Going Out – sick girl edition

I have the best friends.

A few months back I was in full on panic mode that my Sherlock was leaving. But it turns out that through joys of the internet,  I can connect with some truly wonderful people.

In just over a fortnight, we fly over to see my Sherlock. Having spent the weekend pretending not to find her tweets horrendously frightening, I can’t wait to see her & Mr Gypsytree and get a tiny slice of normal for a few days.

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Tweety link

Sunday night has been spent laying wrapped up in my massive pillow &  adding silly comments to a shared spreadsheet that my amazing friend Shell has created of possible cottages / castles for up to 16 of us to run away to after Christmas for another weekend away. She’s slogged her guts out to find the perfect venue for everyone & been so tactful about making it accessible for me. There’s very very little that would persuade me to travel north of London, but I’d brave Hadrian’s wall to spend another weekend drinking tea and just being. I hope she knows how important she is.

Saturday evening was an actual going out night. We’d made enquiries about how accessible the resturant was and they’d assured us that aside from the steps outside it was fine. (There were 3 of us with serious stair issues). Apparently toilets that are downstairs don’t count as not accessible for people in wheelchairs or using a walker!

I started the evening determined to look like a normal human and resorted to YouTube tutorials on make up to cover up looking like death. I also got into my tiny black dress (This hasn’t fit me for years! ). Slightly concerned that I looked like a lady of a certain profession, I decided to commit to the look.

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Even Roboleg was not hugely noticeable. (OK… I was at this point still elated about being back in my ‘thin dress’. The rest of the side effects of the gabapentin are horrible – the sudden weight loss is a silver lining!)

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And then we got to the resturant…. a few steps? Repeat after me: we can do this. Don’t fall on your arse. Don’t fall on your arse

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Once inside & in my chair I felt much safer. Certainly safe enough to tell off the waiter who talked to me like an imbecile. “I’d like to sit at the end please. There’s nothing wrong with my brain – you don’t need to speak slowly”.

Wine was nice.

Choose something with sauce. Eat slowly. Don’t choke. Drink water. Chew slowly. Don’t choke. Smile. I’m the last to finish. Fuck it, leave the rest.

This is me teaching Mrs G how to selfie. I couldn’t give a crap about the age difference,  she’s bloody awesome. And the toughest, outspoken, caring and sweetest person alive. If I could choose family, she’d be it. Mrs G is our official mother hen… she makes a great mum no matter what she protests.

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I was really quite proud of myself for getting out and talking to real people. I threw every spoon I had at it & have spent most of Sunday in a vague brain fog with hideous heartburn. But surprisingly mobile!

If I was being sensible, I would have saved my spoons to get through next week. But, I’m not sensible. No regrets. You never know what’s around the corner, but all across the country I’ve got people I care about. It might be thanksgiving across the pond, but life is pretty cool here too.

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