Seriously, don’t read this. This is not a marketing trick.

Yes the bed was the recipient of a pint of old man pink urine.

Poor poor Maria.!!!!!

Anyway we had enough protectors to not get to the mattress itself but it’s 30 years old so it’s going anyway. And it missed the duvet miraculously.

G,A,L,A this all relates to our bed not either of yours.

The levels of indignities really stack up with this kind of illness and subject to the durability of your loving carers the only thing to do in my view is not to despair and if you can, laugh. In this case it’s just not funny. Flashing your bits to your daughter-in-law (L was the recipient of that last visit) is just about funny. Or I hope it is?

Maria’s morning of tomato plant transfers evaporated in laundry liquid and bleach. I watched Bourne 3. We had a routine treatment appointment at 1:00 which progressed quite well. I am no longer allowed to self administer because they want to close monitor me after my platelets plummeted. So we have to go in twice a week, bloody awful for Maria, I don’t mind at all and she says being the saint she is that she doesn’t mind either. She does get her Italian homework done to a level her teacher must be super impressed, if somewhat overwhelmed, by, given the amount of marking required by her most diligent student. (Sorry G)

Anyway the only surprise at the hospital was the wonderful dr alia had managed to pursuade nurse happy (that’s her name) to fit me in for a last minute (un heard of at York MRI. They need to know what’s going on in my bladder so I am very grateful she has pushed it forward – she spent literally the whole of yesterday afternoon on the phone. I love her.

I admit my weaker self emerges nearly tearful, and scared with MRI – not the results, they will be what they will be, the actual procedure. And the degree of ‘I want my mummy, can I go home’ is inflected by the amount of time I have to stay totally still with bad back ache which in this case was to be 90 minutes. I have never had one this long. I don’t think it’s unusual, but for me it was unpresidented and I was momentarily ready to do a Bourne, knock the staff unconscious with my ju-jitsu and escape to Tangier.

Then miraculously I was delivered a restorative gift in two forms. I had a big bottle of opiate liquid with me and some paracetamols. Slugged em down like a heroine addict in the changing room.    2nd. I had forgotten the liberating effect of the catheter together with its accompanying nappy to catch the pink leaks. I was free to piss, leak and even poo anytime. It took them 20 minutes to find Radio 4 but by them it was chilling to the accompaniment of “reversing lorry in my bedroom” and “council workers like to drill.” The standard MRI hits.

Back to haematology to get my next dose in the belly and collect my quota of drugs. All good, got a cup of tea shortbread biscuits and some crisps.

Back home to Bourne. “She’s standing right next to you.”

discovered that it was my nappy that was causing the catheter chaffing rasping. Did some reconfiguation much better.

Ate some sea trout.

12 hrs later woke up – bed and self completely soaked in sweat. Vinnie not happy so he has decided to sleep more or less on my head. Like he is on desert island, you know the one with the single palm tree.

vinnie left early slightly damp.

18 hrs later – sickness kicking in – no prob I am ready this time.