November 13, 2014

Aftermath

 

I’m better. That’s the main thing.  I’m not frelling enough better but I’m MUCH BETTER.   And thank you for all the friendly forum messages to this effect.

So first there was the really bad ME day, as I thought, which was my warning, except I didn’t know it. And then there was the memorable forty-eight hours of twelve-hour bouts with minor hiatuses between of throwing up every time I stood up.  This would be an interesting experience anyway but it was made exquisitely more interesting by the fact of a hellmob and no back up plan.

A hellmob, what’s more, who will not crap in their own garden(s).  And only Chaos is willing to pee in the cottage courtyard which is, admittedly, small, and he only pees there because he has recently developed prostate problems and HAS TO PEE WHEN HE HAS TO PEE.  Which is often.  Pav, by the way, is the most supernaturally continent dog I’ve ever even heard of, and this talent is probably worth keeping her entire* through the dramas of fertile season, all questions of beauty and bloodlines aside, even with two entire male hellhounds in the vicinity.  Mind you, this talent often causes me additional anxiety when the circumstances are that she has to pee here and now and the locale does not suit her hellladyship, but I’ve given up arguing with her.  She knows what the command ‘squat’ means and she’ll piddle like three drops while looking at me out of those bright evil little eyes, and then stop when I know she’s got a full tankload on board . . . arrrgh.

Anyway. The whole staying up till three or four a.m. really comes into its own when you have stomach flu and need to get your hellmob out of their garden so they will frelling well crap, because there’s no one around to notice you heaving in the shrubbery.  Sigh.  Let’s not discuss how interesting picking up after them has been for several days, and the dizzy spells that go with not eating.**  We should perhaps also not discuss Peter’s reaction when he found me (still) sleeping on the floor of the dining room Sunday morning.  Lighten up!  If I’d wanted a bed-like object I could have lain on the frelling sofa!  I was sure I was going to be enough better any minute to amble back to the cottage as usual!  And therefore I didn’t want to sleep really! I was just . . . resting in a posture less likely to make my appalling stomach go into another of its cursed paroxysms!

The second forty-eight hours was the beginning to be able to stand upright again phase, or might have been able to stand upright if there were any available calories to provide energy for this surprisingly complicated task.***  Stomach:  We’re fine, we’re fine, stand around all you like if you want to, just don’t bother us with any food. Every other cell in my body:  We’re starving!  We’re STAAAAARVING!  Stomach:  It’s good for your character.  Every other cell in my body: STAAAAAAAAAARVING!  Every other cell in my body won, partly because of the passing out in the shrubbery while tottering after hellcritters post-acute-stage thing.  Whereupon we entered the subset of the second phase, which is the Large Burning Column Occupying Most of Your Body Especially the Stomach Area subphase.†  I’m not quite out of this . . . but that may have as much to do with the last week’s business falling on me as from a height today when I’m finally almost recognisably functional again as it does with the remains of my deplorable lurgi.

Meanwhile, speaking of life catching up with me, I have a Samaritans duty tomorrow††, Street Pastors again Friday, and a meeting with Alfrick on Saturday. From which I hope to come home inspired finally to finish the KES ep that has been dangling around hopefully for a fortnight or more.  Oh, I haven’t wasted all my KES time however:  it may interest some of you that The Story So Far list is finally up to date.

* * *

* Spaying is notoriously hard on a bitch’s bladder control. Most bitches are fine after, but you still don’t want to press it too hard.  Or at least I have always tried not to.  Among other things a clean dog hates losing it indoors.  He/she will be miserable and ashamed.  Which is how I found out Chaos really couldn’t hold it any more.  And the miserable-and-ashamed is why you don’t put your critters in a position where they can’t help it . . . if you can help it.^

^ I have mostly managed to put Boskone out of my mind, and going back to America for the first time in a decade. Not.  And if never going anywhere starts haunting me I can frelling well sign up for that homeopathy course that I’m going to take, I’m just having a little trouble finding time right now.+  Oh, and money.

+ I’m sure there’s a homeopathic answer to this lurgi, but my usual stalwart in these cases had no effect at all and I was not . . . in much shape for hunting for a better match.

** I’ve never particularly bought into the Sensitivity of Your Furry Companions theory. They may lie down beside you on the floor in a friendly and affectionate manner but that’s because you’re on the floor, and if you get up suddenly and abruptly and disturb their slumbers they will look at you reproachfully.  My experience is more that they want what they want and when you aren’t providing it they want to know why. They’re not great on compromise either:  The hellmob don’t crap in the garden and that means they don’t crap in the garden. And, you know, this around the block at 3 am thing?  Where are their hurtles? Also the hellhounds entirely stopped eating the minute I took my eye off the ball/food dish and have probably lost as much weight as I have arrrrrrrrgh. It doesn’t suit any of us.  Haggard is not kind to the late middle aged.^  As an ex-fat person I can say authoritatively, There is such a thing as thin enough. I am that thing, or was last week.  There is also such a thing as being too thin, which is what I am now.  When your frelling belt, required to keep your trousers up^^, gives you frelling pressure sores on your hip bones, you are too thin.^^^  Fortunately you, or anyway I, gain weight lost through illness back pretty fast as soon as I’m eating again, which is still a slightly aggrieved issue.

^ It’s not actually kind to anyone and as an elderly feminist who has been through the whole body image frenzy decade after decade after decade after DECADE, it makes me NUTS that nothing has really changed, including that young women—and, apparently, increasingly, young men—are encouraged, or maybe I mean aggravated or harassed, into thinking that skeletal is attractive. No!  It’s not!  Not unless you’re a straightedge or a picket fence!  It’s just you can get away with it better when you’re young and your skin still has some collagen!+

+ Me?  I’m used to the way I look.  Do I have body image problems?  Sure.  I’m still breathing.#

# And food is only the enemy if your digestion is possessed by demons.

^^Interesting Conversations with Your Stomach:  Me:  Look, you perverse organ, my jeans will fall down.  Stomach:  No!  No!  No belt!  Can’t stand a belt!  No belt!  Me:  It won’t come anywhere near you, you prat, you’re in direct contact with my backbone.

^^^ I suppose I could take a few penknives, keys, small notebooks with writing implements etc out of my jeans pockets for the moment.

*** I was knitting^ while listening to the radio tonight and there was one of these snippet-science programmes that reported earnestly that eating protein is GOOD for you. Here we go again.  Even before I officially had ME I had energy-fluctuation problems and absolutely must have not merely unfashionably high levels of protein but unfashionably high levels of animal protein including red meat.  I’ve been fighting this battle for decades too and vegetarians are fine, some of my best friends^^ etc, but the holier-than-thou brigade of [insert superfood of the week here] and pure thoughts really get up my nose.  The revelation that more than a minimal level of protein is good for you reminds me of the walking is not weight-bearing exercise allegation a decade or three ago.  No, no!  Of course it isn’t!  We didn’t evolve to walk, we evolved to train in gyms on fancy weight-bearing exercise machinery!

^ Contrary to pathetic tweets earlier in the week I actually have done a fair amount of reading and knitting recently.  I can’t remember if I told you that Aloysius loaned me a frelling great brick-like volume which is a commentary on the first four books of the Bible+ and when he was checking up on me earlier in the week he asked how I was getting on with it.  It is too heavy to read lying down.

+ With constant irritating references to the Pentateuch.

^^ Including Sunshine

† I managed to eat something very nearly resembling dinner last night which disappeared into the calorie deficit with indecent haste and I was then hungrier than ever. I usually have fruit both first thing in the morning and last thing at night and I WOULD FRELLING KILL FOR AN APPLE, I am an apple junkie and most of the year eat several a day.  I was staring at the fruit bowl last night with a savage lust and . . . eventually ate a pear, not because one raw tree fruit is likely to be less provoking than another raw tree fruit, but because I’m so deprived if I ate one apple I’d probably eat six, which I’m sure would not be a good idea right now.  But what is it about pears?  You can have totally over rotten, hard tasteless grainy meh and DIVINE all in the same pear.  Nibble carefully.

†† We are not a secret society: hey look, the hot link among south of England Samaritans^ this month:  http://forumpublications.co.uk/hampshire-people/

It seems to me a good interview with a good guy, although I’m seriously, brain-explodingly fried at the interviewer’s suggestion that the deaths of Peaches Geldof and Robin Williams may glamorize addiction and suicide. WHAT? WHAT?  Um.  No.  That would be nooooooooo.

^There are quite a few of us around:

https://www.google.co.uk/maps/search/samaritans+hampshire/@51.3135647,-0.8434543,9z

 

Further delay

 

I’ve been throwing up all day* . . . sorry, I need to lie down again. . . .

* * *

* And no, it hasn’t been a great week either

Delay

 

Halloween night 2014 in a relatively small backwoods town in Hampshire, usually stuffed to the whatsit with ordinary boring people including a high percentage of relentlessly law-abiding retired Tories who pride themselves on being tucked up in bed by 10 pm, last night morphed into a David Lynch film.*

I got home at about 5:30 a.m. And I still had to feed the hellmob and myself—I am STAAAARVING after both SP shifts and the Sams**—hurtle the former, bath me and then calm down enough to sleep.***  I’m not going to tell you when I got to bed but it was well past dawn.  Well past.  And twilight came with remarkable speed today.  Like I swear hours early.

And I needed to go sit in the monks’ chapel tonight worse than I needed to finish this week’s KES. As if I have had any brain to finish KES with.

Apologies. If my brain returns from its peregrinations by tomorrow, I’ll have a go.  Otherwise it may have to wait till next Saturday.

* * *

* It could have been worse. It could have been David Cronenburg.  In which case I would be halfway to Mumbai by now.^

^ Okay, a quarter of the way, since we’d’ve had to swing by Scotland to pick Peter up first where he is enjoying a few days of family life in a well run household where meals are on the table at normal meal times and not every surface is encrusted with dog hair.  And we wouldn’t be staying in Mumbai long.  None of us+ would cope with the climate.  Christchurch sounds like a nice temperate city.  Does anyone know if they’ve got their temporary bell tower up and running yet?  I’ve just tried to google it and can’t find anything past that they were going to try.

+ Except maybe Pav.# I’m not sure bullies take notice of little things like ambient temperature and crushing humidity.  Although Pav does not like the kind of rain that hammers her to the ground and then holds her there.  And, like all dogs everywhere, she thinks her human could do something about this if said human took more notice of the intense suffering of her loyal canine companions who are obliged to go with her when she wants to saunter through rain that hammers you to the ground and holds you there.##

# B_twin sent me this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjZP21vIfgs  I do not, myself, permit pillow-worrying, but the rest looks pretty familiar.  What this video leaves out however is the middle-aged hellhound trying out his moves in parallel.  Pav is FINALLY OFF HEAT and re-permitted into the hurly burly of family life, which is to say causing the hurly burly of family life, and Chaos, who has always been a little manic~, has dusted off his adolescent end-to-end swapping and except for the fact that he’s bigger and in full ecstatic frenzy bumps into the furniture more~~, can provide Pav a little added stimulation that she does not need.~~~

~ One might wonder about his bloodlines. A bullie great-great-great grandparent, the family scandal no one spoke of?  It’s been bred out of Darkness but still maintains a rogue presence in Chaos.

~~ Especially the lashing tail. I swear his tail is about six feet long.  Knowledgeable whippet people tend to look at the hellhounds and say, oh, whip—no, they can’t be whippets, their tails are too long.  Are deerhound tails disproportionately long?  I have no idea.  I wonder how long Sid’s tail is?  I’m sure it’ll be a plot point some time.

~~~ One of the peculiarities of my hellmob is that the hellhounds bark from excitement=, when they hear me coming downstairs in the morning, when they’re pretty sure I’m about to take them for a hurtle, when a Known Friend comes through the door.==  Or when the three of them are having a gambol which sends next door’s nasty little terrier into paroxysms of murderous frenzy===.  Pav, on the other hand, only barks for proper, responsible-dog cause. Burglars.  Delivery persons%.  Neighbours wanting me to look after their cats.  Except of course occasionally when she doesn’t and so I assume I’m imagining that knock on the door and turn over and go back to sleep and come downstairs later to a postcard through the mail slot that says ‘we have tried 1,000,000 times to find you home%% so we could read your gas/electric/water meter and we’re TIRED of this and so we’re going to charge you £bazillion/month till you RING US and fix a date that you WILL BE HOME to LET US IN.’

=including, in Darkness’ case, disapproval, when Pav is getting into something he thinks she shouldn’t. If I’m up to my elbows in dishwater, say, a common occurrence at the moment because the dishwasher is on the fritz again snaaaaaaaarl @, and I hear Darkness bark I shout without moving, Pav! Stop that! There’s usually some wild scuffling, possibly an astonished yip from Chaos, and then silence falls, possibly just about long enough for me to finish the dishes.

@ And Peter is THE WORST DISHWASHER-BY-HAND ON THE PLANET. I used to not approve of dishwashers.  How long ago was that?  Well, I still don’t have one at the cottage.  It’s the Aga or a dishwasher and there’s no contest.  Besides, I’m a good dishwasher-by-hand.  I’d just rather be kidnapped by bandits or doing my tax return.

== I find this particularly amusing when it’s someone like Atlas or Niall, both of whom barely know what a dog is, let alone how to respond to canine enthusiasm.

=== I met the thing today when I was between hurtles and dogless, and so stooped to say hello, because I am a hopeless wet and when I’m not busy trying to control confrontational outcomes will say hello to any dog that isn’t actively biting me.  You could see him looking at me, however, and thinking, you don’t fool me, you revolting hypocrite, you are responsible for the ruination of the neighbourhood.

% Books. Yarn.  Dog food.  Rose bushes.&

& I didn’t say ROSE BUSHES.

%% Do you always keep your curtains closed?  You aren’t really still asleep at mmph o’clock in the afternoon are you?&

& No, only after epic Street Pastors duties.

## You could teach us to use the indoor loo.

** I find all that doing good flapdoodle very draining to a personality that basically wants to say WHY DON’T YOU GO READ A GOOD BOOK AND CHEER/SOBER UP.  I’D BE HAPPY TO RECOMMEND SOME TITLES.

*** Total exhaustion makes me disintegrate, it doesn’t make me sleep.

 

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