In the second week of April, the temperatures finally attained a level that is more fitting of the season. And so it came to pass that we basked in the glorious sunshine dodged the wind and rain all weekend.

There’s always a trade-off: freezing cold temperatures, but beautiful sunshine; or relative warmth with wind and rain. It’s just the weather, we’re used to it being unreliable and unpredictable in this country, yet we still go on about it, mainly because it’s fucking shit.

Today though, I was not going to be defeated. The forecast told me it was going to be windy and cloudy with a slight chance of rain in the morning. It mattered because I was determined to dry my washing on the line. I pegged out my whites, which means non-darks, and observed the skies as the strong winds blew ever blackening clouds towards me and my clean washing.

I’ve never been so stressed in my life. So much so that, while my clothes dried eventually, they fell victim to having cigarette smoke blown onto them as I stood sentry in the yard, waiting for the precipitation to form heavier water droplets that signalled the onset of an unholy downpour. It didn’t happen.

Maybe next time I should wait for less perilous weather conditions before risking a stress-induced migraine and emphysema while drying my laundry.

Punch bag face
I’ve just waxed my moustache and plucked my eyebrows. I look like I’ve been punched in the face or attacked by a herd of angry wasps.

Who decides on those words for groups of things? What are the rules there? I suppose “herd” speaks for itself, i.e. anything that can be herded. But aren’t they called flocks of sheep and flocks of birds? Packs of dogs, packs of crisps. If you get prides of lions, do you get prides of sealions? Murder of crows? What? P-p-p-p-p-pickup a penguins.

Jeez.

Below the line
After whinging about how people in this country whinge about not having enough money for food and how they should learn to budget properly, plan and cook meals and that, I’m going to be doing something to try to put my money where my mouth is. From 29th April to 3rd May, I’ll be participating in the Live Below the Line challenge to try to raise some funds for UNICEF and to highlight the problems of poverty in the developing world. All I have to do is use no more than £5 for all my food and meals for five days. EASY! Or it least I thought it would be until I considered:

I went to Aldi today and was encouraged by their 19p packets of spaghetti. Let’s face it, I’m going to be living off pasta and beans on toast for five days. I’ll also be comatose and headachy through caffeine and cigarette withdrawal. But it’s a challenge that I will look forward to; this is a very worthy cause and I’m not going to be whinging my way through it. And it’s only five days, after which I have the luxury of being able to return to my relatively affluent lifestyle, many millions never have that opportunity.

See through
Another week of being prodded and poked beckons as the ongoing saga of misbehaving metabolism enters stage two: secondary diagnostics. First on the list is another blood test tomorrow. Tuesday I get to have low-level radiation fired at my bones to see if they’re still bones or whether they’re turning into sponge. I have to lie still while they do the scan, I’ll pretend that I’m on a sunny beach somewhere. Wednesday I’m back at the hospital to see the endocrinologist, but my DEXA scan results won’t be ready, so it’ll be a massive waste of time. Such bloody fun.

In the meantime, I can’t donate blood, yet I’m being constantly bombarded by the blood people wanting O neg donors. Yes, yes, I KNOW stocks are low, but I can’t help at the moment because there’s actually nothing wrong with me.

One positive aspect of all this is that I know my heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, pancreas and bladder are all absolutely fine. My duodenum, on the other hand, might be on the verge of bursting its contents into my peritoneum, which might kill me. But then at least, I wouldn’t have to worry about whether it’s a good drying day.