Laryngitis

I appear to have lost my voice here a wee bit. Usual reasons, really. Time. Tiredness. Trepidation over what sentence might just bite me on the arse at a later date. I think about lots of posts; every day, in fact, so I am going to have a try at blogging every day this month week, and, umm… see what happens.

Of course, I’m currently parked a little on the outside of self as I’ve been swallowing opioids like sweeties, so I hope I actually remember I’ve said that by tomorrow. Following an ibuprofen stock control blip, I was left with codeine as the only pharmacological line of defence between me and and savage internecine uterine war last night. I ingested sufficient quantities to put me into a most peculiar half-doze, thoroughly discombobulated and bewildered, and yet I remained in uterine anguish, which seems quite unfair.

Harry sat up to guzzle his usual half-pint at 2am and found he had mislaid his water bottle among the burgeoning soft-toy demographic of his bed. This generated prolonged yells of protest, and an eventual room upgrade, whereupon he promptly emptied half the bottle into our bed. I was dopey, but not that dopey. Cue immediate downgrade, and more protests.

Not a bad sleeper these days, Harry does go through the odd spate of poor nights. The night before last, he turned up at the side of our bed at 4am – having become disillusioned with either the temperature, the entertainment or the view in his own room – evidently aware that it was still very much sleepy-time, as he was cuddling his bedtime co-pilot, Gromit, firmly under one arm. Which would have been monstrous cute, had it not been, you know, 4am.

He seems to have had a narrow miss with Chicken Pox – we don’t vaccinate in the UK, we suffer in Spartan spots instead – which is flourishing unhealthily in children all around us, but which I think has now passed him by. I have been wielding the torch suspiciously over his face and chest when I go to bed, and my dreams have been populated by a strange hybrid of Harry and some chap out of Star Trek that I dimly remember as being a set of ambulatory red spots. Not a good look on him.

And I’m off to bed. I have an appointment with an anaesthetist tomorrow afternoon, whom I have to convince I am thin enough to safely knock out. Consultant told me I should shrink to at least 88kg before surgery- which I have, provided I am allowed to strip entirely naked on a kind set of scales – but she has also told my GP in a (lovely) letter that I am supposed to be getting down to a BMI of 29 before she operates. I will need to remove my clothes AND cut off all my hair AND thoroughly empty my bladder PLUS lose another 12lbs of excess baggage from somewhere about my person before I can tick that particular box. There is nearly two stone less of me than there was in early spring, but there is technically still much too much of me for a 6th September surgery date. I wonder if a corset will assist my camoflage?

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