August in Tao'land part 1; this month, Li-Fraumeni gets in the Sunday Times

This is a long post and it will become pretty evident, very quickly that I am not working at the moment so can spare the time to write up our recent adventures, you might like to take the phone off the hook, turn down the TV, book yourself in for a long meeting, this may take some time. Are you sitting comfortably?- then I will begin.

This story starts at some point during the last month and a bit, I forget when, if you are that interested, you could work it out for yourself, but there are no prizes on offer I am afraid........

Tuesday I came in from work and as predictably as ever, switched on the television and was greeted, not with the annoyingly cheerful tones of early evening TV, but a blank screen, the next channel, blank, and the next, and the next. Slipping quickly into support mode I tried the radio, nope, only Radio Silence, not my preferred station. The TV in the bedroom cracked quickly under my speedy interrogation, being an analogue receiver it had less to loose from hiding the details of this dastardly 'no evenings entertainment' plot. There, plain as day was the answer, as I fumbled for the mute button to save my ears from the loud electrical hum emanating from the TV speaker. Someone had sneaked in and added two really big white lines to the top and bottom of the TV signal. BASTARDS!

Forget cancer, these sort of issues need to be fixed quickly... but no, everyone at the rental office had gone home and the next day, they found other more important things to do. Meanwhile Tash and I worked our way through every video and DVD we could find. Characteristically, just locating these items wasn't the end of the saga, each individual program had to go to the 'Tash and Mark Gladiatorial council for decision making', or the GCDM, for short.

'Well I have six episodes of Sex and the City'

No I am not watching that shit'

'What about Desperate Housewives?'

'I would rather cut my leg off with a rusty saw, but look I have the director's cut of Alien 3, with cast commentary, you'll like that honest'

and so, imitating the UN Council on which it is based, we would continue on not making a design until it was time to pack it in and go to bed.

On Thursday we succeeded in getting the attention of the managing agents of the flat and then received the heartbreaking news that they could only attend the following Monday - This meant a whole weekend with out the telly, what were we to do?

Friday AM
Thoughtfully I decided to revisit one of our expensively purchased - not used half as much as we thought - but far too heavy to sell on Ebay and make any profit in postage - kitchen items. This is not our first juicer and as I am sure many of you have already found out, the only thing a non-industrial strength juicer will do is leak and then burn itself out. So I fired up the big boy and emptied a weeks supply of vegetables into two glasses for me to drink and Tash not to. Being extra helpful I started to clean it over the sink grinder thingy (it's a boys job, apparently, along with the cleaning the coffee machine, but entails spinning things and the use of a screw driver so I am happy). Midway though my high powered, spinning grinder of death wash-a-thon I noted, in a rather surprised fashion that the big sink next to me had filled up with this odd water and fruit and vegetable mix. 'Hello I thought, that's not supposed to happen'- and it most certainly wasn't, in turning round I met a veritable Tsunami of fruito-vego-water coming at me from behind the washing machine and the other sink was positively volcanic with the stuff (yes we have three sinks in the kitchen, but only one toilet, what am I supposed to do?) - All in all it looked like something out of a Vegan Amitaville House of Horror film.

One day off for Tash, a visit from the local handyman and Dynorod and things were sorted. However as I believe things come in threes, I was not so confident about taking the car in for it's MOT (Tao-translate on: Aus: Rego , rest of the world: statutory vehicle safety registration) the following Monday!

My worry about having a vehicular disaster was misplaced, as it came in the form of bad health news from both of our families, Natasha's aunt and my grandmother are both now in the club with Tash (and I am going to apologise if anyone finds that comment curt, we have had six years to develop a humorous defence, it is not a quick thing to come to terms with).

In the middle of all this Tash has managed to appear in the prestigious Sunday Times Magazine, in an article on research into the P53 gene. For the uninitiated, it is the important bit in any genetic understanding of how cancerous cells develop. They needed a case study and picked the poster girl of the London cancer world. She has also broken her toe, by walking into a chair - this is just a small reminder I told her, that she shouldn't get carried away with all the publicity and that she should also always wear safety boots in the house

The online version of the article is here

Not long after her brush with international fame Tash got back down to what she does best and was in Hospital again for her 16th operation - This was to have the stent removed, again by Dr Liver, who to all intents and purposes seems to be the 'man about town' with the nurses so she tells me. The picture Tash paints, suggests that he ushers into the room followed by the adoring masses and then asks if any of them would like to join him in theatre, they swoon, he smiles, they leave and Tash gets wheeled down there by some creepy old dude.

I finished my contract at Credit Suisse on the following Friday, had mixed feelings about it, two years on and Tash's original comments of 'I don't want you working in that bloody place, it is full of red tape and will drive you mad' were still ringing in my ears (she left that department 3 years ago). She was right and it was the worst environment I have worked in, too American in it's (non)treatment of staff. I had established a close social group there, supporting each other at lunchtime over a bottle of wine or two and so it was that we all came together one last time (for the moment?) on the Thursday night to enjoy the delights of the local wine provider, Nicholas. This was, not to put too much of a finer point on it, a bit of a rowdy evening, not the sort of thing that I imagine that Lauren, Brett and the rest of our serving chum's would probably want to see again. Our table nearly got into a fight with the Journalists on the table next to us - resolving the issue only when they sent over (well leaned, we were really close to each other) their most valiant warrior, who being Irish, preceded to take the piss out of us all, before joining in our drinking.

The next day, my last, the Friday of the final bank holiday of the year, did not begin well. I woke up on the sofa, never a good start, feeling very bad indeed. I was just wearing boxer shorts, how did that happen? and they were wet, oh no I haven't? Things weren't getting better and then I threw up.

I had a lot to do, get up (difficult), get dressed for work (possible, but not easy), pack a suitcase for 4 days in Stockholm (cool and wet) and then 5 days in Mallorca (hot, with beach wear) and then get to work (slowly!, walk, don't use the tube, you'll only make yourself sick). At work I had to look like I was a functioning human being, host a meeting to hand over this important project I was nursing (normally ok, today climbing a mountain would be easier), leave work at midday and tube it (tube!) across town to get the train out to Heathrow (sleep soon?), get on a plane (ahh the queues) , arrive in Stockholm (does any one know the Swedish for vomit?), get another train into the city centre and then the hotel. As I was thinking about this, still in said suspect wet boxer shorts, I heard the door go, it was our cleaner, it was Friday, I had forgotten about this unscheduled interloper joining me. I just about managed to get the sick bucket hidden from view (yes we have one) and pulled on a dressing gown before I had to deal with that embarrassment. Our cleaner doesn't speak a lot of English, but through the international language of the hangover, I think that she got the picture.

Work, all three hours of it that I managed, was tough and interspersed with 4 unscheduled trips back to the toilet, the guy that I was supposed to hand over the project too, did not come in, so at least I was spared that nightmare, however I was continuously aware about how much I smelt, both inside and out, during the whole morning and if any of you are reading this, I am really sorry. I could say that the tube trip was a welcome relief from trying to look like I was alive at work, but alas being trapped in a hot underground carriage that continuously jolted from one side to the other, with no toilet in sight, was the worst thing that I have ever had to do. All this and I hadn't even faced Tash yet!

I was expecting death, well to be honest I felt like I was dead and then I was expecting to face the wraith of Tash, for whatever I might have done the previous evening (no idea, some slight recollections, maybe a bit of ill advised 'drink and dial' action on the way home that shouldn't have happened), there was of course that boxer short issue to address (I only saw Tash briefly before she left that morning, she was scrubbing the sofa with a cloth, somewhere around where my pants had rested - so she knew and I was most likely in a lot of trouble). Whilst waiting for my 'own personal armageddon' to arrive I did my best to stand on the concourse of the station, look natural and not vomit again, this was proving difficult, particularly as I started to realise that my hangover had been compounded by having a cigarette, or part of a cigarette, the night before. I gave up smoking a long time ago and cannot think why I would do something so dumb, but that was the principal cause of my pain. Had my first smoke at 11, didn't care for it much, tried again at 15, was just showing off, smoked from 20 to 29, all good. Have a cigarette again at 35 and then I decided to get that 'ohh I've gone green, feel really sick, having a head rush moment' - this I now realised was why I left the pub suddenly, staggered home, phoned Tash several times telling her I was in trouble and needed picking up and was then very sick. Obviously the copious amount of wine helped, but I have spent months training and could have survived that particular rouge onslaught, but not Nicotine. Quite a revelation I think you would agree, there I was standing in a train station, sweating pints of alcohol, surrounded by smokers, realising that I had at least another 6 - 8 hours to go before I could rest, several of which would be spent going through the busiest airport in the world, that had been the subject of a major terrorist (non)incident the previous week, was I worried.........?

Then Tash turned up.....

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