Easy like Sunday morning

Right, it's been too quiet and sickly around here. Time to bang some drums.

To ease the mind of my sister and anyone else who might have any concern (just a smidgen will do) over my health, I am slowly recuperating. Unfortunately, a freelancer gets paid by the day, so there hasn't been much afternoon Lost-watching, but rather a bit of going to work instead. Which is just as well, as we don't have wireless broadband at home yet, which would account for the hurried poor-photoshop attempt at a birthday header still hanging around at the top of the page.

I've missed home more than ever this past week. Ian's away, I'm in a new flat, I'm ill, it all adds up to much missing of my mommy. My last Creme Soda is in the fridge, and I'm sure it won't be there when I get home :(

So I'm waiting for our broadband to be initialised (think it'll be in about 2 weeks) and for my duvet cover (in 'heather', which I hope will be a light lilac but we'll see) and mirror to arrive (should be tonight). I've decided to forego good food and quiet countryside views in Nottingham with Ian this weekend for time spent unpacking my room properly, washing all my clothes, and resting my poor racked chest.

Ian's life is all about work and hotels at the moment. I miss him terribly, no one taps my bum when I bend down to pick up things in my room anymore; no one looks at me the way he does.

I went for lunch with Gill today. The girl has been through so much recently, she's so much stronger than she gives herself credit for.

A more topical blog post is forming in my head, I'm hoping it lives to see itself expressed in text.

In the meantime, we may as well share a little. The reason for my chest being so bad is that I was born prematurely, by 6 weeks. Both of my lungs collapsed and had to be drained. As a child, I had quite a few serious chest infections, all because of what is probably a diminished capacity (and tendancy for infection) as a result of the collapse. The drains have left scars on the sides of my chest which have grown into the sides of my breasts. I hate these little scars, but in a way they're a stupid small reminder of how little I was then and how the doctors helped me as a baby. My mom had several miscarriages before me and another serious one after my birth. Those little scars remind me that I was a very very wanted baby, something quite comforting to know.
Incidentally, my orthopedic surgeon thinks it's because of my early birth that my knee ligaments never fully developed, and are more elastic than they should be.
So in a sense, every time I get a bad chest or my knee twinges, it's as a result of something that happened to me 23 years ago, 6 weeks before I was supposed to be born.