I’ve stopped doing my happy dance and it’s all the postman’s fault. He had to break with tradition and actually deliver a bloody letter didn’t he? He couldn’t have lost it or forgotten it, or misdirected it, or couldn’t be bothered to climb up the stairs and so return to sender it, or have engaged in any one of the million and one other ways in which he generally manages to lose my mail could he? Oh no. Not this time. This time he had to break with the tradition that had seen him attempt to bash down a box containing a pair of Staffordshire mantel vases so that it would fit through the letterbox. Or stand outside the door to my flat writing a “we tried to deliver a package but unfortunately you were not in when we called” note, regardless of the fact that he’d spoken to me not 45 seconds before when I let him into the building. This time he managed to match up the strange and mysterious shapes on the envelope with the strange and mysterious shapes on his A-Z. He managed to tippy-tappy his tiny feet up the four flights of stairs, and… (and I can’t quite believe this because it doesn’t happen very often) actually put the letter through the letter box without the aid of his shoe. I know it’s progress and that I should reinforce positive behaviour with a biscuit or something but he really chose his moment didn’t he?

He had no thought to the dreams he was stomping on as he shoved that envelope through the door. He had no wish to spare me the cruelty of my joyous anticipatory shimmy down the hall, my excited be-bop around the kitchen table as I ripped open the envelope and hastily scanned the contents. No wish at all. Because there it was in black and white – well not that black and white actually, definitely a draft quality print out if ever I saw one. Our holiday details.

Taken as a whole, everything on the ticket was tickety boo. The names were correct. Or as correct as having false names on your passport are ever going to be (long story involving a missing deed poll document and the need to get a passport in a hurry). The hotel details were correct. The flights were booked for the outward and the return journey which is always an important point to remember. It was only when I glanced at the flight duration that I remembered the one simple fact which, in all the excitement over going away I’d managed to forget. Nine hours. The flight takes nine hours…and I hate flying

very quick post tonight because its been ages since the last one…

Went to doctors tonight to try to find out why I’ve been feeling so rotten for the past two weeks (and intermittently for the past three months before that). Apparently I’m suffering from stress. He then asked the usual sort of questions which doctors ask in these situations - namely how is my relationship, how is my work life, is there anything I’m worried about at the moment?

I pointed out to him that am A. In a secure, supportive and happy relationship and have been for the past ten years. B. Have no money worries. C. Not only like my job but find it challenging and fulfilling (yes I know I whinge about the long hours but believe me if I didn’t like my job - I wouldn’t be doing it,) He then told me (and he was being serious) that sometimes having nothing to get stressed about can be as stressful as being stressed. Stupid bloody man. Even if that was the case - which it isn’t (and I know this because in the past I have been stressed about just about everything you could ever find to be stressed about - and then some- and believe me, not being stressed is not stressful, it is not being stressed) it still doesn’t explain why I’ve been feeling fluey for the past few weeks.

So I did what I should have done in the first place and phoned my mum. She didn’t give me any bollocky stuff about stress, no stress, or not being stressed. She told me to run 5 miles a day, go to bed earlier, give up wheat properly (and apparently cherry cake counts as wheat no matter how many cherries you add to the mix) tidy up my bedroom and start drinking vegetable juice.

That sounds draconian enough to work so I’ve dusted off the juicer and, as I’m typing this, I’m drinking a mixture of the following - one handful of spinach leaves, three savoy cabbage leaves, half a lemon, quarter of a cucumber, three sticks of celery and a large sprig of parsley. I must admit it would taste even better with a good slug of vodka in it but other than that its not at all bad…(which is worrying…)

PS. In other non-health related news. Apparently my song (eskimo disco 7-11) is now tipped at 12-1 to be the UK Christmas no 1. Admittedly it’s not Ladbrokes thats giving those odds - something called PaddyPower (but it is mentioned in the Guardians betting page) - I’ve put £50 quid on it just in case (actually it was 14-1 when i placed the bet…I’ve just checked and the odds have shortened - shortened? is that right -I’ve never done this before…I wonder what odds Ladbrokes would give?)

“What?” said my lovely electroshock chiropractor lady sternly “…have you been doing with yourself?”

“er… working” I said sheepishly as I sat down her funny blue chair which is supposed to mimic exactly how a healthy spine should align and which, when I sat down on it had huge gaping gaps between the should and the did.

“Ok” she said “Let me just put on my white coat so I feel more professional. Top off and hop on the table. Now tell me? Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere. But that might not be my back. I think I might have flu too. Well not proper flu, just feeling like I’m on the verge of flu…I’ve felt like that for the past three weeks. My bones hurt and my head hurts and my skin hurts…Do you want me on my back or on my front”

“On your back” she says, as I sit on the edge of the table, her hands moving from the top of my skull down to the small of my back. She’s got warm hands. Gentle hands. It feels nice this skin on skin. “I’m going to have to do some work on you before I use the machine”

I lie down. Her hands are in my hair, not pushing, not rubbing, not doing anything except very gently cupping the back of my head, the bit where my neck meets my skull. It feels blissful but there’s this nagging thought in my head which goes along the lines of “God I wish I’d washed my hair before I came here”. I’d leapt into the bath before my appointment but I’d finished work late and the appointment was at 5.30 and it had been three days since I’d washed my hair and my hair’s so long that it takes ages for it to dry – upwards of three hours- and because using a hairdryer to dry my hair makes me look like I should be in an eighties metal video and I didn’t have that much time and because normally she just switches the electroshock machine on, I thought I’d be ok if I just twisted it into a knot and left it. I mean it didn’t look dirty. In fact it looked rather good in a Jane Eyre sort of way. Now with her hands rubbing and pushing, I wish I’d rethought that decision.

Shivers of agony run up from my toes to my skull. My hands get pins and needles. My legs jerk involuntarily. My tummy rumbles. I’m impervious to all of it. Floating on a cloud. All I’m conscious of are her hands.

“I’m going to sort out your headache first” she said as she continues with her gentle cupping movement.

“How did you know I had a headache”

“It would be been strange if you hadn’t had one” she says not stopping “All of your ligaments are inflamed and all of your tendons. In fact, short you of having had an accident, yours is the worse case I’ve ever seen.”

“Wow” I think, taking some pride in that. H treats the great and good in Edinburgh including one very famous lady author whose name we can’t mention. Apparently her back is so bad that she types her Magnus opuses while lying flat on her back in bed. Not quite Barbara Cartland and her willing minions but then who is?

Two and a half hours later and she’s done. At least for this evening. I have to go back on Friday night. Same time. Then she’s going to sort out my back. In the meantime I have been banned from even looking at a computer never mind sitting down in front of one.

I feel great. At least I did when I got in the car to go home. My head had stopped hurting, my back had stopped hurting.

Right now though I feel like shit on a stick. My whole body is running with sweat but I’m so cold that I have three jumpers and a comfy blankie wrapped round me. My throat hurts. My teeth hurt. My eyes are sore. It hurts when I breathe. It hurts when I don’t breathe. My neck hurts. My bones hurt. My skin hurts where my clothes touch it. I’m too cold. Too hot. Shivering like a whippet. I want to go to bed. I wonder if she makes house calls….

Probably tonight or tomorrow.
Hx

Look, I know it’s probably too late now. I know that even as I type this missive, magnificent and multitudinous parcels are winging their way throughout the land, bravely entrusting their precious contents to the vagaries of the Royal Mail. I know that you’ve scoured the shops, emptied your bank accounts, put another couple of hundred on the credit card and sold your first born into slavery in the vain hope that, tomorrow afternoon, (the Edinburgh postal service firmly believes that the concept of mail arriving in the morning is just that - a concept, relative to whether or not its raining and if they can be bothered to walk up the stairs) my face will be radient with joy when I see in what high regard I’m held.

Don’t think I’m not appreciative. I am. Or at least I will be tomorrow. I am always genuinely appreciative and usually tearfully grateful for any mark of consideration shown to me by others on my birthday.

But, I’m older now. Not much older that’s true. Actually not older at all because I’ve decided to stay twenty-seven until PhotoShop and plastic surgery can do no more and then I’ll admit to being fifty three. Until I hit my eighties when I will then tell everyone that I’m ninety five, have an ebony cane and an even more imperious manner than I do now and amuse myself by keeping the whole of my family dancing attendance on me in the vain hope that when I shuffle off I’ll leave them my diamonds and my enormous wealth. I might. I might not. I haven’t decided yet. I’m thinking along the lines of having some sort of codicil in my will which would leave them the dosh but only if they have their hair shaved and dyed in a day-glo orange mohican and wear a shocking pink sari at all times.

Anyway the nice thing about turning twenty-seven (again) is that you have the strength of character to say things that younger people might be too afraid or too well mannered to mention. I’m not aiming to cause offence by what comes next and as I’ve already said, I’m always genuinely appreciative - scrub that I’m always absolutely thrilled - at getting any present at all on my birthday. So this isn’t meant or intended to denigrate any gifts that anyone has ever bought for me.

It’s just that for the past two weeks people have been asking me what I want for my birthday. And for the past two weeks I’ve given the same reply. The same thing happened last year too. In fact, I’ve been giving the same reply to this question for as long as I can remember and no-one has ever taken me seriously. I know its quite a big present so I don’t mind if you all club together to get it for me. But it’s not actually a big request. Or a difficult request. It doesn’t involve anything illegal or unsavoury. Others have asked for the same thing and had it granted to them. But, for some reason, whenever I’ve asked for it - the person who put the question in the first place has paused slightly and then laughed.

So, here we go. I am deadly serious. No pauses and no laughing please.

I want a pony for my birthday. I’ve wanted a pony for my birthday ever since I knew what a pony (or a birthday) was. There, that’s not a difficult request to fulfil is it?

I’ve even made it easy for you and picked out the one I want. I want this pony.

(

Because she’s got cool hair.

I realise that A and R will be upset at the thought of parting with Dolly but lets face it, their parents (who obviously love them far more than my parents ever loved me) have a way better track record when it comes to buying ponies and so the chances of them being bought a replacement are pretty high. It would also teach the girls selflessness and kindliness and being good to those much less fortunate than themselves in the pony owning department. Note well that I have said nothing about the fact that as I’m their favourite godmother, having secured a place in their hearts with bribery and affection and letting them have surreptitious swigs out of whatever alcoholic drink I’ve been imbibing at the time, then they owe me their pony. In any case, they’re young and resilient and they’d soon bounce back from the disappointment whereas in my case the fact that I was never given a pony has blighted my life. But I’m only twenty-seven. It’s still not too late to turn it around.

We’re off to Newcastle this weekend (mum’s even threatened to make me a birthday cake). I expect Dollyto be trotted underneath my bedroom window first thing on Saturday morning.