I have this idealistic image of spending the week doing fun and wholesome things. Kicking up leaves with our jazzy designer wellies as we run through autumnal woods dressed in warm and colourful outfits. Putting shiny and glossy chestnuts in the pockets of our matching wollen duffle coats, which we will take home and roast in front of the roaring fire and consume with frothy Belgian hot chocolate (think Boden catalogue).
In reality? Oh reality will be me acting as an underpaid and much abused and over used taxi driver. Pinging madly between different diary dates and social events. Such as football club ... golf lessons ... roller blading ... days out to adventure parks ... and time at friends' houses (think pinball machine rather than Boden). I'll be saying things that I swore I would never say. Comments that my mother used to wearily repeat and which made her sound 'old and boring'. You know the ones. "You are not getting in my car wearing those flippin' muddy boots", "If you two don't stop then I am going to bang your heads together" and "What do you mean you have lost your coat*/ball*/brother*?" (*delete as appropriate).
So, in my temporary absence I am going to leave you with a little ditty. If you don't personally know me then it probably won't mean much to you, but will give you a better idea about my loveable quirks and habits. If you do know me then you are likely get the drift a bit more. And ... if you actually work with me ... then you will totally appreciate it. The ditty was written by a colleague of mine shortly after he heard about my diagnosis. I am going to call him Mr Campbell. Out of 'politeness and respect' I am going to tell you that Mr Campbell is in fact my manager (he in turn will chuckle and call that 'politeness and respect' a first) though I prefer to call him my friend. I think I may have mentioned, just once or twice, how much I am missing my job and all the lovely people that I work with, and that I can't wait to get through this 'time out' and get back to where I belong. I hope that this will prompt them to remember me fondly!
An Ode to P
It's quiet here, my ears aren't ringing
Without the sound that you call singing
And there's no waft of last night's dinner
Your microwaved gourmet (but only grimmer)
No shoes with garish bows or flowers
No gossip updates every hour
No fist to clench, no face to fall
Upon the seventh Drummond call
It's still Bay House but with less soul
And where you were there is a hole
It won't be filled 'til you appear
So get well soon and get back here
(And when you do, although it's rare
I'll make the tea, I will, I swear!)
Anyway, time to go ... no rest for the wicked ... ;~)