Petrina Binney's Blog, page 76

Hospital Drama

When I woke up in the hospital, it was quite appalling. It was my first, and thus far, only operation. An open myomectomy. For those who don’t know (and I’ll avoid the grizzly details), sometimes women grow fibroids. Fibroids are little fatty cysts which grow in and around the uterus. Please God, don’t be having your dinner reading this.

Anyway, most fibroids don’t become problematic unless they grow or accumulate some friends, and most fibroids stay somewhere between the size of a grape and a golf ball. Mine was the size of a baby’s head. It was giving me a bad back, broken sleep, and it made me very grumpy. I was not a good person to be around.

So, the fibroid had to go. The procedure can almost be explained as a caesarean, but with no baby. When I came to, I knew where I was, I knew what I’d had done. I couldn’t work out why I wasn’t in the Army, and I didn’t know where my penis had gone.

(Lifelong lesbian here. Never had a penis. Never felt the need. Really missed it in my drugged up stupor, though)

If the anaesthetic hadn’t made me so groggy, vomity and generally confused, it would have been quite fun. One positive to be drawn, which I would have had no personal knowledge of before, is this: if you’re on a hospital-worth of drugs, you can tell anyone to go and do things to themselves. No one minds. They put it all down to the drugs. I called my surgeon a prick, and offered to rewire the operating theatre because it was ugly.

One thing I’m glad I have now, which would have been a lifesaver then, is this blog. I was so bored in the hospital. True, a lot of what I would have blogged about would have been total tosh, but it might have been entertaining total tosh.

‘Sex, Death & Scallops’ is out tomorrow, by the way. No fibroids, just – well – sex, death and scallops. There are other things in life, but I like to think I focus on the important elements.

The Ladies of the Women’s Group

Now, we had the fete. It was exhausting. There was a lot of rushing about. It seemed to last for weeks. It didn’t. But the fact is, I spent a lot of a warm, sunny day, making myself useful. There were people, many dozens, who found jobs for me. One bought my book. Several others said they would, and promptly disappeared. However, I did very well at making coffee for everyone, and opening the bar. I tried very hard not to notice that some of the plastic pint glasses could not hold full pint measures. I was loyal to my Club.

I have made the cakes for the last couple of years, and it’s been nerve-frazzling. I don’t much go for cake myself. I’m more of a Guinness-girl. Anywho, I didn’t want to do the cakes this year. I’m sick of the sight of icing sugar. I don’t want to deal with buttercream. I just want to make myself useful, do the dog show, have a drink, go home. That’s it.

It didn’t work out that way, because it never does. The Women’s Group had said they would take on the cake stall for me. I was delighted. They asked how many people had appeared at our last fete. They asked about pricing. I gave advice and thanked them repeatedly.

Here’s how the conversation went:

Women’s Group: So, how many cakes did you make last year?

Petrina: Umm, well, I think I made about a dozen sponge cakes and maybe… two dozen cup cakes. Something like that. I had a few extras brought in by friends. I suppose there were a dozen more from other people.

Women’s Group: So, a dozen sponges, like Victoria sponge? Cakes that you’d slice?

Petrina: That’s right.

Women’s Group: (writing stuff down) So, a dozen sponges, and two dozen cup cakes… could you do the same again this year?

Petrina: (a few gulping noises)

Women’s Group: Only if you can…

Petrina: (kicking myself) Of course.

Now, I don’t know where the miscommunication took place, but the women seemed to think I’d only be making them a dozen cup cakes.

I was up at three.

I made eight sponge cakes – Devil’s Food Cakes, Victoria sponges with homemade raspberry jam, and red velvet cakes. I would have taken all eight, but Doobie, the Jack Russell achieved a leaping height hitherto unwitnessed and took a big chunk out of a chocolate cake.

When I approached the women, bringing in cakes two at a time, they were stunned. I apologised for not having more, and they looked to each other as if I’d fallen out of the back end of a cat.

Once they’d recovered from their shock, they sold the lot, made a decent wad of cash for their causes, and sent me a card and a box of chocolates. It won’t take them long to convince me to do the same again next year. The chocolates were Lily O’Briens.

I Live Here

I am scary in my own home.

This is something I have learned about myself since Aimée moved in.

It’s nothing I’m doing. I don’t jump out at her. I don’t make crank calls to my own number. I do not own a clown mask. I don’t do much of anything beyond typing into the wee small hours, and occasional dog walking.

What I do that shocks her is… I stand.

We have small dogs. With small bladders. They need to go out to the garden fairly frequently.

If Aimée takes the girls out for a whizz, and with the weather drawing in, it tends to be dark, I take the opportunity and roll a cigarette (I know, but I’m quitting. Obviously).

As she brings the girls back to the front door, empty-bladdered, soft of step, I’m almost certainly tucking the cigarette behind my ear and searching for my lighter.

She opens the door, and I’m only about three feet down the hallway, headed in her direction. And she gasps. She clutches her chest. Occasionally, she staggers back a pace or two.

And every day, I say the same thing:

I live here.

Maybe I should stop punctuating my speech with the cartoon-villain laugh.

Mwah-ha-ha

 

A Smile To Last The Week

My beloved brother, Paul, has introduced my book on his YouTube channel. I think he read the blurb for the first time with the camera running. Maybe I should have warned him..?

In any case, I’m right before a beer review, including a canned job that tastes of shredded wheat. Do watch the whole thing, it’s epic.

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=283868995541862&id=1697174687035716

‘Canapés’ and ‘Scallops’

Oh, it doesn’t get any easier, does it?

I don’t know how it is, but I can sit, quite happily, and into the small dark hours, and write a fifty-thousand opus with emotional arcs and character fluff, and I’m okay. But if I try and turn it into two hundred words of Read Me, Please Read Me – I’m at a loss.

This took more hours than I’d care to admit to. However, here’s the blurb for book two: Sex, Death & Scallops…

A corpse, a seduction, and a plate of scallops…

With Roland King missing, and Jennifer Nugent headed to Amalfi with her husband, Fiona Weaver-King works hard to keep herself above suspicion.

Pottery and sauvignon can only go so far, but with a dozen new portraits hanging in the studio, and her garden equipped with a brand new quail run, as far as the village of Amberleigh is concerned, Fiona is far too busy to dispose of a body.

Only with the appearance of the strange and voluptuous Kitty Fairoc does suspicion begin to grow. Who is this unusual woman, with her keen eye and ready smile? An undercover police officer? A roving reporter? Or is she simply, and alarmingly, a flirt? And what does she want with Fiona?

© Petrina Binney 2018

‘Sex, Death & Scallops’ will be out on 7th September 2018. Do give it a little look on Amazon.

Incidentally, and you heard it here first – I’ll be dropping the price of ‘Sex, Death & Canapés’ for the launch.

Search your pockets on 7th September. If you can find a quid, I can supply a book with humour, murder and awkward flirting. Feel free to pop the date in your diary. It’s okay. I’ll wait.

Many thanks,

Petrina