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AS I TYPED INSTANT MEMORIES…
Starting with Nelson Cigarettes,
I stopped smoking when they went up to 3/6!
Packs of ten, up to 1/9d, I went to the chemist,
To get something, to stem my baccy addiction,
Lozenges & tablets cost me a fortune!
I’d run out of them by later that afternoon,
Polo mints were cheaper, so I bought a carton,
A week later, off to the dentist in Carlton,
I still needed to stop my baccie attraction…
I overate and increased my aggression,
For unknown reasons, I suffered constipation,
Alcohol was not an acceptable substitution,
I tried nibbling carrots, dipped in vinegar,
My skin went Orange, the doc called it carotenemia,
It took me yonks to beat my addiction,
I could take months was the Doctor’s prediction,
Offering me  tablets, a sort of antidepressant,
The pangs eventually lessened,
I was again feeling benignant,
Regained control, became again complaisant,
But it cost me my body, growing so corpulent!

STUCK IN THE LIFT ON A SUNDAY!
It could happen to anyone, any day,
This day it was the turn of Inchy…
He pressed the alarm button quickly,
Noticed his catheter bag filling promptly,
He hoped the engineer would get there speedily,
His innards rumbled; his bowels may self-empty!
The lift cage shook as it inched up, jerkily…
T’was the fire Brigade, his mobile did tinkle
The voice sounded like he was using a swozzle,
His hearing aid batteries died. What a muddle!
Heard nothing, but thought I might be in trouble,
Instructions being given were inscrutable,
And his catheter bag was now so very, very full!
The inching the lift up, at this rate, it would be April…
Before I’d be rescued, thinking irrationally, silly,
Hours later came the shaming… it was terrible,
They got the lift door open, 2ft of space available,
To physically pull my mass up, all they could do,
Then leant in, and dragged me up and through…
To the flat I almost flew,
Emptied the catheter, what a phoo!
Trotsky Terence’s evacuation, which was well overdue,
Needed to thank whoever lifted me out of the lift, though,
Nice chap, his name was Angelino.
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I was busier overnight than I’ve been in years.
I think I addressed this in the last blog; I nearly bored you with more of the same. Phew! The amount of sleep I got is easy-peasy to work out.
Zilch, None, Zero, Ninguno, Keiner, Dim, Nessuno! 

Falling to sleep now! Huh!

Decent colour

What an ablutioning and medicalisationing visitation this morning. Go wrongable? It did! Huh!
I got some soapy, disinfected water in the bowl without any . Then the need for the Porcelain Throne arrived in a bit of a hurry… !!!
A controlled evacuation, which exited at the speed of a torpedo, followed by the usual splurty detritus. Cleaning it up with all the bending needed gave new life & vigour to and . It also took me that long to clean up, so that the water in the bowl had gone cold. No problem, you say? Just empty it and refill it, you say? Well, it was for me! I made a right mess dropping the bowl as I was tipping it into the sink. I didn’t clean it up; my EQ told me not to bother. As I was refilling it with a jug from the sink tap, the jug shot out of my neurotic grip and joined the cold, disinfected water on the floor! Of course, I just laughed this off and tucked into the painful job of mopping up and drying the floor and mats. (Huh!) 
Then, refilled the bowl with the same things and started to have a shave. (Yes, the blood flowed freely, but not voraciously!) Then, the door chime rang out, and Carer Manpreet came in. There I was, starkus, with blood streaming down my head… I had to ask Manpreet to pass me a pair of PPs as I’d run out of them in the wet room. Which she did. I was given the medications, and Manpreet cleaned the wound on my right hand where I’d trapped it in a kitchen drawer the other day. The feet seemed a lot less filled with oemeba fluids, but they soon refilled again as the day went on… and on, and on. I may not sound happy this morning, there are a few reasons for that. Losing Carer Joe, being the main one. As soon as Manpreet departed, I scurried back into the wet room to continue finishing the shaving.
Of course , the water for washing the feet had gone cold again!
As is my way, I carefully emptied the bowl and refilled it without incident.
I knew I shouldn’t have fallen into a state of smugness. As I began to finish shaving, I’d forgotten about the cuts earlier and swiftly added to the total. Which, as Carer Manpreet had said earlier, added to about twelve. Not now, it’s now sixteen, as far as I can gather. These, along with the three in gash from the other day, make me want to take the advice of Tim Price, and go ‘caveman!’

To the medication of the body’s various departments in need. I started with what I would usually leave till last. Little Inchies fungal lesion ointmentating. I was trying to be careful with the dropper… but dropped it! What a Plonker! It is only a tiny bottle, but all the liquid flowed away on the floor before I could get down to retrieve it… Banging my hand wound on the corner of the floor cabinet! I wiped it and put some Germolene on the thenar space this time, with a plaster. A good job; I keep some medications in stock for emergencies, just in case of any accidental injuries, falls, or walking into a door. Tsk!
Then they were cleaned, creamed and treated.

As far as here, and could do nothing for hours. Made infinitely worse because each bout from brought me back to semi-reality. And I couldn’t concentrate enough to do anything!
It was nearly going bonkers. I may have had a few times when returning to life, recovery took longer each time. Late in the night, the Seizures faded.

I made a meal ASAP in case the seizures returned.

MEAT FEAST TONIGHT

Carer Mizra came as I was washing the pots.
This evening view caught his eye.

I settled in after washing the pots and sat in the second-hand, charity shop-bought recliner that was £300, broken down, with a catheter tube crunching, dried blood-covered, grotty, dirty, and creaking frame, and fell asleep while watching the box. I stayed in it, as the Seizures and Colin Cramps had not bothered me, and might do if I got up to climb into the bed: Cunning, eh?

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May your Woes Weaken, & your Mojo Grow!
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