Naturally, it is tempting to complete the injunction: Stay Calm and Carry On. Unfortunately, Liz has to tell you that she will, indeed, do her best to carry on but nature has put a time limit on her capacity to do so in the form of a tumour which is not given to much co-operation under the current treatment possibilities. Kind on-going followers may remember the sagas (plural 'sagas' or 'sagae?) of the women sent to help feed me after the last, (quite recent last), operation which, it seems had nothing to do with the present condition. Anyway, I remember them and they rather predicate against going through a similar experience again even to buy a few extra months. So, it would seem that Liz is now actually 75 going on 75, though there will be those among you astute enough to have worked out that, in the eight years I have been blogging, I must have moved on somewhat from 75.
Thankfully, it seems there is no tumour on my humour so I can only hope that this will be one area where I can reliably carry on. Indeed, during the week,, I had lunch with a friend on an occasion when it was my turn to pay. At some point she disappeared and I assumed she had gone to the loo. In fact, she had gone to pay the bill. I protested it was my turn and we agreed it certainly would be next time. I said "Promise?" and she said "Cross my heart and..." but we decided, unanimously, not to finish that particular saying. No doubt, if I had symptoms which impinged on my life as we speak, it may be possible to think a little more realistically. I don't, so I suspect there may be a tinge of delay in acceptance which makes it easier to be matter-of-fact. However, it IS a matter of fact so I must be sure to allow myself to catch up with the implications fully enough before too long. I am going to see a Person Who May Know More and, therefore, help decision-making, tomorrow, so that is the next of the 'one step at a time' proceedures my family and I are undertaking.(Forget the pun). In the meantime, life's other little jokes do carry on. Without my having seen him go in, my jet black cat had settled himself inside the jet black interior of his yurt. (No, I didn't. I am not that profligate. Two yurts and various other extreme luxuries came with him in a trousseau from his previous owners). My first indication of his whereabouts was the sight of a square inch of pink going up and down, seemingly disembodied, inside the yurt, accompanied with the slurping noise incurred by washing by licking when you don't have an adequate nose. Prynhawn da