Now, it's not that I'm at all prissy, but, even so, I have begun to realise, as the heavy-duty meds are being reduced, that I probably present a schlubby version of myself: I'm not allowed a bath, until after the stitches come out next week and, although a shower would be permitted, I haven't had one yet because my sore (ha! that word doesn't even begin to describe the agonies) foot makes balancing tricky and I'm fearful of falling and although my Aunties keep telling me how happy I was for them to bathe me as a child, there is no way! oh, they can be tenacious, once they get hold of an idea, so I just make sure I wear clean, fresh clothes every day after a rudimentary wash, but at least I'm eating again and Auntie May's hashmagandy tonight was absolutely bang on the money for me, so that's one naggable topic scored off the list which just leaves poor personal hygiene . . . . . but after I've been down to the bench at the bottom of the garden for a ciggie and read of the papers, one odour probably disguises the other!