"I've been reading your conversations with
DoctorSister on
Facebook,"
MadFather says proudly.
"I am ignoring the fact that you are on
Facebook," I say.
"Yes. Read all about how
MindReader beat you at scrabble and your angst about the doctor's."
"Oh right," I say.
"And about aqua
mirabilis and bathos."
I smile.
MindReader says bath products from Lush are mentioned a disproportionate amount in conversations between
DoctorSister and I.
"Yes, we love those," I say.
"So are they medical or legal terms then?"
Labels: Dad
"Take a seat," the nurse says, indicating the plastic waiting room chairs.
"Thanks," I say, wringing my hands and probably sweating and twitching my facial muscles at her.
"And if you need anything let me know," she says. "Oh and the toilets are just there."
I blink.
"I'm not allowed to pee," I say. Honestly why can't I just
let things go.
"Yes you can," she says, frowning. "It's blokes who can't pee before their tests."
And she pauses.
And then she says "Are you a man?"
I have to say, that is top 5 worst questions to be asked at a smear test.
Labels: blonde moments, embarrassing
Have to have evil smear test today at 5 to 5 today.
I am not best pleased with losing an hour's pay to go and be poked by what looks like an ice cream scoop.
And I'm not allowed to pee for 1.5 hours before.
I know that sometimes I don't pee for 1.5 days (ok: weeks), but it's the principle isn't it? I want to be able to pee.
Labels: embarrassing, grumbles
We got the internet! I can blog from home! And use Outlook Express! And talk to MindReader on MSN, such is our relationship!
The world is good.
Labels: BT
I am aware this probably isn't very interesting to you, but, WellTravelled and Hyperactive Housemate GOT THE ROUTER. They went to the depot and demanded and demanded and BT gave in and - really - we won and are the best!
Router is now safe and sound in Birmingham.
Bets on whether it works?
Labels: BT
WellTravelled and Hyperactive Housemates are on their way to the depot as we speak. Depot have not rang us. Feel there may be a showdown.
Spoke to Flirty Man in Currys, who said I can buy any of their BT compatible routers and bring them back if they don't work.
WellTravelled Housemate seems to think my wanting to do this is "psychotic" - but it means I could blog tonight! From my room!!
Oh, my computer has not been on for weeks.
Labels: BT, grumbles
Right.
Flirted a bit with Nice BT Man who said we could pick it up from the depot. From the depot! Which is only in Birmingham anyway!
(I tried to ignore that since our internet has been turned one (for 2 out of the last NINE WEEKS) our router has been sitting 5 miles away)
However the depot - the very people who are too incapable of getting to our house - have to CALL US so we can go and get it.
Oh. My. God.
I want to take a weapon.
Labels: BT, grumbles
BT have obviously not rang yet.
LPC starts on Monday.
Must have internet before then.
Am already quite grumpy post lovely bank holiday weekend at being back in the office so am off into the soundproof room to shout at them.
Will update on my progress.
Labels: BT, grumbles
BT have not yet come.
Broadband is turned on. WE HAVE BROADBAND. But they have had our special stupid phone-line router in a van - IN A VAN - since last Friday and it has not been delivered to our house yet.
Have woes today. I need the internet. There. I said it. I could tell you I need it to do the law refresher course, and the commercial awareness quiz, and to tell the college which electives I want to do. But really, it's because during term time I am a workaholic, and this is alleviated by copious amounts of facebooking, chattering, and blogging.
Went out last night and did not go to bed until two. This morning right eye is bloodshot and won't open. Hair is not washed because sleeping until 25 past 8 was more important. It is sticking up in manner of tropical sea anemone. Eye looks like mangey stray dog's.
Have taken my shoes off and have heater on much to my department's disgust. In August - yes.
Going to Gloucester this weekend with MindReader. If he'll still have me. Last night decided - drunkenly - to demonstrate just how irrational can be. In fact, have continued to be irrational sending a series of scary text messages.
I am sure he does not need to know that my black coffee smells like shepherd's pie, or that I got locked in the work loos again, or indeed that I haven't peed for two days.
Labels: BT, grumbles
I have been invited to an uber fancy dress Hallowe'en party in October (obviously). People go all out for this party - last year, some people went as Scooby Doo and friends and even hired the minibus...
Assuming I am still with MindReader, what famous couple could we go as?
459 people checked this website yesterday - you can therefore give me 459 ideas, no?
Labels: asking the internet
On Friday, I was given a Nicotine patch. This is not because I told someone I rather like the smell of cigarette but won't let myself smoke, or because I said I was feeling stressed out, it just - happened.
Oh blog readers - oh - it was the best afternoon of my life! Honestly! I was so mellow. It didn't matter that the phone was ringing constantly and I missed two trains. Nicotine and I were together and that was all that mattered.
Have been invited out for cigarettes today. I will not go. I will not go.
I would, as MindReader said, "knowing my personality", be on 60 a day by the end of the week.
Labels: addictions
There are certain things that only happen to Billygean.
And today, well, I think I've surpassed myself.
Went home this weekend, wore contacts all weekend - over dinner with lovely MindReader and even in the rain on Sunday - so obviously when went back to Birmingham I forgot glasses.
This morning was in a strop. Have lost beautiful Milan Watch somewhere between the bathroom and my bedroom (I had not been drinking - ahem), and HyperactiveHousemate rang me at 5 in the morning because he was locked out. And, you know, it's Monday morning and I am a secretary.
When realised glasses were not in any of the organised piles of crap in my room, I put my contact lenses in. Cannot wear lenses at work. Work pump stuff into the unecessary air conditioning that makes them stick onto my eyes like plastic.
By half past nine my eyes were streaming and devil-like so took contacts out. Asked other secretary - who was rather disgusted - where I could put them. I put them in a cup on my desk and proceeded to behave like mole, feeling my way around the office. This involved a number of weird looks as I did such things as missing my coffee cup with the kettle and trying to use the fax machine to photocopy.
Got back to desk and had nice long drink of water.
I JUST DRANK MY CONTACT LENS.
It is INSIDE ME.
WATCHING.
And - despite the trauma of having drank my only means of seeing - I can't help laughing at what Dr B would think of this stool sample.
Labels: blonde moments, embarrassing
6 weeks ago: moved into new house.
Spent most of that Unemployed Week on the phone to
BT. Well, also, eating nachos in my pyjamas and reading Heat magazine in the bath. Made four or five phone calls to set up the home line, because we don't live in a cable area, or something - whatever that is.
Then I started Scary Job - which by the way I have done
so well not to blog about - and, after
BT had stopped returning our calls again like the Bastard Boyfriend they are,
HyperactiveHousemate and I spent a rather morose evening eating dinner with the phone on hold on the table between us.
Also, spent numerous lunch hours on hold, talking to friends whilst listening to the
BT lady telling me that my call was in a queue and may be recorded. This resulted in semi-garbled speech from me and odd looks from them - maybe they think I am addicted to the
BT call centre, did you consider that,
hmm?
Passed things over to
WellTravelledHousemate, who says he felt like he was dating
BT. Once I said "thank you for ringing me" and his immediate response was "is my call in a queue?".
SwedishHousemate took over next, since
WellTravelledHousemate needed to work and not babysit the phone, and my phone bill was astronomical (since, ironically, it is not free to call
BT from a non-
BT phone).
So we finally got a date for the phone installation. Lo and behold! I thought. Maybe they will just install
Internet then for it had been 5 weeks and I was
desperate
. Oh, Internets, you do not know how addicted I am.
BT Engineer did not show up.
Phone randomly started working as it turns out we had a
BT plug point anyway.
WellTravelledHousemate swore quite a lot at this.
BT then send us a letter! A real, proper letter promising they would come at 6 o'clock today.
I convinced self it was true, declined work drinks, raced all the way home and settled myself in the kitchen with a tub of
Philadelphia and a box of
bread sticks, watching the door.
By 7 I had sent
MindReader about a hundred texts -
"
BT man is not here."
"
BT man is not here."
"There was just a van outside, but it was only our neighbour.
BT man is not here."
"
BT man is wanker, bet HE is in the pub."
"Just harassed someone who drove up here. They are not
BT man.
BT man is not here."
"I am going to kill the
BT man if he ever arrives - after he's installed the
Internet."
Etc.
I even watched Eggheads because I couldn't go up to my room lest I not hear the doorbell - oh the irony of missing
BT would be too great for
WellTravelledHousemate and I think he may have exploded - which was the worst programme EVER. Why reward people who say they have "quizzed!" together for 7 years? Quizzed is not a verb IT MEANS YOU ARE SAD.
By 7:30 I was very grumpy and sat brooding with
DaydreamingHousemate in the hall whilst we listened to the dulcet tones of the
BT night shift lady. Our call was in a queue, AND they were experiencing technical difficulties.
"I haven't heard that message before,"
DaydreamingHousemate said, staring at the handset.
At ten o'clock I decided to go home - not just because the lovely
Internets is here but also because it means I can go out to play with
MindReader on Sunday when he
finally
comes to see me - and ran all the way to the train station lest I miss the last train.
I panted as I ran up the platform just as the man with the ping-pong bat thing was waving the train away. I open my mouth to tell him to stop.
"Please," I say. "Don't put me on hold."
I realise as soon as I've said it.
He looks at me like I am mad.
Labels: BT, grumbles
"When I was in the Royal Ballet," he says, and 15 dancers' heads turn to stare at him, standing at the front of the room, all in black, "the dancer in me died."
There is a collective murmer of agreement.
"It was all technique, technique, technique," he says, an arm gesturing wildly. "I want you to just dance. The dance for me, is in the moments in between the steps. It is the passion, the thing that makes you dance in your bedroom. Show me that, and I will tell you you can dance."
I catch his eye momentarily, and feel a jolt. Not the stomach jolting dizzyness I get when MindReader's eyes lock on mine, but a jolt that means he is speaking the truth. An inspiring jolt that the 5 year-old ballerina in me understands as well as the 22 year-old almost-lawyer.
The music begins again, and my feet strain under me as I pirouette. He is behind me, and his hands are on my waist, forcing my weight forward.
"How old?" he says to me.
Talking and getting the exercise right are irreconcilable in my world, so I stop and face him as the others continue around us. "22," I say.
"You're good," he says, and I go bright red. I saw him as Romeo, 6 years ago, and he says I am good.
"Well, it's a hobby," I say shortly, my tone a complete giveaway of a fact I have not yet come to terms with.
"22..." he says. "It's not too late for you."
My stomach jolts again, and I laugh his compliment off, turning towards V, who is pirouetting on the wrong leg, her freckly face confused.
"I LOVE him," I say.
V shakes her head. "You loved the last teacher."
"But I am definitely in love with this one. He understands."
She nods. "He does..."
"Has he corrected you yet?" I say.
"I should hope not," she says, pausing. "He's my husband."
"I think he thinks," she is saying, brown eyes understanding as she sips her hot chocolate, "that because of the speed of how you and MindReader got together, something was going on - before."
And there it is, that familiar stomach jolt. I sometimes wonder if I will ever be able to discuss this without my cheek flushing, fists clenched in my lap.
"Well that's not true," I say flatly.
"I know," she says. "How're the mutual friends?"
"Most are great, actually remember H, from English?"
"Oh yes."
"She went through the exact same thing actually, so she's been really good."
She pauses, her drink halfway to her mouth.
"But both her blokes were pillocks."
I laugh.
And then pause.
"Good use of the word pillocks," I say.
"I know!"
I'm at a barbecue and it's been a hectic few days.
I left MindReader at Stanstead, an airport goodbye. I then took a train and a tube, and a walk, and another train, departing from London Euston at 11pm. I sat contented, having been randomly upgraded to first class, with a hamburger and a glass of red wine, my suntanned feet tucked up under me as I finally had one of those "so where have YOU been travelling?" conversations I have so always wanted to have.
I trotted across the car park in the cool night air to my dad, diligently waiting in the car, and I was asleep in my bed (which I can't say I haven't craved) within an hour.
It is nice to be home, where the air smells sweeter and meals are hot and cooked for me.
The campfire crackles as my Dad's friends' familiar laughs echo around the garden.
The conversation moves from sport, to the news, politics, the recent inside trading scandal.
"Is it inside trading if you just use information you're privy to?" My Dad says.
His friend, tall, stern, an MD of somewhere important, nods.
"Even if informal?"
"Yes. If you're a tennis coach and you know your player is weaker, betting against him is illegal."
I agree, quietly, for they do all think I'm still 15, shy, academic with a giant fringe.
"How is it illegal?" another friend says.
My Dad suddenly points to me. "Ask the lawyer," he says simply.
"It's a breach of trust - of what is called a fiduciary relationship..." I begin.
Suddenly the room is silent, and 10 pairs of surprised eyes rest on me. The MD, he folds his hands in his lap, intent.
"So you could be sued for giving information that's held on trust, or for third party receipt of information given in breach," I say.
"Bloody hell," MD says, smiling. "She's right. That's what our lawyers say."
And there they are, looking at me with new expressions on their faces. We are not just talking as adults, but as professionals, me, a professional, with knowledge I can give to others.
I feel the frisson again as the lawyer wakes up inside me; I had almost forgotten, over the long, long summer, how much I love it.
I walk along the street, the heat of the sun on my back, like an embrace, and smile as my new watch - a weak moment in Milan - glints in the sunlight.
I have not been sick at all this holiday, and I am so thankful. It is strange, to suddenly spend all your time with someone you know relatively little about, and I dont pretend its easy.
I walk past the restaurants and cafes with their rows and rows of creamy ice creams, little espresso cups stacked in the window next to pastries and cakes, and take a seat back at the table.
We fly in just five hours, and Milan has taken on a beauty it did not have in our first few days here. I think it was that it was a moment, the window of time in which we both knew these were the last few hours abroad, alone, and we had nothing left to do but squeeze every last drop out of them.
"Okay?" MindReader says as I sit back my chair.
He tops up my wine and I sip it, approving of how hot it is in my mouth. He smirks at me, bright red from the sun.
My suitcase is packed and left back at the hotel. I carry only my phone, my spare euros I will no doubt fritter away at the airport. I sip my wine, close my eyes, and relish.
Labels: Holidays, MindReader
MindReader orders in flawless Italian. I raise my eyebrows, looking from the waiter to MindReader and back.
"No calzone," MindReader explains. "I got us
arrabiata instead."
I nod, my hand creeping along the table cloth.
We are in Como, in a restaurant not 5 minutes walk from the hotel. "Nearby," MindReader had said to the hotel receptionist, gesturing to the torrential rain and the jam-packed hotel restaurant.
The restaurant is brightly lit, with gingham table cloths. The walls are lined with wine bottles, homemade jam, bottles of olive oil. It is full of locals - nice, MindReader said, smiling approvingly, saying he liked to eat with locals, it means the foods good.
"So," I say, pushing back my rain-soaked hair. "You had your family crisis in summer 2005."
"Crises," he says, his eyes on the table cloth, on his finger running over and over the blade of his knife.
"Yes," I say, remembering.
"Then what?"
"Then I had the most depressing autumn. You shouldve seen me, on that commute to work, in November 2005."
The way he says 2005, the very reverence of the number, speaks volumes. His forehead is creased, and he suddenly looks the 4 years older than me that he is.
"And then on December 21st, after me and N split up, I moved home."
He says it lightly, now, but the weight of it hits me. A five-year relationship. Cats. A joint bank account. All ties severed as he must have packed his boxes, unpacked them in his old, familiar bedroom, 24 and home again.
"How was Christmas?" I say, smiling wryly.
"Fucking awful," he says, grimacing. "We had no money, and there was the whole thing with my brother. So we did secret santa."
I smile, sympathetically, I hope. I remembered my Christmas, of 2003, mother-less, it seemed, my Dad asking me how to use the washing machine, my room full of dust as I tried to write essays.
"And then what?"
"I worked. Said yes a lot," he says, referring to a revelation he had. "And you, now," he says, sliding his hands over mine.
The lightening lights up the sky, purple against the deep blue of Lake Como, the mountains a distant blur through the mist and the raindrops.
"Tell me about your mother."
The thunder cracks, and I release his hands, mine tight around my glass, and begin.
Labels: Holidays, MindReader
I walk across the piazza, the square, the white stones reflecting the sunlight and hurting my eyes. The air smells of coffee, sweet, hot bread, fresh fish. The canal glitters to my right, bright green, and gondolas and water taxis float by, driven by dark-skinned men in black and white t shirts, pushing off the bridges with their feet, a long leg stretched out behind them. Next to me, a man plays an accordion, which, as MindReader says, always adds to the atmosphere.
"Una", I say, holding up one hand. And then I point, to the t-shirt. It is customary that I buy my father a t shirt, which he will wear immediately, no matter how small or big.
The man, his dark skin shiny in the sunlight, grins at me. He pulls a t shirt out of a drawer. It is teeny. He gestures to my frame.
No, no, I say. Not for me.
I can hear MindReader, even though he is round the corner, a few meters away, dangling his feet in the canal, telling me that using broken English with a faint Italian accent wont help them to understand me.
"For my Dad," I say, shaking my head.
"His size?" the man says, squinting in the sun.
I think. He is about MindReaders size, but he is not in sight. "That man," I say, pointing to the first, startled, man I see.
He is massive, much bigger than my Dad.
I buy the t shirt, stuffing its gaping form into a clear plastic bag.
I walk past a shop, and I feel the heat emanating from the wood as I pass. I glance in, briefly, looking at the glittering jewelry. It is too expensive, I think, eyeing the green dangly earrings and necklace, so bright and wild, not like anything I would usually wear.
I keep walking, and then the sun catches the canal, its water a green vein running across the otherwise brown city. My arms look tanned as I swing them, the hairs turned blond like MindReader’s, catching the light. I am alone, and touched with this sensation. Alone in a beautiful, mind-blowing city, with only more cities to explore at my feet. This time last week, last month, last year, I would not have dreamed of this spontaneity, this strange, nomadic freedom, where MindReader and I are alone, a haven away from reality, in some ways, in new places with every dawn, almost, where nobody could find us should they want to.
I turn back, my flip flops slapping against my heels, and buy the jewelry. I put it on, and the earrings glint and flash in my ears, catching my eyes and the sparkling canal.
I walk back, over the mini bridge, watching a police boat - for that’s how they must have to get around, I marvel - speeding across the canal.
MindReader is where I left him, rubbing suntan lotion into his skin and watching the gondolas drift by. He kicks his feet up, creating a swirl of current and oily suntan lotion floats on the surface of the turquoise water.
"Pretty," he says smiling at me, and I dont know what he means, because everything is.
Labels: Holidays, MindReader
We spent all day strolling, up the steps from the underground,
duomo, the cathedral leaping out at us, its spikes and spirals stark against the blue sky.
La Scala, the opera house, almost unassuming from the outside - you could miss it - inside, full of the splendour of red velvet curtains gathered against glittering windows, chandeliers, breathing with the memories of the evenings the rich spent there. The castle, with its courtyards and green pool stretching right through the middle, and its gardens, where Italians wandered by night and day, pausing to drink espressos, to gesture wildly at their companions.
We are in some fast food place, although in Italy the fast food is pizza, flat and hot, and the chairs are leather, not plastic. My upper lip is sweating slightly, for it was forty degrees earlier today.
MindReader has caught the sun quite badly, his fair skin looking painfully singed in the
fluorescent lights, the freckles on his arms already merging together.
He drums his fingers on the table. "I'm not sure how we pay," he says, realising eventually - perhaps - that the small pile of pasta still on my plate, my arms folded neatly in my lap, signifies that I am done.
(He did, by the end of the holiday, come to understand my appetite)
"What's this?" I say, picking up what looks like a credit card, only with the restaurant's name
emblazoned across the top.
He traces a finger over the chip part of the card, frowning. His eyebrows have turned near-white in the sun.
We wait a while, sipping cokes, smiling, watching to see if anyone else pays.
Nobody does, so we wander over to the till, the air smelling of coffee and summer and pizza.
Nobody is at the till.
He drums his fingers again, and then turns his head to look at me. "They clearly don't want to take our money..." he says.
"No."
"And they were grumpy when they served us."
And there it is - the tone, my nod of agreement, a shared smile - and he grasps my hand, leads me out of the restaurant.
The warm air hits me, and I see the bright green underground sign and start running, him behind me, his hand hot in mine, and then in front, and there is something in the very way he holds his spine, in his shoulders maybe, that is laughter. We run all the way to the train, until we get on, panting and grinning and laughing at strangers.
Labels: Holidays, MindReader
"So, how was your week?" I say, cross-legged, my nose itching from my sunburn.
"Bit slow," Doctor-sister says. "GP land is a bit dull and there's only so much you can do on facebook, isn't there?"
I raise my eyebrows. I seem to waste entire days on facebook.
"Any interesting patients?" I say, always on the look out for new diseases.
"Had an interesting ECG," she says, tucking her thigh-length hair behind her ear. "I thought she had long-QT syndrome -"
"Pardon?"
She picks up a pen, drawing some spikes on an old envelope on MadFather's coffee table. "This bit here of the wave, between the Q and the T is often too long, which means you faint a lot. But she had a long bit between the P section and the R section, and there's a delta curve here," she says, underlining part of the wave.
"So she fell over?" I say.
"Yep, loads. It's a funky syndrome. I tried not to be too excited when I thought she had it."
"What happens then?"
"Well, usually, the sino-atrial node moves in and goes - yeahhh and releases loads of stuff at like 300 beats per minute. The atrium slows this to like 80 and sends stuff up the bundle of hiss and the Purkinje fibres, making a smiley face shape," she says, drawing wild shapes in the air. "Here, the timing's all wrong, so the atrium says 'go again' and the sino-atrial node says 'fuck off, i'm busy!' and they all have a massive fight in the atrium - like, a brawl - and you fall over."
She is standing, suddenly, and sits down again, smiling.
"So we sent her to the cardiologist," she says, as if this behaviour is perfectly normal.
"Billygean would you like a toasted sandwich?" MadFather's voice says behind my ear.
"I'm fine," I say, distractedly, not turning around.
"Are you sure?" he says slowly, and there is something in his tone that makes me look.
"Hi!" he says, waving manically. He is wearing a bright yellow reflective vest and a builder's hat.
I love coming home.
Labels: Dad, Home
I walk across Dr. B's office - facing my nemesis.
He was the only doctor free at this time. This time being, apparently, the only appointment they had all day, right in the middle of an Important Meeting I was supposed to attend, and I could practically hear my phone going at my desk as I walked to the doctor's.
"What's the problem?" he says, eyeing me from over his glasses. I know he wants me to tell him I have an eating disorder and that I'd like to attend the optional and friendly clinic for like-minded individuals.
I do not.
"I keep throwing up," I say, aware of how this is starting. He opens his mouth, and I just know -
know - that he is going to suggest it is after meals. Which - well, it is, but not like that.
"You see," I say, wringing my hands in my lap, my black suit itching my arms. "I had food poisoning at my graduation -"
"What did you study?" He says.
I struggle to see the relevancy in my precious time away from work, but prefer the response 'law' gets to 'English.'
"Ah," he nods. "Taxing."
I wonder what he's getting at, sometimes.
"Textbook overachiever?" he says, smiling. But he is NOT SMILING it is
sinister.
I wave away his questions with my hand, as if swatting a fly. "Anyway," I say. "I felt sick all the time for about a week. Then fine. Then I had a coffee liquor with cream with my new boyfriend and threw it up which was
so embarrassing. And then yesterday I didn't really eat anything -"
His eyebrows raise.
"- And I threw up in the work loo."
He sidesteps the imaginary eating disorder issues quite well, I'll give him credit. He asks me lots of funny questions - do I have pain in my feet, do my ears feel like they're spinning - or something, and some embarrassing ones - how loose are my stools (on a scale of what, exactly?), how often do I poop (which as you know I could write reams about - oh, blog readers, sometimes not for weeks) - which I ignored in search of antibiotics.
"Anyway," I say, "I am flying to Italy tomorrow and I'm travelling, so I really would like it to just - you know -" I am flapping my arms now, "go away."
"Right," he says, slowly, his hand rubbing up and down his stubble, making a horrible scratching sound. "I could just give you antibiotics to treat a gastric flu that's lingering."
"Yes," I say, trying not to shriek. "That would be great."
I move to stand, the jerk of my knees I hope symbolising a few things to him - we are done now, I do not want to talk about eating disorders,
just sign that form and give me the drugs.
He pats the desk, in turn conveying his own messages - not just yet, I've been wanting to talk to you for ages,
I'm not just going to give you any drugs you please.
I sit back in the chair whilst he taps away on his keyboard, and I fiddle with the cuffs of my shirt, trying to resist the urge to ask whether the tablets are massive and if I can chop them up.
At last, he stops typing and speaks.
"If this continues whilst on holiday..." he says, and I wince, because it
can't
.
MindReader has heard me heave TWICE now. He sometimes imitates it.
"Yes..." I say, slowly.
"I am going to need to test you."
"Test me?"
"Yes. Ideally now, so we can have the results for when you're back."
I don't think Dr. B realised the enormity of testing me for some obscure diseases, growths perhaps, tapeworms, syndromes (and I can see Doctor-Sister's eyes rolling), and expecting me to go on
holiday
and
enjoy myself
when I have to call the Evil Receptionist who may tell me in a clipped voice that I am being eaten from the inside by an enormous worm found only in rivers in Africa and Billygean's stomach, and that I need to come in to give birth to it for it is the only way to end the misery.
"What do you need?" I say. I am cagey.
"A stool sample," he says, pressing a tube into my hand.
And with it, a SPATULA.
"When?"
"Now."
"Now?" I say. And then I say it - the worst sentence I have ever uttered to a virtual stranger.
"Can you poo on demand?"
His brown eyes widen, and then he looks down into his lap. "I can, actually," is all he says.
I die inside, and do not poo for 8 days.
Labels: embarrassing
Hello from Lake Como. So far, we have done Milan, Venice and have arrived in Lake Como today. I am tired. And miss the internet so am v happy!
It is a royal pain to sit and upload all 140 photos (this I may well do at home if i ever get the internet) so have selected some of the best:
I took the vest tops back. It was very painful. Now, I if I only take £4 worth of bath stuff and £4 worth of leg wax back I will be back at my overdraft limit.
I went to the bank today and the evil man, no matter how much I pushed my boobs together and said I was going into banking law, would not extend it.
Anti-shopping is very painful.
