Decisions, decisions

Match pot frenzy

Decorating.  Yuck.  Not that I did any of the hard work, that was all down to the other-half, but I did put up with having the contents of the dining room (which was the room being done up) scattered through out the house driving me bonkers.  I hardly complained at all.  Truly I am a saint.  In the unlikely event that you're interested, after purchasing virtually every match pot known to man, we finally decided on the colour in the middle of the bottom row called 'scullery green'.  It must be a great job making up the titles for paint colours, I think 'disgruntled dormouse' or 'hangover horror' would be good names, but for all I know they might already be just that.  Anyway the decorating is done and normality, such as it is, has been restored at discombobulated towers.

I now have another vital decision to make.  I have a hair appointment next week - do I remain a brassy blond or go back to being brown?  Oh the indecision!  The chap at the hospital who does my regular heart tests (to check the chemo isn't wrecking my ticker) told me, unasked, that he though my old colour was better.  Nothing like a bit of unsolicited 'medical' advice is there!  The other-half is sitting on the fence on the issue (what a chicken).  Oh what to do?  The weight of the world is on my shoulders.

Pressing decisions aside, I did had some fun in March.  I left sleepy Shropshire for a trip to London, to meet up with some fellow metastatic breast cancer bods.  It was great to meet up with people face to face and if I tell you we arrived at the pub at 12.30pm and that I left at 6pm I think you'll get a flavour of the day.  Booze flavoured!  Yum, my favourite.  After that I went to my pal M's place in North London where I collapsed in a heap over a lovely plate of bangers and mash while watching the Lego Movie.  I have had a certain song lodged in my brain ever since.  My pal has a lot to answer for!  After a short stroll on Hampstead Heath the next morning I left for Shrewsbury, if I'd stayed any longer I might have been corrupted by those fancy London ways and ended up getting groovy, and that would never do.

Not content with going to the Big Smoke I also went to the pulsing metropolis that is Much Wenlock (population 3000) to see Jeremy Hardy, who was, of course, very funny and very scathing about the cockwomble, which is always a good thing in my book.

I've been continuing with my current chemo, capecitabine, with no idea if it's working or not.  My next CT scan, at the end of the month, will reveal all.  It's an odd chemo for me as it makes me feel intermittently yuck but with no discernible pattern.  So one day I feel, to use a medical term, like a bag of bollocks and the next day I'm tickety-boo.  Very odd.  I'm just making the most of the tickety-boo bits (and moaning like mad during the bollocky bits).

I've also done another whingy blog post for Vita (the online magazine for Breast Cancer Care) that can be read here if you're that way inclined.

Finally I can report that Cyril, the three legged monster cat, is keeping me on my toes.  Yesterday he decided to repeatedly attack a hapless (and very large) ginger and white cat who had the temerity to stroll down our street.  I had to run down the road after the pair of them in an ineffectual effort to stop the fight.  The street was littered with ginger fur.  Oh the shame.  And just look at him, butter wouldn't melt!

Be afraid, be very afraid