33a) Bachelorette Brexit Island (in the Jungle)

Sorry about the tease.  We had a thunderstorm and just at the most inopportune moment, the power went off, I lost connection to the internet and all my words fucking well ghosted off to the cloud, heaven or hell, with all the single socks and my foul language filter.  Or wherever those things go.

Alrighty.  I have now installed a fancy editor in which to type my blog, thus providing mitigation for monumental fuck ups.  So today I am going to talk about fatigue.  Again.  Not for you but me.  So fatigue.  Tiredness.  Generally feeling worn out and knackered.  Imagine that your body is like a mobile phone.  You use it all day, and then recharge it at night.  It starts off at 100% for the next day, and away you go.  Add in a few apps, and they start to drain the power, but it goes on ok, charging up every night.  When you are lucky enough to receive the gift of cancer from the cosmos, then this begins to interfere with the battery.  The usual apps that you have running like family life*, bills to pay*, and work (*in app purchases required) use some of your battery.  Adding in Cancer 2.0, which systemically tries to erase the operating system from within, also loads in numerous malware such as Stress, Worry, Will I die soon, Finance the Family After You’ve Gone and I Don’t Give a Shit About Anything Else at the Moment (enhanced version).  These apps drain the battery some more.  There’s worse to come as test after test, scan after scan, doctors waiting room (hyper edition), and associated travelling all begin to take a toll on the ability of the battery to recharge.  You end up with a battery that’s being drained faster than it ever has done before, and a battery that is not as good as it was when it was new.  Day after day you are unplugged from the charging station just that little bit too early.  99% at first, but then you’re on zero by then end of the day.  98% the next day, and so on.  I reckon I was at about 85% when I left work.  The week off I had before the op got me back up to 90%.  The older and more decrepit you are, the less the number, one would tend to assume.  Have a nice long six hour upside down surgery and you plop out the conveyor at about 70%.  Sit at home for a while and you don’t feel too bad.  A couple of weeks doing nothing you feel great.  Then BAZINGA, you try to resume normal duties and it hits you like a train.

Last week a typical day would involve waiting for the family to dissipate away to school.  Then I had access to an unimpeded shower without someone fannying around with the taps and affecting my flow.  Emerge, nice and clean, from the bathroom to confronted with a crime scene.  We’ve been burgled.  Wait, no, not true, it’s just the normal detritus from a family breakfast time.  I’ll have my own morning feast, tidy up the mess, have a quick look on FB and my emails, then a rudimentary tidy up of the rest of the house.  Next up morning walk.  Most days I will make it to the cafe and write a bit of blog.  Wander home, and it’s nearly time for wifey to return from her vocational hobby.  I mean work.  Sorry.   It’s time for wifey to finish her four hour day.  I have a nice steaming cup of English Breakfast ready for return.  Every day! I know right…lovely, aren’t I?  We’ll discuss our days.  How someone chucked a few books around and pulled some kids hair for her, how many times I managed to piss a squirt in my Tena’s and , and more importantly, under what circumstances.  I try, usually in vain, to tempt her with a bit of afternoon delight.  I’m more likely to get Angel Delight, but every once in while, in the name of rehab, I might try and force some life into the crap chipolata sausage, that currently serves as a poor reincarnation of my once majestic appendage.  Then the kids start to arrive home.  A bit of banter, discussion, and help with the evening meal, and before you know it, there’s time for an hour or so of evening tv. 

Reality evening tv.  I am forced to watch series after series of inane crap.  The Bachelor.  What a pile of steaming horse…radish.  A bloke, who despite being pretty stylish and good looking, for some reason can’t manage to locate himself a hot lass to shack up with.  He trots across our screen to choose from a dozen or so outwardly good looking ladies.  Unfortunately, they have a tendency to be a bunch of “fame” seeking narcissistic two faced bitches, which is probably why they don’t have a dude in the first place.  Who cares?  Not me.  Pick one and fuck off.  In fact, just fuck off because the last series, after god knows how many long weeks of misery I endured, he didn’t even choose one at all.  He told them all to do one.   Then there’s Survivor.  A load of wankers delivered to an island.  It would be best for all humanity if they then handed control to Kimmy, to practice with his rockets.   No, they play devious little two faced games until finally one wins something or other, and the others gain just enough D grade celeb status to be asked the go to the jungle.  A lot of people I’ve never heard of sitting around a fire moaning and backstabbing, hysterically completing modestly dangerous tasks such as consuming food that aborigines have been eating for 5000 years.  Married at First sight.  Worse still.  Some twats are allocated a spouse based on things they like and therefore potential compatibility, but they don’t meet until the wedding day.  The calibre of the guests is the main issue, along with the clueless dick-nuts who pair them together.  Last time some middle aged hippy chick wanted a clean cut massive Polynesian hunk, to sweep her off her feet and take her to the fresh clean air of the islands.   She got a chain smoking short dude from Sydney, but they had a Polynesian themed wedding, so that was ok for her.  It didn’t work out.   Blind Date.  OMFG.  This could be the death knell for Channel 10.  Julia Morris does her best but that show is so bad, it is virtually good.  No one is even blind for start.  They can all see!  Cilla Black (UK national icon) did the original in the UK, and it was a lorra lorra laughs, with Cilla and our Graham.  This pales in comparison.  In this day and age, why on earth would there be a need?  However, in saying that last night was pretty good.  Three gay blokes sat behind the screen for another gay fella to pick from.  A bit of cheating was going on as the three contestants were outrageously flirting with each other, giving the blind contestant a disadvantage.  I think it’s safe to say everyone went home happy that night.  And a part of conservative Australia hopefully choked on their own bile.  The piece de resistance of realty tv – Bride and Prejudice.  Wow just wow.  Where on Gods sweet earth do they find such bigoted deluded people?  The premise is that a couple are getting married and one set of parents don’t like the idea because the couple are either gay, too young, one’s too old, one’s a feminist, and the others have been gambling lying cheating shits.  How can people go on telly and tell others that they will roast in hell, because women shouldn’t lie with women?  And then show their face in public.  One mother had perfected an art of sitting with a face like a slapped arse for the whole series, with only a marginal change to look like a bulldog chewing a wasp when she spoke to her apparently slutty daughter-in-law to be.  Genius.  Now it’s done they have to carry on their lives as a pantomime villain in real life.    I really feel that people would be interested in a new direction, and I am happy to present my new idea.  Bachelorette Brexit Island in the Jungle.  Boris Johnson and his cronies have to attempt to woo Theresa May and Angela Merkel, via series of fiendish ninja warrior and bush tucker trials.  The winner getting to join Theresa and Angela and clone a new half blood prince of Europe from their own DNA, who will bring together the various sparring factors with an It’s a Knockout style tournament, culminating in a jolly good sing song at the end.  With Australia thrown in for good measure.  Entry should be mandatory and surely people will pay to see Rees-Mogg eagerly guzzling a pair of kangaroo testicles in order to get one over the PM.  And how about Gove and a wombat penis?

Oooooo.  So very sorry.  Waaaay off track there.  Still, to me, it’s therapy.  Better out than in. Let’s get back in to things.  So I tried to do some lawn mowing the other day.  My kindly neighbour had been doing our front lawn for the last couple of weeks, directly contravening one of my self issued commandments of living.  Number 7- never mow an other man’s lawn.  It’s served me well, and probably spared me a beating in the distant past.  I put my long sleeved rashie on, and my super large luxurious sombrero to stop me burning to a crisp, and away I went.  26 minutes of wandering around the garden, looking like a giant robot vacuum to the police helicopter above.  No grass catcher because I’m not allowed to lift of push heavy things.  And then that was it.  I was done.  Knackered.  Spent.  I abandoned the mower, and slunk inside to the comfort of the air conditioning, a cornetto and Antiques Roadshow.  I awoke some time later when the dog began to crunch on the cone, having already licked the ice cream from the sofa and my chest. 

I had a message from work the other day because there’s some sort of mix up with my pay whilst I’m off.  I was at a higher grade before I left, and payroll want to pay all my leave at the higher rate, both sick and long service- certainly seems generous.  The sick is the time off sick.  The LSL is more family time and to cover all eventualities, like having a UTI, but mainly to spend time with the family, and cover any potential radiation therapy in January.  Either a celebratory holiday or a months radiation.  The kids need time with their family to escape from what has been a shitty month.  Anyway, the mix up raised the potential of having to go back to work.  Eeek!  I could perhaps manage a little shift, as long as I don’t fall asleep driving there.  But then my tired and not quite right concentration parts could leave me in a coroners court and my patient in a casket.  I would have to say, I certainly wouldn’t feel ready to get back into the swing of things just yet from a work perspective, whatever the medics suggest.  So fatigue, is my current hurdle, and I would say to anyone out there please recognise it, and if you can, take the rest.  In other news,  I’m pain free most of the time now, apart from the antibiotic induced bellyache, and whenever I bend over for any reason.  Even the dull lower abdominal burning has improved over the last day or so, so hopefully the pseudomonas aeruginosa has finally said adiosa!  Urine test tomorrow morning to find out.  Fingers crossed.

 

Oh, if you wish to comment on the blog, please do so.  I have turned off the request for an email.  The box is still there, but you can leave it blank.  Please use a name though, else I have no fucking clue who you are!

 

4 thoughts on “33a) Bachelorette Brexit Island (in the Jungle)

  1. I’m loving your blog! Sorry this is happening to you, but you’re such an inspiration! Thankyou for sharing your story. I get more excited when receiving the email notification you have made a post, then I do at the announcement of the next season of Game of Thrones! Best wishes, until the next time 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. You’re a brilliant writer Stefan, don’t stop. Good to hear you’re feeling a bit better and the pain has (almost) gone. The fatigue might take a while longer, but it’ll go eventually. Well, mostly anyway. The bastards told me to exercise to counter the fatigue – like that’s gonna help. Turned out they were right, the know-alls. Maybe not too much just yet though, wait till you’re all healed up. I did like the sound of Rees-Mogg feasting on kangaroo testicles and Gove a wombat penis.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Lol Stef, fuck mowing the lawn get this blog viral with ads!!
    Probably won’t beat enhanced pay leave but would probably pay for some other mug to mow for you!!
    Back in the good old UK that mug is me in our family !! I’d do it for a tenner😂
    Really good to hear the pain has gone . Up yours with the hobby joke! Lol I hope Katy battered you.
    You need bloody Duracell enhanced batteries to work with kids, both for yourself and the guzzling SATS machines.
    All fingers crossed for you being in the 60% survivor camp for cured urine infection, if only for the fact I’d miss your blog😂😂❤️

    Liked by 1 person

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