Today’s The Day The Teddy Bears Have Their Black Mass

*taps microphone uncertainly*

Is this thing on?

*shades eyes and peers out into the dark*

Umm… Hi.

This… blogging thing. It goes like – how?

I left you with rather odd anatomical news (from me! What a … a non surprise!) a fortnight ago and promptly vanished.

Well, I can tell you where I disappeared to, at least. Up my own arse.

Selling – as I do – cards, the run-up to Christmas is the year’s main opportunity to push a hapless fiscal peasant off the Hairy sledge as a temporary sop to the ravening taxman; consequently I have been farming Harry off nearly every day to… whoever puts up least sales resistance to acquiring him, really –  and lugging self and stock around all sorts of Christmas fairs/fayres/markets/bazaars/whatever. In fact, if it has stood still in my vicinity during the month of November, I have attempted to sell it an advent calendar.

Then I had an order for a birthday cake for a friend’s son, which I knew very well would mean giving the midnight oil a bit of stick. And then I had another order, for a baptism cake – which I said Yes to without finding out when they wanted it, and… yeah. The same day. Arsefeck.

Well, everything got done – including my back. The order book looks ok and so did the cakes, despite being created mainly between 10pm and 2am over a number of days.

I did have a pure and priceless double-take at the moment I realised I had unwittingly sat the silver baptism teddy bear smack in the middle of a pentagram.

I think ungluing the top offending white dot in question – they were perfectly aligned – and spinning the bear around 180 to face a less satanic direction was when I eventually decided wine just wasn’t cutting it and went in search of the good whisky to settle nerves/tummy/hysterical giggling.

So… I have been reading – mainly whilst bolting a hastily prepared sandwich at (entirely unwise) speed – but you’ve been tragically deprived of my scintillating pearls of commentation wisdom. waffle. Sorry ’bout that.

Which brings me obliquely to my tummy issues. My GP got so distracted by my different heart that he rather lost sight of the, well, you know, the pain, so I bent the ear of the Delightful GP Next Door instead when he made the grave social mistake of walking to our house, in the dark, through a howling storm, in order to make us a present of a pair of tickets to see Worcester Warriors at home. Because when you are an extremely nice chap and the senior partner with a large practice as well as having an entire rugby team to doctor, you thoroughly enjoy having your leisure time taken up with your neighbour’s health problems.

Anyhow, cutting to the chase, I trialled upping my dose of proton pump inhibitors to Industrial for a fortnight before stopping them completely, working on the hypothesis that the pain is either oesophageal spasms or a flourishing ulcer. I haven’t had a crawl-about-the-floor episode for three weeks, although I have been nauseous, sharply stomach-achey after food, diarrhoeay and generally Not Right. I had cut out my beloved diet coke but succumbed to a can yesterday teatime and this morning, sure enough, I faintly felt That Pain waiting in the wings. I am now suspecting Acid as te culprit.

I had thought that we might kill two birds with one stone there, as the military base guide had recommended a trunk CT scan to see what the hell else isn’t where it should be, but my GP opined that that was a hefty old dose of radiation to subject me to when everything actually appears to be working ok (although I think he and I are working on rather different given values of ‘OK’ currently), and sent me for a chest x-ray yesterday instead. Which I… kind of agree with. If it was someone else, I’d be nodding sagely and concurring that a body CT was overkill. As it’s me, I’ve taken to lying awake and Wondering. I’m pretty fucking hopeless at seeing a string and not giving it a tiiiny wee tug; I don’t know what the blithering hell is abnormal in there and it’s bugging me.

The x-ray – when the NHS gets around to interpreting it – will nail down what form of cardiac weirdness I have, but I’ve taken to thinking that the strange arrangement of veins and arteries might explain why my right uterus seemingly has such a poor blood supply. I am keen to see how my reproductive consultant takes the news that my uterine artery is probably fed from somewhere anatomically peculiar. My counsellor cannily described her as ‘from London. They do things differently there…’ And so they do: she is evidently the active-management type (we like that) and likely to order pre-laparoscopy abdominal investigations on her own account. We shall see.

This little lot’s playing on my mind, people.

And… Harry’s had a miserable cold; I’ve spent the last two nights mostly on the downstairs sofa trying to prop up and placate the poorly little sufferer, and listening to his TB-like cough, although it’s subsided today and I’m desperately hoping for a uninterrupted night. I always know when Harry is feeling horribly unwell: he’s so tetchy and miserable he swats the Calpol spoon out of the air and refuses to entertain the notion of that bloody pink stuff coming anywhere near him. When he’s feeling better – and thus, in no need of it – he swallows it like a lamb.

Yep, that’s another black eye, right enough – acquired at nursery, this time. And note that my tiny potentate has managed, despite his discomfort, to retain a vice-like grip on the remote.

He’s such a total chap.

16 Responses

  1. Poor little guy even looks sick…I hope he’s feeling better.

    Were it me, I would be demanding a full body scan (toenails to scalp) to see what else was out of place. Because I’d be curious and it would bother me to no end.

    Hope the card and advent calendar sales have been brisk and profitable!

  2. I’m with you on the CT. And can you email me the results? Pretty please? I wanna see where your heart goes!!!

  3. The TV remote is the subject of constant pitched twin battles round these parts


  4. ooohhh those cakes look sooo yummmy! And now I know why I shouldn’t decorate my cakes: I would never have spotted a pentagram sneeking up on me 😉

  5. Ah, having a 2 year old in the winter is a fun business, isn’t it? I think it’s uninterrupted snot til March as far as I can tell. Would be not so bad if the little buggers didn’t act as a disease vector for the rest of the family as well…

  6. Awesome awesome awesome cakes. Since you charge for them, you could submit the pentagram one to Cake Wrecks. 🙂

    I’m not surprised your nerves have been fraying, there’s more than enough to fray nerves like steel hawsers going on for you right now.

    Take care of yourself as well as your men-folk.


  7. Good on ya! The first mill is the hardest, so they say 😉

    Your cakes are edible art, which combination of things is almost too wonderful to contemplate. Mmmm.

    Good luck with the x-ray. And with the various illnesses! Poor you, (plural). Mind yourselves.

  8. Aaargh. What else can I say? Except I love the cakes.

  9. Those cakes look better than “OK” to me, particularly considering the hours of creation… I can barely manage to steam up some veg for the next day’s lunch after 9pm. Good luck with your spectacular anatomy, I hope someone (maybe even you!) figures something out soon.

  10. As someone who is yet to purchase advent calendars (I feel a bit bah humbug generally – nothing like having two close family with bdays in Dec to make you distinctly uninterested in further present buying) I may be able to take two off our hands as I expect the market may have dried up your way!

    Hoping that clarification of all your insides comes quickly and H is on teh mend.

  11. Do people, heartless, soulless people with not so much as a CRUMB of art and beauty in the shrivelled cavity where their soul should be, actually EAT those cakes? I’d have to keep one forever, fending off foragers with the cake slice.

    I’m glad your tummy’s better, if not perfectly well again. Oesophageal spasms can feel like you’re dying. Fingers crossed it was those and they’re going now. I’m sorry you have to lay off the Diet Coke. *sigh*.

    (Note to self: And YOU should be laying off the coffee).

    I await further developments re: the magical mystery tour that is your insides with bated breath.

    Hugs and kiss better to Harry.

  12. I’m with May; you ought to shellack one of those cakes and submit it to a museum somewhere. How do you DO that?! Thos little figures…you blow me away. Maybe reversible organs give you skillz?

    I’m glad your tummy’s better but sad you had to give up diet coke. You need all the little comforts you can get! I can understand all this preying on your mind; I would be thinking a lot about it too. I’m hoping that one day you can eat and drink indiscriminately again.

    We gave Sam a battery-less old remote. Because he does the EXACT same thing and I was tired of wrestling him. What is it with men?

  13. Love the cakes! This will reveal me to be a total baking nimrod, but what kind of frosting/icing is that that it looks so smooth? And those characters! Most impressive.

    Poor Harry. Colds are dreck.

    Also, it would drive me bonkers wondering what else inside me was built to a different blueprint than most. If only for interest sake.

  14. Poor little man. He looks terrible!

    The cakes on the other hand look FANTASTIC!

  15. […] one topic I have been increasingly immovable on (particularly since it became apparent that my uterine artery was not necessarily attached in any way whatsoever to Cameron) is that of never, under any circumstances at all, attempting another pregnancy in that […]

  16. […] Harry’s IUGR, I moaned loudly about my perceived poor vascularity of the right uterus, especially after finding that my heart’s aortic/venal plumbing is laid back-to-front through …, and might not necessarily be on the best of geographical terms with my right uterine artery. I […]

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