More moaning than you can shake a stick at
Friday night. Despite rattling with painkillers, my head is thumping. Lorraine is at her house with her girly mates. Time, therefore, for a moan.
Traditionally Summer is the season for things to be obnoxious, so a week of summer suck was overdue. So to the quack this morning. Shambled with my hiking stick, being given a wide berth in the street. Took me three times as long to walk there as usual. Turns out the ankle business which has kept me skewered by increasingly insufferable pain for the last three days and nights may be gout. Separated at birth: me and sodding Henry VIII.
It is so painful that it keeps me awake, and also too painful to sit on a normal chair. And if the gout business didn't suck enough, my blood pressure was a bit high again. The nice locum has organised a shed load of tests for me next week. If I freakishly manage to live that long.
Back home to discover the client thinks my copy (designed to reassure people about a new treatment) is too warm. So spent some hours today making my work colder and more hostile.
One oasis of pleasantness however. Janet popped around with some flowers: aromatic sweet peas. It was lovely to see her albeit briefly.
My blue Siamese Fighter died in mysterious circumstances yesterday. Looked at it before bedtime, a beautiful and malevolent blue flag in robust health, and the next morning dead as a doornail, with its fins thoughtfully eaten off by its compadres, who say nothing despite questioning. Perhaps it was killed by its reflection.
Friday night. Despite rattling with painkillers, my head is thumping. Lorraine is at her house with her girly mates. Time, therefore, for a moan.
Traditionally Summer is the season for things to be obnoxious, so a week of summer suck was overdue. So to the quack this morning. Shambled with my hiking stick, being given a wide berth in the street. Took me three times as long to walk there as usual. Turns out the ankle business which has kept me skewered by increasingly insufferable pain for the last three days and nights may be gout. Separated at birth: me and sodding Henry VIII.
It is so painful that it keeps me awake, and also too painful to sit on a normal chair. And if the gout business didn't suck enough, my blood pressure was a bit high again. The nice locum has organised a shed load of tests for me next week. If I freakishly manage to live that long.
Back home to discover the client thinks my copy (designed to reassure people about a new treatment) is too warm. So spent some hours today making my work colder and more hostile.
One oasis of pleasantness however. Janet popped around with some flowers: aromatic sweet peas. It was lovely to see her albeit briefly.
My blue Siamese Fighter died in mysterious circumstances yesterday. Looked at it before bedtime, a beautiful and malevolent blue flag in robust health, and the next morning dead as a doornail, with its fins thoughtfully eaten off by its compadres, who say nothing despite questioning. Perhaps it was killed by its reflection.
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