My brain tells me that if I am officially ‘better’ on paper then I should feel better. The fact that I feel as tired as before and now have a lurking pain beneath my ribs on the right side (not that there’s a wrong side) is just plain wrong but there you go; that’s life. This week I have an appointment with Aaron, my Macmillan trainer who comes to give me a pedometer. After a walk to Gibraltar Point, it’s a bit depressing to see I have only walked 635 steps. But I know I’m not really well. I feel cold all day and when I go to bed early, find my temperature is over 38.0 which officially means a call to the hospital. I don’t feel in an obliging mood, though, so decide to watch something trashy while I fall asleep and when I wake in the night, my temperature has dropped so I am OK. My temperature varies a lot, though. Officially, I am supposed to call the hospital if it drops below 36.0 or over 37.5 but that’s a really narrow band and my temperature often drops quite low, even if I’m feeling perfectly well. I think I’m generally a low temperature person. And it’s disappointing about the pedometer, too. Aaron tells me one of his clients straps her to one of her cats if she feels a bit down and enjoys reading the huge number of steps at the end of the day. I think I might try it with one of the animals here on the homestead. If only steps were as easy to do as writing words, I would be a marathon runner. I have a phone call from the lovely Cathy at St Barnabas Hospice in Louth who is going to refer me to the physiotherapist to see if she can help with my breathing and will also make an appointment for some sessions of Reiki which I am really looking forward to. It’s lovely to hear her tell me it will help with my pain and also relax me. I know about the relaxation part from previous experience and I have never tried it for pain before but I am optimistic.

At some point last week we go and buy some furniture. One of us is more reluctant than the other. Yes, you’ve guessed right! Mr Mason is not at all keen but I know where I want to buy it from and they have a sale on and we can go mid-week so we go in and find something we like. Hurrah! Even better than that, it is in the clearance section as it has been made to order and then cancelled. Once in the shop, of course, Mr Mason gets very enthusiastic over the purchase of sitting room furniture, especially 2 chairs which are about a chair and a  half in size. I say they are a person and a dog in size which puts him off slightly. In the end we choose something simpler and I decide to buy some spare covers there and then so we will all be sorted. I think this was after we see the oncologist but time is so smudged in my mind that it all melts into one sticky pool of non-remembrance so let’s just say that’s when it was. No-one really cares. I am always fascinated by (usually) couples who are telling an anecdote and then get hung up on a time, date, place or whatever, even though it is irrelevant to the story. “it was on Thursday” “No, it was Wednesday”. “No, I remember it was Thursday because I went to collect the kids from Mum’s that day” “No, that was last week, don’t you remember? I know it was Wednesday because Bob at work was telling me this story about a bloke he knows at the pub and I told you when I got  home and you thought it was hilarious”. “Oh, was that the story about the granny who tried to pick him up? I’m sure that was Friday, you know”. And so on it goes. So maybe it was after the oncologist, maybe it wasn’t and now we’ll never know the story of when a granny tried to pick up Bob’s friend in the pub.

The dogs are getting along better this week. Dog is still taking pride in getting the whole of Lark’s head in his mouth but she is starting to object and is doing more of the chasing. Her best defence is diving into any handy bush or hedge where he can’t get her and from there she can plan her next move in the game. She is keen on moving items of clothing (so embarrassing to find underwear strewn on the stairs – 3 odd socks and a pair of Mr Mason’s pants making it look like the world’s worst swinger’s party If we did swingers parties, we would do them like Heineken, of course) and it’s hard to find a pair of slippers. One is probably languishing in the garden and the other in her crate along with sundry stolen items. We were told before we moved that swingers have pampas grass in their front gardens as a sign to other swingers. I suppose they just knock on each other’s doors saying “Hello, I’m a swinger, too. Can I have a cup of tea?” or something. Imagine our distress to discover not only do we have pampas grass on the property but that it is in the back garden. What does that say in the Swingers’ handbook, I wonder? On second thoughts, I think I would rather not know.

So the music constantly playing in my head is this, of course.Sit back and enjoy Yakkety Sax by the great Boots Randolph.

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