Faits Divers

A while back, France introduced new license/registration/number plates which come into force when you buy a new or used car.  The plate design no longer carried departement numbers and there was a huge outcry from the public.  So the government gave in and said that a panel on the right side of the plate would have the number.  Any number; the number of your choice.  If it would make you feel better to have people think you live on the Côte d'Azur, then you just go ahead and buy 06 number plates, never mind you live in Alsace on the German border.

I have seen the urologist, anaesthesiologist and the dentist this week.  The anaesthesiologist looks too young to be a doctor.  This is a first for me.  With his youth and stubble, he looks as though he ought to be out on his motorcycle mugging old ladies.  But he was nice enough to order thyroid tests, so I won't have to go see my endocrinologist.

Teeth are O.K. and cleaner.

Van-Ly has just had a false pregnancy.  (And good thing false, too!)  I'm told that, in the wild, when a bitch in the pack is pregnant, the others have false pregnancies and produce milk so that if anything happens to the mother, the babies will survive.  How clever.

My little bitches, less clever, have no one to get pregnant for, although it did solve one problem.  We bought Nala a bed last week so that she would stop leaning against the wall and turning it black.

Of course, she hates it and won't go near it, but Van-Ly was in her nesting phase, so she used it.

Now, neither of them will use it, but it's still serving its purpose.  It's blocking the wall.

Behind Me

As in "I am behind."

We've had a lot to do this week and, as we're running around, we've been running errands for Polo and Nadine. Then, when we get home, we go up to their house to make deliveries and Nick works. I provide moral support. Anyway. . .

Monday I saw the cardiologist and had an electrocardiogram, as you have to do here before surgery. I am fine. (I knew that).

Today, I saw the anaesthesiologist, as you have to do here before surgery. He is fine. His name is Dr. Kaoula, which I can remember because I call him (silently) Dr. Koala.

They're going to give me a morphine pump this time. I hope I don't get hysterical and start crying the way our friend, Philip, did when they gave him one.

Here's the schedule: I go in at 4 o'clock in the afternoon on Monday. The operation is Tuesday. I stay in the hospital for 8 to 10 days. The recovery period -- I finally read the papers the surgeon gave me last week -- is reckoned to be 45 days.

I have a fuzzy head; I think my hair is growing. So by the time I start chemo, again, I should have some more hair to lose. Really, losing your hair once is O.K. Losing it twice is annoying.

It also appears that it's going to be growing in white. It must appear that way to the hairdresser (wigdresser?), too, because she told me she can colour it a little with some kind of vegetable dye. And she gave me a card for the first appointment free.

While running medical and construction errands today, we bought an expresso machine to be built in to our new kitchen. When we have one. The budget for the new kitchen is considrably reduced now. But it was on sale.