I am not sure that Molly takes to an abundance of visitors. We have been blessed, this Christmas, with some wonderful company. My brother and his wife came for the festivities. They arrived on Christmas Eve in time for lunch, and left after Boxing Day lunch. However, very sensibly, they elected not to stay here. I have a spacious two-bed-roomed flat, but it really is too small for three adults and one cat. There is a very nice hotel about ten minutes walk away, and they stayed there. It worked perfectly. It meant that we had the pleasure of each others' company, but that we still had our own space. They came and went, and I was able to retire for rests without feeling guilty. Altogether, a splendid affair (except for the food - but that will be the subject of a separate post).
Molly, however, was not altogether sure. She took some time to get used to them being here so often, and seemed a little put out. Nevertheless, she got used to them and became almost sociable by the end. What, I think, she had not bargained for, was a constant stream of visitors after that. People popped in for tea, coffee, drinks, nibbles. I had friends to supper yesterday. I thoroughly enjoyed it (despite getting progressively more tired). She, I think, did not.
This morning, she behaved in a most peculiar manner. At about 06.45 I was dragged from slumber by the sound of Molly howling. I called her. She ignored me. I called her again. No response. I reluctantly got up and went to look. She seemed fine. There were no obvious signs of distress. I fed her, in case she was hungry, and went back to bed. Five minutes later, she started howling again. She would not come to me, she ignored my calls, she just howled. And then she started bringing me her toys. I was NOT going to play at this time of the morning. I snuggled down and ignored her. Eventually, she went to sleep. Very odd. She has never done anything like that before.
We were planning a quiet evening tonight, but some dear friends returned to Nottingham and it was the perfect moment to catch up. The arrangement was made rather late in the afternoon, and I got engrossed in the cooking. It wasn't until I got the lasagne into the oven that I thought to feed Molly. Unfortunately, this pretty well coincided with my friends' arrival.
Molly does not like being watched while she eats, not even by me. She does not like noise and disturbance. My friends have two boys aged two (my Godson) and one. They are delightful, but they are boys of that age. Molly retired, disgruntled, to the study. She refused to come back and did not eat. I felt guilty. I should have fed her earlier.
My friends have left. I so loved having them, and seeing how the boys had changed in the intervening five months (I would not let them come when I was very susceptible to infection). Molly is, after all, a cat. But she is MY cat, and I love her. I'll make sure I feed her early next time.
And let's see what happens tomorrow morning.
Monday, 30 December 2013
Sunday, 22 December 2013
WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO GO VIRAL?
I try. Really, I try. I write what I believe to be entertaining and well-written posts. I try and write regularly, although when I have been unwell this has not always happened. But, with the best will in the world, 33 views cannot be described as viral. What am I doing wrong?
There are some things I know I'm missing. I don't write about sex, for a start. Well, would you? I'm almost 60. I live alone. I am hugely overweight, not helped by the steroids (legal ones) and the lack of exercise over the last five months. My body has just been poisoned. What sex?
I don't do drugs - well, not illegal ones anyway, and I doubt if anybody would be interested in the pleasures of anti-sickness pills, or the variability between cytotoxic drugs. Even if they were, I want to put all that behind me. As for the alcohol, all I am prepared to say is that there is no truth to the suggestion that you have to give it up during chemotherapy.
Rock and roll? Never, I'm afraid. Not even in my not very mis-spent youth. I always preferred the classics and the opera. Indeed, I could bore on for England about the opera. Do you remember Bernard Levin's brilliant columns in the Times, in days of yore? Would that I had that level of ability. His description of the disaster at Wexford had me sobbing with laughter (it is the last chapter in one of his books, if you haven't read it).
I'm not consistent. I think this may be a mistake. However, I would be bored writing about the same thing all the time, so I flutter about. Too bad.
I suspect I am too polite and too grammatically correct. Well, I'm sorry, but I grew up worrying about the placement of a comma. I cannot bear the mis-placed apostrophe. I got three copies of Lynne Truss's 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves' when it came out, and I still chuckle over the title. (I gave two of them away - I hope the recipients found them educational, although I have seen no evidence of this).
So, what to do? Well, I fear I am just going to keep plugging away, much helped by Molly Cat, and hope that something gives. In the mean time, she sends her love.
There are some things I know I'm missing. I don't write about sex, for a start. Well, would you? I'm almost 60. I live alone. I am hugely overweight, not helped by the steroids (legal ones) and the lack of exercise over the last five months. My body has just been poisoned. What sex?
I don't do drugs - well, not illegal ones anyway, and I doubt if anybody would be interested in the pleasures of anti-sickness pills, or the variability between cytotoxic drugs. Even if they were, I want to put all that behind me. As for the alcohol, all I am prepared to say is that there is no truth to the suggestion that you have to give it up during chemotherapy.
Rock and roll? Never, I'm afraid. Not even in my not very mis-spent youth. I always preferred the classics and the opera. Indeed, I could bore on for England about the opera. Do you remember Bernard Levin's brilliant columns in the Times, in days of yore? Would that I had that level of ability. His description of the disaster at Wexford had me sobbing with laughter (it is the last chapter in one of his books, if you haven't read it).
I'm not consistent. I think this may be a mistake. However, I would be bored writing about the same thing all the time, so I flutter about. Too bad.
I suspect I am too polite and too grammatically correct. Well, I'm sorry, but I grew up worrying about the placement of a comma. I cannot bear the mis-placed apostrophe. I got three copies of Lynne Truss's 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves' when it came out, and I still chuckle over the title. (I gave two of them away - I hope the recipients found them educational, although I have seen no evidence of this).
So, what to do? Well, I fear I am just going to keep plugging away, much helped by Molly Cat, and hope that something gives. In the mean time, she sends her love.
Thursday, 19 December 2013
Molly Cat can turn off the Computer
I can hear the guffaws, the ridicule, as people read the title. Poor lass, she's really lost it: thinks her cat is a genius and she's clearly mad. She's turned into one of those mad cat ladies.
"Not at all", I reply with dignity, "it is all perfectly understandable. Belay your scepticism. Pocket your ridicule. Listen to the facts."
The facts are as follows. My computer and all it's 'gadgets' are connected to the mains through one of those extension plugs with a surge protector. It also has a switch, so the whole thing can be switched off. This lives behind the little cabinet at the side of my computer, upon which resides a basket with all my scrap paper. It is very useful. Recently, Molly has taken to sitting in that basket and pawing at the door to my computer cupboard, which is between us. I ignore her for a while, but inevitably succumb and look around the door, tickle her chin and talk to her for a while before returning to work. A few days ago I did this, but clearly did not spend long enough with her. She made a grumbly noise, then jumped down behind the cabinet. Fortuitously (for her) she landed on the extension plug switch and everything (computer, printer, router etc.) switched off. I was mystified for a moment, then reached down to see if the plug had got disconnected. In so doing, I lifted Molly Cat and gave her a little cuddle. BAD MISTAKE.
I don't think that would have been enough, but two days later she again jumped down behind the cabinet. Although she did not turn the switch off, the movement was enough to turn off the computer. My response was: "Molly, what are you doing? Get out of there" and to pick her up. You see the error? This was positive reinforcement. I did not realise it at the time. It was about two days later that I was ignoring her demands for attention. She jumped down. I responded as before. She has done it twice since.
i do not think this is coincidence. I think she has learned from my bad response that jumping down behind the cabinet gets her attention. I am now trying to ignore it when this happens. Anybody else have a cat who can turn off their computer?
"Not at all", I reply with dignity, "it is all perfectly understandable. Belay your scepticism. Pocket your ridicule. Listen to the facts."
The facts are as follows. My computer and all it's 'gadgets' are connected to the mains through one of those extension plugs with a surge protector. It also has a switch, so the whole thing can be switched off. This lives behind the little cabinet at the side of my computer, upon which resides a basket with all my scrap paper. It is very useful. Recently, Molly has taken to sitting in that basket and pawing at the door to my computer cupboard, which is between us. I ignore her for a while, but inevitably succumb and look around the door, tickle her chin and talk to her for a while before returning to work. A few days ago I did this, but clearly did not spend long enough with her. She made a grumbly noise, then jumped down behind the cabinet. Fortuitously (for her) she landed on the extension plug switch and everything (computer, printer, router etc.) switched off. I was mystified for a moment, then reached down to see if the plug had got disconnected. In so doing, I lifted Molly Cat and gave her a little cuddle. BAD MISTAKE.
I don't think that would have been enough, but two days later she again jumped down behind the cabinet. Although she did not turn the switch off, the movement was enough to turn off the computer. My response was: "Molly, what are you doing? Get out of there" and to pick her up. You see the error? This was positive reinforcement. I did not realise it at the time. It was about two days later that I was ignoring her demands for attention. She jumped down. I responded as before. She has done it twice since.
i do not think this is coincidence. I think she has learned from my bad response that jumping down behind the cabinet gets her attention. I am now trying to ignore it when this happens. Anybody else have a cat who can turn off their computer?
Thursday, 12 December 2013
This week I had a tattoo
Now, I never thought I would be saying that, but it's true. On Tuesday, I had two tattoos. Me!!! I arrived and was asked to wait. I sat, rather nervously, in the waiting room, until I was called in to the room. Then they did it.
Alright, I'll 'fess up. This was no ordinary tattoo. I went for my radiotherapy planning meeting. Nowadays, they use tattoos rather than pens. It seems to work rather better. So, what actually happened?
I arrived at the clinic a few minutes early. They were expecting me, professional, kind. I waited a few minutes, then a radiotherapist arrived to talk me through the procedures and ensure I was comfortable. So far so good. A little while later, I was called into the radiotherapy room where they 'set you up' i.e. they make sure that all the lasers line up for your treatment. Good idea, and no problem - if you're a size 8!
They told me to sit on the table/couch and 'put my bottom between the two markers'. Huh! Not my bottom, I have to say. Considerable tweaking later, I was able to fit. Major embarrassment all round. The next stage was to lie back: I was just able to do that, but I dread to think about less able people. The radiographers can't help you - apparently, it is too risky to their backs and so not allowed. Quite right too.
Eventually, I was positioned. Now, my arm had to go into the relevant stirrup. I was grateful that I had kept the exercises up - no problem there. They told me to keep still, and they all disappeared. Suddenly, I started to move. Laser beams came at me. I wondered if I was taking part in a new Star Wars film. I kept breathing normally (that's what I was told to do) and hoped for the best. Apparently, it was fine. They returned.
"Get up" they said. I was lying flat, on a narrow 'bed'. I reached for a hand: 'not allowed'. It took a couple of goes, but I was quite pleased with myself. It will take about half an hour, they said, then we can do the tattoos and you can go home. Not likely! Over an hour later, I was called back. However, I now have two tattoos (the size of pin heads) and I am set up for my first radiotherapy session. Watch this space.
Alright, I'll 'fess up. This was no ordinary tattoo. I went for my radiotherapy planning meeting. Nowadays, they use tattoos rather than pens. It seems to work rather better. So, what actually happened?
I arrived at the clinic a few minutes early. They were expecting me, professional, kind. I waited a few minutes, then a radiotherapist arrived to talk me through the procedures and ensure I was comfortable. So far so good. A little while later, I was called into the radiotherapy room where they 'set you up' i.e. they make sure that all the lasers line up for your treatment. Good idea, and no problem - if you're a size 8!
They told me to sit on the table/couch and 'put my bottom between the two markers'. Huh! Not my bottom, I have to say. Considerable tweaking later, I was able to fit. Major embarrassment all round. The next stage was to lie back: I was just able to do that, but I dread to think about less able people. The radiographers can't help you - apparently, it is too risky to their backs and so not allowed. Quite right too.
Eventually, I was positioned. Now, my arm had to go into the relevant stirrup. I was grateful that I had kept the exercises up - no problem there. They told me to keep still, and they all disappeared. Suddenly, I started to move. Laser beams came at me. I wondered if I was taking part in a new Star Wars film. I kept breathing normally (that's what I was told to do) and hoped for the best. Apparently, it was fine. They returned.
"Get up" they said. I was lying flat, on a narrow 'bed'. I reached for a hand: 'not allowed'. It took a couple of goes, but I was quite pleased with myself. It will take about half an hour, they said, then we can do the tattoos and you can go home. Not likely! Over an hour later, I was called back. However, I now have two tattoos (the size of pin heads) and I am set up for my first radiotherapy session. Watch this space.
Friday, 29 November 2013
The Last Chemo Appointment: a mixed day!!!
Yesterday, was my last chemo appointment. As I said in my previous post, I had ambivalent feelings about it. What I didn't say, because I thought I was just being silly, was that I had a sort of feeling that it would all go wrong and that there would be a disaster. I had visions of being sent home because my bloods were too bad, or something else had gone pear-shaped. Well, nothing as dreadful as that occurred, but it certainly wasn't the plain sailing that all the others had been. In the past, I have turned up for my 0900, or 0930, appointment and always, within half an hour, have been shown to 'the chair' (not a good name, I think; they ought to call it something else!) and the whole thing has got going. Not, however, yesterday. Let me tell you about it:
08.40: My dear friend arrived to pick me up, and we arrived at the hospital in good time.
08.55: She dropped me at the door and went off to park.
09.00: As I walked through the entrance, the fire alarms started to go off. Not only were the lifts off, but we were not allowed to use the stairs. The lobby area got more and more crowded, and I started to get twitchy. How long would this go on? Three hunky firemen were a distraction but not, sadly, a sufficient one: I am clearly getting old.
09.20: It was all cleared up and we were released. Up to the day ward, where I was logged in, tagged and told to go and sit in the waiting room. As ever, almost as a reflex, I asked if my drugs had come up. Always, in the past, the answer has been a reassuring 'yes'. Not this time. They weren't there and nobody could tell how long they would be. Oh dear. We repaired to the waiting room. And waited. And waited.
10.30: I was distinctly concerned, since both my friend and I had meetings planned for the afternoon. 11.30: I was getting really unhappy.
11.35: They said the drugs were on their way and took me through to be attached to the drip. Huge sighs of relief: we should just make it. As we walked through, I foolishly said to Poppy (the wonderful nurse doing all this for me) that I had been retaining lots of fluid over the last three days - putting on in excess of a pound a day. Her face fell. She finished putting up the drip, then announced that she would have to ask the doctor about that one, since she had never come across it before. Oops.
11.45: The relevant Senior Registrar, it transpired, did not carry a bleep (not impressed - why wouldn't you carry a bleep?) and wasn't answering her mobile phone. The other one would not deal with the query because I was not his patient.
11:50: A compliant and wonderful registrar was found and came to look. We had an intelligent conversation, and he agreed that the treatment could continue. Ice cap on.
12.05: Drugs start going through. I pretend not to be totally twitchy. My friend talking about anything to keep me distracted. I silently thank God for her presence, keeping me sane.
12.10: Polly announces that my home drugs have not come up. Would I mind collecting them at Pharmacy? Of course not. We go through the prescription, to be sure everything is there. There are no bone-marrow stimulating (GSF) injections. Oops again. Polly asks if I always have them. I reply in the affirmative. She stifles something and goes off to find the doctor again. Suddenly I hear her shout: the elusive SR is on the ward. All is well.
12.15: Polly returns. Prescription for GSF is on a separate sheet. Would my friend take it to pharmacy. She goes off.
12.17: Polly is copying stuff and mutters 'GSF for seven days'. 'No, five days' I say. 'She's prescribed seven'. 'Well, I usually have five'. The reply is less stifled. Off she goes again.
12.35: Friend changes ice cap, pharmacy trip having been postponed. Oh, it's cold. I am NEVER doing that again. If I get a recurrence and have to have chemo again, I'm going to wear the wig!
12.45: Polly returns. It is all sorted out. Could the prescription be taken to pharmacy?
12.50: Friend returns. Prescription deposited, but there is an hour's wait in pharmacy. There is now no way she is going to make her 13.30 meeting. I try to persuade her to leave. I can take a taxi home. She refuses. Multiple phone calls later, she has rearranged her complete afternoon. There are no words to thank her.
13.05: Drip complete; only the flush to go.
13.20: Drip down; ice cap off.
13.22: Hand thank-you present to receptionist; rush to pharmacy.
13.30: Drugs handed to me. Unnecessary dexamethasone has also been prescribed by same SR. I persuade pharmacy to take it back, rather than it getting thrown away. I explain it would be pre my next dose and I'm not having a next dose. Resist temptation to do happy jig in pharmacy.
14.00: In car to drive home. Realise that I am late for my teleconference. Ring to explain. Told to ring ASAP - they will wait.
14.15: Get home. Decide they can wait five minutes while I change, go to the bathroom and get myself some water.
16.00: Teleconference finishes. I decide I have earned a ten-minute lie down.
An hour later I started to cook. It turned into a very good evening indeed!!
08.40: My dear friend arrived to pick me up, and we arrived at the hospital in good time.
08.55: She dropped me at the door and went off to park.
09.00: As I walked through the entrance, the fire alarms started to go off. Not only were the lifts off, but we were not allowed to use the stairs. The lobby area got more and more crowded, and I started to get twitchy. How long would this go on? Three hunky firemen were a distraction but not, sadly, a sufficient one: I am clearly getting old.
09.20: It was all cleared up and we were released. Up to the day ward, where I was logged in, tagged and told to go and sit in the waiting room. As ever, almost as a reflex, I asked if my drugs had come up. Always, in the past, the answer has been a reassuring 'yes'. Not this time. They weren't there and nobody could tell how long they would be. Oh dear. We repaired to the waiting room. And waited. And waited.
10.30: I was distinctly concerned, since both my friend and I had meetings planned for the afternoon. 11.30: I was getting really unhappy.
11.35: They said the drugs were on their way and took me through to be attached to the drip. Huge sighs of relief: we should just make it. As we walked through, I foolishly said to Poppy (the wonderful nurse doing all this for me) that I had been retaining lots of fluid over the last three days - putting on in excess of a pound a day. Her face fell. She finished putting up the drip, then announced that she would have to ask the doctor about that one, since she had never come across it before. Oops.
11.45: The relevant Senior Registrar, it transpired, did not carry a bleep (not impressed - why wouldn't you carry a bleep?) and wasn't answering her mobile phone. The other one would not deal with the query because I was not his patient.
11:50: A compliant and wonderful registrar was found and came to look. We had an intelligent conversation, and he agreed that the treatment could continue. Ice cap on.
12.05: Drugs start going through. I pretend not to be totally twitchy. My friend talking about anything to keep me distracted. I silently thank God for her presence, keeping me sane.
12.10: Polly announces that my home drugs have not come up. Would I mind collecting them at Pharmacy? Of course not. We go through the prescription, to be sure everything is there. There are no bone-marrow stimulating (GSF) injections. Oops again. Polly asks if I always have them. I reply in the affirmative. She stifles something and goes off to find the doctor again. Suddenly I hear her shout: the elusive SR is on the ward. All is well.
12.15: Polly returns. Prescription for GSF is on a separate sheet. Would my friend take it to pharmacy. She goes off.
12.17: Polly is copying stuff and mutters 'GSF for seven days'. 'No, five days' I say. 'She's prescribed seven'. 'Well, I usually have five'. The reply is less stifled. Off she goes again.
12.35: Friend changes ice cap, pharmacy trip having been postponed. Oh, it's cold. I am NEVER doing that again. If I get a recurrence and have to have chemo again, I'm going to wear the wig!
12.45: Polly returns. It is all sorted out. Could the prescription be taken to pharmacy?
12.50: Friend returns. Prescription deposited, but there is an hour's wait in pharmacy. There is now no way she is going to make her 13.30 meeting. I try to persuade her to leave. I can take a taxi home. She refuses. Multiple phone calls later, she has rearranged her complete afternoon. There are no words to thank her.
13.05: Drip complete; only the flush to go.
13.20: Drip down; ice cap off.
13.22: Hand thank-you present to receptionist; rush to pharmacy.
13.30: Drugs handed to me. Unnecessary dexamethasone has also been prescribed by same SR. I persuade pharmacy to take it back, rather than it getting thrown away. I explain it would be pre my next dose and I'm not having a next dose. Resist temptation to do happy jig in pharmacy.
14.00: In car to drive home. Realise that I am late for my teleconference. Ring to explain. Told to ring ASAP - they will wait.
14.15: Get home. Decide they can wait five minutes while I change, go to the bathroom and get myself some water.
16.00: Teleconference finishes. I decide I have earned a ten-minute lie down.
An hour later I started to cook. It turned into a very good evening indeed!!
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
Tomorrow I finish Chemotherapy
Tomorrow is a red letter day. Chemotherapy started on August 15th. Tomorrow, all being well, is the last dose. I am being picked up by the same lovely person who took me to my first appointment - it seemed fitting, somehow. The appointment is at 0900. All being well, I shall be home by 1200, at the latest. There will be champagne on ice for the evening, and I am cooking what I hope will be a fantastic meal. There will be five of us and, unless I'm much mistaken, there will be enough leftovers to feed an army, but I wanted variety. In case anybody is interested, we are starting with timpana (a Maltese traditional dish), followed by braised beef with veg, and finishing with ice cream (for those who want it) and cantuccini with ratafia. I plan a lie-in on Friday morning!
So, the big day has arrived. How am I feeling? Well, it's very odd. I thought I would be euphoric, but actually I'm dreading it rather. I hate the thought of the wretched ice cap, but really can't give up now, and although it's the last day there are still the 10 to 14 days after it to get through. It must be said, I am turning into a wimp. I always knew I was one of the world's great cowards, but maintaining a decent fortitude has got harder as the cycles went on. This, I suspect, is inevitable, since your body takes longer to recover.
On the up side, however, within a couple of weeks I should be raring to go. I have theatre plans, and lunch plans, and dinner plans, and opera plans etc. etc. I am going to make up for lost time. I may even take a couple of days of proper annual leave to celebrate, before returning to my two work bases. I have also, rather foolishly, agreed to help my Parish Priest to analyse some survey data results. They are a nightmare!! Guess what I'm doing all weekend.
So, if anybody is out there and reading this, please say a little prayer that all will be well tomorrow, and then raise a glass to celebrate the end of this part of the journey.
Tuesday, 19 November 2013
Today we had mashed potatoes
You know how there are some things that are so evil, so wicked, so unutterably BAD, that they are just not allowed to happen? Well, mashed potatoes are like that for me. If there are any within reaching distance, I shall finish them. Full or not, I can eat endless quantities. I just love them. Therefore, I do not make them. Mashed potatoes do not feature in my house. Until tonight.
I ought to explain that I am, at the moment, trying to empty the freezer so that it can be cleaned out and re-stocked for Christmas. As far as I am concerned, the trick to having the family to Christmas is to cook as much as possible beforehand and freeze it. I refuse to be a slave to the kitchen on the day. Hence, the red cabbage is cooked a week before and frozen; the first course is frozen at least three weeks before, etc. You get the idea. On the day, the only things that need actual cooking can go in the oven several hours before the visitors arrive. Once they get here, the most energetic thing I have to do is open the champagne, the nibbles having been put into bowls/plates at least two hours before. The menu is carefully planned to allow all this.
All this drivel to explain why today, most unusually, I found myself cooking minute steaks. This would not, normally, be weekday food nor, if I'm honest, ordinary supper food. But there was a packet in the freezer that needed using and a friend was coming to supper so, what the heck, I decided we could have that. Which is when, for some inexplicable reason, I developed an absolute craving for mashed potatoes to go with it. In vain did I tell myself it was too much work - my friend said he would help. Stern warnings to myself about calorie content were ignored. The delights of steamed potatoes were eschewed. We made mashed potatoes - my way, with oil, and seaweed salt, and a dribble of semi-skimmed milk.
They were delicious. We mixed them with mushrooms. We lingered over them. We reheated them in the microwave for seconds. We licked the bowl. In short, I disgraced myself. I do not even want to imagine what it has done to the diet. I don't think I shall weigh myself tomorrow morning.
I ought to explain that I am, at the moment, trying to empty the freezer so that it can be cleaned out and re-stocked for Christmas. As far as I am concerned, the trick to having the family to Christmas is to cook as much as possible beforehand and freeze it. I refuse to be a slave to the kitchen on the day. Hence, the red cabbage is cooked a week before and frozen; the first course is frozen at least three weeks before, etc. You get the idea. On the day, the only things that need actual cooking can go in the oven several hours before the visitors arrive. Once they get here, the most energetic thing I have to do is open the champagne, the nibbles having been put into bowls/plates at least two hours before. The menu is carefully planned to allow all this.
All this drivel to explain why today, most unusually, I found myself cooking minute steaks. This would not, normally, be weekday food nor, if I'm honest, ordinary supper food. But there was a packet in the freezer that needed using and a friend was coming to supper so, what the heck, I decided we could have that. Which is when, for some inexplicable reason, I developed an absolute craving for mashed potatoes to go with it. In vain did I tell myself it was too much work - my friend said he would help. Stern warnings to myself about calorie content were ignored. The delights of steamed potatoes were eschewed. We made mashed potatoes - my way, with oil, and seaweed salt, and a dribble of semi-skimmed milk.
They were delicious. We mixed them with mushrooms. We lingered over them. We reheated them in the microwave for seconds. We licked the bowl. In short, I disgraced myself. I do not even want to imagine what it has done to the diet. I don't think I shall weigh myself tomorrow morning.
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