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lost in the big haggis is
© cath evans
Back
Kinda.
I missed blogging so here I am.
Quick update.
I have Post Viral Fatigue Syndrome. It is kicking my ass. I went back to work very part time in November and fell ill again at the end of January. Currently off work but trying everything I can to get back on track (no caffeine, no alcohol, 5+ portions of fruit and veg a day, little or no sugar, meditation, wholegrain foods etc. etc.) as I'm bored pantsless. It doesn't help that we have no Sky at the moment due to a whole bunch of metal poles blocking the signal.
Big Haggis Towers is covered in scaffolding due to chimney-related horror. They are charging us £6.5k for the privilege of stopping the chimneys falling in. I make the point that if they fall through the roof there are several other flats for them to fall through before they hit us - the folk on the top floor should pay more due to the relative danger. ;o) This morning an additional statutory notice plopped through the letterbox informing us that we now have to make repairs to the masonry and spalling (what is spalling - waiting for Dad the Surveyor to call back with a translation). They wouldn't have known that if they hadn't been poking around on the scaffolding with a mallet on Monday! Bah!
When Mr. S and I ventured into the land of home-owning, we bought this flat with the intention of doing it up (it was decorated and plumbed etc. by monkeys we think) and moving on after three to four years. However, long term illness and huge bills for building work that we can't even see when we're in the flat means we may have to revise that plan.
It never rains but it pours eh?
Patience is a Virtue
A change of location for this post. Due to the ongoing noise barrage from the upstairs neighbours, I have gone into exile and moved back to my parents' house for a few weeks. Having been here a month, I've been enjoying the sleep a lot (very hot weather notwithstanding!) and missing Mr. S. Fortunately it's only temporary as the source of the noise is due to depart back to Ireland at the end of August, so I'm making the most of my time here but looking forward to getting my home back!
I've not been blogging very much recently for a number of reasons. Firstly, when most of your days are the same, there's not much to say. Secondly, my recovery from this illness has not been very straightforward and probably best summed up as two steps forward, one step back. This has meant periods of high optimism and periods of soul-destroying frustration - sometimes all in the one day. When I feel well it's easy to believe that recovery is just a matter of time and faith, when I feel ill it's much less straightforward - and the balance between the two is surprisingly fragile. Obviously, as time moves on there are additional stresses (how am I going to finance my Amazon addiction when my pay finally runs out, how to navigate the maze that is the DSS etc. etc.) which I also have to try and ignore as stress is as bad for my health as running would be!
So my poor blog has taken a back seat.
Poor blog.
Eavesdropping... The Last Bastion of the Bored...
Hello, my name is Cath and I am a compulsive eavesdropper.
In my defence, I never go out of my way to listen in to other people's conversations. For example, you will never find me lurking behind doors listening to obviously private discussions or sitting with a glass at a thin wall taking copious notes. However, I do defend my right to enjoy other people's lives if they broadcast them in a public place.
Up until the point where we lived close enough to work to walk there, public transport was my absolute best place to earwig on the doings of Joe Public. There's something hugely entertaining about sitting on a damp bus on a cold Monday morning listening to other people's tales of weekend debauchery. With the event of the mobile phone, these folk don't even need to be sitting with a friend to spill the beans. Brightened up my day no end and a guilt-free treat - if you don't want people to know you two-timed your boyfriend, don't yell about it on a bus.
Since I've been ill, my opportunities to gather information on how other people live has been limited. The cats are remarkably close-lipped on their middle of the night badness (unless I happen to have witnessed for myself the destruction having been woken by a crash, tinkle or thud that is out of place at 3am...).
Enter the Evil Neighbours.
At the start of June, we acquired an additional neighbour upstairs. Up until then, apart from the odd bump and bang, the occasional clomp of heeled shoes on laminate flooring and the once-in-a-while party, we rarely noticed we had neighbours upstairs. No longer. With the arrival of Captain Clompy (or Mr. Noisy Bastard as he would soon come to be known), it seemed international party season had arrived in the upstairs flat - and we weren't directly invited. Cue a month of being woken up or kept awake at 1am, 2am, 3am and 4am five out of seven nights a week...
Being the 'Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells' type, we, of course, complained. They, of course, apologised and promised to keep it down. The next night, off we went again...
Anyhoo, the upside to all the chaos is feeling I have carte blanche to listen in to their lives. It's made easier by the fact they're living their life at a million decibels in their kitchen (which is directly above our bedroom). Having set my recovery back by weeks and set my teeth on constant edge, I think I have earned the right to enjoy the noise!
It's a little like living under a soap opera right now. There have been a number of noisy rows in the last few days - with folk storming from rooms and slamming doors. Someone has been laying down the law. There are strange and unusual shrieks and wailings at odd hours of the day and night. Mr. Noisy Bastard seems to spend his time pacing noisily from room to room for hours on end, but has been less in evidence the last few days... There have been no party-esque gatherings for 4 nights which is a record.*
In my sleep-deprived state I have created a whole life for them consisting of love triangles, drug-dealing and nervous breakdowns. It's probably a million miles from the truth but it keeps me entertained.
The truth is they're a bunch of inconsiderate tossers - and I am conducting an experiment in the power of thought suggestion through ceilings as a side project. Attempted projected thought transmissions to date have varied from 'please decide to spontaneously move out' (pacifist solution) to 'I forgive you your idiocy, please shut up' (I had been watching 'The Convent' and thought I might be able to sleep throught the din if I thought more kindly of the din). The most frequent tend to be 'For the love of God, shut the fuck up' and 'Please drop dead. Now. But quietly...'. I can report little in the way of success but will keep trying and report back.
What they probably hear, on a subliminal level, is a distant female voice with a Lancashire burr shouting 'Aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhhh! Shut up! Shut up!' but that might just be me shouting out loud. :oD
*This of course does not mean it won't kick back off again tonight - they are nothing if not erratic.
Mmmm...Doughnuts
Specifically scrumptious fudge doughnuts from Fisher and Donaldson of St Andrews, delivered by the wonderful Mhairi and Guy as part of their unexpected (nay, miraculous) doughnut run on Sunday.
It was delicious! Thanks guys! :o)
These little beauties formed an integral part of my university experience. BF Jess and I used to visit F&D on a Wednesday after classes and then take our spoils down to the pier (J had a fondness for Yum-Yums). I have happy memories of us eating them whilst looking out over East Sands and the North Sea, tucked out of the wind in one of the stone alcoves. Happy times.
Clothes, Clothes Everywhere and Not an Outfit to Wear...
I haven't got a thing to wear, darling!
No, honestly, I haven't.
The summer is coming and it's time to bring out the lovely summery clothes - only I don't have any. I could turn this into another rant about weight gain, but to be honest, I don't think that's the problem. I genuinely believe that if I was my normal size, I'd still be struggling to find anything to wear. There's nothing nice in the shops! Under normal circumstances I would just poo-poo the latest trends and wear last year's clothes, but that avenue of escape is currently denied me - so what to do?
Everything is either a funny colour (acid yellow anyone?), a funny shape (uber-skimpy, designed for people without hips or twenty feet tall) or made of weird fabric/design (crinkle fabric looks good on no one, see-through strappy tops (calls out for support but nowhere to hide that support), horrendous and unflattering ruffles and weird applique disasters...)).
My original plan was simple. In order to distract from my now-alarmingly ample bosom (I have no idea what to do with a chest - I've never had one before!) and child-bearing hips, I thought some fairly plain, flatteringly cut shirts would be the answer. Nothing too officey, just something I could wear with jeans in order to finally retire the jumpers that are getting so tight around the arms I fear for my circulation. Summery and cool, but skimming the right bits.
Some hope!
I get tired quickly (as you know) so I can't spend hours trawling the shops looking at everything and trying it all on. So shopping for clothes means lots of little trips to single shops (with a pause for a sit down at strategic points) - not the most convenient way to approach the problem but the only one I have... I have made lots of those little trips recently - to no avail. It seems that this season, shirts are out. As are v-neck t-shirts without cap sleeves. Or 3/4 length trousers.
Bah!
Later today, I am making an expedition to John Lewis since I have been let down so far by Principles, Next, Wallis and Marks and Spencer. I don't hold out too much hope, but an outfit for going out is now required. Something will have to be found. And is it too much to ask for it to be gorgeous so that I feel great in it, rather than a dubious compromise that makes me feel frumpy etc.? It's not my fault I'm pear-shaped and high-waisted - I'd bet my bottom dollar I'm not the only woman in the world with this combination - so where are they hiding the gorgeous clothes for us? Come on, own up! Answers on a postcard to... :o)
(I'll let you know how I get on)
P.S. For those of you wondering what the going out occasion is, Mr. S and I got engaged 2 years ago today and we felt the need to celebrate. I think it should also be a reward for Mr. S for the six month stint of doing all the cooking, washing up, housework, shopping and putting up with my wacky moods. The man deserves a sainthood! But the best we can manage at the moment is a nice steak and some extravagant chocolate dessert - hopefully that'll do while I work on the Pope... (Thank you hon!!!!)
Balancing Act It's been a bit of an eye-opener. I have also had to develop a new muscle, one which has been sadly neglected in recent years. Ironically, had I used it sooner, I might not be in this position. It's been tough to tone, and even now, using it makes me sad sometimes even though it's out of necessity. I have been learning how to say no. Today I had to say no to lunch with friends as I had been out for a walk for an hour and I can't do both. Last week I had to say no to doing instance runs in WoW with friends as I was tired already and apt to overdo it. No I can't stay up and watch that film. No I can't make it to a party. Happily it allows me to say yes to other things - no I can't do x as I want to do y, but spontenaity is a scarcity. I'm having to learn to prioritise and plan - and that's proving to be a useful skill even if it is massively frustrating at times. I'm also trying to learn a fine balancing act. Activity versus resting. Quality rest (vague attempts to meditate, lying back listening to Mozart, sitting on a park bench in the sunshine with my eyes closed) versus quantity rest (watching TV, reading). Shopping at a plodding pace for half an hour (targetting specific shops I need to get to) with enough energy to get home versus forgetting myself and storming along the main drag (meandering in and out of random shops) only to wind up running out of steam part way along and having to get a cab home. Too much sitting around makes me sluggish and miserable. Too little sitting around and I end up floored for a couple of days. It's an act which still needs fine tuning as there aren't any hard and fast rules - and the rules can change from day to day. A little walk here, a little rest there, a bit of housework here, a smidge of time with friends there... The upside (and isn't there always a silver lining to these things?) is that it has given me the long, slow boredom that I needed to start writing again. Nothing big, nothing joined up, but putting ideas on paper that don't include the words 'fatigue', 'energy' and 'rest' has become a delicious escape. Diary writing, note taking and scribbling are life savers. So once again, sorry for the delay in posting, but trust me when I say that if this whole thing is boring for me, it won't get any more exciting on paper/screen for anyone else! I'm not dying, I'm not having revelations - I'm just reading a lot of light novels and magazines and spying on the folk passing by in the street - *yawn*.
It's been a while, I know, I'm sorry. Frankly I've done so little since I last posted that it never seemed worthwhile posting!
It seems likely that I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. The word 'Syndrome' makes it sound so very serious, but the fact of the matter is nothing much has changed except the length of time I've been ill. I get tired if I do too much, and I get ill if I'm daft enough to do more than that. 'Too much' currently stands at:
Help Me I'm Trapped in a Fat Suit
This being ill has had some very unpleasant (non-medical) side effects.
First of all, it required some mercy shopping. Merciful for the bits of me that were spilling over or getting constricted, not for my vanity... I had to take myself shopping for new, bigger jeans and new, bigger underwear. It hit me as I sat in the changing rooms of Marks and Spencer, waiting for my new, bigger underwear to arrive, that I looked like a Cath in a fat suit. It was like a blow to the jaw.
We don't have a full length mirror in Big Haggis Towers. We left ours behind at the old flat and never got round to buying a new one. I knew that I had put on weight in the last year or so, the scale never lies, but in my head it was okay, I was working on it and I knew it was all going to be fine.
And then I got ill, right after Christmas - the worst possible time. Everyone puts on a little weight after the festive period - that's what New Year's Resolutions are for. And gym memberships. And diets. :o) But I didn't get to lose it - my glands had other ideas. Under other circumstances, the 6lbs I've put on since then would be nothing, a mere blip - but on top of the Christmas pudding that never moved, it's a bit more than a blip.
So... There I am, sitting on a stool in M&S, seeing myself full length for the first time in a long while waiting for new, bigger underwear and it hit me. I am genuinely fat now. I'm not hovering around the healthy BMI range anymore, I'm peering at it through binoculars. I am trapped in a fat suit that must have arrived with one of my prescriptions...and it was a bit of a shock. As much of a shock as having to sit down in the first place - I get tired and need a seat these days, like an old lady (the old ladies that give me evils for taking a seat in the bus shelter too).
I am being pragmatic about it. There's not much scope for dealing with it right now. Jogging off to the gym is pretty much out for a girl who gets dizzy going to the bathroom and back. I reserve the right to comfort eat chocolate digestives when my social life mostly consists of my box sets of 'Sex and The City' and online computer games.