My continuous 'things that get on my nerves' list because I'm in a continuous bad mood.

1. People who spell 'on route' instead of  'en route'.

2. People who say 'should of' instead of  'should have'.

3. People who call a small group of friends a 'click'. It's 'clique'. CLIQUE. Understand? Not a click. Cluck off.

4. Smug grammar pedants.  (Oh. Me then.)

5. People who exclaim 'That's GREAT news!' if I mention that I may need a transplant. No it isn't. Fuck the fuck off. I'm obviously not stoic enough about the whole process.

6. People who use inappropriate language to make a point (see point 5).

7. People on social media who say stuff like 'I love my friends, you know who you are'. No we don't. We need names and addresses in case of any ambiguity.

8. People who wear so much  perfume/aftershave that you can smell them an hour before you see them. You know who you are. Peter Jones, 44 Viewfieldpoo Walk, Tufton Grange, TG12  P00.

9. People who feel the need to tell me I look well EVERY time I see them as if this is some sort of miracle. What do you expect me to look like? A corpse?

10. People who write lists in a passive aggressive way to make points about things that annoy them.

11. Vince Vaughn's voice.

12. My voice.

13. The dog when she barks at ants creeping past the front door.

14. Ants creeping past the front door. It makes the dog bark.

15. When I plug in a USB cable but it is the wrong way round so I turn it over to try again only to discover that I had it the right way round in the first place.

16. When I make a nice cup of tea, sit down only to discover I didn't boil the water.

17. When I make a nice cup of tea only to discover I forgot to put in a tea bag.

18. When I panic lose my keys in my bag and then remember they are in my pocket.

19. When I panic lose my keys in my pocket then remember they are in my bag

20. When I'm idly flicking channels on satellite television and it's 'advert time'.

21. When I have to try to ignore the fact I need a wee when I've just got comfortable in bed.

22. When Claudia Winkleman stands in for Ken Bruce on Radio 2.

23.When people on Popmaster with Ken Bruce (quiz on Radio 2) say:

a. I'm a plumber (or other profession) 'for my sins'.
b. It's before my time Ken (so was Hitler but we know he was).
c. Can I say a quick hello (only to go on to name every person in Great Britain).

24. When your teenager empties the dishwasher and you can't find anything because it has all been put away in the wrong cupboards.

25. People who use the word 'your' when they should use the contract of  'you are'. (My Auntie Mary made me add this just this second)

26. The fact that I'm terrible at proof reading my own work.

Last week I misplaced an important document that I thought I had put in a safe place. I'd obviously put it in a very safe place because I couldn't find it anywhere.  I needed a national insurance number. I decided it would be fine because I could call HM Revenue and Customs and get a copy of the document sent out to me. I went online to find the appropriate phone number and I called. It was a terrible automated service. After I'd pressed 1 for help, 2 for lost national insurance numbers and 3 for a nervous breakdown I was advised to do it online. When I got online again it advised me to do it on the phone because the online service was unavailable.

It was a vicious circle and when I phoned up again the stupid automated woman wasn't prepared to listen. She kept trying to tell me what to say. I managed to record the phone 'conversation' with that stupid, annoying automated phone woman. Eventually I printed out the documents and sent in a request by good old fashioned post. That was two weeks ago though and I've still not received it.

It is lucky then that after an hour after having a nervous breakdown trying to sort out getting a copy, I found the document on the top of a pile of papers I'd already rifled through four times.

Here is the conversation.

Birthday Candles.

I do admit to being a bit of a germ phobe. It's not terrible, but I won't go out without antibacterial hand gel and I won't touch door handles when I go to the shops. I'm definitely an elbow and knuckles kind of person. I once saw a bloke pick his nose, drag his palm across his hairy nostrils and proceeded to put his hand all over the shop door handle to push it open. No thank you. If he did that in public it made me worry what he did in private. Goodness knows what would be on my hands if I touched the door handle after that.

With that in mind when I go to a kid's birthday party you will never ever, ever, never, ever find me eating a piece of birthday cake.

I'll tell you why. The blowing out of the candles. It usually involves spittle. Lots of spittle. Possible snot. All over the cake. I can't bring myself to eat it. 

Little Johnny Picky Nose is all excited for his birthday cake. All the kids gather round excitedly to blow out the candles. The kid with swine flu wants to help blow out the candles so they won't feel left out. Everyone blows. It's like it is showering a fine rain. That's not even enough! Oh no. The kid at the back with a touch of Ebola virus is crying because they wanted to blow out the candles too but couldn't reach. The whole process starts again. The kid sneezes on it mid blow. All the kids touch the cake decorations. Licked, sticky fingers all over it. 

Eugh.

Scenario 1.

Party host: 'Here is your piece of cake, have two pieces.'

What I hear: 'Here is you piece of germ warfare. Have two slabs and make yourself really ill, for a really long time, resulting in possible death.'

Scenario 2

Party Host: 'I made it myself, it's really moist,'

My thoughts. 'Yes, it's moist with spittle and snot and it might result in possible death,'

Scenario 3

Party Host: 'Little Johnny Picky Nose helped me make it. Didn't you Johnny?  You MUST try it.'

My thoughts (as I look at Johnny with half his fist firmly nestled in one nostril): 'Yes. Johnny is called Johnny Picky Nose for a reason. Johnny picks his nose. There are now bits of Johnny not only ON the cake but IN the cake and if I eat it it will result in possible death.'

Every time we go to a kids birthday party now, I can't look at my husband when the candles are being blown out because he pulls faces with a spitty looking face and makes a big deal of seeing if I want cake and it makes me laugh too much. The git.

Have a rubbishy soundbite of what it all might sound like.

Muddy Rivers and Three Legged Dogs

So I'm telling my father in law (John) a boring anecdote about Minnie Three Legs (my dog), jumping into the muddiest part of the river a day after she had her stitches out following her leg amputation. She came out as BLACK  as the hobs of hell. Filthy she was. She looked VERY pleased with herself. John decided to return my tale with anecdotes about his granddaughter who is called Hannah.

John said: 'Oh Hannah (his young granddaughter)  always used to do that.'

Me: 'Really?!  

John: 'Oh yes, Hannah always used to get in the river and she'd get out and be COVERED in black mud and that sort of river slime.'

Me: 'Oh. Umm..... Why would Hannah jump in the river, was it an accident? Was she ok?'

John: 'Oh yes, she'd do it all the time. We'd take Hannah to the place near Summers Lane and she loved it.'

At this point I'm thinking that they just let Hannah have a bit of summer fun and they are the sort who don't mind kids getting mucky because it's what childhood is all about right? We have soap and water and washing machines these days. Let kids be kids!

John: 'Oh yes, she'd jump straight in, get SO slimy but she loved it. She didn't care. The dirtier the better. She'd find the dirtiest bit of river and jump right in. It was SO dirty it was probably a chemical disaster area. Dirt and slime everywhere. Filthy and the SMELL, oh the smell. Hannah loved all that dirt and slime. In the river. The dirtiest part of the river. She LOVED it I tell you, LOVED it.'

I may have enhanced the last part of that conversation.

Me: 'Oh. Er..., blimey. You really are carefree letting Hannah get so filthy on a regular basis in the name of fun. Hats off to you.' (I never actually said hats off to you)

John: 'Yes, then we'd get Hannah home and we'd have to hose her down in the garden.'

Me: 'Really?! Bloody hell John she must have been filthy. Seems you know, quite excessive. Wow.'

John: 'Oh yes. We couldn't have her walk through the house like that. So we'd hose her down in the garden (now John is laughing at the memory) and she'd snap at the hosepipe with her teeth to catch the water. "Gnash gnash gnash". This was his  impression of Hannah this now seemingly feral child, wild and dirty trying to catch water with her TEETH.

I now picture her in rags and loin cloth with wild searching eyes, crouching in fear when she hears loud noises and howling on a full moon. She eats with her fingers, ripping food apart with a desperate ferocity of a child who is wild and hungry.

Me: 'John?'

John: 'Yes?'

Me: 'Are you sure you are talking about Hannah and not your old dog who was called LUCY. Who was a DOG. Because quite frankly John if you are talking about your granddaughter and not your dog then I might have to call social services.'

John: 'Oh. Yes. I meant Lucy. Not Hannah.

Me: 'I was half hoping I could call social services.'

Phew. 

Children in Need

Every year in the UK the BBC (telly people) have a televised event called Children in Need. The programme is designed to encourage members of the public to donate money to Children in Need (a corporate charity) which in turn helps children who are in need. On Friday night the programme generated about thirty one million pounds. According to the CiN official website their vision is to ensure that 'every child in the UK has a childhood which is safe, happy, and secure and allows them the chance to reach their potential.' No matter what you think of shows like this, it does aim to help many of the smaller charities that are desperate for funding in order to continue with their services. A few examples are children's hospices, young carers groups, bereavement services etc. In fact a link of them can be found here (pdf file).

During the show, in between entertainment (depending on what you call entertainment), there are short video clips of the sort of projects that CiN helps and so it will feature a family who are dealing with a  difficult situation and how a project they attend such as a hospice etc helps them as a family.

It was during the programme that I made the mistake of idly scrolling through my twitter feed. I read a few 'tweets'  (I say it like that because I feel old) and a selection of people with Cystic Fibrosis (you may recall that I have Cf too) were being a bit, you know well quite uppity about it. The tweets I read  ranged from:

'Children in Need takes away from other charities like Cystic Fibrosis.'

'Why is Cf never shown on CiN is it too much to ask to get Cf awareness?'

'No Cf shown for us :o(  (unhappy face).

The one that finally made me crack and respond wasn't until the next day when I read:

'Cf is a forgotten disease :o(  (unhappy face).'

Arghhhh! Cystic Fibrosis is hardly a forgotten disease and yes I know I shouldn't have been wound up by a comment from someone on twitter who I don't know when it's hardly the best place to get your point across. However if Cf was forgotten then I wouldn't be sat here now.  Cf patients overall have excellent support and care (yes, I know there will be the exceptions) but the NHS fully recognises it and the treatments for it are at least there and mainly available. We have Cf clinics,  Cf nurses, cf doctors, physios, psychologists and dieticians. And on a bad clinic day you might get to see all of them and you want to kill someone by the end of it.

So with that in my mind I made the mistake of hitting 'reply' and simply saying 'It's hardly a forgotten disease.' This unleashed a torrent of bitchiness. Ooops.  The 'bitchy' comments were from the same few people but the initial comments about Cf not being shown on the children in need programme were quite widespread and  frankly unnecessary.

I went on to say that I didn't think Cf was left in the shadows and that it is good for the smaller charities to get a look in because it is. Of course it is. One programme can't highlight every single charity. I then got accused of implying that Cf gets enough awareness. 'Don't you dare tell me that Cf gets enough awareness because it doesn't,' said one over excited tweeter which was weird because I didn't.  Sometimes people will only read what they want to read, a bit like Daily Mail commenters. My almost favourite was 'Don't say I shouldn't raise awareness for Cf (angry face).' Er okay, I won't. Thanks for the advice.

The services that CiN help may also in turn help children with Cf anyway such as play schemes, bereavement services and hospices. In fact I know of a few people whose children with Cf go to a hospice for respite care. It helps all the family immensely. Just because Cf isn't mentioned in a programme (incidentally, Cf has been mentioned on the show in years gone by) doesn't mean it is forgotten. The fact I don't have a problem with Cf not being shown doesn't make me weird, heartless, a fucking idiot, silly bint or otherwise. Nor was I accusing people of forgetting other charities existed. Why on earth would I make such assumptions? I do think people get carried away in their own little world though. The simple fact is that I don't think Cf is forgotten.  Children in Need happens to highlight smaller schemes and charities and I don't see a problem with that. It doesn't make me heartless. As one friend who happens to have Cf said to me 'CiN to me is more about the obscure illnesses, grief and poverty.' Even my teenage son doesn't see how one show can be responsible for trying to highlight everything and believe me he'll be the first to get frustrated about lack of understanding.

The Cystic Fibrosis Trust has a much bigger platform than many of the schemes and illnesses shown in the programme the other night. We have 'CF 'Awareness Week' every year and there is often a story or article about Cf featured in the newspapers, magazines or on television etc. I'm not saying it is enough because it probably isn't but there are so many others who get less recognition than 'we' do. I see no point in moaning about a charity event that does end up helping children with Cf in one way or another. It's for children and young adults with different issues.

At the end of the day having an illness that people don't understand can be as frustrating as hell but to be honest all the awareness in the world will not necessarily get across how Cf affects people because it is such a complex and individual illness. I'm just relieved if someone knows what it is if I ever need to explain it (especially to a Gp, ha ha etc) but then it's down to me to explain how it affects my life if I choose to do so. I hope that makes sense.

So to summarise, I have not or have ever said that cystic fibrosis gets enough awareness. I have not or ever said that people shouldn't raise awareness. I do however think some people get too wrapped up in their own world and forget to see a the bigger picture. Not everyone, just some people.

Just a quick edit - a friend with Cf just told me that Children In Need paid for her physio bed quite a few years ago.

Quick edit two - Children in Need has helped fund The Lime Arts Programme:  'Lime art has an ongoing partnership with the Manchester Adult Cystic Fibrosis Centre. We deliver a rolling a programme of arts projects focusing on engaging patients in creative activity.  Professional artists specialising in different media, i.e. music, animation, painting and drawing, creative writing, work one to one with patients during their stay on Pearce Ward.'

Cillit Bang.

I first posted this on my old blog back in 2008.



As much as I have grudges against fragrances for the home, I also have issues with Cillit bang and the adverts for it. Firstly a fictional character called Barry Scott who is meant to be making us want to buy this stuff booms out of your TV so loudly that the windows rattle and any animals within earshot roll over in submission:

'Hi, I'm Barry Scott, Cillit Bang will even erase the disgustingrancid smell of putrid sheets after a torrid affair with yourneighbour whilst your wife is out shopping for cardigans.BANG AND THE DIRT IS GONE.'

Get lost Barry. I prefer to use bleach and Cif. Or something. Maybe Flash liquid depending on how frisky I feel. I like the option. I don't want to use one product to clean everything. It is boring. 

Look at the pic below though. I know it is a bit small, but honestly. That toilet is brown! Whose toilet gets that brown? The baths in the adverts usually have thick black scum in them. How dirty do the folk at Cillit Bang think we all are?


'What stain are you trying to clean? I'll tell you Barry, I'm trying to clean off the normal stuff, not 25 years of dirt and poo from up my walls. 

Cillit Bang currently claims that you only need to buy their one all purpose product to clean everything from poopy stains, cum stains and the saliva off children's toys. Hopefully not with the same cloth.

So I mailed them to ask a question.

I cunningly posed as Dorothy, who is an elderly woman whose husband stays in bed all day playing dominoes. Here is what I asked:

Dear Barry Scott,

Is it safe to use your cillit bang product on my false teeth? You say it cleans anything. My teeth get stained due to all the coffee I drink and my husband gets confused if I soak them in my denture cleaner. He mistakes it for water and the solution gives him the runs.

Many thanks

Dorothy.

They actually replied with the following:

Thank you for your email regarding Cillit Bang. We strongly advise that you DO NOT use any of the Cillit Bang range to remove stains from your Dentures. We do produce Steradent which would be suitable for this purpose ensuring that you read directions for suitability. 

Kind regards, Cillit Bang

To summarise, they have lied about their product. It does not clean everything. 

Early Morning Conversation

This the conversation with my husband this morning.



Tim:  'I've something to tell you. It's important and I don't know how you'll take it.'

Me: 'What? Have you broken something?'

Tim: ' No.'

Me: 'What then?'

Tim: 'I think it was me that got Alesha Dixon pregnant.'

Me: 'But you don't know Alesha Dixon so I'm guessing it's highly improbable.'

Tim: 'She came round the other night when you were asleep.'

Me: 'Right. How did she know where you live?'

Tim: 'Don't know she just appeared in the middle of the night, saw me and I think she got pregnant just by looking at me.'

Me: 'Crikey, she found out she was pregnant very quickly then.'

Tim: 'Yes. Yes she did.'

Me: 'If she came round in the middle of the night, why didn't the dog bark and why didn't I hear someone knocking at the door?'

Tim: 'You were asleep and the dog was asleep.'

Me: 'Right. So it managed to wake just you up even thought I'm the worlds lightest sleeper, you are the worlds heaviest sleeper and the dog barks at ants in the garden?'

Tim: 'Yes.'

Me: 'What will you call the baby?'

Tim: 'I wanted a name that isn't too showbizzy or catchy, so we will call the baby Erotica.'

Me: 'Ok, make me some tea please.'

Tim: 'Yes. You've taken this very well.

Me: 'Yes I have.'



Have a rare photo of me and the teenager.

Transplant Article

My last post discussed an article written by a certain Stasia Bliss who claimed that herbal remedies and yoga are an alternative to transplant in people with Cystic Fibrosis. That article has now been removed and not before time.

That's all I have to say about that now.

Cystic Fibrosis and Transplants

Read the following article on the link below, but for goodness sake don't take it seriously.

Lung Transplant May Not Be Best Option for Cystic Fibrosis 

I’m often incensed by things I read online and I’ll have a moan to myself and then get on with my life. This article has enraged me. It is one of the most offensive articles I have ever read regarding Cf. Not only is it offensive to those who deal with Cf every day, it is condescending, ill informed, factually incorrect and a potentially damaging article. To the memory of people with Cf who have died then this article is sickening and upsetting. If this sounds dramatic to the average reader then read the comments following the article and you will see that my feelings on this are not unique. 

This is my reply to this woman, I forget to say however that not all people with cystic fibrosis opt to go down the transplant route. Excuse any mistakes I'm terrible and correcting my own stuff. I become blind to it:

Cystic Fibrosis is genetic. People are not GENERALLY born with it they ARE born with it. You’d think that in writing something so inflammatory then you’d at least get your basic facts correct. This article makes it sound like people with Cystic Fibrosis (pwcf) choose to have a transplant because they can’t be bothered to try anything else. Let me tell you, once someone with Cf is at the stage where they ‘choose’ to have a transplant the lungs are damaged beyond repair. There is no going back. Even if you aren’t at the transplant stage then the methods of oregano oil, lobelia and eucalyptus will not stop Cf causing havoc in the body. If you think (yes you Stasia Bliss) that oregano oil and yoga is a decent and effective alternative to a transplant then I suggest you suffer from an extreme form of aggressive and debilitating ignorance that no amount of herb will treat. I’m sorry about that. Maybe try rubbing extra strong chilli oil into your eyes. This needs to be done six times a day to have a cumulative effect. Obviously check with a practitioner first.

Another fact you need to get right Stasia is that Cf will NOT find its way into newly transplanted lungs. I suspect you’ve taken too many potions that have addled your research brain. A lesson for us all I think.

The article is detrimental and damaging to those who campaign for Cf awareness and transplant awareness. If someone came up to me and suggested that herbs and yoga would help my current lung function rather than all the effort I put in myself then I could not be held responsible for my actions.  

Yoga may give someone a calming effect on the mind but it is not and never will be a curative for someone who needs a transplant or otherwise. Like I said earlier the lungs are irreversibly damaged. How do you suggest that yoga self heals damaged lungs? Is magic involved? Wow, that would be good. How would you expect a person with twenty percent lung function or lower to do yoga? It can be hard enough work getting your socks on in the morning with lung function higher than that. You’ve no idea have you. That wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

One of my favourites in all this Stasia is your suggestion of lobelia to induce vomiting (sometimes violently) in order to get rid of the mucous in the lungs. Have you actually read this back? On the most basic level since when does violently vomiting help get rid of anything from the lungs? I assume you did not do biology at school. In any case violently vomiting for 7-8 hours is not good for anybody. Remember you said all this can help rather than choosing a transplant. I don’t know where to start. I hope to god that someone who is desperate for help does not read this pathetic excuse for ‘advice’ and try this method. I suggest Stasia that you take lobelia yourself and vomit for 7-8 hours and then see how tired and strained you would feel. I’m not quite at transplant stage and if I vomit for two minutes I feel exhausted and breathless. What you are suggesting is at best stupid and dangerous. Keep going with that chilli oil. Keep checking with your practitioner. Whilst there, get your bowels checked because you are obviously full of something. Try Senokot. You’ll need to quadruple the dose.

Now on to emotional well-being. You can’t heal CF with emotional well-being. If you could heal Cf through well being and happiness then I’d be running around right now. Unfortunately I didn’t smile enough the other week and got myself a pneumothorax. My bad. It’s my mistake for my ‘thick belief that life won’t work’ for me. I’ll tell that to my fifteen year old son and husband. They’ll be so cheesed off that some of my health issues are down to an emotional state. How rude and misinformed can one person be? Have you any idea how offensive you are? Would you tell someone with depression to snap out of it? I dare say you would. Did I mention the chilli oil and eyes? Keep going.

It is suggested in the final paragraph and I quote ‘Serious and even ‘incurable’ diseases have been treated with natural medicine with great success, even in the final hours.’ Words fail me. Have you ever seen a person with Cf in their final hours? Respiratory death is rarely peaceful and your suggestion that natural medicine may save someone with Cf in their final hours is one of the most insulting things I have ever read. It makes me feel sick that someone can be so misinformed and think it fine to write such trash and then have the audacity to say ‘Just so long as misinformation and ignorance do not contribute to a choice that can not be reversed.’ Absolutely unbelievable. All your suggestions are misinformed, every single one of them. You clearly have little or no common sense. I feel sorry that you hold such ridiculous notions. I’m even more sorry that this article was ever allowed to be published. It should be retracted with a full apology. 

Dangerous Window Cleaners

This week I was like a proper grown up and managed to secure a window cleaner at a good rate. I spotted a couple of guys cleaning the windows of the house opposite and decided to strike. I opened the front door and shouted out 'Excuse me, are you window cleaners?' Nothing gets past me. They admitted that they were indeed window cleaners and I could tell that they were impressed at my working knowledge. It was decided that they would come round the next day to clean the windows and I thought no more of it.

I thought no more of it the next day either. I made myself tea and thought no more of it. I had breakfast and thought no more of it. I pottered about the house and thought no more of it. I read a bit of my book and thought no more of it. I attended to some business on the computer and thought no more of it.

Then I went for a shower and thought no more of it.

Half way through my shower I thought a lot more about it.

Half way through my shower as I'm idly conditioning my hair and trying decide whether or not to shave my legs some bloke comes right up to the window and starts cleaning it!!

This is my shower: It's in the downstairs converted 'cloakroom'.

As you may note the shower/window is in close proximity. My eye level reaches the window ledge. The window is obviously mottled or whatever and you may well ask: 'why no blind'? We haven't found the right one and we have done a 'naked body sight test' and you can't see if anyone is in the shower from the outside but if someone is close up cleaning a window you would definitely make out nakedness.

So to recap, I'm conditioning my hair, deciding on leg hair removal (been married two years, it's not so important) and a middle aged man is shoving a squeegee all over the window. Not to mention I was singing along to the radio up until the point of window cleaning action.

I did the only thing I could do and sank to the floor, pretending that I just hadn't been singing loudly and wishing that I'd showered earlier rather than being joyous and carefree. I also wished I was fully dressed. Now I was kneeling down in the shower, trying to rinse my hair and panicking because I had to unlock the back gate (NOT a euphemism) and I somehow had to get out of the shower, get upstairs and get dressed so I was decent. Although by that point I might as well have just unlocked the back gate naked and brandishing my razor or something.

In the end I managed to crawl out of the shower and thought it inappropriate that the dog was staring so much whilst wagging her tail.  I got upstairs in one piece and put on some clothes before unlocking the garden gate. I wished that the teenager hadn't left all his pants and socks on his bed with all the rest of the debris on there. It looked like his room had been burgled. I thought 'What would the teenager do?' So I got the duvet and covered the mess with it.

In conclusion I underestimated the dangers of having window cleaners. They come round again in about ten weeks. I won't shower for the tenth week, just in case.

Mr and Mrs

I appear to have so much to say this week. You lucky things. Who ever 'you' is. It's a bit long, get tea and some sick bags.

Let's begin.

In my opinion it takes one hell of a patient, loving, understanding, dark humoured person to be the spouse/boyfriend, whatever of someone with a serious health condition such as CF.  Or at least to be with me. I'm lucky in that my husband has all these qualities, plus it helps that I'm head over heels in love with him. No, I haven't been drinking but I am off my face on codeine. Yeah!

It's no secret that I've been married before - well I hope it is no secret because otherwise Tim is going to get one hell of a shock when he reads this. Can you imagine? 'Honey, there is something I need to tell you. Just read my blog... I'll pop back in a minute once you've read it and don't want to kill me.'

My first marriage ended after my son's dad left when he was a baby. So I decided that I would never ever marry again. Then in 2002 I met Tim. I saw him across a crowded room as he was sat tucking into some party food. He didn't notice me. I wafted my bare breasts past him to get his attention. That might have been a bit much seeing as we were at a kids birthday party but I had to get his attention somehow. 

As it happens I did get his attention because only six years later he asked me out for a drink. SIX YEARS!!! SIX YEARS! SIX. YEARS. I know what you are thinking, it was all so quick. Young 'uns eh? We have no sense of responsibility. 

So Tim sent me a message through Facebook. After six years (did I mention it was six years?) I was so pleased to hear from him that I replied after two weeks. Or if you like fourteen days. Or if you like three hundred and thirty six hours. Etc. Tim still gives me grief for this. I was on holiday and also on IVs. He thought I wasn't interested and got in a mood with me. I made that last bit up, although he was a bit put out that I didn't reply straight away and assumed I wasn't interested. Anyway, I replied and we had our first date in the romantic sounding drinking establishment called 'The Slug and Lettuce'. I wore my best flip flops and even brushed my hair. He impressed me by singing the periodic table to showcase his scientific knowledge. Yes you read that right. He SANG the periodic table to me. How can any woman resist? 

One of my main concerns was not only the fact I had a ten year old but also health issues. I didn't want to inflict all that on someone. After all a ten years old can be so irksome. Tim however took it all in his stride. I explained what I could. It's not easy to describe Cystic Fibrosis (or a ten year old) and how it can affect you especially when you look so 'well' to someone who has no experience of it. I'd lived on my own for nine years and any problems I could 'hide away' or just deal with myself because that is how I like to do it. My independence has always important to me. My son and myself were an unstoppable force.

After a few weeks of being together I had to have IVs and I was really worried about him seeing that because it seemed (in my opinion) more sort of 'graphic' than my usual treatments. Silly maybe but it was how I felt. I decided to throw him in at the deep end, handed him a syringe and medication and showed him how to mix it all together. I thought he would either accept it or politely ask to leave. In any case I'd bolted the door and hidden his shoes so he was going nowhere. After a while in captivity he learned to love me. No of course not. However we did have an amazing time together and we quickly realised that this was going to be more permanent. 

Tim came with me to most of my clinic appointments and what he didn't know he soon found out. My CF nurses are the best people ever in the world of CF nurses and they were so great in having him about and explaining some of the complex details to him. After eight months of being together, we went to a birthday meal for a friend of his. It was then he told me that he knew he wanted to marry me. Luckily I was sitting down and had no drink in my mouth (a rarity I know), otherwise I'd have spat it out in shock and fainted. The best part was that I felt the same way.

One thing that worried me was that when we met I sort of knew that I probably wouldn't be able to have another child because of my lung function being too low. At that time it was 35% (lower now) and you can't carry a baby with lung function that is so compromised. Not without major damage to health/death.  I spoke to the CF nurse about it and was advised that it would be a no go area. Telling Tim all this really scared me and I was convinced he might have second thoughts about our relationship. To be honest I was devastated but it's okay for me really because I already have a child/human. We spoke about all this in depth and whatever we have said to each other, we know that we love each other. Some things are just not meant to be, however our love for each other IS meant to be. Sorry if you feel a bit sick now. I don't usually write bile inducing things. It's true though.

One thing when you are a new couple who are still of so called 'child bearing' age is when people say 'Oh, it'll be a baby for you two next,' We have to smile politely and try and not to swear at them. We got told that SO many times. If we had got together earlier who knows what might have happened? However we are living in the 'now' and we are happy. It is other people's problem if they think that us having a baby is the best way to cement a relationship. Tim is the most amazing step dad to my son - our son. I can't say that I don't still worry about it when we see friends having children because I feel I've robbed Tim of something precious but he disagrees vehemently. 

When we had been together a few months, due to the nature of Tim's job he was able to take almost a year off work and so we got to know each other and spend the sort of time together that wouldn't normally have been possible. We still both agree that was one of the best periods of our life. We had so much fun and it cemented our relationship. We got to know each other inside out. Wink wink.  After about a year of being together we got engaged and then got married the year after that in 2010. We've been together for four years now and rather cornily it's like we've known each other forever.

My health has been very up and down particularly over the past two years but Tim deals with it as if it is all normal which is one of the many things I love about him. He finds it hard working in London (he commutes every day) because he does worry that I'll start rebuilding the house or something in his absence.

Not wanting to sound morbid, we don't know how my health will progress in the next few years and it has become obvious that my lung function likes staying low. We don't know how long we have together, who does? However we have the luxury (weird as they may sound) of knowing our time might be limited and so we make the most of it. Even if it is just gardening together or playing rock band  - it doesn't matter. The simplest things can be the best things. Plus we have the best of rows (and the worst of rows) sometimes. You have to.

I'm lucky to have such an amazing man in my life who is my husband. Ahhhhhh. (dispose of the sick bags on your way out)

Dog's Dinner

I've not blogged in a while. Found things a bit pants since my last entry. However I have a story of the day.

Yesterday I walked the dog. The sun was out, yes I said the sun was out. It felt like Christmas but cooler. The dog and myself had a right lark. She swam in the river - I watched. She ran for the ball - I watched. She did a poo - I looked away. I picked it up - the dog watched.

We got home, I kicked off my wellies and the Minnie rolled all over the carpet to dry herself off before shaking off every last water droplet near the pile of clean washing. Then she went in the garden for a lie down to dry off what was left because you know she can't roll in the grass or shake in the garden to get dry, that would be silly.

I decided to feed her. She refused to eat the day before so I knew she was hungry. She watched me mix it all up, squashing the smelly meat between a fork whilst I told her how yummy her 'din dins' is. Why? Why do I do that? I've recently realised that I talk to babies in the same way. 'Look at your 'ickle face, look at youuuu, look at your face.' Whilst speaking those words my face contorts into a way that no human or living thing should ever see. As if doing this enhances the words.

So anyway, I fed the dog and went off to do other things. The dog watched me and followed me. Every time I stopped to turn round and look at her she would stop and paw my leg. I went room to room and she obediently followed me round, stopping to paw me every now and then. It was a bit irksome to be honest. Then I realised she was trying to tell me something. Some disaster had happened. My god!!! She was like a canine version of Skippy the kangaroo or was a new Lassie. I knelt down in front of her and said in my best Australian accent 'Strewth! What is it Minnie, tell me what's wrong?' She just pawed me and looked at me intently. At least Lassie made you follow her/him, at least Skippy had a series of clicking noises that you could decipher. I just got a paw and a sad face.

I had a think. 'Are there any children down the well? Is there a fire? Is there a fire down the well?' My accent had slipped a bit by now and sounded more Indian but I doubt Minnie really cared. I raced outside to check the local well even though there is no local well. Oh. I looked up the street expecting to see plumes of smoke. No smoke. Typical. There were no children in difficulty. Stupid children.

I decided to go to the kitchen to see if anything had happened in there. Minnie perked up and looked excited. I KNEW IT!  The sink must be on fire with children in it and Minnie was letting me know. God knows how children had got into the house never mind them getting stuck in the sink. I made a mental note to check I'd locked the back door properly. The sink was empty of children. The dog was now sat looking intently up at the work surface. I KNEW there was no children on there because it's too cluttered. Cluttered with you know, various utensil holders, salt and pepper shakers, bits of cereal and the bowl containing the dog's dinner. Oh wait. The dinner for the dog. I hadn't actually given it to the dog. This was no disaster. I felt disappointed. I gave the dog her dinner, and she had the cheek to give me a withering look whilst she ate it.


Have a before and after photo when I planted stuff in my garden.

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Friendship

This post is probably self indulgent clap trap and more for my benefit. I'm not sure. 

Friendships come in different forms. It's not always about seeing each other and going out for coffee or popping round each others houses to see how the geraniums are flourishing. It's not always about seeing how much food little Billy can fit into his mouth without choking. Sometimes it is just friendship without the hassle.

I'm talking drivel because a good friend passed away last week and due to the constraints of our health (Cystic Fibrosis) we couldn't see each other socially. We did meet up a few times and often bumped into each other at CF clinic. Back in the real world it was texting, scramble and words with friends. 

I'd known him for about ten years. He had the blackest humour that I'd ever known in another human being apart from myself.

He taught me a lot though. He taught me how to look at the prospect of death and accept it. He taught me that taking down a christmas tree in temper wasn't a good idea and told me to put it all back up before my family came home. He tried to tell me that country music was good.  He decided to only ever use my maiden name because my married name 'confused him'. Ha. 

I shall miss the insomnia texting. I'll miss the random cooking questions. I'll miss sometimes not knowing whether to take him seriously or not. I'll miss his complexities.

Even in death he was far more eloquent than I could ever be.

His final blog post and video:

http://la-boca-de-la-cueva.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/end-credits.html

Take care Rich. 

10-4.

Song Titles

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My handy guide to song title names and their consequences/definitions. Or something.




It's Raining Men - The Weather Girls

As a result of it raining men there are dead and injured bodies everywhere. It's chaos. When the sun comes out the whole lot will start rotting. It's going to be horrendous. 


Twist and Shout - The Beatles

When you try and dance, put your back out and shout out in pain. You should know better. You need deep heat and some Nurofen Plus.


Club Tropicana - Wham

An 18-30s holiday with a guaranteed STD at the end of the week.
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Working My Way Back to You - The Detroit Spinners

You dumped me and now I'm stalking you. This is now made much easier with the invention of Facebook, twitter and any other available social network sites. Plus the fact I'm outside your house with binoculars helps immensely.
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Tainted Love - Soft Cell

I caught you wanking over porn. Again


I Want to Know What Love Is - Foreigner

I'm a virgin


Stickwitu - Pussycat Dolls

I have trouble with spelling and pronunciation


Don't Cha - Pussycat Dolls

I have no actual concept of the English language


A Little Less Conversation - Elvis Presley

Stop talking through my favourite programme
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The Tide is High - Blondie

Thanks to your terrible navigation/orienteering skills, we are now trapped on a small island, the sea is rising and we will probably drown. Fantastic.
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The Long and Winding Road - The Beatles

You should have turned right
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Let's Hang On - Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons

Having survived the high tide in some miraculous escape we are now clinging to the edge of a cliff thanks to your terrible navigation/orienteering skills. My fingernails are peeling from my fingers with the effort of holding on and I'm bleeding. Stop moaning that you need a weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Oh. Dead.
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Another One Bites the Dust - Queen

If only I'd finished medical school
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Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?

To be honest if you have to ask such a question in such a colloquial manner then I'm guessing the answer is 'no'.
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Two Little Boys - Rolf Harris

Best to leave it there. Leave it. LEAVE IT.
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Light My Fire - Stevie Wonder

I can't find the matches. I thought they were in the third draw down in the kitchen. Have you moved them? HAVE YOU? Why can't you just leave things alone. 
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Have photo of Mount Vesuvius

Appendix and Bread

I think it is time to tell you about my son's fourteenth birthday which was last year.

So a few days before his birthday my son complained of stomach ache. Being a good and attentive parent I assumed  that he had eaten too much and was suffering the consequences. I told him to eat less and get on with it. The second day he came into the room clutching his stomach so I agreed that he could have a day off school. I kindly said 'But don't be thinking you can lie there playing games and watching TV all day'. The third day it became serious because I had a full loaf of bread and no cereal covering the kitchen floor and most of the work surfaces. Yes. He had stopped eating. You heard me. Stopped. Eating.

I called the doctor.

The doctor laid him on the special  doctor bed that is covered with that blue paper roll in case of leakages. Eugh. I told the doctor the symptoms 'The problem' I explained 'is that my kitchen isn't covered in cereal and I have a full loaf of bread. What am I meant to do?  The loaf goes off tomorrow and the cereal will go stale.'

The doctor prodded around and then declared my son to have a grumbling appendix. Great. A bit inconvenient to be honest because it meant I had to be nice to my son for a bit. We were told it could go away by itself and if the loaf of bread remained untouched then I was to take him back the next day.

The next day (the day before my son's birthday) the loaf of bread remained intact and so I took him back to the GP. A different doctor prodded about. He decided that I must take my son straight to hospital. Oh. The thing is I had the floorboard man at home ripping up half of upstairs and the dog running around the house, stumbling over the gaps, licking the floorboard man (rather her than me) and generally getting in the way. Plus the floorboard man had to go out for spare parts. Adam looked a bit sickly, the loaf of bread was going mouldy and my husband was fifty miles away in London. I gave the floorboard man a spare key and his money and hoped he wouldn't clear the house as well as the floorboards. I then called my dad to pick up the dog and tried to remember the way to the hospital.

I called my husband who said he would come home and would be there within an hour and a half which was fine because everyone knows you wait at least six hours in A&E before getting seen to. Tim could have walked there in that time. The fact that trains were available was an unnecessary bonus.

A few hours had passed and there was no sign of my husband. I discreetly checked my phone despite the fact that other people in the waiting area were all talking on their phones loudly and telling their friends/family their ailments. That day I learnt that little Courtney had swallowed all her mothers birth control pills and had grown a beard and Edna had been violently sick all over the cat, or the cat had been sick over Edna, I can't remember now. The whole room consisted of limping men, red faced toddlers (some with beards) and people throwing up. Plus it was one of the hottest days of the year due to freaky late summer weather. A great combination don't you think? I had a quick sip of bleach and tried to ignore the chaos.

Meanwhile I had a series of texts from my husband. The first one said 'On my way', the second one said 'Train just got in, I'm walking to the car now' the third was the following photo with the words 'I shit you not'.

He was driving to the hospital and the tyre blew. Tim was now stuck trying to change a tyre. I was dying from heat exhaustion and Adam was slumped on the chair clutching his stomach. I half expected the floorboard man to call to tell me that the upstairs of the house had collapsed.

After a period of time had elapsed my husband wandered through the doors of A&E holding his arms in the air doing a zombie impersonation. It was no time for jokes, people were ill and didn't need to be reminded about death. It was then I noticed his hands. The blackest, dirtiest hands I had ever seen. He looked like a coal miner who had decided to go to work in a shirt and tie.

At that very moment Adam got called in to be seen by an actual doctor. Tim continued his zombie impersonation through the special doors where real doctors exist. A harassed doctor also prodded about a bit and I had to explain about the loaf of bread again. Maybe bringing it with me for evidence was a bit too much but they needed to know how serious this was. Bread isn't cheap and it won't toast by itself. Meanwhile Tim was trying to keep his hands off his suit and off everything else. Im sure the doctor muttered that hand washing shouldn't be left until someone gets that dirty. Tim went off to clean his filthy hands and it was decided that Adam should be admitted to the children's ward. I think the doctor did this for Adam's own safety due to Tim's filthy hands/ zombie impression and me squirting myself with bleach every few minutes. You can't be too careful with cross infection.

Off to the children's ward we went.  Unfortunately Adam filled the whole of the bed because he is so tall.

Meanwhile a ward 'play leader' wandered over to us called Agnes. She peaked round the curtain and said 'Oh, oh my, we've got a big one here.' She looked suspiciously at the hairy legs (Adam's not mine) and asked Adam if he wanted a colouring book or some dot to dot puzzles. I pointed to his hairy legs and suggested that my son was too old for such frivolities. 

After more waiting it was decided that Adam should stay in for observation. We greeted Adam in the morning with birthday wishes and a surgeon came round and had a more vigorous prod (I was beginning to think that the prodding methods were a bit overused) and decided that he would operate that day and take out the the appendix.

Fast forward anxious hours of waiting and filling forms in. Adam got called down to surgery and I was absolutely having a nervous breakdown inside my head. I did my best false smile and we all joked that it would be a birthday not to be forgotten while I mentally wanted to projectile vomit on everyone.

You could not make the next bit up.

We got in the the anaesthetic room and everyone in there shouted out 'Happy Birthday' as if I had arranged some sort of secret macabre birthday party. They might as well have yelled out 'Surprise!!!!'
Now for the next bit. Never mind the state of the house, the tyre blowing up and Tim's zombie impression....the fire alarm went off just as I had to leave Adam in the anaesthetic room. My emotional departing words of 'You could have brushed your hair' and 'Did you remember to clean your teeth?' were lost in the screech of commotion. My brain went into overdrive. Adam had just been anaesthetised. Would they drag him out and operate in the car park? Or would they continue with the operation whilst battling through the flames? How good did barbecued appendix taste? The timing was impeccable.

We were evacuated except for the operating theatre department. I was expecting scenes outside of mayhem akin to those in A&E. I hoped that little Courtney wasn't half way through having her beard shaved off. It was the weirdest moment ever. I was assured that different sections of the hospital had different sections of fire alarms. No one had to have surgery outside and no babies were born in the car park. There was no fire either. It was all a mistake apart from the bit where Adam was being operated on.

And that just about sums up my son's fourteenth birthday.

It all went well and my kitchen went  back to having bits of cereal lurking around even when you think you've cleaned it properly.

The loaf of bread? It got squashed and sweaty after its time in A&E and on the ward so I gave it to a poor child who had a sign saying 'nil by mouth' above their bed. The poor thing looked really hungry.

Little Courtney? She now only has to shave once a week.

The appendix? Let's just say there was some suspicious looking 'meat' in the hospital food.

Have a picture of Adam's actual day of birth.