The rain is hammering on my office window, the sky almost black. I can't see as far as the bicycle stand and it does not look like it will improve before I go home. I will get soaked and by the time I'll get home, I'll be chilled and sometime in the night, pneumonia will set in and by tomorrow I'll be dead. Probably. Not at all. Because all we are talking about is water.

For a very long time after the experts had presented me with this diagnosis I saw death around every corner. Every new and strange symptom (well, actually every symptom incl. all my nightmares) sent me round the bend. This is probably fairly normal behaviour when you have been given the potential scenarios of heart/kidney/lung failure and all that shit about going blind and/or deaf. 

I suppose you could say that by now I have become somewhat blasé about it. But only somewhat and only sometimes. I am getting there. Soon I will be completely fearless. There is a thought.

Last weekend we were supposed to be in Luxemburg but as I was climbing down from the cortisone mountain and also because R discovered that he had a touch of sore throat, we cancelled. Instead, we had a really nice weekend at home. Maybe Luxemburg would have been only half as nice. I am getting very good with all the cancellations. In fact, I may start another blog about all the trips we plan and then cancel, my virtual journey around the world.

And another blog about all the recipes I am bookmarking and saving for my gastritis-free future. I could pretend I baked a few loaves of rosemary and raisin soda bread, made rhubarb fool and something fancy with roast new potatoes, fresh spinach and salty Turkish cheese. Lots of olives. Red wine to go with it. And a little espresso.

Last night, this song popped up again which brings me straight back to the early 1970s when I was staying for the summer with my very sophisticated filthy rich godmother who had parties in her garden every night where my 13 year old self learned to dance with the pros.