A pilchard is a grown-up sardine

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I woke up this morning feeling like shit. But now, I own a bank – two, actually. Alistair and Gordon bought them for me. And it isn’t even my birthday.
Fancy me, a merchant banker!

Nice to get a comment from Matilde Bonaparte. It’s a bit like that tree falling in a forest: if there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? Well, how do I know if my writing makes a sound unless someone hears it, and tells me.

I haven’t heard from that fellow Adams, although I follow his blog (I still dial www.sparrowchat.blogspot.com) with interest. I guess he is too busy campaigning on behalf of John McCain. Personally I don’t think it matters who gets in – I doubt either of them could measure up to Mr Bush.

I accessed Matilde’s blog: www.thebipolarexpress.blogspot.com and read her post where she talks about the word ‘cunt’. A friend of mine once told me that the test of a really good dictionary is if it gives the origin of that wonderful Anglo-Saxon word as a sheath for a shepherd’s knife.
Well, I have not yet found one that gives this definition – and when I asked a shepherd he told me to fuck off.

I haven’t been well this past week but I am feeling a bit better now, although the weather doesn’t help: rainy, gloomy, miserable – enough to depress anyone – especially someone with a stinking cold.

Recently I sought help from the medical profession, in a couple of areas - one of which I will make the subject of a separate post. I have suffered for some time from the itchy legs; there is no rash, no dry skin, nothing visible that one might think would warrant the attention of a dermatologist. It just comes and goes, for no apparent reason.
I saw my doctor some time ago and he said he thought it could be ‘nerves’. But the doctor I saw last week, after having a good look, said that the itching was caused by very close veins. Well that's what it sounded like. When I realised he meant varicose veins I was astonished. 'What, you mean I have varicose veins?' I said.
'Oh yes' he replied.

Anyway he prescribed some capsules called PAROVEN, which apparently help stop blood leaking into the tissues from faulty one-way valves in the veins. They seem quite successful but I have stopped taking them for the moment; I want to find out exactly how they do this.
Enough for now. It is my lunchtime, and I must rise from where I lie supine in this chair, and open a tin of pilchards.
You’re never alone with a pilchard.