RCS Syndrome

It's Thursday and how do I feel? I don't think tired is a descriptive enough word to convey how I feel. My arms just typing this feel like lead weights, it's like my batteries have been almost discharged and I'm running out of energy. I'm like the bunny with the wrong make of battery. But I will improve!

Came out of hospital Monday (was planned for on Sunday) as I'd a little crisis at home. MrC was taken ill and couldn't look after me. I experienced a whole raft of emotions. I was angry at him for not being able to cope for a few days, upset and guilty that I was angry at him, guilty more so because it was probably all the stress of me being hospital, which was making him ill, pissed off at the cancer for disrupting everyone's lives, pissed off with myself for being pissed off and upset....you get the picture.

Had a good cry, a great chat with my nurse (who was amazing) and another night was arranged which took the pressure off everyone. I'm grateful MrC was sensible enough to admit he couldn't cope, before things got messy! It's made me realised he's more poorly than he's actually letting on! (he's still poorly, but getting there)

I was discharged Monday and went back to Mum and Dad's, where I still am.

Aren't parents amazing? I'm so lucky for a start they are able to look after me, but they are just so calm and pragmatic about everything, and take things in their stride. (especially Mum) Their walk-in shower is a godsend! Mum even dried my hair for me (MrC would've tried but.......you know what I'm saying) Plus Dad is an amazing cook!

I've been treated to amongst other things, steak with white bean mash (it's the future!), warm pear and walnut salad, homemade macaroni cheese (comfort food) and runny scrambled eggs which always remind me of being off school when I had some teeth out and he looked after me.

I'm taking things very gently and easy. Had a walk earlier today, managed about 50 metre's! I'm finding it hard though as I keep comparing my progress with my big operation last year. I just seemed to improve quicker then. Or maybe I'm suffering from RCSS, otherwise known as rose coloured spectacles syndrome.

Was talking with @IanBoylett on Twitter who was diagnosed with kidney cancer and had a nephrectomy last year, picking his brains. Ian has put my mind at rest. He said:

' I thought keyhole surgery was a couple of days in hospital and a couple of weeks off work so was fed up v early on lol '

He was out of action for six weeks. I was also under the impression keyhole was quicker and easier. My experience at the moment doesn't support that impression!

I'm out of sorts mentally with everything and I keep questioning myself. Am I trying hard enough to get better or am I malingering? Because I've not felt myself, acting out of character, I keep second guessing and comparing with last time.

But I've got to stop!

Last time was just that, last time. Things are different, changed. You can only compare like with like. They are different operations, under different circumstances. I will feel better soon.

The staples (may get a photo beforehand!) come out tomorrow and the plan is to go back home when my daughter comes down from London for a few days. She's amazing too and with my son's help (who has been keeping an eye on his Dad) I will be fine, back home and sleeping in my own bed!

It can't happen too soon. I will miss my Dad's cooking but not as much as I'm already missing this handsome chap!

And I must remember, it's only been 8 days!

 

 

My brother's e-mail; his nearest town's history

I got sent this one on the day of my surgery. I love my brother but it wasn't on high on my list of priorities. If I thought I was going to die on the operating table, I may have found time to read it. But my blog isn't called Glass Half Full for nothing.
It's rather long, having all the drugs pumped into me (mind you they are rather nice drugs) meant my eyes didn't focus too well, so only just finished it myself. And as usual, thought I should share!

Hi Fay,

So I don’t know if you’re going to get this e-mail before your surgery because I’m posting out on my Wednesday night which equates to your Wednesday morning. Eva’s got a world globe, a crappy five dollar one that has a sloppy over lapping join down the Prime Meridian which makes the UK look about 10 miles across, but if you were to push a knitting needle through England through the core and out the other side it would come out somewhere near New Zealand. I’m literally on the other side other planet to you. Being in England there was always that comfort that you could think “what are they doing?” and be sure that if you were having breakfast or watching “Strictly Come Dancing” it could roughly equate to what some one else was doing and you could just give them a call. That totally disappears when you’re on the other side of the world. So sadly while you’re undergoing life changing surgery I’ll be fast asleep. I could stay up if it would help. E-mail me in the next 5 seconds and I’ll do it. No? Okay, night then….

So this week I got our Honda serviced. I bit like you really. Actually that reads all kinds of wrong, I’ll just get some mind bleach. So this week I got our Honda serviced, totally not like you, although I don’t know what you get up to in your spare time … Okay, so this week I got our Honda serviced and they said it would take a couple of hours. A couple of hours in Cambridge I thought? What shall I do?

In ancient Rome a common way of saying goodbye if the 2000 film Gladiator is anything to go by was to say “Strength and honour” and thump your chest before raising your arm in a clenched fist salute. In Star Trek the Vulcans say “Live long and prosper” before doing the difficult double fingered V-sign. In our house there’s so much to do that if Juliette leaves me alone for the day she has her own saying - it’s “Be productive”. This is while I give the one fingered salute behind her back. Ha, ha, ha. That’s not true really about the finger. It’s both hands I do it with. I make both hands bob up and down like a Whack-A-Mole game too. Ha, ha, ha. Not really. (Insert your own uncomfortable long pause here.)

So when I said I’d be spending two hours in Cambridge there was some talk of me “being productive” but I won the argument by saying that it’s sometimes okay to stop and smell the roses. Or in my case, stop and have a coffee while reading a book. Now if you were to take a look at Google Maps you’ll find a large lake in Cambridge called Lake Te Kouto. It’s interesting because the lake was formed after an earthquake several hundred years ago which meant the land dropped around twenty meters. It’s like a man made quarry in the middle of town without looking like a quarry (I’ve just found you can Google Image Lake Te Kouto too). It’s a very pleasant lake because you can walk around it and all around the sides there are steep banks with hundred year old trees on it. Of course now it’s known as Lake Death (da, da, daaaaa!) because a tree fell over thanks to the trees all growing at twenty degree angles because the sides of the slopes are so steep. The tree in question killed a dog. It’s a ticking time bomb of tree death park I tells yea.

So I thought I’d take a shortcut through Lake Te Kouto to get to town. I found what remained of the downed tree, it’s stump perfectly lined up pointing to the only doggy poop bin at the lake. So if anything there was a warning from nature to stay away from doggy poop bins and let your pooch’s crap decompose where it likes. Further on I did find evidence of the council doing something about potentially dangerous trees; two white men with crusty dreadlocks (the badge of an arborist) , both dressed in green and the sort of harnesses used to repel down cliff faces were coning off a tree before taking it down with an impressive collection of chain saws. This was an observance to safety I’d not seen in New Zealand before.

For public access there are many paths cut into the sides of Lake Te Kouto that are so steep and without any sort of physical barrier between you and a tumble into the void that Bear Grylls would be happy to stumble off of one to demonstrate how to survive if one were to be stranded near a landscaped New Zealand lake. Whenever I go down one of these so called foot paths with Eva I’m like “No, Eva, daddy will walk on the outside”, and she’s like “Look daddy! A snail shell! Rocks!” and I’m like, “Look Eva, instant death. Do you want me to have a heart attack? Slow down, stay away from the edge, get back, get back! We’re nearly at the bottom. I’ll have to rope us together next time, Jesus Christ who made this path? We didn’t all grow up in the bleeding Himalayas.”

But I managed to clear Lake Death and found myself on Victoria Street, the main street through the centre of town. It’s interesting because I once took the piss out of the Cambridge street layout to a local. I said that they built the main street all the way towards the river and then realised that they’d aligned it in such a way that to continue Victoria Street they had to build a massive bridge over gorge through which the mighty Waikato River ran. The Waikato River is the reason why the whole region is called Waikato and it’s not a particularly wide river, but it’s swift and deep. It’s pronounced Why-cat-O for some reason, when for my money and reading skills it should be Why-kate-o (although you can pronounce it like you’re a Japanese Samurai with a long drawn out O if you want – yes I’m looking at you University of Waikato radio advert guy).

If you see this gorge it should by all rights should have a rope bridge spanning the gap with Indiana Jones, Short Round and Willie Scott crossing it. They’d have just started laying out the kerb stones and someone would have gone “Oh f*ck! We’ve only gone a pointed the street off a bloody great cliff. Now we’re going to have to put up a bridge.” To be fair they did put up a bridge worthy of bungee jump or two but failed to make it very wide. Cars crossing it have to be careful not to high five their wing mirrors as the drivers try not to look over the side and wonder how long it would take before they hit the water if the bridge collapsed.

Where am I going with all this? Oh yes. I was in town and I decided I’d go to the Cambridge Museum to find out more about the town I’d chosen to live closest to. When I got there (it was near the bridge, next to a Liquorland, which if you’ve never heard of this store it’s basically a barn sized off license - the clue's in the name really) I found a building that once was the town’s courthouse. Obviously it wasn’t anymore because they’d white washed the raised words saying Court House and painted Cambridge Museum next to it. The doors said it would open at 10amand as it was 9.50am I sat down on the world’s most uncomfortable bench and tried to read a book.

Shortly after an old man and woman arrived and proceeded up the path to the museum with the old man kicking the hedges that bordered the path in a manner of someone checking to see if the hedge had sprung an air leak or something. You’ve got to look out for those flat hedges. To my surprise they pushed the door open and went inside. I waited because it wasn’t 10am but then a young mum and her two boys turned up and did the same (but without the hedge kicking). Feeling foolish I walked up and went in.

I read few information boards in the entrance and then wandered into a room on the right containing Victorian pictures of men sporting various forms of facial hair and the determined look of the patriarchal Empire builder. Another kindly old gentlemen (not the hedge kicker) came out from the back and explained that they were inundated with visitors this morning (five, six if you count me) and that the curator would be with me shortly. He then asked where I was from. “England?” he asked, obviously deducing it from my accent, “Six kilometres out of town.” I replied. “Marvellous,” he said, “some people live all their lives in Cambridge and have never visited the museum.” I found that hard to believe what with being so close to a Liquorland but I let it slide. He then handed me a glass marble. “Have a look around, “he said, “and put the marble in the cup next to the display you like the most.” Fantastic, an interactive museum! So I had a look around and learnt the following …

Cambridge was formed in 1864 as a British army outpost because it was the last place a paddle steamer could get up the Waikato River. Hence Victoria Street heading off a cliff. Folks actually used to turn left at the cliff and go down to some long vanished docks. Boy did I feel stupid. Cambridge was named after the Duke of Cambridge who was in charge of the army at the time. Cambridge was formed because of some nasty land wars going on between the Maori and the Colonial Government called the Invasion of the Waikato. The Maori lost, all very complicated, but at the end the Twelve Star Redoubt as the fort was called got eventually taken down, farmers moved in, drained the swampy land, planted trees and started farming cows. Then the folks in Cambridge settled in and sent their sons off to World War I (1914-18), then World War II (1939-45), then the Vietnam War (1955-75) and then first showing of Star Wars (1977).

There’s a story to all this though because although the museum was only two rooms and it was packed full of nick-knacks and stuff that had been carefully collected to show the history of some of the long running local families, there in one corner was a glass case showing Maori artefacts. Most of the objects involved stuff for clubbing Maori enemies over the head because if there’s one thing the traditional haka at the start of the rugby should tell you is that Maori aren’t backwards at coming forward to rip their enemies heads off and spit down their necks.

There, on top of the cabinet, was a purpose built model display. On it was scale models of Maori lookout towers, canoes, war parties, a bit of cannibalism and stuff like that with little information cards telling the reader what the Maori and English names were for all the hardware. Brilliant. However for some reason, someone had at some point (and then someone must still think it was okay today) collected a load of …

Well, have you ever been to a charity shop or a playgroup and had a look at the plastic dolls. There’s always a black African girl doll there somewhere. Law of averages. That’s cool, that’s groovy. Anyway sometimes they’re the little four inch size dolls. This happens to be the exact scale fit for this little Maori model. All I’m saying is I’m impressed that they managed to find twenty off them and make grass skirts for all of them too. Can’t quite see such a display going uncommented in say the British Museum or the Louvre, but you know, most people in Cambridge don’t even visit Cambridge Museum. And come to think of it, I haven’t seen any Maori in Cambridge either. I wonder why?

In case you’re wondering I placed my marble in the cup next to the display of little drawers that when you opened them contained stuff like snail shells and rocks. Eva would love them. She loves Extreme Snail Shell and Rock Collecting.

After you reminded me last week I've totally forgotten about it being Mother's Day in the UK on Sunday. Looks like I'm going to have to Moonpig the sh*t out of that problem. Hope your operation goes well. Obviously let me know if it doesn't, I’ll totally fail to do anything about it. If I were religious I’d pray for you but I’m not, so the closest I can do is just think about you. But not when I’m asleep obviously because then I’m dreaming about being an awesome zombie slayer.

Love Mark

xxx

As always Mark

So, show Mark some love too in the comments, and ask him a question or two for the next email from down under

I'm not chunky!

Hooray, it's finally happened and #Tedthetumour plus my right kidney has been removed. It's felt like an age to get to this point. I'm still in hospital, home tomorrow or Saturday, but am doing really well.

So interested in the details? Then read on

Wednesday I presented myself to the Freedom Unit, part of Derriford Hospital at 11.30am. I'd followed the fasting rules to the letter (last meal at 7am, last clear fluids at 9am. I'd even set alarms to make sure I didn't miss the deadlines and therefore food!) and sat in the waiting room, feeling relaxed and prepared. (that last bit maybe a lie)

My first consultation was with the anaesthetist which went smoothly. I even found out why they always ask about loose teeth (apparently there is a chance teeth are knocked and broken, but was assured they have insurance to pay for dental treatment....gulp) Followed swiftly by the nurse who asked the same questions all over again, including could you be pregnant. Hello? You know question 4 where you asked about previous surgeries? Hysterectomy?? ( she did apologise and said it has to be asked )

Back to the waiting room for about 20 minutes, everything's going smoothly, before seeing my consultant. I would love to able to say I like the guy....but I can't. He has the bedside manner of a dead duck. I had warned MrC, but I'm sure he thought I was exaggerating. I wasn't. But I don't have to like the guy, just so long he's good at his job. And he must be with a manner like that. Apparently I'm chunky, his words. He said them the first time I met him when he told me the tumour had a 90% chance of being cancer. Maybe I'm being unfair to the guy, maybe I don't like him more for the cancer news than the word chunky.....? Either way you don't call a lady chunky and certainly not one you are telling probably has cancer to boot!

But anyway, he explained the risks, complications etc, but nothing mentioned about the gallbladder, the reason why I had an ultrasound scan which found #tedthetumour in the first place. So I asked 'and you are taking the gallbladder too?' Fraid not was his not so cheery reply. Great! So another surgery sometime soon to go through. He then proceeded to tell me he couldn't actually see any problems with my gallbladder on the CT scan, so I shouldn't be having any pain. WHAT! NO PAIN!? I'll give you no pain!! Bless the young doctor with him, who said the gallstones don't show up well on CT's, but from the ultrasound it was clear I did. I was ready to lamp the consultant otherwise!

So, sent back to the waiting room to contemplate the bombshell of still having a gallbladder. I tried to put a positive spin on it by saying if that's the only thing to go wrong we'll be lucky. 40 minutes later I'm eating my words. Apparently the bed manager is struggling to find a bed for me! WTF!!! The next half an hour was the longest ever. All the time I've spent worrying and stressing, to get this far and have no bed? I was mentally writing a scathing blog post, MrC was writing a press release when we got the news "we found one!"

All hands to the pump from there and I was in being put to sleep ( not in the sick animal way ) in 15 minutes flat. But the best was yet to come. The bed they had found, was actually on a private ward! So I've my own room, own toilet ( although not used it yet what with a umm, catheter in ummmm, place ) nurses who have time to nurse, no one else to see my bare my bum when trying to get comfy in bed and beautifully prepared food.

I am so lucky!

Am doing well, #tedthetumour has been sent off for analysis and I will know the results in four weeks. My consultant has said in his opinion it was cancerous, but what does he know....I'm also not chunky!

It's time

Time has been an issue for me. At the beginning of this process I complained about how long I needed to wait and now I can't believe the operation to remove my right kidney (where #tedthetumour currently resides) and I hope my troublesome gallbladder, is actually happening.

The last four weeks have been very hard for me to cope with, because basically I haven't. And that in itself has been hard to deal with. My ability to cope with whatever life has thrown my way was something I've been proud of. I've spent a lot of time looking for the answer to why I couldn't just get on with things.

I hated the person I'd become. A person who cried at the drop of the hat and it didn't matter where. ( Luckily they know me well in Tesco ) A person who couldn't concentrate on a task. A person who flipped out as soon as the stress level rose by a milimeter. I just couldn't understand why I was reacting like this.

I've spent a lot of time trying to work out what was different this time round, to find the answers and to find me again.

I've spoken to people, a lot of people. People who know me well, people who only know me as @FayC and an avatar pic, people who have professions and experience in helping people like me (lets face it, I've talked to anyone who'd listen and maybe some who didn't want to!) and they've all said the same. 'Its normal to feel and act like this'

A someone who was shouting from the rooftop, woe is me?? Really??

It wasn't until someone I love very much described me as a lab rat, scrabbling around a maze trying to find the way out (an apt if not very flattering description!) that I realised the damage I was doing to myself and those around me.

Just because I was being told its okay to cry and get upset, be self absorbed and question 'why me?' it didn't make it right.

So my answer?

Stop looking and just accept.

Once we accept our limits, we go beyond them.

Albert Einstein

So it's with this new found wisdom that finds me due at Derriford Hospital for the usual pre-op stuff to get through (which includes the donning of the sexy stockings) and hospital gowns which don't actually close so your neighbours get a flash of your bum everytime you move.

another thing to accept!!!!

The trials and tribulations of a life down under

Latest mail from my brother down under came in on Saturday. Grab yourself the obligatory cup of tea and get settled for a great read. I've managed it three times and found something new each time.
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Hi Fay,

I’m changing the format of my weekly e-mails to you because I’ve thrown my back out and just feel like a general ramble on why “I’ve got it tougher than you with your cancer thingy”. Okay, so I haven’t really got it bad, you know that, but I have got a really bad back.

Ever since Sam was born (and before that Eva) we’ve co-slept with our babies, but now he’s fifteen months old and Juliette’s working he seems to have got into the habit of using Juliette’s nipples as a dummy from 4am onwards.

Obviously this makes her tired for work and while I could say “who cares, I’m catching zeds” I don’t because “a happy wife means a happy life”, so I get upat 5.30am and take him off to lay on top of me on the sofa. I don’t (or didn’t) mind because this was like an hour or two long gravity assisted hug from Sam and it allowed Juliette extra time to sleep, but it has put pressure on my lower back which has felt like someone has gone to work with a couple of baseball bats.

Agony.

This has had the unfortunate effect of making me grumpy and making me walk like I’ve pooped my pants. I just can’t straighten up. I’m walking like Donald frigging Duck sometimes. It also means that I’ve found it hard to sleep which is compounding the problem because the less I sleep the grumpier I get, the less my back heals and the more I start thinking about gold toilet seats. Let me explain …

The other week Stephen Fry was in the New Zealand news because he was working on the up coming Hobbit film when he tweeted that the broadband service here was crap. He was right of course (despite afterwards finding out he was borrowing someone else’s broadband and it had reached its cap or something). We tried to get broadband but we’re 6.4 kilometres from the main exchange which means we shouldn’t be able to get it at all. I was told this by a telecoms technician who came round to find out why it had dropped off after nearly two weeks of working okay.

“You shouldn’t be able to get broadband on anything over 5 kilometres,” he said. “But we have been for the last two weeks, “ I said, “but now it’s not working.” “Well,” he continued, “that just proves the point.” Thanks.

So we looked around and picked out a satellite broadband provider that would happily take five hundred of our dollars up front to provide us with a pain free internet service. We chose a company called “Skynet” despite my misgivings that Skynet is the self aware computer system that tries to destroy mankind in the Terminator universe. “We’ll send around a highly trained technician to see if you can receive our service” said the blurb. So I phoned up and someone said they’d be around pronto.

Someone did turn up and they got out they highly technical machinery, fold away satellite dish and state of the art Windows 7 diagnostic laptop and came back to me and said that “yes” we could receive their signal. Oh wait, that’s not what happened. What really happened is that someone just came around in their pickup truck with a ladder on the back, climbed up on the roof in their size nine shoes and squinted at a dot on a far away hill. The Mark I Eyeball wins every time apparently.

“You’re the luckiest b*stard in the world,” he said. “I am?” I shouted up to him hoping for some more good news along the lines of winning lotto numbers. “Do you own a chainsaw?” he shouted back. “No,” I shouted, “Pity,” he replied, “there’s a tree across the way there that might block your view in a year or two years time. You should nip over and cut it down. Farmers don’t give a f*ck about trees.” “No, but my neighbours might when I drop a tree across the road,” I thought, in my head so as not to offend the only person between us and You Tube. “What about if I just lopped off that branch?” I asked. “Yeah, that would do it too,” he said disappointedly. Skynet, you see. Evil.

So that was why a couple of days later he was sat in our living room testing our new satellite broadband and opening up a conversation that I can only describe as “fascinating”.

“Watch the news much?” he asked casually. “Yes, all the time, terrible isn’t it?” I lied. I don’t watch the news much and I’m happier for it. “The trouble with the world economy,” he said, “is that it’s based on capitalism.” Okay, I can work with this. I’ve watched Star Trek and it’s moneyless universe and all. I’m down with the Occupy Movement. Grrrrr, bankers. (Not really, but you know, broadband. Actually I would like to kick a banker in the nuts, but one of those bonus bankers who can spunk millions up the wall in an afternoon and not someone from my local branch that wears a name tag saying “Hello, my name is DEBORAH”). Happily his pet subject wasn’t capitalism but the solution to riding out the world’s financial problems. He was just warming up to it.

“Gold,” he said. “That’s where to put your money. Do you know blah, blah, blah?” He’d mentioned a New Zealand politician that I wasn’t familiar with and didn’t recognise her name. “Yes,“ I said dutifully because I’m a bad person, willing to humour and befriend anyone who doesn’t seem an odd sort and is connecting us up to broadband. “Well,” he said, “she put a million into gold and now it’s worth eighty million.” “So she had shed loads and had the nous to make it even more of a shed load then,” I thought, “dragged herself up by her million dollar boot straps”. I didn’t say anything of the sort really because you know where I’m coming from re. broadband.

“I’ve put my money into gold too,” he said. “Wow,” I said back, because you know, gold is gold and if he said he’d put his money into garden gnomes I’d have been happy to chat about the ones with the fishing rods are the most popular but you don’t seem to see many garden gnomes with mobile phones out texting their mates as to where the best fishing spots are.

But gold, big bars of gold that take two hands to lift no doubt, that’s impressive. “How much have you got?” I asked, “Fifteen thousand dollars worth, every time I go up to Auckland I get some.” Fifteen thousand dollars is about seven and a half thousand pounds. I’ve got a wedding ring worth four hundred dollars. My images of a pallet load of gold bars a la Fort Knox was fading. “Where do you keep it?” I inquired thinking of some ultra secure Mission Impossible bank. “Oh, I keep it at my house,” “What under the mattress, ha, ha, ha,” “No, I’ve got a safe. You can get some really cheap safes these days.”

I’m sure you can get some cheap safes but cheap safes to me are like getting a cheap parachute or a cheap smoke alarm. I wouldn’t want a cheap safe, I’d want a f*cking expensive safe that was made of something Superman would suck air through his teeth before tackling. Fifteen thousand dollars worth of gold would be two, maybe three Kit-Kat bars of gold I reckon. Hardly a nest egg to ride the global financial storm. But then I was thinking about Kit-Kats and how they’re the only product that when they screw up and miss out the wafer the customer is happier for it. I once got a four finger Kit-Kat that was all chocolate. I was like “Who wants to touch me?” and the thing was most people would be like “You lucky, lucky git” like if they didn’t realise that if I really wanted an all chocolate chocolate bar I should have got a Flake.

So we got broadband, I’ve thrown my back out and I’m in bed thinking where would I keep a few thousand dollars worth of gold so that no one would get to it. And then because I’m sleep addled I realise that the best place to keep it is in plain sight. We’re doing up our bathroom so let’s get a solid gold toilet seat. We’ll do up our bathroom like we’re 70s pimps. Purple, leopard skin prints, gold toilet seat. A place where cool and groovy pimp types would be happy to “drop the kids off at the pool” – Huggy Bear from Starsky and Hutch, Tony Hart from Take Hart, you know the type.

But then there’s the downside to having gold toilet seat. First off it would be super cold in the mornings. In winter you wouldn’t want to touch it with your tongue in case it sticks to it. But then there’s the second problem; if you’ve done your back in like I have there’s no way you’re going to be lifting it before doing a wee. Happy wife etc.

Jeez, I’ve just read that back and it sounds like I’m writing a Sunday morning column for a newspaper. It’s not intentional.

I hear you off into surgery on Wednesday so I’ll send you something early on Thursday to cheer you up. It’s totally because I’m thinking of you and not because I’m off camping on Friday with the SCA and won’t have access to the internet till Sunday, promise.

Take care. Don’t peg out on the operating table or anything because then I’ll be very cross with you.

Love,

Mark xxx

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Hey you,