monday, my thoughts will centre on the garden and which bit to weed – but, for now, (and it’s now half past three and still pitch black outside) it’s the useless growth inside my body that is commanding my attention. We’re strange creatures, us humans, aren’t we? Thank you for being there. Much love Steve x

The next step will be.......?

2009-05-01T19:56:36Z

Hi Friends…. OK, so it’s been a while since the last blog – but there really has has been beggar all to tell (unless you want to know about my toe nail cuttings……..No, I thought not) Anyway – yesterday I went to Salisbury to see my Consultant or, as the letter said, a member of the team. Two weeks ago I had an MRI scan to see if the cancer had escaped the prostate and had found its way around the rest of my body - heaven knows, there’s enough body for it to use. My appointment yesterday was to give me a prognosis (is that the right word?) and a future plan – sounds very up-market to me. So – up I go, driving the twenty-odd miles from home with a bottle of pee in my pocket, ‘cos they said they needed another sample, and feeling very guilty because I was not going to drive all that way with a full bladder. I would top up when I got there. Top up? Sounds like a pension plan, doesn’t it? Anyway – parking was easy and I checked in with more than half an hour to spare. Told to sit and wait, I found an old copy of a motoring magazine (did you know that the Austin 7 is available in any colour from 14 different shades of black? And it’s only £100 plus Purchase Tax?) Yup – true to form, I was only there for a few minutes and the nurse called my name and ushered me along another corridor. “Mr Cross,” she whispered, very conspiratorially. “Have you got a full bladder?” Are these corridors bugged, I wondered. “No,” said I, “I didn’t think I would need one. I know what’s wrong with me. Today is all about solving my problem.” “But your letter said…….Oh never mind. There’s the water. You need to drink at least five cups. I’ll put you to the back of the queue.” So, mild as you like, I started on the water. One – two – three - four – five - - - - -six - - - - - - seven. “Nurse………I’m ready………..” No nurse. “Nurse……..” Then, a door opened and I heard my name called. Not ‘my’ consultant (as if I own him) but a French subsidiary. At this point, you must read some of this in a French accent……. "Mr Cross, you know why you are here?” “Yes – I have been diagnosed with Prostate Cancer, I had an MRI scan a couple of weeks ago and you are about to tell me if it’s spread to the rest of my body.” (and I would like a pee, please) “No, Mr Cross, your MRI scan is OK.” Now does that mean that I’ve not got PC? As John Wayne once said….”Tha hell it does.” Please – I’m not being nasty. The registrar was really, really nice. The cancer was contained within the prostate capsule – it hadn’t bought an AwayDay ticket and gone to visit some other part of my anatomy. (Although – where could be better to spend a holiday than my prostate?) He asked me what I felt was the preferred course of treatment for me…….Come on, I’m a building surveyor. How the heck should I know? Good grief, if I was a lean-to, I’d pull me down and start me all over again. But no, all along, I have said that I believe that surgery was best. Cut the beggar out and be rid of it. I’ll deal with the side effects in my own way. So that’s what I told him. I wanted a radical prostatectomy (did I really say that?) I’ve seen the video of the da Vinci robot. I want one of them, please…….. (and a pee might be a good idea…..) “Ah, I am so sorry, Mr Cross. We do not have a da Vinci down here. In fact, we are not even authorised to do laparoscopic surgery without someone …….mentoring – is that the right word? Yes, mentoring – you know – watching us. You know, looking over our shoulder while we train.” My mind created thoughts that I dare not speak……”Yes – on your bike, sunshine. You’re not fiddling with my bits while you’ve still got L plates on.” My voice, on the other hand, said “Well, that’s OK then. I’m happy with open surgery. “ (and can I have a pee, please?) What was I saying? Open me up? Have a party in my abdomen? (Alright – I know it’s probably big enough for a party. I’ve tried to lose weight – honest I have.) But that’s what I said – and that’s what I’m standing by. Well, laying by. Asleep. I hope. And that was it. He told me that I would be put on the list and that I would be seen is a very short space of time, and have I got any questions? “No, I’m fine.” (I need a pee, though. Why did I wear light-coloured trousers?) As I walked out of the door, I heard him start to dictate notes into a small recording machine. I, on the other hand, headed straight for the nearest loo. So that’s it, my friends. Steve’s contaminated prostate is coming out. Sometime soon, I hope. More news when I hear. Much love Steve (Oh – and they never wanted the bottle of pee in my pocket, either. I’ve put it on eBay – who knows what it will fetch?)

No news - is it good news? I don't think so.......

2009-04-21T20:52:44Z

Well now - I haven't fallen off the face of the Earth. It's just that I have nothing much to tell - even tonight (Tuesday) nothing has changed. I still feel quite well (which must be good), I still have a job (which must be good) and I've just had a nice meal (which must be good). So, Dr Freud, does that mean that all is good? I'm not sure. Don't get me wrong - I'm nowhere near as low as I was last week. Nothing like it, at all. In fact, I feel really happy about life (and that's mostly thanks to you folks and your comments and PMs, which still keep coming. Thank You) My headache is that I haven't heard from the Consultant (Don't be stupid, man. You had the scan Thursday and it's only Tuesday night now. What do you expect?) Yes - I know. But.......does that mean that I'm not as bad as was first thought? The biopsy was positive - OK. But the MRI scan may have produced less important results, perhaps? So I drop down the list, in favour of more urgent cases. I'm all for that. There must be hundreds of people in the Salisbury catchment area, worse off than me. But...... (Yes, I know you all know what's coming........) That doesn't really help me, does it? They are really odd - the thoughts that are spinning around in my head. Let me try and explain. This time last year, I was a hulking great beast, full of life and thoroughly enjoying myself. Then, I went to my GP in October, because I didn't feel quite right. (What the heck does that mean, you fool?) Well, I didn't feel in October 2008, the way I felt in - say - April 2008. Strange but true! After a few tests and balances - and that awful Trans-Rectal Ultrasound, my world was gently flipped around a couple of weeks ago, by a lovely Clinical Nurse called Billy ( a lady called Billy?), who softly explained that the biopsies showed Locally Advanced Prostate Cancer. She gave me loads of information, papers, booklets and so on, then told me that the MRI scan would tell far more. The next evening, my GP called. He had heard my news and, if there was anything I needed to know - or if I had any questions - I only had to telephone the Health Centre. Wow! How's that for service? But now - it's all gone quiet. (Hell's Teeth, you idiot. Give them a chance to look at the scans.) Do you see where I'm at? I know there is nothing that can be done. Nothing anyone can say or do - but I think the main reason for this post is to try and help others who feel ...... let down (?).....by the system. You see, I know that I will be looked after. I have no doubts about that - Salisbury is fantastic and I'm very lucky to be with them. I know that if there is anything badly wrong, they will contact me. I know that I will be cured of this beast - one way or the other - before very much longer. Yes - I'm being positive. But, can you see how easy it is to ......want.......need.......more support? And that, for me, is where this site comes in. To all of the long-term members of the site, I say a huge THANK YOU. Thank you for being there, thank you for listening to Newbies like me and thank you for sharing your own long Journey. To all the newly-joined members - no matter if it's about you, a relative, loved one, partner - this site will be a fantastic source of love, comfort and, above all, knowledge. (Although I did watch a video of a prostatectomy using the da Vinci robotic system - and I'm not sure I should have done....!!!!!!!!!) Thank you for reading this far..........more on me as soon as I know. Much love Steve

You all have no idea how much you've helped....

2009-04-18T08:50:04Z

This is going to be a very brief note - simply to say a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has written blog comments and sent me PMs after my Dark Night blog about Thursday / Friday. So many of you have been to the same places I went to - and, I guess, I will go there again - but, with your help, next time I will be ready to fight the demons, beat the beggers and get out the other side. Last night - Friday / Saturday - I slept well once I turned in. I only woke up in the night because I needed to ;-) This morning, up and about early enough to catch the second and third qualifying sessions of the Grand Prix in China. Thank you internet - I don't have a TV. Today, I feel so much happier, brighter and - wait for it - I might even go shopping!!!!!!!!! Much love to everyone Steve