The hills are alive

My friend Elisabeth popped in yesterday; she is older than me but celebrated her 60th birthday a few years ago by cycling all over Viet Nam; to top that she has just come back from 3 months skiing in the Alps. It makes me tired just to think about it. We discussed all of my medical adventures including having loads of my right lung burnt away and the subsequent need for some pulmonary rehab.

I was dipping my head ready to be bowed down by get on your bike type suggestions when she came up with a brilliant idea: play the recorder. I am not sure anyone from my old school reads this blog; the friends I kept are all a bit IT resistant but if they were reading they would by now have booked tickets to far flung places. I was not a natural musician and didn't get much further than "My dame hath a lame tame crane" on my standard school instrument. It is strange as my kids were, or in Joe's case still are, performing musicians and Sam can still get a passable tune out of the Swannie whistle we drag out at Christmas; his piece de resistance is the theme from Ski Sunday; try it just try it!

So on the way to the hairdressers this afternoon, still no clump falls, I am going to track down a music shop and buy a recorder and a song book. Our next door neighbours are moving on Friday which is probably a good thing for them under the circumstances but Elisabeth did initially suggest singing so to my new neighbours,I will say, things could definitely be a lot worse.

Stocking up

One of the good things about living in Birmingham (apart from the family and friends over the road and just around the corner, the Balti Restaurants, when I can shake myself the best symphony hall in the country, and the fact that the place is in my blood and bones) is that you can get out of it very quickly into some of the loveliest bits of the country. From where we live it's only half an hour to the Cotswolds on a good day and you can't get much lovelier than that.

So off we went yesterday lunchtime; the sun was shining and Stewart had only scored a 6 on his I am edging into diabetes and have to go and have blood tests scores. Lunch was on the agenda. Our pub guides etc are all out of date and anyway I can't find them so we just pointed the car south and hoped for inspiration. You have to trundle through some boring bits but then South Warwickshire emerges and things look very much brighter.

After a few bends, we decided to do a very risky thing, go back to a pub that we knew had changed hands and that we used to love. It's in a village called Paxford, which oozes charm and no doubt wealth and it used to be run by the only black woman chef who was making it big in those days. She ran the Marsh Goose in Moreton as well. Being black and female and living in the Cotswolds, trying to make a go of things, can't have been easy but the food certainly helped. Most notable were the chips, she was double frying best Maris Piper before Heston was out of short trousers; we have since had double fried chips cooked in duck fat, which leave all contenders standing, in a market town close to our place in France, looks very similar to a Cotswolds town too; but the Paxford chips were nearly as good and certainly something to gladden the heart.

It always takes ages to find it but we did and there was a Michelin Pub Guide 2010 rosette in the window so that looked promising and apart from a change of pictures the place looked the same. The woman in charge now looks like the person who used to take your order in the old days, just older and taller; she was the same woman we discovered later so responsibility has clearly worked on her height. The staff and the other clientele were, as before a bit Cotswold posh, but at least there was no royalty, nor Kate Moss nor any Brummies in green wellies, so we should be thankful for small mercies.

Anyway the food was superb still and so were the chips; Stewart ordered the posh fish and chips (you know - beer batter and crushed peas) for his main along with a pint of Hook Norton (the good diabetes news was clearly going to his head) so, as he does not subscribe to the school of husbands that will part with a single chip if you have turned down the opportunity of ordering some, I had to order a dish of chips to go with my healthy butternut squash, leeks and goats cheese lasagne option. It was lovely and went beautifully with the chips, as did the two glasses of grassy Sauvignon I washed it all down with; and just the thing for a Shrove Tuesday when you might be soon be facing at least 40 days in the chemo wilderness.

We had a quick jaunt around Stow on the Wold and then back home to really stock up round at Jess and Tom's on lashings of traditional Shrove Tuesday pancakes oozing lemon and sugar. Harry told me to take my headband off my head as I wasn't bald yet and said he loved me and was glad I hadn't died in hospital. That I took to be the best Shrove Tuesday padding anyone could possibly wish for and I am sure it will keep me in good stead in a couple of weeks time when I head back to hospital and the next time and the next time, when the wilderness demons will be abroad and the chips will be well and truly down!

Bad hair day

No it's not falling out. I keep giving it a tug and nothing comes away and now and then I shake my head and just get the odd strand floating off with all of the dust motes showing up in this lovely winter sunshine we are having. Nonetheless it's a bad hair day, mainly because I haven't had it cut since before I went to Dresden and that was last year! For decades now I have been going for the gamine look, well on my head anyway the rest of me hardly falls into the elfin category. If I leave it longer than six or seven weeks, it turns into the gammon not the gamine look, flat, flabby and in need of a pineapple to perk it up. I know I have time on my hands these days and I could try blowdriers and crimpers, but I learnt long ago that I had no skill and was perhaps put off by the grips and rollers and, if I recall, something called a razor cut that my Mom tried to bring into force to persuade a bit of style into my hair when I was a girl. These days, if it can't be sorted by a quick run through with the fingers after a nice soaky bath it's no good to me. I don't even own a comb.

So I have just booked a cut for Thursday and it will be a race to see who gets there first the chemo or the hairdresser. I will get Stuart, hairdresser not husband, to cut it as short as he dares and not worry that it will cost me half of our day's being on a pension allowance and it might be a waste. If I dare I may even go blond or bright pink because after all it won't last for ever.

Credit where it's due

They didn't print my letter in the Times - see 8 Feb. I got edged out by the present Chair of the BMA and the past Chief Executive of the NHS, wouldn't be the first time and why would anyone want to listen to what a patient had to say anyway? At least I get to keep a few friends now and am bundling up NHS commenting blogs to send to said friends and readers who from time to time have included the present Secretary of State for Health so put that in your pipe and smoke it Mr Editor of the Times.

Many of you will know that over the past year or so I have spent three weeks in a French hospital, another three in a German one and now three days in a UK one. That three days is the latest of many experiences of UK health institutions with kids, parents, partner and yours truly. France has included my stay and two, week long stays for spouse. So I am going to do a league table with comments and then send it to those that might listen.

Marks out of 10 as I can count that far still

Access: Getting seen in the first place

France - 9.5 although I am told it's hard to get an eye-test
Germany - 9.5
UK - 2. The present government have done loads to get waiting times down and pushed money at the problem but it is just not acceptable that 26 miles over the Channel you get an appointment for a secondary referral in a day or two but here we congratulate ourselves on getting it down to 18 weeks

Seeing the right person

France and Germany - 9.5 - sorry just can't bring myself to give the perfect 10, I would be no good as a Winter Olympics judge. You get to see the person you and/or your GP have decided you should see, the organ-grinder not the monkey

UK - 2. Even after 18 weeks wait, you rarely see a consultant, most often a registrar, but even just an SHO sometimes; this in my very direct experience leads to poor diagnosis

Waiting for things to happen

France and Germany- 9.5 again, very little waiting in corridors or waiting rooms
UK - 2 again - oh my God those corridors and depressing rooms

The buildings, furniture and fittings

France and Germany - 9. I did go on a tour of France, Germany and the Netherlands once, looking at hospital buildings, so have seen a few more than those me and mine have stayed in.

UK - 3. A bit generous that but I know we are getting a super new hospital in Birmingham (the reason for that trip) which I fully accept will be an 8 at least. Let's face the facts in France and Germany I had my own room with en-suite bathroom, all nicely decorated and bright; the most I would have had to put up with was a two-bed room with en-suite bathroom. Last week in the UK, I was in a six bed bay with no door; there were three toilets down a corridor for 28 people of mixed gender; no shower and not very easy to use sinks. We had to leave cardboard containers with our pee in it to be tested and there it was sitting next to Jim's and Elsie's; named up of course so we all knew what each others pee looked like.

Doctors

France and Germany - 9. As above you see the top person and then she/he keeps popping in every day to make you feel loved. The real question is their skill of course. I can't fault the ones I saw, or Stewart saw but can't give a national judgement; I don't think anyone doubts that docs in France and Germany are well trained.

UK - a difficult one for me; the doctors I saw originally score nil points; the ones in the cancer centre I would put on an equal footing to France and Germany, so 9 for them but a few more visits to patients on the wards might not go amiss.

NB: we pay our doctors loads more than they do in Germany and France.

Nursing

Germany - 9
France - 9
UK - 9.5

At last we come first! The UK nurses do have the advantage of speaking my language which helps but they were brilliant last week. They worked their socks off, they did seem to be under more pressure than their continental counterparts and that wasn't because there were less of them but more because of the layout and the kit. I had to keep calling them to sort my pump out as the infusions kept stopping and that meant more hours in the hospital, not good for me or them. Never had a pump fail in Perigueux or Coswig. What was really good was that however busy they were they never failed to respond to a question or to give a helpful word; in the middle of a busy medicines round they would stop and have a chat and put your mind at ease. Didn't get that abroad but that was because of the language barrier really, if you can't get get passed ca va; oui ca va bien you are in a bit of trouble communications wise. The German "do you have any vishes" was slightly more challenging.

Food

France pre-op - 9.5 - Five courses twice a day, included duck and lovely fish and the lady who shared my room one day said that in Bergerac hospital they have a wine list! Post-op - 2; it suddenly changed, I don't know if this was because I was a fatty or maybe it was something about protein not being good as it builds up scar tissue but it changed to a strange diet of mashed potato and bland pasta

Germany - 2 wurst and wurst and lots of it at funny times

UK - 9. It wasn't bad at all and I liked the system they had for bringing all the options round on a trolley so you could go and have a look and a sniff at what was on offer. They always had nice things like baked potatoes and salad if you didn't fancy the full works; the full works when I had them were tasty and warm.

Cleanliness

France and Germany - 9

UK - 9.5 - how about that then, I would leave aside the toilets and only give them a 5 as that mouldering pee was not attractive or I suspect hygienic. The level of cleaning on the wards in the UK was the best.

Rest

France and Germany 9.5
UK - 2

Sorry but you just cant sleep or recover as well when you are in a room with six people and there is only a thin curtain between you and the others - if you are lucky. In Birmingham the lights are too bright, there isn't a door to the corridor and however much the staff creep about, and they do, trying to keep quiet if they have to tend to one of your neighbours you hear and see them. Sleep almost nil

Parking

France and Germany - 8 - not plentiful but free

UK - 1 - reasonably plentiful but more expensive than big commercial sites, we parked in the centre of Dresden in an underground commercial carpark to go sight-seeing; it was run by the same company who run the local hospital one here; we paid 0.75 euros there for an hour and £2.20 here .. in a hospital, because I am sick. Sort it out!

Overall

France - 9
Germany 8.5 - only the wurst let it down
UK - 4 and my early experience C minus, minus , minus as one of my old teachers used to mark the stuff she was really depressed about.

One day or everyday

I suppose we can't ignore the fact that it is St Valentine's Day. Red packaging and hearts and flowers galore. The glossy mag stuffed into my Sunday paper features the 20 most romantic places to visit and even the cash pages tell you the right decisions to make financially if you are romantically involved with someone. Funny phrase that romantically involved and funny old day St Valentines. I wouldn't say that me and Stewart were romantically involved anymore, biologically involved organically, gut wrenchingly, more like two mountains pushed up in folds together involved but romantically sounds too light, too fluffy. Romance to me means a story not the real thing and so does all the stuff that fills our shops, someone else doing romance for you.

We have visited a few of these romantic places and no doubt gazed into each other's eyes maybe once or twice without bursting out into peals of laughter. But if that red deep hearty stuff is worth having, for me it has to happen in Victoria on a cold wet morning rather than in Venice on a gondola, under the chemo drip these days rather than under the stars. Of course I'd rather be under the stars and in Venice than Victoria but not because it's romantic but because it's a darned sight nicer.

The closest we ever got to marking the day was in our first year of marriage when on 14 February I made him stuffed hearts for tea. His Nan used to make them and so I got the recipe off her. She guffawed somewhat at my plan but she was a good cook and a good teacher of how to do it (I still make her rice pudding to the very letter). Offal wasn't my big thing in those days but Stewart scoffed them down and I have no doubt all of that blood content did a lot for his circulation which as time goes by you realise is far more important in terms of performance in the love field than romance.

Kathleen Flett writing in the self same glossy magazine this morning says: " just last night my youngest son, lying in bed after his story and cuddling his blue bear, held up his arms to me and said: "Mummy, my heart needs to tell you how much it loves you…" and I thought mine would just explode, right there, messily, all over blue bear and Iggle Piggle and the blanket-called-Boo, and everything. Yeah, why would I want the kind of "love" you can buy in the shops? "

Right on Ms Flett and a prize for you for the person who made me cry this morning - doesn't take much these days just mention kids and their Moms and I am off. On that note our St Valentine's miracle of the day is that I am feeling OK and am rustling up a proper Sunday lunch for my two Iggle Piggle lovers and their Mom and Dad and their Grandad who assures me he loves me every day. We will have all the trimmings, we will finish off with rhubarb crumble and custard, I will keep it all down and there won't be a heart in sight. Why would there be I learnt 41 years ago that they are just a pile of gristle and tubes, which take all day to turn into anything worth putting in your mouth. I have never cooked them since.

Followers

My blog has 30 followers, Ok I know one of them is me because I did something funny when I tried to comment about a comment, but I think that is quite impressive and I want to say thank you to you all, if you have been, for reading my blatherings. Some of you of course are old friends and family, some are new and some are complete strangers.It's so nice to meet you. There is quite an international spread, apart from good (?) old Blighty, I have readers in France, Germany, America and recently Australia. I apologise for all of my very culturally and age specific references - have you any idea who Cathy McGowan was for example? Well happy googling.

I know for the 30 brave souls who have actually attempted the sign up instructions there are as many, if not more, out there reading anonymously and so I am wondering if I can make a few bob out of this. You are quite a a market and I could raise something for cancer research or just my own restaurant trying fund. I am not a capitalist at heart but it's fun to think about which advertisers may be interested. Quite a few cancer sufferers so maybe wigs or funny hats; lot of you of a certain age so maybe the little blue pills. I could do a regular book review and get Amazon flashing up with " if you enjoyed this one why not try etc etc ". There are lots of food references so maybe Waitrose or Gordon Ramsey's food chain.

There would be that question of trust of course, did this scruff bag really own a Chanel suit or has she just had a backhander from whoever is now running Coco's empire? Did she really slather over that fish or is she getting a cutback on the next family outing? And anyway I am too lazy so no ads.

I do feel a responsibilty to you all, however, and wonder if I need to vary my input. It could be like the Saturday and Sunday supplements. I have made a start on a restaurant review, if I started something immediately after finishing the latest book and I could still remember the odd thing about it, I could write a review. I would try a sports page but don't feel my heart would be in it. Last few weeks would have been " John Terry - who?"; "Andy Murray - thank God and why is he speaking with that Mid-Atlantic accent"; Winter Olympics - "brr". Six Nations Rugby - " Suppose Jeremy is still worth a sidelong glance and maybe I can bother to drag up that fantasy about the tackle to the ground by a 16 stone mass of muscle at full speed, mmm.. with me making sure he stays just where he is?"

I do know that you are all cheering me along in my battle and my blogging so the latest post-chemo news. I only had the three sickies and I am no stranger to those as you now all know. The rest has been sort of rumblings and slight flutters held in chain by the Dom Perignon I am knocking back - old chemo takers joke I suspect, the anti-emetics are called Donperidone or some such chemical nonsense. Last night I made it out to Al Frash for our regular, but not too regular to make it boring, Friday curry. I stuck to the masalla fish and a bit of curried veg and that was no hardship, and only one glass of wine and it all stayed down albeit with a few protests in the night. I wore one of my new headwraps, just as a big headband, a) because ironically my hair needs cutting and it's driving me mad and b) to get my audience used to the Edith Sitwell look that will run alongside the muted down African headress one.

There is one person who does not read my blog, husband of nearly 42 years, Stewart. He says he can't and I don't think I could read his either. He is going to have to put up with more than Edith Sitwell and Winnie Mandela, a lot more and for one he is going to get the full boiled egg bald. But of course my boiled egg look, thanks to my new mate Gok, will be wondrously smooth, warm but cooling to the touch; inside the yolk will be luscious just waiting for a hot buttery soldier to pierce its very soul. And that readers is all you are getting from the "Adult" section of this week's supplements.

Legacies

Alexander McQueen hung himself yesterday possibly because he couldn't cope with his Mom dying (please my darlings, don't) and this morning Gok Wan, he of How to look good naked, entertained me on Desert Island Discs as I tucked into a crumpet (pikelet to my family, sorry my darlings, I am giving in to public pressure) with Marmite and a toasted hot cross bun spread with Mick's Marvellous Marmalade (and marvellous it really is Mick). I was in bed, it was 9.00am and this was the height of indulgence and luxury for me especially as I managed to keep aforementioned pikelet and bun well and truly down. Gok made me cry when he said he couldn't bear the thought of being away from his Mom (sorry my darlings, so sorry) and the rest of his family on his desert island even with his lip balm. He also repeated his dictum of dumping self-doubt and being the beautiful person you are.

Now I can think of a few this wouldn't work for but with Gok and Alexander (real name Lee apparently) in mind I revisited my story of yesterday. It was all true, I did sick all over Stewart that first time and I did fall off my seat in his old jalopy and after that there were peas in his lap when I couldn't cut my steak and there was me quaffing the cork dregs in a restaurant in Florence, no less, because I thought they were in my tasting glass, too uncool to know that girls never have a tasting glass, well not in the 1960s they didn't. But hey thank you Gok, let's look again. I came from one of the bought houses round by us, I went to the grammar school, that day I shimmied down the steps with my 37-24-36 stats (about the size of one of my legs now), I had long straight very Cathy McGowan, Jean Shrimpton type 1960s hair that later one of his friends described as falling over my shoulders like bra straps (oh the poetry of young men!). I was 15 going on 25 and yes Gok I was a catch and guess what Alexander (nee Lee) I was dressed in a Chanel Suit.

The story of that suit is a strange one. We were not rich, in fact at the time the suit was bought I was in a one-parent family, my Dad having run off with "the trollop", my Mom was a dinner lady at Stewart's big comp and I was soon to be in receipt of a charity grant to keep me in school after school leaving age. But my Uncle George was an insurance man and he had sold my parents endowment policies for me and my brother when we were born. Neil's had come good a couple of years earlier and he bought his first, but by no means last, reel to reel Grundig tape recorder. I don't remember being asked what I wanted when mine fell due, maybe I said something nice to wear, I was 14 at the time. I think my Mom was making one last attempt to turn me into the girl she wanted, ie ladylike, nice blond curly hair, good at sewing and a help around the house, not the girl I was, ie none of those things.

I don't think my Mom knew the full significance of the Chanel label, we were more C & A in those days; but she knew that shop up New St in town was posh and if that couldn't make a lady of me nothing could. I didn't appreciate the wonder of it either but looking back it was one of those Chanel suits, you know classic round neck, collarless, boxy jacket with two rows of silk covered pockets each side, nice shaped tapering skirt and it was in the palest bobbly most girly pink you could imagine.

I did love it but I know that by the time I went out for that lunch with Stewart the pink was blotched with 14 year old's carelessness and later when I became a Mod and then a sort of studenty scruffy type it got dyed brown in an old zinc bucket and had its skirt turned up to just below knicker level like all my other skirts. I don't know when Mom gave it to the rag and bone man but it wouldn't have raised an eyebrow when she did.

Now Jess rails at me as she is heavily into vintage and knows what a 1960s Chanel suit would fetch. Just as she rails at me for letting my Mom throw away the Woolworth's cups and saucers that keep on popping up in Homes and Antiques showing iconic 60s furniture and I rail at my brother for throwing away a piece of that iconic furniture that my arty farty Dad bought for a king's ransom much to my Mom's ire as it was unsitonable and we hadn't paid the electricity bill.

So my only chance of leaving a legacy lost over 40 years ago, along with my only chance of being "a lady". Thank God for that I say and, sorry my darlings, you will just have to put up with a few wobbly pots and the ready wit and repartee.