I've been trying to decide what my blog is going to be about. I think it may just end up being an unfiltered stream of consciousness. It might be about my hair. It might be about CBB (not an abbreviation of a rare form of cancer, just a reality show I'm a bit obsessed with). Hmm can't decide. Maybe all the above. It won't be about snorkelling.
A GOOD DAY
I had a great day yesterday. Day 7, round 2/6 FECT. Feel great, though I'm sure my WBC is probably nonexistent. Got up early, and it's pissing outside. Drove to petrol station to get Sat Guardian and read in bed with bagel and coffee. I can now tolerate strong smells. The last few days I have felt like hurling at the slightest whiff. I can only liken it to having morning sickness, though I never suffered it when I was pregnant.
On to magazine and have a lightbulb moment re sending a letter in apropos something I'm reading. Get my iPad and hit send. I've always wanted to pen a witty response to something ridiculous or stupid someone else has written. I wonder if it will get published. I do hope so. I'm feeling very smug. Smugness is very unattractive I know, but I strongly believe acknowledging it cancels this out. I then have a crisis regarding possible grammar inaccuracies. Imagine the attacked author ridiculing me in subsequent issue. Karma.
I speak to my mum, she's bored and so plans to visit. I decide to tidy my hair. I took the clippers to it a few days ago. I am very pleased with the results. It's a bit thinning in places, however, and it has a bit of a Steve Macdonald look about it. The thing I'm most pleased about is, I can, at last, say goodbye to the terrible colour I dyed it several weeks ago.
Mum arrives in a downpour, which was the scrabble answer in the Guardian Mag. I'm quite good and often solve it. Only get as far as possibly working out the word is probably down something. Get caught up thinking about downpipe, and this leads to thinking about paint colours, and painting my new shed, or rather my son's new shed. Give up and look at the answer. Damn, if only I'd persevered...gazes out the window. The irony is not lost on our heroine, dear reader. While looking out at the weather I'm reminded of my smug letter to the Guardian and smile.
I'm feeling very energetic, so, while son loafs in front of the telly, mum and I go out to buy a new loo seat. The old one got broke by a teenager throwing up. This was last week, while I was convalescing at my mums. My son is enjoying the benefits of a mother in the grip of chemo. It's not just the absence. It's the who gives a freaking arse attitude that comes with cancer and subsequent effect of treatment.
I also take an alen key to some garden furniture I bought at B&Q. Son has gone out, at this point. A whiff of something herbal following him as he goes. I assemble the furniture, while watching Midsomer Murders. I finish assembly in time it takes mum to receive and send text to a friend. She has done more than her fare share as she's cleaned the bog, ready for new seat. I spend about half hour with head over bowl grappling with nuts. At last it's in place. While washing hands I dwell on all the ironies the day has thrown up. Then dwell on the possibility of picking up a nasty bug from rolling around on the floor of the lavatory, and dying from it. That would just be bad luck.
