The Stoma Bag Lady THE MOVIE – no really I’m serious


So I’ve created this FANTASTIC (I’m so modest) video of the story of the Stoma Bag Lady. It’s basically a trailer for my Youtube channel. I thought I would share it with you guys, I hope you like it, if you do I will do more of these kind of blatantly big headed self promotional kind of things, if not I will continue to strive to raise awareness of IBD in new an exciting ways.

Oh, and if it helps, this video does not have my annoying voice on it and is lovely and short, unlike many of my other more rambling Vlogs.

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A 22 mile bike ride – jelly legs & a bruised bum & hitting streets with Police


Until today the longest bike ride I had done since my ileostomy operation was around three miles. And that had been a struggle. Come to think about it, three miles was probably the furthest I had ridden anything in years, and that was far enough for my skinny little legs.

A quick and much needed break - no I didn't fall off

A quick and much needed break – no I didn’t fall off

So this morning me and Andy (my boyfriend) woke up to a lovely autumnal morning. It was a little cold but absolutely stunning. I woke up fairly exhausted after spending the night on reporting duty trekking around Chester City Centre with some lovely police officers as they tackled drink and drug related crime in the city in the aftermath of the last race of the season. I was with them most of the night running around, trying to keep up with their long strides, and, well trying to not get lost in the crowds of unbelievably drunk women swarming through the city’s streets.

It is a year since I did a very similar operation with the police in Chester. I remember how exciting it was, but how the whole time I was watching the drug dog sniff out wads of cocaine from revellers outside bars and clubs I was constantly panicking about needing the toilet. You see I may not have been in the peak of one of my IBD flares, but I still needed the bathroom around six times an hour, or I would be left gripping my stomach in agony and struggling not to curl up in a ball crying like a baby. I remember managing to throw the pain to the back of my mind until the break – which was after at least three hours – before getting back to the station and locking myself away in the cell-like toilet, and silently sobbing in pain as I tried to ‘let it all out’ before we hit the streets (without loo breaks) yet again. Ok, I hear you say, I should have said something, I’m sure they would have let me pay a pit stop, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t slow them down…I absolutely refused to stand in their way.

townhall_policeThis year was different. With my ostomy bag I hardly had to worry. In fact I made it from 7.30pm until I go home at 11.30pm without having to empty or change Winnie. Yes I did worry I would be caught out, and yes I did worry about needing the toilet – but I don’t think I will ever stop doing that – I’m a bit like Jason Bourne these days when it comes to rest rooms. I did panic when Winnie started going into overdrive at the custody suite while I was looking around the cells where some of the revellers would be sleeping off their booze that night. But she survived and to my relief I didn’t end up having to change Winnie in a cell with no basin and a metal loo!

Anyway, after groggily getting out of bed we made the decision to go for a bike ride. Yes we realised that the 20+ mile round trip was a big ask after hardly stepping foot on a bike since my operation, but after traipsing miles and miles around Rome that didn’t seem like such a leap into the dark for my legs. Oh, and there was a pub to be stopped at on the way…so that helped as an incentive.

I didn’t regret it one bit. The weather was beautiful and cycling along the canal was both exhilarating and peaceful. At first we were forced to weave around walkers, dogs and fellow cyclists as we battled along the canal, but then we finally found ourselves alone, apart from a few ducks and MASSIVE dogs and the scenery became simply something else. For a couple of miles we battled on despite the towpath teetering out altogether leaving me exhausted from the grassy mounds underfoot, or wheel. Then realising I was never going to make it back if we carried on, we finally went onto the road and cycled the rest of the way to the pub…a thousand times easier, apart from the fact Andy got a puncture and we had to stop every-so-often for him to pump up his withering tyre.

The pub itself, The Shady Oak, was quaint. Set on the side of the canal the views were

Waiting patiently for food - I'm screaming inside lol

Waiting patiently for food – I’m screaming inside lol

breathtaking. However the service left a lot to be desired and they didn’t take visas or any kind of cards whatsoever. It was an odd phenomenon going into a cash only pub. That’s when we realised we had cycled 10+ miles and probably could only afford a handful of chips between us!! Luckily we had a bit more and managed to share a buttie and chips – from a ridiculous menu I must add, and a ridiculously long wait of around an hour and a half!

Anyway a few other things happened, but all in all it was a magical day. Now sat on the sofa I feel proud. Ok, I’m no Sir Bradley Wiggins but I dug deep when I thought I had nothing left and managed to complete a 22 mile bike ride, which is amazing when you think six months ago I couldn’t walk up 10 steps without having to stop for breath. I feel healthy, but wobbly. In fact I can’t walk at all without my legs shaking, and my bum feels like it has been head butted by a bull. But it is a good healthy sort of pain, one that I am sure will make me walk like a cowboy for a few days, but one that I can be proud of…this is a pain that means my fitness is coming back…so, I guess I like it!

I can’t wait to do it again. It’s happened, I’ve got the cycling bug!

The last stretch - oh and there is my bessie mate in the car next to me - small world lol

The last stretch – oh and there is my bessie mate in the car next to me – small world lol

Me & Winnie talk to USA, spurt crap all over the place and rant about hospitals


Over the past few days I have been finding it really hard to stay awake. I honestly can’t seem to keep my eyes open for longer than around an hour at a time. While I am finding this frustrating, and, if I have to be totally honest, a little worrying (this was what was happening before I went into hospital for surgery), it has undoubtably led to some rather amusing situations which even I can’t help but laugh about.

Oooh pretty flowers

Oooh pretty flowers

I have fallen asleep in packed hospital/doctor’s waiting rooms; on toilet seats; while watching TV; in coffee shops; while on the phone; in cars and, most embarrassing of all, when people are talking to me! I have even fallen asleep mid-sentence and woken-up half-an-hour later thinking Where Was I?? – I know…you couldn’t make it up!

In fact on Wednesday I became so concerned about my unpredictable slumbers that I decided it was high time that I gave in and went to the doctors to find out what the hell was going on with my worn-out body. I mean, I am obviously either dehydrated or lacking in some sort of vitamin or mineral which helps make it possible for normal people to not fall asleep every 10 seconds…imagine a world like that, trains would crash, bank robbers would be found leaning against safes with dribble pouring down their faces and bags stuffed with cash having a little snooze, and the Prime Minister would be found sat at the desk in No 1o with his slippers on, cuddling a cute teddy bear called Maggie and snoring into a mountain of red boxes while chaos erupted on the streets below. I mean nothing would ever get done, would it?

Trying to watch the tennis but drifting off

Trying to watch the tennis but drifting off

While sitting in the waiting room, which was packed with screaming kids with snotty noses and old ladies with bad hips, I started to feel that awful tiredness coming over me like a wave. Feeling my eyes starting to drop, I pulled my Kindle out of my handbag and tried desperately to read this week’s book, fighting with every tiny ounce of energy in my tired body to focus my vision and stop the words blurring, bouncing and leaping across the screen. I must have read the same sentence twice before my head dropped and I fell fast asleep, probably snoring and making slight purring or snorting noises similar to those you would normally hear in a farmyard or coming from a pigsty, and undoubtably dribbling and pulling some sort of horrendously embarrassing face (hope those pics don’t turn up on the internet). I woke-up around 20 minutes later after, much to my surprise, a sheep (I don’t know why a sheep) in my dream started calling my name! Even though I was dreaming I knew that something wasn’t right about this as; a) this sheep didn’t have a starring role in the dream; b) sheep do not talk; c) my name sounded like it was being called from another world, it had an echoey shouting underwater quality to it, which just didn’t sound like it was coming from inside my pleasant slumber world. I woke up with a jerk, pulling my dribble stained hand away from my cheek, to find the not-so bad-looking doctor (it had to be him right #typical) leaning over me calling my name, with a strange expression on his face, which I could only interpret as somewhere between amusement and disgust!! I wouldn’t say I have never been so embarrassed, as that would be a lie – I have had tubes shoved where the sun doesn’t shine by doctors who resembled Brad Pitt ( not the ideal first impression for any girl to make) and been stopped in the street by crushes and butter wouldn’t melt almost Calvin Cline underwear models for directions or an annoyingly long conversation, knowing that any minute I’m going to have a poop related incident – but I have to say that I must have looked shocked and humiliated as I staggered towards his office, no doubt with my hair stuck to my face by drool and a tell-tale red hand-shaped-mark imprinted into the side of my face. THE SHAME!!!

According to Doc I wasn’t dehydrated as my tongue didn’t look dry (don’t ask how he

Ohhh another smelly pressie for Winnie

Ohhh another smelly pressie for Winnie

came to that conclusion), he didn’t think I was lacking in anything serious as I didn’t look ill and my blood pressure was ok (saying that it was its normal abnormally low self) and I had an average temperature. He put the whole thing down to exhaustion and my body trying to heal itself following the loss of my bowel…which, he at last enlightened me, had been all torn out apart from the tiny and problematic rectal stump. But just to be on the safe side, and because he is a rather thorough doctor, he had a feel of my poor tummy, and prodded at a protesting Winnie, who at that moment, in what I decided was an OY! HOW DARE YOU TOUCH ME!! protest, decided to gurgle and erupt some fresh, warm poop into her freshly changed bag, before letting out a series of hideously loud and obnoxious farts – thank God he hadn’t taken the bag off!!!

I then had to sit in an uncomfortable state of silence and intolerable embarrassment for the rest of the appointment while he rang the hospital to arrange a blood-test and tried to get hold of the IBD nurse to change my medication, so that poor Winnie would no longer have to spit out the giant horse-tablets whole every day.

All I can say is that I was relieved to get out of that tiny room…and, I am 100% sure he was glad to see the back of us both.

Up set and drenched in town meeting a friend

Up set and drenched in town meeting a friend after doctors humiliation

I have had to tell Winnie off multiple times this week. She has spent the whole week thoroughly disagreeing with everything I eat, drink and so much as look at or think about putting in my mouth. I’m honestly starting to think that she enjoys testing me, and is trying to see how far she can push me before I race to the hospital screaming TAKE HER BACK, I’VE CHANGED MY MIND, GIVE ME A DIFFERENT MODEL. And, before you say it, I know that having a stoma is not like owning a car, and that I can’t take her back and exchange her for a soft top if I don’t like her after 21 days, but did I have to get stuck with such a madam?? I’m honestly sure that most people don’t have this much trouble with their new friends 😦 but mine is a total character, she doesn’t seem to know if she is coming or going, happy or sad, fussy or not fussy, working or refusing to in protest for some totally unknown cause.

Take for example yesterday, which was Winnie’s annual changing day (she get’s changed

Winnie, Oscar and Felicity post nuclear explosion in bathroom

Winnie, Oscar and Felicity post nuclear explosion in bathroom

every other day, so she is always clean and fresh and looking her best). I was halfway through changing her, I had cleaned and dried around her bottom and had smothered her with special barrier protecting cream so she didn’t get red and sore from the adhesive Flange (horrid word YUCK), and had decided, just for a second, to take my attention off her and move onto cleaning my wound and washing out Oscar (my remaining colon poking through my stomach #nice!), when she decided to have a totally paddy to really p**s me off and get my attention. Without warning she started convulsing, her entire pink, plump body started moving in and out like it had a life of its own, and then suddenly she erupted everywhere, spurting fountains of fresh, smelly poop all down my leg and all over the bathroom floor. PANIC STATIONS. I grabbed layers of tissue, and, basically anything else I could find and desperately tried to plug the leak, but nothing wanted to stop her, she was on a roll and was determined to teach me a lesson for ignoring her!! It was total bedlam, and when it was over, and she allowed me the few seconds of ceasefire to clean her like a little baby and nestle her bag in her bag – well, I pretty much stuffed her in, in an attempt to teach her a lesson – I collapsed in a heap on the bathroom floor before finishing the job by putting on my dressings and having a much-needed wash and clean-up of the crime scene.

A slightly steady moment at the castle..felt like a princess

A slightly steady moment at the castle..felt like a princess

She also had a major paddy on our day out with the folks to Cholmondeley Castle on Thursday. The plan was to go out to the castle’s grounds for the day to look at the pretty flowers and enjoy a scrummy picnic on the manicured lawns. And that’s exactly what we did, but not without Winnie and my exhausted body trying to add some much UN-NEEDED drama to the occasion. We arrived at the castle after I had fallen asleep mid-sentence while talking to my Mum and Dad in the car…I think I had been telling them about a lovely offer I have had from an amazingly generous person to pay for one of my more expensive challenges, when, totally out of the blue I fell fast asleep half way through a sentence. It was something like “I just can’t believe he would do such a….zzzzz”!! My poor parents must have been totally bemused and confused as to whether to wake me up, let me sleep, or drive me straight to the A&E department and have me admitted for weird sleeping patterns and inability to stay away even when talking.

Anyway, anyway, anyway. We arrived at the castle – well they arrived and I sort of dozed

A very windy picnic with the Flints

A very windy picnic with the Flints

into the land of the living as we approached the massive estate – got out of the car and started to walk around the stunning gardens. As we got just about far enough away from the car, in the middle of exploring some gorgeous rose beds, with me trying to take professional style photos of various multi-coloured roses with my not so professional and rather knackered camera phone, I suddenly realised my legs didn’t want to behave themselves anymore. My poor legs appeared to have acquired a life of their own (Micheal Jackson stylie), and were suddenly refusing to take my body in; a) the right direction; b) anywhere that required them standing. They appeared to be buckling under the simple pressure and decided to trip me up and make me stumble all over the place, almost sending me tumbling into thorny rose bushes and making me look like an overgrown toddler trying to advance from crawling a week or so too soon. My poor reliable Dad seemed to spot my problem almost from the word go and hastily rescued me from landing facedown among the rose bushes, hooking his arm under mine and sticking by the side for the rest of the day, in an attempt to stop me costing millions of pounds of damage to Lord and Lady Cholmondeley’s extravagant flowerbeds. I will be eternally grateful.

Me and the pretty flowers

Me and the pretty flowers

If it wasn’t bad enough that I appeared to have lost control of my limbs and was walking around the grounds in a zombie style trance, barely managing to keep my heavy eyes open, Winnie decided that she had been ignored for long enough and decided to have an almighty paddy in the grounds public toilets. After years of suffering from Crohns I have a massive dislike for public toilets, but I am also always eternally grateful that they exist to help save me in my frequent moments of desperation. I hate how dirty and unkept they are, and that there is always the risk that you could be attacked by a random drunk/drug dealer hiding in one of the unlit cubicles, and that entering a cubicle is like playing chicken or guess who…you never know what will be behind the door or under the toilet lid SURPRISE!!! (yucky, ewh, I feel sick even thinking about the revolting things I have seen, why do women do that in toilets?) Anyway I ventured inside these outdoor toilets, which were not really that bad as far as public loos go..they had toilet roll which wasn’t strewn all over the place, and there was nothing nasty floating in the bowl (puke!!). I went to empty Winnie to find, horror of horrors, that the loo roll was in one of those health and safety round containers, and for the life of me I couldn’t find the end of it to pull down! So I stood there holding Winnie’s end with one hand and frantically searching for the end of the roll with the other..it was frustrating and by the time I had thankfully found it, I will leave it to your imagination, but it took a hell of a lot longer to clean her up than it would have done had that flaming protective cover not have been there!!!!

Yes, I know that wasn’t Winnie’s fault and it’s unfair to blame her, but for the rest of the

in the garden enjoying a few rare rays of sunshine yesterday before Murray mania

in the garden enjoying a few rare rays of sunshine yesterday before Murray mania

afternoon she threatened to kick-off whenever we ventured more than a metre away from the only loos in the hundreds of acres of grounds. She did it during the picnic, and I continued trying to eat my tea and grab bits of food and cutlery that kept being blown away in the wind, while feeling her swelling into a gas-filled balloon under my jacket. While we were looking at the weird and wonderful petting zoo animals, and even on the way back in the car where I thankfully fell asleep two seconds into the journey so didn’t notice her constant tantrums or the horrible bumpy Cheshire roads.

When I got home I raced straight to bed and slept for a lovely few hours 🙂 it was bliss, until Winnie woke me and insisted upon being changed again following her first slight leak, which was caused by the bag lifting up slightly in the heat I think. Which I handled much better and more calmly than I thought actually. I then had to dress her in the first bag I have ever cut for her, having run out of the ones the Stoma Nurse had cut…this was a nerve-wracking experience..lets just say I didn’t have much confidence in my own cutting abilities and accuracy and spent the entire sleepless night checking her for any sign of leakage or damage caused by her collar being just too tight.

Oh and before I forget, I spent the other evening, after lots of messing around not being able to find each other (first time I had used Skype) talking to a lovely lady across the pound about my life with Crohns for a book she is writing. It took forever and there were a few awkward moments, and hilarious moments where I think we just didn’t understand each other…she even called my accent lovely 🙂 HMMM!! Anyway when we eventually finished at midnight (there had been some confusion over time differences), I sat in bed unable to sleep worrying about exactly how much of my life I had spilled to her during the interview. And faced the horrible reality that this is how it must feel to be on the other side of the journalist’s notebook…a rather worrying feeling of hmm should I have said that. But, hey ho, if it helps others to come to terms with their disease I don’t care if they hear about my shameful poop accidents!

Moving on to my first BIG Bowl of cereal...before today eating out of tiny bowls for kids

Moving on to my first BIG Bowl of cereal…before today eating out of tiny bowls for kids

Anyway, that’s enough moaning and rambling for one day. I will be gutted when Wimbledon finishes this weekend, as despite the fact that I have been falling asleep at the worst possible moments (tie-breaks and match points) during Murray’s matches I have throughly enjoying screaming at the telly and watching my boyfriend transform into a madman, screaming and calling the poor tennis player all sorts of horrible unnamable things as he throws himself around the court in an attempt to make us all proud. He really can be a twat when we are watching sport (sorry babe), but it is funny to watch 🙂 I’m sure it’s just being passionate about the game, well that’s what he tells me.

So now I’m going to go back to writing my complaint to the hospital regarding my recent stay, where they tried to poison me by constantly trying to feed me lactose, cripple me with a badly placed epidural and basically left me wasting away, depressed, in pain and confused. As I don’t want to bore you so I have done a mind-numbing video about it which you can watch below.

Where’s Winnie at the races, at the seaside and doing ten rounds with Mike Tyson


Before I share any of the crazy adventures me and Winnie (the poo bag) got up to at the weekend, and

Please bid on these stunningly illustrated Disney books :)

Please bid on these stunningly illustrated Disney books 🙂

spill all my inner most thoughts and secrets, I must first ask you a massive favour….PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE bid on the eBay items which we (me and Andy) are flogging following our Bargain Hunt style adventure a couple of weekends ago. If no one bids, not only will I be horrendously out-of-pocket (despite how über glamorous I always look I’m not rolling in cash, mostly because I am a lowly reporter, and I’m addicted to nail varnish and expensive coffee) and lumbered with even more (luxurious) yet pointless items cluttering up my already stuffed to the brim flat, but I will have FAILED, YES FAILED, one of my challenges. Surely you guys (my dedicated readers :)) can’t let that happen 😦 And, if what I fear will happen does indeed come true, I will not even break even let alone raise mountains of cash for Crohns and Colitis UK to help them in their fight to help people understand the true pain of this evil, evil illness and possibly even find a cure!!!

WHY would you not want an amazing MANDY ANNUAL???

WHY would you not want an amazing MANDY ANNUAL???

I am not trying to emotionally blackmail you all (perhaps I am a little) but imagine the SHAME of me failing to sell an item on eBay. It was meant to be one of my simplest challenges, but the fact that no one has bid on the items which I battled exhaustion, hunger and a very hyperactive stoma to source out for you lovely people to buy, is making this challenge the hardest and most demoralising one I have faced so far….So please PLEASE PLEASE put a smile back on my face and bid on my lovely items…trust me you won’t regret it 🙂 Just remember a lot of determination, sweat and (almost) tears went into finding these goodies from those 400+ stalls…you would be raising money for a very good cause, saving me the humiliation of having to post on here that I have failed and sending a giant cheque with the figure £0.00 to an amazing charity…and make a little, very tired and sleep-deprived young lady and schizophrenic stoma bag very happy indeed, and stop her looking like this (pic of me in black and white looking very miserable):

If you don't bid, me, Andy and Winnie will be soo blue and never smile again!!

If you don’t bid, me, Andy and Winnie will be soo blue and never smile again!!

If you want to bid on the amazing items – a vintage Man United book; Stunning 20th C Japanese miniature cup and saucer; Knightrider collector’s item; Winnie the Pooh Book; Disney education and tales album set; Classic Mandy Annual; Sooty Book and a Bronze ornament of a brass player – please click on the links above (the words underlined DOH!!) or the picture (to right) which will take you to the seller’s page!

Anyway, now that the emotional blackmailing is over and done with, I can tell you about Me and Winnie and our rather exciting, exhausting and windswept weekend. Basically what follows is the story of a weekend where Winnie’s non-stop teenage tantrums finally pushed me into the dark world of gambling; Winnie suffered her first panic attack (or it may well have been stage fright) and I learnt a key rule to life with a temperamental stoma – never wear a jumpsuit!!!

So after months of waiting the girly day at the Races finally arrived. On Saturday morning I woke up after another typically restless night feeling exhausted and suffering from such crippling fatigue that I could hardly muster the energy to walk to the bathroom let alone spend a whole day screaming at horses and standing around in six-inch stilettos. All I had wanted, prayed for, begged for, was one decent night’s sleep, so that I wouldn’t wake up looking like a zombie crawling out of a grave with massive bags under my eyes and my hair stuck up like Sonic the Hedgehog…but, alas God obviously had other plans for me, and typically the night before the Races saw me sat bolt up right in bed with my normal skin crawling itchiness, and my poor broken body screaming to sleep while my brain ticked away over every problem, flaw and tiny hang-up, wittering on and on about how Winnie would leak and all the thousands of unnaturally good-looking punters were going to see crap dripping down my dress (pardon my French). I know that seems ridiculous, and the chances of that actually happening where, quite frankly, next to none, but I couldn’t get the image out of my head that I was going to have an accident in a very public place, and that, when it happened I would be stood in a pool of crap directly in front of a large gang of heavily made-up girls who would all laugh and point and shout “Ewh she’s got s**t dripping down her leg…”she is, isn’t she, she’s sh***ing herself” !! or some other horrible comment, involving me and a pile of excrement. All night I sat awake trying to distract myself by reading Clare Bolding’s autobiography, but nothing could shake the image of Winnie deciding to have her first proper paddy in the middle of Chester Racecourse and me, red-faced and humiliated, being escorted out of the paddocks by burly security guards and manhandled into the back of a police car for ‘defecating in a public place’.

Me and my beautiful girlies at Chester Races

Me and my beautiful girlies at Chester Races

On the day I needn’t have worried at all, because Winnie, out of fright or in an attempt to prove that I had seriously misjudged her, decided that she would simply stop working. She pretty much went on strike for the afternoon, and didn’t let a single morsel of food, gas or anything else that could have caused some sort of unpleasant surprise pass through her pink gates. You would think I would have been relived that I wasn’t having to run to the bathroom and back to sort out the growing bulge under my extremely pretty dress – if you haven’t met Winnie yet, you’re in for a treat.. she performs an amazing but humiliating magic trick, transforming me from a very slender size six into a beached whale, which is eight months pregnant with obese triplets…and most amazingly of all she does this magical trick in a blink of an eyelid – I wasn’t at all relieved. In fact, you could say that I was terrified by her new stunt. This was the first time that Winnie had gone on strike and it was pretty damn worrying. From the moment we walked into the racecourse Winnie just decided.. ‘nope, I am not playing this game, I am not going to work, I am going to block-up’, and she did – very effectively I might add. So while my friends sipped horrendously expensive champagne and shouted at their chosen horse to get its butt into gear (ok, not their exact words), I worried and worried about Winnie, constantly prodded her through my dress and, well pretty much spent the whole day panicking about whether there was something seriously (like rush to A&E and slit me open) wrong with her, and through attachment to my body, seriously wrong with me!!

The result of all this worrying is that I must have had a rather quizzical and bemused look on my face for the entire day, something that I blamed on not understanding the betting system, (which is true, I still don’t understand the odds, ranking or returns) and, to all of the thousands of people who saw my grumpy and concerned features, I must have come across as a right moody cow and a proper party pooper.

So anyway, anyway, anyway, back to the morning events. For months I have seriously pined for this amazing perfume which is well out of my measly trainee reporter’s salary price range. Let’s just say that if I wanted to buy it I would have to live off fresh air and baked beans for a couple of weeks – but then again the perfume would cancel out the horrible smelling gas from the student-esk diet!! #lol!! In fact I love the perfume so much that every day since the lovely lady in Debenhams squirted the yummy scent on my wrist I have dragged my exhaus

Awh my amazing gift from my amazing bf

Awh my amazing gift from my amazing bf

ted and broken body all the way to Browns in Chester to spray on Victor &Rolf’s Flowerbomb, just so that I don’t have to fork out the £70 to buy it. I have been doing this daily trip for almost six weeks now. I like to think of it as the  cheapest way to own a perfume….but in the past week or so I have been forced to try other perfumes. You see the staff are not stupid and have started to cotton on to what I am doing, and are now really rather annoyingly hanging around the Victor&Rolf stand and asking me if I need any help with my purchase, forcing me to make up elaborate stories about birthday lists, wedding presents and anniversaries – It was seriously getting to the point where I was going to be shamed into buying the product or be arrested for stealing hundreds of pounds worth of free perfume!! Anyway after waking from his angelic slumber and turning to face the Creature From The Black Lagoon, my lovely boyfriend walked me into town and bought, yes bought me the biggest bottle of Flowerbomb he could find. It was the singular most lovely and romantic gesture, which was totally ruined by the satisfied and knowing look of the saleswoman, whose eyes screamed “Thief Thief Thief” as she scanned the hideously expensive gift through the till. And, as a final act of disdain, she even refused to give me the pretty pink gift bag, instead thrusting the box into a clearance plastic carrier bag, which made us look like we had just been shopping at Poundland, not spent the equivalent of a week’s wages (ok, I’m over-egging this, but you get my point) on a bottle of perfume.

Anyway, after returning back to the flat happy as a Spring chicken with my first ever bottle of ‘real’ perfume – when I say ‘real’ I mean not mixed with water or bought for £10 from an Avon catalogue. Well, I was happy until I realised I had less than two hours to get ready, then I turned into a ranging maniac, racing around the place and basically stressing at my poor boyfriend (bear in mind that he had just spent a horrendous amount of cash on me just to see me smile) and unceremoniously shoving him out of the door so I could jump in the shower and scrub away any morsel of dirt, sweat or anything else minging in an attempt to transform myself from the crazy, sleep deprived madwoman in the mirror into a stunning Princess. It seemed like ‘Mission Impossible’, and it really was. Time raced past as I attempted to tame my wild hair, which I luckily had had cut and coloured the day before so only needed re-blowdrying and straightening, and slather myself with layers of makeup. I lost valuable minutes when Winnie decided to start working while I was changing her, spitting out yesterday’s dinner on my bath matt as I searched frantically for kitchen-towel and realised I had no idea where the dressings for Oscar where. Eventually, after days of consideration I had settled on the black dress, which was, and still is a big deal. I’m not sure if I have already told you (if I have I’m going to tell you all again anyway GROAN) but

Ready for the Races - THE DRESS

Ready for the Races – THE DRESS

I bought THE DRESS at Warehouse (my favourite shop, but can only afford, well justify, buying things in the sale) before I knew I was going to have my operation. At the time buying the dress was a big risk as: a) I committed the cardinal sin of not trying it on; b) it was basically backless so I wouldn’t be able to wear a bra; and c) it was long, and before my op I never, literally never wore dresses past my knee. THE DRESS is daring and well totally glamourous….I bought it because I loved it, and when, on the painful afternoon following my operation I bit the bullet and bagged up all the clothes I knew I would never be able to wear again due to the birth of Winnie, it almost ended up in the charity shop bag, but was saved only because I decided to keep it in the hope that one very special day I would be daring enough to at least try it on in the comfort of my own home. So imagine my surprise on Saturday when I put on THE DRESS and it fitted perfectly, in fact if you have to be picky you could say that it was a tad on the big size for my tinie post surgery frame. I was ecstatic and decided straight away that if I didn’t wear this dress to the races I would not only regret it, but I would most probably never find another moment to wear it again in my whole life. I owed it to the dress 🙂 I looked fabulous, in fact you couldn’t see Winnie at all! I was amazed…you would have to look really really close to spot the tell-tale creases of the over-lapping bags, but really you couldn’t see her at all 🙂 RESULT!!! One thing I had totally forgotten in a typical me way was that although it was getting rather warm outside it might get nippy later, and, with the open back and all I wouldn’t be wearing a bra…yes, you’ve guessed it, I forgot to get the nipple covers. WHOOPS!! So after all that trying to disguise Winnie I undoubtably drew attention to myself by having rock hard nipples sticking out through my stunningly shear dress as the wind picked up during the last race!! EEK!!

Dreaming of winning big!!

Dreaming of winning big!!

Anyway the day was gloriously hot, and despite ending up with a rather odd suntan due to the criss-cross style of my dress 🙂 it was a perfect day to join the flocks of punters tottering in their ridiculously high high-heels to Chester Racecourse. Despite Winnie’s protest I had a fantastic time, I didn’t win, but there again I didn’t bet anything that in theory I couldn’t afford to lose, so I would have never won big. I had a few frustrating moments, such as when I was determined to bet on one horse but changed my mind at the very last-minute, and, you guessed it folks, that horse won, while mine may aswell have had two legs as it came tripping over the finishing line what felt like a year after all the others were back tucked in the stables. Well I suppose I did win twice, but that was when me and two of my mates decided to club together £2 each (ooh last of the big spenders) to put a bet on three of the horses, and as there were only four in the race we won….well I say we won, we got our £2 each back and an extra £4 on both occasions – which meant my total winnings for a hard day at the Races equated to a grand £2.60 – not even enough for a glass of water!!!

After the races my feet felt like they were literally going to fall off. Having not really walked in high-heels since before my operation a whole day standing in the baking heat wearing extremely pretty, but very uncomfortable glittery shoes, had left my feet screaming for my peppermint cream and the safety and snugness of my pink fluffy slippers. And I wasn’t the only one who felt like my feet were going to snap in two. So, head hung in disappointment I staggered back home, totally gutted that I for once felt well (well not really, but better than normal) enough to hit the town and experience my first Races drink in the city, but was being let down by my stupid and treacherous feet. All I had wanted to do since the start of the day

Me and my friend with the backs of our dresses

Me and my friend with the backs of our dresses

was to go to a new bar in Chester called The Church – basically an old derelict church which had been transformed into a luxury bar and restaurant but still had all the original features – and drink a glass of champagne, to basically say, I DID IT…I MADE IT THROUGH ALL THIS HELLISH CRAP!!! But it seems no one else really wanted to do that, and around half an hour later I found myself back at the flat wearing my trusty nightie and attempting to wipe the layers of makeup off my face. I was gutted, I had been made to do the sensible thing, and it was a total anticlimax…I felt cheated of my celebratory return to the night-life scene and like I was being forced to admit I was still to sick to be my fun, sexy, 20-something-self!

And if that wasn’t unfair enough, the moment I peeled off my dress Winnie decided she was abandoning her strike. In fact she did it with such gusto that I spent the rest of the evening racing backwards and forwards to the toilet – and to make sure I was reminded he was there Oscar threw in a few paddies just for good measure! Despite only having two small, and horrendously expensive glasses of wine, (oh and a glass of race’s champagne kindly donated to my experience by my friend, SSSSH don’t tell), I spent the entire evening feeling like I had been hit, and then reversed over by a bus carrying horrendously obese people to fat camp. I mean it really was unfair!! It was a night filled with endless nausea, sweating, and gurgling and groaning from places I didn’t know existed, and to top it all off all the other hardcore Racegoers where partying hard into the early hours of the morning almost right outside my door, not helping the unrelenting insomnia by rubbing it in my face that they were having an amazing time while sensible me was curled up in a ball of agony wishing I would die.

Home and upset

Home and upset

The next morning I woke up looking like hell, a common occurence these days (as you can see), and feeling like I had done 10 rounds with Mike Tyson in the few hours of sleep I had managed to grab. It literally felt like an elephant had walked into my room and sat on my chest in the middle of the night. I could hardly stand up straight as I raced to the bathroom to empty Winnie who was, as per usual, so full she was on the brink of causing a nuclear poop explosion in my pretty bedroom. As I was trying to sort myself out and make myself look slightly human, changing Winnie after Oscar bizarrely managed to fill up with soapy water while I was having a shower PANIC STATIONS PEOPLE!!! when Andy arrived to take me to his house for a relaxing day reading and starting to learn Francias (which I hope is French for French #lol). Now at this point, taking into account that Winnie was obviously in a foul mood so I would undoubtably be needing to pop to the loo every 5 minutes to empty her, I have literally no idea why I thought “ooh, today would be a good day to wear my new jumpsuit”. Yes people a jumpsuit, you know the outfit that you have to literally spend half-an-hour undoing to have a pee. It is the straightjacket of the fashion world – even Houdini himself would struggle to get out of a jumpsuit in a bathroom related emergency.

Me sooo fashionable...sooo the wrong choice

Me sooo fashionable…sooo the wrong choice

To make matters worse, when we got out to the car we decided (yes, for argument’s sake I’m going to say it was a joint decision) that we weren’t going to spend the day lazing around the house in a hung over style state, scoffing our faces and watching re-runs of The Vicar of Dibley etc…instead we were going to drive around 2 hours to the seaside in Wales. This idea was put forward by Andy, and because I couldn’t think of anything better to do, and the weather seemed glorious in Chester and I assumed it would be the same in Wales, I agreed. BIG MISTAKE!! Firstly, we all know how I feel about car journeys, and how the state of Britain’s roads make me feel like I have just ridden a camel over a rocky mountain range, so while the two-hour car journey offered up some breathtaking views of the Welsh countryside as we passed through Snowdonia, I spent the majority of it curled up in a ball almost crying through pain and getting increasingly angry that the silly mountain ranges were making my phone signal die and I could no longer Tweet my pain to everyone in the world. And, secondly, I could not have been more wrong about the weather. We turned up at the quaint seaside village dressed in summer clothes, with not a jacket, or waterproof between us, to find we had left the Summer weather behind in Cheshire and here we were faced with a typical British summer day, with nippy winds that tore through my thin playsuit and left Winnie shaking to  the core. I must have looked  right idiot as most people were quite rightly dressed for an autumnal day, wearing parkas and jackets, while I was wearing floral jumpsuit and a demin jacket, and to top it off I was wearing my rock star shades – which ended up not being a ridiculous as they looked as they saved my eyes from being filled with the sand which sandblasted us whenever we dared to walk too close to the sand.

Anyway we managed to find a restaurant, where we had the normal issues of waiters and chefs struggling with my diet and I ended up making up my own odd sounding meal which was surprisingly ok. I battled with my playsuit again and again as Winnie filled-up faster than I was able to cope with!! In fact I am almost sure that she was doing it in the hope that someone would walk in on me in the tiny, fly infested toilet, with my playsuit round my ankles exposing my bare breasts to the world, as yes, because of my painful scar I wasn’t wearing a bra!!

Very windy and sandblasted

Very windy and sandblasted

It was a lovely little town and we had a lovely time, but due to the weather and my terrible fashion blunder we must have started the drive back just under 2 hours after we arrived! Poor Andy, driving two hours with me whining the whole way, to enjoy a mediocre meal and getting sandblasted and then being forced to drive another 2 hours back home…luckily for him I slept the whole way back and woke up with a stiff neck and feeling grumpy and disoriented.

So what have I learnt from this experience…NEVER WEAR A ONSIE OR PLAYSUIT WHEN STOMA IS ACTING UP, AND ALWAYS TAKE A JACKET!!

Counting horses to get to sleep…Balding tickles Winnie and into the Frying pan with Mr Fry


Another finished just seconds before midnight – HURRAH

I love reading so when I first drew up the list for my 101 challenges the idea of reading a book a week seemed like the most simple feat in the world for my little brain to conquer.I thought that with all this time off work following my operation that I would be devouring whole shelves of books, gobbling up the great world of literature so fast that I would soon be knocking on my favourite author’s doors begging for them to pen me a new novel just to satisfy my insatiable appetite. Well, that might be a tad over the top. But, lets say, I thought that I would be reading at least two books a week… I mean a couple of hundred pages a week, surely that’s easy for someone who as a kid won the council’s Acorn Book Club  Award for reviewing hundreds of library books after pretty much living in the dusty bookcases of my under-threat local library pouring over ketchup-stained (and God knows what else stained ) novels and picture books well into the night. I don’t talk about it, but that literary feat earned me a humiliating picture in the local press – the photographer scarred me for life by getting me to pose in my school library next to a pile of books my height, grinning like a demented maniac and looking like I was about to attack everyone in my path. Honestly there have been less scary pictures on Most Wanted and Crime Watch, the story’s headline may as well been ‘Crazy schoolgirl kills for books’ – lock away your bookcases and first editions people ,schoolgirl book murdered is on the loose.

Anyway I know I’m going off track, but despite that being one of the most humiliating experiences of my life,(many more where to follow with the birth of Facebook and camera phones and me basically being me) as back in those good old days when penny sweets cost 1p and you rang or called on your mates rather than tweeting or nudging them everyone bought the local rag called The Free Press and quite rightly pictures of my insane looking smile were waved around in front of my face everywhere I went…Everyone from the lollipop lady to my headteacher had a copy. And, to make matters even worse, being insanely proud parents my folks bought every picture of me and my sister that appeared in the local paper (which was surprisingly a lot, I think we were in it every week), and created a wall of fame that greeted every visitor, milkman, delivery driver and builder who had the misfortune to call into our house. I swear that one time I came down the stairs years later to find my poor local milkman (who I had a massive crush on – he was a part-time fireman) peering up at the wall of dreadful school pictures and looking to my horror at the book photo – this is one of the few moments of my life that I have literally turned the colour of the Ribena berry and hidden away in shame and disgust.

Anyway back to the challenge. So far reading a book a week has proved a lot harder than I thought it would. I have already told you how at the start of the challenge I struggled with the ramblings, non-stop bitching and, quite frankly, tedious parliamentary squabbles of Lord Mandelson, in his autobiography The Third Man. Since then I have not been as bored or frustrated with an autobiography or novel that I have wanted to throw it out of the window, most probably killing an unsuspecting builder or old lady tottering to the local pub for her daily Gin and Tonic, but I have been struggling to finish the books every week. It is not always the author’s fault, it is just that I never seem to dedicate as much time to my reading as I intend to these days.

Every Monday I start the week by picking a new book out of the massive pile of novels, short story collections and autobiographies, that I have borrowed from the library or bought at a ridiculously cheap price from supermarkets, charity shops or even borrowed from friends. I started the pile when I decided to start reading a book a week and that I needed to widen my knowledge of all things in the world by reading 50 autobiographies for this challenge. Each time I pick up a book at a store or randomly from the dusty shelf at the local library I always have every intention of starting the book that day…or at least that week, but now the pile is almost as high as my bed, and although I am determinedly plowing my way through them I can’t seem to stop myself from buying or borrowing any book that catches my eye making the pile seem like a never-ending challenge.  For every book I read and take to a charity shop or send back to the lonely library shelves, where it may remain gathering dust, unloved and unread for 100s of years, I seem to pick up two more – can’t help it, in fact I wouldn’t be surprised if at the end of this challenge I need to have the firemen air lift me out of this apartment after becoming a super hoarder, living in a flat piled so high with books that there is no room to move apart from a small path through the hardbacks winding its way to the toilet, fridge and microwave. So on that faithful Monday I chose the new book from the pile or, if I’m feeling a little more down with the kids, I flick through my Kindle to select a lucky book as my ‘chosen one’ for the week, then happy with my choice I settle down under the covers and begin to read.

Mind numbing EEEK

Mind numbing EEEK

Ever since I was young I have always had a very stubborn self-discipline attitude when it comes to reading. It doesn’t matter how boring, tedious, disgusting, so badly written it makes your eyes bleed or smelly a book is, once I have flicked open that cover and read the first sentence I have to carry on reading until the bitter end. Even if it takes me a year to read the book, which is what  happened with Tony Blair’s autobiography (which I am forcing myself to read in a week for this challenge – argh gouge my eyes out), I have to finish it. You see, as crazy as it sounds, I have made a commitment to the book, and, essentially, the book has made a commitment to me. Reading a book is like a marriage (ok, not quite as serious or important a commitment as that) you have to put up with the bad, forgive the unforgivable, and eventually you will be rewarded with the most amazing of surprises and treats, unless of course you are reading Dan Brown!!! (sorry Brown fans but they are all the same!!) Of course there will always be the moments when you finish a book and instead of thinking wow I’m glad I stuck with that, and feeling both elated you have finished and upset that it is over and you will have to find another that lives up to its standards, there are those books which leave you feeling like you have just wasted precious nights and hours of your life reading a literary turd that should have been shredded and burnt instead of being bound in a misleading eye-catching cover and unleashed on the world to make stubborn readers suffer.

My problem is that I start off with the best of intentions. I pick up the book, which is usually 400-600 pages long, and get cracking straight away, usually devouring three to four chapters in the first few hours. But then, for my sins (I would like to apologise to all books and authors for this) I get distracted by the shinyness of my laptop, lure of the tellybox or basically fall asleep through the sheer exhausting nature of looking after Winnie 24-7 🙂 Oh, and sometimes I pretty much pass out through just how boring the book actually is!! This usually means that despite the fact that I never have a full night’s sleep and so end up sat up most of the night with my tired eyes pegged open reading books, I still end up waking up on the Sunday and realising I have hundreds of pages left of a tedious autobiography or novel left to read before midnight or I will fail the challenge and have to start again from the very beginning. You see I am no cheat. If I say I will read a book a week I will, and if one week I don’t finish said book within the 7 day limit I will, in my sportsmanly food nature, start again, even if that means five months of non-stop dedicated reading is thrown out of the window and I have to start from scratch demoralised and broken.

I had such a moment with the Stephen Fry autobiography. On the final day (Sunday) I had left to finish the book I was left with 200 pages, YES 200, to read before

Fed up late at night battling through self-obsessed ramblings (fair comment)

Fed up late at night battling through self-obsessed ramblings (fair comment)

the midnight cutoff point. It had been a busy week and I had become completely mesmerised with my new-found friend YOUTUBE 🙂 and had spent many a day pouring over videos, reading blogs, listening to podcasts and basically doing anything that wasn’t reading the book. Despite sitting up every night plowing my way through the self-obsessed ramblings of this thespian and overly intelligent man, I was nowhere near finishing it. I was busy that day too and it was a battle against time, I just about managed it, and thank the lord that I did, as I don’t think I would have forgiven myself or Mr Fry if it had been his self-indulgent work that had spoilt my challenge. You see I chose to read Fry’s autobiography because I thought it would tell me more about his life, about why he is the way he is, and might just help me see past the pompous theatrical character who lord’s over everyone in QI and makes us all feel hideously stupid and lower class with oh so intelligent and snobby facts and figures. I hate judging people, but sometimes when you are pretty much forced to watch someone for years, I have to admit it is hard not to. To me Fry is a self-obsessed know it all, and I hoped that his biography would give him more depth, make him more human and basically destroy the image I had in my head of him lording it over the rest of us mere minions and laughing at the downright stupidity of us common folk.

Parts of his autobiography shook the foundations of my image of Fry…I sympathised with his childhood, his addiction to all things sweet, and with his struggles with trying to fit in. Parts of the book I found funny…but the moment that he headed off to his elitist university he totally lost me and i struggled to see past the self-indulgent nature of his storytelling and the fact he often referred to his struggles but said they were in a previous book 😦 I wanted to scream, but Steven I haven’t read your previous book…this is an autobiography, why would I expect to have to read a series of other memoirs before this??? Surely not??

Anyway as you can probably tell I managed to finish the Fry’s memoir by the skin of my teeth. In fact I think I finished the final sentence and shut the book with a sigh of relief on the stroke of midnight. It was a momentous moment that was quickly followed by me falling fast asleep with the book resting on my chest, making me wake-up in agony feeling like an elephant had slept on my breasts.

The morning after – trying to finish this really dreadful book (Fry’s that is comment comment comment) only a couple of hours left PANIC

Since the start of this challenge I have staggered the autobiographies with the works of fiction, mainly so that if the autobiogs get too hard going, they are, at least not coming one after the other, as this challenge is meant to be fun, not to turn into some mind numbing task that I will regret ever starting. So listed below are the books I have both indulged in and slaved over during the past few weeks (as you can see some weeks I have gobbled down multiple books and on others have struggled to swallow even one measly volume):

  • Peter Mandelson – The Third Man  (eye-opening sometimes in a good way, but also mind-numbingly boring) BIOGRAPHY 1
  • You Had Me AT Hello – Mhairi McFarlane ( a little too similar to my life, funny and easy to read) FICTION
  • The Wish List – Jane Costello (inspired my trip to Leaf tea room in Liverpool) FICTION
  • Dear Fatty – Dawn French (best autobiography to date, almost split my stitches)  BIOGRAPHY 2
  • The Law Clerk – Stan R Gregory (terrible for the book club) FICTION
  • My Life In Black and White – Kim Izzo (surprisingly good read picked randomly from library shelf) FICTION
  • The Fry Chronicles – Stephen Fry (self obsessed but at times enlightening and entertaining )BIOGRAPHY 3
  • The Gurkhas Daughter – Prajwal Parajuly (amazing collection of short stories about Nepalese people’s plights) FICTION
  • My Family and Other Animals – Clare Balding (delightful read, new found respect for amazing woman) BIOGRAPHY 4
LOVED IT...I want to ride a pony I DO I REALLY DO

LOVED IT…I want to ride a pony I DO I REALLY DO

I want to thank Clare Balding here for writing a humourous, honest and moving account of her childhood and young adult years, which kept me from poking my eyes out during the last few sleepless nights where my broken body felt like it was being eaten alive by this post operation itchiness that makes me feel like millions of little creatures are running around all over my body. I have never disliked Clare Balding, but, if I’m being honest (and what’s the point in this blog if I’m going to lie to you all), I have never really liked her. It is not so much because of her, it is the world that she represents that i just don’t understand. I belong to a world of hard news, bargain hunting in Primark, left overs in the fridge and a childhood playing with invisible pets and a punctured football, while in my judgemental mind she grew up riding award-winning horses and eating caviar from a spoon plated with rubies and gold #LOL!!! Her book made me realise that although she had a privileged upbringing, surrounded by race horses and even embarrassing herself in front of the Queen when Her Royal Highness dropped in during breakfast time, Clare Balding had not just an amazing childhood but a tough one too. She was just a kid but she managed such amazing and wonderful things, and changed my perception of the world of racing so much that I even wanted to ride a horse by the end of the biography, even though I am utterly terrified of even the tiniest pony!!! It is an irrational fear that they will kick me, well maybe not so irrational as my gran (who looked like the Queen bless her heart) was once kicked by a horse – in fairness to the poor animal she was invading his personal space.

One night, very soon after I first started her book Andy decided to stay over. Which is always a lovely treat as he is like an oven to lie next to and I can rest my freezing feet against his toasty legs – I recommend a warm-blooded boyfriend over a hot water bottle or electric blanket any day 🙂 Anyway, it was around 2am and I had woken up AGAIN covered in sweat as my body fought to digest what ever morsel of food i had managed to eat that day, and not been able to fall back asleep after emptying Winnie and taking my painkillers. Andy was sleeping soundly beside me as I delved into Balding’s book. I was reading happily away when she decided to share with me the time that her dad decided to try to make her a mug of hot chocolate by filling the kettle with milk…my silent laughter must have sounded like I was sobbing and I shook the bed so hard that I woke up poor Andy, who looked at me with the saddest sleepy eyes ever and rolled over and fell back asleep instantly. From then on when i was reading Balding’s book I put a cushion on my scar to stop it splitting from the laughter and a teddy between me and the slumbering boy…well one of us has to sleep.

If you are reading this Clare I loved your book. I should never have judged you, and you should never have to justify yourself to anyone, but I am sure with all your years trying to prove yourself to your dad, bitchy shoplifting schoolgirls and the entire British public that sort of thing doesn’t bother you any more. After reading your book I have to say that I truly admire your strength, determination and unfailing sense of humour 🙂 Thank you for writing such an honest book and for helping me through those endless moonlit hours filled with unrelenting pain and fatigue. You have a true admirer in me 🙂 Oh, and thank you for choosing a cover that lived up to its expectations and wasn’t a lie – there are too many alluring covers designed to lure readers into picking up utter codswallop with their stunning graphics and interesting titles. And thank you for tweeting me back 🙂 I love you for that….

Anyway next is the 100 Year Old Man Who Jumped Out of the Window – this has been on my kindle for yonks and I now have an excuse to read it for the book club…so, the rest of my books will have to be renewed, yet again (sorry Chester readers if you are waiting for one) at the library, while I go back to the digital modern world again.

If anyone has any suggestions for MUST READS or any more AUTOBIOGRAPHIES please leave a comment 🙂

OH AND BEFORE I FORGET – PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE BID ON THE EBAY ITEMS – ANY PROCEEDS WILL GO TO CROHNS AND COLITIS UK  – PLEASE 🙂

IF I DON”T SELL THEM I WILL FAIL ONE OF MY CHALLENGES 😦

Seller number 1115518 

http://myworld.ebay.co.uk/1115518?_trksid=p2047675.l2559

DSINEY parade books

DISNEY parade books

Bronze brass player

Bronze brass player

IMG_0799

SOOO PRETTY!!!

SOOO PRETTY!!!

There’s no shame in talking POOP, mooning nurses & yucky antibiotics


http://youtu.be/meTZDQ0qEjc

So I’m back on the dreaded antibiotics again! I always dread going to the doctors because no matter what the problem they always

Me & Winnie have a very bad day and night

seem to put me on antibiotics, in fact, I think they have put me on so many of them over the years that they may as well be giving me a little tablet with nothing in it for all the curing qualities it is having on my body….which, I am now sure, is totally immune to them.

Antibiotics never seem to do anything apart from mess up my meal times, as, if you follow the instructions correctly, which I always try to do, you have to take them one hour before eating or two hours after eating totally destroying all the advice my dietician gave me to help me gain weight and to give my poor beaten body nutrients and the energy to fight my evil Crohns/Colitis, who keeps coming back with bigger and better weapons every day!

I dread going on them and, probably like a lot of stubborn IBD and chronically ill patients, when I get an infection or complication that I know will require being put on those dreaded blue capsules I try to put up with it for a few days – (#ahem) Weeks – until it goes gooey and pussy and starts looking like a scene from Alien, then, and only then, do I face my fate and head to the doctor’s surgery with my tail firmly tucked between my legs begging for tablets or a miracle cure.

ARGH the big blue puke pills

ARGH the big blue puke pills

You see all the antibiotics do, and it doesn’t seem to matter what type they give me, is make me really horrendously nauseous. Honestly, it doesn’t matter if they’re for flu, a skin infection, eczema, conjunctivitis, or all of the above at once, they trump the thing they are meant to be curing by making me sick to the stomach the moment I pop the first luminous coloured coated capsule into my trembling mouth (almost went Mills and Boon then guys with the imagery #lol). But the cruelest thing about antibiotics is not the unfading nausea, but the fact that they don’t make you actually throw-up – here we go, I hear you all sigh, we knew she was Bulimic… But let me try to put it to you this way. Think of anytime that you have been horrendously hung-over and your stomach is tossing and flipping like a dingy lost in a massive storm at sea (think green and sick bags) you always reach that point where you think ‘I just need to be sick, I will feel better once I’m sick‘ – and sometimes you can’t…so it just sits on your stomach like a rock for the rest of the day, meaning you can’t eat or sleep or even smell food….THAT’S WHAT IT’S LIKE FOR ME ON ANTIBIOTICS!! I hope you understand what I mean now.

So today I dragged myself to the doctors to get my dressing changed on my ileostomy scar, which despite it being eight weeks and

Me & Archie too weak to get out of bed

two days since the dreaded op is still leaking and oozing horrible puss – basically it is just been stubborn and refusing to heal the right way. Let’s put it this way, my skin is trying to be radical, waving a placard and screaming I will heal, but not the way YOU THE MAN want me to!!! Instead I will heal from the outside and then spit through causing as much pain and taking as long as possible just to annoy you 🙂 I can almost hear it chuckling insanely as it rashes over and over granulates (oh get me – a medical term).

But despite my concern that the scar has gone all red, gooey and pussy, from the weird heat we are having in England at the moment (we are never satisfied with our weather are we?) and is now covered in red and brown eczema that is soooooo itchy it is a physical and mental effort not to scratch the dressings – I sometimes place my handbag close by just so it will rub against it and give it a cheeky scratch every so often as I walk to the coffee shop (I know that’s soooo naughty of me, and it won’t heal, but it just feels so damn good!) – the nurse said it seemed fine and put some iodine on it to stop any potential mastermind evil infection sneaking its way into my body and causing havoc.

HMMM bad spelling at Docs - should I be worried about other skills?

HMMM bad spelling at Docs – should I be worried about other skills?

Anyway, anyway, anyway my biggest concern and what led to me thrusting my bare naked bum in the poor bewildered nurse’s face, was a very sore lump on my butt that has developed over the past few days making it painful for me to sit on the loo or basically sit down anywhere at all. Before you all laugh, I don’t have piles – I have to add piles are no laughing matter, they are very painful and, yes (#snigger), I have had them many times before. As I told this poor woman about this lump, which has left me perching on the end of seats and tentatively sitting down, hovering above couches and benches like you do when you’re preparing for your bare flesh to hit boiling bath water (ouch!!), I could see her face gradually changing from the kind reassuring smile when she was changing my dressing to a stretched evil grimace. I swear I could honestly see her thinking ‘Oh no not another pimply bum I’m going to have to stick my finger in…Yuck!’ (obviously she didn’t say that, but, quite frankly, she didn’t have to).

So here’s the image. Me lying in the nurse’s chair with my girly knickers (with pretty stars on) pulled down around my knees and bum pointed unceremoniously in the air, with this poor middle-aged woman prodding my bum and me pointing into my bottom saying ‘I can feel it there, what is it?‘ – I have to explain here that because of Winnie and Oscar I can’t see the area down there…I mean it is hard enough to look at your underneath in the mirror anyway (which guys will know if you are checking yourself, which you should be) without two bags swinging in the way all the time (yes I know that sounds rude!) – and her going mmm ahhh in a ‘I don’t know what it is’ kind of way.

On the nurse’s table moments before sticking my butt in the air

This was one of those moments, which like on a night out when you suddenly realise you might have pulled, that you wish you had nicer underwear on…but never mind, that was the least of my worries as a second later the nurse started squeezing at the lump inside my bum cheeks so hard that I start squealing in pain – yes squealing like a little piggy. She squeezed and she squeezed saying ‘Are you ok? Can you feel that? Does that Hurt’ – I squealed something like ‘yes it hurts, I’m ok don’t worry’, but in my head I was shouting OF COURSE IT BLOODY HURTS YOU ARE SQUEEZING MY BUM OFF!!! Eventually, after what seemed like a year and some puss coming out of the lump later, she declared it was a small cyst, caused by the plastic enema I have been shoving up my bottom to calm down the remaining part of my colon and that I would need antibiotics.

Which is what leads me to gulping down this horrid blue sugar-coated tablet knowing, beyond any doubt, that I will wake up tomorrow as sick as a dog with a massive warty cyst on my bottom bright red and shining like a beacon on a rocky bay. ( I know what an anti-climax to a very long rambling story!)

Anyway the other night when I couldn’t sleep I vblogged another Ostomy Hour – I hope you LOVE IT and will tell all your friends about it 🙂 PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE WITH MARSHMALLOWS ON TOP. It’s about the online IBD community and the amazing support just everyday people are giving others by sharing their stories on the interweb.

Since I have had my ostomy I have found so many brave Crohns and IBD sufferers who are selflessly putting themselves out there, basically having the balls to tell every little thing about their life in order to help others (in my vblog above I talk about when I did a tell-all article in the Evening Chronicle and the crazily large pic of me they used on the front grimacing like a maniac). They post every little hicup, embarrassing moment and gory detail about their symptoms, the illness and the way they cope living while being constantly attacked by IBD…it is just so refreshing to hear people being so blatently honest and revealing the unglossed ‘real’ version of how IBD sufferers cope every day – stripped bare with no regard to what people might think of them or what impact telling their stories might have on their own reputations or their careers.

So, thank you to all those brave IBD and Ostomy bloggers and tweeters….from my very heart you are amazing (I am not talking about me here before you think HOW BIG HEADED). Please carry on sharing your story so that we can rid the world of the shameful stigma attached to IBD.

If you want to read my story from the Evening Chronicle go to:

http://www.chroniclelive.co.uk/news/health/secret-shame-crohns-disease-nearly-1417593      

or click on the image below:

EEEK every Geordie recognised me :)

EEEK every Geordie recognised me 🙂

Me & Winnie disagree with vino & bounce along close to Jessie J and our brave Dad…


So I’m exhausted today 😦 let’s just say that I had far too much fun this weekend, which if you have IBD

(which includes Crohns and Ulcerative Colitis) is a recipe for disaster. Even before I had Winnie attached to my poor tummy I always found that my crazy Crohns or Colitis liked to pop up at the most inconvenient of times. Let’s put it this way….I would be feeling just slightly like a normal human being for a few days and would have just tried to live a little, go out, let my (very short) hair down and act like a normal 20 something-year-old when BOOM my illness would rear its ugly head in a kind of Peek-a-Boo “Here’s Johnny” way.

So yesterday was Father’s Day and I wanted to do a short V Blog to tell you about how amazing my Dad, and my family are and how important they have been in my journey through this illness. I love you DAD!!

So this weekend my poor, and extremely understanding boyfriend (I suppose you could call him my “better” half) decided to host a BBQ at his stunning house in the Cheshire countryside. His house is what we in the Ghetto call “something else” or “Mega Dope” (I’m sooo down with the kids). It is far too big, with massive gardens, and when you stay over you wake up to the sounds of cows mooing and birdies singing….it is paradise just miles from the city 🙂 I love it there!!! But Friday was the first time I have stayed there since my operation, and as a lady I had to take just about everything but the kitchen sink with me so that I could survive just two days! Well it is hard looking this good all the time #bigheaded

Anyway, anyway, anyway. On Friday night I made us both a healthy tea of pasta and veggie sausages and goat’s cheese. Which was YUM! Then we watched The Following, which, if you haven’t seen it is AWESOME, but terrifying, and being a proper wuss I spent half the time hiding behind a cushion and smudging my freshly painted nails by gripping my boyfriend’s hands so tight.

THE DRESS - I would never have worn this b4 Winnie - she is so much more cool than me

THE DRESS – I would never have worn this b4 Winnie – she is so much more cool than me

Then on Saturday the real fun began. We woke up to typical British horror weather, as you always do in England when you have an event planned that requires spending any time outdoors! I got dressed up in festival style clothes (no rain was going to stop me and Winnie wearing our new extra colourful maxi dress) and made massive amounts of healthy pasta salad to counteract the enormous amount of fatty meat he had purchased for the grill. Then I basically let him get on with it!

Anyway the BBQ was going well, my boy was enjoying being the MAN of the house, you know being in charge of burning the meat 🙂 – me man, me fire, me meat, me burn – and I basically carried things backwards and forwards and played being the hostess. We had a bit of rain which came after most people had arrived and the skies finally opened after the CLOUD OF DOOM finally shed its load after threatening to do so all day. It meant that around 10 adults decided to cram themselves into a very small Wendy house – amazing to say the least 🙂

So, after not drinking for around three months, I shunned alcohol all day despite people asking me again, and again, if I wanted a drink. I was even fairly careful with the fizzy pop, being aware that one sip too much would mean a whole day of Winnie flying into a paddy and blowing up with hot air in a fit of rage. But in the evening I decided to have my first sip of wine, and, guess what, I DIDN’T LIKE IT!!! For the people reading this that know me (which is probably all of you out of kindness to me) you will know that I love a good glass of Sauvignon Blanc – or two, or three (obviously I’m not an alcoholic but I may have a bottle or litre or two hidden under the sink #joke). So me not liking any wine is, quite frankly, extremely weird. I must have managed to have a drink at around 10pm, and only had about a medium glass…..I was WASTED 😦 which I suppose is great if you want a really cheap night out, but I just wanted to chill out and now I felt like I was going to fall asleep dribbling in a heap on the floor!!!

That was all I had…well, ok, that’s a lie…I may of had one tinie little gin, which I regretted the moment I put it to my lips and decided i didn’t want it (it was the gin that done her in…how true, how true). So I set about tidying up while the others played Pictionary in the living room and headed to bed having eaten only around half a sausage and a handful of pasta twirls. Everyone else was pretty drunk – I mean when I woke up the next day the house had been drunk so dry even a cactus would have died after weeks in the desert – which made it even more infuriating that I woke up feeling like I had been hit by a bus and everyone else was fine. I mean how unfair #wtf!!!

The morning after - trying to finish this really dreadful book (comment comment comment)

The morning after – trying to finish this really dreadful book (comment comment comment)

I probably felt as bad as I did the time at University that the Cheerleaders (yes queue laughter, me, Rachel, who can’t sing or put one leg in front of the other was a cheerleader) and American Footballers all put money together for me to drink a dirty pint made up of around 20, or it could even have been 30 (yes I was that popular) shots of black sambuca. Think banging headache, red-eye, hair all over the place, stomach cramps, nausea and dry mouth – it must have been a real special moment to wakeup next to me that day – mmm sexy!!!

Also I suddenly remembered that I had to finish Stephen Fry’s autobiography by the end of the day or I would break the “Read a Book a Week” part of my 101 challenges and have to start all over again. Which, I must stress, was not going to happen. So, with a gang of bleary eyed and far too enthusiastic guys in the house, I attempted to race through the remaining 200 pages of the book, which by now had become boring and tedious like all self-imposed chores (like ironing and hovering) eventually do when you are forced to do them…..

OH I FORGOT THE MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT OF THE WHOLE WEEKEND!!! During the BBQ I had to empty Winnie a few times, and to do this I have a special (well a clothes line) peg to well peg up my dress so that I don’t make any mess. So I had done that, and around 2 hours later I needed to empty her again (which is almost a record amount of time for Winnie). I think you may have guessed it…I got to the loo and couldn’t find the peg so decided to just hold my dress out of the way…that’s when I discovered I had been sat chatting to all mine, and my bf’s friends for the past two hours with a pink peg clipped to the side of my dress!!!! Humiliating!!!

£5 bag of sweets – and they didn’t help

Later in the day, after I went back to bed for a few hours to try to sleep it off, which, well you’ll see from the pictures,  didn’t work. Me, Andy and Winnie went to Chester – errrr – Rocks!!! (I say err cause there is not much that Rocks about it I’m afraid – it is more of a pop thing, which I can’t say I mind, being a little teenie bopper – this does NOT mean that I hit Teens over the head with a mallet – at heart I love pop music)…. We saw Charlie Brown (?), some girl off the X Factor called Amelia and Lawson (some boy band I said I had never heard of but secretly love them)!!! I bought a bag of sweets to try to thicken up Winnie’s output as she had massively disagreed with the sip of alcohol and was stropping around like a moody teenager filling up with hot air and yucky poop – and it was the most expensive medicine I ever had costing me £5 for a bag of sweets. THANKS CHESTER RACECOURSE FOR NOT LETTING US TAKE OUR OWN FOOD AND DRINK!!!! ARGH!!!

I’m going to let you all into a secret now – I LOVE Jessie J!!! I don ‘t know why so many people don’t, I mean when I said I wanted to see her to some of my mates they were like “oh no…why?”, but she is fantastic. I love that she is unique and she doesn’t take any shit…I mean she doesn’t care what people think at all, does she 🙂 I got all excited when she got on stage and I started dancing like a freak!!! I even saw some parents looking at me with horror and even (you’ll laugh at this) move their children slowly away from me thinking I was a drugged-up Nutter!!! I think the people with me, Andy included, were totally humilated….there was never a better time to think “move away…we’re not with her…we don’t even know her”!!

Jessie J – “Its ok not to be Ok” good for you!!

I mean she was incredible, and all round entertainer who even said some truly from the heart things to the teenagers in the audience that I thought were just inspirational. She said it was ok to be who you wanted to be and to not worry what people thought or what people wanted you to be – that it was ok, not to be ok, and to cry and to feel like crap and to want to not do things people want you to do. I guess that struck home with me and what I am going through at the moment….I know I come across as happy-go-lucky, but behind my smile I can be seriously messed-up at times, this illness can seriously mess you up – I mean it’s draining emotionally as well as physically – but without all this pain I would never have become the person I am today for better or for worse!! Sometimes with Crohns, with a Winnie, I think it has to be ok not to be ok….I think It’s ok for us to breakdown, to feel and look like shit, to just want to curl up in a ball and cry, to hurt, to feel pain – just as long as at the end of it you pull yourself together and realise I WILL BE OK!!! I will not let this illness, this stroppy Winnie and this crap get me down…I AM STRONG, I RULE THIS ILLNESS IT DOES NOT RULE ME…

So with all that gibber jabber going round in my head Jessie (that’s how close we are….perhaps I should call her J) started singing my favourite song Who You Are. And, I am not ashamed to say actual tears started pouring down my face as she sang “tears don’t mean you’re loosing, everybodys brusing, just be true to who you are”. I think I just couldn’t believe that after all the pain, blood, poop, near death, stress and well years of not being ok with this horrible thing, with this crappy crappy illness, I was stood in a field with amazing friends, and an amazing man, and listening to a live music concert of a mega superstar telling me that ‘it’s ok not to be ok”…..when Andy asked me why I was crying I said “I am just so happy”…and that guys is the truth!

We finally got home after almost getting crushed by heaving crowds trying to get out of the tiniest exit in the world…God knows why they didn’t open the gates. I eventually was allowed through the gates by saying I was being bashed to death in the crush and had had surgery…the security guard didn’t look like he was having any of it and I almost had to show him Winnie and Oscar, but believed me when he saw how bent double I was -PHEW!

Anyway, this has been really long….so enjoy watching a really silly video of me dancing to Lawson at Chester Racecourse….the shame!!! (I looked like a freak, back away from the crazy woman kids). I call it the IBD Freedom dance!!!