Gertsamtkunstwerk

Guinea Pig

I thought I would keep an online diary of this clinical trial, should it come to pass.

BTW, I had to laugh, shouldn't really, when walking up the road leading to the hospital. On the roadside is a Sexual Health clinic. You know it's a Sexual Health Clinic because it says so in BIG LETTERS on the signpost outside. Of course, on mmofm we're terribly grown up and know that everyone is affected by issues of Sexual Health, so when we walk past and see the queues forming outside it would never cross our minds to think "Clap Clinic" and snigger, as we make our way to the stigma-free Rheumatology. Oh no, not at all.

A doctor came and inflicted pain on me. I had to respond if it hurt (rather than just tender). Eight times it hurt, but to get the boxes ticked, I had to have eleven howls of pain. I'm sure if she had squeezed my feet, she would have found twice eleven on each, let alone my calves, but she didn't go below my knees. I felt all day that I was walking on sharp loose chippings barefoot. sigh

So I go back at the end of next week. If I pass the eleven points of pain, I will undergo certain examinations such as an MRI - which will last about fifty minutes. No smoking allowed, I suppose. And I don't suppose I'll be able to take my mp3 player in with me. But they'll find out if I have a brain. I'll have an ECG - I've never had one of those, but I guess they'll find out if I have a heart. And I will give lots of blood samples, so they'll find out if I have courage. I suppose if I have a brain, a heart and courage that proves I'm not the wicked witch of SW2.

And then I shall have a prescription for thirteen weeks, with monitoring and whatnots at frequent intervals. For this I get paid travel expenses. Double sigh

Dropping

I had one of those days yesterday. I knew it would happen, and I wasn't sure when. It was probably a good thing it happened on a non-working day. I had intended to spend the day sleeping, but was violently awakened by the postman's knock at quarter to ten. I can't complain - it was the tickets I bought off eBay being Recorded Delivered. But I had managed to sleep through the Bastard Builders' noise until then, so I needed sleep.

I spent the entire day on the sofa, conscious of tiredness, ache, lack of energy and so on. Singularly unable to write, and even my feeble attempts to edit a few photos from the weekend fizzled out. Besides, I might as well give up on the photography - the best two photos of the entire weekend were taken by Nephew #1 (of Nephew #2) and Favourite Niece (of Nephew #1). Admittedly, their 'miss rate' is higher than mine, but they can use my excuse (of small hands) more effectively than I can. Still, Nephew #2's contribution is to point his fingers at the camera lens...touching the camera lens. Still, probably preferable to dismantling Auntie #1's coal-effect fire...

I spent the time on the sofa deleting a lot of the pictures from this site. I haven't finished yet... Most of the ones I took are alternatively available on Under Developed, many more were originally nicked from the internet anyway, and the remainder are available from me by email on request, although whether I will comply depends on the source and nature of the request - ie family and friends photos are likely only to be supplied to f&f.

I was quite pleased with myself when I awoke from a troubled sleep at about 3am. I was dreaming that I had become President of the USA, which is my own fault for watching four episodes of West Wing and Commander in chief in twenty four hours....it was a shame I awoke because I was in the process of bringing about World Peace. But more importantly, I realised that all my low-level niggling symptoms were playing up, and rather than fret about them individually, I just decided - it's a result of the tired/achy/lack-of-energy feeling, which results from CFS/ fibromyalgia, and I just have to live with them, and accept that bad days will be bad all over. And I predicted a slump, resulting from a combination of relative visiting, tenor stalking and applying myself with enthusiasm(!) at work.

And next week, I have my initial appointment for the clinical trial in which I am participating. In due course I shall have an brain MRI and then take some anti-depressants (or a placebo) for three months...which might make me manic! Ha! It might be quite interesting to blog my mood.

I have a new illness!

Called confusion!

Or guinea-pig syndrome...

Scuse me for being sceptical. Cynical, even...

I went to the hospital today to see the Consultant Homeopathic Rheumatologist, about my Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and it turns out he's left, so I was seeing the Professor and a team of his students. As I walked in the door He announced,

"You've had a vague diagnosis of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome but it's obvious that you have fibromyalgia (which I diagnosed off the internet years ago...). Where do you work?" I told him and braced myself for the inevitable cracks...which did not fail to materialise...and then he asked whether I would be interested in participating in a clinical trial - "but only if you meet certain criteria..."

Apparently, this will be about having MRIs (presumably of the brain - I had one of those really years ago but they didn't find anything...!) and taking anti-depressants, which is a bit weird because I'm not depressed, but apparently it's a theory they have. Well, of course I said yes, although I haven't spoken to the co-ordinator yet. I mean, me being a laboratory experiment! Cool or what! It's all about ME.

After all, it is ME Awareness week. Honest. I'd love a badge that says "Be Aware of ME".

But apparently, I haven't got ME...

Spots

Last week I had an itch on my back and I scratched it. I drew blood and the scratching didn't ease the itch. I asked a couple of colleagues to have a look and see if there was anything strange about it. "Just a normal spot," said one. "Mosquito bite," said the other. Not to be outdone, the first came back with "Fleas".

It eased, and I forgot about it until that evening when, in the bath, I got an itch on my it, drew blood. Forgot about it.

I woke up in the night with an uncontrollable itch on my leg, scratched it; then the other leg, then my back, my neck, my chest, my right arm, my face. Eventually I got back to sleep, and I woke up to the alarm, my body covered in spots. If I look in the mirror they are barely visible but they are on scrutiny by eye and by hand.

Jimmy said that there's just been a round of chicken pox at the school across the road, but I don't think it's chicken pox. I've had that twice. I was already blogging the last time I had it and these spots seem different. It doesn't seem to be acne related, nor is it eczema, which I was bothered by as a child.

I assume it's an allergic reaction. I haven't changed my detergent brand in years. It might be to something I ate, I suppose, but it seems strange to have had two eruptions a week apart. I doubt it's a reaction to the various homeopathic remedies and vitamins I'm taking, because nothing has changed in months. I haven't got a temperature and although I have a slight stomach ache I suspect that's just because I've been doing an inventory of symptoms.

I don't feel ill, but I'm not sure it's wise to go into work with unexplained weeping sores and scabid rashes littering my body. I'm going to bathe in Balneum Plus and smother myself in emollient, left over from the chicken pox episode. If that does not remove the problem I shall have to bite the bullet and go to my GP. But I really don't need any more time off sick. I suppose I could have my paper files biked over and my electronic files emailed.

Don't panic

Stay Calm, did you hear me stay calm. DON'T BLOODY PANIC

Avian flu. Or, what it's now mutated into, Bird Flu - on the basis, no doubt, that the British public can't cope with a word like Avian - too many syllables, doesn't pass the Sun test.

I have to confess to being slightly less than interested, so this blogpost is coming to you from a position of uninformed ignorance. So, probably representative of 95% of the population.

These things I know: it's only catchable by humans from birds. Unless it mutates.

Flu's a funny thing. It amazes me the number of people who come to work with "flu". And expect their doctors to treat it with anti-biotics.

I've had flu twice in my life. On either occasion I was knocked out in spectacular fashion - twelve to sixteen hours a day sleeping, the remainder flopped on the sofa watching the most appalling pap of Daytime TV (second time around - daytime telly didn't exist the first time). Unable to walk because of jelly legs. No appetite whatsoever.

For basically healthy people, flu isn't the end of the world. You have it, you get over it, end of story. For the very old and the very young, and for the myriad of people with compromised immune systems, it is a lot more serious.

I heard on the radio yesterday if there is an outbreak, concerts and horse races will be cancelled.

I fell to thinking how that would work in practice. I suppose the Government has Emergency Powers to prevent mass gatherings, especially those of an organised nature like Sports and Ents. Jimmy reckons that if there is an outbreak people won't want to go out, anyway. To which I replied, undoubtedly true of a great many people; not so of all. The post-bombing period was interesting. We travelled on half-empty Tubes to sold-out Proms, and all the emerging evidence is that people continued to attend planned events, but, perhaps subconsciously, didn't spontaneously do ad-hocs in Central London.

Health staff will have to congregate in mass in hospitals. Then there's the transport staff to get them there. There's the electricity, gas and water staff. If everyone's stuck at home, telly had better be good. If the streets are nearly deserted, chancers will take the opportunity to riot, loot and run amok, so that's all police leave cancelled, and Specials, CSOs, Street Wardens and troops drafted in to retain civil order - and cover for those down with flu.

I said - they can't stop people going to the pub; Jimmy said, what barstaff will want to work in an outbreak of flu? I said, those that won't get paid unless they go to work. Then we thought of all the jobs, particularly the small businesses and self-employed which the government would only get away with shutting down if they offer compensation. People have still got to eat.

Oh, and that's another factor. Panic buying. When do we start it? Would it best to do what I did for the millennium, surreptitiously panic buy - I spent all of 1999 sneaking extra tins and other longlife food into my trolley when I was sure no one was watching. Have you even thought about what essentials you will need in the event of Avian flu? Is this where we get in water, candles and radio batteries, or are we looking at baked beans, savoury biscuits, and longlife milk and loo rolls?

Or will it be like the last flu epidemic where statistics showed an increase in deaths amongst the frail, and my observations indicated increased absenteeism from work, but, otherwise, life went on pretty much as normal?

Oops

Rose 11 am

Retired 2 pm

Rose 5.45 pm

Departed for curry house 7.30pm

Returned home 11.30

Rien de blog

Chronically Fatigued, I am...

Buy one get one free

I had a text from my sister so I called her back. She's got shingles. Her doctor commented that she could have got it in Tesco. I remarked that my doctor said the same when I had chicken pox.

My sister wonders if you get Clubcard points with it.

I think it's more sinister. Conspiracy theorists, on yer marks, get set, GO...

For everyone who's boycotting Tesco, it may just be another reason to add to your list...

Homeopathic sham

Fatal mumbo-jumbo

Or nothing like evangelical extremism to muddy the waters of a complex debate.

Homeopathy. Hmm. A few years ago there was a panic over MMR which led directly to an outbreak of measles in my area. The Evening sub-Standard had an article about some arsehole artfarty so-called 'concerned' parent who tried to cure her son's measles with aromatherapy candles, yet another example of how people are allowed to abuse their children and get away with it, regardless of the consequences for the child and the wider community.

On the other hand, modern Scientific Western medicine has been proved over-and-over again to be fallible in its dishing out of clinically tested pearls of wisdom. Thalidomide to cure morning sickness; Valium for depression; Termazepan for insomnia.

No one now will take tablets for morning sickness. 'Dry toast' is what everybody's told. There is an increasing understanding of the role of diet and exercise in treating some forms of depression and insomnia.

The Lancet firmly comes down against homeopathic remedies. QED, the Science has spoken. But amidst the rhetoric, one major fact goes unnoticed - for centuries and intuitively we have treated the symptoms of many problems in a complementary manner. When stressed we turn to alcohol or aromatherapy baths. I do not suppose there is any evidence that either of these relieves stress. I am certain that neither removes the cause. But at the end of a stressful day at work, isn't it nice to sink into the bath with a glass of wine and unwind.

Scientific trials tend to focus on the effect that a chemical has upon a group of cells, which is crucial for treating cancer, for example. But there is little systematic examination of the psychological causes and effects of a myriad of low-level but limiting and ennervating malaises.

Homeopathy

Last week I went to see my homeopathic rheumatologist. I say 'mine', but he's also the Queen's. He asked me lots of questions and decreed that I should take Vitamin B complex daily (I seem to remember the lovely French doctor recommended that last year, but I'm so crap at taking Vitamins daily). He also suggested I cut down a bit on the alcohol, and his third recommendation was that I take Sulphur twice a week. I have been reluctant to take it, because he said that it would make me feel worse before I felt better. I considered on Thursday whether I should I take it on Friday, at the start of my four day weekend, or on Tuesday, at the start of my three day work stint. I felt I ought to take it on Friday, but I didn't get round to buying any until today, in between my optician's appointment (exactly the same prescription as I've been having since I was fourteen, so no need to buy new glasses) and my hair appointment - 30% off colour Mondays and Wednesdays before 3pm - am I filling a void left by the sadly hiating Blue 'Value' Witch.

I took the sulphur at about 1415 hours, ever since when I've been running around like a blue-arsed fly. I reckon, if I stick to my good intentions, take my Vitamin B complex and Multi-Vits daily, take my sulphur twice weekly, have a substantial breakfast (eg baked beans or sardines on toast, and an organic biolive wickedly whole milk yoghurt), take a healthy packed lunch (eg summer vegetable quiche, and tuna and sweetcorn, tomorrow,) drink plenty of fruit juice, have bananas and tangerines as afternoon and interval snacks, and make my own coffee at work rather than forking out fortunes for shop-bought crap, I shall turn out to be Healthy/Value Gert and I could rule the bloody world. I've told you about the gin trick, haven't I? Oh, and the quiches were 2 for £2.50 and the fruit juices 3 for 2 at Sainsburys.

11 steps to a better brain

A fascinating article about how you can improve your brain power, in the New Scientist

In summary, eat smart and sleep well, and music and exercise are vital.

My personal highlights*:

Around the age of 40, honest folks may already admit to noticing changes in their mental abilities

You are what you eat, and that includes your brain. First, go to the top of the class by eating breakfast. Beans on toast is good. Toast alone boosted children's scores on a variety of cognitive tests, but when the tests got tougher, the breakfast with the high-protein beans worked best. A smart choice for lunch is omelette and salad, followed by yoghurt.

Don't forget to snaffle a snack mid-afternoon, to maintain your glucose levels. Just make sure you avoid junk food, and especially highly processed goodies such as cakes, pastries and biscuits. Brains are around 60 per cent fat, so if trans-fats clog up the system, what should you eat to keep it well oiled? Evidence is mounting in favour of omega-3 fatty acids, in particular docosahexaenoic acid or DHA. In other words, your granny was right: fish is the best brain food.

Music really does make you smarter, though unfortunately it requires a bit more effort than just selecting something mellow on your iPod. Music lessons are the key. Six-year-old children who were given music lessons, as opposed to drama lessons or no extra instruction, got a 2 to 3-point boost in IQ scores compared with the others. After two years of music lessons, pre-school children scored better on spatial reasoning tests than those who took computer lessons.

Maybe music lessons exercise a range of mental skills, with their requirement for delicate and precise finger movements, and listening for pitch and rhythm, all combined with an emotional dimension. Nobody knows for sure. Neither do they know whether adults can get the same mental boost as young children. But, surely, it can't hurt to try.

Never underestimate the power of a good night's rest. Skimping on sleep does awful things to your brain. Planning, problem-solving, learning, concentration, working memory and alertness all take a hit. IQ scores tumble. "If you have been awake for 21 hours straight, your abilities are equivalent to someone who is legally drunk," Luckily, it's reversible - and more. If you let someone who isn't sleep-deprived have an extra hour or two of shut-eye, they perform much better than normal on tasks requiring sustained attention, such as taking an exam.

Simply walking sedately for half an hour three times a week can improve abilities such as learning, concentration and abstract reasoning by 15 per cent. The effects are particularly noticeable in older people. Senior citizens who walk regularly perform better on memory tests than their sedentary peers.

Workplace studies have found that it takes up to 15 minutes to regain a deep state of concentration after a distraction such as a phone call. Just a few such interruptions and half the day is wasted.

Music can help as long as you listen to something familiar and soothing that serves primarily to drown out background noise. Psychologists also recommend that you avoid working near potential diversions, such as the fridge.

I find it interesting, but none of it is news. I cannot believe that there are people who still cut out fat and sugars from their diets, and think diet is all about shedding a few extra pounds, and that, in doing so, it makes them, somehow, superior to Tubbies, like me.

I am the only person on my Unit who regularly has music in the workplace - earphones, of course - although I see a tiny minority of other people throughout the building doing likewise. My manager is totally cool about it (except for the one occasion that I misguidedly cranked up the volume...!) but the looks of some of my colleagues suggest that they think I am just skiving. A few months back I had my Uni scarf draped over my shoulders because I was sitting in a draft. Somebody very important - and extremely famous in Public Admin circles - bounded over to me because his daughter attends my old Uni and was quite flummoxed by my non-reaction. When he realised that I had my earphones in he was apologetic for disturbing me and not at all put out by this non-traditional behaviour. He has a reputation for trouble shooting large problematic organisations and I have no doubt that he is well aware of the theories about how music boosts performance.

I have to confess to being very stupid in my sleep management. During the week I try to get through on six hours, making up for it when I can - I had nine hours last night and would have had more but for the postman knocking the door to deliver some (v. nice) registered post for the master of the household.

Yesterday I managed to sleep through my alarm - radio and beep, and the standby of my mobile was downstairs. Fortunately I awoke fully alert at the sound of my Secretary of State discussing unit costing. I never previously realised that his is a wonderful voice to wake up to - not too soothing, but definitely not too strident. Certainly not a monotone, but without dramatic shifts in tone or pitch.

*copied and pasted with big chunks omitted and some selective paraphrasing

PAFO

The essence of blog is to report about occasions when one's Significant Other (who shall remain nameless to limit his shame...) forces one to go to the pub and forces one to ebriate. "You can take a horse to water but you can't make it drink," he says. Well, Jimmy, have I got news for you. I'm not a horse, and it wasn't water.

So really quite late last night, perhaps even after half past ten, I went into the kitchen. My objective was to put a cup of warm milk into the microwave as a bedtime drink to enjoy during the final act of Simon Boccanegra I was watching on DVD.

From my dining room is a step down to the kitchen. Not a big step. Perhpas one centimetre; certainly no more than two centimetres. As I was negotiating my right foot entirely disappeared from beneath me, and I went over on my ankle, banging my knee in the process. Expletives that I didn't know I knew came issuing forth. Winded and not a little nauseous I had to sit down, but finally concluded that the injuries sustained were only to my pride.

Then I woke up this morning! I have a tiny area of tenderness at the top of my knee cap. Frankly, my knees are so knobbly and scarred it is difficult to tell where the new damage is. However, I discovered that stairs present a whole new set of challenges. They have to be negotiated gingerly, shuffled, one foot forward, the other following. Rather than a hearty left right left right. I have discovered that sitting down for a while causes a certain stiffness in the kneee so the first steps have to be limped. That does funny things to the thigh muscle. Eventually, it eases up and I can walk normally, feeling only a soupcon of twinge. But in the meantime I have attracted strange looks, some of them sympathetic. So I feel a bit of a fraud explaining that I'm not really injured at all, it's just a tiny knock on my kneecap.

And, of course this was the day that there was heavy traffic congestion in Brixton. This caused over-crowdedness on the bus going down the hill to the Tube, and may well have been the reason for over-crowded buses from Vauxhall to work. In consequence, my journey, which I can do in thirty-five minutes (at a pinch) took over an hour, of which only about five minutes was spent sitting.

I wonder what the incident was. Previous such congestion has been caused by, inter alia a shooting at a nightclub and a stolen van. On the other hand, I have also known them to be caused by a tiny utility hole in the road, or by a thoughtlessly parked car. I suppose I will never know. And very soon won't care.

Wrecked, Trashed

The Department of Health are sweeties; they have compiled a website of drinking woes suffered by teens and pre-teens. Very worthy, if it anyway helps the youngsters to moderate their drinking. For us bloggers, it serves the double purpose of being able to laugh at them, or steal and adapt the stories to fulfill our purposes:

My faves are...

The horrible truth hit me. I confronted my ex with my evidence the next day and he confessed to having thrown-up and then had conveniently forgotten to tell me before kissing me again. Needless to say that was the moment he became my ex.

and

My brother had wet himself in his sleep (on the top bunk) and it had soaked through the mattress and was dripping onto my bed! Not too cool huh!

On the other hand, the DoH could just go round the blogosphere and steal our stories.

Have I mentioned the time I spent half the night sleeping on a lounger (without cushion or towel) beside the pool in Corfu...?

More on shingles

My sister has just pointed out to me something from the newsletter of her local secondary school

You may also remember from a previous newsletter that I asked you to contact school if your son or daughter had chicken pox, measles or shingles, as we have students in school whose immune systems are sensitive to certain illnesses. We would be very grateful if you have a child in school who begins to show symptoms of these illnesses, that you notify the school as soon as possible. We can then contact the parents of the pupils concerned who can make a decision as to whether they need to contact the hospital for advice. All information will be kept confidential.

Crap Day...

It wasn't intended to be my day. Weatherwise not great. Cold and sleety, although not as cold or sleety as it has been.

Burst water main on Brixton Hill, the A23. No traffic allowed through. Most importantly, all buses on diversion. So I walked to the Tube Station. Half an hour down hill. By the time I got to Housing Benefit I was leggy-achy. I always tend to think of Housing Benefit as being Central Brixton. Well, you would wouldn't you. but it's still a good walk from there to the Tube.

Minor bomb scare at work - just a suspect package in the Post Room, but two PA announcements are a disturbance, especially when as part of the Emergency Response Team you're on slight tenterhooks wondering if you'll have to unleash the sniffer hounds of hell.

Afternoon course in another building. The building where, four years and two moves ago I started my less-than-illustrious career in this august department. Silly place in relation to our current building and public transport in general. Especially when there's a bank trip needed in between. Not including the pause at the bank (£25 they're charging me for transmission of funds...), the walk took half an hour.

Debating how to get home. I decided that bus to Vauxhall would be the best thing. Then either a) train to Clapham Junction and another train to Streatham Hill or b) tube to Balham and train to Streatham Hill. Thinking that the Vauxhall to CJ trains might be full, or disrupted by snow in Surrey and remembering there was a power failure at CJ earlier in the week, I opted for Tube. As I changed at Stockwell they said that Balham Station was closed, due to flooding. So I ended up getting off at Clapham South and walking for half an hour along the South Circular. There is a bus but it's unreliable in the best of conditions. Indeed, the bus drew up to my alighting stop when I was just ten metres from it. The traffic is a total nightmare all round; I was right not to go Clapham Common because the bus route back is completely chocca with diverted traffic. That walk was only twenty five minutes, although much of it was into the biting East Wind. Leggy very achy.

Tomorrow I go to see the rheumatologist at Kings. I have two alternative ways to get there - half hour walk down Brixton Hill and bus, or train into London and out again...There's no point going by car - all the roads for miles around are choccachocca because of a big deep trench across Brixton Hill.

So I shall go to the Rheumatologist who shall ask 'How do you feel?' and I will say 'legs achey' before launching into all my other achey symptoms. Today we were mostly doing neck, and elbow, yesterday it was mainly feet, the previous day left elbow and right kneee, at the weekend it was face and left thigh. And I won't mention my insides.

Not that anything actually hurts as such, not to the extent of needing painkillers. Okay, I can no longer run, and I have forgotten what feels normal. And sometimes I can't walk. But today I managed an hour and a half walking and suffered only extreme discomfort.

But I think my trousers are totally ruined from walking through all the puddles, especially the ones at the Tesco building site at Clapham South.

And I nearly slipped on the cobbles at Strutton Ground. Cobbles are the spawn of satan and should be driven from the face of the earth.

One of my colleagues told me I can't wear skirts, or certainly not short ones, in our new building 'Valhalla' because I'm sitting next to the atrium, which is glass-panelled, on the third floor. I never wear skirts in winter, spring or autumn, but much of my 'cor what a scocher' wardrobe is shortish skirts. Another colleague has pointed out that no one will be able to see my PC screen where I'm sitting. I'm not convinced. We shall see.

Will you be wanting pictures of Valhalla and our £200 chairs?

Diagnosis

Two conversations yesterday with two unconnected people, who have both experienced health problems in the last year.* One has an ongoing orthopaedic problem which is a mixture of slipped discs and scoliosis. The other had severe lung problems that rendered her practically immobile. It was eventually diagnosed as 'Pigeon Fancier's disease' although it has a posh Latin name, and it has been treated with steroids and she is back to 80% lung capacity.

And then there's me. Still no wiser, still unconvinced at my diagnosis. The orthopaedic case was actually told that it's all in her head. Nice...! She has an acquaintance who was kept in hospital for a month with depression when it turned out she had an, albeit relatively rare, virus coincidentally that someone else on the same ward also had.

None of us can understand why treatment comes before diagnosis. In Switzerland it's the other way round. Which can be a pain. Someone I used to know picked up food poisoning in the Delhi canteen of the - wait for it, World Health Organisation - and on return to Geneva had to wait for results on samples before getting any treatment.

One has spent half her disposable income on unnecessary antibiotics. One is reduced to lifting 2 oz weights in the gym, under close supervision. Me, sometimes I think I am going quite mad.

I went to see a locum GP today, just to get a sicknote allowing me back to work fulltime. Bureaucracy. It's a bit of a lie. I'm not tip top. I have good days and bad days. I asked for a referral to a neurologist. He did assure me that this is not a crazy question, but suggested I waited until I see the rheumatologist at the end of February, because that should mean a quicker referral to a neurologist. Seems to make sense.

But then I fret that somehow the rheumatologist will veto it, or I get marked down as a neurotic middle-class internet user. Then, I think - hey, doctors aren't god. They are trained in a particular discipline. I'm trained to collate, analyse and apply information, regardless of source. Of course, there is the famous and widespread 'reading-too-much-and-imagining-you're-terminally-ill' syndrom. But, still, it's not a crime to take ownership of one's symptoms.

*Well, almost unconnected, they're both auditors, and, as well as knowing me, the close friend of one was the other's replacement in a job.

Suffering

One in five kids is hit by eczema 'and many suffer prejudice that ruins their lives'

I used to have it a little bit when I was a child. It was strange - for some years it was just on my fore-and middle-finger of my left hand, but gradually spread over my left hand and up my arm. It was really bad in winter, tolerable in summer. I used to apply creams twice a day.

Gradually I 'grew out of it'. At its worst, I would have open weeping sores that were just horrible. Even into my thirties I could have an attack, generally in winter, and generally after 'contact' with detergents. I put 'contact' in quotes because I always wear rubber gloves even for washing up, let alone hand washing clothes or house-cleaning. In the days when I ate meat, I would also have a flare up whenever I had chilli con carne. Even today I have some (out of date) steroid cream somewhere, and I keep a bottle of aloe vera hand cream in my desk drawer 'just in case' I need some partial alleviation from the pain. I never use elastoplast and I can't have my arms waxed.

But I had quite forgotten about it until reading this. There was a girl in my year at Primary School who had it all over her arms and legs and face; sometimes she would wear bandages, presumably to cover weeping sores. Even though I sympathised, I still found her repulsive.

I can't remember what was worse, the pain or the sight of those sores. But I realise I am so lucky that, even at its worst, I only ever had it on half an arm. And I had quite forgotten why I always use rubber gloves.

Queen Anne's dead

Diets don't work

Well, I never.

How pitifully self-pitying

'I am not neurotic or fat, so why this endless dissatisfaction with my body?'

But you are neurotic, dear,

one stone lighter, my confidence is restored...The sad truth is that despite being slim my confidence is affected by my weight

And wrong.

the average woman today is considerably flabbier than a stick - and actually a size 16. Forget the hour-glass or even the stick. Today's woman is closer to today's man - in other words, shaped like a phone box.

I shall continue repeating this until I am blue in the face. Very many women who are size 16 and above are hourglasses - boobs and hips being bigger than waists.

It's often the stick-insects that are androgynous.

Cristina Odone is away

Not for long, I hope. Stupid Observer, replacing the thoughtful, outward-looking and intelligent Cristina Odone - not that I always agree with her - with some IQ-challenged empty-headed bimbo narcissus

Hospital visit

Today, I attended my rheumatology appointment that I was sent six weeks ago - not bad, not bad. I was a bit nervous, because I have only been to Kings College Hospital once before, and that was in the back of an ambulance. But I found it - it was dead easy. I had to go to the Golden Jubilee Wing. Very easy to find, it's that spanking new 21st century building. Have you noticed how markedly hospitals have improved in the last few years?

I arrived twenty minutes early and had to queue for a latte, but then I went to the clinic, and was called by the nurse exactly on the dot of my appointment. I waited maybe five or ten minutes and then went to see the doctor, who gave me a pretty thorough examination - testing my limbs and joints for strength and the ability to fight his resistance, testing my reflexes, and my sensitivity. I even had to stick my tongue out - finally, a test in one of my key competencies!

I then had to go and get my blood taken. She couldn't get it out of the inside of my elbow - ickle veins, me - so had to do it in the back of my hand. She was so apologetic it would hurt that I got really anxious, and then it didn't hurt at all. Remember the old fashioned nurses who used to say "This isn't going to hurt!" and it didn't...

(Mind you, I had a smear test once that hurt like bejeesus and the nurse called me a baby. What she should have said was - that is a classic symptom of polycystic ovaries, I'd advice you see your GP. Or, as I said later that evening to the lads in the bar "I only like things stuck up there after considerable foreplay, and sitting for an hour and a half in a cold waiting room reading the New Statesman is not my idea of foreplay")

Anyway, I hobbled away from KCH with aches and pains in every limb and every joint. The doctor said it seems like Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, but he doesn't like that diagnosis - it's a 'diagnosis of elimination'... Hence the blood tests. If I don't hear before I return in three months, I shall assume everything's fine. Hmm, I think, inherent weakness in system - dependency on third party ie Royal Mail. I think our regular postie is away at the moment, because we are currently playing Neighbourhood Swap the Post!

I have been trying to go back to work but it's leaving me totally knackered. I really don't know what to do.

Surprise twins

Woman goes to hospital with stomach ache, gives birth to twins

These stories occur on a perennial basis. Okay, this is me being really ignorant. But how can somebody not know that they are pregnant? Someone from my Primary School class gave birth at fifteen without knowing she was pregnant, but, to be honest, she was never the brightest button in the box, and, maybe, at fifteen, there's a whole element of denial.

A colleague had constant stomach upsets, and blamed the canteen at the Food Science Laboratory (yeah...?). Three of the chaps knew she was pregnant by looking at her face, but didn't like to say, assuming she wanted to keep it quiet. But even she knew at three months. I asked her why she hadn't realised earlier - she said she had very irregular periods, so didn't notice a missed one.

But, seriously, how can someone carry twins to (more-or-less) full term without knowing?

I'm not having a go - I'm simply baffled and curious.

Blood Pressure

I am so normal normal. Apparently High Blood Pressure is above 150/90 whereas low is below 90/60. Over the years I have had a consistent 120/70 reading, give or take the odd digit.

The day before my shoulder operation ten years ago, the Consultant quizzed me on certain habits. I confessed - truthfully - to 30 cigarettes a day, and said that the previous week, albeit on Audit in Caernarfon with three Welsh rugby boys, I had drunk about five pints a night.

Measuring my blood pressure at 120/80, he said "Young lady, you have a surprisingly normal blood pressure for your lifestyle."

"So, if I gave up smoking I'd be ill...?"

He glared at me.

Today I have had it measured at 99/60. I am - allegedly - three stone overweight, smoke 40+ cigarettes a day, and am partial to the odd bevy.

Go me!

Ultrasound sex

Don't misunderstand me. I fully believe that a sexual relationship between a doctor and a patient is reprehensible and unprofessional, and often an abuse of power. I would say this particularly applies when the doctor is a gynaecologist.

However, the idea of an ultrasound while having sex is at least intriguing.

The best ultrasound I ever had was a penetrative internal one. I could see my ovaries and follicles on the screen looking really rather beautiful.

I would highly recommend it. Only to women, though.

Obesity

According to this, I need to lose three stone to get into the 'acceptable' category.

If I lost three stone, not only would I look ill, I would be ill.

I have big bones.

Totally knackered

The latest locum thinks I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. My blood tests are okay, except for my Anti Nuclear Antibodies - an immunology thing - that are weak positive, and he wants to discuss with the practice partner.

I tell you, having been to the doctors, and then filled in my booking forms for the Proms and Royal Opera Booking Period 1, I'm only fit for sitting in the garden...

It's beginning to look as if my June off may turn into reality: opera, football, tennis.

And, hopefully, sunshine.

The bugger about living here is we get the same weather system as Wimbledon, so when Rain Stops Play, it also Stops Sitting In Gert's Garden.

Longer term readers will remember my rantette last summer about Fortnight Tennis Experts. I stand by that. However, if I am going to be off, stuck at home, I might as well take in some of Wimbledon which will be dominating the TV. It won't make me an instant expert. And I won't be supporting Tim Henman. If I'm at work, Wimbledon will be lower in priorities than Euro 2004, Opera Month, watching paint dry, cleaning the toilet...

Is that nice Mr McEnroe still playing?

Or, more to the point, Martina?

It's ace being fat!

Sorry, thin women.

Yeah, right I am.

According to this report in the Currant Bun, the fellas of women size 16 and above are more likely to be faithful

I would so hate to be thin skinny cheated-on....

Tiredness

I wasn't joking yesterday when I mentioned my fear of falling asleep during Valkyrie. Fortunately, I didn't. But only, I suspect, because I lay in bed until 1pm, knowing that I had to leave at half three. As soon as the final curtain came down, I started yawning, and realised that I was aching. Not in a 'I've been sat a long time in this seat' way, but in a 'I'm exhausted' sort of way. I went to bed at about half twelve, and apart from a very brief awakening at about ten o'clock, I slept through until two o'clock. That was an interesting test, actually, because my outing yesterday was nearly as long as a full workday, and kind of indicates how crap I would be if I went into work.

I finally got to see a GP last week, a locum. I presented my blood results from the private clinic. I explained that I know that the ESR results are vague (Baby Bro' has had patients with abnormal ESRs in one week that ranged from someone with terminal cancer to someone with the common cold. ), but I also mentioned that the private doctor was concerned about my thyroid.

As soon as I started using trechnical terms, the doctor's face lit up, and ordered some more blood tests, looking for myalgia (muscle pain), and something I can't read but looks like amnesia or andante (as if...). I'm now awaiting those blood results. My RL friends Ria and Megan, and my sister and my cousin Justin, all endorse Lyle's diagnosis of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome/ME/Yuppie Flu. Dr Matt, diagnosing from New Zealand by the magic of telephone reckons it's a post-infection debility emanating from glandular fever...

Psychologically, I'm not depressed, but I have a really bad case of roundtuit, which ranges from non-housework to non-blog-reading. I don't have much appetite, and my trousers are all beginning to hang off me in a somewhat frightening way. But in a funny way I'm sort of enjoying langouring around on the sofa.

And I've also discovered some slash fiction I wrote five or six years ago which gives a great insight into a time in my life when I was not writing either a paper diary or a blog. Which was rather nice, even though some of the fiction is a bit suspect...

My ERS is sky high

So, I got my bloodtest results back. Most of things are normal. Except for my ERS. I'm not entirely sure what they are, but they're double the norrmal range. Which is indicative of a chronic infection or inflammation, which is a major cause of chronic tiredness.

Over the past few days I have read up on the various illnesses for which I was being tested . After a few hours of reading I was imagining writing a blog chronicling my tragic and rapid decline, and waiitng for all the posthumous tributes. And awards, of course. It always kind of sucks that we can't attend our own funerals. And it would be a shame to miss the verbal slanging match when the 'Blog of a Dead Person' wins the Grauniad Award.

So it's vaguely disappointing that I am probably suffering from a disappointingly vague malaise. And have to maintain a distinctively mediocre blog.

I suppose I have to summon up the energy - more psychological than physical - to go round the corner to my GP and demand a referral to an endrocrinologist.

But for now, the sofa beckons.

In praise of fat

The big fat con story tells of the myths propagated about overweight. Brad Pitt and Michael Jordan are overweight, George Clooney and Russell Crowe are obese.

I'm obese. Apparently. My father calculated that when he was doing his National service he was, supposedly, a stone overweight.

And this article nicely points out the risks of osteoporosis for thin women. I get very smug as I watch the skinny people munching their lettuce leaves; already at my age I observe how tight and wrinkeled their skin is. I think of my dairy-product rich diet and know that even when I'm retired I'll have good skin and great bones. And fabulous teeth.

Oh, and by the way, food is one of the great sensual pleasures in life. I really don't have any psychological issues with food. Especially not puddings. They were invented to stimulate the sensuous.

Depressed, moi?

I made an appointment to see my GP. I specifically said to the receptionist that I wanted blood tests, so she said I must come in in morning surgery. Tuesday morning. I waited an hour to see the GP, but, actually, that's unusual - there may have been an emergency for all I know. Fair enough.

The woman in front of me emerged with a face like thunder. I managed about two sentences before the doctor interrupted me and said "It's depression - do you want another two weeks off?" I was so shell-shocked I didn't manage to mention the blood tests. Afterwards I was furious, and then, crying. I mean, bloomin' heck, if someone like me who is a intelligent articulate and educated trained professional bureaucracy buster, with an accumulated total of over twenty five years experience in confronting bureaucracy can't cope, how are ordinary people supposed to?

So today, I finally summoned up the energy to go to Victoria Station to the private walk-in clinic there. I was knackered by the time I go there - admittedly, I did go via Liberty at Oxford Circus to buy a crochet hook and a how-to-crochet book.

And, I think, I have spent some money wisely. Basically the equivalent of what I spend in three weeks - or less- in the coffee shops and sandwich bars near the office. I had time with the doctor, and was able to cite various aspects of my medical history. He carried a fairly superficial physical examination, and said that my thyroid feels enlarged. He took blood samples and ordered various tests, including full blood count, hormones etc. The results should be back Tuesday-ish.

I feel psychologically better for having done that, and, of course, wish that I could be more assertive with my GP surgery. However, I have said before and said again, that they are so overwhelmed with the diseases of poverty that they really don't have time for the middle-classes. I keep thinking of changing, but fear going from the frying pan into the fire.

Now I'm off to the world wide web to read up about hyper-thyroidism.

And I managed to give the doc a good tip. He's newly arrived from South Africa and saw what I had bought in WH Smiths - a part work of Opera DVDs for £10.95. This week it's Angela Gheorgiu/Georg Solti's Traviata, and Cecelia Bartoli in The Barber of Seville. There's a further thirty listed on the back, from Carmen (with Baltsa and Carreras) and Aida (with Domingo and the Met) to Pique Dame (with Gergiev and the Kirov) and Siegfried (with Jerusalem, Behrens and Levine). You can't really go wrong. Well, okay, there's three with Pavarotti, which is probably at least two too many. But, you know what I mean innit.

Physical exhaustion

My sofa is such a comfy place. So much more comfy than the computer chair. If you could read my mind, you'd be reading an award-winning blog.

But I can't be arsed to write it all down.

Sorry.

This may or may not be a hiatus.

But you know me - soon as you've concluded I've buggered off for good, I'll be back. With two oustanding reviews of culture, with a kvetch about the sheer incompetence of my GP, with an apposite and timely comment on the news of the day. With another kvetch about Sale and Manchester United losing at the weekend. With a breathless update of what music I'm listening to and what films I've been watching.

No, I'm not well. I have another two weeks off work. I want to work. I've got some good projects lined-up (Actually, very sexy, very 'in the news'). But I don't have the energy.