Day 590 – Rough end

It’s been a bit of a rough end to the week. The treatment plan, designed to dampen down my immune system and prevent nasty flare-ups (while also replacing important things that I might not be getting enough of, treating its own possible side-effects and also mitigating any nasty flare-ups that it can’t prevent) was overwhelmed and everything came back.

No taste, hypersalivation, huge fatigue, aches, pains, shortness of breath, palpitations and a complete loss of brain function. Durr.


12½ hours of sleep later and some drugs – this is just this morning’s selection of ons and ins – and I’m vaguely back with the programme. (Beagle-eyed viewers will note that some of these tablets are the same as others. But not all of them. That’s what keeps things interesting.)

But I really do think I need to start to be ahead of the programme again at 8 each morning if I’m going to get through a whole day unscathed.

And this morning, I’m installing an oven.

What could possibly go wrong?

Day 482 – Good bits and bad bits

This crappy sickness continues to blight me. But maybe there’s some light at the end of the tunnel.

At three o’clock this morning (my internal clock is completely buggered), I was ready to take on the world. By seven, it felt like I had, and had lost – heavily. Now it’s half past ten and I’m in another good bit: less aching, less coughing – generally OK. But I have zero energy. I literally can’t walk more than a few metres.

Probably need to get a test, just so we know what we’re dealing with – it feels like influenza to me but somehow worse – but I have no idea how I could even get to the top of the stairs, let alone to a car and to a testing station.

Propping myself up with Lucozade and Myprodol. Apologies for any spelling errors. It’s all a bit blurry.

Rabbit Riots

With the UK riots just a distant memory now and the majority of the perpetrators safely behind bars already, I was shocked to find a family who appear to have got away almost scot-free; this despite documented evidence that they were part of the problems faced by Britain at that time.
Rest assured that I have already passed on all I know to the relevant authorities. However, I thought that I should also share this damning evidence with my readers – and indeed name and shame those individuals responsible, the majority of whom appear to go by their gang names: Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and Peter.

You can’t blame the kids: they live in an absolute hole. There’s no father figure in their lives – he was killed while carrying out a robbery – and their mother seems uncaring. Indeed, as far as I can see, they are pretty much left to their own devices for the whole day as she heads out shopping, merely telling them:

Now run along and don’t get into mischief.

Immediately, ignoring her advice, 3 of the children head out looting:

Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries.

Presumably “the lane” is White Hart Lane in Tottenham and the blackberries come from the local O2 shop.

But this story centres mainly around the eldest sibling, Peter. While the others are illegally garnering crappy cellphones, he engages in trespass and theft in the garden of a local elderly resident.

First he ate some lettuces and French beans; then he ate some radishes;
And then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.

I’m guessing “parsley” is street slang for marijuana or some such illicit substance.

All is going well for Peter until, smashed off his face on “parsley”, he encounters the homeowner and a chase ensues. Now all too often, we have heard of these OAPs keeling over with a heart attack, but fortunately, this guy seems stronger, and armed with a gardening implement, he goes after Peter.

Peter hides in an outbuilding and – in an effort to change his appearance – sheds his jacket. However, the old man tracks him down and Peter ends up smashing a window, “upsetting three plants” and possibly getting injured while escaping:

After a time, he began to wander about , going lippity-lippity – not very fast and looking all around.

Once he believes the coast is clear, he decides to make a run for it and manages to make it back home. No questions are asked as to where he has been or what he has done – indeed, his mother merely doses him up with camomile tea (the leporine equivalent of ritalin, I suppose) before he heads off to bed.

It’s a truly shocking tale and the worst bit about it is that it is openly and widely available to our children. Are there really lessons in here that we want to teach them? That non-existent parenting is acceptable? That petty crime has no consequences? That regular use of parsley is not something to be concerned about?

Is it any wonder we find ourselves facing these problems?

SA’s UK Drug Hell!

Or should that be UK’s SA Drug Hell?

SAA: powered by weed (allegedly)

As fifteen flight and cabin crew from the daily SAA Jo’burg to Heathrow flight were arrested after 50kg of cannabis was found on board, South African rugby player Matt Stevens, now living and “working” in Bath, UK, failed a drugs test and looks set to be banned from the sport for two years.  

Stevens has admitted to taking “a substance” “while out with friends” and admits he has a drug problem, although he insists that they were not performance enhancing drugs. Anyone who has been watching his recent performances won’t be surprised by that assertion.
Obviously, they were recreational drugs, and probably imported from Jo’burg.

Which brings us neatly onto the SAA arrests, and I’m pretty sure they’ve got the wrong people. Anyone who has ever flown SAA will testify that they never send baggage to the right place. I’m pretty sure that 50kg of weed was meant to go to Miami or Sydney or Athens.
Perhaps the police in those cities should be looking at the incoming SAA flight crews and see which ones are nervously searching in the galley cupboards and looking confused. There’s your suspects.