Yesterday was my third annual visit to the Christmas Art, Craft and Gift Fayre; I suppose it’s something I would normally have skipped (due to chemo) but a friend was showing work, and I really wanted to pick up a few of her matchbox masterpieces.

Ulrike and I arrived early to avoid the crowds; we hovered table to table, chatted up vendors, sampled truffles with oil,  and shopped – I bought three matchbox ladies from Barbro, who also had a stall showcasing her beautiful hand-woven, hand-painted cardboard baskets.

So that was a lovey morning, but by the time Ulrike and I had gone full circle and decided on a cup of tea, my legs felt like tree trunks and my head slightly fuzzy.

But sometimes a girl needs to socialize.

Mind you, I go crazy strange in the midst of exhaustion. Just this evening I was freaking out over nothing and Zsolt had to calm me down. It’s 100% a result of ‘too much activity’, which is tricky to manage during chemotherapy. This drug gives me the allusion of health . . . like, hey, I feel fine this morning so why don’t I do this, and this, and this, and this . . . except that come mid-afternoon I’m flat on my ass from a spinning head and can’t think straight.

It’s tricky, tricky stuff.

But nevertheless it was a lovely Sunday.

Another friend of mine who once had breast cancer advised that chemotherapy becomes more draining as time passes. She was concerned that flying to Canada would be too much. She’s probably right – I admit there is high risk of ‘Crazy Catherine, the Exhausted’ making a special appearance once home in Kanata.

So long as she doesn’t appear before, like when I’m talking to customs and trying to explain that hello/bonjour I’m Canadian, but I live in England, and yes I work there too, and no I don’t have anything to claim, and no I didn’t stop at duty free, and yes I’m home for a visit, and PLEASE stop asking questions because my parents are on the other side of that barrier and I’m dying to see them. At which point Crazy Catherine would take over and dive past the checkpoint, run across the luggage carousel, jump the security dogs, rip off her toque mid hot flash (revealing a suspiciously bald head) and probably end up tackled to the ground by that last fellow who checks your landing card and decides whether or not to search your bags.

Whew – sounds like an adventure I don’t want to have.

Therefore, the crazy will be saved for later.