a comeback Part I

I realise that I must have a voice on the web in order to tell my tale, as opposed to having my fans read the mangled tabloid version as found in Bikey and Fudge's blogs. I am hoping that Cambridge Psycho has run out of steam (as her last blog entry suggests) and I can rescue my tattered reputation and that of my erswhile Swain, if erstwhile is what I mean (probably not).

So to update on my life, let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start. When we read we begin with ABC when we sing we begin with do-re-mi...ok that'll do pig, that'll do. Well about six weeks ago I had my tonsils out, not precisely an exciting experience unless you have a particular fondness for budget women's magazines. I then went through a convalescence period, and cultivated an interesting style of swallowing. On that note, let me tell you that the Establishment is wrong, and icecream does not help in any sense whatsoever in soothing a throat robbed of its tonsils.

Towards the end of this time, Mr C and mother came to see me at home. As I was feeling much better, I blazed into Domestic Goddess-style activity, cooking, baking and mess-making to my heart's content. It didn't turn out too bad either (other than 'You Idiot! It's only Raiyan!' - It wasn't). And all this time, the Great Drama was unfolding, ready to play itself out in the night. To cut a long and unpleasant story short, my tonsils had decided to commit their final act of defiance and started haemorrhaging, culminating in several hours coughing up blood in A&E, a couple more days in hospital and much shameless attention-seeking on my behalf.

Since then I have been in Oldham delivering babies. I have noticed that Bengali women can be rather high-handed with their fellas when in labour. If I have one message for all you young ladies, its don't push when they tell you to stop. Things rip.