Despite CPAP technology
blasting air up my nostrils at huricane force and despite the
soporific effects of six pints of Doombar (supplimented by a couple
of bottles of light ale) I was wide awake and watching
boobie-dumplings annd weeners in "Game of Thrones"
shortly after 5am this morning.
I was on the G.P.s
doorstep as they opened at 8.30am. The reason I don't sleep is
because I have sleep apnoea; I stop breathing whilst I'm asleep. I do
that because I can't breath because my nasal passages bung up. The
CPAP machine does its best, but it is only palliative. The cure for
my problem is to have an E.N.T. surgeon rebore the bit from the top
of my conk to the back of my throat. I told the G.P. that on 29
November. She sent me to the sleep clinic (which was all very
good) and the sleep clinic agreed with me. They actually wrote to
the G.P. andd said I should be referred to an E.N.T. surgeon. The
G.P. claimed never to have seen that letter. Fortunately the sleep
clinic had sent me a copy, so I gave a copy of the copy to the
G.P. today, and reminded them that under NHS guidelines and standards
I could expect to see an E.N.T. surgeon within six months of my first
approaching the G.P. I also reminded them that they had five days
left, and three of those were in a long Bank Holiday weekend.
I don't like being rude
and obnoxious, but sometimes being "Mr Nice Guy"
just doesn't work.
"Robin Huss"
arrived, and we made our way to the Brookfield Road cafe where we met
up with Sarah and Steve, and (after having done a tour of Ashford)
by Terry and Irene as well. We all had a rather good fry-up. You
can't beat a good fry-up after a night on the beer.
It was really good to
meet up with friends we see all too infrequently; but goodbyes were
said, and then Steve and I went down to the Denverarium to put up the
astro club's new event shelter. I say "new"; it
arrived last October and has stayed in the bag in one of the
lock-ups until now. We got the thing up in a surprisingly short
period of time. It looks good; I'm pleased with it.
It was then time for this
week's sax lesson. Teacher seems reasonably pleased with my progress;
this week we've broached the tricky subject of E-sharp and the
little finger. And with sax lesson saxed we went up town for a little
bit of shopping. Whilst there a thunderstorm hit, and we did our good
samaritan bit. A wheelchair-bound little old lady was trying to get a
taxi home. Every taxi driver refused to take her, and left her in the
torrential rain. It was more than their jobs were worth to take
someone in a wheelchair (apparently), so we gave her a lift to
Kennington. We came home via posh shopping in Sainsburys and a
flying visit to "Pets at Home" for dog requisites.
Once home we had coffee
and cake for tea; being still rather stuffed from the earlier fry-up.
I checked out the internet; I lost count of the comments about
"typical English weather" which had been prompted by
half an hour of rain. Has everyone really forgotten the glorious
weather we've had recently?
And then it was back down
to Park Farm for a fortieth birthday party. Ale was sunk, insults
bandied... two consective evenings of excess; can't be bad...
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