The trip to the doctor was its ever drawn out self. The appointment was for 10.20am. But we've been going for years and we know that 10.20 means some time after 11.
This relaxed approach to the time vortex has knock-on effects.
I spent the prelude to the visit showing the middle child Sex Pistols videos on YouTube.
Then the big child came into the kitchen and we watched a few numbers from the Specials. By the time the boy came in we were onto Madness.
Apt really. Because that's what I thought had enveloped me when I sat at 1050 waiting for my 1020.
Exasperation hit at gone 11 when I realised that the trip down nostalgia lane had ramifications.
I had not taken my cheque book nor my health card.
Sat in the waiting room without the vital pieces. I declared my incompetence to the doctor immediately and said I would come back immediately after the appointment.
She said I'm not moving from the surgery.
The point of the visit is a gammy hand. I cannot grasp anything with my right hand.
Is it repetitive strain injury? Is it a trapped nerve?
Well I'm on the merry-go-round. Off for a radiogramme thang on Friday morning and then I'm seeing a neurologue in early November.
Following my visit to the cardiologue in September, I'm feeling very integrated.
As middle age and its attendant crises take a hold, I am going to try and see if I can pass off a mistress as a sexologue.
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