things keep happening
spiral of doom

Destiny is calling

Well well well. (The story of the three wells, as my father used to say, in a fine example of Dad humour). Here we are again. The Time, as JB calls it, came in a timely fashion, (though oddly, it was almost painless). So no miracle then, I am for the chop. And, to add insult to injury, (literally) it's going to be rather expensive.

No point in arguing though, it's booked. The die is cast. (Hah! I used half-wittedly to think it was the dye is cast, I thought it was something to do with home hair-dye jobs gone bad. Oh dear.) I may have to stay overnight, in order to be starved, a thing I object to on two counts:
1) it costs even more of a fortune to stay overnight (because we made a mess of our health insurance, and the ChildDoctor only works at certain private hospitals) and
2) Sleep? huh, in my dreams! (ironically), in a hospital bed.
And oh! 3) pay 5 star hotel rates, to be starved?


The JB is currently lounging around in Toronto like a playboy on some kind of a "work trip". Lucky divil.
I may need to make greater efforts in the socialising dept before he comes back to find me a wild lunatic who has lost the power of speech. The only person I spoke to today was my mother, on the phone. My voice sounded a bit croaky and out of practice, even after just a day.
(I work on my own in a shed at the bottom of the garden, with no one but slugs and spiders for company).
Further evidence I should probably Get Out More: I made a cake today. Whizzed it up, put it in the oven. Then it struck me that I had forgotten to put the eggs and milk (ie, the whole wet part) in the mixture, so, quick as lightning, I  retrieved the sludge from the oven where it had hardly started to cook at all, and beat them in determinedly. Good save, me.
Speaking of the cake, it is calling me from the house.
TWAAANNNNGY!!! If you don't eeeeat me, I won't have fulfilled my destiny! Myyy deeeestiny!

It's probably not a good sign when baked goods start speaking to you.
I best away before I add to the body of evidence against myself.
Till later,



I feel guilty for any moaning I did at all about my lap. Because, it was all totally on the NHS, yay! And it wasn't too bad. And there's nothing like a nice improved inner environment, eh? Especially if they show you the before and after photographs just so, you know, they can prove they didn't merely open you up, peer in, and zip you shut again, before pocketing the fee and skipping happily away.

The starvation/dehydration is a killer, though.

Best of luck. Now go and help that cake reach apotheosis.


Thanks, May. The NHS is really something. Grumble, grumble, crappy Irish HSE. Your Irish grannies were quite right to head off eastwards. Hmph.

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