Engrenage

Well, gentle reader, I think it is safe to say that the Cheerful Fairy is Frumeplla no more. Of course my rippling gorgeousness could use some work; always room for improvement, dontyaknow, etc.

I refer of course not only to my efforts to improve my physique, bowl over the residents of Strumpetville with my lovliness... yeah, anyway, I refer not only to that; I refer to my wider health.

Since a week last Sunday my illness returned with a vengeance: I lost three pounds over the course of the weekend, and felt pretty run down since then. It's calmed down but co-incidentally I had a hospital appointment last Thursday to follow me up.

There is something rather special about having a good doctor, and you may take good to mean intelligent; erudite; interested; or just good at lateral thinking. However, the nice lady who saw me had clearly decided this is a bit too much and the best thing to do would be to do a series of tests from scratch. Hence I spent much of the morning having blood tests and other... examinations, going round and round the hospital beaten only to the various departments by the electronic missive explaining what is required.

And, yes, and at the end of it all I have – Te Deum to be composed in honour of this momentous occasion – a diagnosis.

Intestinal spirochaetosis.

Yum.

Spirochetes are a nasty class of bacteria not routinely tested for, and as an anaerobic bug, not prone to surviving in samples exposed to air. Hence it can be hard to find. It is a class of bacteraemia that counts among its number humanity's friends, syphilis and lime disease. It is an opportunistic infection and will quite often attack people with HIV, or other sexually transmitted diseases. Although it is not sexually transmitted the bacteria are much more common among gay men (30 to 50%) than straight men (two to five per cent) for reasons unknown to science!

Well, the next step is to get some antibiotics (metronidazole in my case) for a short while and with luck my roller coaster love affair with Armitage Shanks will be over. Interestingly – in a Freudian there-are-no-accidents kind of way – I can't drink whilst on the antibiotics and for a short while afterward. That ought to be interesting...

Anyway, once I'm better I need I think to review my healthy living regime. I wasn't able to go to the gym whilst very ill and of course as before it consumed my body mass rather than body fat, so I'm perceptibly weaker than I was before. Still, it is good to take the opportunity to capitalise on the fact my ribs are showing through. I want my flat tummy!

Overall it's good to have a diagnosis; though on some level the amount of stuff to deal with right now approaches new heights or tiresomeness. I look forward to it being over... and thus this is progress of a sort.

He’s behind you!

... oh no he isn't!

With my focus on my upcoming anniversary with Fella, another has gone passed entirely unnoticed.

I refer of course, gentle reader, to outs. Two years my stream of... consciousness has assaulted your senses. Can you forgive me? I admire your patients. More than 330 posts have come and gone in all that time. Thank goodness for Fella, or who knows what else you might have had to suffer?!

Actually I hope the last two years haven't been too bad for you. Sine coming out I have tried to keep to a consistent heading of due Fun. Sometimes veering to Not Fun at All; but equally often drifting over to Oh My That Was Remarkable Fun Indeed.

Due to my tendency to hurl onto this blog whatever crosses my pink gin mind, the posts themselves are an accurate reflection of the broad experiences I have had. There has surely been enough time chewing the cud; I don't need to regurgitate past arguments again here. But the tags on each post have accumulated nicely, I think.

The six I have used the most are:

• relationships;
  
• dating;
  
• meeting men;
  
• sex;
  
• fella;
  
• friends.
  

(I put six because friends deserves to be included, no?)

That is a good mix, I feel. I am content. Things are in balance and life in Strumpetville has been going good.

As for the anniversary of Fella and I, my plans have been somewhat thrown by Fella's inadvertently booking a day tip to Brighton with friends on the day itself. Bless him, he feels terrible, but I'm going to go along and we shall have a nice lunch or dinner, just me and him. I think that's a start. That and presents! Also, we have the rest of the weekend and I suggested taking a day off either Monday or Friday to do all the other things we had tentatively begun to plan.

So stick with it, if it pleases you – I think the balance of the tags may change as times goes on. All part of the rich tapestry of being a Cheerful Fairy.

April Fool!

I may be recycling my post titles, gentle reader, but I thought it would be apt. Today, you see, I want to be a bit selfish and discuss amongst other things my health.

As blogged before on 1 April I went into hospital for yet more tests to explore and ideally pin down my Symptoms. Fella and I went down to the ward I was booked into and I changed into a not-very-fetching gown and special shorts with special flap at the back for access. Fella was quite distressed actually, which resulted in him – somewhat annoyingly, in my view – being fussed over by nurses to brought him tea and cake. I didn't even get morphine damnit! Well, the hours wore on and eventually I have yet another examination which was remarkable in three ways – it was very, very uncomfortable (they gave me minimum sedation so I could leave more quickly when it was over). I also was able to watch then entire exploration on a TV screen right in front of my face, which was somewhat surreal. Thirdly, a number of biopsies were taken and whilst I couldn't feel the samples being removed the displacement of my internal organs by the biopsing machine (or whatever it's called) was most bizarre.

Afterward the nurses very kindly gave me my report, and a bit of cake for me too – having not eaten for 24 hours I was truly grateful – and then I went home.

Since then my health has been on somewhat of a low ebb, I'm afraid. Alongside the Symptoms there is the niggle that all the easy stuff is slowly being eliminated until rather more serious conditions are all that remain. It is interestingly, or to put it another way, it is soul-crappingly scary, that my symptoms are virtually identical to what one might expect when HIV develops into full blown AIDS. Now, whilst sowing my wild oats I have been careful to guarantee a crop failure and indeed when tested nothing of that sort has ever been detected. But it's not really great news.

So it's time to come clean. Reality check – pesky reality, so rare a visitor to Strumpetville and not a welcome one in any event. What are we dealing with here?

• Crohn's disease
  
• Bowel cancer
  
• An unidentified auto-immune disorder
  
• A parasite (yippee)
  
• Madness!
  

Or any combination of the above, I suppose.

To be honest I am not best pleased. I belong generally to the Stuff and Nonsense school of healthcare. If I ignore the illness it shall go away. Well not this time, it would seem. I wondered today if this is what it's like to be old... everything so tiring, that much more difficult than it used to be. Well, at least I can say Stuff and Nonsense to that! In the meantime I have reached a point where I just want to be well.

The Wanderer Returns

So we’re back. From outer space…

No, from Germany actually. And do you know, we had a good time.

I shall, if you will permit me gentle reader, start with a rant. And it is this: at the airport, going through security, I am forced to question the wisdom of having me remove my shoes and belt to be x-rayed but at no time whatever checking my passport and boarding card. I find it difficult to imagine how the security of the western world is assured by having people waddling around barefoot with their trousers round their ankles. It is pointless and silly, as is so much of this sceptred isle. Even Fella was rather annoyed. Though I think the root of his mood lay more in the lack of sleep, whereas for me of course it is due to nothing so much as that I am rapidly becoming a grumpy old woman.

But, after all of this we met the sun in the sky and 1004 kilometres later were in the centrally heated bosom of my mother’s abode. Fella, mother; mother, Fella.

Actually they hit it off rather well. Annoyingly well, in fact. I hardly needed to be there it seemed on occasion. Of course Fella achieved this by slavishly agreeing with everything he said, a strategy of sycophancy that earned him no small ribbing from me. I gave that up when I was about seven years old. Nevertheless, on that score the trip was a success. We did some shopping at the Weinachtsmarkt in Ulm, and wandered through the pretty village where said mother lives. We ate out in a traditional German restaurant; I had goose, he had wild boar (yum, and double-plus yum).

And then we came back, with plans to visit again next summer. My dislike of flying enhanced neither by my experience, above, or the violent turbulence on the way back I am now firm in my foot-downedness that we will drive next time. And Fella rather brilliantly suggested we make something of a road trip of it and go on to Berlin after.

So, there we have it. I must say it is only looking back whilst blogging this that I dimly perceive the milestone that has been passed. I have not only introduced my partner to my mother – but I have done so as an acknowledged gayer! Actually, it went well enough that it was a good relaxing break, which was also timely. And I was able to shine a bit with news of my promotion too.

Success!

Vexatious like a fox

Round and round the wheel spins, and today gentle reader the dial stops at… mild annoyance. Well, it did. By the time I got to posting this I was happier. Nevertheless, it seems we have reached a point that all relationships go thorough but for which *sigh* good communication is needed.

Is there a theme emerging here? I wonder.

Anyway: Fella now has his job and that means a lot of pressure is off him and he’s got more time free not applying for things or doing interview prep. So, today, he tells me all about his plans to take evening courses and do yoga and join a gym… a veritable cornucopia of Fella-time.

Harrumph.

Not us time.

Double plus harrumph.

Incidentally the college apparently subsidises a lot of its staff’s extracurricular activity. It comes to something when there is a public subsidy for my boyfriend not spending time with me.

I work up to 15 hours a day yet I always make time for him and us; get up a couple of hours before him to finish work so we can spend more time together in the morning. Always making sure he has his cup of tea at the bedside however early I need to leave for work. Actively rearranging my work calendar around his availability.

So, yes, I am a little vexed he’s not thinking of time for us to spend together now he has time on his hands. I’m not suggesting 24/7 – far from it. In that event you could place bets on which of us would kill the other first. Maybe I’m being unreasonable; maybe I put in work and he puts up with me… that would be hard enough to be sure :-)

We do spend time together. There are the weekends and we often go to the cinema on Wednesday. On Saturday I’m going to one of his concerts and Sunday to enjoy the Regent St Festival (hopefully joined by Friend ‘A’). Friday is his leaving drinks from his temp role, to which he has invited me. But it does occur that’s having me along to things he’d be doing anyway.

Including me in things is really sweet. He doesn’t have to and I know he does it for the right reasons. But that’s where communication comes in. Rather than being Frumpella the Humphy Fairy - this is surely not a litany of complaints worth burdening him with - maybe I should just take time at the weekend to tell him I think he and I should spend some of his his new found tempus redux together, goshdarn it!!

Perhaps I’ll do it over his new cabbage strudel recipe that he’s using me as the guinea pig for on Sunday…

Communication

Communication is, I am told, one of the most fundamental elements that make up any relationship. Fellow blogger Anthony is but one of many people who have given me some sound advice about communication in relationships; what to say, what not to say, and how to say it!

Now, consider if you will, gentle reader, my quandary. I am an introvert; raised in a dysfunctional family; was in the closet for way too long. I have very little relationship experience. When oh when was I supposed to learn how to communicate well?

And don’t think for a moment my communication problems in any way detract from my massive personality flaws. Oh no, anyone who sticks with me for even the smallest period of time is dancing through a veritable minefield of grumpy, frumpy, over sensitive, English-is-my-second-language fairyness. The mind fair boggles.

As I’m the angst ridden type who would prefer to wreck a relationship because then at least he knows where he stands, I fear that Fella and I have hit what may be described as a rocky patch. Though as it’s barely been a month “a rocky patch” might be doing our nascent relationship too much credit. Having said that let us focus on the good before we settle down for a nice long rant:

- we have lots of fun together;
- the sex is great;
- we’re doing lots of coupley things;
- we’re in virtually constant touch;
- I’ve managed to avoid the trap of getting thoroughly infatuated;

Oh yes, that’s right. I have managed not to take a flying leap off the cliff face, but instead stand on the edge considering whether the leap is worth my while this time. And that’s good, isn’t it?

But! Yeah… saw that coming, didn’t you?…

He won’t Communicate. By that I mean I know what he’s had for lunch and what his favourite colour is; yet he won’t acknowledge compliments, discuss his feelings or even reply to direct questions. We can’t do certain things – silly things; watch Family guy or listen to Bach – because of his ex. But he won’t talk about his ex. As I said before, I’m not asking for a declaration of undying love but this feeling that he’s constantly pulling back is beginning to get to me. I'm worried very much in particular he's on the rebound...

The only ‘solution’ I have is to go with the flow. I don’t know how to draw him out if he simply ignores a direct question; but I’m not so self assured that I can be just fine with it. So then, do I sit by irritated and try to let things pass or do I keep pushing. Both strategies have their risks. I’d like to keep seeing him to see if something develops; I’d prefer this not to be another two month angst-athon where all my friends patient wait for me to balls it up before my attention is drawn by the next guy, and the next guy, and the next guy. But I don’t know what else to do.

Vampire

Terry Pratchett is one of my favourite authors. These days he talks mostly about his Alzheimer’s. Repeatedly. There’s a bad joke in there somewhere… Once, however, he wrote about vampires.

Unlike humans they do not have children; yes by feeding they create new versions of themselves. But by living forever can never hope for a legacy that a normal family life might bring. Every vampire is essentially a competitor to every other vampire. Every non-vampire a potential victim. The vampire’s only comfort is the power he can exert over others. That is what he wrote.

I know it is unfair to use this as an analogy for gay men, but it is pretty brutal out there it seems. From sex to dating to love and relationships it really is quite difficult. Every one of us competing with all around us – trying to meet some criteria, fulfil some stereotype; be the popular one; the pretty one; the one having the most sex… and being second is not good enough.

It’s enough to make me give serious thought to going back to women. Honestly. Boobs seem pretty attractive right now.

Last night I went to the theatre with MadeInScotland, another blogger, to see Spring Awakening at – he had a spare ticket and very kindly offered it to me. It was a fantastic show!! Yet in return I bored him with my dating woes and obsessively checked my text messages to see whether Thursday’s date was going to confirm a second meeting on Sunday [which he did not!].

Is that any way to behave? No. Of course not. Here I am turning into some insecure needy slave to texting and dating and building my self esteem from some other feckless guy.

It is this week’s dates that have driven me to my current state of fury. Surely – and this is where I have to suspend temporarily my reticence about being sexually explicit - in any rational society being given a blow job in front of Buckingham Palace would be seen as a milestone on the road to boyfriendage. Surely, I say again; surely being asked out for a second date on Sunday might not one reasonably expect, for instance, a second date on Sunday?

Well, I’m genuinely at a loss. I must ask, gentle reader, am I to become a victim or a vampire? This post is a morass of questions and rage. And incomprehension. Why, oh why, is it that it has to be either casual sex or love at first sight? Oops, another question.

I want a boyfriend! I want to be in love and to be loved and while I know that’s not easy I’m not some obsessive panting love muffin only validated by my relationship status. I look OK; have a great job; brilliant friends; an active sex life; my own business; am part of my local community; and have so much to look forward to. And offer. I just want a boyfriend too.

Rule Seven, men: Rule Seven!

And another thing!

Sam got in touch.

I am at fault in many ways, and the first of these in context is my failure to reveal to you certain things. You see, gentle reader, Sam is well known to my former counsellor. And I learned today that my date falling through is largely due to my former counsellor’s influence.

To say that I was angry could scarcely do justice; and I will express now the thanks due to my friend who let me sound off in so many ways between conversations with Sam, thus giving me the chance to get my mind in order before tackling the Beast before me.

You will know by now I am not the most emotionally mature person, and partly because of it I have very little relationship experience. And many of my friends will acknowledge I have, putting it mildly, a temper. Hey, I’m a Leo with an Aries rising (a Fire Snake for the eastern cohort of you). What can we expect?

A big part of the problem is that I’m in the health service responsible [I’m still very surprised] for public spending, and patient safety; and my counsellor’s programme is publicly funded by that same service. So what to do?

Well, in the first instance I was very, very shouty. The villain of the piece is my former counsellor, there can be no question, but the context of my conversation with Sam was his failure to talk to me. I know a lot about Sam, and it has been my privilege to be trusted in that way but I really had to point out: we haven’t even had DATE ONE YET! How much exactly do you want to know!?

Yes I already knew about my counsellor and Sam. I was in fact going to reveal this knowledge on our date. Hence it rankles all the more to be so poorly treated without even having that chance to be known, and get to know.

I could rave and froth all night at the confluence of justice and duty and desire. How awkward to have maturity thrust upon me in such tortuous circumstance…

No, I simply cannot let it go. I would be dangerously unprofessional to do so. My counsellor deals with vulnerable people who risk being adversely, catastrophically even, affected by his lack of consideration. I am employed in a context where taking it forward will have further reaching consequences than we might expect. And amongst these will be the destruction of the relationship between my former counsellor and Sam.

Yet, for all of this (and we have discussed it), Sam and I are having dinner – our date, finally, actually - on Monday and, thus for me at least, it is a win. Grrrr/Phew! What a night.

Rant!

It didn’t work out… you need to not exist.

That’s usually been the way with me and my ephemeral boyfriendettes. But with International I was hoping it would be different. Perhaps it still can be, but he’s annoyed me such a lot today.

We were friends on Facebook, but he’s decided not to do that anymore. And that’s fine. Well, it isn't actually. But what really riled me was his explanation to me that it was in case he found happiness and that, through the medium of status updates and similar, touched a nerve with me as I’d still be, at this unspecified time “raw” after the break-up.

How dare he?!

Thoughts of Rule 7 rose unbidden in my mind and in my terse reply I set out my disappointment at his presumptuous projection of his feelings onto me.

How the very dare he?!

There. Rant Over.

And none of this “two sides to every story” business, I beg you, gentle reader. The distinction between his side and mine is that I’m right and he’s wrong ;-)