The doctor's secretary is very thorough

Yesterday I had my last appointment with my sports medicine specialist. I couldn't have missed the appointment if I had tried. His secretary is so thorough that I was reminded of my appointment by way of:

• one phone call
• two personally written emails
• one auto-generated email
• three text messages
• and a mailed letter

I kid you not. An actual letter that came in the post. You'd think the country was populated by goldfish for the amount of credit they give people's memories! Astonishing.

Suffice to say, I didn't miss my appointment. And I also better understand the discussion over British bureaucracy.

I need to be more mediocre and why we can't hire a cleaner

It hit me this past Sunday that I would feel a lot less responsible for the upkeep of our home if I could convince myself to be a little more mediocre. No, seriously. Hear me out. I had a few hours on Sunday before the games started up again so I set about to do some cleaning. James, in his own way, attempted to help. There isn't a huge amount of ground to cover in this flat, so in his mind it wouldn't take very long. Meanwhile, I look at both bedrooms, the living room, the kitchen and the bathroom and I know the real story. This is a monster to clean, especially given how lax I'd been in the preceding two or three days. We set to work and, as I have my own routine for cleaning, I gave James some tasks that would lighten my load, but wouldn't give him too much and, to be fair, weren't tasks I would cringe at and have to redo on my own once he'd finished.

Before you start raising objections that James is very capable of cleaning and I should cut him some slack, know that I'm probably a more thorough cleaner than he will ever hope to be and that it isn't his fault. He just wasn't raised by my family. So as he's trundling about doing whatever task I politely requested, I'm bulldozing through the rooms doing a fanatic job of vacuuming every surface (how is that not a recognized verb??). He walks by me at one point and notices the TV remote might be in my way, so he helpfully moves it to one of the side coffee tables. Immediately I correct him,

Me: "That can't go there"
James: (confused look)
Me: "I haven't vacuumed (again, not a verb...why!?) that yet"
James: "You're going to vacuum the coffee tables??"
Me: "Well, yes, but with the dusting attachment, not the floor brush" (Insert the "well, duh" voice)
James: (stunned look) "Can I put it on the dining room table?"
Me: "Of course, I don't vacuum the dining room table - that's silly!"

The dining room table, in fact, is cleaned using other methods.

What this all means is that I can't hire a cleaner. And again, before you get all nasty with me, know that since moving here I've found that hiring a cleaner is incredibly normal, even for renters with seemingly available time for doing such things as scrubbing their own toilets. More to my point, however, are questions such as, will the cleaner do the baseboards EVERY TIME? Will they vacuum the couch in a manner that restores it to near-new conditions? Will they use the dusting attachment to clean the lampshades on the bedside tables and then use the crease tool to vacuum inside the wall sconces? I highly doubt they will. And if they do, how much am I going to have to pay for that sort of methodical work?

If I were willing to accept a more mediocre standard, I'd be a-ok with mediocre work. But as it is, I can't. For better or worse, I cannot settle in this or any other such matters.

My derby heart is breaking

Today has been a bit tough for me. It's the Beast of the East in Montreal and it's the first Beast I've missed since 2009. Beast, for those who aren't familiar, is a 16 team roller derby tournament held in Montreal over a weekend. It's a double-elimination tournament with 28 games in total and a real marathon for participant and spectator alike. My beloved Slaughter Daughters are playing and I miss them so much!

I've been with the Slaughter Daughters since they were born (and before that too - long story, not worth discussing). With my injury putting me out of play for the last two seasons, I've been supporting, sewing and helping to jammer manage on the bench. Watching them skate without me while I was injured was hard, but I was comforted by having a place on the bench to still be a part of the machine. Now that I'm in London I can't help them at all or share in any of the fun. All I can do is tune into Canuck Derby TV and watch from over on my side of the pond (and scream at the monitor...which I've been doing). It's been a really hard day for me. I miss them so much and wish I could be there for them.

Last year we actually won the crazy tournament, so it's especially bitter sweet to watch them play this weekend since I know how many different emotions they must be going through and I can't share in it and hug it out with them. Ok, now I'm crying. But I did that last year when we won too, so that's normal, I suppose.

Pretty Sketchy and I joining them after their win. Photo by Derek Lang of Bagel Hot

And yes, there's me crying happy tears. Also by Derek Lang of Bagel Hot

The last jam of our winning game last year has been repeatedly cited as being the most exciting in the history of Canadian roller derby. I fully agree. It was a moment I'll never forget and am thankful to have been a part of that beautiful group of women. If you're like my parents and don't have a clue about derby, that's ok, you can still get the excitement going on in this clip:

So yeah, big emotions for me this weekend as I watch it all go down on the monitor instead of in person. And I'm also missing out on three meals at Aux Vivres, a super-yummy restaurant we invade all weekend. And I'm missing out on playing around with the fantastic (and ridiculously fun) Canuck Derby TV crew, whom I spent a good majority of my non-game hours with last year helping out on the text cast for the games. 

But then, on top of all of this, I now have more teams to root for - a handful of RVRG skaters, whom I love, moved to Montreal and have been picked up by various home teams there. Talk about dividing my loyalties when my best friend now dresses in purple and gold! 

Ok, back to it - the games are still going and I've gotta make it until after midnight when the Slaughter Daughters play again (thanks time zones, yeesh).

English Weather

People seem to get pretty down about the weather in London, but I've gotta say, it's amazing for me. No word of a lie, I much prefer this to Canada (so far). Hear me out:

• No snow...or at least very little. It's currently snowing in certain parts of Canada. I'd rather not be a part of that. But when it does snow here, people are all a-tizzy about it and act like children. Do you remember, Canada, what it felt like to experience snow as a child? Yeah, I'd forgotten as well, but these people aren't so over-exposed that they're complacent. It's wonderful. We had snowball fights.

• Along with that no snow thing, imagine no crazy freezing temperatures. Some of the people I've talked to didn't even realise negative 34C was a temperature people CHOSE to live in for months at a time.

• We may not be getting the extreme highs that Ontario is (unseasonally) getting, but then again, we're also not going from 28C to 6C in a 24 hour period. I'll take a consistent 12C or 14C for the better part of the spring, thank you very much.

• English rain is actually pretty calming and subtle. Granted, this week we've also had some serious thunder, but from what people at the pub told me, it's unusual and they were pretty freaked out by it all. I, of course, loved it. I was reminded of standing on the front porch or in the garage with my dad and watching the weather change and tire itself out. Today I was certain people thought I'd gone loony - I willingly walked home from the gym in an amazing downpour (including a moment of hail) with a huge grin on my face. It was just really peaceful and felt like the perfect moment.

• This is serious pants weather. And by pants, I mean trousers. Because pants are underwear, according to Brits. And I'd rather not talk about my underwear on the blog since my family reads this (shout out to Lilac Lingerie in Ottawa! I miss you!). So North America pants = trousers. I love trousers. I'm not huge on shorts and I've only recently really branched out into dresses and skirts, but oh man, can I rock a pair of trousers. Therefore, this weather is pleasing to my sartorial direction.

• Also, I hate to sweat. Or rather, I hate to sweat when I'm doing NOTHING. Sweating at the gym or because it is warranted it completely acceptable. But what I don't care for is sitting on a patio in the middle of Elgin St, having a drink with friends and feeling sweat run down my back. Humid, sweaty Ottawa, I'm sorry, you lose on this point too.

• The light here is remarkable. Even when it's overcast and rainy, it's still abundantly luminous. I like that a lot.

• Weather here is constantly changing, which I adore. I love getting up to a bright sunny day and getting things done, then getting a good dose of rain in the afternoon just in time for tea so that I get all snuggly on the couch. It's fantastic. Sort of schizophrenic, but fantastic.

So yeah, the weather is making my day, these days. And the rain is also brilliant right now because England has been in the worst drought in decades, so even if this isn't enough to make a huge difference, hopefully it helps a little. 

Down pour outside my gym this morning

Pounds and pence

We've been here just over four months now and I can say, with a certain amount of embarrassment, that I'm only just feeling confident about what these coins in my wallet are worth (also, purse = wallet here...so confusing when trying to buy a new wallet. I mean, purse. I  mean, um, gah, this money is too tall for my bill holding device!). I took a peek back through my posts to try to find the one I wrote about becoming a cultural toddler, but I can't find it, so to recap: I knew I'd have a steep learning curve when we arrived and that the currency would be a big part of that curve. I mean, for starters, they have 20p coins, not quarters. And the shapes are all off-kilter from what I spent thirty years learning. And they sound different when they hit the ground. If I dropped a bit of Canadian change, I had a pretty good chance of making an accurate count of what was there. Here? Not so much. But I'm trying.

Well, here we are, four months in and I've stopped giving shopkeepers helpless looks when they tell me the total. I now reserve those looks for the post office personnel (that's another story). On a good day I can confidently shovel out either the exact change or something approximating the best combination to get the minimal amount in return.

Or at least I thought I could. 

Last weekend, in Edinburgh, James and I were at Hula Juicebar getting fuel for the day and a rare event occurred: the task of paying fell to me. I pulled out a mitt full of change and proceeded to come up with a combination that used up as much of the smaller amounts as possible to lighten my load. James lovingly watched on. When I'd handed over the change, feeling quite good about my little victory, James remarked, matter-of-factly, "You could have done better." Apparently there was a more optimal combination that I missed. Seriously? That's how we're starting the day?? Yup. 

In an incredibly mature counter-move, I mumbled under my breath, "That's what my mom said" and sipped my juice. In some aspects, it seems, I'm still a bit of a toddler.

Lessons learned on tour

As I mentioned yesterday, we spent last weekend in Scotland. While it was partly a vacation, it was also partly work. James' band, The Reverb Syndicate, came over from Canada for two weeks to play a series of shows. The first weekend was based in and around London, while the second weekend took us all up to Edinburgh and Glasgow. The band has been together for a good long while now (see what I did there? I'm can't recall exactly how many years...6...7...8...? so I'm dodging the specifics. Slick, eh?) and has put out three albums.

Poster designed by Marc Audet at Rocket 57 Illustration & Animation

This is the longest tour I've had the pleasure of experiencing with the band (I'm one of two go-go dancers. I know, right? Ridiculous fun) and I've learned a few things over the last two weeks of tour:

• Having seven people in our flat meant a trip to Argos to buy an air mattress. And I got the privilege of carrying home said air mattress on the bus. Slogan on the side of the box? INFLATE YOUR FUN. Yup. Not sketchy at all. *eye roll*
• Only one set of keys for five guests makes for some seriously complex scheduling...but someone (poor drummer) will still spend a late, rainy evening on the front porch waiting to be let inside. Bonus knowledge: our wifi extends to the front porch, so you won't necessarily be bored!
• If you wait until the last minute to buy your go-go boots, you're going to end up with a pair that permanently smell as though they've been through a warehouse fire. In fact, for the price you pay, you can guarantee they have!
• Seven people. One toilet. *shudder*
• There hits a point where everyone just needs alone time. It's perfectly acceptable and necessary for band survival.
• I am not made for staying in a hostel. No matter how "nice" it may be.
• Chips, cheese and curry is an amazing combination and the closest poutine substitute available over here.
• Not everyone appreciates having their antics captured on digital video...and broadcast to Twitter.
• No matter how hard you try, your eating habits will, for the most part, go right out the window when trying to accommodate six other peoples' needs and preferences. Relax, go with it and get to the gym the second they leave.
• Band sickness exists. It is inevitable and it will take you all down one by one. The person who escapes it is a jerk for not getting involved and participating

And, because it was so damn good, chips, cheese and curry:

Missing Molly

We've returned from a weekend in Scotland and, more specifically, Edinburgh. If you've never been before, you might not know that there are images of, and references to, Greyfriars Bobby everywhere. The most iconic image, of course, is the little statue. We ran into it within minutes of checking into our accommodations:

I've left my little dog, Molly, back in Canada with my parents (along with cat, Penny and snail, Speedy) and am missing her terribly. Seeing Greyfriars Bobby everywhere I turned made me miss her all the more. And the adorable small dogs in smart tartan coats didn't help either. Poor James had to endure endless "awww"s each time we crossed paths with a dog and double "awww"s if the dog was attired in any sort of coat.

So I've sent Molly a postcard of the statue telling her just how much I miss her. You don't have to say it; I know what you're thinking. Don't worry, Molly doesn't use the computer much so I won't spoil anything for her by writing about it here.

Leaving the animals behind was a hard decision to make, but it's the best one. We didn't know where we'd be living and how much time/space we'd be able to give them once we settled in, so we put their needs first. They live in complete luxury at my parents' suburban home. Molly gets long walks and trips to the cottage. Penny gets her little box cleaned roughly four times a day (seriously, it's like this has become my dad's part time job) and she has more chairs and sunbeams than she knows what to do with. And Speedy gets peace and quiet and, since it makes life easier, a tank heater. 

My parents have been lovely enough to send photos pretty often to show us how they're getting on and I can honestly say, I don't think they've noticed our absence. We are visiting in September and I can't wait to give my dog a very big cuddle. In the mean time I'm going to watch the neighbourhood dogs wistfully and hope they bother to give me a look.

Penny antagonising Molly on one of the many chairs she's claimed as "hers"

Molly at the cottage, resting between bouts of duck chasing

A wrinkle in my plan

I've brought my iPad with me on the train in the hopes that I'd be able to turn out some amazing entry that's profound, introspective and thought-provoking, but James is sitting across from me in a wrinkled shirt. It's like he's absolutely clueless that I detest wrinkled clothing. He's not. He knows I can't stand when he wears a rumpled shirt. Or when the bed sheets have such wrinkles that I lay awake at night wishing I could pull them off of him and give them a thorough ironing. He knows. He's watched my tortured agony when I'm forced to accept that ironing our sheets is not the best use of my time and I must grit my teeth and make the bed "as is."

With all of this knowledge at his disposal, he still chose to pull the freshly-laundered-but-not-yet-meticulously-ironed shirt from the hanger, and believe it was a wise move. Foolish, foolish James.

Point of Interest: Martha Stewart has an entire ROOM in one of her houses devoted to ironing. She has huge machines that iron sheets. I think I've mentioned this somewhere before. She's my ironing hero, second to my dad, who taught me how to iron (Sorry dad, Martha has a whole room for ironing. You taught me to iron in the laundry room - true, that is a room, but with multiple uses so it just isn't the same). James clearly doesn't have an ironing hero...if he did, he wouldn't commit such a heinous crime against good taste.

God, and he won't stop talking so that I can finish this before I lose Internet connection. C'mon James! Yeesh.

A little audio from Brighton Beach

I'm usually a scent-driven person, but since moving I've been really into the sounds of my new surroundings and adventures. I thought it might be interesting to add some audio to the blog. Mostly just stuff that I record using my iPhone as I'm wandering about. Nothing splashy and certainly no spoken word...I'm not spending that much time alone. Yet.

This is my test-run with an audio recording I took while James and I were at Brighton Beach in February. If this doesn't entirely cock up, I have a bunch more I'd like to post. As added pressure, I'm on a train headed for Scotland when this is scheduled to post, so that's definitely tempting fate to have this backfire. Or be entirely all too brilliant. We'll see.



When we were at the beach it hit me how the waves make a noise similar to those hokey rain stick thingies as they're receding from the rocks. I liked it so much I wanted to record it, but only had my iPhone. So that's what I'm doing now. Recording the world on my iPhone.

Buying salt

When we were still living in corporate accommodation in The City (London's financial district), we had a kitchenette in our unit, so we tried to eat in as much as possible. Of course, that required buying groceries and, when you're starting from scratch, you have to purchase every single staple item as it's required. There's nothing worse than being right in the thick of a recipe and realising that you don't have any cumin. Don't take your pantry for granted. Everyone, go give your pantry a grateful and approving look. I'll wait here.

We don't cook with heaps of salt, but we still use it, so it went onto the grocery list one morning. I didn't think it would be so difficult. Our closest grocery store happened to be attached to our corporate flat, so I scoured the meagre aisles hunting down salt. Given that I was still so new at visiting British grocery stores, I took my time - many of the brands I am used to just don't exist here, or if they do, they've been repackaged for the UK market. Tricksy, tricksy products.

Upon finding the herbs and spices, I thought, "Well, here we go; salt, I'm coming to find you!" But I didn't find the salt. Undeterred, I thought I might have better luck with the baking supplies. I rounded the corner and found everything but salt. I gave up and left. We cooked without salt for a few more days. Not one to handle my defeats well (and also obstinately stubborn when it comes to asking a shop clerk for assistance), I returned to the site of my previous defeat and gave the store such a thorough once-over that I'm sure the security guards had me pegged as a shoplifter waiting to happen. I was rewarded by finding the salt tucked away at the end of an aisle, near a support pole, practically obstructed from the desperate eyes of salt-seekers. I can only assume it is the one remaining survival technique employed by salt.

Apparently wanting to buy a small amount of salt is next to impossible. I might as well have asked for six different varieties of sugar, individually packaged in one cup portions, because that would have been possible. Small amounts of salt, however, are out of the question, unless you're going to cruise all the fast food joints in the area lifting salt packets from the condiment stands. Maybe it was like this in Canada too and I just didn't notice because we'd had our box of salt for so long, it became a member of the family, only without a birthday.

On the plus side, my massive bottle of salt cost me 39p (that's $0.62 Canadian). 750g. Nearly a full kilo, for less than the cost of a chocolate bar. I simply do not understand, but I do know that we'll have salt for years and years. I'll be handing this salt down to my children and telling them fanciful stories about how I had to leave the house and go to a store to buy this salt with actual money (apparently I'm assuming that by the time I get around to actually making use of my reproductive system we'll have grown beyond a paper-based currency. Stop crying, mom.).

And because photos are fun, here's my salt beside a reasonable sized salt shaker:

See? Free running, even. Whew, that's my conscience cleared that the salt wasn't kept in captivity.

Less me. I get it, I get it

Enough already, right? Three solid days of me and mehab and me and doctors, and I can tell you're all hitting unsubscribe faster than you can make a cuppa. Hint: it's actually three minutes for the ideal tea, according to several programs I've seen that focus on exactly this issue. But if you've got a DavidsTea problem, disregard my advice; your times are listed on the can. I see you caught that: yes, they have programs about tea here. And yes, I've seen them. Moving on then.

In an effort to be less about my medical history, because let's be honest, aside from my mom, NONE of you care for the details, I thought I should give you a little tour of our flat! And that means this post relies heavily on photos, relieving the all-consuming pressure I feel to be the brilliant spark of amusement in your mid-week work routine. Sighs of relief all around. If you've already received the virtual tour via FaceTime, I won't be offended (much) if you scroll to the bottom feigning interest and then carry on with your day.

I don't know if I mentioned but our front lawn has a palm tree. It also happens to be covered in ivy. It's pretty fantastic. And no, I won't be posting front door shots, stalker. Yeesh.

We ended up with a two bedroom flat simply because the number of people who have already/plan to/say they will but won't visit is astounding. And I like having somewhere to put the computer (and thus, James) that isn't the living room.

So if you should happen to be one of the lucky thousand who are planning a trip to visit (or have already visited - you people were really on top of things to get here already), here's where you stay:

And here's where James and I stay:

Because I didn't take the photos (James did a while ago), there are a number of features in each room that I can't point out because, well, you can't see them. But I can point out that there are massive floor to ceiling windows in both rooms and the ceilings are something like fourteen feet. It's actually adorable because the rooms all have normal doors with extensions stuck to the top. And wardrobes. I've never had a great big Ikea wardrobe, but I'm loving it right now. Which is probably why all my things get put away neatly each day.

The tour is going to skip the bathroom because I can't actually find a photo of the bathroom, even though I know I've taken a half dozen.

Our living room/dining room looks like this: 

And at this point, I'm a teeny bit regretful that I'm too lazy to pull out the ultra wide lens and take a proper photo. In the bottom left corner you can just see the arm of the couch....so yeah, there's a couch there too. While we're on the subject of the couch, let's talk about that: our flat is completely furnished. Apparently that's the thing to do in London. You rock up to the city with zero and move into furnished accommodations, give or take an item or two. We are either incredibly lucky or grossly overpaying because our landlord supplied EVERYTHING. Including dishes and cookware. It's a really odd concept for me to grasp and I spent a lot of time deep cleaning everything when we moved in because, seriously, who puts down a shag carpet for tenents?! Thankfully the flat was also furnished with a beautiful Miele S2 vacuum, so I've been compulsively cleaning.

Our kitchen actually requires you to go down a short set of stairs around a corner. It's hard to do them justice, but they're a little scary when you're tipsy. The kitchen is actually a lot larger than pretty much every other kitchen I looked at when hunting, so we lucked out here. It has some really crazy features, such as hidden appliances, that I love. Our fridge, for instance, is in that far left bottom cupboard. It's tiny. Our washer/dryer (combo - that's another story altogether) is in the cupboard below the dish rack. And our dishwaster is to the right of the sink. All very well concealed and teeny tiny.

Because I think they're fabulous, I did just snap iPhone photos of the appliances (bless you iCloud for putting them on the computer for me):

Our little fridge - the beer isn't ours, I haven't changed THAT much.

Washer/"dryer" combo. I'll explain that another time.

Dishwasher perfectly suited for two.

And to complete the tour, how about a shot of our back neighbours from the kitchen window? You might as well get a look at them - I watch them daily.

Just to answer any questions (what, you mean you didn't have questions?!), both of the houses you can see are COMPLETE UNITS. The people over there have all four floors to themselves, whereas on our side of the street, our house is divided into five units. The people on the left have a nanny and a gardener. The people on the right have a cleaning lady. Not that I noticed. Or that I actually worked out their schedules. I'm just really observant. Seriously. Like, special agent observant. Shut up.

There you go. A whole post not about my leg or about my continuing quest to find myself. And mostly just pictures. You're welcome!

Physio revisited

Way back when I posted my newest update on The Injury and how it's being treated here in the UK. I'm pleased to report that things are moving along, but much like the health care I received in that post, it bears mentioning how my testing went down:

I showed up at the hospital for the CT scan and was taken to the machine. The same doctor who performed my ultrasound was present and they took a number of scans to try to see what they were after. When he'd had enough of that, he decided he wasn't getting the imaging he wanted from the CT so he casually suggested we walk across the hall to the MRI. Canadians, please pick up your dropped jaws. I know. I was dying over how casual the whole affair was. No rebooking at another facility, no waiting several months, no showing up at a children's hospital at one in the morning to sneak into their machines while they slept. None of that. Remember: I'm on private care here. Apparently if I were on NHS (think OHIP equivalent, but across the country), it would still be relatively simple. I'm sceptical, but that's what I've been told. Anyway, into the machine I go and within minutes we're done.

Once I'd changed out of my fashionable gown/house coat ensemble, I returned to James in the inner waiting room by the MRI. The doctor overseeing my whole diagnostic affair was sitting in a dark room at the end of the hall and he beckoned for us to join him. On the screen in front of him he had both my CT and MRI images side by side and was doing crazy digital comparisons of both. He proceeded to point out what he was looking at and explain several of the findings to me on the spot. I was just thrilled. James was slightly taken aback ("Did you see your ovaries?! He could see your ovaries!"). As I left to pay for the tests I was handed a disc with all my images from the day on them. I was on my own little Cloud 9.

I went back in to see my main doctor and we discussed the options. It was very clear that the scarring was superficial and didn't affect either muscle - it was just inconveniently wedged between them, making it difficult to resolve. Because surgery was going to require doing damage to the muscles that were perfectly fine, it was ruled out and the option we came back to was physiotherapy. At this point, I was done. I came in too optimistic and hoping for a wild, radical, revolutionary solution to get me set right asap. Hearing that physio was the recommended course of action put me right back to the countless hours (and thousands of dollars) already spent in Canada on this injury and that was it for me: I cried. My doctor became uncomfortable. All around, it was a lose-lose scenario. I couldn't get my points across and he was at a total loss for how to handle me further. So he wrote out the name, address and phone number of the physiotherapy practice he'd like me to visit and I took my leave.

Apparently my crying was difficult for him because within minutes of leaving my doctor's office, he'd called the physio practice and had a discussion with them regarding my case. Then they called me to book me an appointment. I was gob-smacked. And relieved.

I was exceptionally hasty to judge the physio recommendation because what I've experienced in physio in the UK is completely unlike any of the care I received in Canada. It's not to say it's better, just very, very different. Quite frankly, it's kicking my butt. I've got a constantly updating list of exercises to do and am expected to be in the gym doing weights four or five days a week. On top of skating. And at-home stretches and movements. And now I'm running. I secretly believe my physiotherapist wants to make me into a marathon runner.

The physio practice has a podiatrist on site who has assessed my gait and alignment. That was a strange experience in itself, but it has given me a better insight into my body. I'm very symmetrical, apparently, with high arches. Combined with a few other factors, it was decided that I should change my running shoes immediately. Good thing too, mine are filthy. So with his recommendation in hand, I went to Runners Need as directed and picked up a pair of Brooks Adrenaline. Now, five weeks into physio, I'm feeling pretty positive. It's all steps towards getting me fully functioning, but even more than that, it's helping to decrease the pain. Skin pain still abounds, but it takes less time to subside now.

If I can be permitted, which, let's be honest, I can, I consider this to be mehab Step 4: get your body sorted.

More mehab. The Things.

It feels really good to know that people are still there after taking my big mehab break.

So let's recap. I inadvertently started a list of the steps for my own personal mehab. They're clearly not for everyone, but here's what I got out of my hiatus:

Step 1: admit you are an adult

Step 2: adjust your eating (I'll write more about clean eating and share my favourite recipes...but this won't become a food blog)

Step 3: clean the house. A lot.

When we moved from our house to a tiny little flat here in London, we didn't bring much with us. In fact, we had a massive yard sale (as you'll recall from a few whiny posts) and really pared down our lives. Well, after arriving here, I really can't think of very many items we put in storage that I actually want back. In fact, we've both made a very concerted effort to avoid amassing things. A prime example of this was Valentine's Day where we gave each other consumable items instead of crap that will sit around the flat collecting dust (me: scotch, him: macarons) Our flat is small, so that's helpful, but also, what are we really doing in buying all this stuff? Wouldn't we be happier with fewer things (maybe nicer ones of whatever we MUST buy) and more money to eat, travel etc.? Yes. I believe we would. So that's what we've been doing: not buying things. 

It doesn't sound like a big deal, but it really is! Think about all those little bits and bobs that make it into your life and your house on a weekly basis. What do you really need to live? Not much, I can assure you. Even what we have right now is too much, but we're a work in progress. I can still look at things and admire them, but I don't need to fill my house with them to be happy. It's a pretty awesome and liberating feeling and after a couple of months of seriously weighing out purchases before they're made, we've done well and the manufactured "need" is dwindling. I have been drawn to a few items, but only those items we truly require have made it through our door.

As an example of this, we did have to buy end tables for the flat. The couch needed a solid-topped table for drinks. So we did buy those. But I chose ones with shelves that conceal the contents and are an easily-transportable shape. They'll work well in a future room should we have to move them. Also, they're a slick design and if you adopt the William Morris belief, they're a-ok:

"Have nothing in your homes that you do not know to be useful and believe to be beautiful."

Kartell Componibili Round Tables by Anna Castelli Ferrieri from nest.co.uk

Where this all matters is in Step 3: clean the house. A lot. With fewer items in our house, I've found it way easier to keep clean and I've actually relished doing the housework. So much so that when I've got a regular, undisrupted week, I'm cleaning every second day. This is pretty revolutionary for me and a big part of mehab. I've always kept a clean house, but not necessarily a tidy one. Now I put things away as I finish using them and my clothing gets hung up every night before bed. I unpack my bags immediately after returning from a trip and in general I just get shit done. It may sound incredible that someone at my age needs to go through this, but I suspect I'm not alone.

Poor James has been doing these sorts of things for ages, so I can only imagine how secretly pleased he is that I'm finally stepping up. Also, I'm doing all his laundry, ironing his shirts and making his dinners. Forget secretly pleased. He better be vocally pleased about this!

In any case, when I feel like I'm more in control of my environment, I'm better able to handle situations. Thanks mehab!

Mehab. It's a real thing, I swear

Where have I been?! I basically just went through mehab. I'm not pointing fingers, but let's be honest, somewhere along the line I should have been given some pointers on how to grow up (guidance counsellors and parents, I'm looking at you). Since I didn't get the pointers, or wasn't listening or something, I have gone to mehab instead. It's kinda like rehab, only instead of correcting my behaviours where drugs/alcohol/whatever other vice are concerned, I took the time to learn all kinds of great new habits that I probably should have already picked up as an adult.

There, since I've made up mehab, I've also just made up the first step in the mehab treatment process: admit you are an adult. I'm already rocking this recovery plan. That I invented. Shut up.

So what did my mehab involve? Well, I could say I disconnected a little bit...but if you follow me on Twitter or Facebook or Instagram or anywhere else online, you know that's sort of a fib. So basically, other than blogging, I was still around. But the blogging part was on my mind....I just wasn't in a place where I could produce output, you know? I spent a lot of time absorbing information and thinking about all sorts of things related to who I've become and what I would rather be (and what I do actually like about who I am). And I also covered some basics like learning how to walk again (thank you, amazing physiotherapist who is kicking my ass and correcting two years of injury issues) and how to eat again.

The eating thing is actually a huge one for me. There's this blogger, Danielle, over at Sometimes Sweet and back in the beginning of February she challenged her readers to eat clean. She also added the part about dropped sugar as it related to her, but since I have a sordid saccharine history, I included that in my plan too. This challenge coincided with moving into our flat and having almost nothing in our cupboards as well as me having all the time in the world, so it was the perfect way to embrace a new pattern of eating. And so we did. I've gone from a sugar-heavy diet of "I thought I ate really well" to turning my back on sugar and really embracing food changes that are more meaningful and beneficial for my body. To say that this has been a huge change is probably an understatement.

I've had serious improvements in my body, skin and moods and in the most recent two weeks, it has shown dramatically. We've had guests for a while now and my routines are off, which means my choices are bad and my diet has suffered. The hiccups are so evident and I'm hating how difficult it is to make better choices when my life is disrupted, so that's something I need to work toward overcoming. I truly believe spending more time in picking up recipes that I love and can make easily will make a difference on that front. Thankfully I've been exposed to so many amazing blogs and clean eating resources, so recipes are plentiful.

In any case, Danielle, some woman in the United States, whom I've never met (and likely never will), changed my life. The internet is powerful ya'll!

egg and feta kale bake - my favourite clean eating meal from Running to the Kitchen

And now I'm going to spend some of my Easter afternoon lying on the couch in a puddle of technicolour snot-filled tissues moaning to the internet about how I hate getting sick. Cheers!