After working as best I could, and watching a couple of lunchtime Fraziers, off to the hospital. After my exploratory op last month, the consultant told me that everything looked fine, and he'd put in an appointment for four months time. So when I got an 'urgent fast track' appointment I felt understandably apprehensive.

I had managed my hypochondria exceptionally well (by my standards), but I felt very stressed walking up in the fine rain to the cloud-shrouded Gormenghast of the hospital on the hill. By the time I arrived, I convinced myself that I had one of about a dozen dire outcomes. Unfortunately my writing about healthcare has turned me from a hypochondriac to an expert hypochondriac.  

The reception staff seemed to look sombrely at my file. The pleasant consultant's serious expression instantly confirmed the worst. He asked me how I'd been, and listened gravely to me telling him that everything seemed to be good. He told me that the results had all come back negative, which is good news. Then he paused and I waited for the 'but'. But, he said, if we're lucky you won't have to see me again.

Essentially I was being released back into the wild, cured. This was fantastically good news, and I should have been dancing with relief. But as well as relieved I also felt flat and drained. I had been suppressing much  anxiety about this over the last couple of weeks, and all of it for nothing. There is a lesson here. Also the realisation that inevitably one of these visits for something won't have such a happy outcome, and I will have to find a better way of dealing with it.

A free man, I popped into Sainsbury's where I bumped into the lovely Claire Turner and had a nice chat with her. Spoke to Lorraine, who was relieved to hear that all was well. Gallingly had yet another of her schools stricken by an ofstead inspection, so she was back some time after ten. I spoke to the Mum and the Tobster briefly tonight.