Due to overwhelming demand, you will find all my posts on http://havingtiffin.wordpress.com from now on. The pull of Wordpress and the fact that half of my lovely bloggy friends can't comment on Blogger means that it's not worth the hassle...
Back to the old blog on 1 Jan though kiddies x
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
passwords are go
http://havingtiffin.wordpress.com/2007/12/17/yeah-so-youre-not-good-enough-for-me/
For the password, either email me. Or work out this cryptic (hahahah) clue:
I am the password. I am that creature which stereotypically frightens the password in The Old Place. I am singular rather than plural. What am I?
I am not jelly.
If in doubt, check my Facebook profile.
For the password, either email me. Or work out this cryptic (hahahah) clue:
I am the password. I am that creature which stereotypically frightens the password in The Old Place. I am singular rather than plural. What am I?
I am not jelly.
If in doubt, check my Facebook profile.
fm: the end
Well, it's tied off. As it is the festive season - and you all know how anxious I feel when something isn't right - I tried to put a little bow on it. I have been trying to think about how it is his problem. I haven't done anything wrong. Ok, so I wasn't out partying my life away on Friday. I was tired and fed up and feeling really blue. I know that people think that when you get the all clear you are dancing for joy. You are. That is true, but there really is a bump for a lot of people. I have suffered with depressive tendencies all my adult life (since younger than 18 even). I clearly have some sort of chemical imbalance going on. I try to manage this by surrounding myself with friends, but taking time out away from people when necessary, and recognising when a low "episode" is coming along. It is about management. But for all Fire Man knows, it was the day after I discovered that all that nasty cancer is gone and it coincided with my staff xmas do and I was totally blotto somewhere in South London without the mental ability to get to fucking Brockley.
(Interesting that Brockley is pronounced a little bit like broccoli, which I am now addicted to because of its super-food properties. I had broccoli yesterday AND the day before! Go. Me.)
Anyway, I have good manners, and for all my defiance and "fuck it" attitude about a lot of things, actually I am the sort of girl that worries an awful lot about what people think of me. I worry about being disliked, I worry about upsetting others, I feel upset and mortified if I offend anyone I care about. So, I sent a neat little "end of" email to Fire Man wishing him all the best. I can't understand his behaviour. I have tried rethinking it - perhaps he thinks I am the head fuck here for not turning up to his place after a blatant booty text? But no, that is crap. He has known all along (certainly since that night when I fucking TOLD HIM) that I genuinely wanted something to happen with us, something more than just him having someone to mess about with when bored. I honestly beliefe that he knows fully well that I have been sincere. So, the final conclusion is:
Fire Man: possibly a nice bloke, BUT with an ego too big for his own boots and an inability to treat someone with respect. You lot are right, if he wanted me, I would know. He would make effort to contact me, he would text or call. Before Coatman dares counter this with some weak argument like "perhaps he cannot contact you any other way than your mobile and has lost your number?" Fire Man has both my email addresses and my business card AND Facebook! AND I have texted him this weekend so he would have my number that way.
I don't want someone who doesn't want me.
(Except, of course, you all know me and you know that I'm clearly sick in the head because we all know I still want Fire Man. Even though I can sit there and look at a photo of him and pick out that his nose is too flat, or his eyes are too far apart for my liking, or he is too short... somehow, the complete package just works and I think maybe this is because of his cockiness and some mean little psychological trick that my head is playing on my heart).
So, the end went like this:
Fire Man,
Have either upset you in some way or your new phone is broken (or mine is playing up again, can never be too sure with a Sony Ericsson). In the event that technology rather than human sentiment is to blame for the lack of noise on your part, I wanted to wish you all the best for Christmas and the New Year. Hope work is kind to you for the last week, that Santa is generous, and that you have a good rest between too many booze-fuelled celebrations. Good luck with the TV table, am sure if you do your little boy face one of the parents will cave and drive it back to yours!
Tiffin
PS - fingers crossed for your Dubai project.
Not expecting a response. I have deleted his number and all the messages again. Even the "I just wanted you to know that I do care about you..." one. Still don't understand why he sent it. Why the need for the "do", the emphatic positiveness?
Anyway, I gotta get up and fill my empty and pathetic life with getting the car and going to Little City and seeing old friends. I am hoping to be able to forget the blues in their company. Am rather looking forward to seeing them.
(Interesting that Brockley is pronounced a little bit like broccoli, which I am now addicted to because of its super-food properties. I had broccoli yesterday AND the day before! Go. Me.)
Anyway, I have good manners, and for all my defiance and "fuck it" attitude about a lot of things, actually I am the sort of girl that worries an awful lot about what people think of me. I worry about being disliked, I worry about upsetting others, I feel upset and mortified if I offend anyone I care about. So, I sent a neat little "end of" email to Fire Man wishing him all the best. I can't understand his behaviour. I have tried rethinking it - perhaps he thinks I am the head fuck here for not turning up to his place after a blatant booty text? But no, that is crap. He has known all along (certainly since that night when I fucking TOLD HIM) that I genuinely wanted something to happen with us, something more than just him having someone to mess about with when bored. I honestly beliefe that he knows fully well that I have been sincere. So, the final conclusion is:
Fire Man: possibly a nice bloke, BUT with an ego too big for his own boots and an inability to treat someone with respect. You lot are right, if he wanted me, I would know. He would make effort to contact me, he would text or call. Before Coatman dares counter this with some weak argument like "perhaps he cannot contact you any other way than your mobile and has lost your number?" Fire Man has both my email addresses and my business card AND Facebook! AND I have texted him this weekend so he would have my number that way.
I don't want someone who doesn't want me.
(Except, of course, you all know me and you know that I'm clearly sick in the head because we all know I still want Fire Man. Even though I can sit there and look at a photo of him and pick out that his nose is too flat, or his eyes are too far apart for my liking, or he is too short... somehow, the complete package just works and I think maybe this is because of his cockiness and some mean little psychological trick that my head is playing on my heart).
So, the end went like this:
Fire Man,
Have either upset you in some way or your new phone is broken (or mine is playing up again, can never be too sure with a Sony Ericsson). In the event that technology rather than human sentiment is to blame for the lack of noise on your part, I wanted to wish you all the best for Christmas and the New Year. Hope work is kind to you for the last week, that Santa is generous, and that you have a good rest between too many booze-fuelled celebrations. Good luck with the TV table, am sure if you do your little boy face one of the parents will cave and drive it back to yours!
Tiffin
PS - fingers crossed for your Dubai project.
Not expecting a response. I have deleted his number and all the messages again. Even the "I just wanted you to know that I do care about you..." one. Still don't understand why he sent it. Why the need for the "do", the emphatic positiveness?
Anyway, I gotta get up and fill my empty and pathetic life with getting the car and going to Little City and seeing old friends. I am hoping to be able to forget the blues in their company. Am rather looking forward to seeing them.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
family: delete
Mum and I haven't been talking since she was decidedly unsupportive over the cancer issue. Given that she's supposed to be one of my closest relatives, I called her on Thursday to tell her about the all clear.
Today she added me on Facebook.
WTF?
Anyway, I ok-ed it.
And read her "About her" section.
"Married to... live in..." and then "I have one beautiful and talented daughter [Insert Name of The Sister here] who lives close by. I have a dog called Bailey... blah blah"
One daughter.
Oh, that's nice.
DELETE.
Today she added me on Facebook.
WTF?
Anyway, I ok-ed it.
And read her "About her" section.
"Married to... live in..." and then "I have one beautiful and talented daughter [Insert Name of The Sister here] who lives close by. I have a dog called Bailey... blah blah"
One daughter.
Oh, that's nice.
DELETE.
fm is a cock
Yes, yes, we know this.
He is a cock, and he thinks with his all the time too.
The short story.
Friday I was on a massive downer. I'm still riding it. Can't seem to kick the blues, which made this weekend difficult as I was in Leeds staying with Rach (who I bolt to whenever my life falls apart) and we went to see a Blues Brothers tribute show (which was actually awesome - like a hot dog - but I wish I had been in the mood to sing and dance along rather than just sit there, shattered and looking like I had been sucking on a lemon).
Anyway, Friday night was the staff xmas do. Fairly typical affair, we went for food and drank too much on the company credit card. Usual bollocks. I wasn't feeling it but The Big Boss came over towards the end of the night and put his arm around me and said quietly: "I heard the news. Congratulations. I am so pleased for you." He gave me a squeeze, we posed for yet another smiley xmas photo and that was that. But that was nice.
So, I left reasonably early, and hooked up with Edge Monkey who was in a pub in Soho with some mates. Edge Monkey and I then headed back to Victoria to get the train (to our separate houses) and had a Christmas cuddle for lonely people who have nobody to love them on the escalator up from the tube. Good old Edge Monkey.
Anyway, FM and I had been texting throughout the evening. He was on his company xmas do, over in Farringdon. I flirted along, was extra distant. He wanted to know where I was. I was vague. Then came the predictable "Do you fancy catching a train to Brockley? x x x" text. By this point, I was already walking home and had no intention of going to his. I said that sure, I would. He was hell bent on me going back to his. I was changing into my PJs and replied that I would only go if he wanted to see me.
"You bet I do x x x"
I checked my overnight bag for my Leeds trip and got into bed. "Ok, am just in CJ. See you later x"
He asked how I was doing. I said I wouldn't be able to get to London Bridge in time for the last train. He said I "seriously" should try. I said if I miss it I would be stranded! He said I should get over to his somehow.
End of correspondence.
Next morning I texted him cheerfully to ask how his head was.
Ignored.
Later: "You not talking to me?"
Ignored.
Early hours of the morning when a bit drunk and tired and upset: "Take that as a no then. Well, hope you're alright."
Ignored.
End of.
Delete, delete, delete.
The boy is an arse, but he still manages to suck me in. How do they do it?
Why?
He is a cock, and he thinks with his all the time too.
The short story.
Friday I was on a massive downer. I'm still riding it. Can't seem to kick the blues, which made this weekend difficult as I was in Leeds staying with Rach (who I bolt to whenever my life falls apart) and we went to see a Blues Brothers tribute show (which was actually awesome - like a hot dog - but I wish I had been in the mood to sing and dance along rather than just sit there, shattered and looking like I had been sucking on a lemon).
Anyway, Friday night was the staff xmas do. Fairly typical affair, we went for food and drank too much on the company credit card. Usual bollocks. I wasn't feeling it but The Big Boss came over towards the end of the night and put his arm around me and said quietly: "I heard the news. Congratulations. I am so pleased for you." He gave me a squeeze, we posed for yet another smiley xmas photo and that was that. But that was nice.
So, I left reasonably early, and hooked up with Edge Monkey who was in a pub in Soho with some mates. Edge Monkey and I then headed back to Victoria to get the train (to our separate houses) and had a Christmas cuddle for lonely people who have nobody to love them on the escalator up from the tube. Good old Edge Monkey.
Anyway, FM and I had been texting throughout the evening. He was on his company xmas do, over in Farringdon. I flirted along, was extra distant. He wanted to know where I was. I was vague. Then came the predictable "Do you fancy catching a train to Brockley? x x x" text. By this point, I was already walking home and had no intention of going to his. I said that sure, I would. He was hell bent on me going back to his. I was changing into my PJs and replied that I would only go if he wanted to see me.
"You bet I do x x x"
I checked my overnight bag for my Leeds trip and got into bed. "Ok, am just in CJ. See you later x"
He asked how I was doing. I said I wouldn't be able to get to London Bridge in time for the last train. He said I "seriously" should try. I said if I miss it I would be stranded! He said I should get over to his somehow.
End of correspondence.
Next morning I texted him cheerfully to ask how his head was.
Ignored.
Later: "You not talking to me?"
Ignored.
Early hours of the morning when a bit drunk and tired and upset: "Take that as a no then. Well, hope you're alright."
Ignored.
End of.
Delete, delete, delete.
The boy is an arse, but he still manages to suck me in. How do they do it?
Why?
Friday, December 14, 2007
now what?
So, yesterday I tied a Colposcopy Nurse down (not literally, I don't advocate violence towards medical professionals) and got my results.
All clear, as I said. The relief was immense. I haven't had to deal with anything like some of the women I have met on this journey, but I felt like I was floating on air.
Today I feel really, really strange.
I feel lost and a bit numb. Yesterday morning I had this battle that I was in the middle of and I was fighting and every minute I had something on my mind. I had a cause to shout about and I had to win. I had direction and focus and a real fear about having a potentially impaired life.
I'm just shattered. I kind of don't feel anything but confusion. I sort of don't know who I am anymore, what purpose I serve? I've always had something to rally against, and now life is void of any form of battle. I've raised £1,600 in a month but now I feel like I have stopped and hit a wall.
I feel fraudulent. Suddenly, it is done. Suddenly, I am free. Suddenly I have nothing to cry about. But I still want to cry and people don't understand. Everyone is so happy, and they can't understand that I still feel frightened and worried and what if it is all wrong and what if the future isn't as rosy as it seems? I feel guilty that I have had it comparatively easy. I don't know what to say to the others to validate my being there with them any more. I feel that they will want me to leave them to their struggles, as mine is (hopefully) done with.
Odd, just odd. And FM can piss off. I don't have the time or inclination to play his stupid games.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
fire man: so i'm fair game now that i am "normal" again...?
On a high after my EXCELLENT NEWS I wanted to contact as many people as I could, as quickly as I could. I did this via blogs, Facebook, a mass email and some mass texts. Despite nothing put of FM since Friday, I added him to the mass email as he had asked that I keep him update about how I go with all this stuff in that email he sent the day after we called whatever was going on with us off. And it wasn't a "hey FM" email, it was "hey everyone..." so I told myself that it wasn’t like I was contacting him desperately or anything.
Anyway, he replied:
Still elated (and I still am, believe you me!!), I sent:
Friendly, but clearly riding a natural high.
Then I left the office.
Just as I got on the train, the phone beeped. A random number came up. It was FM (remember, his number is in the Cheerios box).
He said: “Hey trouble… I’ve got a new phone… Something up with my old one apparently which is why it wasn’t sending texts! What you up to this evening? Xxx”
I replied that I am just heading home and has he got an exciting night ahead?
He texted that he was just leaving work, and “not yet” (in reference to an exciting night ahead). I said that it was pity he hadn’t said sooner or I would have dragged him to the pub. He came back that he'd've dragged me home if he had known I was at work late. I replied: "oh well, nevermind, there'll be other nights x" to which he responded: “Yeah but other nights aren’t tonight :( x x x "
Baffled by his U-turn on me again, I texted: “well all you had to do was ask, I wouldnt've needed dragging either x” Fire Man replied: “I don’t like the way that was written in the past tense! If I said I’m at a loose end now it wouldn’t make any difference! x x x”
Then I lost my cool and said: "ah so you want me to come back in? :)" although I wouldn't have gone back into town, it would have been too much of a mission, I have greasy hair, am tired and on my period anyway. Conveniently he replied: "I'm on my train home now :( x” so I replied: “Well I am home anyway, am sure you'll find something to do, have a great evening x”
This is where it started getting a little odd. He said: “I'm still really happy for you - now get your butt into training... xxx” so I replied: “Thanks :) I'm pretty happy too. Will start training in a few weeks. Consultant has to ok my fitness to train. Still got a few hurdles to overcome over next 12 months but all good tonight. Did you have a top day? X”
FM replied: “My day pales into insignificance! I'm really happy for you and just want you to know I do care about you... x x x”
(????? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN???? WHY?????)
Almost immediately he then texted: "You may now take the piss... x x x" Feeling touched by his apparent concern and a fleeting moment of tenderness, I replied: "I won’t x" And then immediately sent: “Ok, I can’t help it. That was the text equivalent of touching me. You want to touch me na na na naaaaa na :) I care about you too x"
Fire Man responded: “:P You love me really, cuteness and all... x x x"
And this is where I was fooled. I said: “Something like that. I have a soft spot for you. Sometimes I think you have one for me. Thanks for giving me a break over having a mental few weeks. Will buy you a beer, although not a million (reference to joke made in email about owing everyone a million beers for their support). Your liver wouldn’t thank me. Will thank you some other way x”
God, I am a twat.
Well, of course, he didn’t reply.
So, half an hour later, I sent: “Jerkface :) x” partly so that I could get it off my chest, but also with the smiley and kiss so he didn’t know I meant it. In reply, I got “Thanks honey. Glad to see you’re back to your old self… xxx”
So, what do you guys make of all that? Come on, let’s hear it. I dunno why he bothered to keep the contact going. He didn’t even have to reply to the email. Today was so good that it wouldn’t have mattered. I had written him off anyway. What was that “…and just want you to know I do care about you...” text about? Why? I mean, does he now see me as fair game? Now that I have a weight off my shoulders, he can mess with me?
The really rotten thing is that, now that the adrenaline is dropping and I am coming down from the high, realisation is getting hold of me. This morning I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know if there were still horrible nasty cancer cells in me. I didn’t know if I was going to have to endure more surgery or radiotherapy or chemo or what. I didn’t know if I would ever beat it. The relief was enormous.
But now I keep thinking how fucking lucky I am, and I feel mortality more vividly than you do right this second. We all know that any of us could die at any moment. CC wasn’t going to kill me a 24, or even 25. But it made me much more aware that I am not invincible at all. If I hadn’t been so damned lucky, I wouldn’t even know. It could have progressed and by the time I would get called in next year, I could have found myself facing a hysterectomy straight off. I have been torturing myself with it anyway. As I said in my text to FM, there are still many hurdles to overcome. I will never be able to relax before a colposcopy or smear ever again. I will never be blasé about being young and healthy.
I have to get through Tuesday, then another colposcopy in 5 months time when the cervix has healed fully and it won’t be like looking at a war zone. The consultant will only then be able to tell me that it really, really is gone. After that, I am monitored every year for ten years. They ain’t taking any chances. And it could come back. It will always be there in the shadows.
The past few hours, this has really been sinking in. For now, I am safe. I am just another statistic. I am one in three. I will always be one in three. I can turn around and say “I am 24 and I have survived cancer” although I feel fraudulent saying that because, I didn’t do anything. I was passive in all of this. This was not a battle that I fought. My consultant, despite his shitty bedside manner, took on a piece of my body that was destroying itself and he got the bastard out. I was just another little fight for him.
For all my griping and hating the system, the NHS cervical screening programme and my consultant saved my life.
It’s a humbling thought.
One of my friends commented that no doubt I will have a different perspective on life and she is absolutely right. I still hate transport and wouldn’t mind throwing a few brattish children under passing buses; I will still rant and rave on my blog. I will still be middle class and ungrateful. Sod it. But I am thankful and will do as Dee says and try to “not sweat the small stuff”. It’ll be ranting but not real.
So … what do you make of Fire Man?
Anyway, he replied:
Hey trouble, excellent news…
Have you been ignoring me for the rest of the week though?
Really really really pleased for you and I'll happily take the million beers off you... xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Still elated (and I still am, believe you me!!), I sent:
Ah, hello there stranger,
Not been ignoring you at all babe, haven't heard a
peep out of you to ignore :) Am so totally over-the-moon, you probably could take advantage of my good mood and get all those beers out of me at the moment
:) :) :) :) :) My jaw hurts from grinning so much.
A great end to a pretty shite year. Now I just gotta get fit and squeeze another £400 out of people by May and turn it all into something really positive. Been told to live off broccoli as it helps ward off these nasty cell changes. Well, I'm going to turn into a flipping broccoli floret I'm going to eat so much of the stuff!!! Next time you see me, I'll be GREEN! Anyway, how are you? Still sexy?xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx back at ya!!!! Whoop whoop!
Friendly, but clearly riding a natural high.
Then I left the office.
Just as I got on the train, the phone beeped. A random number came up. It was FM (remember, his number is in the Cheerios box).
He said: “Hey trouble… I’ve got a new phone… Something up with my old one apparently which is why it wasn’t sending texts! What you up to this evening? Xxx”
I replied that I am just heading home and has he got an exciting night ahead?
He texted that he was just leaving work, and “not yet” (in reference to an exciting night ahead). I said that it was pity he hadn’t said sooner or I would have dragged him to the pub. He came back that he'd've dragged me home if he had known I was at work late. I replied: "oh well, nevermind, there'll be other nights x" to which he responded: “Yeah but other nights aren’t tonight :( x x x "
Baffled by his U-turn on me again, I texted: “well all you had to do was ask, I wouldnt've needed dragging either x” Fire Man replied: “I don’t like the way that was written in the past tense! If I said I’m at a loose end now it wouldn’t make any difference! x x x”
Then I lost my cool and said: "ah so you want me to come back in? :)" although I wouldn't have gone back into town, it would have been too much of a mission, I have greasy hair, am tired and on my period anyway. Conveniently he replied: "I'm on my train home now :( x” so I replied: “Well I am home anyway, am sure you'll find something to do, have a great evening x”
This is where it started getting a little odd. He said: “I'm still really happy for you - now get your butt into training... xxx” so I replied: “Thanks :) I'm pretty happy too. Will start training in a few weeks. Consultant has to ok my fitness to train. Still got a few hurdles to overcome over next 12 months but all good tonight. Did you have a top day? X”
FM replied: “My day pales into insignificance! I'm really happy for you and just want you to know I do care about you... x x x”
(????? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN???? WHY?????)
Almost immediately he then texted: "You may now take the piss... x x x" Feeling touched by his apparent concern and a fleeting moment of tenderness, I replied: "I won’t x" And then immediately sent: “Ok, I can’t help it. That was the text equivalent of touching me. You want to touch me na na na naaaaa na :) I care about you too x"
Fire Man responded: “:P You love me really, cuteness and all... x x x"
And this is where I was fooled. I said: “Something like that. I have a soft spot for you. Sometimes I think you have one for me. Thanks for giving me a break over having a mental few weeks. Will buy you a beer, although not a million (reference to joke made in email about owing everyone a million beers for their support). Your liver wouldn’t thank me. Will thank you some other way x”
God, I am a twat.
Well, of course, he didn’t reply.
So, half an hour later, I sent: “Jerkface :) x” partly so that I could get it off my chest, but also with the smiley and kiss so he didn’t know I meant it. In reply, I got “Thanks honey. Glad to see you’re back to your old self… xxx”
So, what do you guys make of all that? Come on, let’s hear it. I dunno why he bothered to keep the contact going. He didn’t even have to reply to the email. Today was so good that it wouldn’t have mattered. I had written him off anyway. What was that “…and just want you to know I do care about you...” text about? Why? I mean, does he now see me as fair game? Now that I have a weight off my shoulders, he can mess with me?
The really rotten thing is that, now that the adrenaline is dropping and I am coming down from the high, realisation is getting hold of me. This morning I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know if there were still horrible nasty cancer cells in me. I didn’t know if I was going to have to endure more surgery or radiotherapy or chemo or what. I didn’t know if I would ever beat it. The relief was enormous.
But now I keep thinking how fucking lucky I am, and I feel mortality more vividly than you do right this second. We all know that any of us could die at any moment. CC wasn’t going to kill me a 24, or even 25. But it made me much more aware that I am not invincible at all. If I hadn’t been so damned lucky, I wouldn’t even know. It could have progressed and by the time I would get called in next year, I could have found myself facing a hysterectomy straight off. I have been torturing myself with it anyway. As I said in my text to FM, there are still many hurdles to overcome. I will never be able to relax before a colposcopy or smear ever again. I will never be blasé about being young and healthy.
I have to get through Tuesday, then another colposcopy in 5 months time when the cervix has healed fully and it won’t be like looking at a war zone. The consultant will only then be able to tell me that it really, really is gone. After that, I am monitored every year for ten years. They ain’t taking any chances. And it could come back. It will always be there in the shadows.
The past few hours, this has really been sinking in. For now, I am safe. I am just another statistic. I am one in three. I will always be one in three. I can turn around and say “I am 24 and I have survived cancer” although I feel fraudulent saying that because, I didn’t do anything. I was passive in all of this. This was not a battle that I fought. My consultant, despite his shitty bedside manner, took on a piece of my body that was destroying itself and he got the bastard out. I was just another little fight for him.
For all my griping and hating the system, the NHS cervical screening programme and my consultant saved my life.
It’s a humbling thought.
One of my friends commented that no doubt I will have a different perspective on life and she is absolutely right. I still hate transport and wouldn’t mind throwing a few brattish children under passing buses; I will still rant and rave on my blog. I will still be middle class and ungrateful. Sod it. But I am thankful and will do as Dee says and try to “not sweat the small stuff”. It’ll be ranting but not real.
So … what do you make of Fire Man?
i can't tell you how i feel right now
I bit the bullet. I called.
I. AM. ALL. CLEAR!!!!!
The margins are clear. They got it all. I am cancer-free!!!!!!!!!! I couldn't possibly explain how I feel. There are no words.
It's like being born again. It's over. I'm not going to die! I don't need another operation. I don't need radiotherapy or chemo. God has let me off the hook.
I feel so sick.
Thanks everyone.
Lots of love
xxxxxxx
(Now let's all be praying that my body keeps me clear until my next colposcopy in 6 months AND BEYOND!!)
I. AM. ALL. CLEAR!!!!!
The margins are clear. They got it all. I am cancer-free!!!!!!!!!! I couldn't possibly explain how I feel. There are no words.
It's like being born again. It's over. I'm not going to die! I don't need another operation. I don't need radiotherapy or chemo. God has let me off the hook.
I feel so sick.
Thanks everyone.
Lots of love
xxxxxxx
(Now let's all be praying that my body keeps me clear until my next colposcopy in 6 months AND BEYOND!!)
i still don't want to make that call
"Supposing a tree fell down, Pooh, when we were underneath it?" said Piglet.
"Supposing it didn't?" said Pooh, after careful thought.
"Supposing it didn't?" said Pooh, after careful thought.
tomorrrong or todauy
It is,looks t clock, 00.11, i dont want ot go to bed. i dont watn to ca,ll the colpocsopy clinic tomorrow. i dont want ot know the aswnwers. i nede sleep. night nigh night. night nicole and JV, lots of love, thanks fot looking aftwe me xxxx
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
when blondes try to organise things...
From: Tiffin
Sent: 12 December 2007 12:43
To: Tall Blonde Dish (yes, from the pw post on old blog)
Subject: later
Time? x
From: Tall Blonde Dish
Sent: 12 December 2007 13:54
To: Tiffin
Subject: RE: later
Hmm. Just got in office. Let me think
What time do you clock off? x
From: Tiffin
Sent: 12 December 2007 14:12
To: Tall Blonde Dish
Subject: RE: later
Officially I finish at 5. I think you are later…?
From: Tall Blonde Dish
Sent: 12 December 2007 14:16
To: Tiffin
Subject: RE: later
Yeah later than that. Been out of the office most of the morning so will need to be here till 6 at least. That ok? x
From: Tiffin
Sent: 12 December 2007 16:35
To: Tall Blonde Dish
Subject: RE: later
6pm ok. Where shall I go to meet you?? x
From: Tall Blonde Dish
Sent: 12 December 2007 16:34
To: Tiffin
Subject: RE: later
Coolio. I’m in London Bridge ([removed] Street) – still haven’t had much chance to scout for decent bars yet…..
From: Tiffin
Sent: 12 December 2007 16:40
To: Tall Blonde Dish
Subject: RE: later
Shall I meet you at LB station? Where is a good place?
From: Tall Blonde Dish
Sent: 12 December 2007 16:38
To: Tiffin
Subject: RE: later
Coolio. I’ll be there around 6.10. OK for you?
Probably best is the central concourse. Which way you coming?
From: Tiffin
Sent: 12 December 2007 16:45
To: Tall Blonde Dish
Subject: RE: later
Jubilee line… central concourse? By the departure boards you mean ??
From: Tall Blonde Dish
Sent: 12 December 2007 16:49
To: Tiffin
Subject: RE: later
Yeah that’ll be fine – or I can meet you by the tube entrance near the Guy’s Hospital exit… we have phones after all! x
From: Tiffin
Sent: 12 December 2007 16:55
To: Tall Blonde Dish
Subject: RE: later
The one by Guys? Is that the main LB exit or borough high st end? x
From: Tall Blonde Dish
Sent: 12 December 2007 16:55
To: Tiffin
Subject: RE: later
The back entrance. Not Tooley Street… comes out onto Joiner Street and then St Thomas Street. x
From: Tiffin
Sent: 12 December 2007 17:02
To: Tall Blonde Dish
Subject: RE: later
Huh? How can it come out on one street and then another? Surely it only comes out on one street?
From: Tall Blonde Dish
Sent: 12 December 2007 17:02
To: Tiffin
Subject: RE: later
Well Joiner Street technically runs through the middle of London Bridge. It cuts between the underground and the mainline station.
This is getting complicated (and no I don’t mean the London Dungeon exit – that’s Tooley Street…)
I think it’s signposted to St Thomas Street / Guys Hospital and I think it’s a right turn as you come out of the tube – can’t be sure about that. I just know which way I walk when I’m there! x
From: Tiffin
Sent: 12 December 2007 17:09
To: Tall Blonde Dish
Subject: RE: later
Think isn’t good enough. On the jubilee platforms the two options are:
London Bridge exit
Borough High Street exit
So, looking at a map, I figure you mean Borough High St exit. So, great. I will go there and wait above ground.
From: Tall Blonde Dish
Sent: 12 December 2007 17:14
To: Tiffin
Subject: RE: later
I thinks it’s London Bridge exit to take you towards the main station – otherwise you’ll just go through a small exit onto the street…. !! xx
From: Tiffin
Sent: 12 December 2007 17:22
To: Tall Blonde Dish
Subject: RE: later
Huh??
Can we just meet somewhere less confusing??
You know London Bridge mainline station main exit??? The one upstairs where the taxis and buses go? Just meet there??
Otherwise I will pull the plug entirely and refuse to come to LB at all and make you meet me at Charing X or somewhere I know!!!!!!!
And a few more for good measure!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
From: Tall Blonde Dish
Sent: 12 December 2007 17:20
To: Tiffin
Subject: RE: later
You have anger management issues
Only joking sweetie – yes main concourse is fine – see you then and thoroughly looking forward to it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
From: Tiffin
Sent: 12 December 2007 17:25
To: Tall Blonde Dish
Subject: RE: later
Anger management issues?
Check.
And as for all the confusion:
1. you are blonde
2. I have a few blonde streaks...
...It was always going to be a struggle
;)
See you soon pretty boy x
From: Tall Blonde Dish
Sent: 12 December 2007 17:24
To: Tiffin
Subject: RE: later
Chuckle chuckle
Chortle chortle
See ya later sexy pants
angry? i'll show you flamin' angry!!
I have been stressing out over the magazine as this issue is late by a month. This is thanks to my sick leave combined with the usual fact that in this office nobody can keep to a deadline. Other people miss deadlines on publications and marketing collateral that I have to coordinate. It is the thing I hate most about my job. What I can do depends a lot on other people doing a bunch of stuff first. I often come in towards the later stages and spit and polish the bollocks that they write as draft reports (etc) so that it comes out all sparkly and shiny and ready to go to design and print. I can't do my clean up rewriting and editing without material in the first place (unless, like the magazine of course, I am writing from scratch).
Over the past couple of months, a particular team here (ha, they barely talk to one another they all hate each other so much) has missed deadline after deadline. My poor little mag has been shunted back and back and back. It got to the stage last week where I was going to suggest that we abandon this issue and just make the first issue of 2008 a bumper edition with extra features. But no, I didn't get a chance to because The Boss started on about how, now the other stuff was out of the way, we need to push the magazine through ASAP.
So, I worked my butt off on it in terms of time and speed (although, as I said already, my heart wasn't in it this issue).
So, this magazine.
Is sitting on The Big Boss's desk.
Where it has been since very early this morning.
Where The Big Boss says to put it for his final read through before going to press.
I don't think the fucker has even picked it up.
The fucking print house (that we mess about anyway every issue, changing the date we are sending to print a zillion times before we actually manage it) is waiting!
I could have had the extra day today to perfect it. To pick up any silly errors missed through sheer tiredness and the stress of staring at these pages all the fucking time that leads a proofreader/editor to miss even obvious mistakes.
I HATE THAT MAN SO MUCH!
I'm sorry. I am going to have to say it... I have tried not to, and in a minute I will go to the loos and say it very loudly indeed, but:
Over the past couple of months, a particular team here (ha, they barely talk to one another they all hate each other so much) has missed deadline after deadline. My poor little mag has been shunted back and back and back. It got to the stage last week where I was going to suggest that we abandon this issue and just make the first issue of 2008 a bumper edition with extra features. But no, I didn't get a chance to because The Boss started on about how, now the other stuff was out of the way, we need to push the magazine through ASAP.
So, I worked my butt off on it in terms of time and speed (although, as I said already, my heart wasn't in it this issue).
So, this magazine.
Is sitting on The Big Boss's desk.
Where it has been since very early this morning.
Where The Big Boss says to put it for his final read through before going to press.
I don't think the fucker has even picked it up.
The fucking print house (that we mess about anyway every issue, changing the date we are sending to print a zillion times before we actually manage it) is waiting!
I could have had the extra day today to perfect it. To pick up any silly errors missed through sheer tiredness and the stress of staring at these pages all the fucking time that leads a proofreader/editor to miss even obvious mistakes.
I HATE THAT MAN SO MUCH!
I'm sorry. I am going to have to say it... I have tried not to, and in a minute I will go to the loos and say it very loudly indeed, but:
CUNT!
chasing results
I need to chase for my results. I am going out of my mind. I had to take two one-a-night Nytols last night to knock me out. One just had no effect whatsoever. I am all out of Zop. The girls have said that results get tied up in the admin system, sitting in trays waiting for overworked nurses and support staff to get around to processing them and posting them out. They say that results are back with the clinic/consultant within 10 days.
At the cancer conference the other week, one of the women, Suz, got really angry about it. She stood up in one of the Q&A sessions and let rip at one of the speakers about the fact that we sit about biting our fingernails down to their cuticles. We have to endure long nights of staring at the ceiling and thinking up worst case scenarios in between counting so many sheep that I never want to see a sheep again, and wake up drenched in sweat on those nights when exhaustion forces us to sleep,. All because nobody seems to care how important it is - mentally as well as physically - for us to know as soon as possible. Sadly her outpouring was misdirected and the speaker looked at us gathered women like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to offer a solution. I think it made Suz feel slightly better to have shot her mouth off though. Sometimes all you need is to release that tension by yelling or breaking something or kicking the dustbin on the way to the bus stop.
But 6 weeks has taken its toll. I am finding it harder to joke about the situation, which has mostly been my reaction to it coming up in conversation so far. I don't know whether this has been to reassure worried friends, or simply to try and fool myself, but waving it all away with an "ah, it'll be ok, of course it will be ok" has seen me through so far (apart from the wibble-wobbles I have had via my blog/s or through the charity contact network).
Mar has been telling me to bite the bullet and call them. She finally did last week. For her, it wasn't great news. This has knocked my confidence somewhat because I know it could be the same for me. I feel rather close to Mar as well, as she had her procedure the day before I had mine (although it wasn't the same op exactly, mine was under general and more was taken away). We've been supporting each other at all hours of the day and night. She has invited me to stay with her and her fiance and their lunatic dogs over the next few weeks.
Today she branded me a "wuss" because I won't phone. I have hidden behind the fact that I don't have the unit telephone number on me and I will do it tomorrow. A web search could not find the number (I did try in case it was on the hospital site) so I have to wait. Although she and I (and you probably) know I could probably call the main switchboard and get it that way. I just don't want my confidence to be diluted by having to go through other people to get numbers (and probably get directed to the wrong department a few times before I finally end up where I need to be).
So, tomorrow is the day. I will call and ask if they can just tell me. If it's bad news, at least I can prepare. If it is good news, this won't be hanging over me for Christmas.
Fuck me, I am scared.
At the cancer conference the other week, one of the women, Suz, got really angry about it. She stood up in one of the Q&A sessions and let rip at one of the speakers about the fact that we sit about biting our fingernails down to their cuticles. We have to endure long nights of staring at the ceiling and thinking up worst case scenarios in between counting so many sheep that I never want to see a sheep again, and wake up drenched in sweat on those nights when exhaustion forces us to sleep,. All because nobody seems to care how important it is - mentally as well as physically - for us to know as soon as possible. Sadly her outpouring was misdirected and the speaker looked at us gathered women like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to offer a solution. I think it made Suz feel slightly better to have shot her mouth off though. Sometimes all you need is to release that tension by yelling or breaking something or kicking the dustbin on the way to the bus stop.
But 6 weeks has taken its toll. I am finding it harder to joke about the situation, which has mostly been my reaction to it coming up in conversation so far. I don't know whether this has been to reassure worried friends, or simply to try and fool myself, but waving it all away with an "ah, it'll be ok, of course it will be ok" has seen me through so far (apart from the wibble-wobbles I have had via my blog/s or through the charity contact network).
Mar has been telling me to bite the bullet and call them. She finally did last week. For her, it wasn't great news. This has knocked my confidence somewhat because I know it could be the same for me. I feel rather close to Mar as well, as she had her procedure the day before I had mine (although it wasn't the same op exactly, mine was under general and more was taken away). We've been supporting each other at all hours of the day and night. She has invited me to stay with her and her fiance and their lunatic dogs over the next few weeks.
Today she branded me a "wuss" because I won't phone. I have hidden behind the fact that I don't have the unit telephone number on me and I will do it tomorrow. A web search could not find the number (I did try in case it was on the hospital site) so I have to wait. Although she and I (and you probably) know I could probably call the main switchboard and get it that way. I just don't want my confidence to be diluted by having to go through other people to get numbers (and probably get directed to the wrong department a few times before I finally end up where I need to be).
So, tomorrow is the day. I will call and ask if they can just tell me. If it's bad news, at least I can prepare. If it is good news, this won't be hanging over me for Christmas.
Fuck me, I am scared.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
a little hooray
It's not quite 7pm here in Blighty.
I'm sat in a bath towel after a really hot bubble bath. My feet are tingling because they are warm (which is quite a contrast to the blocks of ice that they felt like in bed last night). I sent the final amends for the magazine through to Designer D at 5.30. I am praying that The Big Boss plays nice tomorrow and doesn't try and change the entire publication just hours before press. The print house is primed, the job booked and paper ordered.
It actually looks good. Considering this issue was a real half-hearted affair, it has turned out bloody well.
And now, dearest reader, I am going on the best date ever. I'm going to put on my PJs and hop into bed, pull The Duvet up around my chin and watch crappy telly. Eastenders (yay for Bradley) and Holby and then, possibly, some DVD-age. Or just sleep. Sleep will be good tonight.
I'm sat in a bath towel after a really hot bubble bath. My feet are tingling because they are warm (which is quite a contrast to the blocks of ice that they felt like in bed last night). I sent the final amends for the magazine through to Designer D at 5.30. I am praying that The Big Boss plays nice tomorrow and doesn't try and change the entire publication just hours before press. The print house is primed, the job booked and paper ordered.
It actually looks good. Considering this issue was a real half-hearted affair, it has turned out bloody well.
And now, dearest reader, I am going on the best date ever. I'm going to put on my PJs and hop into bed, pull The Duvet up around my chin and watch crappy telly. Eastenders (yay for Bradley) and Holby and then, possibly, some DVD-age. Or just sleep. Sleep will be good tonight.
the world does not revolve around you
It doesn't revolve around me either, mind, but at the moment (lack of sleep and drop in positivity likely to blame) it certainly feels like it. In a way, it does. I have no significant other in my life, therefore my life DOES revolve around me.
Follows on from my 1am post. I am still on this train of thought. Please disregard if you like.
Let me tell you a story about how I nearly attacked Control Freak this morning.
After I flipped out at work, Control Freak took me aside for a “quiet chat” in a break out room. She was saying all about how young I am and how healthy and how everything would all be fine. Inside my head my inner voice was working overtime: “blah blah blah, what the hell do you know?! Have you seen my results? Have you taken a microscope and looked up my [insert your own choice of word]? Have you hacked at my donut with a wire loop??! NO!!!!! YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!!”
Nobody knows. Apart from the (minimum of three) cytologists who examined my cone tissue, the admin staff who printed out the diagnosis letter (well, it wouldn't have been done by a doctor) and possibly my consultant.
I understand what she is trying to do, but trust me, it really doesn't work. I just keep thinking about all the reassurances that I have been given in the past BY QUALIFIED and knowledgeable health practionners (and they got it wrong, so what the hell does Control Freak really know?!). The reassurance thing is really hard to deal with. Part of me feels so angry with the doctors for telling me it was all going to be ok because statistically I am “low risk”. But, by the same token, they do have a duty to not worry patients unduly, and quoting these figures is part of that because the figures are absolutely right - it really is unlikely. For those that it does happen to, it really is just a case of being in the wrong percentage bracket and bad luck. A lot of the time, the doctors probably could not have predicted what the outcome was going to be.
Back to Control Freak. To make matters worse, she then said “if it makes you feel any better, I have abnormal cells and they are thinking of bringing me in for a colposcopy."
I could have battered her to death on the spot!!!! Firstly for taking my fears and turning the topic to be about her when I was the one sitting there picking a tissue to shreds. Secondly, for dismissing it (all she had to do was flick her wrist). Thirdly for saying “they are thinking of taking me in." Either they do get you in for a colposcopy and they get you in quickly, or they don’t!!! I asked her what grade her dyskaryosis was and she just looked at me blankly. It made me so mad! Nearly as mad as when I told her the diagnosis in the first place and her response was "oh, that's terrible. You will be alright." [pause] "My boyfriend and I are rowing loads at the moment over blah blah blah..."
Follows on from my 1am post. I am still on this train of thought. Please disregard if you like.
Let me tell you a story about how I nearly attacked Control Freak this morning.
After I flipped out at work, Control Freak took me aside for a “quiet chat” in a break out room. She was saying all about how young I am and how healthy and how everything would all be fine. Inside my head my inner voice was working overtime: “blah blah blah, what the hell do you know?! Have you seen my results? Have you taken a microscope and looked up my [insert your own choice of word]? Have you hacked at my donut with a wire loop??! NO!!!!! YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!!”
Nobody knows. Apart from the (minimum of three) cytologists who examined my cone tissue, the admin staff who printed out the diagnosis letter (well, it wouldn't have been done by a doctor) and possibly my consultant.
I understand what she is trying to do, but trust me, it really doesn't work. I just keep thinking about all the reassurances that I have been given in the past BY QUALIFIED and knowledgeable health practionners (and they got it wrong, so what the hell does Control Freak really know?!). The reassurance thing is really hard to deal with. Part of me feels so angry with the doctors for telling me it was all going to be ok because statistically I am “low risk”. But, by the same token, they do have a duty to not worry patients unduly, and quoting these figures is part of that because the figures are absolutely right - it really is unlikely. For those that it does happen to, it really is just a case of being in the wrong percentage bracket and bad luck. A lot of the time, the doctors probably could not have predicted what the outcome was going to be.
Back to Control Freak. To make matters worse, she then said “if it makes you feel any better, I have abnormal cells and they are thinking of bringing me in for a colposcopy."
I could have battered her to death on the spot!!!! Firstly for taking my fears and turning the topic to be about her when I was the one sitting there picking a tissue to shreds. Secondly, for dismissing it (all she had to do was flick her wrist). Thirdly for saying “they are thinking of taking me in." Either they do get you in for a colposcopy and they get you in quickly, or they don’t!!! I asked her what grade her dyskaryosis was and she just looked at me blankly. It made me so mad! Nearly as mad as when I told her the diagnosis in the first place and her response was "oh, that's terrible. You will be alright." [pause] "My boyfriend and I are rowing loads at the moment over blah blah blah..."
it's the not knowing that kills you
I have been in bed for a few hours but sleep evades me. No drugs any more. It's back to relying on my body to send me to slumber, respite from the rubbish that the world chucks at you.
It is quiet online tonight.
I have been lying here for ages thinking about what the future holds. It's very easy to get very down when it is dark outside, when your feet are cold, when there's nobody there but yourself. I feel so panicked waiting for these results. I know the old saying goes "no news is good news" but my faith in the doctors is so low, and I am just one of those people that this sort of shit happens to. I tend to find that when shit happens to me, it happens in a big way.
Without going all "woe is me" on you, look at it like this. 1 in 12 smears (in the UK at least) will come back showing an abnormality of some degree. That's actually pretty common. If a woman joins the screening programme at, say, 25 which is the age at which we are called in for the first time now, she can expect to have at least 12 smears in her life, if not more assuming she keeps her 3-yearly appointments. Statistically, she can expect at least one abnormal result in her lifetime. Already, I have had 3 abnormal smears and I'm not even 25!! One was borderline, one showed mild changes, one showed severe abnormalities. Oh, just great.
Already, shit.
Further to this, 50% of cases of mild abnormalities will revert back to normal if left untreated, usually within 6-12months. I am in the 50% that didn't do this. Typical. And not only did these abnormalities not go back to normal, they got bloody worse too. Or maybe they didn't. Of course it could be a case that the smear showing severe abnormalities was taken from a different part of my lady donut, so it was always bad news and they got it wrong with the mild result. Not sure. Unlikely given that they have to wipe the swab around a given number of times when taking a sample (an interesting fact I learnt from a cytologist at the cancer conference I attended). Yeah, so mine got worse.
So, they take ladies like me in for more thorough investigation. Then, at colposcopy, the consultant's face went grey. I needed immediate treatment, but it had to be under GA. Brilliant. It then materialises that we are dealing with CC when I had been reassured repeatedly in the lead up to all of this that CC is extremely rare (especially at my age) and that I "shouldn't worry, it's pre-cancer and not cancer."
It's like my body or life or whatever is to blame just likes to stick two fingers up at probability. The stats are in a woman's favour... but not for me.
They say that the procedure I had has a 95% success rate. But given my history, you can forgive me for lying here wondering. Are there a handful of nasties still in there, chewing away? Will they know? Will the biopsy come back a false negative? Am I going to suffer like some of the other ladies? Will I lose great areas of my anatomy that I have always taken for granted?
Some of the women I have met have been so brave. They have endured so much - fear, pain, indignity. I am not strong enough for any of that. When I learn what they have dealt with and how they have rebuilt their lives, I just find myself shaking at the thought and wanting to go to sleep and not wake up.
It is the not knowing that kills you.
Unless, of course, it comes back that the margins aren't clear and I have to go through all this all over again. That, I imagine, would be much worse.
It is quiet online tonight.
I have been lying here for ages thinking about what the future holds. It's very easy to get very down when it is dark outside, when your feet are cold, when there's nobody there but yourself. I feel so panicked waiting for these results. I know the old saying goes "no news is good news" but my faith in the doctors is so low, and I am just one of those people that this sort of shit happens to. I tend to find that when shit happens to me, it happens in a big way.
Without going all "woe is me" on you, look at it like this. 1 in 12 smears (in the UK at least) will come back showing an abnormality of some degree. That's actually pretty common. If a woman joins the screening programme at, say, 25 which is the age at which we are called in for the first time now, she can expect to have at least 12 smears in her life, if not more assuming she keeps her 3-yearly appointments. Statistically, she can expect at least one abnormal result in her lifetime. Already, I have had 3 abnormal smears and I'm not even 25!! One was borderline, one showed mild changes, one showed severe abnormalities. Oh, just great.
Already, shit.
Further to this, 50% of cases of mild abnormalities will revert back to normal if left untreated, usually within 6-12months. I am in the 50% that didn't do this. Typical. And not only did these abnormalities not go back to normal, they got bloody worse too. Or maybe they didn't. Of course it could be a case that the smear showing severe abnormalities was taken from a different part of my lady donut, so it was always bad news and they got it wrong with the mild result. Not sure. Unlikely given that they have to wipe the swab around a given number of times when taking a sample (an interesting fact I learnt from a cytologist at the cancer conference I attended). Yeah, so mine got worse.
So, they take ladies like me in for more thorough investigation. Then, at colposcopy, the consultant's face went grey. I needed immediate treatment, but it had to be under GA. Brilliant. It then materialises that we are dealing with CC when I had been reassured repeatedly in the lead up to all of this that CC is extremely rare (especially at my age) and that I "shouldn't worry, it's pre-cancer and not cancer."
It's like my body or life or whatever is to blame just likes to stick two fingers up at probability. The stats are in a woman's favour... but not for me.
They say that the procedure I had has a 95% success rate. But given my history, you can forgive me for lying here wondering. Are there a handful of nasties still in there, chewing away? Will they know? Will the biopsy come back a false negative? Am I going to suffer like some of the other ladies? Will I lose great areas of my anatomy that I have always taken for granted?
Some of the women I have met have been so brave. They have endured so much - fear, pain, indignity. I am not strong enough for any of that. When I learn what they have dealt with and how they have rebuilt their lives, I just find myself shaking at the thought and wanting to go to sleep and not wake up.
It is the not knowing that kills you.
Unless, of course, it comes back that the margins aren't clear and I have to go through all this all over again. That, I imagine, would be much worse.
Monday, December 10, 2007
right, that is IT!
I'm going home on 1 Jan. Sod all this running away. By then, Fuzzy will have forgotten.
I'm not being hounded out of my blog!!!!!!
I dunno if any of you understand where I am coming from, but I really feel unhappy about the loss of my spot. Maybe you are as attached to yours, maybe you aren't. But something is definitely missing from here, and I feel like something is missing from me too.
I have until 1 Jan to work both FB and F out of my system and then I can start afresh, back where this all started in the first place.
End of. This is a holding blog. Simple. Now I feel a lot better. Don't update your bookmarks kids.
I'm not being hounded out of my blog!!!!!!
I dunno if any of you understand where I am coming from, but I really feel unhappy about the loss of my spot. Maybe you are as attached to yours, maybe you aren't. But something is definitely missing from here, and I feel like something is missing from me too.
I have until 1 Jan to work both FB and F out of my system and then I can start afresh, back where this all started in the first place.
End of. This is a holding blog. Simple. Now I feel a lot better. Don't update your bookmarks kids.
no love
As I mentioned on a comment elsewhere (I can't remember which post, and Blogger doesn't allow you to list most recent comments - boo), I am totally not feeling the love for this blog.
At all.
The dashboard is all wrong. Everything is all wrong. So, don't be surprised if I move again. God, what a hassle. Just be prepared for a new link. I am going to have to go back to WP... Blah. I miss my old home. I don't really care too much about Fuzzy reading. That is his problem. We're not "friends" anymore. We aren't anything.
Been thinking a lot. I'll stick it out here until Jan. Somewhere to let off steam. If I am still not feeling the new surroundings by then, I'm "going home". That gives me two weeks to "get over the worst of it".
Usually I am always thinking of things to post about. But I just don't feel like a blogger any more. I've had a year of cultivating a persona. I had two nicknames (one that I really loved) and it just felt like a part of me. Even my sniggering behind my hand about tiffin (the *rude* meaning versus the innocent in-between meals snack) can't raise more than a shrug towards it.
Tonight on the train home, I read an article in The London Paper that resonated with me and I thought "oh, I'll blog about that later!" but when I got in, all I wanted to do was write a blog moaning about how I don't like my blog...
I have ripped the article out in case I have a day when I want to discuss it...
Meh.
I hate early days.
At all.
The dashboard is all wrong. Everything is all wrong. So, don't be surprised if I move again. God, what a hassle. Just be prepared for a new link. I am going to have to go back to WP... Blah. I miss my old home. I don't really care too much about Fuzzy reading. That is his problem. We're not "friends" anymore. We aren't anything.
Been thinking a lot. I'll stick it out here until Jan. Somewhere to let off steam. If I am still not feeling the new surroundings by then, I'm "going home". That gives me two weeks to "get over the worst of it".
Usually I am always thinking of things to post about. But I just don't feel like a blogger any more. I've had a year of cultivating a persona. I had two nicknames (one that I really loved) and it just felt like a part of me. Even my sniggering behind my hand about tiffin (the *rude* meaning versus the innocent in-between meals snack) can't raise more than a shrug towards it.
Tonight on the train home, I read an article in The London Paper that resonated with me and I thought "oh, I'll blog about that later!" but when I got in, all I wanted to do was write a blog moaning about how I don't like my blog...
I have ripped the article out in case I have a day when I want to discuss it...
Meh.
I hate early days.
some things will never change
SNORT!
G'argh!!!!
:(
And also:
Slurp (he's trying to drink)
Slop slop slop (he's trying to eat)
Meh (he's trying my patience)
G'argh!!!!
:(
And also:
Slurp (he's trying to drink)
Slop slop slop (he's trying to eat)
Meh (he's trying my patience)
why, you sneaky, good-for-nothin'...
I love the fact that I can be a manipulative little so-and-so*. Today, Events Chick and I have cooked up a real plot between the two of us and I love how The Adults at work have fallen for it hook, line and sinker.
I knew getting embroiled in all that student politics would pay off. You can't beat me for twisting in this company.
Basically, Control Freak decided that she wanted to use the designer she used last time for the new events booklet. Again, she tried to cut me out of the chain entirely, which is quite a bold thing to do considering all publications/marketing collateral/branding really ought to go through me. Those are the rules. It gives me great pains that this manager just cannot get it into her thick skull that either she:
I knew getting embroiled in all that student politics would pay off. You can't beat me for twisting in this company.
Basically, Control Freak decided that she wanted to use the designer she used last time for the new events booklet. Again, she tried to cut me out of the chain entirely, which is quite a bold thing to do considering all publications/marketing collateral/branding really ought to go through me. Those are the rules. It gives me great pains that this manager just cannot get it into her thick skull that either she:
- leaves design and print co-ordination to me (I mean, that is my flippin' JOB already!!!) or,
- learns the brand inside and out (something she would never adequately do as she simply doesn't have any appreciation for attention to detail)
She fired off some emails to poor little Events Chick ordering her about this and that. Events Chick's lightbulb went "ping" in her head and she asked for 5 minutes with me. The Boss hated the last events booklet pioneered by Control Freak and rubbished it to me in a one-to-one only a few weeks ago when I lost my temper about being hopped over again on another project. WHAT IS THE POINT IN EMPLOYING ME IF CONTROL FREAK TAKES IT INTO HER OWN HANDS?!?! I mean, it isn't like I am even incompetent or anything. I am, actually, very good at my job! I am quick, reliable and consistent. I understand my company ethos, our inward and outward faces, the messages we are trying to convey. I practically speak in our house style (although I manage to contain this when blogging), and I could lecture (at length no less) on the visual brand. Simply put, I am the company brand and written style personified.
Control Freak managed to sneak her last events booklet out under my nose, blaming time constraints. She said she simply hadn't had time to get me involved. And it was just tosh. Well, as a manager, hadn't she ought to look at her time management skills? Pah.
So, not happening again. Events Chick sent me a carefully worded email, asking me where last year's copy was for basis, she would update and send back to me for "polishing" and could I give her a timescale for the cycle, would I prime the designer etc? This email was obviously dreamt up during our 5 minute chat. I wire in The Boss through a forward and say that I want to use Designer A because Designer N is nothing short of SHIT (he doesn't even have Max font!!!!!) and Designer A's last production with us was "a departure from previous collateral and a direction I think we would be wise to pursue in order to improve company credibility through finely-tuned output". Yeeeeaaaah, bullshit and guff - totally my bag, baby! Obviously, I didn't say "shit". I actually said "did our brand no favours". Guff, guff, guff... Anyway, critically, he agreed and replied to that effect, putting all design control in my snatchy little fingers. Give me that! Mine! My print baby!
I sent my (previous-meeting-planned) response to Events Chick: "blah blah blah, Designer A is ready, here is last year's copy for basis. You do x, I'll do y. Deadlines are a, b and c. That ok? Shout if you need anything else. Rgds." And I cc Control Freak in. I mean, she is Events Chick's manager...
And, see, this is the thing. Control Freak is stuck. She can't do anything now. Production (rightfully) comes under me, and this project is being run between me and Events Chick. There is a clearly-defined plan for who does what and how the chain sits together. She can't do anything because we have been proactive and actually made her life easier. She will hate that.
Ha, Control Freak, stick that in your pipe and smoke it!
Monday rant over :) Oh, I missed having a blog!
(*Incidentally, Little So-and-So is the name of the baby dinosaur in the book Little So-and-So and the dinosaurs, a great little story that I used to read as a kid. I am not a dinosaur. It's just a nice "filler fact".)Sunday, December 9, 2007
guess what...?
...I STILL HAVEN'T DONE MY WORK!!!
Not even one word. Meh. God, I hate my job sometimes!
Only 5 days to go until I am on holiday! Two and a half weeks of NO WORK*!
(*Apart from scoping out next year's issue dates, and doing the take-home exam paper for my stupid diploma course. Bah, I hate that too. 6,000 words on CRAP!)
Not even one word. Meh. God, I hate my job sometimes!
Only 5 days to go until I am on holiday! Two and a half weeks of NO WORK*!
(*Apart from scoping out next year's issue dates, and doing the take-home exam paper for my stupid diploma course. Bah, I hate that too. 6,000 words on CRAP!)
going crackers
Hmm, I had three wheat crackerbreads on the desk next to me earlier (while procrastinating like a champion), and I can't find them for the life of me...
Looks like I have a long night ahead... Word count still at 0.
Looks like I have a long night ahead... Word count still at 0.
cheerio fire boy
I still haven't done my work. I have spent all day procrastinating. I mean, who'd've thought how very important a bath would become? (Ditto changing bedclothes, or wandering to the supermarket and buying food, or playing on this blog, or chatting on MSN...)
Clareybell just rang. We have been on the phone for ages. God, I feel like I have to introduce all these people all over again! We were talking about how to help me find the strength to not buckle and contact Fire Boy. I haven't heard from him since Friday evening when he replied to a message I sent late Friday afternoon (the subject shall remain a secret, but I am an idiot). So, nothing out of him all weekend. Still, nothing out of me either. But I have been thinking about him.
Venting was so right when she said that I just want him to want me. Is that such a bad thing? What is so wrong with me? I know you'll all say that it isn't me, it's him. Yes, I know. He is the one with the problem, but I am the one agonising over it.
Anyway enough. I still have this bloody article to write. It's about knowledge sharing and developing world infrastructure and obviously totally riveting WHICH IS WHY I HAVE BEEN AVOIDING IT FOR THREE MONTHS!!! Today is crunch day. It has to go to Designer before I go to bed. Words down so far: uh, none... Blahhhh.
So, the plan, the plan that Clareybell and I came up with goes like this.
Clareybell just rang. We have been on the phone for ages. God, I feel like I have to introduce all these people all over again! We were talking about how to help me find the strength to not buckle and contact Fire Boy. I haven't heard from him since Friday evening when he replied to a message I sent late Friday afternoon (the subject shall remain a secret, but I am an idiot). So, nothing out of him all weekend. Still, nothing out of me either. But I have been thinking about him.
Venting was so right when she said that I just want him to want me. Is that such a bad thing? What is so wrong with me? I know you'll all say that it isn't me, it's him. Yes, I know. He is the one with the problem, but I am the one agonising over it.
Anyway enough. I still have this bloody article to write. It's about knowledge sharing and developing world infrastructure and obviously totally riveting WHICH IS WHY I HAVE BEEN AVOIDING IT FOR THREE MONTHS!!! Today is crunch day. It has to go to Designer before I go to bed. Words down so far: uh, none... Blahhhh.
So, the plan, the plan that Clareybell and I came up with goes like this.
- Write Fire Boy's phone number down on a scrap of paper
- Delete all messages from Fire Boy in mobile phone inbox
- (Actually, just delete ALL messages and get rid of Fuzzy's as well while at it...)
- Delete all sent items
- Take scrap of paper with Fire Boy's number on it and head down to kitchen
- In kitchen, get out box of Cheerios (which I bought because Fuzzy used to like them, but I never eat breakfast at home so the box just sits there in my cupboard)
- Delve hand with Fire Boy's number right into middle of box of Cheerios
- Let go of paper
- Withdraw hand
- Replace cereal box
- Retreat upstairs
- Do work
- Do not get distracted by Facebook/blogging/MSN etc
The idea is that the number is not on my phone so I can't text him easily when temptation gets the better of me. You all know. You have done this sort of thing before too I'll bet!! Clareybell used to give the offending number to someone to keep while she went through "the worst of it". It's like withdrawal from a drug in many respects.
Hopefully, even when really pissed, the effort required in getting the cereal box out of the cupboard and then scrabbling through it (imagine Cheerios flying all over the kitchen!) will buy me enough time to realise that I really ought to have more self worth and will stop me caving and contacting him.
Clareybell also suggested deleting him from Facebook. A brave idea, but I can't do that just yet. I still want to be able to look at his photo. G'agh, loser... I totally hear you!
(And message just arrived from Clareybell... we were discussing the fact that some of you lot said that Fire Boy was below my league on the blog and over email... She said "if you played 'your face or mine?', it would be yours that wins, right?". I said that would be right and emailed her some pics. She texts: "I managed to see one pic of Fire Boy. Our internet is fucking temperamental! Def your face, sweet cheeks! :) Here's a huge hug and lots of love. Email/chat tomorrow xxxxxx Now, get to the Cheerios!"
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