Day: 6 December 2025

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Welcome to Inchie Today. As per, I’ve suffered so many mistakes and faux pas today, I don’t think I can recall them all, and don’t even feel up to it. Endless problems unsolved, and I can’t envisage them ever being solved or sorted. Depression like never before. Amazon tell me they have delivered my order – they did. But instead of getting two flat hats and six packets of Bombay sauce, I got two bottles of carpet shake and freshen thingies with some sort of implement wrapped between them. There was no name or address on the box or the clear plastic wrapping on the carpet reshener. Huh! Now I have to find someone to help show me how to inform Amazon. Like most Oligarchs, they make it hard to complain about anything to them. 
My heart is not in it today, for the first time ever. I thought surely today I could have a rest from the constant flow of problems. No!

The day started with the same ailments and confusion that the last six days have, and Dark Darius came on after I’d taken these two, not-so-bad shots of the moon this morning. This quality would usually have cheered me up, but the feeling of hopelessness, frustration, and, as I said, Depression clung like glue as one failure, mistake, or accusation after another harassed me. I fear feeling like this has brought on a new aspect; I’m thinking of how to express it. Well, I suppose I’ve just given up. Now, shave, shower or wash, and cannot be bothered. I don’t want food; a dejection lingered all day, but late on, when the Amazon incident happened, I reached a new depth of hopelessness. I pray things change soon, attitude-wise. I’m a little like a zombie. I’ll keep trying. But genuinely fear the way I am unbelievably low, at this moment.

Too many things are going wrong with no help or hope of anything changing; well, they might get worse, but not any easier to cope with. Medically, all those promises of help given to me in the hospital came to zilch. Thinking back to this week’s cock-ups made me feel even worse. Two failures to get to the wet room on time. I’ve still not got that cleaned up after them. The Carers’ one extended visit a week has been used up with one helping me get to the dentist, next week the opticians. The laundry has been done, but it came back wet. Further shame: the times I’ve not closed the catheter tap properly… or may have caught it on something, I don’t know. They think, and say it is simple, closing a loose valve, and just say “Just make sure it’s closed properly”. Which sounds smug to me. 

This week has seen me leave the hot water tap running and the water getting cold, on 5 or six days. Twice on Tuesday. So, I have an excuse not to have a shave and shower? And my BO must be bad now. It’s not like a High Horis event, when I get the ‘Sod-em-all’ attitude at all. It’s more severe, worse. I know what I’m doing and just can’t muster the interest to do owt – never been like this before in my life. All I create is self-hatred and loathing for being so pathetic. It’s like I’m sinking.

It’s like when I can’t find something or recall names and dates. But not when you have Peripheral Neuropathy. I lose the sense of touch quite often, particularly this week gone by. I’ve dropped countless items; the ones I remember that caused me even more bother were dropping the slow cooker bowl when taking it to the kitchen sink to clean. Not only did it land on my ingrowing toenail, but the leftover food spilt down my legs, one leg strapping, undersocks and into my slipper.
Tuesday, I think it was, I could not let go of a mug of tea with my right hand; it’s usually that one. And while going to stand over the sink, kicked off. I knocked some things off of the draining board and hit  the under-the-sink cupboard door that I’d left open.
Then, of course, there was this week’s tumble. That may have been my fault as I got up too quickly, and went down, gratefully via the c1966, £300 Oxfam charity shop-bought, wincingly grotty, beige-coloured, crumb-covered from my nocturnal nibblings, itch-making, uncomfortable, positively unhealthy, and dangerous, no longer operational, virus-breeding, easy-to-fall-out-of, Catheter-tube-trapping recliner.
An ambulance was called, and a delivery driver helped me back onto my feet. The ambulance was cancelled.
Call from the nurses, the ambulance is back on, but it will take about 4 hours to get here.
So, I got things ready, the trolley out of the balcony, filled the box with nibbles and NHS paperwork, dressed and waited. A cardiac nurse phoned for a Q&A session. Ambulance cancelled. Two hours later, an ambulance arrived. Argh!
Did all the tests, and left a report, and let me stay at home. And now, days later, I’ve still got stuck in the wet room.
Indeed, when we could not find the INR dosage sheet, and three of us searched all over, a Carer yesterday remembered that I put it in the walker box in the medical folder when we went to the opticians, and he retrieved it. Yahoo! Blaming me for forgetting where it was. Blamed me! Hahaha!

Then there have been two loose valve catheter leakages. Today’s leak soaked one foot, night shirt, socks, leg straps and slippers. And the bloody carpet again. Luckily, a Carer came as I’d gingerly got a bowl with hot water and Dettol to wash my feet. Thanks, mate. Now I’ve got all the extra laundry to do. Slippers and khagoule socks to be handwashed and air-dried. I’ll never get caught up. Bending and stretching bring on the dizzies and loss of balance.
I pray someone in the medical world reads this blog. Then again, I’m not interested, just guilty of giving up. But I’ve taken some photos, so I’m going to put them on, and they might prompt the old battered memory box. I can’t believe I’m writing this pathetic, mardiness-ridden rubbish. I might be unknowingly inspiring myself by reading it back and pulling my socks up. That’s another problem: I can’t get my own socks on. I can get the socks off sometimes, but usually end up tearing them with the picker-upperer.

A Carer arrived as I was typing this, the last call of the day. And I felt a little better in myself. I got this updated on Saturday morning.

Second view photo.

Third view photo.

Fourth view photo.
The rain started.

4-Wheeled Walker Walker,
still in the wetroom.

Multi-Tasking.
Computer & TV.

Handwashed the wee-wee’d on
Gown and socks, slippers
went in the laundry basket…
AGAIN!

End car park.

Teatime sky, lovely!

Tasty Nosh!

At the end of the day.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Down, but not out!
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
What don’t I worry about?
Well, basically, nowt…
Starmer? Well, there’s a doubt,
Death? Prepared to rinthereout,
My successes? Add up to nought,
I have a metaphorical walkabout…
When ailments let me get out,
Help & sanity? I keep a lookout…
Locally, visually hereabout,
My brain gets the odd brownout,
Seizures; limbs go on a gadabout,
After-effects? An acrid gaseous eruct,
I’m used to them now, so no freakout!
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

TTFNski!