2004-12-13..5:30 p.m.

I went to visit my Nan last week and I think her chest infection has me infected. I was only there for a minute - to drop off some Christmas gifties for the fam and wish her a jolly Yule as she�s Christmasing in Canada this year and I shan�t see her until the New Year � and she TOLD ME not to kiss her Good flight and Christmas and Cheer and I ignored her flatly. And now it feels like someone's digging their heel into my chest. While their wearing square heels. Which have blades protruding from the sides like from the wheels of chariots when Nero called for cheating in the Colosseum. But I had not a cig yesterday nor will I today and I will try to hold off tomorrow, but if the bastard pressing their heel in switches to golf shoes, I�ll be giving up for the next until it goes away.

Bums.

In an attempt at a premeditated strike I tried to make an appointment with my doctor. He�s out for lunch. The WHOLE OFFICE was out for lunch. They left at 11. They weren't be back until 4.30. That�s a five and a half hour lunch. FIVE AND A HALF HOURS. It makes you wish I could go back in time and be all great at maths and stick to physics and biology and fuck this English shit this right up the ass, doesn't it. Five and half hours. Who gets a five and a half hour lunch? Not me. But if I could get my hands on a time machine I might just have a chance. In any case, after much chasing and threatening of the entire health of greater London, I have an appointment tomorrow at 6.10pm. Sometimes it pays to be pushy and awful.

On a similarly medical vein Saturday afternoon was spent in Lewisham Hospital�s emergency room waiting for M�s hand to get stitched and bandaged and slinged up. He sliced it when a glass shattered as he was washing up, but it will not be an excuse to get out of it. On the contrary, his maddening perfectionist ways too spent the rest of the weekend dragging around glumly upon the realisation he would have to leave a nearly full sink of dirty crockery. Poor thing.

On a totally different kind of medical note (think mental malady rather than physical): there's a guy who works here who's a bit deaf (and by a bit i mean nigh on stone cold) and who has a bit of a funny voice (like a hyena talking)(with a stuffy nose)(across the tundra)(which is why he's got a stuffy nose in the first place) which means that you never have a fucking clue what he's talking about. maybe one word in seven, but outside that it's a lost cause, so you smile and nod and laugh in all the right places and he goes away happy. Most of the time he annoys me. Today I think his bawling is rather sweet.

****meep