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Archive for December, 2012

So much has been going on, it’s almost impossible to keep up with it all.  I’ll start with the best thing first.  On Thursday I went to see the oncologist, Dr Abrahams.  She showed me the report from the CT scan of my lungs.  The nodules are exactly the same as they were six months ago.  This means it is highly unlikely that they are cancer.  This is the best Christmas present and means I can carry on tumbling headlong into raucously fun situations. (Although I don’t and won’t forget that as I am being spared, some other poor person is not.)

Went for another ECG on Christmas Eve, as they have to check your heart every so often if you are on Herceptin.   As I came out, I passed the stairs to Clinic 7, Miss Benyon’s clinic.  I sighed with a sad longing.  I have been having withdrawal symptoms.

The best thing about our wee trip to Paris was staying with my cousin Kate in her groovy house.  She told me something very funny.  You know how Gwanny has always gone on about being a poor wee thing, the seventh and last child in her family, a twin with great big Bobby who kicked her in the womb, and makes out she suffered dreadfully at the hands of her bigger siblings?  Well, Kate told me that when Bill Scotter, her father, was wooing her mother, Jean, the eldest of JeanDavidJimmyKayMegBobbyLinty, he would turn up at the manse, all smart, and naughty Bobby and Linty would be hiding in a bush, spitting at him like little wildcats as he walked by.  So funny to have another perspective on the story.

I went out for drinks with the Rusty Old Springs.  Well, only Juicy Lucy this time and my sister, and Nellen. After quite a few pints we fell out into the street and Chloe phoned from Boston saying she’d missed her flight and it could cost £1000 to get home.  I had had it up to here with teenagers for the day, as I’d been at the hospital all day for oncology and Herceptin and no one had done a darn thing to keep the house ticking over, so I shouted a bit, it must be admitted.  Missing flights is just inexcusable.  You have to check and check and get there ridiculously early, yes you do.  Normal people just do.  I fear I went off on one slightly.

So Chloe went round the airport trying to find someone who could help.  All the stewardesses were blank and robotic.  She asked to speak to the top boss but they wouldn’t let her.  So she wandered about, hapless and crying.  A portly man in a red suit with a neat white beard and hair materialised in front of her and said, ‘Hey kiddo, do you need help?’

Chloe explained her sad plight and that her mother was an angry loon.  ‘I am the managing director of Delta,’ said the man.  ‘I will get you on a flight tomorrow for free.’

Chloe looked at him wonderingly through her dripping mascara and asked him, ‘Are you Father Christmas?’

She made it home the next day.

Tabby got her i-phone nicked from a club in Newmarket.  I always say if she had a groovy crocheted pouch like me this would never happen to her, but does she listen to me?  At three in the morning her friend Naomi said to her ‘You should have got that ‘Find my i-phone’ thing set up on your phone.’

‘Oh,’ said Tabby, ‘I think I actually did do that!’

Within minutes, they could see the location of the phone on google maps.  It was in a house in Bury St Edmunds.  You could even see which room in the house it was in!  Bit scary really these tracker things.  Honest, makes me think I’m definitely never gonna nick no i-phones.  It turned out the person who had it had found it abandoned in the gutter and she managed to contact Tabby’s friend on facebook as her name had come up on a text on the front of the phone.  So we got the phone back.

Anyway, we went to another fabby party last night.  Honestly, tis the season to be merry, fala lala laaa lala lala.  As the noise levels rose (we were on Bailey’s) we got onto the subject of the ‘No more Page 3‘ campaign.  Recently I read on the campaign’s facebook page a rant by ‘howtostartasexualrevolution’.  Here is a quote from the article which put things very clearly, I think:

‘A barrister who practices family law sent me this, unsolicited:

‘I cannot think of one case where, if parents were to expose their children to ‘soft’ pornographic images of women’s breasts, every single day, even if it is just one image, day after day, the court would not be critically concerned and social services would not seek to remove a child into care.

And in particular, if that parent failed to recognise the potential harmful consequences for a child, maybe even describing it as ‘harmless fun’, I also expect that child may remain in long term foster care or possibly even an adoptive placement.

BUT, if we call it Page 3 and show it to our nation’s children, day after day, on news stands, in cafes, in doctor’s waiting rooms, dentists and supermarkets, we say it is ok… well it is not. It is time to say No to Page 3 once and for all.’ ‘

So at the party we agreed that all the campaign needs is a daring stunt.  And what better way to emphasise the sexual inequality of the thing than by pasting pictures of big c**ks and b*lls over Page 3?  We could have inane topical quotes from ‘Darren, 18, from Harlow,’ like, ‘I like to prepare my own meat and two veg for Crimbo!’

Someone said that, you know, we could have one day tits, the next balls.  We decided ‘Monday c**k, Tuesday tits, Wednesday c**k, Thursday tits, Friday c**k, Saturday tits, Sunday c**k.’  (I don’t know why I think it’s OK to put the word ‘Tits’ but use stars for the word C**k?)  This would have been alright if it had been a whispered conversation but oh no, we were yelling all this at the top of our lungs.  Someone else suggested us having a ‘tits edition’ and a ‘cock edition’ (oops forgot the stars!) so you could choose.  I pointed out though that we need one hell of a lot of c**k to make up for the  ‘litrally’ decades of tits.

Someone else said all we had to do was wait for Murdoch to die and then things will change anyway.  But that’s just wrong.  Why should we have to wait for him to die?  Barney says that it’s not a big deal and newspapers are on the way out so why bother?  Some say why shouldn’t girls earn a few bob from their assets?  I say, along with quite a lot of others, that of course they can, but it should be on the top shelf for adults who choose to look at it.  I don’t like the fact that little kids in the caffs all over Britain turn that first page and are presented with tits and naff quotes.  What do they learn from this?  And I must find that photo of the Sun giving away free Lego toys.  Oh, here it is:  Just look at that:  ‘We have teamed up with Lego UK to offer every Sun reader a free Lego toy….’  !!!!!!  like, WHAT?  How old do you have to be to still want Lego toys?  To get the toy you have to find and cut out the voucher every day, so the little kids are basically not going to avoid having them tits in their face, are they?  You can just imagine some little three, four or five-year-old Matthew or Milly saying, ‘come on Daddy, let’s go out and buy the Sun so I can get my free toy.’

And when Matthew or Milly asks, ‘Hey Dad, why has that lady not got any top on?’  what does the average Daddy reply, I wonder?  ‘Blokes like to see a fresh pair of tits every day, son,’ and, probably,  ‘Hmm, I’m not at all sure, Milly, now you mention it.’

I wonder even more what will the little kid will ask Daddy when they see a big c**k and balls staring them in the face?  And what will shocked Daddy say then?  Will he say, ‘It’s OK, son:  Darren, 18, from Harlow, needs to earn a few bob?  And cor, look at how nice and firm those bollocks are?’

One woman on the No More Page 3 facebook page has been turning every Sun she sees inside out.  I want to go further.  Pasting in some disturbing young c**k might be the only way.

So, a call to arms:  come on, girls, who’s with us?  Shall we head down Tesco’s one day/every day, buy up all the copies of the Sun, (so we can’t be accused of defacing anyone else’s property) take them out to the car-park, wield our Pritt sticks enthusiastically and stick Darren, 18, or Tim, 21, or Adrian, 19, on there in all their glory?  Then shove them back in the pile and wait, cameras at the ready, to capture the facial expressions of the customers as they turn the page.  Ha ha.

My next post will, I hope, include my first sketch, brought to life by Tabby.  She gave me a present today, of the blog all printed out and stuck into a book.  Wow, the blog has turned out to be a mega book!  Although she complains that as I keep posting, her work is never done.

So, it’s Christmas Day and Joey, GrandAlf, Bash, Tabs and Graham are playing Game of Life.  Bash is smiling even though she is living in a caravan and earning 20,000 every payday compared to Tabby who was earning 90,000. I asked Graham why he had his head in his hands.  He said, ‘Life’s just like that.’  Everyone else has passed out.  You can just see Fred snoring on the sofa behind Tabby (due to that rather mahoosive empty bottle of red you see before you.)  Christmas Greetings to All!

It’s now a few days later and the big room has been transformed back into rehearsal space for the Pandora’s Box Reunion Gig, which is tonight, at the Half Moon pub down the hill.

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Very exciting although Chloe has lost her voice!  She’s been looking for it all day though it’s such a bloody mess in her room it’ll be a miracle if she finds it.  As soon as she got home, her enormous suitcase just exploded in the middle of her room and the contents have lain there ever since.

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Anyway, ginger, turmeric, raspberry leaf tea and aspirin have been wielded.  Went to see Dennis last night to get her healed.  He healed my sister too.  Good work, Dennis.  Mmm, the atmosphere around him as he is healing is dreamy.  The world of angels is full of a deep and wonderful peace.

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This post is from a week ago!  Sorry, just didn’t manage to post it before the Paris jaunt.  Up-to-date Christmas one coming in like an hour, despair not!

Normal physical life has resumed.  I have restarted yoga, have been to pilates with Claire and Mad Lucy, have slipped about on mud and ice in the woods with the dogs and climbed trees with Bashi.   Huggi too has miraculously recovered from a serious operation on his bum (£1500 don’t tell Gwanny) but as soon as he was off his lead again he just couldn’t stop himself going after a rabbit and dislocated his toe.  I ask you!  Don’t ever get a lurcher.  They’re just too…..flimsy.

I am on the BS Musical Theatre Company committee and the Bollywood Nights Hockerill fundraiser committee which saw me in a sari handing out leaflets at the Christmas market (16th March if you would like to come!  Never pass up on an opportunity to plug your event.)    You should have seen me, Fred and the internet trying to get the sari on.  Er…slight mind-fuck.  They’re about fifty metres long.  Phoned Arulesh in a panic.  She pleated, ruffled, folded and swirled it in no time.  Oh, all right, I’ll show you me in my sari!

Me in my sari!

I have been looking after Bash who missed the whole last week of school with flu.  We are trying to get her better in time for a quick jaunt with Bashi’s fwend and Tabby to Paris on the Eurostar.  We have been drinking Echinacea and popping Radiance berry vitamin pills along with kiwis and an incredibly viscous Chinese cough medicine.   Fred has had flu too.  I asked him if he had had some Chinese cough medicine.  He said ‘I got bored waiting for it to come out of the bottle, so no.’  We should show it to Grampa.  He absolutely loves viscous things.  His only invention ever has been a syrup machine, where a spinning rolling pin picks up a layer of syrup and mysterious (to us lay-people) rings appear on it as the rolling pin spins faster.

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If you change the speed of the spinning, the rings move in and out.   Unfortunately the syrup machine proved to be spectacularly useless.  But as children we all loved watching the rings moving in and out.  And Grampa made sure we never dropped golden syrup off our spoons:  you must learn to assess viscosity to see how fast to turn the spoon to avoid drips.  If you are interested, you can read more about the syrup machine here.  Ooh, my nephew Joey has just thought of a use for it:  he says it could be like a chocolate fountain, but instead of dipping your marshmallow into melted chocolate you would dip it into the spinning syrup!  Best try this slowly, or the syrup will drag your marshmallow away methinks.

We are planning on walking up to the Sacre Coeur and taking the Batobus from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower.  We are also going to Maisons Laffitte to visit Catherine who helped us with Siffo and Princey when they lived in her stables.  We will go to the Creperie ‘La Bonne Humeur’  in the market square, which is our favourite place ever (due to the bols de cidre and the popcorn, the crepes oeuf fromage, and the crepes grand-marnier).

Alfie’s fwends  Sammy Wammy and Roberto are staying.  Sammy Wammy got very excited on his way downstairs this morning because he heard clucky clucky noises and seriously thought we had some new chickens.  I have been teaching the parrots to make clucky clucky noises for some time so, RESULT.  They can do chickens, cuckoos, sparrows, owls and of course, their whistled scales and arpeggios.  They have recently learnt the first line of my flute pupil Katie’s piece as well.

Fred has had Torro out on the kitchen table to train him to count by picking up the egg-cup with one, two or three peanuts underneath.  Come on Torro, we need two peanuts now.

Torro learning to count

Mad Lucy came round for vodka last night.  I told her about the surprise 2010  tax bill that came through the door.  She said, ‘Well, you have to have something round here that you could sell.’  We looked around.  ‘Um, actually, no,’ we agreed, ‘there’s litrally like nothing worth anything in this house.’

‘Ooh…except the parrots,’ I remembered.  ‘Even with no words they’re worth seven hundred quid and every time they learn a new word, they go up by fifty quid.’

‘Did you hear that?’  Mad Lucy asked them, then let out a greedy chuckle.  ‘Ha ha, losers:  we’re going to SELL YOU for lots of dosh!’

Torro fixed her with his beady eye and muttered a curse that only he knows based on the Radio 4 hourly beeps.  Poor Mad Lucy litrally one minute later succumbed to the dreaded lurgy that’s going round, threw up twice and had to lurch home.  Good work, crazy voodoo bird!   Claire  however takes the vomming prize, as on the night of the barrel of beer party she went out for a posh meal in London, overindulged slightly and threw up at Tottenham Hale!   The most expensive vom she’s ever had, she claims.  Why all the throwing up, you may well ask.  I haven’t a clue.  It’s the end of the year, I guess, and we have to do these things.  At the end of next week the Rusty Old Springs are going out for their Christmas drinks, can’t wait, so more vomming might be on the agenda.  Will we have learnt our lesson?….Hmm, I suspect not.  If you haven’t learnt it by 46 when the hell are you going to learn it?

We are going out tonight, to a party.  Unfortunately it’s the same night that Alfie has decided to have a what he calls ‘Gathering.’  He is out in the garden preparing by chopping wood for the fire with Sammy Wammy and Roberto.  (Only because Fred said he had to. He’ll probably chop his thumb off.)   Alfie knows to avoid the word ‘Party’ in case we freak out.  Not that we are very paranoid people but last time someone did set off the fire extinguisher and every vom bucket got vommed in.  But, chuckle chuckle you will love this:  Fred has been busy planting a secret web-cam at the top of the big room, so when we are out we can watch what is going on back home on Fred’s phone, and probably thus entertain the people at the party we are going to.   Ooh that would make quite a good start to a novel, wouldn’t it?  The parents at a party getting more and more wasted as they watch the kids back home getting out of their faces and wrecking the house.

Must admit, did not manage a whole 50,000 words for Nanowrimo.  Never mind.  I did get 12,000 words of the sperm book and 10,000 words of sketches for Youtube done.  And since the first December have been writing the skeleton of  TITS: the Musical.  My friend Caroline who is an actor says you don’t need more than five people in the cast.  I know what she means but ooh, tricky, with such a vast cast of characters, including fifty women with their tits out and a team of crusties running the factory not to mention the con-man, the homeopath, the baddie and his lab team, his lollipop-lady girlfriend, the ill man in the hospital who helps to gather the ill-milk and the dying niece.  Is it really possible to quadruple up parts without the audience getting confused?  I can almost envisage doing it with a cast of ten.  And musicians on top of that.

I could not do the blog for ages.  Sorry.  Must be because blogging is a response to pain and anguish but I’ve truly shifted back into normal life.  Should maybe draw a line under it.  Thing is, ‘The Breast Blog in the World‘ is just such a good title, I don’t want to give it up.  I could move on to a new chapter of plain (or not so plain, we will see, won’t we?) ‘life as it is’ posts, and call it ‘A Breast of the Times,’ like the tits book.  Will ask Fred how to do it for the New Year.

Have not forgotten to say ‘Happy Christmas’ to you all and thanks for reading all this maniacal rubbish over the last ten months.  Had really lots of fun and therapy writing it all.  But will say it properly in the next blog which will be posted in an hour or so.  Lots of Love.  Didn’t send any cards this year, so All the Best for 2013.

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