It’s got to be thirty-three years at least since I woke up sober on March 18th.. It is also possibly the first time I have the day off when it hasn’t fallen on the weekend. I have woken up grumpy (insert your own joke here, but trust me, I’ve heard it).
Celebrations yesterday were ruled out because Mrs Blazing was starving herself, and more, in preparation (not her favourite word at the moment) for a barium meal today. I’m not so totally inconsiderate as to sit there chucking bacon, cabbage, and Guinness down my neck last night as she suffered.
I wanted to write something funny about how this isn’t the first time she has faced this procedure, and how unconcerned we are. We know, don’t we, that once again this will be a false alarm? Anyway, grumpy is as grumpy does and I don’t feel in the least bit funny this morning.
I’ve given her a cuddle, asked all the right questions (I hope) and as she starts her morning medication regime I have slunk out here into the centre of my media empire, aka the spare room.
I want to write a stinging criticism of our private health insurance, and the ‘will they or won’t they cover this’ quandary before the National Health took over and said you qualify for an immediate referral. I’m not in the mood to write in praise of that policy. How curmudgeonly am I?
It will be alright, won’t it?