Who's a Happy Bunny Then? II

That was really odd. I put up my title and hey presto bongo I was published, without writing a thing. I was so disturbed by the seeming aliveness of this wretched machine that what I was going to write about has shot right out of my head. Who was that bunny and why was she happy? We will never know now as I have developed short term memory disorder along with a gammy leg and a few other nasty things we won't dwell on. I can predict what will happen though and no crystal ball needed. Tonight around 2 a.m. when I usually waken I will remember said bunny and have it all written down in my head. Of course I won't write it down as that would mean a light and pen and paper and then I would be awake until the second coming. By dawn's early light I am lucky to remember who I am and what I am doing here, never mind poor bunny. All I know about her is that she was happy ....I'm thinking.... Sorry. Better luck next time.

Who's a Happy Bunny Then?

My Right Leg (what's left of it -no pun intended !)

This is to save a bunch of phone calls to all of you who have been watching me this past while hobbling around on my gammy leg. The verdict is in . The leg is past it's due date and has to be replaced. Now that I know what is wrong I can try to set about putting it right. I have a list of alternative things to do starting with Yoga, specific scio treatments, laser therapy etc. Even the doctor wasn't too happy about hip replacement nor am I so we will see what else is on offer. I am nothing if not resourceful. My leg and I thank all of you for your concern and we are now off on our adventures. If you are not bored to your back teeth yet, just wait for the updates!

Hair (and I don't mean the musical)

I have a wedding to attend this weekend that is causing me no amount of stress. I have finally found something to wear that is not drab or shapeless. I even went to the mall an act of desperation if ever there was one. But this epistle is not about my shopping woes or even about my lack of fashion sense. It is rather about my large head and even larger thatch of hair. I suppose I should be grateful that as I approach my dotage I approach it with a head of thick wiry hair and am not heading for a chrome dome. Said hair though has become an issue. The older I get the more uncontrollable it becomes.
"No problem " says the hairdresser and slaps dye on the tangle and thins it out. For a little while I am convinced that is the answer but I should know better. Six weeks later the stuff has turned me into an ambulatory haystack. Which makes me think of the Queen Mother. The press once referred to her as an "ambulatory Christmas tree!"(She liked all of her jewellery, also hats scarves... you get the picture. )
A hairdresser once told me that if I wore my hair too short I would look like a pea on a mountain. This was during one of my sojourns in the north of England. They tend to be a bit blunt. You may have noticed. Since then I have tried and tried to wear it long but all I look is a mess. Well enough is enough and the hair has had to go. Pea on a mountain or not at least I can see where I am going and can get a hat on my bonce when I need to. We are now back to what one offspring referred to as the George Clooney look. Ahh.. George! Now there is a head.