"Incredible, one of the worst performances of my career..."

"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." - Ferris Bueller

He's right you know. Life moves pretty fast. So this is me stopping and looking around for a bit. It has been 4 months, 22 days, 22 hours and 27 minutes since last you heard from me. Not that I have to tell you that, I'm sure you've all been counting. But why the months of silence I hear you cry? Well, life's been moving pretty fast.

I need to start with the big news because all the other news really stems from that: 11 years of M.E. are behind me and no years of M.E. are in front of me! I'm delighted to tell that I have made improvements in leaps and bounds since around November last year. I signed up for The Lightning Process with some lovely people in Suffolk and results have been remarkable. It is one of those things that is often viewed with suspicion by the M.E. community - hardly surprising. In fact when I first started researching it I was one of those cynics. It's a cynicism born of years of either no treatment or utterly ineffective ones and little hope for the future. It's the self-preservation instinct. Many sufferers have had their hopes raised by various promises of 'cures' only to have these dreams come crashing down around their ears. I won't recommend The Lightning Process unreservedly. It was the most difficult thing that I've ever done (and that includes dealing with the loss of the 2007 Rugby World Cup!) and I'm not convinced that every person will cope with it but I can't deny the fact that it's worked for me. This blog is not the place to go into details but feel free to comment leaving your e-mail address if you'd like to hear any more of my thoughts.

So it's all change for Giraffe-a-licious. I have a job! Since June I've been working part time in the office of a local primary school. I'm just coming to the end of the school holidays now so I've got to get my work head back in order but so far so good. Do you know what the best thing is about having a job? Not having to look for a job! Job hunting must be one of the most soul-destroying undertakings in life. Gives me shivers just thinking about it. Ugh.

And finally....

Last week I turned 25. A quarter of a century, as my younger friends have been quick to inform me. So expect an increasingly grumpy blogger in the coming months - old women have that right apparently.

Let the sunshine in

Finally! The sun is back - for the moment at least. I'm making the most of its most likely short lived stay by tapping this out in the back garden. The sun is shining, my bones are warming and I can barely read the screen due to the brightness of the aforementioned star.

There's no question that I feel better during the warmer months. Who knows why, but the warmer it is, the less pain I get. There is a bit of a trade-off involved - the heat is good for my aches but does tire me out fairly quickly. Still, I shall not moan for we have seen too little in the way of solar rays this June and July. Roll on August I say!

A mere 24 days to go now until the Olympics! Tell me, why have I arranged to be away with a group of 14-18 year olds for 10 precious days of the competition? Well it's a combination of stupidity and zeal for the gospel. If anyone asks, I will be focusing on the latter! Whatever events I do manage to catch, I hope that they don't involve Dwain Chambers. Chambers finds out on Thursday if his High Court case against the British Olympic Association's lifetime Olympic ban has been successful. I'm with the BOA on this one. He cheated. He admits he cheated. If he says sorry then I hope that the majority of people will forgive him. However, forgiving someone and allowing them to compete in an event that they have brought into disrepute are two very different things. In my mind, if you take illegal performance enhancing drugs then you forfeit the right to continue on in that sport, no matter how sorry you are. Chambers knew the rules and yet still broke them. He was in no way ignorant of the BOA's stance on drug cheats. He shouldn't be going to Beijing. Ironically this is quite the metaphorical storm in a tea cup. Chambers has as much chance of getting a medal next month as I do of marrying Jonny Wilkinson. Actually, he probably has less chance - my charms are not inconsiderable!

"So what do you do?"

I hate that question. It's the king of small talk questions. It's quite a strange one really. The vast majority of people don't seem to enjoy their work and yet it's the topic that always seems to end up being discussed. Society defines people by their jobs. I suppose it's because we spend so much of our lives working.

Whatever the reasons for the popularity of the question, I still hate it. I know exactly why I have such a problem with it. It's because I don't have a job! There's no easy answer available to me. Just saying, "I'm unemployed" doesn't cover it but giving a decent explanation takes far more time than the questioner really wants to spend on the topic!

For some reason I always begin my answer with, "Well, it's a bit complicated I'm afraid...". I'm pretty much apologising for the awkwardness of my answer from the get go! On the upside it has become a little easier over the last few years as far more people are aware of M.E. as a real illness. Whereas 5 years ago I used to get vacant looks from small talk perpetrators, at least nowadays I get an, "oh yes, my brother's wife's second cousin has that". Although that can actually cause more problems in itself. At least the ignorant usually knew they were ignorant. These days everyone is an expert.

Following on from the apology, my well-rehearsed answer to the evil question usually takes the road of ill 10 years-dropped out of school-no uni-can't work-do voluntary stuff when I can. I'm not one to brag but I like to think that I've refined it to a near perfect answer after all this time! I do the 'I'm struggling on through head-nod' - copyright G.Licious - and smile understandingly to let the question poser know that they don't have to be embarrassed. But let me make it clear (at least in this blog, if not to the big wide world); just because I can answer the question, doesn't mean I have to like doing it!

Slopes and SATs

I hate hills. Or to be more specific; I hate slopes. Hills I just don't bother with. There's no point in trying. Slopes are deceptive. They don't look all that different from friendly flat ground. They lie! The difference they make is ridiculous. I genuinely think that it is at least 10 times more difficult for me to walk a slope than a stretch of bog standard, lovingly tarmacked pavement. I went to the library today; parked me car; walked down the small slope; did my library thang and walked back up said slope. Gah. It's hardly a steep incline but it was enough for my legs to scream and the rest of my body to give up on me for a few minutes. When I rule the world, I shall make everything flat. Well, maybe we can keep some pretty mountains but I'll need to get escalators installed. Although thinking about it, standing up for a long time will still be a problem. Darn it! My amazing plan has failed at the first hurdle.

No matter, I have a new project: the abolition of Sats. For any Americans reading I should clarify that British SATs are not the same as US SATs. I'm not entirely sure what American SATs are (I only have TV and films to go by - they seem to be some sort of test taken before you go to college or university) but they are most definitely different from the British version. SATs are tests taken by kids in England and Wales at the ages of 7, 11 and 14. They are taken in Science, Maths and English and are in theory designed to assess the level of attainment that each child has reached. In practice SATs have become less and less about the children and more and more about each school's position in the national league tables.

I agree that children should be continually assessed and tested up to a point. However, I don't believe that SATs are the way to do that and I certainly have problems with the pressure that schools put on pupils in order to reach their targets. My biggest quibble is with the Key Stage 3 exams taken at the age of 14. They appear to be utterly pointless. Once a child gets to secondary school he or she is given exams in almost every subject at the end of every single year. That is important and necessary; examinations from within the school help teachers to identify problem areas and individuals that are struggling. SATs are useless for this. The teachers don't set the questions nor do they mark the papers. I do not know if the papers are made available to teachers after marking but either way the SATs tests do nothing to improve the teachers' awareness of each child's standard of work.

The SATs system does also include teacher assessments. That's great, but it still doesn't give a real argument for the tests. GCSE and A level results can be used to distinguish the good schools from the bad. SATs results are unnecessary. Teachers end up teaching their pupils how to do well in the exams rather than using that time to inspire young minds. Children are given the impression that these exams are incredibly important when in actual fact they are insanely trivial.

This has all been brought to my mind by the reports in the media that MPs from the Commons School Select Committee are calling for the tests for 11 and 14 year-olds to be scrapped. Hurrah! Sad to say it will probably be a long time before anything is actually done about it, but at least someone has started to take notice. SATs are a waste of time, money and teachers.

A cut above the rest

I had a haircut today. Not usually a blog worthy event, but the last time I took a trip to see the hairdresser was in September! It occurs to me that the length of my hair can give you a rough idea of what state I'm in health-wise. Here's a handy cut out and keep guide*:

If it's exceptionally long then this is either indicative of a good period of health or of a horrific relapse. Bear with me here! If I'm doing well then I tend to fill my time with things more important/more fun than a haircut - hence the length. However the excess hair can also be a result of being too ill to get to a salon (N.B. I know that salon sounds absurdly over the top but I've already said hairdresser's one too many times).

If my hair is mid-length (i.e. just cut) you can be pretty sure it's because I'm in the process of recovering from a relapse. I'm well enough to get a haircut (which I desperately need because it's exhausting to wash long hair) but not up to doing anything more fun!

Should you struggle to work out which type of long hair you are faced with then simply take a brief look at my skin tone. If I look like Dracula's ailing sister then you can be pretty sure it's the relapse enforced type.

*guide may not actually be cut out and kept.

Ain't that just the way

I've been rather absent from my blog recently. I think it's due to a combination of illness and a lack of inspiration. I've been rather up and down health wise in the last couple of weeks. Things were looking really good for a bit; I was operating at a fairly steady level of activity. It was then that I made my mistake. I started to plan stuff. Why, oh why, oh why (hello Points of View correspondent) is it that as soon as I start to make plans my health goes down the pan? I'm not talking huge, global domination-esque schemes - just a weekend away; a rugby match; a trip to see a comedian; a wedding. All of which were organised sensibly with time in between for recovery. Bah. Well watch me spit in your face M.E., because I've managed the rugby match - 1 down, 3 to go. It does mean that I'm Resty Resterson as at the moment. Resting at 12 Resting Lane, Resttown, Restingshire, RE5 TIN.

I'm blaming Scotland for a lot of stuff at the moment. I'm seriously unimpressed with those north of the border. No tuition fees; free prescriptions; better funding for people in education and on benefits; and yet they're still unhappy enough to go on strike and mess up the already pretty dire fuel situation.

Blimey, I sound grumpy today! I don't know what's got into me. I had better go and watch some soporific snooker (a great idea in theory but I do have a frustrating tendency to open my eyes to see every shot - doh!).

Crossroads

No, I'm not talking about a dodgy British soap or Bon Jovi's Greatest Hits album and I'm definitely not referring to that hideous song by Blazin' Squad (thank goodness they seem to have gone for good eh?). I feel as though I'm at a crossroads, or perhaps a fork in the road to be more accurate. It's this writing business. For the last 9 months or so I've been trying to get my foot in the door to the world of freelance journalism. I've written on various different subjects and most of it has found its way onto the internet in one form or another. But I'm getting disheartened. To be perfectly honest I'm fed up of doing it all for free. I know that it's the way to get experience and all that jazz but it's rather demoralising when you send off e-mails and samples of your work, never to hear back from those people that could actually afford to pay you.

Perhaps I just don't have the ambition and motivation necessary to get ahead in the industry. It's not my dream to be a writer. It's just something that I happen to be able to do to a decent standard and which I would be able to fit around my health problems. Maybe I just don't want it enough.

So the writing malarkey is one prong of the metaphorical fork in the road that I spoke of. The other is to go back to studying. I've been having a look at the OU website recently and part of me would really like to get myself a little more educated. The problem is that I can't do both. I simply don't have enough energy to give follow both avenues. Which leaves me with a difficult choice; to write or to study? Theoretically I can do either at any time in future. However, if I give up the writing now I'm well aware that it will take me twice as long to make any progress next time. Gah! I'm not used to decisions like this. My M.E. dictates my life so much that usually there is only one option available to me in any given situation! Once more with feeling? GAH!

A few musings

I'm exhausted. Honestly. I've been running myself ragged over the last couple of weeks. Yesterday I was finally able to catch my breath and get some much needed rest. I don't quite know how I managed to get so busy. Places to go, people to see and all that. Anyway, I'm resting up for the next few days; recharging my batteries.

I was delighted to hear about the BBC regaining the rights to the F1 races. Another positive Lewis Hamilton effect. Don't try and tell me that the BBC would have even thought about bidding if it wasn't for the golden boy. But they have - hurrah! The Beeb have spent an alleged £150 million for 5 years worth of F1. It might seem like a lot but really they're just spending what they saved from dropping Neighbours. If I remember rightly the BBC were being asked to pay £100,000 for each episode of the Aussie soap. That's £500,000 a week. Neighbours is broadcast for about 45 weeks a year, so that's £22.5m each year, multiply by 5 = £112.5m. And F1 will provide far more entertainment for the money than Neighbours could ever hope to.

Of course the best part of this transfer away from ITV is that there'll be no more ad breaks at inconvenient moments! My only worry is whether or not they'll hang on to James Allen and Martin Brundle as commentators. I very much doubt that they could put together a better team. In fact, thinking about it a little more, I am beginning to get concerned that they may get bloomin' Suzy Perry involved. Oh please no. I'm going to get nightmares now.

Moving on to less scary things... the World Figure Skating Championship is taking place in Gothenburg this week (also the city where Jonathan Edwards achieved his triple jump World Records in 1995, fact fans!). Ice skating gets a bad press. It's perceived as girly and namby-pamby. Watch some of the top male skaters and you'll see that is far from being the case. They have to be so athletic! I don't think that Dancing on Ice has really helped with the image of ice skating either. That show is more full of sequins and divas than Strictly Come Dancing! The World Champs are being shown on Eurosport - give them a gander.

Brian Joubert during his James Bond short programme last year.

The week that will be

I've had one of those weeks that quite frankly I'm glad to see the back of. Various problems and stressful situations have marked it down as one to forget and so I'm more than happy to move on into the 'bound-to-be-much-better' week commencing Monday 18th February. Optimistic as I am, I see it going something like this:

Monday - write blog. Hear a knock at the door. It's the postman. Junk mail, junk mail, junk mail, ah an interesting letter. Dear Giraffe-a-licious... love your blog... blah blah blah... like to invite you to Buckingham Palace for a cup of tea... do say you'll come... love Liz.

Tuesday - spend a couple of hours in morning volunteering for Alzheimer's Society. Head home. Someone flags me down to asks for directions. It's David Tennant. So grateful for my help that he invites me to appear as his assistant in the next series of Doctor Who.

Wednesday - go for meal with friends in the evening. Waiter brings me wrong order. By way of an apology I can have my food for free. Plus, would madam like a Pina Colada on the house? Why yes, madam would.

Thursday - a nice restful day spoilt only by David Tennant's incessant phone calls.

Friday - Wake up and am miraculously cured of M.E. Hop on a plane to some far flung, exotic destination in celebration of miracle. Or see if I can nab some tickets to England v France. That's got the Jonny Wilkinson factor. Hmmmm.... decisions, decisions...

My funny Valentine

Valentine's Day tomorrow. Woop-de-doo. Can you tell that I'm single?

To be honest I take issue with the whole thing anyway but I promise that what follows is not some sort of bitter rant! No doubt I could deliver one if I so desired but I think it important that I do not indulge that side of myself!

Valentine's Day is the day when we are all told to be romantic. If we're told to be romantic, doesn't that rather negate the romance? Surely the romance of something is largely in the spontaneity of it? Who feels truly special when their other half buys them flowers or chocolates on Valentine's Day? It would be much better were they to choose some other day to express their love. Romance just isn't the same if it's been instigated by Clinton's Cards.

Of course I speak from vast experience. Ahem.

I'm in that strange position at the moment of not wanting to be in a relationship (too much hassle, demands on my time etc.) but wanting to know that there is one waiting somewhere around the corner for me. I have this recurring nightmare that I'm going to end up in a nursing home at 50 years old because my parents have kicked the bucket and I'm still not well enough to look after myself. A husband would solve that particular worry. From what I can gather, good husbands are pretty thin on the ground these days anyway and my (not self-imposed) stringent criteria aren't going to make finding one any easier.

Firstly, I'm a Christian and and the Bible tells me that I should only be going out with a guy that shares my beliefs. Wow - that pool of potential hubbys just shrunk quickly! Secondly, the chap needs to be able to deal with my illness (a lot easier said that done). Thirdly, somehow I'm going to have to come into contact with him (not easy when I generally travel the same distance from home as a particularly lazy tortoise travels in 24 hours). Once all those criteria are fulfilled we get down to the less important things - personality, sense of humour, the ability to actually get along with me...

Gah. Love, schmove. As a wise woman once said: "Love? I'd rather fall in chocolate."

Back in the day

I spent quite a large chunk of last weekend in the company of my 8 year old self. Don't worry, I haven't invented some sort of time machine, created a time paradox by meeting myself, "the results of which could start a chain reaction that would unravel the very fabric of the space time continuum, and destroy the entire universe!" Take a bow, Dr Emmett Brown. Nothing so exciting I'm afraid. I've been watching home videos.

I've just got a fancy new bit of technology that enables to me to copy from VHS to DVD, so I've been doing that very thing with the home vids that my Dad made back in the mid-90s. It's been an odd experience. Mostly very fun - I was pretty amusing as a kid - but also quite poignant at times. Grandparents that are no longer here in reality are there on tape and the experience of seeing them there is quite different to that of looking at a still photo. It's a vivid reminder of their personalities and quirks.

It's bizarre to see myself up on the screen as a healthy child! Such a vast chunk of my life has been defined by the M.E. that is strange to remember that back then it wasn't.

I'm also unusually extroverted! Most people remember me as a shy child who wouldn't say boo to a goose. (I've never really understood that saying - a goose could be quite frightening if it wanted to. Surely it should be 'boo to a sparrow' or something along those lines?) Evidently when I was around familiar company and situations, I had no qualms about showing off or being overly loud.

I was also struck by the number of school concerts, plays, gym displays etc that we've got on tape. These days I expect that parents aren't allowed to film such things because they contain other people's kids. It's an understandable safety precaution but it is still sad that these records won't be around for the children of today to show their children.

A Selby, a station and a sofa.

Just call me Mystic Meg!

I'm actually quite disproportionately proud at my successful snooker prediction! I think that perhaps I shall quit whilst I'm ahead and from here on in make no more sports-related forecasts. Yeah right. Like that's going to last for long!

Disregarding the warm glow I'm emitting having triumphed in this small matter, I actually feel rather like I've been hit by a bus this morning. All self-inflicted I assure you, well in the sense that I knew I'd end up feeling like this. Not that I actually took on the persona of my M.E. and beat myself over the head with it. It's as a result of my little London sojourn at the weekend. I knew that rather too much walking than was desired would take place, but I didn't count on my sister and I getting lost inside St. Pancras station and having to retrace our steps before we had got our bearings. So before we'd even left the station I'd walked too far! Eventually my walking turned into that sort of trudging pattern, where all that was keeping me going was momentum. I had to keep moving because if I stopped then it would probably take me hours to get started again!

Anyhow, I survived the day but I'm paying for it now. Surprise, surprise. Here's looking forward to a week of sofa-dwelling and ice-skating viewing!

Snooker loopy

#Pot the reds then, screw back

For the yellow, green, brown, blue, pink and black

Snooker loopy, nuts are we

We're all snooker loopy#

A bit of Chas 'n' Dave for you there, to brighten up your Friday morning. I have a strange relationship with snooker. Not quite love/hate but something akin to it. It all depends on my health at the time of a televised tournament. If I'm well then it drives me err... loopy! It's too slow and I get all fidgety whilst watching it. I'd be a disaster if I went to see it played live. I expect I'd develop a desperate urge to talk to someone during the game and I'd probably get asked to remove myself from the premises.

Snooker comes into its own when I'm ill; when I'm lolling on the sofa in a particularly pathetic state. Snooker soothes me; the slow but deliberate movement of the player and cue; the sound of ball against ball; muted applause; the dulcet tones of John Virgo - all far more relaxing than any pan-pipes CD or yoga video.

I mention this now because you may have noticed that snooker has once again taken over BBC2 this week. It's The Masters tournament in Wembley. It's been a bit of a good'un so far especially in terms of shock results. 3 of the big names fell before the quarter-final stage: John Higgins, Stephen Hendry and Ronnie O'Sullivan. I'm going to stick my neck out and say that Mark Selby will win the title. He's come back to win his last two matches 6-5. He just doesn't know when to lie down and die!

Gah x3

Today I was on the receiving end of a frankly horrific accidental text incident. My sister's text message to her boyfriend ended up winging its way to me. I almost vomited. The less said the better. I am attempting to wipe the memory from my mind, a la Ben Affleck in Paycheck.

The trip to the hospital last week actually turned out OK. I did see the man himself and he discharged me - woop, woop! He was disarmingly friendly. So much so that when he brought out his classic "the only cure for M.E. is exercise" chestnut I didn't have enough time for it to register or for me to react. Curses. Oh well at least I won't have to see him again! Honestly man, stick to your chosen field.

I'm having to take a step back this week and take some rest days. I've done rather a lot over the past 10 days or so and my body has started shouting at me. I'm supposed to be going to London on Saturday. Gah. Always a rather stressful undertaking. Shouldn't have to stray to far from St Pancras though thankfully. I can't deal with cities. I've often wondered how I would have coped with this illness had I lived in a city. I can't bear the thought of the noise and millions of people all squashed together. I like my suburbs just fine thanks. I've got the vital entertainment venues within reach (ie. shops and cinema) and lots of nice countryside too. That is until all those new houses go up... I'm going to have to emigrate aren't I? One problem - I have a feeling that no country is likely to want me. Bah. Degrees, schmegrees!

Doctor, doctor...

Oh joy. A visit to the consultant awaits me today. Sadly not an M.E. consultant (no such thing exists in my area of the postcode lottery) but a thyroid doctor. I've had thyroid issues of one form or another for the past 6 years. It's pretty much stabilised now but I'm summoned to a check-up once a year. The problem is that this guy is rather deficient in the understanding of M.E. department. The last time I saw him he suggested I join a gym! If it was mere ignorance of the condition then I could give him some leeway. Unfortunately, he appears to have had some sort of experience with the illness which has led him to believe that he knows the cure! Goodness knows what kind of crackpot hospital he got this 'experience' at but quite frankly he should stick to his thyroid clinic. I can deal with people (even in the medical profession) being ignorant of my condition, providing that they are willing to listen to me and take on board what I have to say - I have been living with this illness for 10 years now, I think I probably know quite a bit more about it than the average doc. But what gets me so very annoyed (the polite way of putting it) is ignorance compounded by arrogance; the belief that they have the answers when in reality they don't even know the questions!

Mind you I'm probably making a fuss over nothing. In all likelihood I won't even get to see the head honcho. Mostly I get palmed off onto his registrars, the majority of which look blankly at me when I try to explain that I have M.E. I don't think they can cope with more than one illness at a time, poor little dears.

Technologically speaking...

I've spent the better part of this evening on my hands and knees in our lounge, making friends with dust and dead spiders. Why I hear you ask? All for the greater televisual viewing of the Giraffe-a-licious house.

We have a shiny new TV! This is highly unusual for us. We normally hang on to our old and out-dated technology until it simply doesn't work anymore. Very economical and all that, but rather boring. Anyway, now we have moved into the 21st Century and have a rather beautiful 32" Sony Bravia LCD. To make said beautiful TV watchable however, required rather a lot of cable switching, furniture moving and generally exhausting activity. The truth of it is that I'm the tech-savvy one of the family when it comes to this stuff. My sister's better with computers and the like; but TVs, VCRs, DVDs, Digiboxes etc are my domain. The worrying thing is that I get a strange satisfaction from the whole process. It's probably part of my whole list addiction thing but it soothes me to get things in order; to unplug and replug cables, knowing that my actions will bring me eventual joy! The problem is that such activities tend to be a little on the energy zapping side.

Stand up... sit down... careful not to damage the new glass TV stand... get a torch to see where this cable goes... oh no wrong place... bend down again to change it... Thankfully I was ably aided by the parental carbon units without whose furniture moving skills I would have been all at sea. The most shocking part about the whole thing was that my Dad was actually able to keep quiet during the process! Usually it's a case of "you don't want to do it like that...". Yes Dad, actually I do. Anyway, this time round he was a star. He must be mellowing in his old age.

Now please do excuse me whilst I go and curl up in a ball somewhere and sleep this technology hangover off.

M.E., NICE and me.

Anyone remember this? http://giraffealicious.blogspot.com/2007/08/dear-sir.html

The 'yuppie flu' tag has raised its head once again in today's papers.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2007/11/16/nflu116.xml

Let's get one thing straight. I haven't seen these NICE (National Institute of Clinical Excellence, my foot) guidelines. I'm only going on what I've heard and read. Back in August, when I wrote the Dear Sir blog, it seemed that they were a positive thing. The media reported that NICE were demanding that M.E. be treated more seriously by the medical profession. A step forward I'm sure you'll agree. However, today it has emerged that their definition of treatment is the use of largely psychological therapies. It should be noted that I have no issue with the graded exercise also recommended, provided that it is carried out by well-informed, caring practitioners and that it does not become a license to bully sufferers.

The main reason for this information coming to light now appears to be that the One Click Group (a pressure group, although I'm not exactly sure what that is!) are taking NICE to court in an attempt to get the policy rewritten. They argue that NICE's guidelines imply that M.E. is all in the mind. If that is indeed the case then they are right to challenge the institute. M.E. has psychological elements tied up in it, all long-term illnesses do. It's hardly surprising for a patient with 10 years of misery behind them to experience some sort of depression. The important distinction to make is that the psychological treatments are for the depression, not the M.E. Psychological therapies have their place but are not a valid treatment of the very real, physical side of M.E.

The most grating thing about this whole debacle from my point of view is the use, once again, of the term 'yuppie flu'. It should be banned. It is referring to a group of people in a derogatory manner. You wouldn't get away with it if the group were defined by their religion, race, gender or sexuality. There is no reason that the media should be permitted to be so openly insulting to people united in the suffering of a serious illness.

F is for Frustration

I'm aware that I have a rather skewed view of things on this subject, but I truly believe that there are few illnesses more frustrating than M.E. More serious? Yes. More debilitating? Of course. But pound for pound I warrant that M.E. takes the top prize in the frustration stakes.

I had a severe relapse in March of this year and symptoms wise ended up back where I was about 7 or 8 years ago. That was heartbreaking and I'm still coming to terms with the profound difference in the quality of life I experienced in 2006 compared to that of the past 8 months. Frustration doesn't even begin to describe the emotions.

But over the last few months things have started to improve. The pain has gradually lessened and I've been blessed with more energy. I've been able to get out of the house more, get back to a bit of volunteering, attend church regularly and go out with friends for a meal. I really thought that I'd turned a corner. Talk about counting your chickens.

The last few days have been horrible. The severe pain has returned, my extra strong painkillers take the edge off but I'm also incredibly tired. I'm still in some sort of denial stage. I know that I should be resting regularly and pacing myself more sensibly, but something inside me just wants to keep pushing, convinced that despite all evidence and experience to the contrary I can just fight my way through it. Unfortunately the only effective way to fight M.E. is to do the exact opposite. I have to accept the situation and act accordingly. Hence the frustration.

I'm not usually one to moan. My blog is probably indicative of this. I'm more likely to make a joke and laugh through the crisis than sit around feeling sorry for myself. The problem is that the illness leaves me with few other options. I'm pretty much restricted to sitting around at the moment and moping comes very easily in that situation.

I'm trying to think of something uplifting to end on but nothing's coming to me. Perhaps a silly, unrelated picture? That sounds good.

School daze - that's an overused pun isn't it?

I was watching Grosse Pointe Blank the other night. For those not in the know it's a 90s rom-com, but of a slightly more twisted variety than most. John Cusack plays a hitman returning to his home town for a high school reunion and meeting up again with his long lost love played by Minnie Driver. It got my thinking about school reunions. Being a mere stripling of 23 I haven't had to face that potential nightmare as yet and I'm desperately hoping that I never have to.

There are only two reasons to attend a school reunion. Curiosity and vanity. Curiosity to see how people have turned out and vanity because you are convinced that your life is better than theirs. What a sad waste of an evening. If you're rich and successful then you've not really gained anything from going. You're still rich and successful when you leave and have probably only succeeded in making a few people feel like failures. If you're struggling through life then you'll still be struggling when you leave and will have merely found a few more people to hate in life. People with kids will start wishing they didn't have them. People without kids will start to wish they did. It's a no-win situation. The grass is always greener and all that. Someone else's life may sound wonderful for those few hours but we never see the reality of it. School reunions are all about a facade. As soon as you step over the threshold you're suddenly and inexplicably enthusiastic about your life, career, children and everything else that you've been moaning about for the past 10 years.

Personally a school reunion is my worst nightmare because it is the place in the universe where you are most likely to be asked the, "So, what do you do?" question. Gah. Save me. The next time someone asks me that I think I'll take a leaf out of John Cusack's book - "I'm a professional killer." Cool. I'm pretty sure that at least 80% of the population are unhappy in their work so it's a nasty irony that we are constantly being defined by what we do rather than who we are. Sure, I've got my spiel - "Well not a lot actually. I've been ill with M.E. for 10 years which is quite rubbish but I do bits of voluntary work here and there." I'm as guilty as the next person though because I always seem to follow it up with, "and what about you?"

What is boils down to is that anyone that you really care about from your school days you'll still be in touch with. Death to school reunions! Pointless, miserable and fake.

Nobody needs good Neighbours

It's not often that I'm proud of myself but today I hold my head high. I haven't seen an episode of Neighbours for four months. I deserve a chip to carry around with me like in AA! Although to be fair I do have an inkling that it's probably a wee bit easier to stay clean of an Australian soap opera than the demon drink.

I can't remember when I first started watching Neighbours. My mum watched it so I probably first got hooked on a sick day off school. I've never watched any other soap and yet Neighbours sucked me in. Maybe it was the sunshine (although Home & Away had that too) or maybe the fact that it was more light-hearted than most other TV dramas? I don't know, but somehow it got its claws into me and hung on there for 10-15 years.

When I became ill with M.E. the addiction grew, worryingly but understandably fast. I was able to do so little that the TV took on a rather sad significance in my life. This is excusable. What is not, is the fact that even once I started to feel better and get out more, my day continued to revolve around Ramsey Street's residents. Of course it's only a 25 minute programme, that shouldn't cause too many problems. But the BBC are a canny bunch of schedulers when they want to be. Neighbours led to Doctors, Doctors to Murder She Wrote, then it was off to Channel 4 for Countdown and before I knew it two and a half hours had disappeared into the ether.

But I shall not dwell on these dark days for now I am cured! And it's all thanks to Wimbledon. They take Neighbours off the air for those two glorious weeks of tennis in the summer. This year, once I got to the end of the fortnight I realised that I didn't miss those Aussies one jot. I decided to see how I got on without dipping into the lives of Susan, Karl and co every day. That they had just killed off Stingray also helped in my decision making process - a clanger of an error in my mind! Well what do you know? I survived. In fact I felt far better. I read or wrote or rested or just watched the world go by out of my window - all of it more productive than those hours in front of the gogglebox. Because by doing away with Neighbours, I also got rid of Doctors and in turn Murder, She Wrote. I have had the odd foray into the world of Jessica Fletcher since then I'll admit, but you can't beat a bit of Angela Lansbury detective work!

So dear readers, I am free. Those strangely bronzed Aussies hold no sway over me now. So they can move it to Channel 5 for all I care. I just hope that the rest of the soaps follow shortly.