Tuesday 19th May 2026
Dear Diary,
Just dropping in on this dreary Tuesday to fill a few minutes while I consume a cup of coffee and a banana flavour Jammie Dodger. They were on offer, so I felt obliged to grab a pack to do a taste test.
I have a horrible suspicion that this summer is going to be a bit of a dud, marred by cloud and rain, like today. Prove me wrong, weather genie.
So had a chat with my neurologist this morning. It was nothing to worry about, just one of my regular fizzy brain checkups, and nothing to do with my lodger in the loft, though naturally he was discussed. Neurosurgery and neurology are essentially different disciplines. The lodger isn’t causing bother at the moment. I’m getting used to the idea he’s there lurking around. Mr Ryall has been very reassuring from the start, more so than the neurosurgeon I saw, whom I thought was snotty and dismissive. I said as much to Mr Ryall, and he snorted and said neurosurgeons think they’re Gods and have an inflated sense of their own importance. He assured me he was keeping a close eye on the ball (aka the lodger) and if he thought for a moment he was getting uppity he’d get onto the neurosurgeon himself, and demand a fresh evaluation. After all, when it came to my brain, he was the expert. No one knew my brain as well as he did, certainly not some strutting neurosurgeon who had but glanced at it. I got the distinct impression he’d relish going head-to-head with the guy. Maybe there’s some history of professional rivalry between them? Still, nice to know Mr Ryall is firmly in my corner.
Dick has had his carpal tunnel op, and after all the fuss, declared it to be an absolute doddle. He said he didn’t feel a thing during the op. His hand is obviously a bit sore now, as the incision heals. It’s on the heel of his hand, so it makes it a bit awkward doing daily tasks. He has to keep the wound covered and dry until the stitches come out. Watching him having a shower wearing nothing but a rubber glove sealed with an elastic band is proving entertaining, and sexy in a perverse and strange kind of way. I’m having to butter and marmalade his toast on a morning because he can’t comfortably manipulate the knife yet. Sounds easy, you say? Not when you consider Dick has what amounts to a fucking marmalade obsession. It has to be spread just right, or he gets crabby. We’ve had words.
Well, my coffee is drunk and my Jammie Dodger consumed. I must say I was underwhelmed by its flavour. There are better Dodgers out there. I’ll give it four out of ten. Must shift my arse, I’ve got a mountain of ironing to catch up on. Take care, peeps.
Dear Diary,
Just dropping in on this dreary Tuesday to fill a few minutes while I consume a cup of coffee and a banana flavour Jammie Dodger. They were on offer, so I felt obliged to grab a pack to do a taste test.
I have a horrible suspicion that this summer is going to be a bit of a dud, marred by cloud and rain, like today. Prove me wrong, weather genie.
So had a chat with my neurologist this morning. It was nothing to worry about, just one of my regular fizzy brain checkups, and nothing to do with my lodger in the loft, though naturally he was discussed. Neurosurgery and neurology are essentially different disciplines. The lodger isn’t causing bother at the moment. I’m getting used to the idea he’s there lurking around. Mr Ryall has been very reassuring from the start, more so than the neurosurgeon I saw, whom I thought was snotty and dismissive. I said as much to Mr Ryall, and he snorted and said neurosurgeons think they’re Gods and have an inflated sense of their own importance. He assured me he was keeping a close eye on the ball (aka the lodger) and if he thought for a moment he was getting uppity he’d get onto the neurosurgeon himself, and demand a fresh evaluation. After all, when it came to my brain, he was the expert. No one knew my brain as well as he did, certainly not some strutting neurosurgeon who had but glanced at it. I got the distinct impression he’d relish going head-to-head with the guy. Maybe there’s some history of professional rivalry between them? Still, nice to know Mr Ryall is firmly in my corner.
Dick has had his carpal tunnel op, and after all the fuss, declared it to be an absolute doddle. He said he didn’t feel a thing during the op. His hand is obviously a bit sore now, as the incision heals. It’s on the heel of his hand, so it makes it a bit awkward doing daily tasks. He has to keep the wound covered and dry until the stitches come out. Watching him having a shower wearing nothing but a rubber glove sealed with an elastic band is proving entertaining, and sexy in a perverse and strange kind of way. I’m having to butter and marmalade his toast on a morning because he can’t comfortably manipulate the knife yet. Sounds easy, you say? Not when you consider Dick has what amounts to a fucking marmalade obsession. It has to be spread just right, or he gets crabby. We’ve had words.
Well, my coffee is drunk and my Jammie Dodger consumed. I must say I was underwhelmed by its flavour. There are better Dodgers out there. I’ll give it four out of ten. Must shift my arse, I’ve got a mountain of ironing to catch up on. Take care, peeps.