The One Where I Forgot My Log In.

Someone much brighter than me pointed out I can copy the FB post to here……

I think I’m going to give up on catching up, I can’t remember the order in which things have happened since lunchtime so the chances of my memory dragging up anything from August are pretty slim. Much, much, slimmer than me. It was never steroids and water retention. It was, as suspected, cake and cheese retention. It’s still here, it seems to suffer from separation anxiety and is not keen on fucking off. And now Asda have 6 bottles of wine for £25 and cheesey footballs on offer.

I also can’t remember my log in for word press, and can’t be arsed retrieving my password. FB is easier. I can log to WP on my phone but my festively plump fingers struggle with typing on that, then autocorrect just makes shit up.

I’m trying to distract myself from making decisions. Next week I go to see the plastics people. The ones who will put me back together after all the remedial works I had done earlier this year. Whilst I am extremely grateful that the necessary was done, I am left looking like a human version of a botched house on DIY SOS. Or, the doll people from the Lenor adverts. The patchwork ones? I have to decide what size boobs I want. That sounds like one of the best choices in the world but it’s not that easy.

I’m thinking smaller, much smaller. There’s a pic taken of me last week where I’m looking decidedly matronly. There’s a tipping point somewhere, where being curvy takes you from being like Barbara Windsor to Hattie Jacques, and the first you know of it is a photo. Where the fuck did this ‘shelf’ come from? Half of it isn’t even attached to me and is defying gravity just to keep up with it’s neighbour.

If I go smaller though, my bottom half will look even larger, with my skinny top half sneering at it. I wonder just how much fat they’re prepared to remove. See? It’s not easy. I’m tempted to take in a photo of Kylie and ask if they can do that. She had breast cancer too, we’re very similar. I’m just worried they tell me that Madge Bishop is the closest they can get me.

Then, drumroll please. It’s my one year check at the end of Dec. This is freaking me out and I don’t know why. Well, that’s crap. I do know why, I’m terrified they find something. I’m more scared of this than I was heading into surgery or chemo. That was all to fix a problem, this is looking to see if the problem went away. What if it…No. I can’t even type that. Five minutes of fear then get on with it. I really am a head-in-the-sand type. Well, head in the sand or in a glass of red. Either works.

My children are being at brilliant at distracting me too. One of them broke his hip in a spectacular crash from the monkey bars. He’s currently ‘walking’ up and downstairs using only his hands on the bannisters. I can’t watch. I can’t even shout at him for fear of making him fall. If he falls again his Dad can take him to hospital and explain, I did it last time.

The other one is playing the least fun game ever of how-many-clothes-can-I-lose-or-rip-in-one-term. I would not be at all surprised to find him at the school gates in nothing but shorts and looking bemused at my rage. Nothing bothers that one, nothing related to school uniform anyway.

And…the spaniel is back to peeing in the wetroom. I don’t think she likes the cold.

Send gin. And domestos.

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