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Overdosed on all the carbs!
By the time I walked into the office yesterday, I was ready for the day to be over. Horrendous low on my way in (seriously, I hate the two-hour warm up phase when I put in a new or restart a Dex sensor) and the frenzied, gluttonous consumption of as much glucose as was in my car. (For the record – two juice boxes and large packet of jelly beans.)
A morning mountain of sugar does not start the day at all well with the overdose of glucose pulsing through my veins turning my muscles to lead and my brain to pulp. And it continued throughout the day, with reminders of the rotten start peppering my day, all the way to bedtime when I found four rogue blood glucose strips stuck to my body. They fluttered like butterflies to the ground when I took off my bra. (That sounds a lot prettier and more delicate than it actually was.)
Hypo mornings are the worst. Especially when they involve the guzzling of the equivalent of my body weight in glucose.
I arrived at work 15 minutes late for a meeting, covered in sweat, hair plastered to my head and my sunglasses skewwhiff on my head. Nothing says ‘I’m-ready-for-the-week-and-to-be-a-smart-sassy-expert-contributor-to-an-important-meeting-with-important-people-and-yes-of-course-I-know-what-I-am-talking-about’ like post-hypo glow.
These days start badly. And don’t end well. I take a ‘begin as I mean to go on, and go on as I began’ approach literally, and figure that if beginning with a carb load suitable for an Olympic marathon runner the day before race day, then I may as well keep it up and compete in my own little Olympic challenge: the carb race.
I mean, why not eat a doughnut or two for breakfast next, right? Or waffles with jam AND syrup AND whipped cream?
And of course, I’ll have morning tea. ‘Biscuits,’ you say? ‘I’ll take six…teen,’ I respond.
Sushi rolls for lunch, because today is not the day to work out how to bolus for white rice and who cares anyway?!
It would be rude to say no to the brownies on the counter of the café next door to the office that I am visiting for the fifth time because caffeine is the only thing that is making me remain upright and remember how to string two words together that actually make sense. (So: ‘Yes, another milky coffee please. And sure, add sugar! All the sugar!’)
Pasta for dinner with more pasta and then add some pasta on the side because carbs, carbs, carbs. And the chocolate chip cookies that the kidlet made over the weekend as treats for her school day lunchbox make excellent treats after dinner for carb-mummy.
And while this is all going on, I am bolusing, bolusing, bolusing; insulin stacking, insulin stacking, insulin stacking. And chasing my tail because of course I end up low and then high and then low.
I know, I know. I didn’t need to keep the high carb day going after my breakfast hypo. But sometimes, when the days starts off going to hell in a handbasket, sometimes, I can’t work out the way (or be bothered) to salvage it. And I wonder what is the point of limiting my carb intake for the rest of the day if the floodgates were jammed open before 9am.
I climbed into bed last night exhausted. Exhausted from the low that started the day, the sluggishness of so much glucose still in my system and a day of peak-and-trough glucose levels that always make me feel listless. I said a silent prayer to the diabetes angels to please, please, please let me sleep through the night and not be up all night weeing out the sugar due to the glucose overdose, or needing to treat a low due to the likely insulin overdose. I pleaded for balance and flat-lines and an absence of alarms.
I woke this morning with the slight hangover the comes from too much sugar and a day on a rollercoaster. Waves of nausea wash lightly over me occasionally, reminding me of the day before. Delicately, I am stepping through the day. Watching my CGM trace, reacting gently, eating cautiously, dosing warily. And cursing diabetes. Completely and utterly inelegantly.
On our last full day in New York, we walked down some stairs to the subway. My phone started vibrating and beeping and I knew that I was heading low.
I hadn’t really managed to get the whole hot-weather-walking-a-lot thing sorted out on this trip. I dealt with insane Conference Hypo Syndrome from literally the second I stepped foot into the conference centre in New Orleans, and just managed by setting a lowered temp basal rate and drinking a lot of juice.
And then, we were on holidays and while I know diabetes is for life, not just for X-mas, I couldn’t be bothered ‘doing diabetes’ and being smart about making some changes and addressing the lows properly.
For the most part, I was right. I responded to the rapid fall warnings on my Dex and avoided any super-nasty lows.
But this day in the New York subway, I was already firmly in ‘deal with me now’ hypo territory. I had a bottle of juice in my bag, but walked into a little kiosk on the platform to see what I could use instead. And there before me I saw these:
And I squealed.
‘Oh my god. Babe. BABE. LOOK!’ I said to Aaron as I grabbed a couple of packs and started to open them before paying. I think he fished out a couple of dollars from his pocket to pay the guy who was watching me carefully. ‘I love these,’ I announced loudly. ‘Green apple Mentos! I LOVE these!’
Aaron corralled me back to the platform and we sat down waiting for our train and I started to munch my way through the pack.
‘Want one?’ I asked him, pushing the tube into his face. ‘No thanks. I don’t like green apple flavour.’
This was a fact I knew well because every time I mention how much I love green apple flavour, he reminds me he doesn’t.
‘What? WHAT? Of course you do!’ I said. ‘It is the best flavour ever. EV-ER! Remember? It is everywhere in France. Remember, babe? Remember? And there was that time that I found green apple Mentos in Melbourne at a servo and got so excited that I bought, like, 40 tubes. Remember? Have one… Have one babe.’
‘No, I’m okay,’ Aaron said. He went back to reading something on his phone.
‘Babe. Do you remember that time at the servo? I told you, right? I was really low and I went in and saw them and got excited and was ranting and raving to the poor attendant about how excited I was and how I’d never seen them in Australia. Do you remember? The guy thought I was really weird because I couldn’t stop talking about how excited I was and how much I love green apple flavoured lollies. Do you remember?’
Aaron shut off his phone and turned to me. ‘I guess I’ll read this later,’ he said smiling.
I ignored him and continued. ‘So I told him how green apple flavour was EVERYWHERE in France, but not here in Australia and how you could get green apple gum and soft drinks and heaps of other stuff and how I love it. LOVE. IT! Remember how it is everywhere in France? Yeah? And then I asked him how many packs of Mentos they had and I dumped them all on the counter and bought them. I spent, like, sixty dollars on lollies. Green apple lollies. I was so excited and speaking really quickly. Like, super quickly. Almost ranting. Like the fast talked in Seinfeld. Remember Jackie the lawyer in Seinfeld? I was talking really, really fast. Like that.’
‘Kind of like now?’ Aaron asked.
‘Am I? Am I? I am… Aren’t I?’ I said. ‘Yeah – I guess. Maybe it’s the green apple. Do you think that’s what it is? Do you, babe? Could it be the green apple? I LOVE green apple flavour! I should have bought more. Will I go back?’
‘I think it could be because you are low. And I think maybe you should eat a few more of those Mentos instead of just speaking about them.’ Aaron said gently.
‘Do you want one? They are great! I love this flavour!’ I asked.
The train pulled into the station and we found a seat. I checked my iPhone and saw that I was no longer dropping. I took a deep breath and looked around the carriage.
‘I really like green apple flavouring,’ I murmured to Aaron. He reached over and took my hand.
‘I know. And you’re really funny sometimes when you are low.’
I rested my head on his shoulder and concentrated on my heart rate, which was slowing down. By the time we got off the train I was feeling fine. And happy. Because tucked away in my bag was a yet to be opened packet of green apple Mentos.
How’d your day start? Mine has been a blur of low blood sugar since the early hours. My head is in a fog, and I am confused at the insulin sensitivity that seems to have moved in and made itself at home. I am also slightly buzzy, (and more than a little bloated!), thanks to the 1750milliliters of juice I have consumed since just after 2am. That’s right: a litre and three quarters of pine-orange juice to keep my BGLs above ridiculously low levels and silence my Dex alarms.
It played out like this:
2.30am – After sleeping through 30 minutes of low alarms, I woke with a start and downed a whole juice box, not even thinking that I’d try for half and then see how I was going – because, really, I just wanted to get back to sleep. But with my alarms still screeching, my Dex still sitting below 3mmol/l and the obvious hypo fog settling it, I downed another box quickly. And, after 60 mins of low alarms, another box.
I spent 90 minutes or so desperately watching the Dex app on my iPhone, waiting for the trace to rise, (and wondering how the hell two adults with perfectly good hearing could sleep through the alarms!), all the while engaging in what this morning appears to be a most bizarre Twitter conversation with some UK friends. (Not sure what’s their excuse for the odd and slightly inappropriate exchange; their glucose levels were apparently fine.)
Eventually fell back asleep around 4.00am with three juice boxes spent on my bedside table and my Dex line sitting comfortably and arrow-less in the mid-fives.
7.00am – Morning alarm coincided with Dex screeching at me with an urgent low alarm, which had been going for about 15 minutes. More juice – this time just one box – before gingerly starting the day, keeping a very close eye on my CGM numbers, which refused to go above 4.7mmol/l. But at least they were staying steady and not dropping. Until…
8.50am – As the kidlet was loading herself into the car and I was speaking to my neighbour from two doors down on the street, another alarm. This time, the fall rate alarm showing a BG that was dropping quickly from 4mmol/l. Kidlet unloaded from my car into neighbours car for school run, neighbour shouting at me to stop talking and go get some sugar, me heading inside for another two juice boxes because one wasn’t cutting it.
Each juice box has 27.5 grams of carbs. I’ve had seven of them this morning. That’s a shedload of sugar and I feel nauseous, foggy and exhausted.
This is not the first time I’ve had a day like this. In fact, I’ve had a few.
And I have done the checklist for what it could be:
Lost weight? – Nope.
Weather warmed up? – No; it’s freezing!
Exercising more? – Don’t be ridiculous.
Other health issues? – No (except a head cold and that would not make me hypo).
CURED? – Well, maybe… although probably not.
There is no rhyme or reason to this at all. There is nothing I can point to change or fix. I just lower my basal rates, under-bolus and have stopped pre-bolusing for meals. I also am very cautious with correction boluses because most of the time, they are just not necessary. This is just a weird period of extreme insulin sensitivity. It’s happened before, lasted a month or so and then things went back to normal.
I expect that will be the same here too, although the complicating factor is that on Thursday I am heading to New Orleans, where the heat, conference hypo syndrome and the fun of travelling WILL be a factor in making me go low a lot.
I’ve made some changes to my low alarm thresholds so I am notified of impending lows sooner. I’ve made a couple of little tweaks to my basal rates. I’m making sure my phone is NEVER out of sight so the chance of a Dex signal loss is almost impossible. And I’ll just wait. Because sometimes that’s all there is to do.
A far too familiar sight at the moment.
I am not a micro manager. In fact, with the team I managed in my previous job, I was possibly the furthest thing from a micro-manager, instead working with the team to get them in a position where they were adequately able to manage their own responsibility areas, while I gently stood in the background helping out when I needed. I was there to advocate and champion for the team as a whole, and team members individually and fly the flag of ‘hey-speak-to-people-with-diabetes-before-you-plan-things-for-us’.
However, in the last few weeks, I have become a micro manager. Not of people. Of my diabetes and the results are not good.
In fact, the results look like this photo Aaron took at some point over the long weekend.
Photo credit: Aaron (who captioned it with ‘Renza: I don’t like Zappa when I’m hypo.’ Which is true. I was finding him quite grating at the time.)
I had been in hypo city for a while, which is not a nice, fun place to visit. It is awful and it seems that once you get there, the only accommodation is Hotel California-esqu.
I have been over-responding to every impending, suggested or even hinted at high, when I should have simply sat back and waited. Insulin takes time to work – that’s just a sucky fact. I don’t always remember to bolus before I start to eat – or ten minutes before as required at times – and sometimes the delay means that I wind up a whole lot higher than I would like before the insulin can do its thing.
I found myself low about 45 minutes after I had just eaten a huge Easter afternoon tea because I was jumping at ghosts – or rather, rising lines on my CGM – instead of waiting for the bolused insulin to do its trick and cut through the higher fat content food I’d been eating. So, I bolused some more.
Where I should have been sitting tight and being patient, I would second-guess and do something (for the sake of doing something) – and often get it wrong.
This is the other side of CGM. (Disclosures abound about how fortunate I am to have access to this tech. I know all of that. Disclosure also that I love this technology; it is amazing.) The flip side is the over-management and that is where I found myself for most of the long weekend.
Remembering my basic principles of management (whether for people or diabetes), I have spent some of this week stepping back. I’ve not jumped in. I’ve waited more to see what has happened. Watch – Listen – Learn have been the three things I tell myself before leaping in to act. I’ve stopped reacting at any upward trend, thinking about how much insulin is on board yet to do its thing; how long the food I’ve eaten takes to digest and whatever other myriad factors need to be considered before giving myself more insulin.
I hate being high, so I understand why I try to avoid it. But I also hate being low. I’ve yet to find balance in diabetes, and in all honesty, I don’t think I ever will.
It’s 7.25pm on Sunday evening. I am battle-scarred from a hypo that hit me like a ten tonne truck. It was 6 hours ago now, but I am still foggy and so fatigued.
We were out – at our local shops picking up a few things. All of a sudden, I felt like I was going to fall over. One of my legs gave way, I was dizzy and I couldn’t find the words I needed. Focusing hard, I looked at the kid and said ‘We need to get out of here.’ I passed her my phone and she called Aaron who was in another shop nearby, asking him to come and find us.
Where had this come from? My CGM started wailing at the moment that Aaron joined us. But when I looked over the previous few hours, I could see that I had been sitting around 4mmol/l for the whole time. Until I dipped – suddenly – and it seemed the CGM trace took a little while to catch up. The wailing continued as I gulped back orange juice and groped for my pump to silence the alarm.
It was almost fifteen minutes later before I was ready to move. As I sat there, I very consciously started to notice the fuzziness in my head, the overwhelming and all-encompassing exhaustion hit. My eyelids began to droop and my eyes were having trouble focusing, my hair was wet at my neck making me shiver, and my hands were shaking a little. The noises around me sounded like they were coming through a tunnel – everything echoed, but sounded muted and fluffy.
Eventually, we got up and got home and I went straight to bed. I took off my shoes, lay down, and was shivering as I fell asleep, almost instantly. And I slept – a deep, heavy, dreamless sleep. Two hours later I woke up and was ready to move again – slowly and gingerly at first.
And now. Six hours later. I am sitting on the couch, and in between writing I stare out the front window onto our street. It’s a gorgeous night – warm, but not too warm, with a gorgeous cool breeze blowing through our open front door. I hear the leaves flutter in the trees in the garden, people walk by, chatting to each other, and the folk across the road are having a band rehearsal. It’s peaceful; it’s Sunday night and I’m starting to think of the week ahead.
And in my thoughts about school lunches, and work schedules, and everything else, I have another thought. I don’t have it often, but when I do, it’s always the same.
I feel a pull at the bottom of my stomach.
My breath catches in my throat.
Tears spring to my eyes.
I wish I didn’t have diabetes.
Hot sticky days equal revolting sticky hypos and leave me wondering if a move to the tropics would equal a partial diabetes cure.
I’ve mostly been sitting at 30 per cent basal for the last couple of days and not bolusing. At all. But even with that, I’ve been mainlining hypo foods to keep my BGL above 4. Low, low, low.
Until I’m not. Until I am sitting up in the 20s and struggling to manage the nausea and the hypo hangover and the thirst.
As my pump shows double up arrows, I snap into action. I up my basal rate again and bolus, slowly, carefully. And then rage bolus because, for fuck’s sake, at 20 I feel like there is tar in my veins and my head won’t think straight. And eventually, it turns and heads downwards further and further and further. And too far. Where it sticks; for hours and hours.
My CGM trace is a mess, and hard as I try, I can’t make sense of it. There are no patterns. Just long straight lines of low, with a stubborn refusal to respond to any of the juice or glucose I consumer. And then a blip where suddenly, after a couple of hours, it all is absorbed in one hit. And then crashes back down to low, low, low.
I’m not over treating. I only have 15 grams of carbs at a time. I wait 15 mins before checking again. And I force myself to not binge on anything because I know I need to give the glucose time to respond. I talk myself down from the ledge of consuming everything in sight and breathe deliberately, willing my heartbeat to slow down.
But stubbornly, the numbers don’t move up yet and the line stays the same and the alarms wail and I feel like I am going to pass out.
This mess of numbers and I am attached to devices that cost thousands and give me so much information. Makes me wonder how I would ever cope – and how much worse it would be – if I didn’t have the tech.
Fun fact – the beep on my Vibe to tell me that I am low (a noise I have heard A LOT over recent days) is the exact same beep as the pagers used by Foreman, Cameron and Chase on House.
We have a taqueria just around the corner from our place. As is the norm in our suburb, it’s very hipster – staffed by people far-cooler-than-I’ve-ever-been with bemusing facial hair that I understand to be ironic, but in my mind just reminds me of either a lumberjack, Salvador Dali or someone from a barber shop quartet.
But I can overlook all the posing, because they serve a kick-ass mojito and awesome tacos. Plus, it really is a three minute walk from our place.
We went there the other night. We were kid free (yay for camp!) and within minutes of jumping out of the cab after getting home from Brisbane, we were making our way there. I had been low for much of the two hour flight, my CGM emitting a piercing ‘You’re low, treat it’ alarm and me hissing ‘Shhh. Pay attention to the jelly beans I’ve just eaten’ at it, making me appear a slightly crazed women muttering to a box down her shirt. I also set a temp basal rate, certain that I’d regret it later and would be high as a kite by the time the plane landed. I was wrong.
I was still eating jelly beans in the cab, but at least my CGM line was steady and by the time I paid the driver, it was sitting at 3.9mmol/l and the arrow was straight across. So when we were walking to the restaurant and I could feel the low alarm continuing to vibrate, I was pretty confident that the sugar would kick in soon (like, now!) and all would be right. And the temp basal rate was still active, so not only didn’t I have any insulin on board, but I’d had hardly any basal insulin delivered for two hours.
We threw our things down at a table and went to the bar to order. Thinking it better to be safe than sorry, I ordered an orange juice alongside my mojito and drank it quickly as soon as it was placed in front of me. I swilled the ice around, making sure I got every last bit of the available sugar.
I could sense that I was really low again, but even through the fog, I knew that a lot of glucose had been consumed in the last hour or so. I subconsciously reached under my top and disconnected my pump, and could feel my skin was slick with sweat.
At this point, I was feeling a little confused because at what I thought was the middle of a conversation, Aaron stood up and walked away from the table to the bar. I couldn’t work out what he was doing (my vision at this stage was unreliable at best). Eventually, he returned with another glass of juice – this time, no ice – and gently put it in front of me.
I drank it in one slurp (graceful) and sat back, reaching into my top to silence the alarm, which was helpfully telling me that I was still low. My mouth was buzzing, my lips and tongue feeling slightly numb.
‘You were really low,’ Aaron said to me later on.
‘Really? How could you tell?’’ I honestly thought that I was doing a perfectly good impersonation of carrying on a conversation, and the hypo was not on show for all to see.
‘You started a sentence five times. And never finished it. You just sat there in silence after saying a few words. And eventually would start another sentence. Or the same one. And not finish it.’
I had no idea.
I can’t pin point why I was so hypo. I didn’t ignore the impending low – as soon as my pump alarmed to suggest I was at the low limit (which is set above hypo level so that I do something before actually being low) I started treating. I continued to treat and monitor. I set a temp basal rate. I did everything by the book.
But still, it was a sticky low that wouldn’t quit. There was no shocking rebound – I reconnected my line when we left the restaurant and my CGM was reading 7mmol/l, and the next morning, I woke up feeling fine.
And when I think back to it now – and when I reviewed the CGM graph the next day – I am reminded just how crap diabetes can be at times. It’s certainly not the worst low I’ve ever had, but it was awful.
T.S. Eliot, in a poem, once wrote:
While this could also be true for me, it could also be said that I measure out my life in glasses of juice. Lots of juice.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any lovely literary quotes to accompany this sentiment. Except this.
I’m back!
Yes – three weeks of conferencing and travelling and walking and eating and doing not much – and yet so much – have come to a jet-lagged conclusion and I find myself back writing, back at work and, most importantly, back with the kidlet. Which means all is wonderful and I am happy.
So, some diabetes highlights/lowlights from my travels.
This at Dubai airport. Double arrows down, a shitload of insulin on board and a grumpy face. Cleary, a lowlight!
And because I am #NotGoodAtDiabetes, I did it again in Copenhagen:
And in Stockholm.
Stopping in my tracks (and employing the brilliance of Google Translate) after seeing this newspaper on our last night in Stockholm.
Being so grateful for this sight in the press room at EASD in Stockholm…
… because I was low with #ConferenceHypoSyndrome.
Days doing this:
Which meant crazy days of barely needing to bolus as we walked, walked, walked and walked all over cities.
And days of walking meant carb stops of cinnamon buns flecked with cardamom and sprinkled with sugar in Stockholm. And in Copenhagen, no cardamom, but icing drizzled over their tops. And then, once in Paris, flaky, buttery pastries that left tell-tale crumbs down our shirts.
And coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.
And ice cream because when in Paris, one must Berthillon!
In Paris, I came to an abrupt stop when I saw this:
I went in and spoke to the baker who told me that all the pastries were made using low sugar and low fat recipes. ‘Why?’ I asked him. ‘Why did you start this bakery?’ ‘My father has diabetes. And I do too.‘ He said. ‘And so do I,‘ I told him. We bought a croissant and I was expecting something dry and without the wonderful full flavour of a pastry whose main ingredient is butter and was surprised. It tasted delicious. He knew what he was doing! (Questionable marketing aside!)
There was the crappy night where I realised that my pump was out of insulin and, in my handbag changeover, I had forgotten to throw in my ‘spares bag’, so we needed to leave the jazz gig we had travelled halfway across Copenhagen to hear – before it even began – so that we could get back to the hotel and replenish my insulin stores. A complete #EffingDiabetes moment.
On our way from Copenhagen to Paris, I set off every possible alarm at security and was directed to a security officer. ‘I am wearing a medical device,’ I began, expecting the questions and the confusion and the necessary explanations. ‘An insulin pump? You have diabetes?’ was the reply. My stunned look was met with, ‘My husband wears one.’ And she smiled and sent me on my way.
But then in Dubai, as I was escorted to a sparse, windowless room, my ‘I have diabetes, I am wearing a medical device,’ was met with confusion and questions and the need to find a supervisor and, for the first time ever, a request for the letter from my doctor.
But here’s the thing. When I look back at this time away, it won’t be the hypos or the highs or the diabetes that I remember. It won’t be the times I had to stop to guzzle juice, or check my BGL. It won’t be the numbers or the alarms, warning me to eat something.
It will be the days spent catching up with DOC friends. It will be remembering how, with some of these friends, we made ‘riding the worm’ a thing in Sweden. It will be visiting the ABBA museum, and wandering around cemeteries. It will be afternoons being reacquainted with friends who live half a world away. It will be lounging on the grass at Place des Vosges, and sitting in cafes that we have visited before. It will be thinking about the amazing food – like the incredible beef tartar in Stockholm, and Berthillon’s blood orange sorbet. It will be about the waiter at a local café near our apartment in the Marais who didn’t so much as walk as shimmy and sing our breakfast order back to us. In French.
It will be about all those things. It will never, ever be the diabetes. Ever. And that is just the way it should be.
The noise in the café was overwhelming, yet just a few minutes earlier it was quiet. I couldn’t hear Aaron who was sitting next to me or my friend, S, who was sitting opposite me. Their words were foggy and unclear. Something clattered to the ground and the noise startled me. I threw back what was left of my coffee.
All of a sudden, one of the café staff was standing next to me, leaning over saying something.
‘What?’ I said, sounding irritated. I stopped myself, realising what was going on. ‘Sorry. My blood sugar is low. I need… Do you have…? Could I have…?’
She looked at me and stood up straight. ‘What can I get you? Juice? Sugar?’
‘Um…yes.’ I said
I heard her call into the kitchen, ‘I’m putting an orange juice through the register, but I need it now. Like right now.’
Within a minute, she had gone into the kitchen and gently placed a large freshly-squeezed orange juice on the table. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’
And she was. As soon as I had downed the juice. ‘Are you okay? Can I get you something else. I know. I have some cookies.’ And she walked to the counter
The room was still foggy and my brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool. Aaron and S were talking to each other, but keeping an eye on me at the same time.
My new friend was back with a small plate of the cafe’s delicious peanut butter choc chip cookies that come on the side of all coffees.
I smiled at her. ‘Thank you. Really. Thanks.’ She brushed my gratitude aside.
We finished up. ‘Feeling okay?’ asked Aaron. I nodded, and stood up, making my way to the counter to pay.
‘Thanks again,’ I said to the waitress.
‘Do you have diabetes?’ she asked.
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘My dad has diabetes. I could tell straight away. You had the same look he does when he needs sugar. But anyone would know, right.’
‘Ah, no. Most people wouldn’t have a clue. Thanks so much for being so great. I really appreciate it.’
I paid the bill and left a decent tip in the tip jar and we walked out of the cafe. ‘Put it on your blog,’ said my friend. ‘Oh, I will,’ I said. ‘I will.’
Stockholm next week. Here’s some ABBA.
Diabetogenic 