It's been a nice couple of weeks since I finished exams and it has been manic! This weekend in particular has been a scorcher and as I was bag packing in Marks & Spencers this morning to help fundraise for my friend's upcoming trip to Malawi, the amount of BBQs and BBQ food that I packed made my mouth water.

On Friday I was invited back to my paeds' hospital to the opening of a teen recreation unit. It was wonderful to see so many staff members again, many of whom have been there since I was very, very young; some I have seen progress from student nurse to staff nurse and I can remember many of their first days. So to say it was weird how time flies would be an understatement. I am very much looking forward to my 5 years post transplant party (2 years away!) to see them all again :)

On a sadder note, I found out today that my first doctor in Crumlin passed away. She wasn't a CF doctor but my parents decided early on upon learning of my diagnosis that they would rather stay under her care despite this. I was under her care for over 12 years. She was a truly wonderful lady.

My New Camera

My dog was the subject of my new camera. No, I wasn't grabbing his neck to stop him moving whilst I screamed words to that effect as I tested my camera. I was merely petting him. At the same time as I took photos.

He then ran away and refused to look at me. He ignored me. :(

When he realised I was taking photos again, he refused to look at anything at all and shut his eyes. I resorted to begging him to please play along with silly old me, and pull a nice face.

This was his idea of a 'nice face'. (Funnily enough, I can do this too.) I explained calmly that that was NOT WHAT I MEANT BY A NICE FACE AND THAT ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS TEST OUT MY NEW CAMERA AND COULD HE PLEASE JUST DO ONE FAVOUR AND ACT LIKE A NICE MODEL AND AT LEAST TRY TO ACT PHOTOGENIC AND WAS THIS REALLY TOO MUCH TO ASK?!?!?

I think that just totally and utterly confused him.

Examinos

In less than fourteen hours, I will be sitting the first of my six exams. I stress about exams so much and yet, to balance that, I actually do very little study. It sounds terrible, but because I know that I've already practically passed most of my subjects through continous assesment, I just don't have the panicking motivation to kill myself studying. Just the panic that I'll fail.

Last year, I walked out of one of my exams with the sickening feeling that I'd failed terribly. I got into the car, and having promised myself before that I'd never get upset about something as trivial as an exam, I began to feel a bit sorry for myself. I then turned on the radio and a song came on that my friend Barbara had played at her funeral. I was reminded that there was so much more to life than getting worked up over one stupid exam - one that could be repeated. By some miracle, I actually ended up getting a B+ in that subject, so in reality, there was very little to get worked up about in the first place.

But naturally, here I am, panicking again. Fretting. Before I turned off my laptop tonight, I went to my Yahoo homepage where the news headline reads "The World Health Organization ups its swine flu warning ", which is not in the least bit funny at all, rather worrying in fact, and as someone who doesn't have the greatest of immune systems, it worries me rather a little bit actually. But what makes me laugh is that my friend Barbara used to say "I suffer from Cystic Fibrosis - the swine!!!'. If only she could see.

When we were gallivanting and chasing death on the Cliffs of Moher the other day, a young Australian guy asked us to take a photo of him and his friend. Afterwards, he asked us where we were from. We told him we were Irish. He shivered and said 'How do you stick this weather?'

We looked around at everyone wrapped up in their ski jackets, thick hats and scarves, suitable walking boots and hiking, warm gear.

Then we looked at ourselves. One of us was wearing skinny black jeans, black Ugg boots and a zip up Abercrombie and Fitch fleece as an excuse for a jacket.

The other was wearing skinny blue jeans, cowboy scruff style leather boots, a zip up Abercrombie and Fitch fleece and a skinny leather jacket. And a boy style hat.

Both with over sized sunglasses.

I guess you could say, unlike nearly everyone else, we just ignore it.

*Great News*

The government have agreed to honour their promise to build a unit for patients in Ireland who have cystic fibrosis. It goes to show just what can be accomplished if people unite for common purpose. Of course, one is cautiously optimistic when taking in this information as promises do, and have been in the past, get broken. The money still doesn't exist for the building of the unit, but it will be built, just paid for in a different way than was previously agreed. I'm not too sure on the details as I went on a spontaneous vacation while all this was going on, and could only make out the news based on the emails I received.

On Saturday night, my friend rang me and suggested we took a break to Drumoland Castle in the west of Ireland for a few days. I'm on Easter break and naturally have a pile of study to be doing, so it was obvious that this would be the perfect distraction. Drumoland Castle is a magnificent place and the beauty of the place is truly breathtaking.

We went on a horse riding trek whilst we were there which was fun. I have only ever really sat on a horse once, so when he (the instructor) was judging our abilities, I had to stretch the truth a bit because I was afraid I'd get stuck in the arena place. The minute I was on the horse, riding it alone, I questioned why I always have to exaggerate my abilities to instructors! But I was fine.

Then we took bicycles that afternoon and cycled around the castle grounds, or a fraction of them at least.

We then went for the tastiest, most delicious afternoon tea in the castle I have ever had. In. My. LIFE. If they made afternoon tea in drive-thru form, I would buy a parking space to get it every day. Seriously.

Following afternoon tea, we played a game of tennis. That was quite tiring, as we were already feeling the effects of horses and bicycles, and neither of us could play tennis to much of a standard, but we both insisted on seeing who was better. I think it was the constant walking to pick up the ball which wore me out.

Today, we checked out of the castle and went to the cliffs of Moher. They were scary but amazing. They have a very high peak of the cliff blocked off because there are no barriers, and you're about a zillion feet up high, but about a few feet from your death should you slip. So that was terrifying. And I shall not be telling everyone I know that because a lot of other people were doing it, we too climbed the barrier and went for the dangerous 'do not go beyond this point' walk. Oh wait....

Well, I just won't post photos.

And now that I'm home, it's back to planning study.

Fwiiiiiday

The whole 'CF' issue still hasn't improved and so all the hardworking people at the CFAI (and hundreds more) have launched a campaign called 'Irish War Crimes', because now, this has become an issue about human rights.

College finished up today for Easter, which means we will have our last week of second year in three weeks time. Provided I can use this break to study and thus pass my exams!!! Tall order, but fingers crossed!

I also realised that what with it being April, I have now made it four (five?) months of good health. I advertise that information cautiously, with fear too that I may jinx things, but fingers crossed, I can stay this well. It's great being able to trust your own body when at times it can act in such an unpredictable manner.

My weight is also good, and steady which means starting Monday I shall begin to implement the next phase of my 'get well, stay well' plan which involves training. Or exercise. But training sounds less boring and daunting. I don't like to do much exercise when my weight is low, for fear of falling into a spiral of losing weight, getting sick, getting better, exercising, losing weight..etc. And of course my dislike of exercise has nothing to do with the fact that I might be lazy or my embarrassment that I sound like an elephant galloping like a horse, whilst dashing for the bus when I attempt to run. No, no, just my fear of being sick....

That is phase three of my 'get well, stay well' plan, stage four comes when I am accustomed to doing exercise and will likely start during the summer.

By the way, I have no idea if the 'get well, stay well' program has already been invented, or if that name is used for anything else, but if not, I invented it. So don't steal it. Or I may be able to run after you and hunt you down ...depending on which stage of my program I'm in.

Moving Forward

So the news of the retraction of the unit for pwcf in Ireland, definitely came as a huge blow, but I know that the fab guys and girls all around the country are working hard and tirelessly to come up with a plan to beat this. I might restate a point that has been made over and over by victims of this government (and past governments) and that is that people with Cystic Fibrosis are not asking for special fancy hotel suites, or jacuzzis beside their televisions (working ones if they can be found), but they are simply requesting basic human rights.

I think I may have worried and/or shocked some people by updating my Facebook status expressing my outrage (but not realising of course to many, that this would come across as cryptic and possibly mean something had happened to my health...) which I apologise for. Of course many people were relieved that this was not the case, and some surprise that I should care about all that kind of stuff, now that I don't deal with it anymore. But the case is that I did deal with it, and I can't help but remember only too well the disgustingness of the situation. Which is pretty disturbing really... And nobody should ever be subjected to some of the things I saw as an 18 year old, some of the things I heard. But in reality, this year's 16 year old will be moving to adult services shortly and they will join the rest of them, suffering through a most undignified situation with courageous dignity.

I will keep you all updated...but watch this space.

I'm in my final week before Easter break, and then the real hog of study begins. In four short weeks, I will be half way through my degree course. The stress of yet another assessment this week seems to be getting to me as I locked myself out of the house going to college this morning (House and car keys and all). Clever. Of course, I totally forgot about the time change too....during an exam! Thank goodness somebody pointed out the error mid exam when I told them the time. I think smoke may have come out of my hand as I scribbled furiously away.

Just one week!

Frustrated and Angry

*Warning* This is a rant, albeit an important one, but if you have no need for depressing material, then drag the mouse up and hit the little 'X' before you read on.

Where to begin... Facts: Ireland is a wealthy nation (well, until recently anyway). Ireland has the highest rate of Cystic Fibrosis as well as one of the most aggressive forms in the world. And yet, as a patient who became so ill as a result of the disease and a transplant was the only treatment option left, in adult services, I had my own room once. I shared toilets my whole life in hospital with patients who had MRSA, C-Diff as well as other dangerous contagious bugs. I shared six bedded rooms with dying women, with other people with CF (whose infections could have killed me), with ladies who were no longer 'with it' and would take it out on anyone who listened, who may wet their beds or the floor routinely, or as happened me once, came running into my room in a distressed state at 1am in the morning, throwing my medications on the floor. The undignified part was the fact that this woman was wearing nothing from the waist down, but clutching a nappy in her hand and screaming in distress.

No dedicated CF unit exists in the Ireland's specialist centre...or "centre of excellence". When I was patient, they had two single (not en-suite) bedrooms for their CF patients on the respiratory ward.

So 14 months ago, a national radio talk show was taken over by calls from all around the country from people with CF (pwcf), relatives of pwcf, friends of pwcf, and if the whole country didn't know what cystic fibrosis was....they soon learned. People phoned in saying they had seen plans and blueprints from the early 90s for the new unit. Other parents rang in claiming the same thing, sadly their children had since passed on. The show was inundated with offers of donations, of offers to build a unit for free, of offers to put patients into hotels instead. And out of the slimy woodwork, comes the government. They promise to build a unit, that 14 en suite rooms will be provided in the interim and that a unit will be up and running by the end of 2010.

We got eight beds. Fantastic en suite, spacious rooms. For a few hundred patients. At any given time there can be up to 30 inpatients. And now they've gone back on their promise of the other six rooms and of the unit altogether:

http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/frontpage/2009/0327/1224243553913.html

I got lucky; I escaped. But Barbara, Damien, Jean, Darragh, Sam, Lyndsay, Ian, Brendan, Mary and Patrick didn't. Three weeks ago, Louise died. Two days ago, Heather. These are all people - and only people who I know, there are so many thousands more. These people put up with 'facilities' and hygiene standards that would have a pig factory closed down.

It makes me so angry that this can be allowed to go on when the politicians are lining their greasy pockets with money, where the people in the HSE are given hundreds of thousands of Euro bonuses. Maybe nobody cares about the most vulnerable when the country is in a state of economic crisis, but they certainly never cared when we were all driving newly registered, over sized, chunky Audi's and Land Rovers either.

It's so very easy to turn the blind eye, but what if it is your child in this situation, your sibling, your neice or nephew, your friend, your partner? What if it's you?

This is Why I Love Global Warming

I know it'll kill us all, or so we are told, but to enjoy St Patricks day like this makes me love this whole Global Warming thing (Of course I wish the ugly naked man who frequents the beach wouldn't share my love for the surprising heat):

Of course, it does have it's flip side too:

These photos were taken SEVENTEEN minutes apart. What's more insane is that some of the more enthusiastic guys in my class turned up to college in shorts on Thursday, and yet I wore gloves later that evening.

A Little Bit of Sunshine Required

I've realised that lately it seems I'm all doom and medically gloom. Needs fixing. But just a quick update: Stomach is doing great. I've restarted my 24 hour insulin (an injection once a day aimed at keeping sugars controlled in between meal-insulin) having been off it for over a year.

In other news, (some of you know) in January I applied to a programme which, if successful, would send my profile to America in the hopes of getting placed at a Summer Camp for the summer. There were many hoops to be jumped through: First I had to fill out forms and forms of application, then I had to do an interview, then I had be accepted [by them], then I had to pass a police check. All of which, thankfully, I did. There was an element of relief when I learned of passing the last bit, there was that tiny bit of doubt on that one - you never do know!


So then you wait until a summer camp pick up your application and decide that they want you. It's kind of like sitting on a bench waiting to be picked for a team. Some people email camps they like the look of. Some people get placed quickly, others it can be the week before camp starts.

Well, 10 days after I got accepted, a camp decided they liked me enough to offer me a contract, working in drama/theatre. I had a look at the camp website, spoke to a girl who went last year, looked at the camp timetable, generally did a lot of research. I hummmed and hawwwwwed. And then I decided, sure what have I to lose? So on Thursday, I signed my contract and sent it back.

I leave mid June and finish camp mid-August. I have yet to decide what to do after that. There is already talk of travel in America, I have heard rumour about island-hopping in Greece. Who knows?

If you did not read this post here, it briefly explains the 'falling-through-the-gap' situation I found myself in this year. If I sit and wait for opportunities to come ringing my doorbell, I think I'll be sitting a while. I'm incredibly nervous about the summer, whilst truly excited too. I don't really feel comfortable talking about it freely yet (oh wait, whoops, public website) in case some hitch pops up which means I can't go. And no, my two inch scar which completes my 'stitched up, swen back together rag doll' look isn't going to stop me going.

So, yes, life, it's like one big wow.

I Hope They Used Industrial, High Quality Staples...

I was driving home from college this evening and I looked down and noticed a tiny mark on my top. When I used to 'leak' before my stomach stapling surgery, I would very regularly (nearly all the time) have marks on the inside of my tops where they had rubbed off the open leaky hole. So my natural instinct when I saw this mark was 'oh, a leak'. Then I realised two things:

1. I was wearing two tops, so for it to come all the way through was unusual.

2. WHAT THE HECK, I'm CLOSED, I shouldn't *beeeeeeee* leaking.

So at every stop in the traffic, I'd lift my top and try and see what was going on. Yes, I know, what other motorists must have thought - mind you, the truth that 'oh sorry, don't worry, I'm just leaking here' may not have exactly reassured them.

My wound until now has been covered by steri-strips. I'm not sure what they actually do, I think they're a bit like paper stitches. They were due to come off tomorrow, so I just removed them this evening.

At first, it looked like there was indeed a part of the scar that was open a bit (I'm talking the size of a pin) which was oozing. I had been thoroughly warned that this may happen. It all looked a bit messy-ish to be honest. So I put on a big dressing and left it.

It's drier now and overall it seems like a pretty tidy scar. Longer than I thought though (2 inches - I thought it'd would be about half that).

I'll put up a 'before, middle and after' photo next week, simply because some people in the future may wish to see what it looks like. Well, I know, I'd have liked to see what it looked like before I had surgery.

Don't Tell My Sick Note

But I went back to college today. I'm fine.

Don't tell anyone else but I bought a 24 pack of Paracetamol on Thursday evening and they were gone by Saturday evening. I didn't really realise what I'd done until I realised the packet was empty. I didn't take too many or anything, but the packet says no more than 4 per 24 hours. Pah. I know I took more after I had a serious operation a few years ago, what does the packet know?

Anyway having sufficiently panicked myself into the fact that I may be a drug addict, I may have overdosed myself, I may have some mad psychological problem that would convince myself that I'd never get over the pain, I decided on Sunday I'd best take no more. So I continued to sleep a lot and I didn't [take any more]. And now I'm absolutely fine.

My brother and his girlfriend (I call them BeeGee) went off to Thailand this morning. We gave them Barry's tea having been convinced by the ad that that's what you do to remind someone of home. Safe travelling!!

Home Sweet Home

Many thanks to everyone for your good and well wishes, they mean a lot. Foolishly last night, feeling great and pretty much pain free, I felt well enough to not take any painkillers. Of course this 'step forward' was forced backward at 6.30am this morning when I felt very sore. Totally my own fault; I'm always in too much of a rush to stop taking pain relief, and after a night spent lying predominantly in the one position it meant today I had the paracetamol on hand every four hours again. I hopefully won't make that mistake again, but likely I probably will.

I believe my appetite has always been incredibly poor (until after transplant, that is). I don't believe this has anything to do with laziness, stubbornness or any other aspect of my personality - although when push came to shove, I'm sure as a child I didn't make it any easier. I also don't feel my lack of eating reflects my parents' parenting abilities. I've read before how some people with CF say that their parents simply didn't let them leave the table until they'd finished their meals. My problem was a lot more serious then a simple 'Supernanny' method could cure. Even now, as I eat obese man portions, I know I'll still never require a diet; I just don't put on weight.

During hospital admissions, my parents would tell nurses when I was very young that I didn't eat, which they took to mean 'we have a fussy eater on our hands'. About two days later they (nurses) would tell my parents 'You know that your daughter doesn't eat anything??'. Yes.

At the age of two, my parents began nasal-gastric feeding - a tube up the nose, down the throat and a high calorie something-or-other infused every night; the tube was removed each morning.
I was about five when a permanent solution was decided upon: A hole made in my stomach wall, and a long piece of tubing would be put in. It would cut out the nightly traumatic event of nasal tube insertion (which considering this involved holding one screaming child down, while two other children occasionally looked on, and two parents alternated between holding, and inserting; it was traumatic for everyone); but it would involve cutting an outwardly healthy looking blondie girl open and acknowledging something else: that this CF thing was also permanent.

I had the long tube for many years before the smaller 'button' was invented. To say I hated the tube growing up was an understatement; I loathed it. I didn't care about chest infections, hospital times, taking feeds, I hated the tube. I cried to have it out but understood that I didn't eat properly so would, quite frankly, blow away without it. It was the only visible giveaway that I wasn't 'normal'. The cough could be explained, as could the skinniness, but not the tube.

To be fair, in later years, I praised it, it was great. But that was as I was older, I didn't really care what other people thought anyway.

So to have it removed and then for the hole to cause me problems was frustrating. I didn't mind the 'second belly button' really. Most people thought it was pretty cool. But now it's gone. That hole part of my life has been closed. I can't see what it [the scar] looks like just yet, but I'm hoping that in a few years, you'll never know it was ever there.

Home from hospital

OK, so lots to talk about, I've just been released from hospital with a nicely stapled stomach, with a digestive system that hasn't moved since Monday(!), with bruises up and down my arms from attempted drip lines (thankfully I was out cold for that bit), but feeling relieved to be back where I'm allowed to do what I want. *Sigh of reliefffffffffffffffffffff* So yes, I'll get to all that eventually, but while I have other work to catch up on, I'll leave you a little scenario which exemplifies how I should never take a Cystic Fibrosis / Transplant educated team for granted again. See if you can follow....

Point 1: I can't digest fat from foods. At all.

Point 2: For this reason, I take medication called Creon to do the fat absorbing job for me.

Point 3: If I eat a chocolate bar, I will take 1-2 Creon tablets. If I have a Sunday roast, I'll take 10-12.

Are you all following?? Great.

So when I arrived at hospital on Monday, all my tablets were confiscated from me. Which, if that's their policy, is fair enough. But I requested that since i eat all day (as in ALL day) if I could keep my Creon on me. I was told no. That I'd have to ask any/every time I wanted it. Annoying, but whatever.

So at 6pm, tablet time arrives and I'm given one Creon tablet.

No, no, I explain. I'm not eating, I don't need Creon.

Oh, but you're written up for it at 6pm, I'm told. No, that's some mistake, I explain. I only need Creon when I eat.

Oh, so you take it three times a day? I'm asked. No, I take it with food, so whenever I eat food, I take Creon.

The nurse leaves and promptly returns with a plain white natural (old person who can't taste anymore) yogurt. I look at it confused.

That's for your Creon, she tells me.

*Sigh*

Lent

I remembered this morning that it's Lent. Since Wednesday. So I decided to give up fizzy drinks.

And I've now just had a glass of sparkling water.

Maybe I'll just do extra days at the end instead.

Positive Psychology

I've had manic weeks before, but in terms of being buried under work, this week was like having a skyscraper built above me; at 5.30pm, this has been my earliest finish all week - 13 hour days in college aren't exactly fun, especially when one is clearly suffering from some form of insomnia, but it will be rewarding I'm sure at the end of it all. No, I know it will be!

So, I thought I'd put down a bit about something interesting I learned this week from a talk we had from Dr. Ilona Boniwell, a positive psychologist and author of the book Positive Psychology in a Nutshell. You can learn about her by clicking here.

She opened by asking us the following question: "If you were going to see a psychologist in the morning, would you go around and tell your friends and people you knew?"

And then,

"If a friend told you they were going to see a psychologist in the morning would your reaction be: 'oh no, why? What's wrong?'"

Why is psychology still seen as a 'victimology'? Why are our reactions not 'Wow, that's great!'?

The second thing I learned was about mental well being, and this is more something to ponder and think about. If someone goes through a particularly stressful or traumatic event, we always hear about people suffering from post traumatic stress. But has anyone ever experienced post traumatic growth? I think that's such an interesting point of note. How many of us experience such difficult circumstances and have our outlook or perspective changed as a result? I'll put my two hands up to that.

And thirdly, two tasks were suggested for greater happiness and overall mental well being.

Each day, you write down three positive or good things that happened in that day. The first few times, you may find it hard to pick out things, let alone three. But within a few weeks you should find it easier. My own personal reasoning for this is that you have a more positive overall outlook so find it easier to find positive things of note.

And finally, random acts of kindness. Five a day. My friend already did four today. I tried, but most revolved around driving and letting people go ahead of me. It made me feel more relaxed when driving but it's something I have to work on.

Anyway in times of stress, positive psychology provides a light of relaxing relief.

Newsaclle Surgical Frollics

(another food pic....)

I got a phone call this morning. My surgery has been booked. For next week! To be honest, the timing is great. It's just a real shame that I don't really want to have the surgery. I mean, obviously, I do; I want the end product. I just don't want the fasting, the pre-op room, the needle, the going to sleep bit, the pain, the scar. But I suppose fear always pushes the negative to the forefront of the mind. The end result will be worth it. And then I can go around telling people the reason I'm so slim is because I've had my stomach stapled. No Biggest Loser for me!

Then I got other exciting news, but I'll reveal all in due course...

The Curious Case of the Unseen Film

I have tried, unsuccessfully, to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button too many times to count. OK, four times. Twice last night alone. I am destined not to see this film.

And then I remembered, I was actually IN this film, why would I need to see it? See evidence above. The fake tan specialist was fired after the make-up on my face didn't match the tan on my arms.

It's Sunday. I have nothing better to do with my time.

Ehhhhhhhhhck

I know you're looking at the waffle above with the whipped cream, fake fruit stuff, chocolate powder, golden syrup and a lifetime's stock of sugar. But no, look just behind, at the empty bowl which previously contained my cereal for breakfast. Yes, I discovered the waffle making machine after I ate you see. And then I ate my creation. I think therein lies my mental problem which explains the following post:

I had immensely bad heartburn yesterday. Worse than pregnancy heartburn. I don't even know if pregnancy heartburn is bad but this had to be worse. I actually looked about 5 months pregnant for the record. I went to the cinema and saw He's Just Not That Into You, which is quite good, but I silently burped about once a minute (sometimes more) which was very uncomfortable. Have you ever burped once a minute for a good two hours? Don't. Actually I kind of suppressed all the burping which possibly made it uncomfortable.

So last night I slept sitting up as I was afraid of reflux aspiration (a complication I'm at risk of) and woke up this morning looking my skinny self again. Phew! I was wide awake by nine but my body wouldn't let me out of the bed. So basically I read and got up at 2pm. Ha. I honestly think my body was wrecked though.

I'm positive it was all a result of greed. I felt myself getting heartburn early yesterday but ohhhhhhh no, I just had to go eat that packet of Doritos, those two bags of microwave popcorn, allllll those chocolate bars, that share size bag of salted nachos, that bottle of diet coke, as well as my normal meals. And the rest. So yes, it's totally my fault.

To counteract the unproductive morning, I went to college and got assignment work done. And then I went to my first aid class and then I babysat. And I even came here. See, I'm not feeling guilty at all and trying to overcompensate for it. What a silly suggestion.

Clinic...

...went well. Since December there has been a downward trend in my lung function but nothing of huge significance- still 98%. They basically calculate the mean/average of your two personal best results and if your lung function drops more than 10% it is considered significant. I am not considered significant. I feel well and plump so was given three months before having to show my face in those parts again. This is a personal best.

Before I see them again, I hopefully will have been on a sun holiday, will have finished my exams, will have a concrete plan for the summer, my hair will be longer, I will weigh more, my car will be fixed, my stomach will have been stapled, my hearing will have been investigated - I said MY HEARING WILL HAVE BEEN INVESTIGATED - and I will have a six pack. Ok, a four pack.

A lot can happen in three months...

I found this on my computer; a photo I took whilst riding the bus in Scotland. Can anyone spot Wally? (Or Waldo, depending on where you're from)