I woke feeling like death warmed up, but I do that quite
often. But by the time I’d coughed through an episode of “Shameless”
hawking up green muck I decided enough was enough and phoned the person on at
night to warn them that I was going to take a sickie today.
Whilst I waited for the GP to open up I had a look at the
Internet. A couple of my genuine female friends had posted that they have been
receiving friend requests on Facebook. Their friend requests were all from
macho army-type blokes. I thought that rather ironic that the friend requests
I received today were obviously blokes who had photo-shopped their heads
onto women’s bodies.
I had a look at my GP’s website. Seeing they opened at
eight o’clock I thought I’d get there promptly and form a queue; you hear these
horror stories about trying to get an appointment. I got there at half past
seven and the receptionists told me that they don’t actually do appointments
any more. It is all done by telephone consultation. I wasn’t sure how someone
could hold a stethoscope to my chest over the phone, but there wasn’t really
very much else I could do but go home and wait patiently for someone to phone
me back.
I came home via the bakery where an ex-cub’s mum was behind
the counter. She didn’t recognize me.
Just as I got home my phone beeped with a voicemail
message. The doctor had phoned and gone straight to answerphone. I phoned the
surgery and on finding I was forty-ninth in the queue I thought I’d pop round
to tell them I was still up for a consultation. However the surgery I walked to
this morning doesn’t see GP patients any more. I have to go half-way across
town for that.
So I drove across town and told them what had happened. The
receptionist assured me I was still on the list to be phoned and suggested I
went home and waited.
I got home to another voicemail message.
I drove back to the surgery and explained there was clearly
an issue with my phone. Phoning me simply wasn’t an option. They asked what I
suggested. I suggested that as I was there the GP might physically see me. They
told me the GP worked remotely. I suggested that the GP might phone me on a
surgery phone. The receptionist then told me they didn’t have any phones even
though I could see two. The receptionist
asked if I might borrow a friend’s phone. I pointed out that I was coughing up
green gunge and that she was actively stopping me getting medical attention.
She said she’d ask her manager, and disappeared for about ten minutes.
I was then invited in to a consulting room where a rather
angry GP lambasted me about how crap my phone was, brandished a stethoscope and
asked to listen to my chest. I was tempted to ask how she might have done that
over the phone, but kept quiet. After a couple of minutes I walked out with the
prescription for amoxycillin that I knew I needed all along.
I got home, and feeling worn out after the episode with the
GP (let along feeling ill enough to take a day off work sick) I spent
eight hours working on my current Wherigo project.
“er indoors TM” boiled up dinner which
we scoffed whilst watching episodes of “Richard Osman’s House of Games”;
a good show somewhat spoiled by the winning contestants clapping for themselves
like demented sealions.
A pet hate of mine is people clapping for themselves.
I feel like death warmed up… my stomach really hurts from the
constant coughing.
I’m going to bed.
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