Has anyone noticed? I think one person is reading, and thank you very much.
After the last rant about thoughtless doctors, I met one with a brain (oh yes!) - and he has fully diagnosed my condition.
I knew I was getting close to a diagnosis, which is why it was on my mind. Be careful what you ask for... no, that's stupid, I knew he wasn't going to tell me I had a career waiting as a prima ballerina, and a positive diagnosis will stop other, incompetent doctors proposing inappropriate treatment, operations, and even on one occasion, a mental health problem (apart from the one I knew I had... it was a long time ago... etc...).
So after 35 years of being me, it has been an unexpected head-trip to find out that many things are not just my own unique quirkiness, but are owned by a whole 'nother bunch of genetically freestyling humans as well.
Anyway, so that's my excuse for not maintaining my blog. Sorry.
Now I'm going through a mental gamut of Thank Goodness! Oh God! What Next?! as any 'normal' person would. (That bit kind of amuses me....). The doctor has given me a bit of time off to organise new treatments, better gadgets and various tests to see if other bits of me are: a) in the right place b) the right size and c) still working.
I just found out my heart and important various blood vessels are normal, and, for a sad old goth as I'm sure you can appreciate, this was a bit of a shock. (Partly in a good way, I will grudgingly admit.)
Mr Fang, who is a sad old rocker, is always taunting me about dead goths, saying there aren't any, which is a bit of a poor show for a sub-culture obsessed with death. But then again, if we were dead, we wouldn't be able to enjoy the anticipation of death, would we? Ha. (But if you're reading this and you know of any dead goths, would you drop me a line? Make sure they're famous, preferably nationally / internationally - it's no good trying to win and argument with Mr F over someone's goth mate who's only a legend in their local boozer's band. It'd have to be in the Hussey/Eldritch league to be any good. Thanks).
But that's not all that's been happening. The somewhat dazed and confused diagnosis-type atmosphere currently hanging over our house has partly been broken by a foolish whim I had a few weeks ago, setting in place an ugly and disturbing mental infestation of myself and Mr F - only he likes it - and I don't.
It started when I was in a discount bookshop a few weeks ago and bought him a book. It cost �1.68. I bought it because I love him, and because I thought it would be a Very Small Passing Thing, because if something is being sold in this shop, for less than a fiver, it poses no danger of infatuation to anyone anymore. It is last years news. OVER. OVER AND GONE.
But oh, how wrong I was...!
The book is called "This Is Spinal Tap - The Official Companion."
Y'see, if ya haven't seen or heard of Spinal Tap, you might as well stop reading now - because the rest of this blog will probably ramble on about an in-joke rock band parody, which is what Spinal Tap was - a comedy film of a 'band' living the rock'n'roll lifestyle, but the joke is oh, how close to reality it actually was. Any bloke who has ever worn spandex, played guitar in a crap rock band (and plenty of good ones as well... Justin Hawkins, pay mind to your trouser situation), or stuffed anything, vegetable, sock or the like, down the trouser department, will identify with the soul of this movie.
'Spinal Tap' wrote songs, have albums on sale, and performed at gigs, as well as shooting the film 'This Is Spinal Tap' and 'The Return Of Spinal Tap'. And it has a cult following, which had largely passed over me apart from the odd occasion I went out with rockers instead of goths, well, in fact, I only went out with one rocker, and then I married him, so I had seen it, got the jokes, noted the comparisons in his record collection, (and seeing as there's a band out there called Whitesnake, allegedly named after the frontman's dick), I believed it. And as far as the world of rock'n'roll goes, Mr F has been there, seen it, done it, and got the t-shirts - all duly covered in those tell-tale little holes... you know what I'm talking about... so it resonates with his very soul.
But I thought that bit of his soul was buried deep down by now. We're thirty-somethings who've settled down to nights in front of the telly. A bit of gardening at weekends. His favourite way to unwind is to cook a nice meal... so I woefully underestimated the effect that this book would have...
On being presented with it, it was seized, digested, and regurgitated at frightening speed. I would be upstairs pottering about when hysterical snorts and chuckles would float through the house, accompanied by wobbly nostalgic singing.
Within 2 days of getting the book, we were sitting down to the dvd.
All the old lines. All the old songs. "(Listen to the) Flower People", "Gimme Some Money", "Big Bottom", "Sex Farm", et al. I merely thought it would be an evening's distration and forgot how catchy those damn songs were, and the effect they had on Mr F, who joyously rediscovered his inner 14 yr old greebo, hollering "talk about bum cakes, my girl's got 'em', every flippin' time I passed by.
Taking in my diagnosis, going for tests and reading up about what afflictions may beset me in coming years has had a somewhat surreal quality as we simultaneously wallow in Spinal Tap lyrics. Like in hospital. 9 o'clock in the morning. I'm shivering in a hospital gown, covered from navel to chest in cold blue goo, looking at him smiling reassuringly as he mouths....
... "Working onna SEX FARM, Tryin' to raise some HARD LOVE, Getting out ma PITCH FORK, POKING your HAY.... SEX FARM WOMAN....."
In the car, with the results, going home, with him singing, "I saw her on Monday, 'twas my lucky BUM DAY, ya know WHAT I MEAN... I love her each weekday, each VELVETY CHEEK DAY, ya know WHAT I MEAN..."
It's frighteningly ironic, but my condition is a genetic connective tissue disorder called Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. It causes a varying amount of symptoms, and one of them is - wait for it - 'velvety' skin...!
Can I ever put into words the feeling in my heart as he turns to me whilst singing this particular line and gives me a fond little wink?
It must be in the stars.
So that's where we're at, at the moment. We spent the weekend decorating and simultaneously singing Spinal Tap lyrics. I didn't want to, but they've infected me too. Our dratted cheapo DVD player that never plays anything you put in it without a fight, automatically switches on the Spinal Tap film as soon as we plug the telly back in, like some kind of demonic portent. He gives me this look, and I say ok. It'll pass. It's better than wallowing in pity. Just.
(Except the buggers made a sequel - The Return Of Spinal Tap - and he made me order it seeing as I'm at home all day. We're stuck, stuck in the middle of a Spinal Tap infested dreamstate until it arrives, and he promptly learns new song, like "Bitch School", "The Sun Never Sweats" and 'Break Like The Wind"...)