“New handbag Mum?”
“Er no, not quite”
Let me tell you about my day yesterday. In fact, let me inflict my day upon you whether you like it or not. Hmmmmm yes, that sort of day.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then let us begin…..
My day starts at 4am when Berti announces to the world in general that he want out. NOW. This is of course conveyed to me in the manner of rasping cat screams in my right ear and the added benefit of somewhat fishy breath. Stagger from bed and throw him out.
Return to bed and when alarm goes off at 6am sucessfully kill the damn thing and fall asleep again. Wake up at 7am and go into panic mode to get Idgy organised and make sandwiches blah, blah, blah….
Horrible wet weather.
Trot off to BBC in time for show about the uses of Bicarbonate of soda and the results of our Bicarb Challenge over the weekend. Reporter reports (clever, huh!) that it went really well; the deodorant worked a treat in all day dance class, washing soft, teeth sparkling, but didn’t think much of it as an exfoliator. Suggested she tried some crushed almonds as well so hopefully redeemed natural living that way.
Leave BBC in fine form and plunge back into pouring rain.
Return item to shop that I shouldn’t have bought in first place. What was I thinking, really, hot pink is so not me.
Go to supermarket and get all food in.
Have 2pm appointment at hospital to see consultant about my foot (do we all recall the two bunion ops two years ago) and fact that toe isn’t working and hurts. Arrive with 15 minutes in hand to crouse round the acres of car park looking for a space. Eventually park illegally just to leave damn car and get to appointment. Hope car still there on return.
Am asked date of birth by receptionist.
Settle down to read rather good article on ageing in Woman’s World magazine. Interrupted by my appointment being called.
Troop off to consulting room to find I have to wait there without the aid of reading material for a further 20 minutes before rather handsome consultant with unpronounceable name strolls in. By this time I have exhausted the entertainment value of looking round the room and am reading book on my phone. Stuff phone in bag.
He assesses foot problem and says an operation is in order. Something nasty that entails pin sticking out of end of toe for six weeks. Try not to let imagination get better of me.
Go for Xray. While waiting I read article in medical magazine on foot problems, lots of colour photos showing deformed feet. Nice, am now over-informed. Asked date of birth.
Back in consultants room waiting for him. He catches me with the phone again and can see by his look that he thinks I am some kind of geriatric teenager with an over active affiliation with Twitter. Resist temptation to point out I am in fact using said phone to read an e-book on How To Deal With Stress And Panic.
“Let’s get you organised with all the pre-op tests etc in case we can get you a cancellation” he says with all the enthusiasm of one who will be doing the cutting up of foot and not the one on other end of this procedure.
I am given a folder and several stickers and sent down the corridor for an ECG test. Sit outside waiting (again) and spot a photography magazine. Read magazine till called in (asked date of birth again) and asked to remove top clothing. Why is it that this is always the moment that you really get to see the age of your underwear and wish you’d maybe laid this bra to rest some time ago.
Sent off to another area for height and weight and form filling. Receptionist asks me my date of birth (yet again) and asks for the folder. “What folder?”, “The one you were given by consultant” she replies. Cast mind back 2 hours earlier and vaguely recall a yellow cardboard thing. Tell her I must’ve left it at the ECG room. She trots off to get it. Ten minutes later she comes back in a bit of a tizz saying I must have it in my bag. Hold up small handbag that wouldn’t hold paperback (wish I had one) far less an A4 folder. She trots off again. Five minutes later I remember I was reading that photography magazine and wonder if I put the folder down with the mag. I trot off up the corridors to find out. Get horribly lost and find original consultant again. Am wandering back when three nurses spot me and demand to know where the folder is and where am I going. Tell them I think it is with the photography magazine and we all retrace our steps to find the elusive folder stuffed in the magazine rack.
Back to the testing area. Now I have my folder I have a name and can be called. Name is called after half an hour. I am politely asked for my date of birth. Am so bloody tempted to knock 20 years off age and see if they’ll notice. Get weighed (no, not telling!) and height done. Am asked all sorts of silly questions and even manage to answer a few. Have blood pressure taken. It is slightly high but nurse says it can be tested again when I see the next nurse for the questionnaire. “What questionnaire? I thought we just did that”. Apparently not.
Told to wait in waiting room.
Called to see nurse with questionnaire. She asks my date of birth. You can see a pattern here can’t you, I can.
After another round of Q & A she says she will now take my blood pressure. It is now higher. Says they will have to make sure it is not high for this operation so I should take home this little kit (great big cuff, monitor and rubber hose attachment to slap round arm, strangle life out of self and bleep) and write down resulting readings three times a day for next week). She tells me I am very lucky that they have this small sized kit in handbag form as the other one is like a small suitcase. She also points out that I should return kit at 8.30am next week so as to avoid the stress of the car park. Has she noticed my stress levels do you think? I do.
So when I eventually get home at 5.30pm from my 2pm appointment and my darling daughter asks if this is a new handbag I am tempted to throw the damn thing at her.
Instead I collapse in my chair clutching a mug of tea and feeling very old and a tad tired. I feel my date of birth is tattooed on my forehead and feel every bloody year of it.