but in 16 hours it’ll all be over and healing begins.
so – hmmm – not much point getting an early night – we are so wired and awake and, surprisingly productive, everything’s packed.
here’s how tomorrow looks (as they say in Los Angeles):
up at 4.30AM or shortly thereafter (and a panic at No Coffee Allowed) so we’ve put the yellow roses in front of the coffee pot to remind us and a black town car will pull up outside at 5.30AM. Cheltenham Lady is going to walk up to our house (we are Most Grateful) and accompany us to the hospital. 6AM we’re due in “admissions” (feels like boarding school and university all over again) and a variety of uncontrollable substances will be dripped into our body and hopefully we won’t care about what happens next…
under the knife at 0730 hours East Coast Time if you’d like to send us good thoughts and we know several people are going to meditate at exactly that time (isn’t That GLORIAous?! we are very charmed that we know such spiritual and deeply cool people – wonder if we’ll “see them” while under the influence of the scary shit they’ll put in our veins…..that will be Fun!)
and then the machine we’ve put into place will kick into gear, like this (just in case you’re going through a similar experience and need inspiration on how to get the right team onboard – our team ROCKS.)
* M will be here tomorrow to make the apartment into a nicely spare and super-clean recovery/nesting place for the next three weeks.
*J arrives sometime in the afternoon to pick up the overnight bag (which is a rather lovely beaten up but very glam brown leather bag – as seen in Oceans Eleven, actually – while others sighed:
“Oh, Brad Pitt. George Clooney”
team gloria leaned forward in the darkness of the cinema and said:
“now THAT’S a Delicious Bag……wonder where That’s from?”
because we have Connections in the Industry we found out the answer was something along the lines of Vuitton or Gucci at the upper end of the ridiculous scale of dosh (American friends = money). And then because we have Connections in Retail, we found out that the same leather factory (at the time, we hasten to add, don’t fact check us) in Italy was providing product to Banana Republic (for chaps). And so we dropped some cash there. and it’s traveled/travelled the world with us since then. Along with the trusty silver Samsonite.
we lost our thread….oh yes, (scrolled back), here we go (tomorrow):
*then J comes to our hospital bed and drops off the Oceans Eleven bag and we swiftly reject the nasty (nylon, we’re sure) “gown” for our Noel Coward celestial blue soft cotton long robe and comfy cashmere-mix socks, apply a little mascara, decent face cream from Boots, the Chemist in England (courtesy of Belinda at Lady Geek) and settle back to listen to William’s rockin’ “smack bottom” (he IS naughty) playlist (all those tunes that transport us back to 1992, the clubs in south london, gritty floors, Camel cigarettes smoked to the bitter end, nasty pints of something nasty chased with something ever worse, if our memory serves us right and mopping up the hangover with a full english at the greasy spoon caf’ in the small hours) – not at All Suitable for Hospital (and, as a result, Perfection).
Then we shall also crack open our novel sent from George (1904) and settle in for a long read (while peeling back the top from a zero percent fat greek yoghurt and waving away the scratchy broccoli probably on offer – “hello, people, we’ve had our Throat Slit!” – yes, that’s what was given to someone else who’d had the same operation – pur-lease).
*in the morning, mC arrives with a copy of the Financial Times and a lukewarm misto (cafe au lait for our french friends), and hopefully will sit on our bed and tell us that we don’t look like we just went through hell. (note to self: more mascara and Boots finest creams).
*then we’re sure various doctors will come and nurses will administer (not any scary drugs – we’re going to work through the pain…..believe us the consequences for not doing so are too hideous to bear) tylenol (British = Nurofen, no codeine)
and, at some point in the late afternoon, bF is going to drive up and sign for us as we sit in the lobby in a wheelchair doing our best (young’ish) Elizabeth Taylor impression in large dark glasses and a wrap and a big Hollywood smile.
of course, if we have cancer. then, we guess, the story is slightly different.
depending on what they found and cut out and can ZAP with the radioactive iodine (we are still confused how they squish the radioactiveness into a “pill”) for six weeks.
quit the chat?
share some pictures?
of course, darlings.
a few from today.
bless you, habilleuse helene!
and now we’re at home: drinking more coffee (yeah, completely aware how insane that is) because the option of staring at the ceiling wondering what it’ll be like having our neck slit compared to hanging out on the interweb, listening to music, talking to people and then a…
we’ll probably start with glorious and educational yet witty and profound and uplifting like:
prime of miss jean brodie (thank you william)
naughty. we are ever so naughty.