Saturday night and I take Irene out and watch her drinking lager while I survive on diet coke. Two coaches have gone to Weymouth – we should have gone but when I was diagnosed and did not know when my treatment would start we cancelled. Another busload has departed for another club, Calverton. They go because they say they can get cheap beer. I wonder where they will get there beer if Cotgrave closes!
There is a young girl singer who does an excellent job and yet another maniacal dirty dancer on the dance floor trying to hi-jack everyone to join her.
One of the old stagers comes up and says “Oh you’re still managing to get out.” “Why shouldn’t I?” I respond. I know where the remark has come from and Irene is not happy. The “lady” whose husband died from bowel cancer had said it. Her husband became a hermit after diagnosis. I make a point of getting out to show them that Roland is not going to beat me.
Irene finally flips as the gossips continue behind me. “If you want to know how he is ask him” she explodes “He’s not effing dead yet!” The gossips try and maintain that they are just concerned. More like bloody vultures.
Picko has commented on my blog asking if it’s men or women as my preference. If he needs to ask the question then he should know. I manage to keep Rob at arms length by acknowledging him at the bar and I slide down in my seat when Plum comes in. Phew! Got away with it!
Irene tells little kath that she is now a celebrity on my blog after I mentioned her wanting Bat out of Hell as a funeral song.
I am not suffering very much from chemo today. No sickness or diahorrea – in fact my bowels are a little too much “the other way. The family are over for Sunday lunch and everything is prepared.
Eleanor has just come upstairs with my box of nuts and raisins – she was six last week and I sent her a birthday card with the joke – What do you call a spy when he goes to bed? An undercover agent!
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