I've been poorly. Nothing serious, just a cough, sore throat (from coughing), and sticky eyes. And I'm just another one in the household to be poorly. We've all got/had something or other. I think we're on the mend now although currently our idea of a romantic gesture is Husband offering to make me a hot Lemsip when he does his.
Plans going well for Uncle's two funerals. I ask you: not even the Queen will have two. First he's being cremated then buried. Half his ashes scattered in the sea at Mumbles, the other half buried with his wife and son in Nottingham. (Something is ticking in this room. Very fast. I shall have to find it or it will irritate me. There. Sorted.)
To the hospital this morning for another scan. The radiologist did the scan and then did that scary thing they do. She paused and said, 'I'll just get the doctor to come and have a look.'
Keep breathing, I tell myself. Don't panic. It's either gone or got bigger. Turns out it was neither.
The doctor came in and introduced himself as he shook my hand. I said, 'How do you do.' How do you do?! Where did that come from? I never say how do you do, particularly when I'm stretched out on a bed with my belly exposed.
Anyway the cyst is the same size. Roughly. But now less orange and more sausage. So I have to wait to see a doctor to decide what to do next. I'll forget it for a while. Too much else happening.
Like going to Verdi's this afternoon to cheer ourselves up.