Don't give up, 'cos you have friends
The last few months have been grim. So very grim, in fact, that I have broken my self-imposed Rule Of Blog several times and actually written about my health. Or, more specifically, the lack of it. I did my best to inject at least some humour into what I wrote, but I think I might be well-advised not to look back through those entries and check. You know, just in case I didn't succeed. I am well aware that other people's health problems are Beyond Tedious, and I will make every effort to desist in future from a repetition.
(In my partial defence, I was rather stuck between a rock and a hard place. I'm aware that various people Keep An Eye on me by checking the blog. As long as I'm still blogging - albeit in a rather fragile manner - they feel that there isn't an overwhelming need for them to hurtle towards Liverpool, ring my front door bell and yell, "Are you sure you're alright?" up the echoing stairwell. And, with such severely limited energy, it was a lot easier to kill several birds with one stone* by blogging than to compose individual emails to everyone who would otherwise have fretted dreadfully if they hadn't heard from me.)
I have, and not for the first time, been the fortunate and grateful recipient of very significant levels of support from my friends throughout this rather lengthy departure from my normally robust (yeah, right!) health. Which is why I am going to indulge myself with a Gwyneth Paltrow moment. Should the mere thought of soppy ickiness turn your stomach, feel entirely free to click away from this blog hurriedly now and go into hiding until such time as the dust has settled, and you feel confident that normal levels of snarkiness will have resumed.
Cue the unobtrusive but subtly mood-setting music....
Before singling out any individuals for thanks, I want to reiterate that I simply haven't always been well enough to reply to emails. That doesn't mean I didn't appreciate receiving them, though. I did. Very much. And I'm very sorry if anyone felt snubbed or forgotten. (Unless their name happened to be Amazon. Or Figleaves. In which case they probably weren't really expecting a reply, in any case.)
I'd also like to offer a general thanks to everyone who's commented on the blog over the last few months: particularly for joining in with the parlous** games I was running when I was much too ill to come up with anything more original.
The following blog-related people, though, are about to be publicly embarrassed by being thanked individually. At which point they may well stop being my friend for a little while. But I don't mind that. My support network is absolutely vital to me, and this is the best method I can come up with of providing well-deserved recognition for its members. I am indeed fortunate in my friends.
My mate Marmite for the texts and the emails.
The Mighty Mr C for his support and outrage.
Boogaloo Dude for, amongst many other things, the chauffeuring.
Chris S, my other chauffeur, for always knowing the right thing to say.
The Goldfish, who is wise way beyond her years, for understanding.
Pete for the pictures and, well, just for being Pete, really :-)
An Unreliable Witness for being reliably snarky.
Aunty Jan for the phone calls.
Algernon for many things, but particularly for the tulips.
Puss Puss, whose unexpected (and very enjoyable) visit made me realise that I was by no means fit enough to return to work at that point.
Melbamae for digging me out of various deep holes I had dug for myself.
The never-less-than-delightful Becca for needing me to be ok.
Kate for generously and patiently being at the receiving end of my feeble attempts to check whether the brain fog had receded sufficiently for me to concentrate for the length of a working day.
To all of the above, I owe a debt of gratitude.
But there's someone missing.
Pop has phoned me several times a day, every day, since before all this began. He has phoned me from home; he has phoned me from the car; he has phoned me from next to a water-feature; and he has phoned me from a tent. He has put up with more whining, more self-pity and more tears than anyone should be expected to tolerate. He has tormented*** me; nagged me; amused me; counselled me; and cajoled me. He has made me laugh until my stomach hurt and he has held my hand when I was too sad for laughing to help. He has been a light in the darkest places when all other lights had gone out. Above all, he has simply been there for me. So it is for Pop that I reserve the deepest gratitude of all.
Now, clearly, I am going to look at this blog entry again tomorrow and realise to my horror that I have missed someone really important off the list!! So please don't throw things at me if you've been omitted. I'll put it right the moment I realise. It's my age, you know. That and the Tramadol.
*A figure of speech. I have nothing against birds - with the possible exception of noisy magpies - but I don't count any of the birds I have encountered as personal friends. Neither do I wish to kill any of my friends. Were I, however, to adopt violent impulses towards any of them for any reason, stoning would not be my Murder Method Of Choice. I am, after all, a girl. Which means that I can't throw straight. I am also an ouchy crip, which means I can't bend down to pick the necessary stones up. So stoning's out. I'd tell you what's in, but that might give certain people too much of a head start...
** There are some typos which it would be a crime to correct.
*** Think I'm kidding? Think Pop's too nice to torment me? Since the warm water regime began, he has been researching those nasty, resin indoor water-features. He plans to buy about a dozen; adapt them so that they can be activated from his mobile phone; and sneak into my flat and hide them behind pieces of furniture.