Don't. Fuck. Up.

My dad taught us to live by a single motto; a few simple words of advice. Don't. Fuck. Up. Of course, he then spent the next eighteen years teaching us how not to fuck up, in a myriad ways - usually by warning us and sometimes by example. He was a good man, sweating himself dry by bringing us both up and working often well into the night to keep us both in good condition while he himself got thinner and older. He kept the memory of our mother alive in us and taught us the virtues of hard work and clean living. When we became teens, he went back to travelling with us, to the far flung and inhospitable corners where conflict and confusion thrived. His job was to make observations and report back. With all the dangers of his job, he never let either of us out of his sight and was devastated when Sam finally closed the iris and went out alone to seek a fortune, never to be seen by either of us again.

On our next trip after, our first without Sam, we went to Antarctica to learn that wild emperor penguins have abandonment issues. Antarctica was both empty and crowded, depending on if we were inside or outside the ancient steel box that served as a station. I spent hours making notes while I learned about the mental makeup of the birds outside. It was a big change from the usual round of politics and diplomacy and tense negotiations between warring cultures.

Father emperor penguins keep their eggs on their feet through the long winter night, huddling in mass packs against the icy blasting winds that are endlessly trying to scour the rock clean of life. They keep the baby chick on their feet too, passing it to their mother who feeds it on fishy vomit until it's too large to shelter that way and, coincidentally, large enough to survive being in the wind. In zoos, where it's so much warmer, daddy penguins can drop their eggs occasionally without consigning it to instant death by freezing, and some of them are lazy and let the chicks sit on the concrete while they nip off to do their own thing. Those neglected young show a bizarre pattern of behaviours, calling endlessly and much louder than their cohorts, and wandering off to be as far from the other penguins as they can get.

My father described and catalogued the same behaviours cropping up, albeit rarely, in wild penguins who apparently could not cope with the sight of their beloved walking off to the ocean. They called constantly and often abandoned their eggs to go and fish beside their lady love. Some lasted a bit longer and then went crazy, heading off into the interior as if seeking enlightenment in the distant mountains. They walked at a fairly constant rate for hundreds of kilometres and then they died, usually calling pathetically to the last. As a project goes, it was damn depressing, but it allowed us both to empty our minds.

*

We froze several fingers off following these sorry specimens of avian mental health to their deranged and lonely doom, a situation we both agreed was a clear case of breaking the family motto. Once the grafts had taken and we'd healed, my father chose a dusty baked desert for the next assignment. I assume it was by way of contrast. We were leaving zoology behind and going back to the real work of dealing with human beings. Even with all our equipment, we travelled by the fast method, so as not to have the exciting situation we were going to change too much by the time we got there.

We were attached to a diplomatic mission, looking for a group of nomads who had been messing about with some unknown and worrying technology. Their region had collapsed into a prolonged and bloody anarchy, and this group had disappeared as outlaws into the desert some hundred years before, staying out of all contact except for sporadic trades with other outlaws. They talked freely to no one but themselves. We didn't even have a name for them, other than local derogatory terms it would be unwise to use. According to what little intelligence there was, they had some sort of motorbike that could skim the rocky desert without getting a puncture or sucking up dust. It seemed possible they were personal hovercraft, but the make and model were wholly unfamiliar and there was no indication of where they were getting all of that fuel to run the things. Nor was it apparent how they managed to have a single small bike carry up to three nomads and all their belongings, and still travel smoothly at speeds approaching Mach one. They were a tough bunch of people and, of course, they all had guns and learned to shoot at the same time they learned to hold a spoon. They mistrusted all outsiders, with good, historical reason.

My dad's job was to make observations of gestures between the nomads while the diplomats opened a channel of communication. My job on this trip was to look after the goats - tough, intelligent little things, a pain to keep tethered, but able to live on almost nothing and still stay fat and juicy. It was easiest to keep them in bags tied up around their necks while we were actually moving and they looked pretty cute that way, with just their heads sticking out. We travelled this maze of a desert for five days, and each morning we put ourself firmly in mind of the family motto. I remember how he laughed at that, waggling his hand and repeating it with me as a chant. Don't! Fuck! Up! while the others looked on us in polite bewilderment at the daily family ritual. And then there was a call on the radio and things got immediately busy as we found a route to our quarry, through the endlessly winding mountains and canyons that guarded them from inquisitive visitors.

The place that we eventually met them was comparatively open; a set of rolling hills covered in iron-heavy rocks and pebbles, encrusted in a reddish brown desert varnish. We'd tracked them down, but it was clear that they could both shoot and run if they needed to. Man, woman and child, they all wore trousers tucked into buckled boots, trim block-printed tunics and a sort of bandanna with the same printed patterns, and gloves made out of some sort of dyed leather, worn supple so it was like a second skin. The patterns shared some similarities, but every person there wore a different design - I think down to personal preference, but I can't be sure. They had a clear leader, an imposing man wearing gold about his wrists and a blue bead necklace around his neck.

Up close, the bikes didn't look like bikes at all. They were strangely organic in shape, oozing down from a carapace of unknown material, to touch the ground at two or more points. They were black around their outer edges, green towards the centre and textured a bit like hammered metal or the rind of certain varieties of melon. Not all of them were bikes - there were a few wider shapes, twice as big and almost like cars, carrying goods and youngsters on their backs. Given the rest of their belongings, it didn't look as though the nomads could possibly have made these things themselves, and it was a real puzzle as to who could be selling them to such a group, or why. They had been armed, certainly, but their rifles and rocket propelled grenade launchers were archaic, a definite case of army surplus being used to make a profit without care for local politics or keeping things stable.

The diplomats took the pose of traders, offering salt and rations, water sterilising kits and goats. After accepting a gift of salt, the leader passed us off to his spokesman, assuming a pose of silent dignity from then on. Their trader was a confident looking man with designs in deep red, black and mustard yellow on his clothes. He wasn't any fatter than the rest, but he looked as though he took care of his appearance and he smiled a lot more than the people around him. He offered delicately carved stone of high quality and some amazing emeralds, of a sort I thought had been mined out everywhere decades ago. They obviously had a source as mysterious to us as the origin of the bikes.

Guards had rifles ready and watched us closely, while most of the nomads sat back a little their faces set stiff while they looked at far horizons. A child took off her glove, only to instantly have it jammed onto her hand, almost roughly. She cried as she was scolded in sharp tones, too fast for anyone to follow. At the crying, several of the nomads gave us a sharp look, as if it might be our fault. Times had clearly been hard and trust was low. We all did our best to look non-threatening.

In the time this secretive group had been sequestered away, their dialect had evolved into an impenetrable slang. The linguist managed to translate a few words here and there, more and more as she got the hang of the changed dialect, and conveyed as best she could that what we wanted was not gems but information and that we were not there to try and kill them or recruit them to our own ends. As they backed off to confer, my father called her over and managed to share the gestures he'd picked up - all those little non-verbal cues that would show we understood them, and help us not to display crass manners out of ignorance. They shared words, their heads close in a display of deep accord that bordered on affection, something I noted with amusement and slight alarm. His hand on her back, they went back to the knot of traders to try again.

Things went quite well. They were cagey with information, but keen to trade after a rainless year and we were making a concerted effort to offer much for little. Since nobody had a damn clue where the bikes were from, anything we could take back would make this trip a success. I carried over to them a sextet of stinking goats, taking them as directed, back towards a knot of women standing away from the bikes. The goats cried Bah! Bah! in human-sounding voices and some of the kids perched on the cars giggled and shouted Bah! Bah! back at them. This little exchange of silliness lifted the mood of the whole group.

Once all the goats had been set down, I waited and smiled nervously as two competent-looking women with no-nonsense faces checked each animal and passed them back to be loaded. They discussed in detail the merits of each one between themselves before reluctantly accepting it. At the end, the older woman gave me a beaming smile that knocked years from her thin face and hit me on the arm in what I assumed was a friendly fashion. I grinned back, relieved. We exchanged awkward, amiable goodbyes and I retreated away from all the rifles and back to the truck, circling far away from the bikes and cars. Similar scenes were going on behind me, with everything being checked for quality before being eventually accepted. The trader explained that he wouldn't tell us were the bikes were from, but in return for a hefty consignment of goods, their leader allowed some of us to go up close and have a look.

And then my dad broke the family motto. He fucked up.

We should have taken a clue from the gloves and all that covered skin and definitely from the way the child had been so sharply told off. They must have thought that it was obvious. The nomads hadn't set up any sort of trick, and were as shocked as we were when it happened. The leader shouted a sudden terrified warning as my father, carried away in negotiations, reached out absently and rested his hand on a bike. There wasn't time to save him. The black skin of the bike caught his fingers and flowed rapidly up his arm and over his head, until he had been absorbed utterly and was gone. Now it was larger, just another of several car-like vehicles amidst the bikes. It was suddenly horribly apparent what the bikes used for fuel.

Things went to hell for a while. I screamed as loud and as long as any abandoned penguin chick and our guards upped the levels of hostility to dangerous levels. I got bundled into the back of the truck and pretty much tethered down with the goats. I'm honestly surprised they didn't put a bag over my head. I'm told that things calmed down quite quickly when it became clear we weren't reaching for our guns or our radios. I know we eventually left, having traded all we agreed and without any dead bodies. There was a tick-tock scattering of rocks as the nomads went away at speed, and then the engines started up and I was jolted back to the city, screaming at the goats the whole way until my voice was hoarse. I never found out a damn thing more about the bikes, and I'm frankly scared to make a noise about it to anyone.

*

My shrink says I have abandonment issues. It's not really surprising. I still find myself shouting at nothing much and driving people away. I feel desperately, desperately alone in crowds. I bought some land with the compensation money and I've found some consolation in my work of raising this bright and hardy breed of desert goats, but I'm restless. The urge to set off into nowhere, to leave all I know behind, is becoming overwhelming.

There's a colony ship being built. Now that we've terraformed sections of Mars, it's time to head out to some of those billions of prospective planets we've found. To take the long, slow journey out to a kind of oblivion. Anyone who goes along will be pretty much dead to those they leave behind, with no way back and no knowing what will happen to us. We'll travel for twenty years in subjective time, but it's going to be hundreds of years into humanity's future when we get there, even if we had a way to communicate faster than light, which we don't. Anyone who is willing to go has to be just a little bit insane, so they've dropped some of the psych requirements. I've signed up, and I am taking the goats with me.

I'll be bearing the family motto in mind.

How I'm Doing

I've had an ME relapse and I'm more or less in my room the whole time for, so far, most of this year. I've gone from home-cooked delicious food to salt-ridden processed food which keeps reasonably well and is easy to just grab and eat. I am craving unsalted meat more than anything else. Physical activity is limited to looking after the cat, pots and laundry.

I did manage to complete an OU taster course over the winter. I want to do AA100 Introduction To The Humanities this year and start a six year degree. However, at the moment my brain is buzzing with strong urges to write stuff. I've got an idea which could span several books. It's my first experience of assembling a book, rather than writing it. I know roughly what I wanted the main plot arc to be. Then I had to make up characters to act out this plot, and give them names, functions (such as Protagonist, Research Whiz, Mentor, Comic Relief) and backgrounds. Alongside this, I built the world they're going to live in, or at least the basic premise for it that everything else hangs from. After bouncing about between these three stages for a while, I've finally got to the point where I've done a rough draft of Chapter One, which introduces the protagonist, explains enough of her situation to be intriguing and ends in a cliffhanger leading to the main plot. Now I am fiddling around with the characters, seeing what is missing and which ones would be suitable for Chapter Two, as well as working out what Chapter Two is supposed to achieve.

The actual writing-something-someone-would-want-to-read, or even beta-quality copy, is all in the far, far future. I'm not writing a book. I am *assembling* a book, or rather, a series of books. It's oddly satisfying, even with nothing to show for it.

Author Aerobics. Prompts: Setting. Home.

In response to this writer prompt from the Ink Stained blog. 350 words.

It was in the hot sands under her feet, the sliding whisper of the dunes, the tiny little tick-tock trails of the ants and beetles that broke and tumbled as she climbed. It was in the pressure beating down hard on her covered head, and in the need for her to keep silent, lest the dry wind steal her moisture away and kill her. It was in the very wood she held, taken from a long-dead tree and fitted to her hand, and the thunk and scrunch as the stave found purchase for her to use as she climbed. As long as she was here, this feeling could not be taken away.

It was possible that she would die here. Not today, while she still had water and strength. Probably not tomorrow either. But soon, if she didn't find what she sought. At the top of the dune, she paused to scan the landscape, taking the time to drink as much cold water as she could hold, until her belly felt heavy and tight. Movement was everywhere - a snake moving with clockwork precision, a bird darting out of nowhere to snatch a tiny insect from the dessicated dunes and the shifting sands themselves. A traveller, one of many, had complained to her about this dead and empty place, but she saw tiny pieces of life everywhere she looked. One just had to look with accustomed eyes. At the right times, the shimmering bell of the sky would ring with birdsong and flowers would carpet whole areas as if for a party. In between these times of lush fecundity, the permanent dwellers clicked about their orderly business, not a drop wasted in anything they did.

The worn goatskin bag settled onto her hip with a soft thump and a reassuring rumble of water. She might die here, but the desert had given her a lot, over time and death was no longer the enemy it had been. If she failed this once to find other people then the dunes were welcome to hold the polished heirloom of her bones.

In which the Rodent has had a very busy weekend.

I'm having a Good Patch. This year, it's been mostly Good Patches.

Friday, I ran flat out all day, doing housework and gardening, including chopping back overgrown lawn with scissors of all things. Only an hour and I cleared a surprising amount.

I say only an hour - that's an hour solid's effort. This is a bizarre amount for me to be doing, with getting up at each handful and carrying the grass to the bucket. I went on from that to make proper rabbit stew from scratch (including chopping the rabbit into servings), to do laundry and make up the guest bed, which is a king-size, so it's not easy. Then I greeted guests, Carol and Gary, saw to their needs and crawled to bed.

The next day, I got up, did my morning routine, took Carol to the Bodyworks exhibition and came home with her and Sessifet both. There was a side-trip to look at a Roman fort. I managed to be together enough to find the time of the train I wanted, notice at Bolton station that it didn't go through to Deansgate, stop and get food, water and tickets, get us on the right train and even arrive in Deansgate on time. My only anxiety was when we couldn't find the well-hidden group that were, from the main entrance, past the car-park, down spiral stairs, through another car park and under some columns. I call that well-hidden.

We saw dead people. They were very beautiful and strange. Then I came back and served us
the rabbit stew. Wisely, I decided to rest inside, instead of going out to the pub. I had a nice, quiet evening chatting with Gary and occasionally feeding him things. He made tea. We watched television. I had a wonderful time. I fell asleep on the sofa later on, being hair-fuzzled into a coma by Pol. I don't remember putting myself to bed.

Why did I need to rest? Well, on Sunday I had to be up at eight, to go on a walk. It was a long walk, and a hard walk, and my legs are sore. Claire came too, and I persuaded her, after, to come over to say hello to Carol and Gary. Then I felt peckish and offered a fried breakfast. But we were out of eggs and bacon and sausages, so off Claire and I walked to the Co-op, and back, and we both put on a slap-up feed, with toast even.

The day didn't finish there. Carol showed me how to heddle-weave, and I was able to pay attention, which was wonderful. No having my concentration 'bbzdt'ed away by blasts of migraine. Carol and Gary left, and Angela came over, so we went for a long drive. I coped with all of this.

Then, after Pol went to bed, I did another hour or two in the garden, losing more skin. The torn-off blisters on my hand are, at worst, mildly annoying, so I suspect my pain threshold is up, or I am Tramadoled to oblivion.

Stress-wise, I was getting a bit anxious about the neighbours shouting outside (playing with their portapool and getting into arguments), so I put on my Bolton Hospital relaxation CD and tried track 6, the body scan. It worked wonderfully and I don't even have too much of a headache to mark the day.

We'll see how I am tomorrow when all the excitement is over.

In which the Rodent discusses meal planning and its online profile.

Look for Supermouse The Rodent, migraine on Google and what you get is myLivejournal. There's no trace of this blog at all. To be honest, that's the way I prefer it. It's just a mild nuisance when I am on a borrowed computer and don't have my bookmarks to hand.
My Livejournal is more or less a report to my friends of everything I've been up to. This blog is a report to myself and possibly medics about how my migraines and ME and other health issues are affecting me. It's much duller, on the whole, but neither are exciting.

Today I want to talk about food, meal planning and how migraines affect what I eat.

On Tuesday I baked trout stuffed with a mixture of sweet potato (which should be precooked), lemon grass paste, ginger paste (very little, but enough) and spring onion. I was intending to cook mackerel, but in my un-drugged addledness accidentally clicked the (much more expensive) 'responsibly raised' trout from some Lord's lake.

It was very nice. It was also three times the price of the meal I'd intended to have.

Migraines make it hard to budget. It's harder to plan a journey properly, because I get confused about when things are, what date is 'now' and what day goes with which date. Even with a calendar in front of my, I can get puzzled. It also makes it hard to work out where to get buses, so I end up with taxis a lot of the time out of a need not to have to think too hard. And, as above, they complicate meal planning.

ME does similar but with extra problems on top. You have the difficulty of planning, and the additional joy of not knowing whether or not you're going to be able to cook the food you've bought. Fresh trout looks very pretty in the fridge, but what if you then are exhausted from putting the shopping away, and can't cook it before it goes off? I eat more fresh food now, just because I can usually rely on myself to be able to cook, for example, fresh meat before it goes green and smelly. I use less tinned milk and tinned fruit. I cook proper meals and then have the energy to freeze portions.

Just as being rich lets people save money that the poor can't (tax rebates, bulk buying, better quality therefore longer-lasting goods), being full of energy lets me save energy. I can cook a huge meal and freeze it later in the same day or the next morning. I've been able to clean up the kitchen right away, so I don't have to scrub off dried-off gunk before I start portioning things out. The kitchen is tidy, so I can find the pen and the freezer containers.

The payoff is that for a while after a cooking session, I can just throw in a home-made frozen meal, nuke it for five-and-a-half minutes and know I've got good food going. I can use the getting-food-ready energy on other things, which might make it even easier next time as I shop for new ingredients and plant food plants so I can pick my own. And, of course, I save money too, money I can spend on taxis.

If I could plan food out properly, I'd save even more. I think, once the Tramadol is properly back in my system, I'll be more able to. I don't think it's worth taking a break of more than three days, just because the migraines then take such a hold that I spend days drugged up but no better off thinking-wise.

Last night, newly back on painkillers, I was in terrible pain and so the planned painting session didn't happen, but I did get to socialise and the planning ability was there, in that I knew it was Wednesday and I knew that Wednesday, therefore this day, was art day. I'd even managed to buy a vinyl table cloth for art, and remember I'd bought it, and put it out before the evening began. I'm quite pleased with the level of joined-up-thinking this implies. I am just greedy and want to be able to apply it to meals.

Tonight's dinner is tinned soup and Matteson's U-shaped sausage. The delicious taste of planning failure.

In which the Rodent settles back home and catches up.

I've been away, first to Nottingham, then to London. This has made it impossible to update my blog. It's also mean doing a lot of travelling, alone, which I got through just fine, even with all the physical work involved.

It's also meant taking Tramadol nearly every day for several weeks, and I want a break, even if it makes me very headachey. So I am taking a break from any sort of opiates and I've kept my calendar more or less empty. On Monday I have a flute lesson, Tuesday I have a walk in the morning, Wednesday I'll take drugs because we're having an evening of painting and chat and that's a huge problem without the drugs.

Day two drugless and I am headachey but still able to enjoy life. I am eating Skittles Crazy Sours when the pain hits, as a distraction. Oddly, the pain isn't much worse than without the opiates, but my thoughts are starting to scatter. Yesterday was very busy, cold and wet. Today is bright and sunny after a cold, wet start. Neither weather pattern fills me with joy. Getting everything done I wanted to have done does make my life joyful. However, it's getting more difficult to join my thoughts together and do anything needing concentration or memory.

I have an appointment for relaxation training with the Pain Clinic, finally. It's this month, even.

In which the Rodent reluctantly updates.

I recognise the signs. That urgh, don't wanna that says if I drop the blog now, I will never, ever, ever pick it up again and then I'll feel guilty, despite the fact that it's something I do for me and so far as I know there's a maximum of one other reader.

This blog is also where I talk about my migraines and health, an indulgence I don't allow myself as much rein on in Livejournal. This is a depressing blog about a depressing subject so a little urgh is to be expected.

Yesterday was bad. I woke up at 4am and went back to bed at 6am when the painkillers kicked in. Then I was woken up again at 8am, full of migraine. The migraines are a lot better if I am allowed to just sleep them off. Yesterday was another reminder of why I go to bed ridiculously early if I need to get up. I woke up because I got bronchitis which is a good thing, honestly.

If I exercise too much in cold weather, by which I mean to the point where I take in a nice, deep breath of cold air, I get a warning pain in my lungs which will invariably turn into a nice chesty case of sick-sheep-coughing bronchitis. This used to be a real problem when I was a child and a teenager, but it hasn't bothered me since I got ME because I haven't been fit enough to exercise to that level. Well, on Thursday I got my lungs seared climbing up Forest Hill Road in Nottingham carrying a week's clothes and my flute and laptop. This is why I woke up at 4am coughing sadly and unable to breathe well. A cuppa and some sitting up time made all better but it did not make me feel much better when I had to get up and start being active outdoors.

Yesterday I helped my sister move. Despite feeling very, very sick (nauseated) and bronchitic and with a pounding head moving between six and eight all day long, I managed to help my sister. She was upset because her landlord isn't getting basic things like her heating sorted out. I have been in crappy housing before. Her house is decent, but not when it doesn't have heating. I know how easy it is to end up just sitting in despair and when my mum said she'd been crying on the phone at the latest problem (shoddy workmen pulling cupboards apart to put in a fridge that doesn't fit) then I had an idea of what to do. I looked around and grabbed a few pretty things I knew she liked. My mum took her blankets and I greeted her at the door with a cushion she owns that has a very smiley happy yellow cat on. This got a smile.

We were sat in her sitting room all full of bags, lamenting how bad the landlord had been and how awkward it was not to be able to hang anything on any of the walls. It came to me that this was a miserable room but full of nice things and that it didn't have to stay miserable. I then got into bullying mode and spent a happy day mercilessly browbeating my relatives. I made her take all the rubbish outside which was a one-minute job she'd not bothered to do. I got a picture white-takked to a door and the blankets put away instead of dumped on the sofa, and suddenly we were off and the place was being put back together.

She said it was as if she was a junkie and we were running an intervention, because everything we made her do was so obvious and made such a difference but she'd just not been able to work out how to get started doing it.

The meter-cupboards had post and phone books dumped on top and looked depressing, so I made her put the phone books away and she white-takked album covers onto the white doors.

I had to argue with my mum about a fireplace behind the chair that the telly is currently balanced on. She told me not to decorate it because it was a depressing, dusty hole and half-hidden anyway. Now it has a little green dressing table (about eight inches high) my sister picked out, with a potter rabbit on top that sis had had on display in her old room and cheerful matching candles and it's a lovely little background note.

Her computer table has had a vintage scarf fastened to the front to hide all the wiring and I put her monitor-decorations back and cleared the table top but for her tiger-print mouse and pretty speakers.

The meter-cupboards have an album cover, a lot of pink tea-lights in stacks and a coloured tile. Her little tiled coffee table she'd stuffed into the corner is now on display, and the room-heater that was sitting on top of an old suitcase is now on her little table. There's a rug in front of her sofa. I hung up a light shade and covered the non-functional radiator. Suddenly the room is part of a home and not what it was before, which was a place to dump things.

Inspired by this, my sister did her room herself, unpacking everything and putting it all away. The task had seemed overwhelming to her, but we'd got things started and that's the hardest part, usually. When we struggled home at 8pm, it was all just about done.

Going home was awful. Since my sister was nearly done, we ended up staying in a house that was getting colder and colder, while we both got hungrier and hungrier and more and more tired. She did need us and I am glad we stayed, but I was crying with pain on the way home and threw up several times after I got back. I did manage to keep down some cocodamol and by 9pm I was back in the land of the living. It did make me realise how much better I've been recently. I felt so ill, but a few weeks ago that level of pain was normal living. I was also amazed at how well I functioned when in so much pain.

I read recently that slow release opiates should be taken for chronic pain (I mean, if you're going to take opiates at all) and quick-release for top-up. This accords with what I have worked out myself through trial and error, that if I take a single Tramadol in the morning of what looks to be a bad day, and perhaps another in the afternoon or evening, then I can top up with cocodamol and perhaps as a last resort have aspirin as well and I am unlikely to end up unable to cope with the pain.

Last year I was taking Tramadol as a last resort and of course I then needed more and often ended up unable to cope. The current regime suits me very well.

Today I've been out shopping and also spent a very happy time hanging my sister's earrings from a ribbon fastened along the top of a door. My migraine is at about a four after drugging up with tramadol at 4am and cocodamol at tennish. I feel so much better than last night.