And I'll say it again, the only things left standing after a nuclear attack will be cockroaches, John Howard and me Mother.
I'm just back from the hospital and I can report her mouth is in working order. "Fix my oxygen tube. Adjust the pillow, my neck hurts. I'm thirsty when can I have water?" If she ever has to have another op it will be a mouthectomy.
No intensive care unit, not even a night in the high dependency unit. They did lie though, she's in pain. Not as much as this morning. Somewhere in the world, I hope there's a doctor having four injections of radioactive dye in his scrotum, with a woman standing by, saying it will only sting a little.
I walked around Westfield doing the rest of her messages carrying a mobile phone and worrying about not hearing it that I didn't notice that at some stage my wrap had fallen off. I made that myself with fringing and passementerie and beads and as my sister said whoever picked it up is selling it on Ebay as a tent embassy. I've reported it lost, perhaps it will stagger home covered in dirt and grass like Lassie.
Tomorrow I am not getting out of bed. I have five New Scientists to read and big red apples to eat. And if that bloody woman rings me at 7.30 in the morning I swear I'll disconnect her.