Outfit Of The Day

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Outfit Of The Day from my lovely future Daughter-in Law.

The hair was styled by sleeping on it, and my makeup was created entirely by taking the makeup of the day before, and rubbing my eyes a bit.”

That’s EXACTLY the sort of ‘on-trend’ relationship any young woman should have with clothes & makeup!

We mature ladies do need a bit more input to look human though…


If you’d like to listen to ‘Cough’…

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I’m going to find a way to incorporate audio for every blog post if possible.  Ambitious I know!  Any tips appreciated.  Incidentally, I won’t always have this husky, sexy voice…


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Firstly an update on my appointment with the Orthopaedic Surgeon regarding The Bastard Knee – the Knee will be remaining Bastardly for the foreseeable future.  Yes indeed, as a change from the ‘you’re too fat’ line I got the new, improved ‘you’re the WRONG SORT OF FAT’ which, despite its exciting newness, all boils down to the same thing; computer says no.

My 30-odd years of rampant Lymphoedema have left my legs so deformed, fibrotic & huge (despite years of treatment, bandaging & sexy compression garments) that a surgeon is simply incapable of manipulating the joint into a suitable position to fit something shiny & new.  Allegedly.  If you know different, please shout up!  So, with the promise of some steroids being injected into the joint which might/might not work at all & an ongoing supply of opiates, that’s that.  Bariatric Surgery was fleetingly mentioned, but he didn’t seem to understand that my top half could slim to Victoria Beckham levels of skeletal (if I was a) a skeleton & b) my bones went on a diet too) but my legs would remain a hideous, bulbous pair of appendages & my circus freakery would increase by about 1000%.

I am, in fact, losing size thanks to Diabetes medications.  I say ‘thanks’ to but, frankly, becoming saggy & wrinkly to the point where I CAN FOLD MY BOOBS IN HALF is bloody horrendous.  I’ve got precious little going for me at the best of times & this past 6 months of what I’ll politely refer to as Metformin* Arse (*a moment on the lips, an evening on the toilet) has left me shedding size very rapidly down the loo.

I don’t want to lose weight.  I have never wanted to be thin.  I’ve been tubby all my life despite a childhood of limited food & that undiagnosed Tree Trunk Legged Lymphoedema.  I am identified by my size.  Without it I wouldn’t be me.  I also can’t afford to lose weight.  I have a wardrobe of clothes that fit me.  How many times would I have to replace all that clothing if I were to diminish?  I eat healthily, I work out with my exercise bands, I’m keeping mobile for as long as the MS lets me.  Life’s too short to spend the last 20/30 years of mine denying myself when I’m only going to end up a Full Gimp anyway!  Those ‘extra’ years you spend a lifetime sacrificing for come right at the end of your life & who wants that extra 2 years gained by walking up the stairs to be spent in agony with arthritis but too demented to care?  Screw you Diabetes: I’m having a Star Bar!

In other news, I have a cough.  An unceasing, hacking cough.  A ‘try to cough your lung out whilst simultaneously having a surreptitious pee’ kind of cough.  Joy of bloody joys.  Nine days into it & I’m royally fed up & wishing I had the kind of income that could have invested in Tena incontinence pads years ago.

And with that thought plus the boob folding one, I bid you adieu.


The Little Red Hen

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You know that story right?  The little red hen who asks the farmyard for help but gets nowt until the spoils are ready to enjoy?  Sometimes I think that’s me that is.  Need a job doing?  Just pile it on my shoulders!

What’s brought this on?  I’m sitting here, numb-arsed & shaky of hands after typing 3 out of 4 reports from the Scrutiny work I’m doing for my Housing Association.  I’ve done all the training (apart from that half day when I had a funny turn & had the Sean Connery voice), I contribute in every session, I think of questions, I ask questions, I organise the team, I pay attention, I take the notes, I ask the supplementaries &, seemingly, I do the typing now too.

It’s been a massive leap for me to trust the team to do as good a job as I would do & I know that makes me sound like a demented control-freak perfectionist.  I sort of am if I’m honest.  I know the job’s a good ‘un if I’ve had plenty to do with it.  I’m learning to share the load but, really – have you seen some of these people?..

That’s a little unfair as the majority of them are lovely, hard-working folk who are learning something very new & doing their best.  That doesn’t mean that just because I can, I should do all the extras!  I’m actually terrified of being shown up as incompetent, unprofessional, half-arsed or otherwise a bit shite by someone who isn’t putting as much effort as I am into this.

In the meantime I’ve spent the afternoon spending more time on typos than typing (yes I KNOW I said I’d just leave ’em but this was WORK!) & I’m spent for the day.  One more to do tomorrow & I’ll be practising saying no* for next time… *piss off & do it yourself.

Here’s an example of the kind of hard graft & detailed note-taking I make;


If you think it…

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…it will come!  Not everything of course.  Not a bazillion quid or The World’s Strongest Man wanting to carry you around so you don’t wear your feet out.  Some things though.  Things like FINALLY GETTING AN APPOINTMENT WITH THE ORTHOPAEDIC SURGEON!

So yes, I will finally get to put may case for killing my Bastard Knee & replacing it with Steve Austin’s spare Bionic Leg.  It’s not a foregone conclusion that I’ll even be taken seriously.  I have contraindications coming out of my arse (not literally) like being fat, having significant Lymphoedema & the associated infection risk, the bloody MS…  I know; I’m hardly straightforward.  This should NEVER make me less deserving of treatment though.  Hell, by the time I see the Doc I’ll have been in agony for almost a year.  A year which has endeavoured to put the total kibosh on my ‘keeping mobile for as long as humanly possible’ plans.  If I can’t walk due to the MS then I really WILL need The World’s Strongest Man to place me gingerly on the lav…  So, I can now put my arguments for surgery on paper &, hopefully, anticipate & counter any arguments against.  I don’t particularly want surgery.  I do want not to need it in the first place, but we’re way beyond that.

Time for Tramadol.  Come to mama as your days may indeed be numbered, my little capsule pals…

I’m still here….

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Despite appearances to the contrary, I AM still knocking about, sometimes quite literally.  I don’t know why I’ve abandoned WordPress for so long.  God knows, I’m rarely lost for words & have plenty to moan about!

I see people are still finding the @CaitlinMoran story I reproduced here & that’s a good thing.  In my efforts to break out of the illusion of Social Housing ‘choice’, I have joined up to my own housing Association’s Scrutiny Panel & have been in training for that for months now.  Our first project is nearing its end &, dear me, I’ve had to use the remnants of my People Skills to get through it.  It is testament to my self control that I really only felt punchy a couple of times…

I’m sure I’ll share more of that with you – within the remit of the Privacy Agreement of course!

The knee I’ve previously mentioned (now titled the Bastard Knee) is STILL waiting to be seen to by someone with a white coat & power tools.  The MRI revealed a litany of denuded this & arthritic that & general knackered-ness.  If only it could see the agony too.  It’s me & Tramadol all the way baby!

Oh, & I got a tattoo…

Can you tell what it is yet?