Hi, this is K, Oli’s parents have gone away to Luxembourg for a week so to coincide nicely with that Oli has landed himself back in hospital.  He did the same thing in January when they went to Rome.  If I were them, I’d be a little concerned about booking any more holidays!

Oli has gone in today because his stomach/chest pains haven’t really gone away, they kept him there because he decided to spike a temperature as well, I think I’ve said before that if Oli is going to do something he’ll do it well.  It shouldn’t be a long stay for him, the main aim is to get him re-hydrated (he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything for a few days due to pain), get his temperature down and they’re giving him some anti-biotics as a purely precautionary measure.  Blood cultures should come back in the next day or two and they’ll tell if he’s growing anything but the general opinion is that sleep and fluids should make Oli a happy boy again.

In other littler news, a few of you might like to know that I got accepted to City University yesterday to start a Speech Therapy degree in September, I am ridiculously ecstatic and thought you might like some happy news to temper the hospital news.

I’ll fill in with updates once results have come back from blood tests, etc.

I’ve been pretty lax at blogging this week, mostly because I’ve not been feeling too great.  The chest pains aren’t going away and the doc’s can’t put their fingers on what it is, other than to say it’s nothing too much to worry about, which is a encouraging.

I was going to blog about how tough the week’s been and how I’m now pretty rubbish at being ill, so out of practice have I become.  But yesterday something changed all that and put my week into perspective.

A month or so back I delivered to a friend of mine a portable oxygen concentrator which I’d kindly had donated to me by Emily after she had her transplant.  It’s something of a lucky concentrator (called Travelair Claire, christened by Em), which has seen 3 previous owners receiving new lungs and passing it on to a friend who needs it more than them post-op.

Luck, though, runs out, with no more brutal demonstration than last night, when I learned that my friend, Sam, known to most of the CF community as Princess Sam, had died yesterday afternoon.

Sam, like me before and like many still, was waiting for a lung transplant that never came.  When I found out I felt completely numb.  How does the world decided who gets what?  Why have I been lucky enough to be given a second chance at life when someone just as deserving doesn’t.  What makes me so special that I get to try again, whilst Sam had just 22 years on this earth to fit in all she could?

Every year nearly 500 people just like Sam die whilst waiting for a transplant that would save and transform their lives.  I’m at a total loss to understand why I managed to avoid being part of those statistics and why I’m now living a life and doing all the things I’ve wanted to do and why Sam’s family now have to face the loss of another daughter.

Life is so unbelievably unfair sometimes and I wish I knew why things like this happen, but I don’t and I know that I never will.  For now all that matters is that we continue to do all that we can to increase awareness of organ donation, get people to sign up and help to prevent these wonderful people being lost.  And, what’s more, to live my life in a way that befits someone being given a second chance – to make the most of every opportunity, to give thanks every day and to hope that somewhere those we’ve lost are smiling down on us and wishing us well.

Breath easy now, Sam, you’re one in a million. x

This weekend has been manic and really, really tiring, but wonderful at the same time.

I woke up Saturday with the pains in my chest not abating in the slightest.  I’ve still got a stock of Tramadol which I often take for pain in my scar overnight but haven’t used during the daytime for a good few months now.  I’ve been forced back onto them by the pains in my chest again, which is a real drag as it means I can’t drive when I’m on them.

Still, I downed a couple of Tramadol in the morning when we woke up and then stayed in bed for most of the morning while K did kiddie-prep for the arrival of our two nieces in the afternoon.  A while ago we agreed to have them over for the night, Liv being 3, JJ 11, as their ‘rents had plans.  The plans fell through but we figured we’d have them over anyway as we love spending time with them and Liv especially was so excited about it.

I honestly thought we’d have to cancel when I woke in the morning, such was the pain in my chest I knew I wouldn’t be able to do much to occupy them, but K was adamant she could do it herself if the worst came to the worst.

So they rocked up with their mum and little bro around 3pm, then stayed solo later when they headed off home.  The first thing we did was make some little wooden spoon people, which was great fun, although I didn’t actually get a spoon of my own, since there were only 3.  I was relegated to being Liv’s glue-operator, at her beck and call for blobbing when she needed it.

After dinner, we (well, K and the kids) made some cakes, which they threw in the oven to cook while we got the littl’un ready for bed and read her a story.  Once K had rescued the ever-so-slightly over-cooked cakes from the oven, we sat down and played a board game with JJ, before discovering Liv sitting up in bed unable to sleep.

Eventually, after another story and a bit of a grizzle/cry for her mum, we managed to get her off to sleep and we settled into a game of Scrabble with big sis, which was great fun, even though I lost to the always competitive K by 2 points.

It’s funny when I play board games because I’m really not a competitive person – I’m happy enough to play the game, not really bothered if I win or lose.  But if someone else who’s playing is competitive, it somehow turns me into a competitive monster.  I’m happy enough when everyone is chilled and happy playing a game, but if someone is really competitive, I just really, really want to beat them.  I’ve no idea why or where it comes from, but there you go.

Once we were done with Scrabble, JJ headed off to bed only to find little sis had managed to roll herself into a position with her head on one pillow and her feet on the other side of the bed on her sister’s pillow.  Having gently moved her back to her side, the light of her sister coming to bed woke Liv up and we proceeded into a round of very, very tearful calls for mummy.

Eventually, after a call home and a promise that mummy would come get her if she got some sleep (I hate lying to children, but it was a parentally-sanctioned lie, so I felt slightly better about it), Liv settled down and no sooner had she stopped crying than she passed out into slumber again.  Bushed from the day, K and I weren’t long behind, although my night’s sleep was pretty poor since my brain was tuned in to picking up even the slightest peep coming from the bedroom in case the littl’un woke up again.

As it was, we didn’t hear another peep out of either of them until they came into our room at 7.30 the next morning, pretty respectable as mornings go.  We all settled on the sofa bed in our PJs and watched the Incredibles while K, JJ and I slowly brought ourselves to consciousness and Liv ran around jumping all over us like a mini-loony.

Once we’d breakfasted and got dressed, we iced the cakes for their little bro’s birthday party then played a couple of rounds of Tiddlywinks (what an awesome game!) and made a birthday card, at which point it was about time to head home with them.  We took them back and were greeted by an incredibly happy, smiley little brother, who was delighted to have his sisters home to celebrate his 2nd birthday.  I’m not sure he entirely grasped the concept of a birthday, but he was enjoying it all the same.

We hung around for a couple of hours, playing with some of the new toys, reading some books and saying hey to the other family and friends who turned up throughout the start of the afternoon.  Unfortunately we couldn’t stay day because Nana has a bit of a chest infection, which I obviously need to steer clear of, so we had to split the afternoon in half for us to visit early on and Nana to come along after.

Instead, we headed over to my ‘rents to have a great Sunday roast with my mum’s two brothers, one of whom was over from Luxembourg with his wife, and my cousins.  My mum and her siblings are absolutely priceless entertainment value when they all get together and today was no exception.  It was one of the nicest, most raucous, most fun family lunches I’ve had in a really long time.

By the time we got home around 7 in the evening, K and I were shattered.  We have no idea how parents cope with kids 24/7 since we were completely run into the ground after just 24 hours.  We have a new found respect for our brothers and sisters now, since we clearly showed how weak and rubbish we are.  I’m just glad that, unlike K, I don’t have to go to work tomorrow so I can chill out and not worry about anything.

Today’s been the weirdest day, and my first real experience of “illness” for three or four months.  I’ve had no energy at all, I’ve been in bed most of the day and hardly been able to keep my eyes open.  Added to which, I’ve had some really bad pains in my chest which I can’t figure out the source of – they could be muscular or bruising around my scar, but they don’t feel too drastic or lung-related so I’m not too worried.

It’s really odd being unwell again, though, because I’ve not laid in bed for an entire day since before my op.  I don’t like it at all.  Well, the staying in bed part I can handle, but not when it’s enforced because of not feeling well.  I’m sure it’ll all clear up soon, though.

Last night I sat at my computer, whiling away the time until K had finished in the bathroom before heading to bed and I started reading back through my old blogs. I had to moderate a spam message which had attached itself to a posting in mid-December, which lead me right back into the heart of the post-transplant ups-and-downs and I felt a sudden urge to go back to the start and read all through the Transplant from the day of the call.

I’ve read bits and pieces of K’s postings from while I was on the ward and, of course, all of the messages that were left for me while I was going through it. It’s still weird, though, reading back through such thorough descriptions of all the various events which went on, particularly in the first couple of weeks, which are still pretty much a blur to me, although reading the blogs I realise I actually haven’t forgotten as much as I thought I had.

That first month seems a world away from where I sit here, but Sunday marked the 5 month point since I had my op – it’s amazing how quickly the world moves.

Today has been K’s day – she finally finished her college course, which I rather unhelpfully got in the way of before Christmas – handing in her dissertation and doing a presentation to her main tutor. He has told her that she’s already passed with the highest grade possible (Level 3) without even having handed her dissertation in and that her presentation was the best and most professional he’s ever received for a student.

Now, we all know that K is wonderful, amazing, intelligent and a whole load of other incredibly positive adjectives as well, but it often passes her by completely. Having someone who actually matters (as opposed to… you know… me) tell it to her, and to have a piece of paper telling her it’s true, seems to have made the world of difference as for at least a few hours today, she actually believed it herself.

After picking her up from her presentation, all bouncing, bubbly and beautiful, we headed to the flicks to catch Flashbacks of a Fool, the new Daniel Craig film. No one can say that since being passed the mantel of Bond that Craig’s left himself open to type-casting. He’s working incredibly hard to make sure that all the time he’s contracted as Bond, he’s not letting his career slide, turning in some great performances in smaller, more independent fair like this. And he is excellent in it, let me assure you. There’s a scene towards the end of the film where he confronts/approaches/meets Claire Forlani’s character (something of a blast from his past) in a graveyard and his eyes are simply mesmerizing.

The film itself is a cleverly-structured deconstruction of the life of a Hollywood mega-star for whom bad news forces him to remember a time he’s spent a lifetime trying to escape from. What could be scene as a somewhat hokey narrative device become an interesting and plausible plot device by being plastered across the film’s title. Knowing you’re going to be dealing with flashbacks restrains you from dismissing them as is so common in modern movie-making. What’s more, they’re actually accomplished in a much more deft and sensible manner than many films who aren’t so up-front about their usage.

The cast is uniformly excellent, with a couple of exceptions who don’t really need mentioning as the don’t really spoil the film. The flashback sequence is perhaps a little on the slow side, perhaps a touch too long, but it’s impact is undeniable and the Daniel Craig bookends so riveting and absorbing you forgive the sluggishness of the middle portion.

It’s undoubtedly one to check out, although it’s not the most happy, uplifting film in the world. Precise and carefully, considerately put together, but heart-warming it is not. Check it out, if you don’t mind taking a tissue or two.

Today K and I popped along to a friend of ours’ renaming ceremony (like a wedding but not, it’s a long story).  I walked in the door to be greeted by a phalanx of lovely ladies with whom I used to enjoy nights out after work at the Theatre and, for that matter, enjoyed messing around with (not like that!) at work in the Theatre.  The troubling thing about all these ladies I knew so well but haven’t seen for ages is that every single one of them were holding babies.  And not just littl’uns they’d borrowed for the say: actual, honest-to-God offspring of the person holding them.

I know I’m not the oldest man on the planet (although I’m a lively age if you combine me and my donor’s ages), but it didn’t half feel weird to see so many friends with kids.  Not content with missing out on new boyfriends, weddings, promotions at work and all that gubbins over the last couple of years since I left work after becoming too ill, it seems I’ve also managed to miss the birth of a whole new generation of bairns who will no doubt one day rule the Theatre and the City.

If most of the guest weren’t running around changing, feeding and chasing sprogs, they were doing their best to look after those whose arrivals were imminent.  I’ve never seen such a collection of virility in one place at one time.  The invitation said “bring a bottle” but I didn’t think it meant it that way.

Still, baby scares aside, it was an awesome afternoon.  I’ve missed out on so many of Lea’s major events in her life over the last couple of years – her engagement, the birth of her daughter, her daughter’s Christening – all because I was too ill to contemplate an afternoon out of the house or I was couped up in hospital, so it was amazing to be part of this one.  It was another solid reminder of the way my life has changed in the last five months.

It was funny seeing all my old workmates again, too, as most of them haven’t seen me post-transplant, so it was great to see so many people’s reactions.  Many of them had followed K’s blogs through the ups and downs and were chuffed to finally see me, which is always a nice feeling.

In the evening we shot over to the ‘rents to catch up with my Gramps over dinner.  He’s been a bit down after he had to cancel a holiday to Devon because he had another DVT, but he seems to have rallied pretty well, which was good to see.  He’s still an amazing man for a 92-year-old and is still capable of things that a lot of 70-year-olds would struggle with, but after a few DVTs he’s been warned off plane travel, which means no more of his over-seas holidays exploring jungles and safari-ing.  It’s really sad for him and I know exactly how he feels after 3 years of not being able to leave the country.  I’m the lucky one in that I can now enjoy my freedom, whilst his is being curtailed, but he seems happy enough for now, which is encouraging.  Either that or he’s being all stiff-upper-lip about it, which is perfectly possible, too.

In an effort to keep up as much rest as I can this week after Tresco, we didn’t hang about too late and got back home and in bed by 10.30, which I have to admit was pretty nice.

Maybe not as much as I should be after last weeks’ exertions, but I am chilling.  I slept in till 9am today.  (I secretly wanted to sleep till midday, but apart from my Tac alarm getting in the way, my body decided it was awake enough to rise at 9.  I’ve always said my body is an idiot).

Tuesday was a stupidly busy day for us as we were both in London, both for interview.  K had another Uni interview, about which she should hear on Monday and I had a job interview for a Theatrical post in a large, well-known company.  Sadly for me, my lack of West End experienced counted against me, as the job is maternity cover and they wanted someone who can hit the ground running.  That said, I did have a lovely chat with one of the guys who interviewed me today and he said they really liked me and would like to work with me in the future, so that is – as K pointed out – about the best kind of “no” you can get.

Tuesday was doubly hard as our journey home from Tresco was an epic 14-hour affair, leaving the Island at 1pm Monday afternoon and finally getting in to our hotel in London at 3am after a pretty-much non-stop journey on 2 ferries and in 2 separate cars.  4 hours sleep pre-interview is never the best of preparations, but I think we both acquitted ourselves well, as was born out by my response today and, I hope, by K’s on Monday – we’ll see, fingers crossed.

I also got a rather lovely mention by Bill Bryson on Chris Evans’ Radio 2 show on Tuesday (or Wednesday) when he was discussing litter-picking in the UK.  Quite what relation I bear to that I don’t know, but it’s always nice to know someone’s thinking about you, especially when they’re thinking about you on national radio.

Yesterday I was up at 8.30 because some idiot (who may or may not have been me) booked my car in for a service on the day we returned on Tresco/London.  Clever boy.  I bundled myself out of the flat into the early morning (OK, I know it’s not that early, but it felt it, damnit!) and dawdled over to Westcroft with my car, swapped it for the loan car, which, to my annoyance, was running on empty, so scooted over to the petrol station for fuel, pulling up at the pump and promptly stalling, having forgotten I’d switched from Auto to Manual at the garage.

After returning home and trying to stay awake for an hour, I finally succumbed and took myself back to bed, sleeping till 1.30, which I really needed and then spending the rest of the day in my comfy sofa-clothes and watching TV or surfing the ‘net, absolutely refusing to do any work.

Today, after a good, solid night’s sleep, we caught up with our nieces and nephew, who it felt like we hadn’t seen in an age, and their mum and dad (the latter of whom stopped in on his way past during work).  Once the little ones had toddled back off with Mum, the eldest, JJ , stayed with us to get some homework done and have a revision session with K.

Having duped us out of timing her English assignment, we played a couple of games, had lunch, put her nose back to the grindstone and then took her home, following which we stopped in a my ‘rents to collect a CD of photos from the weekend my Dad had made up for us, then shooting on over to Costco with K’s mum to pick up our monthly “big stuff” shop.

Costco really is amazing, but it’s not the world’s greatest place when you’re tired, as K was today and I increasingly became on my way round.  Still, it got done and that’s the main thing.

This evening, after grabbing some food with K’s ‘rents I’ve been trying to catch up on a little email and planning another early night as I have to be up in the morning to take K in to work and then probably ought to be getting on with some work of my own.

The response to Tresco has been absolutely amazing – we’re now nearing £1,500 in sponsorship, which is fantastic, but the number of people who have been moved and inspired by our exploits over the weekend is phenomenal; I really didn’t expect a reaction like this at all.  It’s been more amazing that I could have possibly imagined.  Thank you to everyone who’s sponsored me, emailed me, encouraged me and just generally helped me through the last few months, and the even hard few months that preceded them.

From behind the trees at the end of the straight stretch that finishes off the hardest hill on the course (how glad was I that the 25 mile marker was at the top?), the rhythmic pounding of heavy boots announced the arrival of the team who would shepherd me down the hill the final mile to the end of the Tresco Marathon.

Ahead of me, the organisers raced away on their buggy, whilst a two-man team from Red Shoe, a production company making a running show about the Marathon, sat on theirs waiting for the final push to the line.

As they approached, having donned their famous green berets, my brother called to me.

“Here you go, bro, this is it. Slot into the middle here and we’ll head down the hill at your pace.”

“However fast you want to go,” was the call from Baz, the Sergeant at the head of the second column.

I took my allotted place in the middle of the two columns of hyper-fit, stark-raving bonkers, hard-core Royal Marines and broke into a trot. No sooner was I running than I heard Baz calling the time back to the lads so they could match my step precisely.

I learned afterwards that for 10 guys coming to the end of a marathon, I took off at a Hare’s pace – flying off down the hill carried away by a rush of adrenaline and fear that I was going to cock-up their push for a sub-5-and-a-half hour time. It’s probably fair to say they’re right, as it wasn’t a pace I could keep up and I soon broke back into a walk.

No sooner had I slowed (and, presumably, the lads had caught me up) than I received a chorus of encouragement from the ranks behind me. Even though I had tried to beast them into the ground over the first 200 yards (albeit accidentally), everyone to a man had something to shout to me by way of encouragement.

The whole of the last mile, my bro and Baz talked me down it. Tim spent the whole time making sure I knew I could slow or speed my pace up as much as I wanted or needed to, whilst Baz was a constant stream of advice and encouragement. Quite how anyone can have the capacity and wherewithal – let alone enough breath – to talk a novice runner through the toughest mile of their life when they have just come through one of the toughest 25 mile courses in marathon road-running is beyond me, but it is something I will be eternally grateful for.

As we approached the 26 mile point, having tried another burst of running and returned to walking pace, we once again broke into a trot. With Tim counseling me not to take it too fast we approached the marshaled-turn where the course deviates from its previous 7 laps and heads the last 300 yards to the finish.

The cheer from the gathered crowd and volunteer marshals was amazing and brought a lump to my throat, giving me for a moment something to worry about other than the pain in my legs. As we rounded the corner and caught sight of the finish – rather further away than I was expecting – I may or may not have uttered a mild (ever-so-mild) expletive. From the back of the group a voice piped up, “That’s what we’ve been saying the whole way round!”

Sensing my inability to make it in one go to the finish line, Baz and Tim encouraged me to take another walk to a point around 150 yards from the finish. The below photo was taken as I broke back into my final run to the finish, shortly before the Marines broke their stride, hence the fact that it looks like I’m running and their walking – I wasn’t that slow.

From there, I was determined that I wasn’t going to break my run again until I’d crossed the line. As we approached the finish, the course headed ever-so-slightly up hill and my legs began to protest at a never-before experienced level. After the fact, I reminded myself that 10 Royal Marines and 130 other runners had gone through pain much worse than mine that day, but in the heat of the moment all I could focus on was the sight of K across the finish line, standing out like a beacon in a sea of faces. All I kept telling myself was that if I could get to her, I’d be over the line. Just run to Kati, Just run to Kati, Just run to Kati.

And I did. I got there. I crossed the line and collapsed into her arms amid an ocean of cheers and congratulations. No sooner was I over the line than the tears started flowing – and not just mine, either, I’m somewhat relieved to say.

As I stumbled into the post-race area, collecting my runner’s post-marathon goodie bag of food and energy-goodies, I felt like something of a fraud amongst a group of people who had endured far more than me and for far long that day, but at the same time the emotion of having achieved a mile with the guys all running behind me was overwhelming.

I thanked all the guys individually for putting themselves through so much in aid of such a great cause, but also in helping to push me through the longest mile of my life. Ironically, though, the longest mile turned out to the quickest. After running 14 minute miles on the treadmill in training I had been alarmed as I ran and as I finished by how exhausted I felt from the effort. It wasn’t until my bro came up to me afterwards that I realised the reason – we’d run a sub-10 minute last mile. The Marines had run 26.2 miles around Tresco in 5 hours 24 minutes, beating even their best estimations.

Not five months ago things were looking more than bleak and only a little less than hopeless. With time fast running out, the enormous courage and generosity of one man and one family changed the course of my life forever. From a withered young man in terminal decline with the best years of his life behind him, I’ve become a strong, energetic 25-year-old with his entire future before him and a host of amazing challenges ahead.

Words cannot express the gratitude, admiration and love I feel towards those unknown people who gave me the extraordinary gift of life, nor the enormous swell of emotion I felt as I crossed the line. But I think maybe this does:

I can’t even begin to describe the emotional impact of the last week, especially the last few days.

After an enforced media blackout over the weekend, I was hoping to be blogging from Tuesday about my adventures down South, where I’d gone to take my Direct Access motorcycle training course, which was full of adventures, bumps and bruises (although luckily nothing worse than that).  Life got in the way, however, with the effort of keeping a bike on its wheels becoming too much for my recovering body and leaving me mostly too shattered to even think afterwards, let alone form coherent sentences.

But of course last week wasn’t really about the motorbike course, it was all about the run up to the Tresco Marathon and the event itself.

I’d love to go back and give you a day-by-day,  blow-by-blow account and maybe at some point I will, but right now, having got back from our travels at 4.30 this afternoon after an epic 27 hour journey (with a stop in London), it’s WAY more important that you guys know where your sponsorship money went.

That, people, was towards helping me push myself through the hell that was the last mile of the Tresco marathon, which I not only achieved, but in record time, too.

The marathon on Tresco is simply one of the most amazing experiences it’s possible to legally have in the world, without a doubt.  Author (and personal favourite of my Uncle) Bill Bryson was invited along one year and now he refuses to miss it even when, as with this year, the birth of a new grandchild is imminent, such is the level of warmth, friendliness, inspiration and all-round beauty, both human and natural.

It’s fair to say that the troup of 10 Marines from M Company, 42 Commando Royal Marines made quite a stir.  Standing out on the course (which runners have to complete a draining 7.5 laps of to achieve the full 26.2 mile distance), you could feel the excitement in the air every time they came into view, moving at pace, all in time, wearing 30lb back-packs and full kit.  Everyone there to cheer people on spent the day looking out first of all for their loved one, but then for the next time the Marines were coming round.

My brother, when he first put himself and the gang forward for the challenge, told the organisers they’d do it in 7 hours.  Chatting on the ferry on the way over to the island, he confided that he was hoping they’d get in under that.  Speaking to their Sergeant, he was determined they were going to break 6 hours.

As they rounded their last lap and past their well-manned rolling pitstop point for the last time, I started my walk back up the course and up the hill to meet them at the 25 mile marker on their next way round, glancing at my watch the check the time.  As I stood on top of the hill watching the turn for them to emerge, my stomach flipped and I realised just what it was I was undertaking.

The course organisers came flying round the corner on one of the islands ubiquitous golf karts, stopping in front of me to check who I was before announcing that I was runner number 140 and leaping out to pin my number on me – news to me as I didn’t realise I was to be a registered entrant in the event.  As he pinned me front and back, I stole a glance at my watch and realised something horrible: they were on course – at their pace – to break the 5.5 hour mark. 5hours 30minutes with 30lbs and jungle boots.  These guys were on another level (“machines” as the marathon’s instigator called them after trying to keep pace) the only thing standing in the way of them achieving a truly remarkable time was me.

This morning I was rudely awoken by one of my old CF nurses (not that she’s an old nurse, but old as in don’t-really-see-them-any-more – sorry Cass) arriving to flush my port – a quick and simple injection-type thing to keep the permanent IV line in my shoulder patent should it need to be used again, which – touch wood – it won’t.

It’s been over a month since I last saw any of my CF team, which is a bizarre thought and feeling given how much of my life was taken up by visiting, calling and staying in touch with them over the last few years, increasingly so in the year leading up to my op.  Since I last bumped into them (which, actually, was the first time since the Tx) three of the team have run the Reading half-marathon to raise money for my old unit, which they managed to do to the tune of nearly £3,500 – impressive, to say the least.

Cass is now fully addicted to running and is well up for Reading again next year.  After my trip to Durham and Stephen’s rampant encouragement to join them in a half-marathon and then the full distance, I can already hear my brain ticking over the possibility of joining the team to run it with them next year.  It’d be an amazing story, I reckon: ex-patient (well, technically not “ex”, but not really massively dependent on them any longer) joins former clinical team to run half a really long way (which is still a really long way, interestingly) to raise money for the unit and the patients still being treated by them.  Not that I’m always looking for the PR angle, of course…

Anyway, it was great to see Cass and catch up on the goss from the unit and what everyone’s up to – particularly all those who’d had the audacity to shoot off and drop sprogs before my op.  I’m happy to say that they’re all doing really well, even the ones who aren’t sleeping due to badly trained offspring.

Following my port flush (and I must apologise to Cass again, as she didn’t really wake me up and she did bring breakfast with her…) I pottered around the house, flicked through the new copy of GQ which had dropped through the letter box this morning, then woke K for a quick trio to the hospital to return a pain machine which she’d had on trial.  It did absolutely nothing for her, so it was quite a quick appointment, following which we headed straight home.

Mama K was in the area with a friend, so they swung by for a cuppa and, in the spirit of the day, brought cake with them, too.  We sat and chatted and caught up (it’s been too long since we saw her) and K used the opportunity to show off her new smoothie-making toy.  It’s become a bit of an obsession this smoothie-making lark, ever since we picked up the Braun blender-on-a-stick thingy at the raffle in Durham.  They’re not really my cup of tea, but it’s a quick and easy 2 or 3 of K’s 5-a-day, so who’s complaining?

After they left, I sat down to the computer for the first time in anger in over a week and started to plough through my emails and catch up on a whole host of stuff I’d fallen way behind on, followed by having a blitz of the various piles of post that were laying around the study and clearing the backlog in a not-unimpressive way.

When she finished work it was my mum’s turn to swing by for a cuppa and a catch up as we’ve not seen her for ages either.  I saw my Dad on Monday when I popped home for the washing, which has left my dear mother feeling somewhat left out.

When she left, after a decent catch up and news-swapping, I jumped back in the study to carry on clearing until another friend turned up to pay up his holiday money for May, which K and I have organised.  We chilled and had another cuppa (starting to sound like Right Said Fred, this), then K cooked and I ate dinner, followed by washing up and a little more chillage on the sofa.

I’m off now to catch Episode 2 of the Apprentice, which always manages to hook me, not matter how dense and useless the candidates appear to be.  Or perhaps precisely because they’re so dense and useless.  Either way, my body is screaming for an early night and for once, I’m not going to argue.