They say you’re only an alcoholic if you drink more booze than your doctor does. I’m not sure if, in a similar vein, I was particularly healthy or looked particularly atrocious today, because for once my doctor didn’t try to diagnose me with something several times more serious than what I had. No mention of necrotising fascitis, no possibility evoked of bubonic plague. Just some pills to settle my stomach, and the advice that it should clear up in 2 weeks or so. Or 2 days or so. Or somewhere in between.
It’s fine, I’m from the UK, we expect our GPs to give vague instructions to come back in a few days if we’re not dead.
The pills seem to have worked though; I felt dreadful before I saw the doctor, then went home, had some soup and woke up three hours later, body not particularly rebellious. Of course, I haven’t actually had any of the pills yet, so perhaps their value is just totemic – even better than a placebo, you don’t have to take the medication, you just have to take the medication home, and it works wonders. If things do get tricky, I’ll knock a few back, but otherwise I suppose I can add to the mountain of meds that we have in a bedroom drawer – probably time to dispose of the tramadol, the valium, and all the other comedy drugs that we’ve accumulated in a few years in Singapore. Over prescribed, much?
As a result of being asleep for most of the day, I have nothing exciting to report. It rained fairly constantly from midday until at least six this evening, resulting in a pleasingly chilly apartment. La Serpiente is still entraced with her bunk beads (which make her room seem so much more definitely that of a child), Destroyer was awkward enough to sleep for even longer than me this afternoon, and so wouldn’t go down tonight, but apart from these events, it’s been a very, very quiet day for me. I hope we’re back to adventure this weekend.