Just got back from Ninewells for my appointment with the endocrine fella, who was supposed to check out my lump. To begin with he wasn't there, so my history was taken by the most terrified 4th year student I've ever seen. I was tempted to say:
"Look, I'm no doctor, but the first thing they teach anyone in a medical field - even blimmin' massage - is to create an aura of confidence. You're about as confident as a field mouse facing a feral tabby."
I then reeled off a list of symptoms with as many medical terms as I could remember - at which his pen hand, I kid thee not, went from mildly quivering to a full-on shake. I was wildly entertained - until the specialist remained AWOL for 35 minutes and I was stuck with the quivering fool staring at me, gulping, saying "I really don't know what else to ask you. Is there ... er ... anything you think you should tell me?"
I thought carefully.
"I'm not a big fan of the cock," I said - just to see what colour he'd go.
Unfortunately, that's not true. Anyway, the specialist eventually rocked up and we chatted briefly.
"And ... er ... why have they sent you to me?" he said, in a not very encouraging way. "I deal with the endocrine system."
"Possibly because I have a thyroglossal cyst?" I hedged. Christ ... do I have to do everything myself? I thought. I'm not hugely keen on self-diagnosis, but if he asks me to whack out a scalpel, I'm outta here.
"Oh, all right," he shrugged amenably, and proceeded to poke my neck with a stick. Upon finding said lump, he gave a porcine snort and crowed:
"That's tiny!"
"Yes, but it's what you do with it that counts," I retorted, inexplicably narked.
"Waha," he chortled. "Wa-hahaha. Well, I'm not going to do anything to it. Cutting it out would probably do more harm than good, and would just give you a bloody great scar. You're booked in for an ultrasound anyway, so get it checked out - but my recommendation is just to forget about it."
Just forget about it. Good lord, why didn't I think of that?
So, while there's no need to be alarmed any more, I'm still no closer to figuring out what's wrong with my throat, or why my voice is a bit croaky and weak. The antacids I've been prescribed have done no good. However - the ENT appointment stands, so I've got until the beginning of October to see if things improve, and for the ultrasound department to have a peek at the lump and say "that's tiny" in tones of contempt.
Now leave me alone. I have stuff to learn for my massage tutorial and it won't get done rabbiting away to you lot.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Long TIme No Blog
I'd like to apologise to my loyal reader for not blogging for ages. There's been a lot going on in my head of late, which has rather occupied me. I can laugh it off now (just about) but at the time I was given a real insight into the misery of potentially serious diagnosis. I also discovered I'm a totally pathetic individual.
Basically, I worked myself up into quite a state over the lump in my neck, and the peculiar sensations in my throat. I went to see the doctor twice - once to be told he felt no unusual lumps or bumps but that he'd set up an ENT appointment for me; twice because despite him saying he felt nothing, I knew there was something there and made the (different) doctor feel it. She said she thought it was a thyroglossal duct cyst, that it was nothing serious and that I shouldn't worry. When I said I'd go private to get it sorted out, she actually phoned me at home to recommend I didn't. As she was 100% certain it wasn't cancer, going private would be extremely expensive and might even give worse care, as there didn't seem to be an ENT specialist in private care in Scotland. She told me to hold out for the NHS appointment at Ninewells. I was reassured - for about 20 minutes. Then my mind went back to believing the absolute worst. Sore throat, a feeling of a large golf ball stuck in it, coupled with the long-term feeling that my singing voice has been compromised, just made me believe there was something more than a thyroglossal cyst. Perhaps I have a thyroglossal cyst because I have cancer, I thought.
Luckily, in a miracle of NHS efficiency, I had only about a week to wait from my second appointment (about 2 from my first). Ninewells called on Monday to say they had a slot available on the Wednesday, which I grasped with both hands. Living in a state of anxiety is not something I do well. It would probably help if I had a structured work life to take my mind off something, but the trouble with being a wastrel is that you have absolutely nothing stopping you from sitting on the sofa, imagining you have only months to live, wasting your day attempting to take your mind off it through the magic of TV and books.
On the Wednesday in question, Fisher took me to the hospital and came into the consultation with me, to make sure I mentioned all my symptoms and was totally reassured. Astonishingly, the appointment was for 2pm, and we were seen at about 2.05. The professor who saw me was the same guy who used to see Fisher when she was a lass, so no lack of experience there!
I told him all my symptoms. He felt my throat where I pointed out the lump, and all round it. He then told me to go and sit on a different chair while he had a look down my throat.
"This is where you stick a lovely tube down my throat, then," I whimpered.
"No no," he assured me. Yay, I thought. "It actually goes up your nose - then down your throat."
"Oh joy," I responded, which made him smile like the devil.
"It's really not so bad," the sympathetic nurse told me. "It'll be over in a jiffy." This reassured me, until she handed me a wad of tissues and added: "You'll need these. It'd make a glass eye cry."
It was far from pleasant, but really only uncomfortable. It wasn't painful or anything. He had a look at the nasal passages, then pushed it deep into my throat (urgle) and had a root around. Eventually he pulled it out (urgle) and said he saw absolutely nothing wrong, apart from a little redness around the trachea. Nor, apparantly, had he felt anything unusual in my throat. Puzzling, as I can clearly feel it - and so could the 2nd doctor. But, hey, he's the pro - and it was great news. He prescribed me some antacids as he thinks I have acid reflux splashes in the throat.
So that was that. He did set up an ultrasound, so the lump isn't completely ignored - but he was sure there wasn't anything seriously wrong. Unfortunately, discomfort in my throat continues today, with the feeling of something stuck at the back of my soft pallate. But I shall take some antihistamines and see if it's hay fever related. It's harvest, after all.
With the throat thing put, if not to bed, then at least down for a nap, I felt a great weight roll from my shoulders. I played a tennis match, racing about like a wild thing, having done no exercise for weeks owing to my inability to inspire myself out of the sitting room. Literally, all I did was sit around and watch the Olympics.
Unfortunately, during the tennis match I felt my lower back 'go'. I was running for a ball when - ping - a sharp pain shot through my hips and lumbar region. Luckily I was 1 game away from winning the match, which I managed to do by smacking the ball without moving my feet at all. I crept back to the car and drove home, stopping at Spar to pick up some baking potatoes for supper. Alas, my attempts at actually getting out of the car failed dismally and I was forced to drive home and sit miserably in the driver's seat until Fisher came and helped me out. Did I feel pathetic? Why, yes I did.
Fisher then departed for Island to take part in the half marathon. I was supposed to be doing my massage course, but with my back in its appalling state there was no way I could manage, so I had to give it a miss. I had an entertaining morning where it took me ages to actually get out of bed - not helped by Bridie deciding the odd noises I was making meant a game and jumping on my chest, flattening me back to the mattress with a howl of agony. I made a swift appointment with the osteo, who gave me the usual elbow-prodding (as in he prodded me with his elbow in my tender joints - he didn't prod my elbow. That would seem pointless. Unlike his elbows) and cracked my vertebrae with his usual energetic charm. It really isn't a pleasant experience - but seeing as it never fails to help, it's definitely worth it. 5 days after the cracking, my back is so much better I actually went for a run in the gym.
Now, it's been over 2 weeks since my last 5k, so I thought I'd take it easy. I put the machine on weight loss and thought I'd try 10 minutes. The weight loss programme starts the run on flat, then puts it up to a gradient of about 3%, then back to flat again. Frankly, I didn't really notice the gradient - but I'm assured it was there. After 10 minutes I noticed that I'd done over 1mile, thanks to the irritating 3 minute warm up at the start, so I decided to finish on 2 miles. I have 6 songs on my iPod's On-The-Go playlist, and at the 2 mile point I'd reached the 4th song - so I thought I'd stop after I'd listened to all 6. Then, of course, at the end of the 6th song I was so close to doing 5k I figured I might as well finish. I did the whole 5k in about 31 1/2 minutes, with a 3 minute walk at the start, and never dropped below a 10 minute mile pace. I was very pleased.
What other news? Not much. Works to the new house have been agreed, and the men will start very soon. They estimate we'll be ready by the 3rd or 4th week in September, which means we're still on track for Janus's footie 'n' food party - if she can round people up and pin them down to a date. Not an easy task.
That's me for a while. Hopefully I'll be more prompt in updating from now on.
Basically, I worked myself up into quite a state over the lump in my neck, and the peculiar sensations in my throat. I went to see the doctor twice - once to be told he felt no unusual lumps or bumps but that he'd set up an ENT appointment for me; twice because despite him saying he felt nothing, I knew there was something there and made the (different) doctor feel it. She said she thought it was a thyroglossal duct cyst, that it was nothing serious and that I shouldn't worry. When I said I'd go private to get it sorted out, she actually phoned me at home to recommend I didn't. As she was 100% certain it wasn't cancer, going private would be extremely expensive and might even give worse care, as there didn't seem to be an ENT specialist in private care in Scotland. She told me to hold out for the NHS appointment at Ninewells. I was reassured - for about 20 minutes. Then my mind went back to believing the absolute worst. Sore throat, a feeling of a large golf ball stuck in it, coupled with the long-term feeling that my singing voice has been compromised, just made me believe there was something more than a thyroglossal cyst. Perhaps I have a thyroglossal cyst because I have cancer, I thought.
Luckily, in a miracle of NHS efficiency, I had only about a week to wait from my second appointment (about 2 from my first). Ninewells called on Monday to say they had a slot available on the Wednesday, which I grasped with both hands. Living in a state of anxiety is not something I do well. It would probably help if I had a structured work life to take my mind off something, but the trouble with being a wastrel is that you have absolutely nothing stopping you from sitting on the sofa, imagining you have only months to live, wasting your day attempting to take your mind off it through the magic of TV and books.
On the Wednesday in question, Fisher took me to the hospital and came into the consultation with me, to make sure I mentioned all my symptoms and was totally reassured. Astonishingly, the appointment was for 2pm, and we were seen at about 2.05. The professor who saw me was the same guy who used to see Fisher when she was a lass, so no lack of experience there!
I told him all my symptoms. He felt my throat where I pointed out the lump, and all round it. He then told me to go and sit on a different chair while he had a look down my throat.
"This is where you stick a lovely tube down my throat, then," I whimpered.
"No no," he assured me. Yay, I thought. "It actually goes up your nose - then down your throat."
"Oh joy," I responded, which made him smile like the devil.
"It's really not so bad," the sympathetic nurse told me. "It'll be over in a jiffy." This reassured me, until she handed me a wad of tissues and added: "You'll need these. It'd make a glass eye cry."
It was far from pleasant, but really only uncomfortable. It wasn't painful or anything. He had a look at the nasal passages, then pushed it deep into my throat (urgle) and had a root around. Eventually he pulled it out (urgle) and said he saw absolutely nothing wrong, apart from a little redness around the trachea. Nor, apparantly, had he felt anything unusual in my throat. Puzzling, as I can clearly feel it - and so could the 2nd doctor. But, hey, he's the pro - and it was great news. He prescribed me some antacids as he thinks I have acid reflux splashes in the throat.
So that was that. He did set up an ultrasound, so the lump isn't completely ignored - but he was sure there wasn't anything seriously wrong. Unfortunately, discomfort in my throat continues today, with the feeling of something stuck at the back of my soft pallate. But I shall take some antihistamines and see if it's hay fever related. It's harvest, after all.
With the throat thing put, if not to bed, then at least down for a nap, I felt a great weight roll from my shoulders. I played a tennis match, racing about like a wild thing, having done no exercise for weeks owing to my inability to inspire myself out of the sitting room. Literally, all I did was sit around and watch the Olympics.
Unfortunately, during the tennis match I felt my lower back 'go'. I was running for a ball when - ping - a sharp pain shot through my hips and lumbar region. Luckily I was 1 game away from winning the match, which I managed to do by smacking the ball without moving my feet at all. I crept back to the car and drove home, stopping at Spar to pick up some baking potatoes for supper. Alas, my attempts at actually getting out of the car failed dismally and I was forced to drive home and sit miserably in the driver's seat until Fisher came and helped me out. Did I feel pathetic? Why, yes I did.
Fisher then departed for Island to take part in the half marathon. I was supposed to be doing my massage course, but with my back in its appalling state there was no way I could manage, so I had to give it a miss. I had an entertaining morning where it took me ages to actually get out of bed - not helped by Bridie deciding the odd noises I was making meant a game and jumping on my chest, flattening me back to the mattress with a howl of agony. I made a swift appointment with the osteo, who gave me the usual elbow-prodding (as in he prodded me with his elbow in my tender joints - he didn't prod my elbow. That would seem pointless. Unlike his elbows) and cracked my vertebrae with his usual energetic charm. It really isn't a pleasant experience - but seeing as it never fails to help, it's definitely worth it. 5 days after the cracking, my back is so much better I actually went for a run in the gym.
Now, it's been over 2 weeks since my last 5k, so I thought I'd take it easy. I put the machine on weight loss and thought I'd try 10 minutes. The weight loss programme starts the run on flat, then puts it up to a gradient of about 3%, then back to flat again. Frankly, I didn't really notice the gradient - but I'm assured it was there. After 10 minutes I noticed that I'd done over 1mile, thanks to the irritating 3 minute warm up at the start, so I decided to finish on 2 miles. I have 6 songs on my iPod's On-The-Go playlist, and at the 2 mile point I'd reached the 4th song - so I thought I'd stop after I'd listened to all 6. Then, of course, at the end of the 6th song I was so close to doing 5k I figured I might as well finish. I did the whole 5k in about 31 1/2 minutes, with a 3 minute walk at the start, and never dropped below a 10 minute mile pace. I was very pleased.
What other news? Not much. Works to the new house have been agreed, and the men will start very soon. They estimate we'll be ready by the 3rd or 4th week in September, which means we're still on track for Janus's footie 'n' food party - if she can round people up and pin them down to a date. Not an easy task.
That's me for a while. Hopefully I'll be more prompt in updating from now on.
Monday, 11 August 2008
Olympic Bid
Ok, I've looked at the 2012 website, and narrowed down some options.
1. Archery. How hard can it be? Lift up bow, pull back string, twang. To Do List: get a bow and a target. Alternatively, stand Fisher in the garden with an apple on her head.
2. Handball. For this, I will recruit the rest of the Cheese Board and one other person. Chopper, maybe? Although we'd probably be disqualified for dirty play. To Do List: persuade Cheese Board that glory is inevitable. Train. Find out what the hell Handball actually is.
3. Hockey. I was a bloody good goalkeeper at school. Perhaps I should get back into it? To Do List: Find a hockey team in need of a goalkeeper. Put on an enormous amount of weight so all I have to do is stand in the goal, fill it, and become the greatest goalkeeper of all time.
4. Shooting. See Archery. Lift up gun, pull back trigger, bang. To Do List: buy a gun and a target. Alternatively, stand Fisher in the garden with a clay pigeon on her head.
Right. Next stage involves narrowing down the list. This will take some thought. I expect to reach a decision by 2011, leaving me a good 12 months to learn, practice, and become the best in the world.
A doddle.
1. Archery. How hard can it be? Lift up bow, pull back string, twang. To Do List: get a bow and a target. Alternatively, stand Fisher in the garden with an apple on her head.
2. Handball. For this, I will recruit the rest of the Cheese Board and one other person. Chopper, maybe? Although we'd probably be disqualified for dirty play. To Do List: persuade Cheese Board that glory is inevitable. Train. Find out what the hell Handball actually is.
3. Hockey. I was a bloody good goalkeeper at school. Perhaps I should get back into it? To Do List: Find a hockey team in need of a goalkeeper. Put on an enormous amount of weight so all I have to do is stand in the goal, fill it, and become the greatest goalkeeper of all time.
4. Shooting. See Archery. Lift up gun, pull back trigger, bang. To Do List: buy a gun and a target. Alternatively, stand Fisher in the garden with a clay pigeon on her head.
Right. Next stage involves narrowing down the list. This will take some thought. I expect to reach a decision by 2011, leaving me a good 12 months to learn, practice, and become the best in the world.
A doddle.
Sunday, 10 August 2008
Slight Freak Out ... and Gym
Yes, the slight freak out is because as well as the tightness in my throat there's also a peculiar lump. It doesn't hurt (well ... it didn't. It sort of does now, but I have a feeling that's because I keep poking it) but I can't figure out what it can be. It's on the right side of my epiglotis - it actually feels like it's almost on the epiglotis, and Fisher doesn't have one.
My immediate and unshiftable belief is that it's throat cancer and I'm a single step away from the graaaaave. But in saner moments I consider the possibility it's a further manifestation of a throat nodule (hopefully not a polyp) - or else a raised gland from the nasty tummy bug I had last week. Perhaps a cervical gland?
Anyway - no use driving myself crazy. I'm going to see the ENT people anyway, so I'll find out whether there's anything wrong then. Or be dead before I get an appointment (of old age). Either way - no sense in worrying.
The gym was a bit of a success. I did 5k in 28.35, which is good for me (possibly my best. Depressing, non?). I then did a circuit of 3 weight machines - the bicep curl, the pectoral pushy thing, and the lat machine.
Bicep = 1 x 12 on 7, 1 x 12 on 6, 1 x 12 on 5
Pec = 1 x 12 on 7, 2 x 12 on 6
Lat = 1 x 12 on 7, 1 x 12 on 6, 1 x 12 on 5 (v tired by this point).
Then I went and picked a blue Fisher up from the Old Course, where she finished her 10 mile run and was feeling very morose. Her athsma is not her friend. She had to stop and walk a couple of times - albeit for only short distances - because her lungs don't feel right. I had to point out that, despite it not being a good time, it was still 10 miles - and the number of people in the world who can run 10 miles off the bat is still considerably fewer than those who can't. She is marvellous and should never forget it.
In a bid to make this blog more interesting, I've decided to peruse the Olympic 2012 website and look at a list of all the events (if such a thing exists). Then I shall pick a sport and train for the next 4 years, in the hopes that I can enter the Olympics and shower myself with glory.
So there.
Watch this space. O yes. Watch this space.
My immediate and unshiftable belief is that it's throat cancer and I'm a single step away from the graaaaave. But in saner moments I consider the possibility it's a further manifestation of a throat nodule (hopefully not a polyp) - or else a raised gland from the nasty tummy bug I had last week. Perhaps a cervical gland?
Anyway - no use driving myself crazy. I'm going to see the ENT people anyway, so I'll find out whether there's anything wrong then. Or be dead before I get an appointment (of old age). Either way - no sense in worrying.
The gym was a bit of a success. I did 5k in 28.35, which is good for me (possibly my best. Depressing, non?). I then did a circuit of 3 weight machines - the bicep curl, the pectoral pushy thing, and the lat machine.
Bicep = 1 x 12 on 7, 1 x 12 on 6, 1 x 12 on 5
Pec = 1 x 12 on 7, 2 x 12 on 6
Lat = 1 x 12 on 7, 1 x 12 on 6, 1 x 12 on 5 (v tired by this point).
Then I went and picked a blue Fisher up from the Old Course, where she finished her 10 mile run and was feeling very morose. Her athsma is not her friend. She had to stop and walk a couple of times - albeit for only short distances - because her lungs don't feel right. I had to point out that, despite it not being a good time, it was still 10 miles - and the number of people in the world who can run 10 miles off the bat is still considerably fewer than those who can't. She is marvellous and should never forget it.
In a bid to make this blog more interesting, I've decided to peruse the Olympic 2012 website and look at a list of all the events (if such a thing exists). Then I shall pick a sport and train for the next 4 years, in the hopes that I can enter the Olympics and shower myself with glory.
So there.
Watch this space. O yes. Watch this space.
SHOCK!! HORROR!!!
MY BLOG IS BORING!
Yes, folks, I've just read over the last few entries and decided my blog needs an overhaul, for it is verily as dull as ditchwater. It is, in fact, ditchwater's twin. So from now on I will only post interesting things.
Er ...
Is this interesting? I went to the doctor to get my throat checked out, and ...
Wait! No, really, it might be interesting!
So, anyhoo, I've been concerned about my throat for a while. I sing a lot, but over the last couple of months I've noticed my throat growing a little - I dunno - hot? - when I sing for more than a few minutes. It's a bit rough. And it doesn't have any of the force it used to. Plus, I keep missing notes. It's very strange. So I used my dodgy right knee and tendonitis in my left ankle as an excuse to go and see the doc, and do the old "oh, and while I'm here" routine.
The doctor felt my throat, had a quick look, and said he couldn't see anything immediately wrong, but he was willing to take it seriously enough to make an appointment for me to go and see "the ENT guys" up at Ninewells hospital. As it's on the NHS, I'll probably have an answer for you all next year or so.
Bah.
Oh - and he made an appointment for me to see a physio over my knee and ankle, too. I am, officially, falling apart at the seams.
Having said that, I felt together enough to play some tennis on Friday. It was wonderful to be out there again, smacking balls back and forth in a real game. I love chucking balls for Fisher, but there's nothing better than pitting your wits against an opponent of roughly your ability, or better.
Watching the Olympics today, it made me realise how little time I have for sports that involve sheer physical superiority. Faster, higher, stronger - whatever. You can argue as much as you like about the role strategy plays, but in the end, most athletics comes down to who has the better body - and where's the fun in that? When you play a team sport, there's so much more to rely on than who can run faster than everyone else.
Enough. Fisher has just come through to tell me she's been given the quote on the work we want done on our new house. Bad news. It's way, way too expensive. We're going to have to have a major rethink.
Bah, bah, and thrice bah.
Yes, folks, I've just read over the last few entries and decided my blog needs an overhaul, for it is verily as dull as ditchwater. It is, in fact, ditchwater's twin. So from now on I will only post interesting things.
Er ...
Is this interesting? I went to the doctor to get my throat checked out, and ...
Wait! No, really, it might be interesting!
So, anyhoo, I've been concerned about my throat for a while. I sing a lot, but over the last couple of months I've noticed my throat growing a little - I dunno - hot? - when I sing for more than a few minutes. It's a bit rough. And it doesn't have any of the force it used to. Plus, I keep missing notes. It's very strange. So I used my dodgy right knee and tendonitis in my left ankle as an excuse to go and see the doc, and do the old "oh, and while I'm here" routine.
The doctor felt my throat, had a quick look, and said he couldn't see anything immediately wrong, but he was willing to take it seriously enough to make an appointment for me to go and see "the ENT guys" up at Ninewells hospital. As it's on the NHS, I'll probably have an answer for you all next year or so.
Bah.
Oh - and he made an appointment for me to see a physio over my knee and ankle, too. I am, officially, falling apart at the seams.
Having said that, I felt together enough to play some tennis on Friday. It was wonderful to be out there again, smacking balls back and forth in a real game. I love chucking balls for Fisher, but there's nothing better than pitting your wits against an opponent of roughly your ability, or better.
Watching the Olympics today, it made me realise how little time I have for sports that involve sheer physical superiority. Faster, higher, stronger - whatever. You can argue as much as you like about the role strategy plays, but in the end, most athletics comes down to who has the better body - and where's the fun in that? When you play a team sport, there's so much more to rely on than who can run faster than everyone else.
Enough. Fisher has just come through to tell me she's been given the quote on the work we want done on our new house. Bad news. It's way, way too expensive. We're going to have to have a major rethink.
Bah, bah, and thrice bah.
Sunday, 3 August 2008
Catch Up
Urgl.
For the last 3 days I've been struggling with a vicious tummy bug - the likes of which I've not experienced since, oh, last fecking month. Actually, to be fair, it was just before I went to Wimbledon with Koi, so over a month ago, but it was just as unpleasant then as it is now. Sadly, I'd promised to massage Phid's Mum and Dad every day while they were up, but had to bail on them for not only that but a HC invitation including walks, dinner and a bed for the night. I felt crappy (in all senses of the word). I hate bailing on people. Hopefully, when I see them today I might prevail upon them to come to HC on Monday instead, to make up for it.
Aside from feeling weak and run down, I'm on the mend - albeit with the help of astonishingly strong pills and extreme temperence (I've lost 4 pounds - some good may come of this!) and last night was able to go with Fisher to The Artist's house for supper. It was a dinner party, which meant convening with strangers - but they were all very pleasant. In fact, one of the strangers wasn't a stranger at all, but an old friend of Sister's whom I've known a very long time and is great fun. It was a very lovely night, with the only shame being I couldn't do any of the dishes justice. But at least it gave Fisher the opportunity to drink, which she did with gusto - but, luckily, not to the extremes she has shown in the past. Quite moderate, in fact. Not a speck of red vomit in sight. Tonight sees us entertain Sister, sans children (!!), and we've invited The Artist as well, as he was keen to see her. Unfortunately, the Seafood Restaurant in St Andrews couldn't take 4 people instead of 3 (idiots) so we've had to book the one in St Monan's instead, which means an extra drive for Sister and changing plans for Artist's train, but GOD this is dull, so I shall move onto more interesting things.
Even so, it was a lovely walk, and the paddling was desperately needed owing to how hot it was, so the leech can go to Hell.
Like I said, the rest of the week has been sadly marred by this evil tummy bug. I wasn't able to entertain Phid's parents, or even finish more than 2 massages. Phid and Wheeler were supposed to come for massages tomorrow, but they've kindly put it off to give me an extra day to recover. Phid will now get done on Thursday, but Wheeler won't be around so I have to do him next week some time. This puts me rather behind schedule, even with the extra 2 from Phid's Mum - so I may have to go into Edinburgh later in the week and start some new people. God, what a pain in the arse this massage course is turning out to be. I can't exactly ask people to come to me, but I don't think it's designed for people whose clients are over an hour's journey away. Pain. In. The. Arse.
Bah. I'm just feeling tetchy, tired and really fed up with not being well. I've also just made the mistake of watching Dr Alice on TV talking about the stomach and intestines, and am now convinced that my tummy bug is actually bowel cancer and I have weeks to live.
I'm going to bed.
For the last 3 days I've been struggling with a vicious tummy bug - the likes of which I've not experienced since, oh, last fecking month. Actually, to be fair, it was just before I went to Wimbledon with Koi, so over a month ago, but it was just as unpleasant then as it is now. Sadly, I'd promised to massage Phid's Mum and Dad every day while they were up, but had to bail on them for not only that but a HC invitation including walks, dinner and a bed for the night. I felt crappy (in all senses of the word). I hate bailing on people. Hopefully, when I see them today I might prevail upon them to come to HC on Monday instead, to make up for it.
Aside from feeling weak and run down, I'm on the mend - albeit with the help of astonishingly strong pills and extreme temperence (I've lost 4 pounds - some good may come of this!) and last night was able to go with Fisher to The Artist's house for supper. It was a dinner party, which meant convening with strangers - but they were all very pleasant. In fact, one of the strangers wasn't a stranger at all, but an old friend of Sister's whom I've known a very long time and is great fun. It was a very lovely night, with the only shame being I couldn't do any of the dishes justice. But at least it gave Fisher the opportunity to drink, which she did with gusto - but, luckily, not to the extremes she has shown in the past. Quite moderate, in fact. Not a speck of red vomit in sight. Tonight sees us entertain Sister, sans children (!!), and we've invited The Artist as well, as he was keen to see her. Unfortunately, the Seafood Restaurant in St Andrews couldn't take 4 people instead of 3 (idiots) so we've had to book the one in St Monan's instead, which means an extra drive for Sister and changing plans for Artist's train, but GOD this is dull, so I shall move onto more interesting things.
Fisher and I went to check on the new house t'other week, and left HC in miserable fog and drizzle. Not 10 minutes later we were driving out into beautiful sunshine and considerable heat. I glared angrily at Fisher, suddenly realising that living on the East Coast of Scotland had deprived me of much needed vitamin D for the last 8 years. And it's all her fault. Had she not been so goddamned addicted to Fife, we could have moved somewhere far more exotic years ago. Like Clackmannanshire. Which, by the way, is more than you imagine. (See press releases for confirmation).
......
Ok, this is now several days later. I planned on taking a small break, but couldn't get back to the old blog before going out for supper with Sister, Fisher and Artist. We went to St Andrews after all, and had pleasant grub - but, unfortunately, it proved too much for my recovering tummy and I was plunged back into hideousness which laid me out for a further day. I've been sensible today, though, and feel much better. With any luck tomorrow will see me right as rain.
So, where was I?
Oh yer. Fisher and I took a jaunt up to the new house, to check it was still standing and to feed our inherited bantams. I was concerned they might all have died, or been scattered to the 4 winds, especially after whistling for them for some minutes and seeing hide nor hair. Or, rather, hide nor feather. However, after we'd looked round the house, checked all was sound, and returned to the garden 15 minutes later, there they were under the tree looking for bounty. We duly provided, and they clucked and pecked in that comfortable way chickens have.
After looking at the house, Fisher and I took advantage of the beautiful weather and decided to seek out the nearest loch - Loch Tullybelton. It didn't look too far away on the map, but it was a fair drive to an appropriate parking place, where we left the car, unloaded the pooches, and set off to ramble. It was an easy walk, probably a little over 2 miles there and back, and the sun beat down all the way. The pooches bounded at the ends of their leads, with Bridie very keen on a mutton supper, and we enjoyed the beautiful scenery, utterly enchanted at the thought of this being our new back garden.
At the loch, I was determined to have an outdoor swim, having missed out at Loch Awe due to ... well, abject cowardice and a loathing of cold water, to be fair. Getting to the lochside proved slightly harder than it originally looked, as a lot of it was marshy at the edges and surrounded by deceptive reeds. We found a miniature beach, though, and I stripped down to undies and shirt. The bottom was muddy, and it was a little murky, so I gave up on the idea of a swim and waded out knee-deep instead. Bridie followed gamely on the lead, swimming and snorting like a sleek black otter. To get maximum refreshment, I crouched down and sank up to my waist, before deciding the bottom really was quite grim between my toes and it was time to go back to the shore. I felt much cooler, and it was a beautiful, soul-soothing spot.
On dry land, Fisher handed me the golden dog and began to wade in for her own spot of paddling, when I felt something ticklish on my ankle. I looked down and, to my horror, saw what I first took to be a slug writhing on my skin.
"A leech!" I cried, with loathing. "There's a leech on me!"
Luckily it came off with a quick brush as it hadn't got its teeth into me, so I was spared a Laura Ingalls Wilder scene of pulling the bastard off, watching it get longer and longer before detatching, leaving a trickle of blood in its place. It squirmed and thrashed in the sand for a while before perishing, and Fisher, upon spying some 20 leeches on various rocks by the shore, decided she could do without a paddle.
Eurrrrgh.
......
Ok, this is now several days later. I planned on taking a small break, but couldn't get back to the old blog before going out for supper with Sister, Fisher and Artist. We went to St Andrews after all, and had pleasant grub - but, unfortunately, it proved too much for my recovering tummy and I was plunged back into hideousness which laid me out for a further day. I've been sensible today, though, and feel much better. With any luck tomorrow will see me right as rain.
So, where was I?
Oh yer. Fisher and I took a jaunt up to the new house, to check it was still standing and to feed our inherited bantams. I was concerned they might all have died, or been scattered to the 4 winds, especially after whistling for them for some minutes and seeing hide nor hair. Or, rather, hide nor feather. However, after we'd looked round the house, checked all was sound, and returned to the garden 15 minutes later, there they were under the tree looking for bounty. We duly provided, and they clucked and pecked in that comfortable way chickens have.
After looking at the house, Fisher and I took advantage of the beautiful weather and decided to seek out the nearest loch - Loch Tullybelton. It didn't look too far away on the map, but it was a fair drive to an appropriate parking place, where we left the car, unloaded the pooches, and set off to ramble. It was an easy walk, probably a little over 2 miles there and back, and the sun beat down all the way. The pooches bounded at the ends of their leads, with Bridie very keen on a mutton supper, and we enjoyed the beautiful scenery, utterly enchanted at the thought of this being our new back garden.
At the loch, I was determined to have an outdoor swim, having missed out at Loch Awe due to ... well, abject cowardice and a loathing of cold water, to be fair. Getting to the lochside proved slightly harder than it originally looked, as a lot of it was marshy at the edges and surrounded by deceptive reeds. We found a miniature beach, though, and I stripped down to undies and shirt. The bottom was muddy, and it was a little murky, so I gave up on the idea of a swim and waded out knee-deep instead. Bridie followed gamely on the lead, swimming and snorting like a sleek black otter. To get maximum refreshment, I crouched down and sank up to my waist, before deciding the bottom really was quite grim between my toes and it was time to go back to the shore. I felt much cooler, and it was a beautiful, soul-soothing spot.
On dry land, Fisher handed me the golden dog and began to wade in for her own spot of paddling, when I felt something ticklish on my ankle. I looked down and, to my horror, saw what I first took to be a slug writhing on my skin.
"A leech!" I cried, with loathing. "There's a leech on me!"
Luckily it came off with a quick brush as it hadn't got its teeth into me, so I was spared a Laura Ingalls Wilder scene of pulling the bastard off, watching it get longer and longer before detatching, leaving a trickle of blood in its place. It squirmed and thrashed in the sand for a while before perishing, and Fisher, upon spying some 20 leeches on various rocks by the shore, decided she could do without a paddle.
Eurrrrgh.
Even so, it was a lovely walk, and the paddling was desperately needed owing to how hot it was, so the leech can go to Hell.
Like I said, the rest of the week has been sadly marred by this evil tummy bug. I wasn't able to entertain Phid's parents, or even finish more than 2 massages. Phid and Wheeler were supposed to come for massages tomorrow, but they've kindly put it off to give me an extra day to recover. Phid will now get done on Thursday, but Wheeler won't be around so I have to do him next week some time. This puts me rather behind schedule, even with the extra 2 from Phid's Mum - so I may have to go into Edinburgh later in the week and start some new people. God, what a pain in the arse this massage course is turning out to be. I can't exactly ask people to come to me, but I don't think it's designed for people whose clients are over an hour's journey away. Pain. In. The. Arse.
Bah. I'm just feeling tetchy, tired and really fed up with not being well. I've also just made the mistake of watching Dr Alice on TV talking about the stomach and intestines, and am now convinced that my tummy bug is actually bowel cancer and I have weeks to live.
I'm going to bed.
Sunday, 27 July 2008
NEDDING! Part 4. Sunday farewell.
After retiring to bed ridiculously early on Saturday night, after dancing up a storm and nearly vomiting down Spartan's back as he hefted me over his shoulder, there was some excuse for melancholy in the Fisher-Seshat boudoir. After over a year of discussion, planning, arrangement of surprises, invitations, plotting, deception, and blood-fizzing excitement, it was all nearly over. But, in the end, there wasn't any sadness at all. We had Sunday to look forward to, and look forward we did.
The day dawned bright and sunny - yet another miracle - and we headed down for breakfast.
Breakfast, in fact, turned out to be an unexpected joy. I'd spared no thought for this mundane part of the day, simply nodding and agreeing when our nedding planner mentioned that it was part of the package. What I failed to recognise was that it was, in fact, another full meal at which everyone participated, and that it was delicious. Fisher and I entered the room, saw every table all but filled with cheerful diners, and chose our places. Snowy tablecloths, sparkling cutlery, the aroma of coffee and toast ... it was marvellous. I had been about to order a boiled egg and soldiers, but seduced by the rest of my table's insistence on a full Scottish breakfast, I, too, succumbed. And I'm delighted I did. It was extremely good - salty bacon, softly herbed sausages, a poached egg, toast, coffee, fruit juice ... mmmmm. I was well set up for the day.
We all had to be out of our rooms by 11am, and if I had any criticism of Ardanaiseig it would be for the manager. His manner alternated wildly between accommodating and pissy, and while I appreciate that getting 31 adults out of their rooms in time for the hotel to become public once more is a daunting task, we were all very much 'on' it, and he had no need to remind me with a stern, patrician glare.
Everyone was out in good time, and people started enjoying the hotel for their last few hours. There were walks about the grounds, people lazed in the public rooms, and some of us decided to take the boats out. Thus I found myself in a rowing boat with Koios and Phid, giving encouragement to them both as they took it in turns to row us out onto the loch. After a shaky start, Phid took us part of the way out. I took over for a bit, then Koi had a go. It was lovely. The water was a little choppy when we cleared the banks, but nothing to concern us, and meanwhile the other boat had been commandeered by Wheeler and Spartan. They cheated and used the motor, but they had fishing rods and clearly wanted to get to the best fishing spots fast!
I do love messing about in boats. It's wonderfully tranquil, even if you are being mocked by two homoerotically repressed buddies with an outboard. Before you could say Mouse Race, time had ticked by and it was approaching the hour of Mouse Race results. We'd told everyone to gather in the yurt, and I'd instructed the manager to serve our last lunch at 1. He reminded me that we'd originally said 11.30 am, which is nonsense, but we had possibly said 12 or 12.30 - but seeing as there was no cooking involved, we'd always been told we could play it a little by ear. So play it we did, and said 1. This didn't stop him bringing all the food out at 12.30 as Fisher & I were totting up the Mouse Race points total.
"Is it going to be all right sitting out for half an hour?" I asked politely, but pointedly, at which he whined:
"Well, you said 11.30 originally, and then decided 12.30."
"I said 1," I smiled icily. At which he sulkily turned to the entourage, laden with plates of cold food, and barked: "Take it back! Take it all back!"
Wanker.
Nevertheless, Fisher and I ignored him totally and he was soon forgotten in the excitement of discovering the Mouse Race winner.
Back in the yurt, with the assembled throng on the edge of their cushions (or not), we kicked off proceedings with some bonus prizes. There was the winner of the Treasure Hunt to announce, and it was sweet to see Gemmill's little face get all big-eyed and nervous. He, aparantly, had basically dragged his team of Blarney, Wheeler and FW round the course and insisted all clues were gathered - so he was very much hoping to be the winner. So, naturally, when I announced that Gemmill's team was victorious, he raised his arms in triumph and was rewarded with a dinosaur board game. Later, he informed me it was lucky he'd won, or else an adult might have won the game and not liked it. Sage words from a 5 year old.
There was also a prize of 2 books for 'casual croquet' which went to Wrecker, who'd spent a good portion of yesterday's croquet tournament whacking his own ball about, once or twice actually getting it through a hoop, and often disrupting the tournaments by insisting on stealing balls of a more interesting colour than his own. There was also a prize for best rescue - a bottle of champagne to Fisher's Dad and Guardian - for saving Ceegar's life, and a 'pity prize' of red wine for Ceegar. Although he was always going to be given something for driving the minibus and being our MC, so the 'pity prize' thing was just to lighten the incident.
And thus - to the Mouse Race. Everyone put in an excellent showing, and with much fanfare we read out the top 8. The top 3 got prizes, and there was a definite air of tension about the place when I got to number 4. But in 3rd place, with an admirable 219 points, was Spartan. He got a book (Callum's Road, which we traversed together on Raasay) and a bottle of red. Second, tan tan ta-raaaa, was ... Protagoras! Even without swimming all the way to the island he managed to get second place through writing an epic poem and joining in absolutely everything. He managed 245 points and won a book of traditional recipes, as read about in books of your childhood like Enid Blyton, and a bottle of fizz. But the winner, by a clear margin of 48 points, was Wheeler - and to Phid's delight, the prize was a night at Hotel du Vin in Glasgow, with supper thrown in. Not breakfast, though - and not booze with supper. What can I say? I'm cheap.
Now, because we only announced the top 8 on the day, I am going to give a full list of the Mouse Race order, winner to loooosah. Ahem.
1. Wheeler, 293 points
2. Protagoras, 245 points
3. Spartan, 219 points
4. Koios, 212 points
5. Pistol, the tall fella, 202 points
6. Ceegar, 192 points
7 = Chopper, 182 points
7= Janus, 182 points
9. Champaign Charlie, 177 points
10. Meeper, 174 points
11. Silver Arrow, 152 points
12. Phidippida, 142 points
13. Guardian, 132 points (also winner of Best Rescue)
14. Lubentina, 121 points
15. Fisher's Dad, 116 (also winner of Best Rescue)
16. Badger, 102 points
17. Minstrel, 90 points
18. Brave Bird, 87 points
19 = The Boat House Contingent (i.e Ma), 80 points
19 = Sister, 80 points
19 = Gemmill, 80 points
22. Islander (who gets no points for sleeping, though he did it best), 68 points
23. Wrecker, 40 points
24. Blarney, -2 points (-100 for cheating, otherwise she would have come 17th with 98)
Those were the competitors, those were the standings, and the referees's decision is final. FINAL, I tell you.
There was much clapping and laughter, and then the announcements were over and we could all have lunch. I went to tell the kitchen they could bring it out when they were ready (avoiding snotty manager man) and then rejoined my buddies for our final chow.
It was a lovely, relaxing, fitting end to a fabulous weekend. We had strawberries (well - I didn't, as I foolishly thought I'd have them after my savouries - and they were all gone), scones, leftover cheese from the Nedding Cake of Cheese (we had this at the barbecue the night before - did I forget to mention) and little croque monsieur thingies. I think. The food is now all getting mixed up in my head. There was so much of it! And it was all so goooood! Anyway, we took our plates and sat on the lawn with our legs dangling down the slope, and chatted happily in the sunshine.
Last Moments
Gradually, people started drifting away. The Cheese Boys were eager to get on their way in their lovely JagMKII - although Spartan lingered, yakking away as is his wont. Eventually an impatient Pro and Wheeler came and picked him up between them and literally carried him away, still gossipping. We bade them farewell - and then everyone was preparing to leave. Brother and Gaura had left after breakfast in order to go to A&E and get an x-ray of Brother's eye (alas the radiologist wasn't there so Bro had to wait until he was home. He had a consultation on Friday, and I will find out how it went today). Both sets of parents were soon waving us goodbye, too - and soon it was just the minibussers, Sister & Sons and the Cheese Boarders who were left. Sister & Sons were giving Awesome a lift back to Fife, as she was staying with some friends in Crail and Sister was coming for a wee holiday with us, and to buy some goldfish for Gemmill. The minibus left with much fanfare, and soon Sister followed. The Cheese Board were set and ready to go. We jumped in the hire car, and I began to drive away.
Then the snitty manager came out and inquired as to how I would like to pay. Or did I just want it "comped"?
Sheepishly, I went inside and actually paid the bill. 15 minutes later, and I was back in the car - no longer a criminal. We drove away, and that was that. The end of it all.
But not quite. The journey back was as much part of it as anything else, as we chatted, dissected the weekend, and generally enjoyed one another's company. We dropped Phid off in Dollar, then on to Edinburgh and more chat, vows to meet up and see the Vanity Fair exhibition, and the other girls were back home. Fisher and I were alone.
But not really. Back at HC, Sister & Sons awaited us - and so did Awesome, whom we'd prevailed upon to stay the night, seeing as her Crail friends weren't back until midnight the next day. There was no time for melancholy, as the next couple of days were a whirl of boyish fun.
We went to Cairnie Fruit Farm and Gemmill made a good stab at the Mega Maze, while Wrecker attempted to control a mini digger and had a tantrum when at last taken away. Then we went swimming at East Sands Leisure Centre, and Wrecker braved the enormous inflatable walkway, only falling off and being caught by me once. The day after that, Gemmill bought his fish and the family departed, returning home on the ferry. With any luck the fish are still alive. Awesome Girl went to see her friends, but I unfortunately didn't manage to say a proper goodbye as there was a lack of communication, and Fisher failed to meet us after swimming as we'd planned.
And then there were none. It was just me and Fisher - and that's when I expected to feel flat.
Not so. Such was the fun, and so rich the memories, that still, today I feel bouyed by them. I feel happy every time I think of that loch swim, and that 1920s dinner - and even though there are, as yet, very few photos of me and Fisher, and certainly none I actually like, it doesn't make any difference. The photographs are very vivid in my mind. (And it serves us right for not having an official photographer. Friends only take photos of the things they're interested in, and that doesn't include making sure they've got lovely, flattering pics of the hostesses. Or, in some cases, any pics of the hostesses. But still I'm glad we didn't have some bearded arse marching around, ordering us about, and getting us to pose in places we might actually have gone to of our own free will had we not been forced to pose for photos. If the downside of this is not having any photographic evidence we're willing to share, then so be it.)
That, then, is that. It's done. It will not occur again.
At least, not until 2018 and our 20th (proper)/10th (nedding) anniversary ...
The day dawned bright and sunny - yet another miracle - and we headed down for breakfast.
Breakfast, in fact, turned out to be an unexpected joy. I'd spared no thought for this mundane part of the day, simply nodding and agreeing when our nedding planner mentioned that it was part of the package. What I failed to recognise was that it was, in fact, another full meal at which everyone participated, and that it was delicious. Fisher and I entered the room, saw every table all but filled with cheerful diners, and chose our places. Snowy tablecloths, sparkling cutlery, the aroma of coffee and toast ... it was marvellous. I had been about to order a boiled egg and soldiers, but seduced by the rest of my table's insistence on a full Scottish breakfast, I, too, succumbed. And I'm delighted I did. It was extremely good - salty bacon, softly herbed sausages, a poached egg, toast, coffee, fruit juice ... mmmmm. I was well set up for the day.
We all had to be out of our rooms by 11am, and if I had any criticism of Ardanaiseig it would be for the manager. His manner alternated wildly between accommodating and pissy, and while I appreciate that getting 31 adults out of their rooms in time for the hotel to become public once more is a daunting task, we were all very much 'on' it, and he had no need to remind me with a stern, patrician glare.
Everyone was out in good time, and people started enjoying the hotel for their last few hours. There were walks about the grounds, people lazed in the public rooms, and some of us decided to take the boats out. Thus I found myself in a rowing boat with Koios and Phid, giving encouragement to them both as they took it in turns to row us out onto the loch. After a shaky start, Phid took us part of the way out. I took over for a bit, then Koi had a go. It was lovely. The water was a little choppy when we cleared the banks, but nothing to concern us, and meanwhile the other boat had been commandeered by Wheeler and Spartan. They cheated and used the motor, but they had fishing rods and clearly wanted to get to the best fishing spots fast!
I do love messing about in boats. It's wonderfully tranquil, even if you are being mocked by two homoerotically repressed buddies with an outboard. Before you could say Mouse Race, time had ticked by and it was approaching the hour of Mouse Race results. We'd told everyone to gather in the yurt, and I'd instructed the manager to serve our last lunch at 1. He reminded me that we'd originally said 11.30 am, which is nonsense, but we had possibly said 12 or 12.30 - but seeing as there was no cooking involved, we'd always been told we could play it a little by ear. So play it we did, and said 1. This didn't stop him bringing all the food out at 12.30 as Fisher & I were totting up the Mouse Race points total.
"Is it going to be all right sitting out for half an hour?" I asked politely, but pointedly, at which he whined:
"Well, you said 11.30 originally, and then decided 12.30."
"I said 1," I smiled icily. At which he sulkily turned to the entourage, laden with plates of cold food, and barked: "Take it back! Take it all back!"
Wanker.
Nevertheless, Fisher and I ignored him totally and he was soon forgotten in the excitement of discovering the Mouse Race winner.
Back in the yurt, with the assembled throng on the edge of their cushions (or not), we kicked off proceedings with some bonus prizes. There was the winner of the Treasure Hunt to announce, and it was sweet to see Gemmill's little face get all big-eyed and nervous. He, aparantly, had basically dragged his team of Blarney, Wheeler and FW round the course and insisted all clues were gathered - so he was very much hoping to be the winner. So, naturally, when I announced that Gemmill's team was victorious, he raised his arms in triumph and was rewarded with a dinosaur board game. Later, he informed me it was lucky he'd won, or else an adult might have won the game and not liked it. Sage words from a 5 year old.
There was also a prize of 2 books for 'casual croquet' which went to Wrecker, who'd spent a good portion of yesterday's croquet tournament whacking his own ball about, once or twice actually getting it through a hoop, and often disrupting the tournaments by insisting on stealing balls of a more interesting colour than his own. There was also a prize for best rescue - a bottle of champagne to Fisher's Dad and Guardian - for saving Ceegar's life, and a 'pity prize' of red wine for Ceegar. Although he was always going to be given something for driving the minibus and being our MC, so the 'pity prize' thing was just to lighten the incident.
And thus - to the Mouse Race. Everyone put in an excellent showing, and with much fanfare we read out the top 8. The top 3 got prizes, and there was a definite air of tension about the place when I got to number 4. But in 3rd place, with an admirable 219 points, was Spartan. He got a book (Callum's Road, which we traversed together on Raasay) and a bottle of red. Second, tan tan ta-raaaa, was ... Protagoras! Even without swimming all the way to the island he managed to get second place through writing an epic poem and joining in absolutely everything. He managed 245 points and won a book of traditional recipes, as read about in books of your childhood like Enid Blyton, and a bottle of fizz. But the winner, by a clear margin of 48 points, was Wheeler - and to Phid's delight, the prize was a night at Hotel du Vin in Glasgow, with supper thrown in. Not breakfast, though - and not booze with supper. What can I say? I'm cheap.
Now, because we only announced the top 8 on the day, I am going to give a full list of the Mouse Race order, winner to loooosah. Ahem.
1. Wheeler, 293 points
2. Protagoras, 245 points
3. Spartan, 219 points
4. Koios, 212 points
5. Pistol, the tall fella, 202 points
6. Ceegar, 192 points
7 = Chopper, 182 points
7= Janus, 182 points
9. Champaign Charlie, 177 points
10. Meeper, 174 points
11. Silver Arrow, 152 points
12. Phidippida, 142 points
13. Guardian, 132 points (also winner of Best Rescue)
14. Lubentina, 121 points
15. Fisher's Dad, 116 (also winner of Best Rescue)
16. Badger, 102 points
17. Minstrel, 90 points
18. Brave Bird, 87 points
19 = The Boat House Contingent (i.e Ma), 80 points
19 = Sister, 80 points
19 = Gemmill, 80 points
22. Islander (who gets no points for sleeping, though he did it best), 68 points
23. Wrecker, 40 points
24. Blarney, -2 points (-100 for cheating, otherwise she would have come 17th with 98)
Those were the competitors, those were the standings, and the referees's decision is final. FINAL, I tell you.
There was much clapping and laughter, and then the announcements were over and we could all have lunch. I went to tell the kitchen they could bring it out when they were ready (avoiding snotty manager man) and then rejoined my buddies for our final chow.
It was a lovely, relaxing, fitting end to a fabulous weekend. We had strawberries (well - I didn't, as I foolishly thought I'd have them after my savouries - and they were all gone), scones, leftover cheese from the Nedding Cake of Cheese (we had this at the barbecue the night before - did I forget to mention) and little croque monsieur thingies. I think. The food is now all getting mixed up in my head. There was so much of it! And it was all so goooood! Anyway, we took our plates and sat on the lawn with our legs dangling down the slope, and chatted happily in the sunshine.
Last Moments
Gradually, people started drifting away. The Cheese Boys were eager to get on their way in their lovely JagMKII - although Spartan lingered, yakking away as is his wont. Eventually an impatient Pro and Wheeler came and picked him up between them and literally carried him away, still gossipping. We bade them farewell - and then everyone was preparing to leave. Brother and Gaura had left after breakfast in order to go to A&E and get an x-ray of Brother's eye (alas the radiologist wasn't there so Bro had to wait until he was home. He had a consultation on Friday, and I will find out how it went today). Both sets of parents were soon waving us goodbye, too - and soon it was just the minibussers, Sister & Sons and the Cheese Boarders who were left. Sister & Sons were giving Awesome a lift back to Fife, as she was staying with some friends in Crail and Sister was coming for a wee holiday with us, and to buy some goldfish for Gemmill. The minibus left with much fanfare, and soon Sister followed. The Cheese Board were set and ready to go. We jumped in the hire car, and I began to drive away.
Then the snitty manager came out and inquired as to how I would like to pay. Or did I just want it "comped"?
Sheepishly, I went inside and actually paid the bill. 15 minutes later, and I was back in the car - no longer a criminal. We drove away, and that was that. The end of it all.
But not quite. The journey back was as much part of it as anything else, as we chatted, dissected the weekend, and generally enjoyed one another's company. We dropped Phid off in Dollar, then on to Edinburgh and more chat, vows to meet up and see the Vanity Fair exhibition, and the other girls were back home. Fisher and I were alone.
But not really. Back at HC, Sister & Sons awaited us - and so did Awesome, whom we'd prevailed upon to stay the night, seeing as her Crail friends weren't back until midnight the next day. There was no time for melancholy, as the next couple of days were a whirl of boyish fun.
We went to Cairnie Fruit Farm and Gemmill made a good stab at the Mega Maze, while Wrecker attempted to control a mini digger and had a tantrum when at last taken away. Then we went swimming at East Sands Leisure Centre, and Wrecker braved the enormous inflatable walkway, only falling off and being caught by me once. The day after that, Gemmill bought his fish and the family departed, returning home on the ferry. With any luck the fish are still alive. Awesome Girl went to see her friends, but I unfortunately didn't manage to say a proper goodbye as there was a lack of communication, and Fisher failed to meet us after swimming as we'd planned.
And then there were none. It was just me and Fisher - and that's when I expected to feel flat.
Not so. Such was the fun, and so rich the memories, that still, today I feel bouyed by them. I feel happy every time I think of that loch swim, and that 1920s dinner - and even though there are, as yet, very few photos of me and Fisher, and certainly none I actually like, it doesn't make any difference. The photographs are very vivid in my mind. (And it serves us right for not having an official photographer. Friends only take photos of the things they're interested in, and that doesn't include making sure they've got lovely, flattering pics of the hostesses. Or, in some cases, any pics of the hostesses. But still I'm glad we didn't have some bearded arse marching around, ordering us about, and getting us to pose in places we might actually have gone to of our own free will had we not been forced to pose for photos. If the downside of this is not having any photographic evidence we're willing to share, then so be it.)
That, then, is that. It's done. It will not occur again.
At least, not until 2018 and our 20th (proper)/10th (nedding) anniversary ...
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