Episode 52. In which it’s snowing.

That’s right, it’s snowing.  The flakes are varying in size every few minutes, it started off quite small but respectable, then pretty huge (an inch across, maybe), and now it’s gone down to tiny little dandruff flakes.  It’s very disappointing, but better than nothing.  I’m a Highlander transplanted to the South Coast, I need snow from time to time to keep me sane, and it’s snowed a few times since I moved down here – I wouldn’t be surprised if it had snowed more in Brighton in the past year and a bit than it had in any comparable time period during my lifetime.  Of course, all the snow Brighton’s had in the last century probably wouldn’t add up to one of the snow days I got used to growing up.

Walking home from the pub last night there was frost on the cars, so I’m hoping that if it continues to snow through the night, there’ll be more of a chance of it lying.  However, I do have some limitations on what I’m hoping for.  I wouldn’t be devastated if the trains stopped running, let’s face it none of us would complain about a genuine reason to stay home on a schoolday – and I’m perfectly happy to work from home in that case.  However, with my luck everything will be fine until I get to… probably somewhere between Gatwick and Croydon, that’s the longest distance between stations on my commute.  So my train will get that far and at that point the rails will get all upset about the snow.  Just in case, you can bet that tomorrow I won’t be leaving the house without at least ten thousand calories in my rucksack.  Just in case.

Ooh, big flakes again.  It’s still not lying, but it’s the thought that counts.

And now I’m going to read yesterday’s papers.  I read the papers every day except Sunday, for work.  I mean, I read every day’s papers, except I don’t read Sunday’s papers.  From this, I have discovered two surprising things.  Number one is that I hate almost everything about the Guardian, up to and including how much it smells.  The exception is Charlie Brooker.  Number two is that I actually quite enjoy the FT.

Also, I’m not talking to Henry today.  He was lovely this morning, and I gave him a little bit of the fat off my bacon.  For this he repays me by jumping up onto the table to eat the rasher My Man couldn’t finish, right off his plate.  He’s not allowed on the table, and he shouldn’t be eating off plates, so I’m not talking to him.  And he’s not allowed to curl up in my lap as he likes to do.  I’d take away his TV privileges too but I’m watching Sea of Souls, which isn’t spectacular viewing but I like it, and it used to be filmed (before they started taking it around Britain) in a building at the University of Strathclyde, where I got my MSc.  And short of locking him out in the snow, which would be a bit tight (and is still going strong, by the way) I can’t stop him from watching it.

Diabetic moment of the day.

Today’s diabetic moment started yesterday.  I tested my blood sugar in the pub when it was time for my ‘bedtime’ injection (which is actually at a specific time every day, that time being bedtime most days, but some days it’s just when the party’s getting started, and which you can see here (N.B. this picture is for comedy value, I can do better if I really really try)).  It was 4.1, which is lower than it should be, but I had no symptoms so I left it for an hour and when I tested it again it was 5.3, so either some stupid barman slipped me full-sugar coke instead of diet, or my body is now regulating its own sugar as well as its own insulin production, but only doing either when it feels like it.

Anyway, we went to the kebab shop on the way home and I got a big fat burger with chips.  I should’ve taken some of my mealtime insulin but I forgot.  Fast forward to this morning and I checked my blood sugar when I woke up, having remembered my oversight – it was 5.0.  Spot on perfect, what everyone (diabetic and non-diabetic) should read before a meal.  All in all, it’s confusing, but handy, and if my body wants to be diabetic most of the time I’m happy to keep up the injections, so long as if I forget every now and then, my pancreas picks up the slack.  That sounds fair.

Incidentally, no word from my diabetes nurse about the Exeter study, but I think the above should count for something.  Also, if I do have some new type of diabetes, it has been suggested to me that I insist (and have it written into any medical disclaimer or legal contract I might sign) that it be referred to in the future as ‘Diabetses”.  Oh, for any strangers reading this, the joke is that my name is Betsy.  Betsy.  Diabetes.  Diabetses.  Just imagine if one day this nonsense is the oldest online record of a proper medical condition.

That’s intense.

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