Hyst-erect-atree

If you’re feeling like changing your name to Holly and snogging Michael Buble, this post may not be for you… If however, you’re cuddling up to your inner Grinch and burning your Christmas cards to save on the fuel bill, read on…

You see, the closest I can get to being a happy homemaker, festooned in tinsel creating gorgeous Christmas crafts this year, is chucking sobbed-on tissues at the sickeningly smug face of Kirstie Allsopp as she bullies terrified pensioners into making festive pom poms.

My Festive Domestic Goddess has been wrapped in microwavable packing and pierced three times to let the steam out. That I’m sure will please my husband, Mr Ectomy, as he takes cover behind a copy of the FT and evaluates how to capitalise his investments to ensure a speedy exit from his weepy, waily wife. I’ll be the first to admit that being Hormone-Free can equate to Humour-Free and I’m beginning to worry he will find even Kirstie, with her schoolmarm looks and ridiculously big buttons, more attractive than me…

In world of plump turkeys I am but a scraggy old boiling hen.

But I digress. At this time of year, I’m usually channelling Nigella and donning reindeer oven gloves for the annual tradition of making, and eating, my body weight in cheese pastry. Instead even looking at the beautiful Nige and her designer BJs makes me want to heave. Oo sorry did I say ‘BJs’? I meant ‘PJs’ of course… must be the painkillers!

I thought that my operation had been artfully timed. 5 weeks before Christmas would surely mean I could sit on the sofa stuffing my face full of festive fayre while giving James Martin some well-needed fashion advice. Instead, as you know, I’ve been blubbing a lot, re-living my life-choices to a painful degree, and even worse, losing my appetite!

Well, James Martin and his love of lard could be blamed for the latter, but the first two haven’t brought a whole Santa sackful of fun. I need to do something to cheer myself up before the Ghost of Christmas Future gives me a quick flash of a lonely life in a bedsit in East Ham with no one except a grumpy rat and a drug dealer called Duane for company…

I know… crafts!

So this afternoon I will be taking Kirstie’s advice and making my own decorations to create some much-needed festive cheer…

Well, what else does one do with a drawer full of redundant tampax? Dip them in glitter and hang them on the Christmas tree of course!

Stylish, homemade and utterly unique, the Hyst-erect-atree will fulfil all your post-operative needs!

Merry Christmas 😉

Post, Platitudes & Pain

 

Well it seems Post is the Word of the Week.

My very first Blog post, the Great Christmas Card Post, and of course being three weeks to the day Post Op.

And that’s just how I’m feeling at the moment. All a bit Post…. As in End. After. Sent. Finished.

And about as festive as flip-flops.

Take the Great Christmas Card Post for example. The mad rush to get a bit of thick paper into a bit of thinner bit of paper and sent at extortionate cost to people you probably haven’t contacted since you performed the exact same feat of origami last year. Now I know I’m sounding like I’m getting a ‘Bah Humbug!’ tattoo for my present this year, but honestly, what am I supposed to write in the wretched things?

To those of you receiving them, you will find I’ve gone for a pretty ordinary platitude wishing ‘us all a happy and healthy 2015’. One or two of you might get a veiled reference to my ‘rough year’ or ‘being on the mend’. But some will find a slight smudge on the card where I’ve addressed it to whomever ‘and family’. Not necessarily because I can’t for the life of me remember if your youngest is called Ichabod or Ignatius, but because I started to blub over the ‘y’ and wished I’d used a good old Bic, instead of my best fountain pen.

You see, that’s how Christmas has made me feel this year. Blubby. Because of all the ‘family’ stuff. Because of all of those cherubic pictures of the First Family of Christmas and the Baby Jee. And because ‘Family’ is Christmas Card Code for children. Admittedly it’s not a code you’d need the boys at Bletchley Park to crack, but it’s cracked me almost in half this year.

Post-Operative Pain I have discovered, isn’t just feeling like the Little Donkey has kicked me in the stomach on the way to the manger. Or the stabbing reminder I had what feels like a Dynorod Procedure on my bladder every time my seasonal sherry passes through me at Wee-Warp five.

It’s the realisation that I’ll never now read the ‘and family’ greeting at the top of my cards and bemoan the fact that my so-called friends can’t be bothered to remember the names of my offspring…  It’s the mad thought that the warm toasty feeling of Christmas is in fact my reproductive organs firing up the furnace in Sister Agnes Hospital…. And it’s the dark, bristly fear that I’m going to become the ‘auntie’ my friends’ kids hate to kiss because I’m hairy and smell of wee…

All of which has made me blub, a lot. As well as panic that my presents will consist of a No-No hair remover set, a lifetime subscription to Women’s Weekly for the knitting patterns and an unlimited voucher for Tena Lady.

This is my first post and for those of you who don’t know much about me, please have a look at my ‘Me’ page where you’ll find the back story of Hysterectome.

To those of you who do, just a post script to ask you… to give your kids decent names and then maybe I wouldn’t be so bloody gloomy!