New blog, kind of

Hello.

Like a ghost town round here, isn't it?

Well, I'm in a flare up again.

So I'm sort of covering it in a new blog.

It's here, if you want to take a peek.

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.

While you wait

A dear, sweet old lady sits knitting. Click-clack-click-clack. Her 79-year-old hands are as nimble and fast as those belonging to a 7-year-old Primark sweatshop worker. Click-clack-click-clack. The knitting needles are a blur of flurried activity. Click-clack-click-clack. She’s waiting for a blood test. She’s number 1265. The digital display beeps and turns over to 48. Click-clack-click-clack. The ball of wool in her lap shrinks to the size of a walnut. She reloads. Click-clack-click-clack. She finishes her jumper with a tight little knot. The jumper has a passable Michael Aspel face knitted on the front. She holds it up to the oohs and aahhs of the waiting room. Without pause for breath she starts knitting another. Click-clack-click-clack. The dear, sweet old lady asks if anyone has any requests. And soon she is creating a tank top with Amy Winehouse (no stranger to needles, ironically) on the front. Click-clack-click-clack. 57 on the digital display. Click-clack-click-clack. Now everyone is clambering to put in a request with the old lady. Number 63 misses his turn as he watches his Daisy Duke jumper emerge from the tips of those magic knitting needles. Click-clack-click-clack. An hour passes and everyone in the waiting room is sporting a hand-knitted jumper with a celebrity on it. Even the doctors have got in on the act. My consultant passes by looking quite pleased with himself, sporting a rather fetching wooly with Danger Mouse on it. Click-clack-click-clack. It’s one way to pass the time. Click-clack-click-clack. It’s important to have something to do whilst you wait. Click-clack-click-clack. I’m not much of knitter myself, although in my younger days it wasn’t unknown for me to make the occasional Action Man jumper or Womble scarf. No, when I’m waiting for my turn at the hospital I like to sort out my gas and electricity bills and other mundane domestic rubbish. Better to do it there than have it eat up my free time, I say.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 5.0

“I’m firmly in the 1 - 3 camp, which makes up 44% of us.” Did I really say that? Surely not? How could I have been so nonchalant, so bold, so certain, so rash…so cocksure? But I did say it. There it is in Monday’s post. “I’m firmly in the 1 - 3 camp, which makes up 44% of us.” Oh, how foolish I feel now. How damned silly. I’m going to have to cut myself a slice of humble pie. I’m going to put my bib on and eat my own goddamn words. WDOAT will explain why.

Wednesday 25th June:
6.45am Solid
1.30pm Solid, gassy
2.45pm Solid, gassy
6.20pm Mucus
7.25pm Mucus, gassy
9pm Mucus, nothing much else

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

Comments:
Room for one more in the 4 - 6 camp?

Shit off a shovel

I reckon I’ve broken a few land speed records legging it to the loo in my time, but I’ve never seen a loo that can break land speed records. Until now.