Did I mention I was in poor health?
The NHS has finally remembered my existance and decided not only to give me a date for surgery, but also to give me some-one else’s cancellation, with less than a week’s notice. It could have been twenty-four hours’ notice, so I’m not complaining.
No really, I’m pleased. I’ve been longing to let a complete stranger cut holes in my abdomen. I’m not in the least freaked out. My husband is freaked out. Possibly my family will freak out [Which is why you haven't told them yet - Ed]. But me? I am as serene as the moon, serene in glory, mounting the sky. And so on.
Any recommendations for good things to read for the few days I shall be spending flat on my back, using ungodly language and ringing the bell for my pet grape-peeler?
[Reed? You haven't told them when said surgery is. Reed?
Oh, you've buggered off.
Fine. It's next Thursday.
Fine].
