Last day of May.

So what has happened in the last 22 days.
My aquilegias are bobbing their bonnets all over the garden. Pink, mauve, blue, pink and white, alongside foxgloves, rhododendrons and two massive peony buds that are about to pop.
Last Thursday I cut the lawn and managed to do some weeding. I pushed and shoved the mower backwards and forwards and rejoiced in the feeling of little pain.
Friday I went up to town for a voiceover. The sun shone and I tied my raincoat round my waist. Met the dawter for lunch in Berwick street – WHAT ARE THEY DOING TO SOHO, CHINESE BILLBOARDS, LANDMARKS TORN DOWN – and then a slow walk to Charing Cross. By the time I reached the old git waiting in the station car park, I was doubled over in agony.
Grrrrrrrrr.
So the doctor expedited her last letter to the Gastroenterologist saying that August 26th was too late to see me and that it WAS urgent!!!!
As I write the rain is raining, the bath is running and my pain is paining. My Scottish man says I’m getting better but we have to get to Scotland again for him to see me, feel me touch me….
The pain changes from ouch to to PERLEESE to what the Fu…….
I’m ‘slight’ according to one doctor, ‘thin’ according to my oldest chum and wasting away according to the cashier in Waitrose.
Pharrell the pheasant visits daily, sometimes his wife Philomena joins him, the ‘oosbind hangs out bird feeders so we can spot woodpeckers, jays, tits and squirrels.
I lie on the lounger and watch them, meditate, watch them again and meditate some more. I’ve caught the sun and look like Art Malik’s Auntigi.
I am getting better but the discomfort is so all encompassing sitting down and writing for longer than ten minutes hurts. Lying watching the telly, after an hour or so, hurts, ( could be the programmes though ) walking around hurts. Driving hurts. I’ve started jumping up and down but yup, after a few minutes, it hurts. I’ve cancelled meetings, weddings, Barmitzvahs and funerals, we’re going to see HAMLET, in the cinema, on June 8th, but I fear after ten minutes of the Bard I may well have to walk round the foyer eating picknmix to quell the pain to jellybean or not to jellybean….
PLAWHATCH organic farm shop provides me with raw cheese, raw milk, raw Kefir, cabbages that are pesticide free and raw chocolate made with raw goats milk. I am attempting to do what the good Scottish Dr. tells me about what and not to eat. I am doing what the lovely Jimbo tells me. Holding my head back and poking out my tongue so he can drip drops of herbal painkiller onto it.
The dawter is releasing her first single ‘CREEPING’ on Friday, and we are delighted that all her hard work is paying off, we wont be going to the launch party no hip-hopstar wants an ailing mother hanging round the speakers. Jim is waiting for confirmation of a film role, whilst I lie around surrendering to being a mystery case that no-one can solve.
More tests are lurking in the wings and then I dread them telling me I have to have a colostomy bag, after all where will I find shoes to match?
Darling bloggers all, I cannot wait to give definitive news about this frigging episode, but as I write I’m none the wiser, I am not dead. I have no intention of dying yet,but sometimes ethenuckinasia appeals, although the trip to Switzerland would be hellish.
Enough of this wingheathon, may June bring you flowers, showers and bundles of joy.