159. Will nobody think of the Crockery!
Walking through the school at lunchtime, when I was greeted by a cheery Year Two. She clocked my right hand, frowned a little and said “do you break lots of plates?”
“No,” I replied.
“Ok,” she said.
Nice to feel she could ask…
158. Equally mysterious mysteries…
“I’m thinking of writing my dissertation about the work of David Lewis on modal realism.”
“Arf?”
“His idea is that there are a number of possible worlds, of which this is one. That when something happens, there is another world in which that thing hasn’t happened and events follow through from that.”
“Like in the film ‘Sliding Doors’? So there’s one world where Gwyneth Paltrow ends up with the chap who played Hugh Grant’s deaf brother in ‘Four Weddings’ and one in which she doesn’t?” I say.
“John Hannah,” says ActorLaddie.
155. Let us rogate…
I don’t know about you, but what with trying to catch up on Thursday night’s sleep; and with the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth; and with the resolution to treat the result as a personal call to arms, I’m right behind with my Rogation Sunday shopping. So here we are again, Rogation Sunday morning and I’ve barely bought my cards, let alone sent them.
Don’t you think it comes around quicker every year?
153. Whatever…
I’ve had a cover story ready from the start.
If you’ve read my first blog, you’ll remember that I’ve always intended to blame a bite from a radioactive trifle in a freak Ocado delivery. And that I can now become JellyWoman at will, with the amazing super-power of being able to slide under doors.
152. Far from the madding crowd…
As I remember her telling it, LovelyColleague thought she’d take the chance to pick up some bits for their new home. In particular, she fancied getting a few scented candles. So it was that she and hubby found themselves queuing for the midnight opening of the new IKEA.
151. Normal services will be resumed as soon as possible…
I head into After School club to donate some cakes left over from a playground sale of … well, cakes. We’re raising money at Thrush Woods to sponsor Faith, who’s running the London Marathon next week for Parkinson’s UK. A couple of mixed infants skip up to me, arm in arm.
“Have you still got Parkinson’s?” asks one.
“Yep.”
“OK.” And they skip off.
147. And I didn’t even get a sticker…
In truth, I’m rather dreading today.
I’m writing this blog on the train heading up to Imperial College where, in the name of scientific research, I’m due to have a couple of brain scans. One is a regular CT jobby, which will be fine. It will last about half an hour in all but they do it in short blasts – ten minutes at the most – so you can wriggle in between. There are pretty good headphones and cleverly placed mirrors so that it’s not claustrophobic. I’ll adopt Ma’s trick of trying to think of people with a particular first name. In honour of Wolf Hall, I’m going to start with famous Anns; and then Henrys.
The other is a vastly expensive PET scan which involves being injected with some radioactive stuff and then having to lie still for an hour and a half while they attempt to locate your brain. I’ve done it once before, you might remember, and attempted to make the time pass by listening to an Agatha Christie, though I did drift off to sleep in the middle and woke up as Hercule was revealing who had dunnit, though what they had dunn is a mystery to this day.
I did eventually get sent a photo of my brain with all the radioactive bits glowing. InfantPhenomenon suggested I took it into school and asked my class for suggestions about how to fix it, as a D and T project. I can’t say I’m actually looking forward to the PET scan but I guess this, too, will pass.
No, the thing that is making me anxious about today is being given levodopa – that’s the dopamine substitute – which is going to happen part way through the day, as they need to measure some things before and after taking the drug. Until recently, I took a small dose of levodopa three times a day, in the form of a drug called Sinemet. It stopped my tremor but at the expense of feeling a bit grotty during the period when the drug kicks in. So I decided to see how I was without it, and found that – at the moment, at least –the symptoms are less troublesome than the side-effects.
However, as part of last week’s assessment for this trial, I was given a substantial dose of the stuff and it hit me hard, especially on the journey home. I’ll spare you the details but if you’ve ever felt nauseous on the Central Line in the rush hour, you’ll share my pain. Just to say that I am in mourning for my hat. I loved that hat.
Everyone ignored me, of course. It reminded me a bit of the time when, sitting in a rather hot Quaker Meeting House, I saw the elderly lady opposite gently slide to the floor. Her neighbour rested her head on a nearby hassock and we all continued to seek the Inner Light.
I’m at East Acton now. Deep breaths. Ann of Cleeves. My Aunty Ann. Ann Widdecombe…
***
I am now on my way home, pecking out this paragraph with one hand; the other being rather dramatically bandaged up where I had an arterial cannula put in it. The remaining wound will, I am assured, be no trouble at all. Unless the clot gets knocked, in which case I’m under instructions to raise it in the air whilst pushing down hard on the wound and getting myself to A and E.
ActorLaddie came up to meet me and has brought with him a plastic bag, as a hat substitute. It’s a little loose round the ears.
146. Your suite’s too big…. (with apologies to George Melly)
I called into the nursery on my way home from work, full of end of term good-will. I’d get a Christmas tree up and ready for when ActorLaddie got back and we could start the holidays in piney perfection. The chosen tree had a lovely shape; plenty of needles, smelt of Christmas.
The kids helped me lug it up the stairs to the living room – this being when we had GrannyBorders installed on the ground floor. Decorations ready, festive ginger wine poured. We just needed to put the tree in its stand, take off the netting – and that’s when I found that it was too big for the bay.
145. It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears…
Most people don’t feel nauseous until part way round the Small World ride at EuroDisney. InfantPhenomenon proved what an exceptionally advanced child she was by throwing up the minute we sat in the float; embarrassing but classy, in its own way. So off we went to the Poste de Premiers Secours, and she rested while I read her “The Bed and Breakfast Star”. It was rather peaceful, as I recall.
141. Waugh and peace…
Unable to sleep the other night, I started listening to a wireless programme about Evelyn Waugh and the writing of his first novel – “Decline and Fall.” He was a strange cove to be sure – and, of course, married someone who was also called Evelyn. It must have made the arrangement of Secret Santa presents a complete nightmare.
The Jelly Chronicles 