Wednesday May 7, 2008
Graham is dug in to his commitment to keep the bar for trannie week. “They’ll all be gone on Monday,” he says. If it was me I’d be counting the days but he doesn’t do things like that.
I’m more or less adjusted to another few days at home alone with a disgruntled Mega-cat. I could go out for a drive but with petrol running up to £1.20p a litre I’m disinclined to use the car any more than strictly necessary. The electricity and gas bills that came in yesterday are helping me to think economy, too.
Dolly, of course and quite rightly, too, floats along in a furry cloud of immunity. It’s hot? No matter, stretch out and go back to sleep. It’s cold? No matter, curl up tight and do the same.
I have fixed my appointment with the breast surgeon in Weston Super-Mare (I’m afraid I’ve already started calling him the seaside tits man) for consultation (what I call a poke and prod) on May 21. For a ‘routine’ job that’s a gratifyingly fast response. I shall be pleased when this is done and dusted. My G.P. seems competent enough, and tells me there’s nothing to worry about, but there’s something ultimately reassuring about being given the message direct from the guy who’s going to have to wield the knife if surgery is necessary.
I’m wanting a bit of a holiday, or at least a short break from routine. I’ve been day-dreaming about the Norfolk Broads but it’s a long way. More immediately available to me is to shoot off with Dolly to bed down with Graham in the caravan tomorrow or the day after until he’s done for the week. I shall put it to him when we speak later today. Just a little break on the cliff-tops, listening to the sound of the sea. Do me a power of good, that would.
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