Hairy Gold Cup

Perhaps I have expressed this thought before, but I feel that the general preponderance of Poorly Sick as a theme here is mainly owing to the fact that I have to be feeling rough as buggery fuck before I will let myself sit on my bum and rest during daylight hours. I like to be Making, Reading, or Doing something. I am, as you may guess, indeed feeling rough as buggery fuck, and my bodily discomfort is currently a four-horse race.
Lagging a length or two behind the rest is a skull jammed full of tenacious green gunk, a legacy of the barbarously unpleasant virus I succumbed to on the day of our family garden party, nearly 3 weeks ago. In third place, in midfield, my IBS has gone from weeks of not being an issue at all, to Out Of The Blue Diarrhoea (last week) to hormonally-linked Blockage (this week). Really, until you have been jerked abruptly, in seconds, from peacefully browsing the shops at a stroll thinking benevolent thoughts, to acute internal turmoil, silently screaming ‘My Kingdom for a toilet!’ then I assure you, you haven’t lived. Ah, that frisson of the nervous gallop to the Ladies, of life lived on the edge! I am currently trying to shock the inefficient little blighter that is my lower bowel into obedience with strong coffee; a week of Remedial Intensive Vegetables has… well, how can I put this? I am still outside of them all, so I suppose we can call that a fail.
The neck and neck race for first and second is shifting about a bit. My toothache is currently running a little behind: I have been diagnosed, despite an inconclusive x-ray, with a dying nerve in an upper back molar. My symptoms agree wholeheartedly with Dr Google (and, natch, my dentist), and I am scheduled for removal on Monday. You may remember that my recent wisdom tooth extraction was a source of some ickiness to me, but I nevertheless prefer it to lengthy root canal digging, plus a crown, none of which work is quite guaranteed to solve the problem. Could I only be reassured that it is definitely the tooth that, when tapped, made me emit a strangled Eeurkk! expostulation in the dentist’s chair that is Going Bad, then I would be almost looking forward to next week, as the intermittent flashes of lightning in my nerve (and jaw, and ear) are becoming tedious. My father has had no end of wallet-battering trouble with referred pain and peculiar dental nerve distribution, though; and what he has, I tend to have also. I cannot altogether rid myself of the fear that I am about to loose the wrong tooth.
In front, by a nose, are the ubiquitous deadly duo. I took to using a menstrual predictor-type app earlier this year, so it is with perfect accuracy that I can tell you that I ovulated on day 78 (Seventy. Eight.) of my – can we call it a cycle?, and, in a triumph of Luteal over Follicular, my period – after weeks of pre-ovulation spotting – arrived with panache, exactly 14 days later. Ninety Two days in total. That was Monday, and the first 24 hours presented an oddly featureless pain landscape. Yesterday and today have compensated harshly for that: I am losing insane amounts of blood and am downing painkillers like sweeties; I daren’t touch opiates – the bowel, the bowel, the bloody bowel; it often does this during Period Week – and my pain barriers are feeling wholly insufficient.
There are other woes than mine: John was stamped on by a cow last week, and is still experiencing pain in his foot. It may be broken – I suspect not for the first time – but I doubt he’ll bother to get it looked at. And Harry arrived in our room at 6am this morning after a bad night, hot as fire and toting a sore throat, so he has bought himself a day off school. He perked up to a suspicious degree when he accompanied me to meet my mother this morning for Weightwatchers weigh-in (I am down half a stone in three weeks, which would certainly have been rather more, were it not for my aforementioned status of reluctantly retentive mobile greengrocer) and by the time we were half-way round a quick supermarket dash, I was regretting not booting him into school, at least for the morning. I ended up spending longer shopping than I planned, and my painkillers, supersized tampon and towel were all beginning to fail, along with the rapid implosion of my sang froid.
I ended up hurling Harry plus shopping bags into the car and screeching off for home before my clothes became utterly saturated, leaving my stoic mother to return my abandoned trolley – which doesn’t sound quite so terrible of me, until I tell you that the poor battered woman had a basal cell epithelioma removed from her upper lip early last week, and only had the dressing off her skin graft on Tuesday. She is making a good recovery and her plastic surgeon is very pleased with and optimistic about the graft, but nevertheless, in view of the tiny little matter of THE EXCRUCIATINGLY UNPLEASANT OPERATION for the SKIN CANCER and the whole SKIN GRAFT thing, God, she could probably use a couple of weeks off from the incessant picking-up of my pieces that she does whenever (frequently, I fear) the wheels fall off my organisational bus.
It is school sports day tomorrow. If Harry is well enough to take part – which I greatly doubt, as he’s now incandescent again and complaining of ‘feeling too big and woozy’ (?!) – my ambition for him consists entirely of him not falling over, and enjoying himself. My ambition for myself is to somehow make it through the afternoon and immediately subsequent summer fair, at which I will have a good deal to do, without being swamped by pain or blood – and I am not sanguine about my chances. I have completely lost altitude. There is a 50/50 chance of it being cancelled due to OHMYGODTHEFUCKINGUNBELIEVABLYTERRIBLEWEATHER, and, alas, I’m secretly hoping it will be. I am very much a downed busy bee.
The weather, incidentally, has illustrated clearly to me how less enlightened societies may have felt that hurling a fetching-looking virgin off the top of a handy nearby ziggurat might have a propitiative effect on whomsoever they felt they had offended. Altered jet stream, schmean: this is beginning to feel like targeted meteorological dislike. After the wettest quarter since records began – in 1910 – the state of UK agriculture is profoundly parlous. I was going to construct an Olympic Rings bale art thing – but that would require at least 5 round bales of straw, and we don’t have 5 round bales of straw. Everyone has run out of either straw, silage, hay, or patience. Making hay is a complete non-possibility this year, and I can currently see John baling silage at top speed, in the worsening drizzle. He, like I, can see the approaching rain cloud that has cut off visibility like a solid wall 3 miles away. I suspect said silage might end up having more textural kinship with overcooked spinach. Happily, wheat prices are jumping through the roof, but only because the market knows that, sadly, everyone’s combines will be sinking immovably into the floor. It just Will. Not. Stop. Raining. England’s green and pleasant land became that way for excellent and honest reasons, I know, but I’ve reached the stage of being perfectly prepared to carve out someone’s tripes and burn them on a goat-skull-topped altar if that will coax the sun back towards us and banish the monsoon.
Come to think of it, my own innards would be first favourite.
(Oversharing Addendum: to whomsoever might be thinking of tackling me, Gillian Whatsherface-style with a fervent dietary light burning in their eye, on the topic of sennakot, fibre, probiotics – or simply has a sinkplunger under their arm: let me hastily and cheerfully assure you that since typing the above, my personal stockholding of Greengrocers Preferred has fallen satisfactorily. Coffee and Remedial Intensive Vegetables, FTW!)
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