Sister Sophie has had to have a mole removed. I
can’t believe she didn’t tell me in advance, but it was supposed to happen last
year but got delayed thanks to The Playful Virus, then she postponed it herself
to concentrate on keeping the old people in her care home alive. “I didn’t want
to worry anyone,” was her rationale behind keeping mum, but it means she’s been
going through several months of
“Is-It-Or-Isn’t-It-Cancer-And-When-The-Hell-Will-They-Cut-It-Off?” anguish with
no support from her family.
I said as much to her this evening, only to be called a twat. She said she knew from the start it wasn’t anything to be concerned about, it was more to do with cosmetics and comfort, as it’s on her neck and anything she wears that has a collar rubs on it and makes it sore, but still….
Tonight I cooked a stir fry that was so big we could have fed half the population of Suffolk with it. A new wok arrived in the house recently and I put it through its paces tonight with strips of marinated beef, 17 different chopped vegetables and enough spices and sauce to drown a hippo in.
I am satisfied, but uncomfortable.
RC 24-2-21
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