Forgive The Hand Down The Pants? …

Morning.

I may have lost the plot. I have just turned up the radio to listen to Rod Stewart’s new song. I don’t even like Rod Stewart. Weird that. Thinking about it, I don’t mind some of his warbling. Perhaps I like him a bit? No I don’t.

Yesterday I popped out to have a meander around the shopping complex which is just down the motorway from me. I had also arranged to meet my brother, so managing to purchase four blouses (are they still called blouses these days? Tops maybe? ) in forty-five minutes from three different shops was quite some going. I tried on several pairs of trousers but alas drew a big fat no no. Seriously, I was the big fat no no. My weight gain since my inguinal hernia op over a year ago has been well covered here in the past.

For the last year I have had to wear leggings or combats. Anything else is just too tight and applies pressure to my wound, which in turn makes the whole area very sore and painful. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? A piece of gauze sewn into my groin. I’m a bloody hero really, you know. I battle on from day-to-day hardly a whimper or a whine.

Pants are also a problem but a problem which I consider I have solved. I buy them three sizes too big and then the elastic round the leg doesn’t apply pressure. Isn’t this interesting dudes? Take it as a warning. Don’t go levelling ground and throwing rocks around like The Incredible Hulk. Something will give.

Occasionally, like when I’m aimlessly following Richard around B&Q, the old knickers rub and the whole thing hurts so I have to have a quick slide of the hand down the pants and an intense examination of the area just to make sure I haven’t burst the wound. It’s not ideal and at times has drawn the odd look from other shoppers. Obviously this kind of thing is common place with men but not something I guess you would associate with a lady. Lady? Haha. Seriously though, this thing terrifies me in case I rupture it and I end up back on the slab holding another polite conversation about how to sell designer shoes on Ebay with an op room full of green-coated strangers. I jest not. That was exactly the conversation, last time.

Today I am going to attempt to tidy my wardrobes. I have to. There is stuff hanging in them that has never been worn – or likely to be. Skinny jeans are out. The two pairs of stupid white trousers, that Richard said I should buy, are out. White trousers do not fit into my life-style. Thinking about it, everything  I have ever bought when Richard was with me (a rare thing) needs to go. I always say before you take notice from any one who is slagging off your writing take a look at theirs. And consequently before you take fashion advice from someone take a look at what the advisor is wearing. Richard has a style of his own – as do I – and never the two should meet.

The thing is …what do I do with all this stuff? Car boot? Ebay? Charity bag? Close my eyes and bin it? I know that once I have cleared out the stuff I am never going to wear I will feel enlightened but Lordy Lord, what a frigging chore.

I left Richard in charge of the two chucks and Chea yesterday whilst I was off shopping. When I returned I asked him how he had managed. Responsibility weighs very heavily with Richard. He said he had found the hole in the fence where Chea was escaping and had filled the whole thing with a piece of trellis only for Chea to run up it like a ladder and sit grinning at him from the top of the fence. He sounded quite stressed, poor thing. Welcome to my world!

I can warble no longer. I am going to make a cup of tea and then go and clear out all three wardrobes before my energy level and enthusiasm drops to nothing… and those rather annoying baby cabbages start to call …

Take care my lovelies x