These aren’t adjectives I’d use to describe myself, not all the time anyway, but my favourite soup that I can’t make in the whole world.

I love it.

I LOVE IT.

Sisterly (as in sibling, not sapphic) duties had me participating in a mock training session on infection control that was delivered by my sister this evening. The little dog and I, Mr Sister and Mrs In-law gathered in her living room and took part in a basic, interactive session that covered all the types of infections, how to prevent them and how to treat them. We were asked to recall a childhood infection and describe it through the medium of coloured felt-tip pens. My picture of me suffering with an ear infection and being treated with banana-flavoured antibiotics was a work of art. There was a section on STIs; she threw in “dental dam” for my benefit, I feel.

Anyway.

There was an evaluation form, which took me back to a previous life in which I delivered training sessions for a living. “How could this session have been improved?” always brought the response “coffee and biscuits”.

Foxtrot romeo oscar.

I eventually changed that question on my evaluations to “with the exception of refreshments, which cannot be provided because of Trust policy, how could this session be improved?”

“More group work”

I’m sure a lot of my participants had different learning types and abilities; some liked to be told what was what so they could get out of there asafp, others could only learn things if I delivered the sessions through the medium of interpretive dance, it being the NHS.

I’d not had the chance to eat before going out and my sister had to nip over to mine anyway, so I asked to bring me hot and sour soup – two portions – while reconfigured an old iPhone that I was giving her. “Get it from the one on the precinct, it’s easier”, although my preference was the takeaway further down the road.

The soup came and I ate the lot. And now I feel a bit sick.

What I love about the stuff is the variety that you get depending on the source. There’s the thick gloopy one that’s basically sweet chilli sauce watered down with vinegar with bits of char siu pork, chicken bits, prawns and whatever they fancy throwing in (this was tonight’s, hence the unwelcome gurgling in my duodenum). “The one down the road” offers a different recipe – less synthetic, less gloopy, much hotter, more garlic, but with the same bits of meat and prawns thrown in. Then there’s the Thai one, tom yum, which is out of this world once you get used to the bits that you aren’t supposed to try to eat. I do have the unfortunate coriander reaction to tom yum though.

I yearn for the day when Heinz start producing tinned hot and sour soup. I can feel a consumer champion letter coming on.

Mindfulness
I’ve started to read Ruby Wax’s Sane something or other… hang on, I’ve forgotten what it’s called… Sane new world: taming the mind book. I say “book” it’s the Kindle version.

It’s all about mindfulness and cognitive… I’ve forgotten again… mindfulness-based cognitive therapy. I haven’t read much of it yet. Because instead of reading it, I’m doing other stuff, obviously.

Anyway, I’m going to practise mindfulness when I’m stuck in the car on the way to work tomorrow. Instead of getting to the point of wanting to leave the 40 minute traffic queue by simply getting out of my car, locking it and walking to the nearest bus stop so I can get home, I shall be mindful of my sense of being.

I am being killed by this.

How do I feel? Let me start with my head, I hear loud screaming in there and my brain is pounding. My eyes are being destroyed by the low sun. My nose is dripping a-fucking-gain. My mouth is dry. My teeth are clenched to the point that I can feel my jaw breaking.

Moving down, my shoulders are hunched and tense and aching so much, my heart is pounding, my hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that they might leave marks in it. I am hungry. I need the loo. My back hurts. I forgot to adjust my seat after wearing pumps yesterday and I am too close to my peddles.

I’m not breathing. I’m NOT BREATHING!

And Chris Evans has spent the last 20 minutes complaining about the sound of the new Formula 1 cars. AGAIN!

But back to the book, I don’t know what to expect from it. If I managed to read it to the end, but my track record over recent years isn’t encouraging. This statement has no bearing on the books that I choose, just my ability to concentrate or maintain interest in anything for the past few years.

I regret buying the electronic version now. This is the sort of book that should be read as a book, something to sit down with, or go to bed with and read by turning proper pages, breaking the spine, escaping from screen time before trying to get to sleep.

Tonight though, I don’t think it’s my late use of this electronic device that will result in poor sleep, rather the sugary, vinegary, fishy, meaty gloop that is sloshing around my poor abused insides.

I am clenching my teeth still. I’m not sure I’ll be needing a dental dam, but maybe a gum shield might come in handy.