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TUESDAY 13th OCTOBER 2026
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0525hrs: I woke up, smelled myself, and got up without any delay and went to the wet room. No, no, no! I’d not poo’d myself; I just noticed I had bad B.O.
I also noticed I had regrowth on my chest & a bulging tummy of freckles and tiny 
bursting pimples. The Carer took a snap of them later.
Then the call to the Porcelain Throne developed, with an added gurgling rumble; so I had to move quickly!
Emptying the pouch, I saw the dreaded signs of another bladder flow-back coming.
More of furry bits of the blasted Prostate, which tells me problems are brewing.
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Banged into the ottoman on the way back to the front room. Another bruise on the knee, and the scab from the previous knocking into or over something.
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PROBLEM ONE: I got 3 emails saying the Catheter contraption spares are to be delivered today. With the intercom still not working and no signs of it being done, I decided I had to go 
down yet again to the lobby to await its arrival at the start of the two-hour window given to me. So, I did! (Old photo used), since I didn’t take the camera.
After and short wait, the van arrived. The driver was not in a good mood – my EQ advised me to be kind to him; he was definitely tense over something. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to; I got his vibes, poor chap. Back up in the flat, he put the box in the doorway; I thanked him and shot off.
PROBLEM TWO: I foolishy bent down to lift the box, and took it through and onto the bed, for the next Carer to sort out for me. As I bent again to place the box on the bed, Snap! My back went! The agony continued for several hours before the blessed snapping-back into position came while I was sitting on the loo! I can’t complain; this is the first time it’s gone in… well, at least 6 months, if not longer.
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Ejaz came and checked the contents: nocturnal pouches and day pouches, both with T-tap closures, day bag straps and Catheter top strap. Insert the tubes and vital pain-gel into Little Inchie before inserting the new tube, or when changing the whole contraption. I think they now realise and expect, as I do, that I’m going to get flowback agony again and need it released more often than ever. I think the fluffy bit coming out in the urine is because it’s bound to block it again eventually. I cringe at the thought of the pain I get when this happens.
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PROBLEM THREE: I wanted to call the Surgery to say the INR Warfarin test was not done yesterday. I also wanted to speak with them about the text message saying I have to go to the Surgery or hospital to have it done tomorrow and that I must take a Carer with me. I wanted to explain the problems with taxi costs, Carer costs, and that I can’t get extra calls without a few days’ notice anyway (Basically).
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I emailed Jenny about my problem. (She’s so knowledgeable, and I always ask her for guidance, which she gives freely 💗.) She advised me to email the Surgery. So, I did!
I bothered Jenny again, and she gave me links to find out why the message was blocked. I clicked…
Ah, now I know. Thanks, Jenny💜
Found this at the bottom of the page…
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BOOKING AN APPOINTMENT if you dare!
Couldn’t Be Simpler (I lie!)
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CONFUSING PROBLEM FOUR: Still unsolved.
Complicated too. A phone call: I received it from the Doctor’s Surgery. They said they had arranged a COVID injection, gave me a date, and they would do it at the flat. Great so far… It got me in a tizzy when she added, “We couldn’t arrange yesterday’s Warfarin INR blood test.”
“So you will have to come into the surgery, or go to the QMC hospital to have it taken”.
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I was stunned. A semi-panic started to grow.
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Then, in the early evening, I got another call from the Surgery. They asked if the Carer was there. I told her she’d just missed him. Asked me to make sure they ring the Surgery in the morning; it is important. I said I would.
But of course, I might forget. So I wrote on the whiteboard: “Carer: Please ring Surgery this morning”. Well, he might see it; it’s written big enough.
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I detected a lot of furry bits of Prostate when I emptied the day bag. Not a self-assuring thing to find. I must pass this on to the District Nurses when they come.
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I was getting irritable with things and myself. It’s a bloody good thing that I had no idea what was about to happen tomorrow. Although, with my luck, does it matter?
I gave up on starting this blog. I was so fed up, frustrated 
, and greatly depressed. Not to mention how tired and confused I was of today’s events. I turned of the computer and went into the kitchenette to make a meal.
My version of a vegetable curry. I put a can of ready-made veg curry (J. Sainsburies) in the pan. I added a tin of garden peas, then some chopped water chestnuts.
I found a carrot in the fridge, sliced it very thinly, and added it to the pot. Seasonings added: mild curry powder, soy sauce and a splash of teriyaki sauce.
Fingers crossed. 🤞🏼
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I emailed Jenny back, and while the meal was cooking, I took the boxes with the padding to the waste chute. Coming back to the flat, my right leg gave way without any warning (shaking) or time to prepare. But no bother, I threw myself in the corner of the recessed lift doors, and avoided going down on the hard floor or having to press my wristlet alarm. Mind you, they wouldn’t have heard me anyway at that distance. The bigger bonus was not going to the hospital to be ignored, then mauled. Plus, 
no damage to the Catheter or leaking! Yes, a bit of good luck there! No doubt! Back limpingly to the flat, and took a snap of the view from the kitchen window
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Then, tucked into the meal nice and early. Slurp!
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Carer Prem arrived as I was washing the pots. A good lad. He removed my diabetic socks, fetched the torch which had had its solar panel in the kitchen window through the day. Got it in my dressing gown pocket. Asked if I’d eaten, pain killers given, and did a Catheter check.
Took this Snap of the same angle as the earlier one. I’m not getting on with these new Kodaks, disappointed.
Then I got things ready to sit down and put on the TV. 💤
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My mind wandered back to the last QMC Visit.
My Catheter was getting blocked every 2 weeks. District nurses are finding it harder and harder to get back in; the pain increases with each attempt. On the last try, they could not get it back in, and the bladder was filling and, oh, so painful. I was told that this is a medical emergency (as if I didn’t know). I had to go to QMC A&E. I had to get a taxi to A&E for future blockages. More spending, reducing my dwindling funds. Jenny said it costs about £15 each way. I had to go to QMC straight away. Carer Ejaz was in the flat and got me dressed.
Got me in the taxi; off I went alone. I had to use coins to make up the £30. Traffic lights out, roadworks… it cost me £25.40 just getting there, so I didn’t have enough dosh to get back. At the A&E, I booked in. The receptionist looked up my details and asked, “Which Carer is with you, Ejaz or Mirza?” I told her neither, as this was a medical emergency, and I can’t produce a Carer with 15 minutes’ notice. I couldn’t afford one anyway. “Why do you pay for them?” I had no answer.
I sat down. I was called for a BP and Q&A session by a kind nurse, then sat down again. Eventually, a man came out to collect me, and I waited in another waiting room. Signed in and sat down. Then the most embarrassing thing happened: the fungal lesions on the penis started spraying urine and blood into my PP’s, and I could feel it going down my legs into my shoes. I’d taken a roll of kitchen towels and tried to hide in a corner while I stemmed the flow. I asked an attendant where the WC was. She said if I left now, I might miss my call. I quickly explained my problem. Told me the WC was near the Q&A entry doors where I came in.
I struggled with the walker through the corridors, sweating and fearing the blockage and leak might take me over. Got to the bog, found it unoccupied, and went straight in. The floor was completely covered in an inch-deep liquid; there was no soap, no toilet rolls and no paper towels.
Hobbled back to the room I was in, got lost en route, recovered, and the attendant told me I’d missed my call, to sit down again and wait. The urine was still trickling out, and I’d used all of my kitchen roll, as a Doctor came out & called my name.
He took out the old-fashioned Catheter and tried twice to insert the new hooked one, but failed. This boded badly for the future. He got on his phone, then took me through the corridors to another room and a medic, a Mr Someone. He was just getting his coat on to go home, so was not exactly in a jovial mood. Even he took twice as long to get the tube back in. He shot off. Apart from telling me not to let the sticky pod which held the new tube array on my leg come off. No tips on whether or when there was a schedule change, when maintenance visits would happen, or what types of pouches I should use. I felt a little uncared for. But that soon changed when I hobbled back to the big waiting area with my walker; by a bit of good luck, I spotted the lady who took my BP six hours ago when I arrived,t and gave her a quick version of my problems, including not having enough money for a taxi. She said I’ll be back in a minute; take a seat. (I did a lot of seat-taking that day) She returned to tell me she had arranged a lift for me. Minutes later, lift drivers came and put me into an ambulance. Being put in first indicated I was going to be dropped off last. Thanks to the kind nurse, I got a free late lift home. Bless her 💜 after about nine hours overall being out of the flat.
I printed this again. Hehehe! Sorry.
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Stayed up until 03:00hrs to get this done
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Carer Edward
Inchie: Friday 2nd October 2026
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A FEW WORDS PROLEGOMENOUSLY
I managed six hours of sleep! But it came in fits and starts. Just one seizure that put an end to any clarity of thought for a good while; then it was the return of pains from my Coccyx. The cause remains a mystery. If I’d been shaking during the seizure, or even had a tremendously rare wandering unknowingly about seizure, this could account for the agony from my back when I decided to give up on sleep and voluntarily moved; It could also account for why, when I woke up, I found a wound on my right inner knee. It looked fresh and damp, and was very tender to the touch. I made up my mind not to be a whimp over a few aches and pains, and planned to check the kitchen safety-wise, make a brew of Glenfettie or 99 teabags, and get in the wetroom after drinking it, for a good sink-side scrub-up and shave.
I went into the kitchen and found I’d left the hot water tap (faucet) running stone-cold water! After a lengthy self-cursing session, I got seated on the Porcelain Throne. Solid mini torpedoes, but far fewer of them this time. Don’t think I needed a Senna tablet, in case it prompts the usual conspitation/trots routine to return.
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I got on the computer to catch up on my blogging. I did a decent job over the day, but I’m still miles behind on blogging and have no time for WP reading or reading and replying to comments. I don’t care how late I have to stay up; I’ll do my bestest.
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Carer edifiedless Edward arrived. I talked him into Phorpain-gelling my back & shoulders. Then getting my socks fitted. He spotted the knee injury and took some photographs of the battered-looking state of my 
poor-pins.
The wound, well, the injury, well, the scrape, along with a few I must have got when I did whatever I did to get them. Seeing the photos, I was a smidgeon surprised at how 
bad they looked. I’ll send the snaps of my rough-looking legs to the District Nurses. But only if it gives me a lot of bother. (It didn’t; it eased later on. (Humorous) Have you seen my pins? My rough-looking, uncoordinated, ungainly, pot-marked legs; that hang hidden, mostly unseen by me, beneath my morbidly & clinically obese, elephantine, flabby, doing-doing… well, on the plump side, indeed gargantuan, Brobdingnagian belly. I had to pull the mass up for him to take the snaps. Hehe!
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Brighter colour wee-wee this afternoon.
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Computer troubles…
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At last, a decent new meal from Parsley-Box.
Lamb Casserole; Nice. I had to add some flavour, so I added a tin of garden peas and chopped-up water chestnuts to the mix. Then, the last of the carrots.
Oh, and some pickled red cabbage from a jar.
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Or as I wrote it later, forgetting I’d done the above…
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Lamb casserole ready-made meal. To which I added a can of peas, water chestnuts, carrots, pickled red cabbage and some small, boiled potatoes. With bread at hand to dip, of course. Getting late now. Tired, weary & hungry. Food delivery in the morning, another cock-up. I thought I’d ordered it for Saturday 10th, not 3rd. This can happen to anyone, anytime. (Inchie fibs!)
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Inchie: Tuesday 29th September 2026
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A day I’d sooner forget, but I can’t.
Where to start? I don’t want to, and I don’t have the time to, sqrawl another long-winded, boring blog, in an attempt to get caught up. I’ll cut it down, no doubt missing of a few of the calamities, axifauxpa, errors, whoopsiedangleplops & frustrations. I’m so far behind with WP Reader, comments, In, etc., and things are getting even busier. Bonkersness!
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Although the day initially…
Going steadily…
Enough for scenery snap-taking.
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Carer Ejaz arrived; no long calls cause I used them up at the Trick-Cylist appointment yesterday. That means no laundry, mail checks, email, or text checks. I’m already out of clean diabetic socks. None for three days! A lymph leak starting on the right leg.
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Damned Mobile!: While trying to get Sunday’s blog started, my concentration was crippled by no less than 8 missed calls, 8 voicemails, and, over the day, 7 whoever-it-was people trying to get the Intercom to work!
The voicemails I cannot use, or even know how to access them. Not that it matters; Carer Mirza got it once, and I could not understand or hear a word.
Then, a food order arrived, and I had to go down to let him in the foyer doors… without any shoes or socks on, thanks to the Carer, myself, & having run out of all the clean diabetic socks. I must find the time to try to get some hand-washed. (Of course, I failed)
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7 items short, 3 substituted,
bread & biscuits crushed.
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The landline burst forth with a shrill tone. It was a call from the Deep Vein Thrombosis Clinic. Don’t laugh, but I have no memory of what was said. I assume it wasn’t important… Ah, I’ve got it! The lady asked me if I was taking the correct dosages. I told her the Carers deal with them; I just gulp down whatever they hand me each night. I think I got a call from Jenny on the mobile. As per usual, the reception was chronically bad. As indeed is my memory. A missed call and voicemail number three came in. No number available. If it was anyone who knows me, they would have known to use the landline, cause of the new mobile’s terrible reception, and my ability to use it is so flawed. The class went on and on for an hour or two. Then, a call and letter later, from the Prostate Cancer Research people. Asking me to join a support group, whatever it is.
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Can’t see the letters on the keyboard.
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So many other incidents, but it is now Thursday morning, and I still haven’t finished… and am abandoning this blog.
Time is my enemy; I must find time to catch up on WP Reader & comments, and forget blogging for a day or two.
So many unopened letters from medical, social, and Alzheimer’s to read, plus four unopened ones. I’m determined to get this finished ASAP and catch up on WordPress. But, then again, the nurses may call, the meals I ordered may come, the Alzheimer’s interviewer, the P.C. might call, anytime… Alzheimer’s questionnaire is due.
I’ll shurrup now.
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Inchie: Wednesday 23rd Sept 26 – Psychotherapist Day… Well…
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I’d been waking up so often during the night, fretting over 
something going wrong or forgetting to take something to the meeting with the psychiatrist later on. At 0620, I decided to get up and start gathering and checking things for the trip. Not a good start…
A 
. As I climbed cautiously out of bed, my back started giving me some grief, so I got on my feet and stood up to ease the discomfort. I may have eaten something after getting into bed last night. Because I trod on a fork on the floor. Naturally, I just laughed it off.
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When I’d finished cursing, I got a heat pad stuck on my back, and pondered over things needing doing for the visit to the hospital. I thought it a good idea to put the lists Jenny had kindly checked and printed for me into the three-wheeled walker, so I wouldn’t forget later.
Stubbing my ingrown toenail on the wheel of the trolley, I again laughed it off. 
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Carer Andrew arrived; he put some cream on my back and… remembered to put my diabetic socks on. On me, I meant. Hahaha! Medications given, got on his mobile and then off he shot without any ceremony.
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Then I went to the wet room, spending the longest I have ever spent evacuating the almost-water product.
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I did what I could, but time was running out as I waited for the Carer, and luckily the nurse came earlier than planned, and she checked the leg wound, gave them the okay, and hastily got me dressed. Bless her
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Carer Ejaz arrived and rang a taxi; we were soon on our way to the Highbury hospital meeting. The driver took the wrong route and dropped us off in the wrong place. We went inside; Ejaz asked for 
directions to where we wanted to go. Then we walked to the building. Fortune shone; we got to the appointment just in time. We were taken to a room. To find a disappointing fact.
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After all the hard work Jenny had done to get a four-page list of questions to be asked; typed, printed, and put into envelopes; the lady told me she and the psychiatrist ve had a meeting and decided, after getting her report, that I had two Dementias. Mixed Dementia: Frontotemporal & Vascular Dementia, and this has now been confirmed.
All without the man or woman meeting or talking to me.
I was hoping to spread the word about my not coping, getting things done and would love to be moved into a home to finish my life without frustration.
Well, summat like that.
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She told me I would not see her again; nothing further could be done for me.
So, thus and therefore, my first ever meeting with a psychiatrist did not mature.
I’ve never seen a ghost either, ready to see the Grim Reaper after today, though. Hahahah!
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As we left, I felt guilty and sorry for Jenny. Guilt for not realising they had held their own meeting and decided my fate. And for asking Jenny for her help with the long list, which she did, thinking it would help, and it was unneeded! All that work she did!
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The taxi Ejaz ordered arrived. In the biggest BMW I’ve ever seen! It needed help from Ejaz and the driver, plus a plastic stool to stand on, to get into it. Amazingly, I looked around and asked Ejaz what all this was for in the back of the cab. There were mobile charging points, cup holders, a big shaded glass roof, and buttons to heat the seat if needed! No wonder the trip cost so much.
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We got home; Ejaz had to move on to his next client. I still felt terrible that Jenny’s work wasn’t used. The lady did ask if she could let the psychiatrist see the printout.
I agreed readily and said This is the lady that keeps me going; I’d be glad if he/she would read it.
I went into a semi-depression then, and decided to tell it how it went when I phoned Jenny. I felt bad.
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Carer Andrew arrived while I was starting to update this blog. I spoke of what had taken place for a long time. As I told him the tale, I took my eyes of the screen; he was 
on his phone. He did show signs of sympathy. He took these two shots of the skies, as he put my torch on the balcony to catch any sun to charge it up.
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Carer Ahmed, or was it Carer Imran? Well, one of them did the late call. We managed a laugh or two. A rarity.
He took off the diabetic socks, applied some heat gel to the lower back, and issued painkillers. No Peptac, because I’d not eaten yet, not even started cooking it.
He did the safety checks and asked if I knew the oven was on. I pointed out that I was going to use it after he’d departed, but could I remember what I was going to cook? No! He laughed as I said, “Well, I could blame my bad memory on having Frontotemporal & Vascular Dementia, both types of Alzheimer’s.” But seriously, this past week, my memory has got so much worse. And I swear that the arithmaphobia has, too.
The Carer had a look at the medical returns and pointed out that the urine in millimetres passed, that is, arrived at by adding up each jug emptied and dividing it by the number of jugs used. I had got both figures wrong. I’ll have to correct them on the next chart. Good of him to notice and inform me; he even worked out what they should have been. He checked the taps and suggested, after I recalled that it was the cheap end bits of bacon I was going to cook, that I stay there in the kitchen the whole time. He’s not been coming for a long time, but he’s picked up the things I get wrong quickly. I usually go into the front room and fall asleep until the fire alarm goes off and wakes me. (Not often, though!) This is part of why I miss Mirza, who hasn’t called for such a long time, and Ejaz, who calls far less often nowadays; they are both reliable lads. I am disappointed.
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I got the bacon in the oven, and sliced some tomatoes and salted them, after suxking the blood from the finger I cut. Then took this shot of the sun on its way 
down. Then got the spuds from the slow cooker and put some Teriyaki sauce on each one on the tray. Then I took this closer shot of the sunset. Nice!
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Back to the dinner making. Started by making two thick-sliced sarnie sandwiches with small-cut pickle spread on the bread. Got the spuds and tomatoes on the foil tray. (Not so much washing-up to do) Added some Sesame Soy sauce, and settled into the £300 second-hand shop-bought, c1966, moth-eaten, bedraggled, grotty, cringingly beige-coloured, much-dilapidated, crumb-containing from my nocturnal nibblings, bug-ridden, itch-inspiring, not working recliner to watch an episode of my favourite, ‘Heartbeat’, on the TV and eat the meal.
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INCHIES TALES OF WOE
This did not, of course, go exactly to plan.
I didn’t need to say that really, did I?
As I recall it, the first thing was that I’d left my torch on the balcony. So I had to get up, go out, open the balcony door, grab the torch, close the door, come back in, and almost settle into the recliner…
When I turned on the TV, I realised that I’d still got my reading glasses on. Painfully removed my colossally moribund disabled body from the recliner, stubbing my toe as I got to the computer desk, swapped glasses, returned to the recliner…
As I settled into the least painful position so as not to set my back off again, then, at long last, I bit heartily into the first bacon sarnie… And dropped it! I’m ashamed to say, I swore and cursed. As I got out of the recliner, I used a kitchen towel to clean up the spilt pile of no butter, butter, sauce, pickle and bacon from my dressing gown, legs, feet and the poor, now dingy carpet.
Got settled again, and ate the meal and still found it satisfactory under the delayed eating process.
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Inchie: Friday Aug 21st: Nut Hospital Visit Two
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NUTHALL HOSPITAL MEMORY TEST
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Just getting ready made me unsteady,
Getting washed, shaved & dressed,
My body ended up well battered,
The Carer arrival was estimated,
I got the time wrong; self-aggravated,
The plans became a little affected,
Called Ejaz; said he was on his way…
Worried about taxis, & what I’ll need to pay,
Intercom rang, t’was district nurses…
To check on my Catheter contraptions,
Ejaz arrived a minute later, messy,
They’ll return next week, Thursday,
Ejaz got me ready quickly, urgently…
Checked my money, rang for a taxi,
I again forgot to take the Kodak with me,
The taxi, going £18, derision…
Got to pay, there’s no tergiversation,
Coming back it was over £20, derision!
Fear of the test? Will it go badly,
It will be what it will be, surely,
I explained my problems, auditory,
Waiting for cataract lasering, visual,
Cognitive tests, MoCA, or ACE-III,
They already knew my history,
Hope my score doesn’t go too badly,
Figures needed to be added, subtracted,
Remembered, substituted, and divided,
The reading of a little convoluted story,
Recalling detail did not go marvellously,
Naming objects, one I think I failed on,
I muttered ice, Iceland, they waddle…
Beautiful things, they’re so adorable,
Felt a fool when she said it was a penguin,
The bird, I could not name, embarrassing,
Put in order? My efforts were anachronical,
Questions about time, place, & date…
Think some of my answers found comical,
Well, I’ve got other worries on my plate…
Why did I find this section problematical?
Ah, that’ll be another glitch, arithmetical,
Seems my result was much lower: disjoinable,
Than when I was last tested at Nuthall,
But I was not at all discontentful,
Results, assessed by a geriatrician,
Or Community Service Neurologist,
Then another visit to Nuthall,
But I’m not bothered at all,
Scared of BG, TSB; all Oligarchal,
I’m aware I’ve lost my sparkle…
My brain’s enthused with flapdoodle,
Well known for temporising,
Failing, falling, inturbidating,
Dithering and hypothesising,
Gluttonising, and aborting,
And need my life sorting!
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Inchie Today Sunday16th August 2026
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I lay in my high-class oligarch’s bed for ages after recovering from the horrible night’s sleep. Or rather, lack of sleep. My mind was stewing over so many worries and tasks that I had to get done today & tomorrow. The fear of certain carers being due, and missing Ejaz and Mirza, accompanied by 
, 
, and the odd twangs of pain from Neck-Pain-Nigel and 
.
I was a shadow of myself. Gloomy, depressed, and frustrated. I knew I had to get up; it was still early in the day, and I was sure I would have to get up soon to visit the 
. As I gently twitched parts of my 
body to test, feeling out which ailment would be master over me today, I was amazed when I moved and caught sight of the nocturnal Catheter pouch on the floor. (It’s got a very long tube – it was Anne Gyna, by the way) I was more surprised than the other morning. How the 
pouch hadn’t split, I don’t know. 18,500ml! This helped me break the deep depressive thoughts I had.
I confirmed the reading on the bag, and the rear-end evacuation was coming on, so I hobbled to the wet room. It was a mass of long-winded farts for about two or three minutes. Constipation in control again, and just like the last two mornings, a good few splurts from Trotsky Terence as follow-up. Then a comical, the perfect word for it, too!
Not at the time, but later, I saw the humorous side of it. I seem to get these funny things happening to me at any time, but mostly within ten minutes of getting up?
It wasn’t me having them; I think I might doubt the veracity of my own writing.
Popeye had his spinach, Schwarzenegger had his muscles, Elvis had his hips, Hitler had Europe, for a short while. What do I get? Whoopsiedangleplops, Accifauxpas, PN, Angina, Cataracts, a TBI, Scary Carers, a wank Bank (TSB) that will not let me move my own money around and talks down to me on the phone. Duodenal Ulcer, got shot twice, had a stroke, went partially deaf at 40 years old, Carers who do not turn up but I still get charged full whack, and seem determined not to communicate with me. They are very good at that. Arthritis, Cramps, and depression, like… well, very deep lately. But this has been written wittily to try and bring some smiles around.
Cause really, I’d be lost without the greatest supporter, Jenny. She is not very well at the moment. I try not to ring or email her while she is so poorly. My Angel, she is.
So I must tell you the tale; that is true. I am not moaning. Flipping heck, I’ve not said about the tumble in the toilet yet. So here it is, every aspect, honestly spoken… Well, written. Hehehe!
Please wish Jenny the best. 🤞🏻💗🫶🏻
I’d just cleaned up after the evacuation and flushed the loo. Decided to have a wash & shave. I reached for the toothpaste, and as I did, my famous right side wobbled- shoulder, leg and foot – and this time it had me over. I leant towards the porcelain to grab the WC, missed it, and my shaking right arm went in the WC’s water up to its 
elbow! I hit my chin and kneecap. The second Carer, the nice one, took this snap of it for me. It looked far worse than it was. On the plus side, at least I’d cleaned up the mess from Trotsky’s follow-through before I plunged my arm into the pan. Haha!
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Pleased to report that now the toenails have had £35 worth of cropping, I’ve been walking much less painfuller. I’ve clouted my chin and bruised the right knee, though. I mustn’t complain. I’m not sure why.
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BP was high. Carer looked at my chin, said nothing, and did nothing about it. Carer Prem washed it and put some ointment on it and a plaster. Phorpained my shoulder, back, Coccyx, and privates. He made three visits today. A nice, non-pushy Carer who listens.
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I found a source of solace in working on the computer today. Fair enough; it was a day of mistakes and faults, and a memory-mangling day, too. Without much doubt, I did have my thinking cap on. I thought that if I delved deeply into the record-keeping, blog, etc. I would not start panicking about the trip to the Titx TSB bank tomorrow. I’m sure it worked for a few hours. But it all came flooding back. Then I could not concentrate when I started updating the blog.
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I’ve got no idea if a lift has been arranged, and with the L9 bus and the Easy-Lift buses both stopping work, I’ll have to go by taxi. That is, if a Carer turns up to go with me. The bank insists that I take a Carer; if one doesn’t turn up, I’m in a mess. If one does turn up, the taxi fare will break me. And will so please the bank. It’s the aforementioned lack of communication that gets to me most. Now I’m a bag of nerves. Can’t get dressed on my own. Or the walker, sort the timings out, ordering taxis, Humph!
The kitchen really needs cleaning. The Catheter bag has not been changed for over a month. I need to phone the Post Office; I had an email saying they are delivering my parcel tomorrow! Can I stop them in time?
Lots more happened today, but I’m going to have to stop. I’ve got to phone British Gas about their non-arrival! Call the Social Lady about the money situation. I am a nervous wreck. Ball of anxiety. Frazzled, Anxious, jittery, edgy, tensed up, a worrywart, a hand-wringer, a basket case, disconcerted, emotional cripple, fretful, overwrought, distraught, self-conscious, in a discountenanced, in a dither, distracted, a neurotic, a fussbudget.
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LATE NIGHT NOSH
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