Day 100!!!

Today marks 100 days (NO DIALYSIS!!!) since my kidney became Our Kidney.  It’s also my Big Brother’s 43rd birthday, but that’s by-the-by.

Life is ‘normal’.  Or, it’s as normal as it will ever be.  It’s nice and we do things without worry.

Except, there’s one minor issue and it will involve a couple of days in Hospital followed by a few weeks off work.  Oh yes.

Blokey is bumpy.  Well, he has a bulge, quite a prominent one, above Our Kidney.  They (Hospital) were convinced it was a collection of fluid, but because of its lack of proximity to Our Kidney they weren’t particularly concerned.  Finally Blokey receives an appointment for an ultrasound scan and he dutifully toddled off on Tuesday (Day 98, NO DIALYSIS!!!) to have his belly smeared with cold gunk.  This was followed by a regular clinic – howareyouvettingon – appointment on Wednesday (Day 99, NO DIALYSIS!!!) where they kindly informed him of the fact that he has …

*drum roll*

… a HERNIA!!!

Hospital told him that the surgeons would want him to lose weight before they could operate.  A flabbergasted Blokey went a trifle ballistic (or so he says) and pointed out that he weighs only 2kg more than he did when he received Our Kidney, and – more importantly – this was their cock-up (they should have realised earlier) and he expected them to rectify the situation as quickly as possible.

They agreed.  We expect the operation to take place in the next 4-6 weeks.  He’s not a Happy Bunny, but I’m relieved that it isn’t something more sinister.

We would complain, but we know it isn’t worth it.  The last time there was a major cock-up Dr. Silly Neph advised us to write to PALs, which we did.  Then we had a reply from Dr. Silly Neph himself telling us it had been looked into and they were closing ranks.

*scratches head*

Apart from that, life is good.




the waiting game

Some people assume that once somebody has a transplant they’re miraculously cured of all kidney related ailments.  It isn’t a cure; it’s simply another form of treatment.

We don’t know how long this treatment will last.  It could all go tits up tomorrow, but it could be a treatment which lasts for forty years.  In that sense it’s worse than haemoD, which we knew was four hours a session, three times a week, for ever.  And always.  Or at least until medical research brings some new form of treatment into existence.

Yesterday marked our two month kidneyversary.  Times flies.  You would think that by now things are settled, medication is fixed and life can begin to get less worrisome and more liveable.  You would be wrong, but we forgive you for making that assumption.

Blokey had his weekly clinic appointment last Thursday and it was ever-so exciting.  He’d lost 4kg since the previous week, we already knew that his creatinine* was down to 149 (1.686 mg/dl in AmeriSpeak) and they were so happy they said he could have a week off and they’d see him on the 29th.  Huzzah!

Our joy was short-lived though.  Blokey reminded them that he needed his stent removed and the delectable Dr. Nephro agreed that it should be done as a matter of some urgency and proclaimed that the person who usually arranged the appointments was very flakey in her/his forgetfulness.  Blokey was told to come in the next day and it would be removed.  It’s a simple procedure, although not a particularly nice or comfortable one, and doesn’t take long.  So, Blokey was up with the milkman and off he went to Hospital.  He rang me hours later, close to tears, to inform me that Dr. and Mrs. Nephro were panicking (I don’t think they were) and he had to have an ultrasound because everything was going wrong.  My Blokey is very dramatic.  This makes him both loveable, and a little bit hittable in equal measures.  He said that he’d been told his creatinine had shot up and that a biopsy was now practically non-negotiable, but he hadn’t actually spoken to anybody in Nephro Land and was just relying on messages, probably being brought down by work experience kidz.  He assured me that nobody was telling him anything and they weren’t allowed to.  Bless him. Ultrasound was fine, stent was removed, Blokey came home.  An hour later we toddled off to his company work bash (we got a mention AND a round of applause in the After Dinner Speech, how cringeworthy) and thus began a weekend of worry and frustration.


This morning we went to Hospital so that Blokey could have a chat with the delectable Dr. Nephro and have more bloods taken.  Remember the 4kg he’d lost last week?  That’s all gone back on.  Everybody is scratching their heads about that, but hopefully that’s just a minor irritating glitch.  We found out that his creatinine had risen to 199 (2.251 mg/dl) and this is what had worried them.  However, the kidney looked perfect (Docs words) and all his other labs are good.  I’ll ring you before I leave work with the results, said the delectable Dr. Nephro.  Usually they ring the next morning, mostly because it takes that long for them to get the results, but he could see/hear that Blokey was wound up and worried.

Blokey has spent the day playing Star Wars: The Old Republic and grumbling about pesky players stealing his bits (or something).  I’ve spent the day tapping my fingers on the desk, in between walks to the pharmacy to pick up carrier bags full of medication

(We don’t have this one, said the woman.  When will you have it, only it is THE most important meds he takes? I enquire. We’re expecting it to be delivered today, she tells me after a big sigh of annoyance and a slow meandering walk [5 steps] to the pharmacist and back.)

and the posting of important letters to benefit agencies and Christmas cards to neighbours.

Half an hour ago the phone rang.  It was the delectable Dr. Nephro, Phwoar.  Blokey’s creatinine is back down to 161 (1.821 mg/dl).  A biopsy isn’t required this side of Christmas.

And tonight we’ll be eating doughnuts in celebration.

*Creatinine is a waste product from the normal breakdown of muscle tissue which is filtered through the kidneys and excreted in urine. Doctors measure the blood creatinine level as a test of kidney function. To put all these numbers into perspective, MY creatinine is about 100 (1.13 mg/dl) which is within the normal range.  Ideally Blokey’s should be about the same and at least below 150 (1.69 mg/dl). 

All Hail, Oh! Doom and Gloom!

Blokey drove himself to his clinic appointment this morning, so I opted to go along too, just because it’s nice to get out of the house every so often.  Okay, I would be most definitely lying if I said that was my only reason for going.  A lesser reason was so that I could sit in on the appointment and hear what the lovely doctor said.  Why?  Call me silly, but I have this far-fetched belief that my husband tends to only hear what he wants to hear.

After the appointment it became apparent that my far-fetched belief is not-so far-fetched after all.

This is what Blokey heard:

Doom doom doom, gloomy gloomy gloom-gloom.  Biopsy equals rejection equals back on dialysis.  Oh, woe is me.

This is what I heard:

Yes, the creatinine is a worry and yes, we would expect a living donation to not be acting like a cadaveric donation in that respect.  Yes, this fluid bubble issue is not an issue and we see it often.  Yes, we expect that you will have to have a biopsy.  BUT … the creatinine might stabilise at a higher rate because wifey is smaller than Blokey.  Biopsy does not equate to us believing there is a definite rejection issue.  Kidney is working beautifully and all levels (bar the creatinine) point to this.  Blokey, you are looking really well.  Smiley smiley smiley. 

So, I got the impression that she was advocating a biopsy because she believed it wouldn’t show that Our Kidney is rejecting and would put Blokey’s mind at rest and enable them to throw more of the right anti-rejection drugs in his direction.  Obviously if it does show signs of rejection that’s a bonus too because they can work with that.  Blokey gets the impression that a biopsy can only ever be Bad News.

This is exhausting.  Chivvying your husband along and trying to make him see the positive aspects, whilst worrying about it yourself is a very hard job (and as such I should perhaps charge him the going rate for ‘wifey who puts up with lots’).  Sometimes I want to slap him.  Sometimes I just want to storm out of the room like a spoilt brat.  I could cry for England and come very close to winning a Gold.  Mostly I just want to huggle him and make it all go away.

At the weekend we belatedly celebrated his birthday with his immediate family.  He was fine all day and as soon as they stepped through the door he plastered his perfected Oh, pity me for I am so miserable and nothing ever goes right for me look onto his face.  He was still continuing this in the resturant and when I couldn’t take it anymore I turned to him and whispered, Every time you talk like this it’s a slap in the face for me! and he didn’t talk to me for about five minutes.  But then he did and everything was hunky-dory.

I was being honest though.  I feel like a failure, with a little help from an apparently defective kidney.  When he grumbles about how it’s not working as it should be working (for he has done extensive research into this and knows he is right) he might as well be slapping me in the face, or punching me in the tummy, or … kicking me in my one remaining kidney.


It hurts.  Lots.  I went through this so that we could attempt to live a better life with NO DIALYSIS!!! and although we’ve achieved the NO DIALYSIS!!! aspect (to date) we still have a long way to go before either of us will be happy that it’s working to its best possible potential and ability. I know we’ll get there, but if there’s a magic pill to help us get there a tad quicker that would be most appreciated …

Losing a kidney, but gaining a life (Part the Fourth)

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Three:

I suffered the pain of Mumsy driving way too fast over speed bumps in order to pick up Kidney Kake from the Cake Shop.  When Tom (the owner/cake-maker) heard what I had done (Mummy, SHUT UP!!!) he let me have the two scrummily-delicious vanilla cupcakes I’d ordered for our fifth wedding anniversary absolutely free.  As he helped us to the car with Kidney Kake he then popped a bag of homemade buttery shortbread biscuits into the car, told me they were a gift for being so amazing, and then proceded to kiss me on the cheek!  Happy gosh!

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Four:

Once again I braved Mumsy’s driving so that I could see Blokey and give him cake!  He seemed fairly happy, mostly because his urinary catheter and his neck-line had both been removed.  He was still connected to the drainage bag, collecting manky fluid from around Our Kidney, but he could live with that.  We swapped Happy Anniversary cards and discussed pain.  I tidied up for him (this is good; if I’m tidying it means I’m getting better.)


Blokey sent me a text telling me he would probably be out that morning.  Later he rang me in tears to tell me he didn’t think he would be.  He’d had an ultrasound scan and the (stupid) technician informed him that there was definitely fluid around the kidney still and this was a sign of rejection.


To say that I was very angry would be putting a very mild spin on the occasion.  His body will always attempt to reject Our Kidney, but to be given the impression that a newly transplanted kidney is showing signs of rejection and then not giving any advice or support or hope (because as an ultrasound technician you lack the qualifications to actually do so … oh wait, you also lack the qualifications to make an informed judgement!) is appallingly unprofessional behaviour.  Any information pertaining to rejection should come from the team of nephrologists because they can explain the whys and wherefores and how to solves. A calmer Blokey later rang me to say he’d finally seen the docs and they’d said it wasn’t anything unusual and he shouldn’t worry his pretty little head about it.

That evening he was discharged (he’d had bowel movement!) and his brother took him home to Mummy.

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Seven:

Mumsy took me to my MiLs to visit Blokey.  Has she been smoking? I asked him.  No, she’s been very good, he answered.  She had put him in the single bed in the spare room though.  I thought this was a tad mean; he deserved a BIG BED!  But he was happy enough.  No docs prodding him, lots of Internet access, tellybox watching on demand and someone to keep him fed and watered.  What more could he ask for?

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Nine:

Shortly before 10 o’clock there was a knock at the front door.  It was patient transport, come to collect Blokey to take him to the hospital for his clinic appointment.  D’Oh! Blokey had told them he’d need picking up from his mum’s for that first appointment, and had even seen that they had that written down. Stupid patient transport admin people!  Blokey’s aunty was able to take him in that morning, but patient transport did turn up at my MiLs shortly after they’d left.  *sigh*


My fifth wedding anniversary gift arrived from Blokey (a whole week late, but he’s a boy so I couldn’t expect any better!) It was a Bonsai Tree.  Yay!  Something to kill!  Awww, bless him.  He brought it because it’s made of wood, and five years is wood.  It was relevant … plus I’d mentioned that I’d wanted one ages ago.  Of course, he’d forgotten to buy any Bonsai food or care bookage to go with it so I’ve had to spend my own money on ordering that, but no worries.  He’s promised me something spangly when we’re up to going out and browsing but I said that it was okay … we should save our money.

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Eleven:

Blokey came home!  My BiL dropped him off in time for lunch.  I thought I would be happy and excited, but I wasn’t.  He was a bit miserable and negative and I suddenly had this overwhelming wave of despair crash down over me; I had to go upstairs and cry.  I could hear Mumsy talking to him downstairs.  Mumsy is SO GOOD.  She’s the BEST Mumsy in the whole wide world.  Whatever she said was enough to perk him up and make him more cheerful.  Then she came and gave me a hug too.  I understand that being home was scary.  I understand that I’m the one person in the world whom he can share his negative thoughts with.  I understand that he’s worried about Our Kidney rejecting.  But at the time I was still in a lot of pain and was also still hugely worried about everything too.  He needed to understand that we’re facing this together as a couple, not as two individuals with separate hopes and dreams.

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Twelve:

Mumsy went home after watching me make a cup of tea and making me promise not to use the vaccuum cleaner.  Ha ha.

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Thirteen:

We were rudely awoken by a knock on the front door shortly before 8am.  I stumbled out of bed and down the stairs (it’s amazing how easily one can forget pain when one has something to suddenly do) to answer it.  An elderly gentleman enquired if this was the right house for Mr. Blokey. I nodded sleepily and proclaimed, Oh yes! He’s just getting dressed … can you give him five minutes?  This was a lie.  The elderly chap (patient transport) went to wait in his car after apologising for being a tad early. Blokey got up.

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Fifteen:

I had an interview twenty miles away. My wonderful Mumsy drove up to take me there, dosed up on strong painkillers.  I apologised profusely for being a little under the weather and declined the tour of the extensive facilities.  I didn’t expect to be offered the job.

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Sixteen:

I had a phone call offering me the job.  We agreed I would start in January.  Go me!

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Seventeen:

Blokey arrived at the hospital early for his clinic appointment and had had both the appointment and his bloods taken before his actual appointment time.  This was good.  What wasn’t so good was that he then had to wait for no less than five hours before patient transport was available to bring him home.  The reason?  They were waiting for an old man to be discharged from a ward and the people who transport for patient transport wouldn’t get paid for two separate trips so it’s not in their interest to be very helpful. Blokey is very much looking forward to driving again! Maybe it’s just me, but it seems insane that someone who is currently very fragile and vulnerable (in terms of his immune system) has to wait for so long in a hospital where he could pick up all manner of things!

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Eighteen:

Blokey was given the nod to start taking his warfarin again.  This relieved him as it suggested that they didn’t think they would need to do a biopsy.

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Twenty-one:

Following a clinic appointment in the morning one of Blokey’s nephs phoned in the late afternoon to tell him that his creatinine (the amount of creatinine, something which is normally excreted in urine, in your blood determines your kidney function; the higher it is, the naughtier your kidneys are) was down to 149 (in AmeriSpeak that’s 1.69 mg/dl).  This news caused celebration in the KatieF household because he’d been told they would be happy when his creatinine got to 150, although they would like it to get lower.  WooHoo! It had steadily decreased! He was also told to up his warfarin dosage.

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Twenty-five:

A Bad News phone call on a Friday has the potential to completely spoil your weekend.  Please lower your warfarin dose, they said.  Then they told him that his creatinine had increased to 170.  Humpfgrrrhumpf.  Blokey panics and decides that the end is nigh; his body is obviously rejecting Our Kidney and he’ll be back on haemoD within days.  I panic, but have to be strong for Blokey and do the there, there thing, putting positive slants on everything.  It can be exhausting.  I pop online and read up about why creatinine levels might increase in newly transplanted kidney patients.  There’s slight relief that it appears this is a normal glitch. A positive cause of the glitch seems to be related to fluid.  Blokey has been limiting his fluid intake (with his nephs agreement) because they overloaded him with copious amounts of fluid whilst he was in hospital.  However, he’s lost an awful lot of that fluid but is still limiting himself.  I don’t think he’s drinking enough.  He agreed to drink a teeny bit more, but is hesitant until he speaks to his nephrologist at clinic.

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Twenty-six:

Our first adventure away from FlatHickTown.  We went to the Village of my Childhood (sixty or so miles away) for a “Curry Night” in aid of a charity which sponsors Indian slum children.  Yummy-yum.  I worried about Blokey as he seemed to have lost colour and is looking tired.  I didn’t tell him that though, and I want to cry, lots.

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Twenty-seven:

I had to scold Blokey for leaving the toilet seat up.  Huzzah!

NO DIALYSIS!!! Day Twenty-eight:

I woke up this morning at about four o’clock.  I couldn’t get back to sleep so I made a coffee, spied on my neighbours (it appears that the chap opposite gets up very early) and came online to update this blog.  Today is a clinic day and very soon I will be prodding Blokey awake and making him get washed and dressed, ready for patient transport.  Before he goes I will remind him to tell them he’s still limiting his fluid and that he’s had the sniffles over the weekend.  I am not a religious person but I will pray that even if his creatinine has gone up again (and we won’t know that till his blood results come back at stupid o’clock in the early evening; we will be waiting for a phone call) they will be able to offer advice and solutions.

All positive vibes will be gratefully received and stored in a safe place so that we can use them again at a later date, as and when required.

the tmi post

I’ve just read somewhere that I should de-varnish my toe nails before I go to hospital. Humpf! A post-transplant pedicure will be a must. I wonder if it constitutes as receiving of gifts/monies if Blokey pays for it?


We took the cats to the cattery this morning. I always feel dreadfully mean when I take my beautiful little fluffballs away from home. I imagine they must be scared that they’ll never see me again (Mog was so scared that he poo’d in his basket halfway there!). Then I envisage them becoming all excited when they spy me again and come tumbling into my arms for love and cuddles. This never happens; they generally just scowl at me and spend a good two hours completely ignoring us once we get them home.

Poor little buggers. They’re in a ‘room’ together for the next ten days. They’ll either have become the bestest of friends, or one (probably Dora) will have killed the other (probably Mog).

I am surprisingly calm. The ONLY thing which is bugging me is my period. Each time I toddle into the bathroom for a wee I expect to discover that I’ve started, and I haven’t. I have the sore boobies and the fuzzy belly, and I have the pre-period feeling in my snatch girly area (I’m really hoping that other women understand what I mean … I’d hate to think that I’m odd.) But no yuckiness yet (although what’s the betting the next time I go my period will jump out at me, waving a red flag and screaming, BOO!)

I’m not sure how ridiculous I’m being. I’m going to have major surgery, involving the removal of a perfectly healthy organ. I’m going to wake up in pain, with a urinary catheter (yikes) after having some surgeon stuff his hand (it’s only a little hand) inside me to wrench out my kidney. I’m going to have to eat hospital food and share a room with strangers.

And all I’m worried about is having my period and needing some nurse to ‘sort me out’ down there.


I KNOW they’ve dealt with it before squillions of times. But this is MY time so I’m allowed to be a little freaked, yes? Besides, I think that having the worry of my menstrual cycle at the forefront of my mind makes everything else seem utterly insignificant and therefore far easier to deal with.

I can only hope that this experience will set me up for life; EVERYTHING will be a doddle in comparison and I’ll never feel the need to worry about stupid things like periods and enemas ever again.


(2 days)

tits n’ pricks #9

With just seven days till NO DIALYSIS! we were invited to the hospital to enjoy a morning of pre-operative assessments.

We’d been forewarned that it would involve copious moments of wasted time and indeed it did. However, Blokey had his Private Eye so all was well.

It gave me the opportunity to enjoy one of my favourite past-times; people-watching. This inevitably raised questions. Who, out of the Indian family with their translator, needed the transplant? Why did the WHOLE family need to come along to get the little kid’s arm x-rayed? Does that young man eat noodles for his lunch every day, or does he value variety? Does anybody ever shop in The Body Shop on the concourse?

The ECG: I had to get my boobies out again. I’m getting old and when I lie down they tend to sag a bit. Blasted gravity! Being completely naked on top, but fully-dressed on bottom can make someone feel pretty stupid. At least, as long as that someone is me.

The X-ray: I had to strip again! Blokey didn’t have to strip. I assume it must be something to do with being of the bra-wearing species. Still, the blue gown is fetching. When I last had a chest x-ray the chap kept me waiting like a numpty as he faffed around. Having had another one lasting a matter of in-confirm-radiate-out seconds, I now suspect that he was having a good laugh at my expense.

The Blood: The non-professional vampire on the transplant ward consumed NINE! vials of my blood. He was far better at the consumption of blood than the professional vampires in the Blood-Taking Clinic. He was nice as well. Upon discovering my teacher-ish background he began discussing Educating Essex. I haven’t seen it though, so that was a bit of a conversation stopper.

I hope he’s not urinary-catheter person.

The Doctor: She was about fifteen and she kept us waiting for aeons. Seriously; at least an hour and a half. Then she tried to make me hyperventilate. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out … When Blokey had his turn shortly afterwards I burst into silent laughter, like a child. SO easily amused.

The Embarrassing Question: I asked it! It’s been bugging me and so I took the bull by the horns and let Blokey wallow in TMI self-pity. I think I might be in full-flow mode on the day of the operation (I’m slightly not-so regular and have a few days to play with); will this matter? Living Donor Lady smiled. It’s not a problem … the nurses are used to it and they won’t be fussed. Obviously it will just be me that’s fussed, but it does help to know that they’re used to it! She mentioned paper knickers and pads. Paper knickers? Oooh, fun!

Swabbage: We were swabbed for MRSA. Groin, nose, tickle the back of the throat. Blokey is so used to doing it that he did his own. I did my nose, but let the Living Donor Lady take charge of my groin and throat. It did mean that she got a brief glimpse of my I Love Nerds pants. Lucky woman!

And that was it. We celebrated with a MASSIVE Mexican meal (and a Woo Woo!) and then we came home.

We were feeling very pleased with ourselves this morning. We got up, washed the car, I posted some thirteenth birthday goodies to my nephew and we rubbed our hands in glee, pleased that we hadn’t had a phone call saying that something was amiss.

Oh, right. We got a phone call at about two-thirty this afternoon. Remember the MRSA malarkey where Blokey deviated between being negative and positive, and I had to spend a week scrubbing like a … well, like a scrubber, and Blokey had to shower every day in Hibiscus* stuff?

Oh, it’s okay. The MRSA swabbage results from yesterday came back negative. But they’re not the THIRD negative result in a row. Blokey is thus VERY annoyed. HaemoD told him that he’d had three negatives in a row, and he’s just asked at his session now and they’re insistent that he had three negatives. But there’s no blinking evidence. So, we may not be able to take part in the BP cuff trial and he’ll have to be pumped full of antibiotics before the op. He’s worried this will affect the kidney. I said they wouldn’t do the operation if they thought it was going to be a risk. I mean, I’m not a cadaver am I? They’re not going to take my kidney if they think there’s a risk. He’s a Silly Billy sometimes.

On the plus side, whilst I have to potentially share a bay with Mrs Annoying, Miss Chatterbox and Ms Moany, he’ll get to be in a room all on his own. No distractions, no visitors belonging to other patients, no noise from someone else’s tellybox … and possibly no me. But we’ll need to clarify that when we get there on Monday. That will be suckity boo.

I’m remarkably calm and still sleeping well. But there are still six days till NO DIALYSIS!

*smiles* (nervously)

*hibiscus: a flower, not to be confused with hibiclens: an MRSA treatment … i often become confused.

national mrsa week

We are currently embarking on a week involving much celebration of Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (or MRSA as it’s more commonly known.) 

The Washing Machine will find itself to benefit the most from this, whilst Blokey’s nostrils will enjoy the thrill of having a cotton bud stuck up themselves thrice-daily.  Gosh, even the Shower may find itself to be more in demand.


About three weeks ago Blokey arrived home from haemoD to announce that his monthly swabs had shown positive for MRSA.  Not to worry; they’d taken more swabs and were testing again.  These ones came back negative.  But they had to test again because they need three positive results or three negative results in succession before they can declare ‘Nay!’ or ‘Yay!’ 

Negative again … a 2-1 result in favour of Negative.

But, oh yes, the next swabs showed a Positive result.

2-2 … a draw. 

Despite being completely flabbergasted about this positive/negative malarky, and being unable to work out where he’s got it from if he really does have MRSA (nobody else at haemoD appears to have it) the good doctors have prescribed the Seven Steps of MRSA Obliteration.

The only person who really suffers with this is Me.  And Washing Machine.  Blokey becomes extra clean and SuperBug free, but I have to spend the next seven days stripping and scrubbing.  Clean bedding and clean pyjamas EVERYDAY, plus the clean towel and clean washcloth and clean clothes.  I’ve therefore banished Blokey to the Land of Single DuVet; I refuse to struggle with King DuVet everyday so I’m having that all to my little self.  Oh, he can stay in our bed, but if I’ve only got to worry about his pillowcases, the sheet and a single duvet cover then I’m happier.  And it means that I get to snuggle up in our lovely cosy king-size duvet all on my tod. 


Our bathroom is now the proud owner of MRSA Busting soap/shampoo, toothpaste, dusting-powder (talc?) and nostril cleaner.  Blokey must remember to pay special attention to that bit between his legs.  We have instructions and everything …

(if washing machine chooses this week to go bonkers i’m going to be one well mardy cow)

wot no title?

I want a new settee and armchair. I’ve wanted a new settee and armchair for the last three years.

We’ll get them when we’ve finished paying for the display cabinet, says Blokey.

Blokey wants a spankingly brand new car. He’s wanted a spankingly brand new car for about a month.

Let’s get one now, says Blokey.

This morning we toddled off to the Skoda garage to chat to a man about a car. We were going to pop to the Amazingly Big Tesco afterwards but Blokey had forgotten the ‘triple points!’ voucher, so we made do with the Little Piddly Tesco near the Skoda garage instead. Somewhere between entering Tesco and arriving in the milk aisle Blokey became ill.

Ill tends to be sudden with Blokey. Obviously he IS ill, always. His body is constantly fighting waves of poison and waste that us ‘normal’ folk get rid of without a second glance. But when he becomes ill, it is sudden. Scarily so. This morning it was probably dehydration, but we can never be sure. He was out of breath, pale and feeling dizzy.

So I opted for snarkiness, and lots of huffing and puffing down the frozen aisle.

I am a bitch.

I don’t mean to be. It’s partly because I get scared; it’s terribly horrid to have to live with the fact that the person you love is – technically – at Death’s door and everytime he gets a pain or feels sick or feels out of breath the thoughts that go through my mind tend to be edging to Morbid Side. It’s also partly because it annoys and frustrates me. I feel as though I do everything. I am nursemaid, cleaner, laundress, chambermaid, pet-feeder, wheelie-bin operator, cushion plumper, chef, shopper, gardener …

Blokey does the dish-washer.

I don’t mind. Genuinely, I don’t.

What I do mind is that his brand spankingly new car is more important than my settee and armchair, and that on the one day we’d actually agreed to go and look at a new settee and armchair Blokey’s body decided that it was going to go skewy, but only after we’d been where he wanted to go, to talk about something we can’t really afford.

Cheers, Blokey’s body! I ♥ you, too.

Sometimes I just want to act like a two-year old and have one of those unfussy tantrums, where after five minutes the sobs subside into hiccoughs and everything is very-nearly hunky-dory again. Instead I have to act like an adult, and bite my tongue whilst gently stewing in my own anger.

I’m very good at it.

(We’re going to the furniture shop tomorrow, but only if Blokey’s body is being good.)