I seem to be constantly on the go just now. Good for me, but I’m looking forward to a quiet day just as soon as one comes along once more.
Yesterday was blood monitoring day, making me miss my afternoon nap. The monitor consists of a large, heavy control unit, strapped around the middle, horrid thick black tubing, and a heavy-duty arm wrapping thing like the old fashioned doctors used to use. Every 30 minutes the system whirs and buzzes into life, inflating and deflating the arm thing while it records all the readings on the way up and down again. You can’t settle to anything, not even a nap, when you’re anticipating the next big squeeze and by the time it was scheduled to come off at ten o’clock in the evening I’d driven myself quite scatty with it. Well intentioned it may be but torture it is, and probably against the Geneva Convention at that.
This morning I had to take the thing back to the clinic. Managed to slip into a vacant space in the woefully inadequate car park without too long a wait, and handed the unit over. On return to the car park I had the less than enviable task of calming an exceedingly irate vicar who’s car had been blocked in by some careless twit in a big black BMW SUV. The vicar was fit to bursting, straining at his dog collar in his anxiety to be off. “I have a funeral party waiting!” he said. I know about vicars. They often invent funeral parties to cover their sins of impatience. “Never mind,” I said. “He’ll be out in a minute. Take a deep breath, enjoy the sunshine, and try to find some joy in the situation.” “I’m supposed to tell you that!” he said, but he smiled anyway, and calmed down nicely. I walked away out of earshot as soon as the inconsiderate BMW driver came up, though. Another thing I know about vicars is their propensity for bad language and it doesn’t seem right to listen to a vicar swearing, really it doesn’t.
So there you go. Time’s up. Graham wants his lunch and I’m sure Dolly’s hankering for a treat, too.
Take good care.
