We had one of those days on Saturday. A day where none of my plans came to fruition and it was all my own fault.. The initial plan was to walk down to our local train station, catch a train to Leeds, buy my train tickets for my forthcoming trip up to Scotland to visit my eldest son and his family, then another train to Huddersfield and from there the last leg home. That was the plan. We did arrive at our local train station where unfortunately I began to suffer from griping stomach pains, no doubt caused by eating lot’s of soft liquorice the day before.
Panic set in, and we ended up dashing down the road to Sainsbury’s for a toilet instead of clambering aboard the Leeds train. At this point, we did discuss abandoning the whole trip and going back home, but eventually deciding that the risk was worth it we caught the bus to Huddersfield, thereby completely cutting out Leeds altogether. It was a beautiful day, with a cloudless sky and far too good to waste, even if I was in some discomfort and having to keep my shop browsing to shops which I knew contained a loo. How embarrassing I thought and completely self inflicted as well! What idiot eats a ton of soft liquorice when they are planning to venture out on a run-around the following day? You all know the answer to that one!
Needless to say, I did make it home without having any mishaps or embarrassments and can assure my readers that I won’t be so foolish ever again. So remember everyone, if your planning a day out the following day, keep off the liquorice!
I’m not quite sure how the conversation turned to the subject of people’s names as we all sat enjoying the welcome sunshine and our lunch outside the Flutterbites Cafe after our walk on Saturday. I suppose it could have been me who stated that I was, and always had been, useless at remembering peoples names, or there again, it could have been her. However the subject was broached, I had to confess that I was terrible with names and recalled to her how it had taken me ages to ‘get a hold’ of her particular name.
“You don’t look a Gerry” I offered in way of explanation for the many countless times I used to refer to her as Gillian. I also confessed how I kept insisting that Paule was Paula and calling her by that name, but we both agreed that particular faux pas was in all probability because Paule was a male name, and would explain why I kept insisting on adding on the ‘a’ to convert it into the feminine. It does tend to annoy people when you can’t get a handle on their name, especially as time goes by and the first few weeks of acquaintance turn into years and your STILL getting it wrong. They don’t usually confront you with it of course, tending in my particular case to just avoid talking to you as much as possible, or scowling at your constant inability to get their name right. Rather like Pat.
We both decided that in my defence, Pat is one of those people who quite simply doesn’t suit her name. She doesn’t LOOK like a Pat. It’s probably why I continually insist on calling her Margaret. She looks more like a Margaret. It suits her. As we discussed the ‘Pat’ problem, I glanced over to her, sat as she was as far away from me as possible, and mentally filed away the fact that she was called Pat, therefore I should try my best to ignore the fact that she didn’t LOOK like a Pat and get the name firmly fixed in my mind, if only so that she would perhaps converse with me more or at least give a greeting whenever we all met up on our Saturday walks.
I’ve been often embarrassed by my lack of being able to remember or recall someone’s name, but our lunch time conversation at least confirmed that I wasn’t alone and that she had also found it difficult to associate some people with their given name. The conversion moved on to other subjects but as I pondered over it later, I realised that I must ‘LOOK’ my name because its fairly rare that others have called me Sheila or Anne.
I’m a firm believer in the reasoning that we all need some form of escape, either from our daily humdrum lives, or from traumas that we go through during our lives. Some use drugs or drink to escape reality. Me? I immerse myself in the other world that is Tamriel, the setting for the Elder Scrolls role playing games. Some of you may (or may not) be aware of my impatient wait at the moment for the imminent next episode in the Elder Scrolls saga, Skyrim. Due to launch on the 11/11/11 (Bethesda, who are the creators of said world have a sense of humour) I along side many others are waiting its arrival with baited breath. Some of my readers may have arrived at the conclusion that a Granny in her sixties must be slightly batty to be so enamoured by a video game, so to try and explain to those of you who have never entered the world of Elder Scrolls, I’m writing this post is to try and explain exactly why I love them so much.
You know when your eyesight is getting bad when you glance at yourself in the mirror and realise your beginning to resemble Mr Magoo.
Well folks, that’s it! Following the slow deterioration of mind and body, I’ve finally flipped. Lost it completely. I might as well face facts. It’s all gone. Mind and body. Off to the clouds or the past or wherever it all disappears to. I will stop being in denial or worse, blaming external sources (or being distracted and influenced by others.)
And which incident has brought about this sudden ‘facing reality’ I hear you ask. I had a shower this morning with my glasses still on my face. More worrying was the actual time it took me to realise that the cause of my very VERY blurred view of the shampoo bottle was actually caused by my steamed up glasses. It took me at least a minute before it dawned on me. Sigh.
It’s all downhill from here!
I’m an early riser. I always have been, being schooled well as a youngster by my mother that ‘early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy wealthy and wise.’ This did not work out for me personally unfortunately, and as time has past and I have grown older, my waking time has gradually become earlier and earlier. These days, I’m usually awake and up and about at roughly about 06.00am in the morning, largely depending on the resident crows and their escapades outside. Of course, this alarm call tends to alter depending on the time of year, and this morning I was rudely awakened by loud shouting and chattering from my immediate neighbours in the tree outside at about 05.00am.
Owing to the type of chemo I am receiving, I was warned at the beginning that I would loose all of my hair, in fact my consultant expressed surprise during my recent appointment with her, that I still had some left on my head as apparently you usually loose it all following the second session. I shall not be tempted to demonstrate my nearly bald pate with a photo on my blog, I am sure you’ll all understand why, so instead you’ll all have to make do with a cartoon impression of my current appearance.
Sitting at my desk yesterday, I was suddenly conscious that I was rocking on my chair. It’s a habit I have had since being a youngster and one that I can lay firmly on my Granma’s lap, for it was she who bought me that old wooden rocking chair that instigated this particular habit. Not only that, she was also instrumental in causing my life time love of liquorice via ample supplies of liquorice Pontefract Cakes.
The chair was wooden with a circular hole in the seat where you could presumably place a potty of some description. I was probably safely tied into it via a scarf or some other method to ensure that I didn’t fall out. I can’t remember sitting in it of course, but my mother kept it until her demise. It would have been worth some money if it had not been cracked all the way down the back. I have been able to find a picture on the internet of one which is very similar the the one I had.
The Pontefract Cakes might have been bought in a tin, I am not quite sure whether Bassett’s were around in those days so it’s not certain who made them, but I still enjoy eating liquorice to this day. My Granma is a very hazy memory for me, as she died when I was only about three or four from breast cancer. She spoiled me something rotten or so my mother used to tell me, and I just wish my memories were more clear of her. She was probably already unwell by the time I was born, and my mother and I lived with her during my early years. My father was away serving in the Army during that time, so I suppose it made sense for us to remain at home with Granma and Granddad. This was just after the war had ended of course, when things were really tight. I don’t remember much about Granma’s house either, only the basic layout of it and the back room which we all used most of the time. The front room was never used unless there were guests. It was always kept for ‘best’.
t’s just a good job I have never worked in an close office environment, I would have driven everyone batty with my constant rocking and the trouble is, it’s not until someone remarks on it that I realise I am doing it, so by that time everyone would be heartily sick of seeing me out of the corner of their eye rocking to and fro as I enjoyed my liquorice Pontefract Cakes.
I had a strange birthday yesterday. Spent having yet another new experience sat in a very comfortable chair, being stabbed with needles four times in total on the back of my hands resulting in some lovely blue bruises, (I shall be taken soon for an alien as I will no doubt end up blue all over) and receiving lot’s of different inputs ranging from Steroids, anti-sickness stuff to my two separate chemo’s. K sat diligently at my side, noseying as she always does at everything going on around her.
It weighs a ton weight. It’s stopping me from exercising. It’s twice the size of the other one. It refuses to bend at the knee. I can’t tie my shoes. I can’t lift it high enough to put my trousers on. I can’t put my socks on. It’s driving me insane. Go a short walk and I’m beggared and no wonder. It weighs a ton.
I have actually lost weight everywhere else. Without my huge leg I would probably be down to 9 stone but my leg weighs about two ton. Whilst the hospital and I argue over what exactly is wrong with my leg, I am getting no exercises and no stocking to wear and so no treatment. Tomorrow I have yet another scan to endure to see if there is a blood clot causing the swollen leg. I am beginning to loose count of all of the scans I have had. I must have laid under every type of scanner there is by now. The hospital must have pictures of every single organ, vein, and internal supply of my body you can think of. Well, apart from my brain and I don’t really blame them for missing that part out. There would be very little to see.
It’s worse first thing after being laid down. K and I discussed whether I could go to sleep with my leg propped up against the wall. We both decided that what I really needed was one of those hoists above the bed that hospitals use to keep your leg straight after a breakage when its in plaster. I could lay down and K would have to adjust the pulley to raise my leg into the air. I just hope that tomorrow I get some answers and therefore some treatment to bring my big fat leg back down to size.