I'VE never been a great one for going to the doctor. I develop a symptom, allow it to escalate, Google it, decide I have some vile complaint and ignore it. Anyway, when my baby came home on a surprise visit for my birthday recently, he didn't like some of my whingeing about being tired, cranky, flaky ... the list goes on. So he made me promise I'd have a full check-up after he returned to far-flung lands.
Afraid of incurring his wrath, I took myself to my GP and had the blood pressure and bloods done. The blood pressure was a bit lampy, so I was put on a 24-hour monitor thing, which left me driving in first gear every time it went off.
Anyway, the blood pressure was up so I had to double my dosage of meds. Is it any wonder with two of them still at home?
The return of the bloods from the lab left me in abject fear of an enforced spell in rehab, but lo and behold, they were fine. Liver function normal. Wonder of wonders. I'll just keep drinking then. Cholesterol was up, so I'll have to refrain from using bread and potatoes as a vehicle for butter. And now I have to go for more tests, which involve a day in hospital and the blurb instructs me to bring in a nightie and dressing gown. The problem is I have neither. I wear T-shirts in bed. So do I buy an alluring, sexy Bet Lynch number or a flannel long-sleeved up-to-the-neck job?
Leave an air of mystery about you, as my mother always said. No matter what, I assume I'm going to be told to remove it and the mystery will be over and the blubber well and truly revealed. Air of mystery my ass. Pardon the pun.