I'm smack in the middle of the few good days each month my hormones are at that mysteriously perfect balance to make me less bendy and floppy than usual. Such good days that I've been to see a friend for a cuppa in the evening, managed to stay out until nearly 10pm and still function enough the next day to go for tea with another friend, deathwalk without being rescued and dip my boob into cheesy baked beans. Ok, so that last one was a bit of an unintentional fail, but still, good days, hurrah! Unfortunately the downside to all this hormonal happiness is that unless the bendy body gods smile down upon me (maybe because they were amused by the cheesy bean boob incident) I'll be crashing back into full on floppyness just in time for my Big Society sponsored trip to London. But that's not til next week, so I'll worry about that on Sunday. For now, it's time to celebrate Spring and marginally less springy joints than usual.
Yesterday a friend came to visit, and as tends to happen in my flat we found ourselves sitting outside the back door with a cuppa and a smoke. Small towns are universally special so when a lady in one of the houses backing on to mine started a conversation with us by hanging out of the window we didn't bat an eyelid. Not even when her elderly mother insisted on climbing two flights of stairs so she could see us and join in the fun. It's like being a celebrity without the celebrity bit. Fortunately these women didn't appear to have linked my face with the page 3 spread the local paper ran about my arse, unlike the staff in Sainsbury's, several of whom asked for my autograph. As my writing hand wrist is still fubard I'm planning an ink imprint of my arse to hand out to such interested parties.* So, we chatted away to the not at all eccentric mother and daughter, who was apparently pulling a 'sickie' from work.
Fortunately for these neighbours they don't seem to be able to see as far into my flat through the skylights as I'd thought, so I was surprised when they asked why I wasn't at work. Not wanting to explain my medical history by shouting up to the third floor ladies I simply mumbled something about working at home and off they went.
All this good day cure business makes me a bit paranoid about being reported to the DWP for benefit fraud, as many people with invisible illnesses or disabilities are by neighbours who can't see anything so assume it must not be there. At 3am this morning I was sleepless and the 50 trillionth dvd replay of Harry Potter wasn't doing it's usual trick of sending me to the land of nod so I grudgingly acknowledged the need for additional pain relief and stumbled through to the kitchen. BendyCat remained in bed as she still fears the nighttime loving slugs will break out of our old flat and find her here, so it was just me to enjoy the peaceful, starlit night and the sound of seabirds cawing. As I stood unaided on the doorstep, inhaling illegal pain relief to be followed up with an oramorph chaser I decided I was clearly so cured it was time to report myself to the DWP for being 'fit for work'. Y'know, cos everyone who's not ill or disabled feels the need to neck morphine in the garden at 3am whilst observing the long term results of the outdoor vomit experiment**
But, I don't look sick. Not most of the time. So on good days even I try to fool myself that I'm not.
*No, not really. Although I may change my mind in a year once benefits cuts take effect ;)
** Bovril washes away quickest. Tea with milk stains the paving and for some unknown reason apple adheres itself more stubbornly than dried out weetabix to pavement and establishes squatters rights.