365 days

On Saturday Number Twos will be 1 year old.

This, then, will be the 184th post, and also the last.

I’ve given it a lot of thought and I think it’s time to take my final bow.

I always intended this blog to be an honest account of the ups and downs of my life with ulcerative colitis.

But as my UC has settled, there are fewer ups and downs.

It’s all become rather middling.

Which is great from a health perspective, but it doesn’t necessarily make for very interesting reading.

Basically I’ve run out of material. And the last thing I want to do is start repeating myself.

So, Number Twos will be no more.

I’ve had a good run. It’s been fun. I’ve written something like 49,000 words, mostly on the subject of poo.

Which is a shitload of words when you think about it.

There have been 51 WDOATs. Thankfully I stopped squirming with embarrassment after the first few.

And finally, I never dreamt that you lot out there would join in with your comments, suggestions and kind words.

You made writing this blog all the more enjoable. I’d like to thank you all for reading.

I don’t want to prattle on.

My blogging days may not be over though. I have a germ of an idea. And it’s UC related. I’m not sure where it’s going to go yet. But that’s how Number Twos started…

If anything comes of it I’ll post the details here. Let’s call it Number Twos: Chapter Two.

Until then, go in peace. And less often.

Martin

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 5.1

As I wrote yesterday I've been feeling a bit bloated. No idea what's causing it. I haven't drank any Fizzy Lifting Drink. Promise. Seriously, I haven't. Not a drop has passed my lips.

Wednesday 2nd July:
6.10am Constipated feeling, bitty stool
2.50pm Constipated feeling, looser stool
3.30pm Constipated feeling, bitty stool
6.50pm Spluttery

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
3 x Azathioprine 50mg
1 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg

Comments:
As my mum would say with a weary sigh, if it's not one thing it's another.

Martin and the chocolate factory

"Oh, those are fabulous!" cried Mr. Wonka. "They fill you with bubbles, and the bubbles are full of a special kind of gas, and this gas is so terrifically lifting that it lifts you right off the ground just like a balloon, and up you go until your head hits the ceiling and there you stay."

"But how do you come down again?" asked little Charlie.

"You do a burp, of course," said Mr Wonka. "You do a great big long rude burp, and up comes the gas and down comes you! But don't drink it outdoors! There's no knowing how high up you'll be carried if you do that. I gave some to an old Oompa Loompa once out in the back yard and he went up and up and disappeared out of sight! It was very sad. I never saw him again."

"He should have burped," Charlie said.

"Of course he should have burped," said Mr Wonka. "I stood there shouting 'Burp, you silly ass, burp, or you'll never come down again!' But he didn't or couldn't or wouldn't, I don't know which. Maybe he was too polite. He must be on the moon by now."

Ah, the wonderful Fizzy Lifting Drinks scene from Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Haven’t we all wanted to be Charlie Bucket at some point? The Wonka Factory had such an impact on my young imagination that even now old Victorian factories fascinate me. Even though very few remain, and those that do are dilapidated husks or have been turned into trendy apartments, whenever I catch a fleeting glimpse of one from a train or bus window my mind conjures up images of life behind those gargantuan brick walls; the hustle and bustle; the round-the-clock whir and whiz-clank of the magical machinery bellowing plumes of soot and pungent smoke from the chimneys, out over the Peter Pan London skyline; the smell of jam or tea or hops or vinegar that once soaked the air. And of course the sweet aroma of chocolate. These last couple of days I’ve felt some affinity with one of the characters from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Sadly it isn’t Charlie, or even Grandpa Joe. No, I’ve felt a bit like the old Oompah Loompah who drank the Fizzy Lifting Drink and couldn’t burp. I’ve been extremely bloated this week. I’m writing this now with the top button of my jeans undone. It’s uncomfortable and feels like something is pushing into my bladder or something. I don’t know. My knowledge of human anatomy is based entirely on the game Operation, which doesn’t really help much. All I can say is my tummy feels like a balloon and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I too started to float up, up and away. But instead of burping the only thing that will bring me back to Earth is a massive fart. In an ironic twist, for once I can’t fart. All those thunderous trumps I wish I hadn’t done, and now when I really need to sneak out some gas, when I really need to let one go, I can’t. My wind is trapped. Sealed in. So I have every sympathy for the Oompah Loompah. I fear he may not be alone on the Moon for much longer.