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Is it Friday already? Crap. 
12th-Mar-2010 05:51 pm
THIRTY DAYS OF MEME: 26 Your Week, in Great Detail.

Oh boy.
Are you sure?

Are you really really sure?

I don't think you really want to read this. Seriously. I'm not even using cut-text to warn you: I'm warning you right here at the top in the body of the post: this week has been gross, and so a detailed discussion on this week will involve discussion of some of the very least pleasant of bodily functions. If reading such things causes you ill, then don't read.

I'm serious.

Also contains (MILD) spoilers for Being Human season 2 finale, Glee up to the current position on UK telly, a random episode of Wycliffe, and Zachary Quack: Minimonster

The weekend was perfectly normal, as weekends go. On Saturday, I woke up at a borinigish time (8, I imagine) and headed into work after I was done with the internet. I've said it before and I'll say it over and over again: my job is awesome. I played with floating magnets, helped young children build things with giant Lego bricks, and I talked about the effect concave and convex mirrors have on reflections, and how ice bends polarised light in two different directions to create interference colours when passed through another polarised filter. And I had a meeting with my Team Leader - who is my friend on facebook and might read this. Luckily, I have nothing to say 'cause I rock at my job.

Having spent the working day on my feet, I arrived back home suitably knackered and really looking forward to a night in with pizza and hopefully the finale of Being Human  - I'd fallen asleep at half eight the previous week when it was on and various circumstances had colluded over the ensuing week to prevent the three of us (all the girls in my flat watch it) from sitting down to enjoy it. I was hoping Saturday night would be it.

Except then I got home and was informed that they'd each watched it without me. Cue a massive Debi-sized strop and a good old cry in my bedroom, until Izzy came to check on me, point out I was being a giant baby, and talk me back into the living room for pizza and Moon, which Izzy had bought me for my birthday.

If you haven't watched Moon, do so. It was easily the best piece of pure science fiction in moving-picture format last year (and I include the also fantastic District Nine in that), and is really truly breathtakingly beautiful in places. This was the second time I'd seen the movie and was able to enjoy it as a linear story, alongside people who saw what was going on early enough to also enjoy it that way - it's a very spoilerable movie so I won't go into detail, but it more than stands up to repeat viewing. Then, off to the bedroom before eleven although I had to pack for a trip to the parents.

The InnerMum had an operation (bionic hip) scheduled on Monday, and I'd finally, after weeks of passive aggressive sulks down the phone, persuaded both the InnerRents that it as best for me to be at their house while this was going on. I'd managed, mostly, to phrase it as 'surely Dad'll want me around' rather than 'I'm not having my Mummy undergo major surgery while I'm anywhere other than with my Daddy', but no one's fooling anyone about that. Anyway, I finally curled into bed at midnightish.

Sunday, of course, has been documented in photolog form on the last entry on this meme, and as commented there, I woke up really early; almost certainly because I'd resolved to take a photolog of that day and it added a certain amount of stress in anticipation. I'm crazy, don't ask.

Anyway: woke up really early; early enough, in fact, to have the time to watch both the finale of Being Human and the most recent (on UK telly) episode of Leverage before work. Being Human was not disappointing per se, but the season itself has not been up to previous standards: the stories of the three heroes were brought to a satisfactory ending, but Annie's story in particular had been so badly handled in the middle that it was more of a "oh, so that's what you were getting at" rather than a true pay-off. Lucy's character was good, but slightly ruined by association with I.D. No, Toby Whithouse, it is in fact possible to be a scientist and a religious believer without being a deceitful, ignorant creationist. The season's bad guys (well, Lucy, in particular) were complete straw-Christians, which was disappointing from a show that gave us Reverend Awesome in the first season.

Leverage continues to be concentrated brilliance - I'm going to guess the episode title was "The Wedding Job" or some sort? LOTS of Hardison/Parker goodness (Sophie/Nate I can take or leave. Parker/Hardison is my little interracial straight able bodied Babs/Dinah, complete with the HEALING POWER OF LOVE and I love it). Anyway, Parker was in a bridesmaid dress, Elliot was cooking (because he's good with knives) and Hardison was Oracley awesome. <3.

Then off to work! And I could tell the kind of day it was going to be when I got into the common room with my first cup of tea and there was dry ice in the common room and I made a joke about dry ice in my tea and peer pressure made me do it, honestly. I talked about ice and birefringence, Newton's Third Law of motion and fired a bottle rocket across the gallery.

After work, it was back to the parents. There are a couple of ways from South Kensington to my parents: until recently my favourite would be to walk across Hyde Park (about half an hour) directly to Paddington and get the train from there, thus avoiding bTfL* completely. However, because I have a 1-4 travelcard, it's actually cheaper to get the train from Ealing Broadway, which slices about £2 off my train fare. and Ealing Broadway is actually quite convenient from Gloucester Road/South Ken.

On a normal day.

Weekends in London are NEVER EVER normal days for bTfL. Having lived in the bloody capital for ten years, you'd think I would know this. I got to Gloucester Road to discover that there was no direct route to Ealing Broadway, and the only real option would be to go to Earl's Court and change on to a train that would take me to Paddington, negating the price save.

It was ALSO match day, and at Earl's Court, on top of being jostled by Chelsea fans who were also overcrowded and tired after a long day, I had to let two trains go because they were too full to physically let me on. So instead of a nice walk through a cold but brisk park, I got to Paddington an hour after work, tired and grouchy.

The InnerDad met me at the station at the other end, as he can always be counted on to do - especially as I'd phoned him with the last vestiges of my phone's battery power to let him know when I was arriving. Sadly, however, he had to let me down over our agreement to have a takeaway curry that night - a pizza he had yesterday, he said, had recurred on him and he was still delicate, so maybe another night. On top of that, the Innersis has phoned to say she'd had the 'Winter Vomiting Bug" (norovirus), and wasn't feeling top. I grilled Dad about his suspected food poisoning and gave him my very unhumble, informed, and authoritative (I've had food posioning myself, dontcherknow?) opinion that it had been goin on for too long to me food poisoning and it sounded like he was infected himself. Reluctantly, after banishing me and my heated-up-frozen-tupperware meal from the room, and before crawling into bed at half eight, he admitted I had a point (I always do.) So I amused myself on the internet for a couple of hours and headed to bed.

Monday morning and the InnerDad's problems had migrated southwards (don't worry, I'll be far more graphic later in the week), so we had to cancel plans to go get vegetarian food for me to eat while there and instead I rocked down to the village high street on my tod to get fruit and an Innocent vegetable pot and yohurt, and the paper, and because I'm an idiot and completely forgot about Abby's swimming lesson on Wednesday, a swimming costume. And I tripped and accidentally fell into a charity shop and before I could help myself I'd found a simple leather jacket that'd be perfect for a Black Canary costume. What're you going to do?

Where was the InnerMum - the patient to be - in all this? Well, she was on a walking holiday in Somerset. With a knackered hip. Obviously. Because when you have a body part that's so completely worn out you can hardly walk on it without the aid of two sticks, which has become so bad you're scheduled to have major surgery to get it replaced, well, clearly you have to go and squeeze the very last piece of usage out of it, right?


Just my family, then.

Anyway, she came home around lunchtime, at which point the real invalid had decamped to the living room and looked to be feeling slightly better, though still dozey. I was subjected to two hours of intense Mum debriefing as I was instructed on how to look after the niece (who I've looked after before) and the houseplants (which admittedly I do have a history of killing, but so does she) and the InnerDad and the InnerGran's Mother's Day present (which I later cocked up). I offered to help pack and stuff but was turned down in a wave of hyperefficiency. I asked if I could come with her to the hosptial - Dad wasn't able to drive but a friend was giving a lift - and was flatly turned down. The InnerSis phoned to wish her luck and to say that she'd been in bed all day with the lurg, and then Mum was off. Just like that.

Sister did not, in fact, have the norovirus. She had something else. More on that later.

So then all I had to do was worry and fret and work myself up. I have a phobia of people I love being in hospital, you see. An understandable one, surely, but not one with a lot of precedence, as I've been blessed with a ridiculously healthy family, the youngest of which to die had throat cancer at 69 (he smoked). Still, since my grandmother died under anaesthetic before reaching surgery ten years ago, I'd had minor panic attacks every time a loved one's been sick, including Abby's incubation at birth and agoodshinkickin's damnable kidneys. So forgive me if I worked my way into tears waiting for the news.

A worry which was completely and entirely unsubstantiated. Dad called the hospital at eight and was told that not only was she out of surgery, she'd had a sleep and would you like to be grogged at over the phone by her? Grog-grog-grog.

So that was that. I think we both went to bed quite early that night.

You know what's ridiculous? Phoning a hospital in the morning to check on a woman who's had surgery the previous evening, only to be told she's absolutely fine and lucid and here, talk to her hello I'm fine, how are you when are you coming in? So it was decided.

The InnerDad (who was feeling better) and I headed to Sainsbury's to get food for me and the florists to get flowers
for her, and then we were off visiting. He was banished to the other side of the room, and I was told the importance of disinfecting everything he's touched and washing my hands every few minutes, but it was already a bit late because I was feeling decidedly squiggly in that area already.

We had a good sit down and a chat that lasted most of the morning, including a double check of all the things I had to remember to do and how  unbelievably good she felt  - lots of pain, naturally, but already more mobile than pre-op and that's my mother, ladies and gentlemen. We headed back home for lunch when the pain started to catch up again, but I promised to come in again that afternoon with Helen, assuming she felt better.

That plan was cancelled abruptly just as she was coming to pick me up, as Abby's nursery had called to say she had diarrhoea and could Mummy please come and and pick her up as we just don't have the nappies for this kind of thing thank you very much. So I got in the car and we went to pick up the other patient.

Who isn't just walking, now, but running in that adorable toddly kneeless way toddlers have, and loudly vocal in a way that sounds like crying to the untrained ear until you see her shit eating grin and that she's just delighted to see her Mummy and it's time to go home, look she has her own coat from the hook and everything. Plus she recognises her auntie Debi and that means I win everything.

Turns out Abby doesn't have any sort of virus, just teething diarrhoea (did you know teething causes diarrhoea? Now you do), but she can't go to the hospital and that means Helen can't go to the hospital unless Debi comes to babysit. (The InnerBiL had to visit a customer in a different hospital).

So, off I go at just before bedtime, to hang out a little bit with Mummy and baby before baby conveniently walks into a baby gate just as she realises that Mummy's heading out, and uses that as a trigger for an almighty hissy fit, all through Daddy leaving, right up until bath, through de-clothing, through bathtime, through getting ready for bed, with a slight pause for the bottle (it's hard to cry and drink at the same time. Not impossible, but hard), then back again while we attempt brushing. And then completely subsided the second we went into her bedroom, at which time she reached bodily for the books on her night stand and demanded "Duck!"

So Zachary Quack: Minimonster it was, accompanied by gleeful crying out of "duck!" and of pointing out not only of that worthy, but also the "Cat!" and the dragonfly, which was done silently because it's polysyllabic and that's hard. We had a little bit of difficulty when Zachary Quack got his head stuck in a Wellington boot and became unrecognisable as a duck (we had to rely on Auntie IB's word on those pages)  but it all came off in the wash and there he was again!

So in the end, bedtime was a smiley affair, with lots of cuddles for Lambert and no trouble at all post-lights out. I hung out with their DVD collection for an hour or so, then was given a lift home.

The InnerDad called soon after to say he was on the way home from watching Holby City in the hospital** and feeling hungry now so would I like something from the chipshop? I'd already played freezer roulette and had sag aloo, but I reckoned I always had room for chip shop chips. So I had that and the episode of Glee  I'd recorded the night before.

Man, that show is good. This was the Don't Stand So Close to Me episode, and it wasn't the best, but Emma's crush on Schu is always fun to watch and so was Fynn singing to a sonogram, and it's always nice to meet the kids' parents and say "so that's why they're so fucked up/awesome"  (one each, this ep).

And so to bed. But not for long, because at one o'clock in the morning my chips decided they didn't like it inside me, and would rather be free, thanks. Fortunately, at the 'rents I have a convenient en suite. Potatoes are really easy to throw up, aren't they? They just slide out and splash down  with minimal burning. I just cleared them out, stopped when lunch started to appear and went back to bed.

Woken up at 7 on Wednesday morning by the InnerDad, I explained what happened and how I was feeling OK but a little squiggly still. He phoned the InnerSis and it was decided that we'd still have Abby but swimming lessons were right out. So along came little'un at half past, hungry and ready for breakfast, which as previously noted, she inhaled. After breakfast I showed her the bubble gun I'd bought at work and it became a huge hit - and apparently I'm the first person to have witnessed the word "bubbub", for which I'm taking ALL the credit.Books featuring animals (particularly ducks and cats and other things with hard monosyllables) are the current favourite, however, Abby being a member of this family.We played with books and balls and buses and bubbles and other things beginning with B, and tried to go to the High Street but it was too cold for small fingers without gloves.

After her morning nap she was hungry quickly, as I inferred by the way she kept leading me into the dining room and climbing into her chair. A ginger biscuit appeased her mildly but she demanded an early lunch.

By this time I was flagging much faster than she was. The InnerDad handled the fishy-smelling fish pie lunch and I sat nearby, then I was barely able to keep up with her until naptime, at which time I collapsed harder into bed than she did, and from the sound of it, got much more sleep.  When I emerged at three, she'd had an hour loud and happy in the cot, an hour rampaging about where she knows she shouldn't, and an hour tantruming in the cot. I got up, and witnessed a final tantrum before she settled down in my arms and we sat together on the sofa with Slinky Malinki Open the Door and a blanket, until the InnerSis returned.

The InnerDad went off to visit the InnerMom while I focused on the Very Important Task of feeling better, then he returned home with Chinese (egg fried rice for me) and together we watched Moon. Again, I know. But it's still good the third time, and Dad didn't get the linear plot as quickly as my flatmates and I was able to see him interact with the movie in the same way I did originally, with the gorgeous outdoor shots and the echoing dinginess of the interior, and all the 2001-ness of it. Have I mentioned I love this movie? See it.

So I'm feeling better, when just as I'm heading to bed at tennish, I realise I'm about to break wind. Only it's not wind that comes out. so once again I get a horribly sleepless night rushing to the loo at the slightest discomfort, in order to splash out again and again and again.

Look, there were TMI warnings at the top of this post. Quit complaining.

Come Thursday morning, however, I'm actually feeling much better, the virus having completed its journey through and all that's left for me is to get over the effects of having been flushed through so violently. The InnerDad and I had a nice, lazy Thursday morning before swinging around to the hospital to find out that the woman we're supposed to be all worried about is all better, capable of making whole flights of stairs and ready to be kicked out tomorrow (Friday.) So that's alright then. My mother, the bionic woman. (they rebuilt her. Made her stronger) We hung out, ate her chocolates and chatted until she kicked us out, then we went to PC World to window shop for a laptop for my birthday last month (we're still discussing this).

Lunch was dubiously-vegetarian Tortellini and crap 90s murder mystery - I can't remember the name, but I think it was Wycliffe. A body had been dug up on an archaeological dig and the landowner was being shady about it. So was the pub landlord and his mate. Also the rich lord-of-the-local manor who had a daughter who was photogenically crazy, having had a mysterious breakdown in the vague past. Though conveniently about the time that the skeleton had been dated to (~1960). (Is there in fact a mental illness that makes photogenic women act a little dreamy and float around playing with dolls? Really? Or is this just Ophelia syndrome?)

Anyway, when the skull was discovered he turned out to be black, and obviously the only black men to be in the West Country in the 1960s were American soldiers. Suddenly it turned out that there had been an American military base and a couple of black soldiers had one AWOL. And the photo of one of them made the afore-mentioned shady characters react with enhanced shady ness. Also dramatic music. Case solved. Solider had affair with lord's daughter, daughter gets pregnant, solider is murdered and baby is secretly adopted. Daughter goes Ophelia.

The second worst part was that the biracial man who showed up at the end to be the grown son, didn't have one single line and was just used as a prop for the white characters to react to. The actual worse thing was I was actually entertained by the whole fiasco: 'look how charmingly offensive TV was twenty years ago.' Ick.

So, feeling much better, we had to fully disinfect the whole house, especially the bathroom, because the very very last thing you want is for someone to have the norovirus while they are incapable of a) walking unaided and b) kneeling down, let alone changing their own bedsheets. My hands are bloody suffering now, thanks to my sensitive skin.

Incidentally, the reason that the InnerSis had been ill wasn't, in fact, the same virus, but morning sickness. Yep, there's going to be another one, and you'd better believe I'm going to dote on it just as hard. And given that morning sickness lasted this hard up to the 13th week, the smartarse money is on boy-flavoured. Thursday morning was the scan, so all four of us (minus the soon to be big-sis) trundled along for one final visit before release, to share the picture and make it officially official.

:D (that news was your reward for reading this far)

Four of us off to Tapas, which I managed to mostly eat, and think I deserve a medal for not punching someone the umpteenth time I was prevented from finishing a sentence, but I was still squiggly so that's probably why O was so short tempered. By bedtime I was feeling fine.

So this morning, Friday, and I'm feeling a bit better, although with one thing and another my hair was an absolute state and took an hour to brush. As the InnerMum was due to come out this afternoon, and as I have work this weekend, I came in to the NHM to actually get thesis work done.

And by thesis work I mean sorting through papers I left in a huge mess last time I was in, writing the final half of the methods section of a chapter that would have been wrapped up two weeks ago if I wasn't feeling like shit, and mostly, mostly, writing this bloody thing. Seriously.

I hope you've read it. I'd be disappointed if you hadn't.

Tonight I plan to do bugger all. I hope I have food in the freezer because I neither want to cook nor eat take-away again. There may even be a movie on Filmflex, and I hope to Bob that my flatmates haven't killed each other in my absence so I can have quality flatmate time. I'm almost certain there'll be an early night.

And I'm determined there shall be comics.

*bloody Transport for London
** I do not allow Holby-based medical 'dramas' to happen while I'm in the house. Sorry, Char.
12th-Mar-2010 06:04 pm (UTC)
I think the only possible reaction to the medical stuff is D:. And I'm glad things are on the mend all around.

The Ophelia syndrome actually does sound like a photogenic version of one phase of a dissociative disorder resulting from trauma; I've seen that in my personal experience. The dreamy childishness alternated with other phases, though--depression and anxiety, and manic compulsions. (Details on request.)

Also, I'm glad you like Glee! I do too. It's not... unproblematic, but it's hilarious and the songs are fun and it... well, it tries. love Kurt. And Kurt's DAD. Man. I think the last couple episodes of the season are really strong, so you have that to look forward to.
12th-Mar-2010 06:05 pm (UTC)
...clarifying, not my personal personal experience. I knew someone.
12th-Mar-2010 06:42 pm (UTC)
Nieces and nephews are The Best Thing, Evah!
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