The Barnum Effect

Once again I'm ensconced on the stealth sofa in St Pancras, awaiting my allotted departure. There is a faint huff of chilled air occasionally which I hoover up. On the bus trip here I took a pew next to a chap with crutches in the 'give up your seat for people with disabilities' row. Two stops later a man with a walking stick boards and I stand and offer my seat which he gratefully accepts. I grab a spot standing next to the luggage rack where I put my rucksack. A little later the man with the walking stick lets me know he's getting off at the next stop, which is really good of him, although I decline the offer of my seat back as I tell him I'm ok standing as long as I don't have to hold the bag. A simple exchange of courtesies between folks who need a bit of extra consideration, which we rarely get from the masses. It put me in a happy mood, whereas I normally feel sorely tried by public transport - simultaneously vulnerable, angry, and defensive. Yesterd

I've had to step away from my desk. It is stiflingly warm. I can't get a breath of fresh air. Ludicrously it is only a matter of walking 5 meters to an office which is several delicious degrees cooler. It is a pity I don't have a good reason for lingering in here. I feel like a kettle simmering just below boiling, agitated and dangerous - likely to let out a prolonged screech if I reach boiling point, a transition I fear could occur anytime without warning. I hate this pent up tension. The effort it takes to remain in control. Fighting the urge to explode and unleash my frustrations. I need a safety valve. An outlet which could drain away my anger and anxieties. Answers on a postcard to...

So hopefully I've managed to get the right fluorescent bulb at Maplin's today. Proof will be when I'm teetering on the stool trying to reach high enough to plug it in. I didn't sleep so well last night. Confused dreams of hospitals and doctors who were unwilling to communicate have left me jittery today. I've felt better as the day has gone on, but this morning I was getting random shooting pains, aches and discomfort. My left eye has developed a nervous tick, which periodically starts fluttering. It scares me that I'm in such a shambolic state after just two days with a sleep deficit. I have been trying to stay focussed on the two week break I have coming up, the light at the end of the tunnel. If the 'one day at a time' mantra is best then I should focus on getting the light at the top of the stairs working tonight, and let tomorrow take care of itself.

I was so chuffed with myself yesterday evening. I got back to the flat, got the light fitting dismantled, got the bulb out, and got down to B&Q in time. When I got back to the flat and realised the bulb had got the wrong number of pins I got pretty cheesed off. It is a folded fluorescent that makes sort of a U shape. They have the same clip connector, and look identical from the front, but on the back there seems to be a number of possible pin variations. The one I need to find has 2 pins closest to the clip. The one I bought has 4 pins set a bit further away from the clip. Fancy making several incompatible light fittings and giving them the same name. Why do they have to make consumer light bulbs such a minefield? I imagine the head of the sales department shouting 'Gotcha!' everytime some poor dumb shopper is tricked into buying the wrong thing.

My plans to scoot straight from work to get back to my digs nice and early have been scuppered by signalling problems and security alerts. I'm just leaving London Bridge 45 minutes after leaving the office on a train that is running 40 minutes late. Amazingly the train is virtually empty when every other train departed with a full complement of sardines. My plan tonight was to replace a light on the common area landing which has been defunct for the 3 months I've been staying there. I need to take a screwdriver to the light fitting to get the bulb out so I can see what I need to buy from the B&Q down the road. Given the delays I'm not sure that I'll have time to get to the store before it closes tonight, so I might end up trying the mad dash again tomorrow.

The combination of an excess of heat in the office and a shortfall of sleep has left me struggling to stay alert this morning. I'm starting to get pains in my right wrist which are very reminiscent of the RSI symptoms I've suffered in the past. It hurts when I try to manipulate the mouse, and it hurts now typing this on my PDA. Lymphedema and RSI in the same arm would be a serious issue. I'll have to mention it at my next clinic appointment. I dashed away from my desk the moment the clock ticked to 12pm, desperate to inject some movement and sunshine into my day in a bid to re-energise. I'm sitting in the shade in Paternoster Square letting my eyes soak up the rays without broiling in direct sunlight. It is a gorgeous day. On a day like today with its basking heat and bleaching sun, Paternoster Square reminds me of Piazza del Campidoglio in Rome. Of course we Brits are distinctly less well dressed than the Italians, and Michelangelo had nothing to do with the design of

I walk along the cliff top path, a fresh breeze on my face, and the sun on my back. Gulls swoop overhead. The blue sea stretches to the horizon broken by shards of light, glittering reflections fragmented by waves shimmering with movement. Life feels good, and I contemplate what lies beyond the horizon. What it might be like to cross the sea? What possible futures might unfold? Then a rock moves beneath my foot, and turning an ankle I stumble, falling to my knees at the cliff edge. Putting my hands down to steady myself, I look in horror down the cliff face to the waves crashing over the ferocious rocks below. The cliff top which had felt so solid as I ambled along crumbles beneath my fingertips, little clods of soil tumbling down to the foaming water below. I freeze in place, too terrified to move, lest I further disturb the ground and cause a catastrophic landslip. My eyes are riveted to the cliff face noting every bone breaking protrusion. The sea alternately pummels then su

I've found a sneaky 'free' comfy seat in St Pancras. I'd tell you where it is but then I'd have to kill you. This station has the scandalously low total of 28 'free' seats that aren't attached to a retail outlet. What an enormous delight then to have discovered two fake leather sofas which don't come with the obligation to buy anything. They seem to be covered by a perception filter which renders them all but invisible to the foot sore and weary travellers pacing the station.

I think I'm adapting to the full days back at work and the commute. This week I've felt considerably less tired, and much more emotionally robust. The sensation of gulping for air, choking and drowning has retreated. Fingers crossed because I know that even a modest setback can put me right back into turmoil. I'm looking forward now to my approaching days in Leeds. Clean air, time in the garden, seeing my family, progressing some projects. I feel more inspired towards eating healthily and getting some exercise. I'm much more positive and optimistic than I've felt in a long time. Serene also. I think I remember this - it is called happiness?

The Diclofenac seems to have done the trick yesterday, as I have no pain in my arm, although I did wake during the night with pins and needles in the other hand, and later in the night I got an extreme muscle cramp in my calf. This poor old abused body. I spotted a 'Pick Your Own' in Leeds last weekend which I quite fancy. When I was little the farmer used to suggest to my mother that they weigh me in and weigh me out and charge for the difference, which unfailingly gave me the giggles. When I was a kid my mum was a dab hand at uncovering my fibs. She used to pierce me with an unblinking gaze and ask 'Did you do that?' If I denied it she would simply continue looking at me with a knowing smile. If I was fibbing it didn't take long before I could no longer keep a straight face, a grin would erupt and I'd get the giggles. It got so that I would get the giggles even when I was telling the truth if she gave me that look. After a visit to a PYO with mum all those yea

In the last few hours a dragging pain has been growing in my elbow, and more recently my shoulder and neck. A muscle is twitching periodically just below my collar bone, and my middle fingers are tingling. I've a bad suspicion that a nerve has become irritated, and I wonder whether the recent change in lymphedema sleeves has something to do with it. I have some Diclofenac at my digs which might help, but past experience of nerve pain doesn't leave me optimistic. I have to complete 24 weeks of service before I become entitled to paid sick leave, and I have 10 weeks still to go, so I'm hoping I can nip whatever this is in the bud.

I suffered several headaches over the last 4 days in Leeds, most likely stress related. My complexion is poor, and the skin sore and red where the lymphedema tape takes it's abrasive toll on my hand. Clearly I'm run down. I'm usually so restless after 3 days pinned to a desk in London that I can't wait to throw myself into activity and projects when I get back home to Leeds. This doesn't really give me any down time, as even when I'm physically resting in Leeds I'm working out what is next on my 'to do' list and planning my approach. My Leeds activities over the past 4 days included: teleworking on Friday, two trips to the DIY store, a supermarket shop, buying a father's day gift, an afternoon and two evenings at my dad's, a morning trying to sleep off a headache, putting up hooks, painting a door, painting skirting boards, removing paint from a light switch and two sockets, putting up a new light fitting, cutting a new window board, removing

Yesterday I was asked what I did for myself, fun things. When I spoke of gardening, writing, home improvements and the odd creative things I try my hand at, I was interrupted and the question was clarified. What did I do for myself that involved other people. I answered politely enough, but I'm deeply unhappy with the implication that I should be participating in organised group events in order to be fulfilled. I get plenty of good social contact through work. We have a laugh, banter flows, I take an interest in other people and vice versa. That accounts for 24 hours a week when you throw in the hard graft we do as well. Adding an art class is hardly going to transform me into someone who is at peace with her physical restrictions, medical prognosis, and traumatic life experiences. Still, I can always find a bit more time in my life to be patronised, it is always appreciated, never unwelcome. No comment however inane, no platitude whether trite or meaningless will ever fall on deaf

I'm sitting outside Pauls, enjoying a coffee and an Escargot aux Raisins, taking in the street scene. The dome of St Pauls, the arch of Temple Bar, the curving colonnade of the shops that replaced one of Prince Charles' loathed carbuncles. Sunlight dapples the plane trees which produce oases of shade for the steady stream of ravens and peacocks parading past. Red telephone boxes, the stripes of a zebra crossing pole topped by its amber dome, traditional red London Routemaster busses passing by. So quintessentially London. Then the sun goes in, temperature rapidly dropping as the breeze makes its chill felt, and the Englishness of the scene strikes home with a shiver, and I don my coat.

Dreams of chasing a miscreant up a long precipitous rope bridge to a cave set high in cliffs, Indiana Jones style, although the protagonists were all quite contemporary characters. Once again my body clock woke me 10mins before my alarm. This week I'm trying a lymphedema sleeve that has lain abandoned for some months because it caused an agonising pressure on the base joint on my thumb. I spent a few hours on Thursday evening working out a method of modifying it to overcome this. I unpicked the stitches around the thumb opening, widening it and stitching in a truncated cone piece to sleeve my thumb. Now my digit doesn't get squeezed out of the opening, and gets a little compression to boot. I've dubbed this modded NeoPress sleeve "NeoMod" and promoted it to active service. So far so good. The lymphedema specialist was pretty unhappy with the hard swollen hand I presented her last time, and was considering more extreme measures including daytime bandaging which wou

Awake once more at 3.30am, my morning preparations for London a whirl of choreographed activity, until I ground to a halt looking at the unravelled hem of my work trousers as I prepared to iron them. Needle and thread wove themselves into my morning dance and I was ready on time when the music of my phone announced the taxi's arrival. Wild roses with modest pink blooms, feral lupins thrusting purple spears skywards. As the train picks up speed the flowers blur to a streak of colour. London bound again. Lines of emerging green form patterns in fields of rich brown soil as we wend south. Rolling hills are fuzzed with a spring o'clock shadow of growing wheat, a beard that will grow until the harvest shave. The bright shades of spring youth have darkened to the solid dependable greens of approaching summer maturity. Growth spurts lengthen boughs as roots expand through the earth, tapping nutrients, creating strong anchors for the anticipated storms of autumn. Bees tend their bloss

We're the marks at the carnival, dazzled by the bright lights, handing over our pocket money for the rigged game of hoopla in a futile hope of winning the giant teddy.

So the thought that is bugging me now is whether this detergent smell is real and is making me feel sick or I genuinely feel sick and the smell is psychosomatic? The latter I think, because I'm catching this odour everywhere: at my desk before I left work; in M&S buying my dinner; sat on a bench near St Pauls typing my previous missive; here on the train now. The alternative is that somehow I've picked this scent up on my clothing or skin. Neither is a particularly attractive thought. Over the years I've really come to loathe this smell, though curiously I was never too aware of it while I was at the out patients clinic receiving chemo all those years ago. 'The mind is its own place, and in it self Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.'

I'm feeling a bit dizzy (well, actually it feels like the world is a bit wobbly) and sick. I keep smelling the odour of a detergent they used in the clinic where I had chemo 9 years ago, and that is a smell which always makes me feel quite nauseous. I was always very violently sick after chemo. As Pavlov proved with his dogs, physical responses can be programed with external stimuli, a conclusion I can confirm through personal experience with this very particular smell. I wonder whether all these symptoms are side effects of the antibiotics I'm on?

This morning we are blessed with rain, the 'doesn't look like much, but soaks you to the bone' type. I really fancied a full cooked breakfast this morning, so I attempted to find a restaurant called 'Roast' in Borough Market which a colleague had recommended. Eventually, quite soaked, I tracked it down. I checked out the menu by the door - £15 for the full breakky. Hmmm. Ok. But when I tried the door - locked. So what is that about? I'm now in Eat, having a latte and an eggs benedict muffin. It isn't quiet hitting the spot, and I made a tactical error by saying yes when asked if I wanted sauce. I'm eating a muffin which tastes of HP with hints of egg and bacon. That's just so wrong. A chap has just parked his bike up and come in. If you were short sighted you might think '20 something courier', but taking a close look you see something pretty incongruous. He's dressed the part, right down to his socks, but the face has seen 40+ ye

I didn't have such a good night's sleep last night. I was in bed by 8:45pm, with my alarm set for 4am, but i awoke at 2:30am from bizarre dreams, and got up at 3am deciding that sleep would not return. On the plus side this did mean I had plenty of time to do my ironing and packing for London, I even had time to dig out my old travelling thermos mug and make a coffee for my journey. I've been struggling to stay awake on the train despite the caffeine. Remembering a little forehead massage we used to do as kids, I just did a brief fingertip massage of the eyebrow area and now I feel ridiculously refreshed and rather chirpy. It is quite a contrast from the dour emotions I've been experiencing about my return to work after my week off. I must add that to my list of coping strategies. On Saturday morning I had to visit the Minor Injuries Unit in Otley. A couple of weeks ago I was chatting to my neighbour and dropped a glass I was holding which duly shattered. I managed to g

I’ve taken this week off work as vacation time, hoping to catch up on rest, and get some home improvements done. I’m having limited success on both fronts. I’ve reluctantly scaled back my ambitions on the DIY front, so now instead of decorating 3 basement rooms, I’ve acknowledged that it will be just the one room. I’ve taken down some shoddy shelves; removed uPVC window boards; cut and glossed the replacement window boards; patched and painted the walls and ceiling (two coats); caulked, sanded and glossed the skirting board; wired in a new light fitting. Finally I’ve purchased some Ikea Ivar shelving units, which I’ve sanded down and started to wax. I suppose that isn’t so bad an achievement in a week. The lymphedema clinician wasn’t very happy at the state of my hand when I saw her today, and the new compression glove she’d got for me wouldn’t fit over my fingers. By the time she’d completed the MLD, we were both happier about my hand, and as I was able to get the glove on, I decided