Diary of a crabby lady

Pome for the clocks going back.

What's the time

Half-past nine

Hang your knickers on the line.

What's the time?

Half-past eight

Half-past nine will have to wait.

It FEELS like half-past nine, though. (And my knickers are staying where they are.)

One thing nobody tells you when you get sick - or, at least, nobody told me - is that cancer smells. I mean literally in this case, although, obviously, figuratively too. It doesn't matter how often I bathe, I can't get the smell out of my skin. Judy says she doesn't notice, but I'm acutely aware of it.

This means that I have to do laundry more often - I may be living my life mainly in my nightie, but…

Have you ever wondered what Mr Crab & Co look like? I don't mean Googling for images of cancer, because, ew, but have you ever tried to put a face to him?

I have. Mind you, it's pretty easy for me, because of where my own personal Mr Crab lives - in my tummy, which is so much easier to explain than 'peritoneum'. He looks like this:

Those are actually the Snapping Turks from Yellow Submarin…

I wroted this for the 'Warped' group, but, since I haven't done much writing (any writing, actually, other than one 300-word thing) this year, I may as well preserve it for posterity.

If ... (the crabby remix)

If you’ve been told you’ve cancer in your innards

You’re faced with problems totally unknown

You don’t know if you’ll live, or die, and nobody

Can help; you have to…

What I done on my Wednesday: got up far too early; drove, or rather was driven by Judy, to the Churchill - different route, similarly horrendous traffic, if I ever get really ill I think we shall have to take lodgings in Headington, maybe the man with the shark on his roof will take us in; waited around for a while being tired and uncomfortable, but 'tired' and 'uncomfortable' are SOP these days, so whatever; got cannulated;…