Waiting for Jack Bauer (In the meantime making do with Andrew)

I never in my wildest dreams, and I have some wild dreams, I can tell you, imagined I would be frantic to find a Betterware catalogue. But a week or so after someone had pushed it through my letterbox I am desperate to trace it. Somewhere within the pages is an item I now cannot live without and no one else seems to sell it. The latter probably is not strictly true but the I can’t live without it part, most certainly is. Of course up until a week ago I really couldn’t have cared less if I had one. After all I had Andrew (my husband) then. Ah, yes, that has got you thinking and wanting to read more. What has Betterware got, you are thinking, that can replace a husband? You are now thinking, could you use one, in fact, you are probably wondering, if perhaps you may even need one. In my case it was a culmination of things really but throwing Andrew out of the bedroom is the primary reason it is needed. Good god, I hear you women cry as you reach for the Yellow pages to search for your local Betterware representative. Although, of course, in this day and age of Technology, you are probably reaching for your Blackberry’s and searching on Google to find the item that can replace a husband in the bedroom. Why is it though, when I do not want a Betterware catalogue or any of their goods do I continually fall over the damn thing until the rep finally collects it? But when I do want it, it miraculously disappears only to turn up in the most unlikely place? Anyway, I found it, and there on page five is the item I covert. Of course, none of this would be necessary if I had a perfectly good thyroid and no they don’t sell perfectly good thyroid’s at Betterware but they do sell the next best thing. So, you are wondering what my thyroid or lack of one has got to do with all of this.
Last Monday, I had a second dose of radio iodine therapy. This in very simple terms means I am radioactive for 12 days. The lovely lady who administered the dose, well, if you call handing me a capsule in a long tube, administering. I rather think I performed the dirty deed actually. Yes, come to think of it, I remember they had all legged it before I had even brought my head back up. Anyway, she was quite stern about all the precautions I needed to take. The worst part is that you feel perfectly fine for the first forty-eight hours while you are spewing radiation everywhere. The power is quite intoxicating. The temptation to walk into Tesco and shout, ‘Step away from the Mackerel’ is overwhelmingly tempting. But of course, I didn’t. Instead I went straight home to a very happy Bendy who purred around my legs.
‘Go away,’ I cried. ‘Shoo, go next door.’
Not the usual greeting he receives. Of course, he ignored all my efforts to keep him at bay and has done for the past week and for some odd reason he seems to be more in love with me while I am potentially killing him then he ever was before. I phoned Nuclear medicine three days later in a panic.
‘What is the procedure regarding pets. After all they are very small and I have had a double dose.’ Anyone overhearing me would probably wonder what kind of double dose I had contracted. Dear me, one dreads to think. Accept no one is likely to get close enough to overhear for fear of death by radiation.
‘There is no legal requirement regarding pets, so he is ok.’
I tried to absorb what she was saying.
‘But it was a double dose.’
‘There’s no legal requirement.’
What she means is, If I kill him, I will be quite safe. The RSPCA can’t touch me. I continue with my shoo shooing to no avail. I even go into a massive panic when the pigeons fly into the garden. I don’t want to be the cause of a mass pigeon slaughter. I struggle to keep my towel separate from Andrew’s but he keeps mixing them up. I shout at him when he gets closer than an arm’s length and order him to the spare room at bedtime. This may sound easy to most of you but in our case the spare room is not even in the house! And no, I haven’t banished him to a hotel. Our spare room over the past few years has slowly become an office. So, we built a good size summer-house which converts into a very nice spare room but it is in the garden! Every night, we say a miserable goodnight to each other over the phones intercom. Of course, for many women this might be a dream come true. However, take a few seconds to consider the usefulness of your man, apart from the obvious, which we won’t even go into, except to say that when you are radiating radiation, it puts something of a damper on your libido. In my case, he has reluctantly become the spider catcher. Just five seconds of me screaming hysterically, while standing on the bed, usually after knocking over a glass of water in my trembling frenzy, is enough to have him grabbing a pillow and squashing the thing to death. Why don’t you kill them with radiation, I hear you ask. Well, they are hardy little suckers, these spiders. But the big problem right now is that Andrew shows no signs of rapidly turning into Jack Bauer in the near future. By the time he answers my frantic intercom ring, gets dressed, comes into the house, climbs the stairs and leisurely enters the bedroom, of course, the damn monster has gone. I spend the night lying in bed a quivering wreck. So, the answer is the spider catcher. At five pounds fifty pence, it is a bargain. The question is will I be able to get close enough to catch the spider? Watch this space.

A day in the life, and in that day…

A day in the life and in that day…

Woke at 7am when I should have got up at 6.45 really. I am doing a radio show later today so need to look good. So now have half and hour to breakfast, shower, wash and blow dry hair, slap on make up and get dressed. Will never do it. Shout at Andrew while washing hair.
‘Don’t let the porridge get cold and can you throw some grapes in mine? Are you making yourself a sandwich? Can you make me one please’
‘Am I here just to serve you,’ he retorts.
‘Yes,’ I answer, emerging like a drowned rat from the shower and plugging in the iron.
I now have 20 minutes left.
‘Did you make coffee? I ask. Niceties go flying out of the window in our house first thing in the morning.
He tut tuts at me as he walks into the lounge with his breakfast. I shove mine in the microwave and then blow dry hair. I now have fifteen minutes left. My thyroid decides to make its presence felt and my heart races at speeds I would love to work at. I pop two beta-blockers with my coffee (yes sensible I know). Hair dried, I attempt my porridge, which is now too hot, and the grapes burn my tongue. Husband gets the blame and now I sense he is no longer talking to me. I remember the iron is on and run out to iron clothes. I have five minutes left. I leave porridge, throw my make up into a carrier bag along with the peanut butter and then throw back the rest of my coffee. Get dressed; push bracelets over my wrist and risk glancing in the mirror. I pinch my cheeks and look to Andrew.
‘Wish me luck,’ I say. He does, kisses me goodbye and makes the bed without me knowing. I jump in my car and struggle with the seat belt. Then I am off. Ten minutes of road rage follow when I get stuck behind some old man driving at 20 miles per hour.
I screech round him and speed to work arriving just on time. Half an hour into work time I develop diarrhoea and make inane excuses to leave the room. It is embarrassing. I sit talking to patients and then get the overwhelming urge to go. This lasts for nearly an hour before I decide to pop 4 Imodium to constipate an elephant, and thank god that stops it. I make a mental note to reheat our food thoroughly in future and stop eating that out of date food. Finally it is time to go, and I dive into my car and race to the radio station for my debate. I cannot park, great! Everywhere has a yellow line or worse still a red one. I park in the Coop car park, slap some lippy on and go to pay at the machine. I wait and wait for my ticket and then realise it wants my registration. I mean why? What the hell does a machine need my registration for? Even I don’t know it so why do they want it. Now, the bloody thing has my money, I have no ticket and the penalty is £100 or clamp. Wonderful. I strain to see my car and try to make out the reg. I bang in the numbers and figures and recheck how long I have. My £1.50 entitles me to just 1 hour and 15 mins. Great! I ransack my bag but no more money can be found. I am late so decide to take my chances. The wind is blowing a gale and I arrive at the radio station looking like a scarecrow. The guy at the desk has no idea who I am and says nothing has been booked for BBC radio Scotland. I am about to leave dejected, when Gillian the producer comes in. I hug her in relief and Claire the presenter hugs me in relief. Lots of hugs and relief all round and we enter studio and wait for Alex who is also taking part. Claire rummages in her handbag for her phone, which is ringing.
‘Bloody bag is not large enough’ she complains lifting up a handbag large enough to hold my cat.
Gillian decided the studio is too small and we move to another one with no chairs.
‘Are we doing it standing up?’ I ask
‘Not in my bleeding shoes,’ answers Claire and I love her immediately.
We spend an hour doing the show, amidst some fun and laughter.
Then it is over and we are outside. Alex and I exchange numbers, and she stares fascinated at my Blackberry.
‘Never seen one in action before,’ she comments to which we all laugh.
Photos are quickly taken and then a big hug for Gillian and Claire and they are off for their flight back to Scotland. Alex and I walk and chat and then part after arranging to meet up again. Another hug and then I make my way back to my car to see if I am clamped. NO, all is well and not even a ticket. I sneak back to Marks and Spencer, but force myself to walk by and get some last minute shopping in the Coop. I am somewhat flummoxed when the assistant asks me nicely,
‘So are you going home for a quiet evening in front of the television’?
I am lost for words. I usually use the self-service thing and that never speaks to me.
‘Erm, I don’t have a television actually but If I did then yes I would be going home to watch something very good I imagine,’ I say giving her a friendly look.
‘You don’t own a TV,’ she says and I feel like I have just admitted to taking an A class drug.
‘Well, no’
‘What do you do then?’
‘In the evenings?’
She is not even packing my things now, so I irritatingly shove them in a carrier bag.
‘I have mad passionate sex. How much is that?’
Wide eyed she pops my card in the reader and cannot even bring herself to say chip and pin please.
I drive home, free from road rage and feel quite calm. Phone bleeps as I near home and I realise I have almost missed my blood test. I swerve and turn the car around and speed back to the Doctors only to find I have the day wrong and that it is tomorrow.
Finally arrive home to find the cat is so pleased to see me he has bought me a present. I clean up yet another mouse. Oh isn’t life just fun!