It is one of the paradoxes of my present condition that a niggling cough can prove more trying than the more painful thoughts crowding in the shadowy wings of my psyche and occasionally making a dramatic entrance on stage. The advice I have had is that it is best to let this latter crew have their little scene, so that they will then more quickly leave the stage and make way for more agreeable players. Last night it was mainly the turn of the cough to keep me awake, with only relatively mild appearances by the lurking thesps to break the monotony.
So, to bring you up to date after the first entry: I returned to the surgery on 3 September, gave my blood and asked casually as I got ready to leave how soon it would take for me to receive the result. The answer was that there were far too many samples flying around the system for each patient to receive an individual report and that I would only be contacted if the test showed up something "unusual". Thinking no more of it, I hopped back on my bike after a finger-grubbying battle with a recalcitrant bent mudguard and set off home, later drawing out the shining arc of the day with a working lunch of paella and fruity house red with someone whose company I warmly enjoy. All the while the ruby liquid I had passed over to the dispassionate embrace of the NHS earlier in the day was on a path of its own...
Now I am going to stop for breakfast because regular nutrition is doubly, if not triply or even higher multiples more important to me than it felt only a few days ago. In the meantime here is a picture of our beloved cat (terrific mouser btw). More soon, I trust.
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