Well....

I am not sure where to start...this is a sorry tale, but I am going to share.

On the 29th of July we arrive in Chester at the end of a two week holiday/conference trip and check into the hotel. NUmber Guy had had reservations about this place but he was looking for somewhere that would be a treat for me while I stayed behind when he and his friends went walking ( This was my choice, as I really was not up to a ten mile hike). THis place had a spa...he said the hotel itself looked slightly shabby but the spa looked good. We didn't have much time to look, so we went with this one. When we were booking in a couple were complaining that their shower still was not working, despite having reported the problem in the morning.

We get our key and walk miles and miles of corridor to get to our room. Fair enough- we had asked for a quiet room. The key wouldn't work. We hiked back, miles and miles....'Are you sure?' asked the receptionist. 'No,'I said. 'we're joking'. Receptionist unimpressed, hikes back miles and miles with us and looks upon us in triumph as the new key opens the door.

The room is large, barren and cold. But very clean. Same with the bathroom. Number Guy had ordered some champagne and chocolates as a surprise. There they were- a big box of cheap chocolates, lukewarm bottle of champers sitting on the table. We go back to reception, are met with an astonished glance when we ask if a wine bucket with iced water could be provided for the champagne. We go into dinner. Complaints from diners are being fielded left, right and centre by the waiting staff. When our meal arrives it looks like someone had vomitted on Numer Guy's plate. No kidding. Mines was.... edible. We go back to the room. The champagne is in the water. We open the bottle and...clunk...the glasses together.

I was not feeling very confident about being left alone in the hotel so I decide to go out with everyone the next day. I go to bed and I slide under the covers plus extra blankets and several layers of clothes- it is cold and of course the heating doesn't work.

Breakfast next day- someone has taken the serving tongs for the eggs and burst all the yolks as the search for one which is just right. The woman in front of me sneezes all over the tomatoes. I go for some Weetabix.

We take all our valuables with us as the room has no safe. We have a lovely day with a fantastic lunch. My hip had been bothering me so D carried my rucksack (Number Guy had his) so that I could go for a walk around the lake at Delmere Forrest.

Half an hour before the end of the walk I started to feel vaguely unwell. It started in my leg muscles. I didn't say anything as my health is always a topic of conversation and even I am bored of it. By the time we finish I am feeling quite ill. It is happening so quickly I suspect flu. Number Guy has suggested finding a nice place for dinner, as we don't want to eat at the hotel. By the time we get back to Chester I am just not up to it. I suggest a supermarket visit for yoghurt and fruit. By the time we get to the supermarket (about an hour and a half after I started to feel ill) I have a fever. I go to buy a thermometer and some ibuprofen and Number Guy reluctantly levase me to get some yoghurt etc. By this time I have rigors (violent trembling/shaking associated with high temperatures). I am finding it hard to walk and I am shaking so much the store manage comes over and says I am vibrating with the shakes. I looked so ill he wanted to call an ambulance. My temperature is 38.5 (my normal temp is 36.5). I decline, Number Guy gets back and we get back to the hotel, leave most of our stuff in the room, take iPad and Laptop and go to foyer. Number Guy gets me a coffee, telling the bar staff (and incidentally other people in the bar/foyer area) our room number. I am on phone to NHS 24. After about an hour and 3 phone calls, a doctor says I need to be seen 'right now'. Because I was so unwell, we didn't go back to the room for our stuff.

I see the doctor, she says it is a urinary tract infection and told me to take the antibiotics but get back in touch if I get worse. We get back to the hotel to find our room had been burgled.

Next installment tomorrow...

Back on the horse

I have had an overlocker for more than a year but was too 'timid' to use it. When I finally remembered how to thread the thing (no mean feat, even withdiagrams/instructions), it wouldn't work properly. Turns out the solution was very simple....I needed to be more 'brutal' in putting the thread into the tension discs. Not only have I made five project bags....well, I do have rather a lot of knitting on the go at once, I made a fantastic pair of linen trousers. Well....they were fantastic eventually. You would not believe the number of basic errors that I made. The final error involved the hem. I was rather disheartened...lots of sewing hours, no wearable result. Then I had an idea...some rather lovely Amy Butler fabric was just right for some cuffs, which solved the problem. Solved it so well that some random stranger in Zürich complimented me on them :0)

Something a bit weightier than sewing has been on my mind of late. Friendship....or rather, the end thereof. When does one stop flogging a dead horse? How can one determine if said steed is dead? This isn't 'all about me'..well, it is, but I don't mean it in ' I am the most important person in the universe' kind of way. Other people have lives, sometimes very hectic ones. Sometimes they have much more important things to do than contact me. That's fine. I usually try to keep in touch anyway, keep the link open. But what happens when they are in touch with what seems to be the whole world and not me? At what point are they thinking,'FFS, Twelfthknit, can you not take a hint? YOu have emailed me/messaged me/etc and I.have.Not.Replied. TAKE A HINT!!' !! What do I do? Do I keep trying, keep sending messages? How do I know when there is a hint to be taken? I don't want to be friends with someone who wishes I would fuck off, on the other hand, I don't want to be a 'fairweather friend'. Sigh. At the moment I have taken a few people off my mental 'friends' list. It makes me sad, but I am getting to the point where I feel a right silly arse contacting them .

On a cheerier note, we ar off to Cyprus for a family wedding tomorrow (so why am I blogging and not packing, I ask myself).

Writing group

We have the very first meeting of our writing group tomorrow. The task was to write about a couple in a shop buying a bed. But what they are discussing isn't really the bed, it's about some issue in their relationship/some argument that they have been having. Of courese, I have left my offering to the last minute. Here is what I have written so far, in its raw state, no revision:

The Goldilocks Bed

The Goldilocks Bed

‘And how can I help you both on this bright, sunny day?’
‘Got a knife, so I can cut my throat?’ muttered Sally..
‘Erm..sorry, I didn’t quite catch that...’
‘Oh don’t mind my wife,’ said Hal in a jocular tone.’She’s just kidding,aren’t you darling?’

Sally smiled brightly, trying to ignore Hal’s hand clasped none-too lightly around her upper arm. There would be a bruise later, for sure.
‘What we’re after,’ said Hal, with that same forced jocularity, ‘Is, quite simply, a bed.’
‘^Darling, don’t you mean The Goldilocks Bed?’

Alan, 18, barely shaving, palms growing sticky and throat just a tad dry, glanced from one to the other.
‘I, I don’t think I follow you.’
‘Why young man, it’s perfectly simple. We want The Perfect Bed. Not too hard, not too soft, not too wide, not too narrow. Isn’t that right, darling? In fact, it must be Just. Right. We wouldn’t want it clashing with the carpet, it mustn’t look out of place amongst the...
‘Yes, yes, Sally. I think young....Alan, is it? Has the idea.’

Sally smiled sweetly again, although ‘young Alan’ thought he detected the slightest hint of, well, not malice, but something.....edgy.

‘...........and this is the same model, but King size...’
Sally smirked. Flicked at the side of her skirt. Clasped her hands neatly in front. Stole a glance at her watch. Gazed distractedly around the showroom.
‘I think you’ll find, young Alan, that you've shown us this before. Twice.’

Alan stumbled over an apology. Sally waved it away.
‘It’s OK,’ she said in a conspiratorial tone. ‘I expect that before this day is out, we will have seen all of the beds several times over. And what’s the betting that we end up with the first? If we’re lucky.......’

Orange Prize 2011. Grace Williams Says it Out Loud.

The Orange Prize for Fiction Longlist was recently released, so I am hunkering down again in a bid to read my way through it.

I am finding this quite the challenge....the carbamazapine has really messed with my concentration and I find it really hard to actually absorb that which I have read. But...onwards and upwards.

Grace Williams....is a hard story to read. Or I found it so. I thought it was well-written and believable. Believable is why I found it so hard. Set in the middle part of the 20th Century, it recounts the story of Grace, sent to an asylum when she was 11 - a doctor having decided it was best, damaged as she was at birth and subsequently by polio. But Grace and her companions are not the dumb animals that the staff assume them to be and what follows is a rich, and frequently brutal, account of her life 'inside', in particular with a young man called Daniel. In many ways this reminds me of what I can recall of Skallagrig, which I read many years ago.

I am sure that some people may think that the brutalities and abuse handed out in the book were over-stating the case.I don't think so, not for one minute.

Reducing meds.

On absolutely no advice from my doctor I have reduced my carbamazapine by 100mg daily. Last week the crazy itch that I have been having returned with enough ferocity to drive me tothe walk-in clinic at the station. Itching like that can be an indicator of liver problems, always a possibility with this drug. One of my results wasn't great but bilirubin levels were normal, and it is apparently bilirubin that causes the itch. That meant it was the drug itself driving me up the wall, not a side-effect. Anyway, a rash decided to join the itch. I am waiting to hear frommy doctor and hoping that this decrease does not leave me open to another seizure.

in the meantime I havebeen gently enjoying Salzburg. And by that I mean I have pottered about, eaten Sacher Torte, drunk coffee, had brunch and generally was not much of a tourist. The first couple of days were gorgeous and I pottered around the old town. The last two have been very, erm, Scottish in terms of wind and rain. I thought about doing a tour, visitng the 'must-see' places but other health issues were intruding so I just pulled back.

here are a few links to the Mirabell Gardens, which I spoke about above. They are from previous years.


Garden


Garden


Garden

Creative (?) writing

A club I'm a member of is running a week of workshops- all sorts of things from singing to cooking to fire-work ceramics. One of them was Creative Writing, which I thought I would give a go. The class was very enjoyable. One of the exercises was to think of an object and write about it. Three things had to be accomplished within the writing - tell the reader: what the object was; what it could see;how old it was.

Here's my contribution:

Yeah, I know, everyone says babies' bottoms are cute. But look at it from my point of view, will ya? It's all I get to see, day in, day out. And I know some of y'all are into body piercing, and that's fine- if it's a matter of choice. Any idea how it feels, waiting for the stab of that pin? They say hard and fast gets it over with, but I shudder every time.

And that's not the worst. No, I don't mean that. I can cope with the pee and the shit. I can cope with going through it all with the third child, even though my looks are fading and I'm getting a bit worn. The real torture is the wash cycle. Apparently water boarding is illegal now. Try telling that to Jimmy's mum....

sigh

Ich habe ein Stein in meinem Hertz. Am Morgen, faerht meinen Sohn zurück nach Schottland.