Friday, 5 October 2012

The Rest

I swapped shifts with a colleague and it has been instructive. I worked for him on Tuesday and so I've been off today.

'Off' is a loose way to regard things. Clearly I should have been off on Tuesday because I woke up this morning - no this is not a Blues song - and was so exhausted by the amount of administration that was looming into sight that I went out for breakfast.

I came back, opened a few files, arranged a few bank statements - the children seem to have more money than me - and then decided I'd had enough.

I went back to bed and slept. Obviously all too much for a frail petal like me.

But since my restart I've felt energised. Lunched well and in the still quiet before the wars (the children) arrive, I can dally with my blog and feel there has been achievement.

Perhaps I felt enhanced by a note from one of my doctors to his colleague.

My main doctor - let's call her Dr Chaumie - since that is her name - was away one summer and her replacement Dr Dumazy - no not made up - was her replacement.

When he met me you could see the euro signs roll round in his eyes. I said I needed a doctor's note because I wanted to play in the Roland Garros journalists' tournament. I also required a note to say that my heart was OK for football.

Dr Dumazy whipped out his cardiogramme and before I knew it I looked like one of the Borg.

The squiggles weren't right. "This calls for expensive testing," I muttered to myself and sure enough I was steered towards a cardiologue.

Now any self-respecting man of a certain age should have a cardiologue. And this one put even more terminals onto my extremities.

As far as I remember there was something which wasn't right but it wasn't wrong. I was sent away and told not to worry as it could be my ethnology.

Ah that be serious then.

Three years later. Doc Chaumie was on her summer hols and when I made the appointment with Dr Dumazy, I thought he'd dust off the cardioscam.

Not even. We chatted Olympic games as he cut to the chase and wrote a note to the cardiologue of yore.

At least he put in the note that I was 'sportif'. Which is probably Hippocratic oath code for you book the table and the drinks are on me.