Wednesday May 21, 2008
“Why’s he call it gynecomastia instead of just saying male breast enlargement, then?” I asked on the way out of the hospital.
“If he used the same language as us he couldn’t call himself a consultant,” Graham replied.
“Ah, grasshopper, sometimes you are wise beyond your ears.”
“Don’t you mean ‘years’ rather than ‘ears’?”
“Typical of you, that is. Quibble. Quibble. Can I have a proper breakfast now?”
“Yup. For once you’ve earned it. We’ll stop at the garden centre on the way through Burnham.”
Which is what we did.
The consultant, for all his reluctance to use plain English, was a bloke you could trust immediately, and impressive with it. His opinion is that my swollen breast is the result of years on diuretics–just as I’ve always said it is–and has no sinister signs. Even so, he wants to make sure, so I’m going back to the hospital on June 4 ‘early in the morning’ for a needle biopsy job to be done under local anaesthetic. I’ll be perfectly safe to drive myself home, he says. The results will be available seven to fourteen days after that and he’ll let me know immediately. Which is great. Even if we do get to move house all of a sudden, we’ll still be here at the end of June.
The countryside between Weston-super-Mare and Burnham-on-Sea is very attractive. Neither town, sadly, has a good reputation for peaceable living. These days it’s difficult to find one that does.
The garden centre was noticeably less busy than of late, with oodles of spaces in the car park. It’s the place you see a lot of retired folks out for a little treat. You see fewer and fewer retired folks out for a little treat these days–petrol is too expensive. At £1.1896 a litre I paid the most I’ve ever paid for today’s trip, and we’re told to expect it to increase a great deal over that. I suspect that in three years we’ll be paying a little over £2.50 a litre. A nice little trip in the car will be a rare event well before that.
The breakfast was pretty good, even though it was stretching things to describe it as a ‘full English’ One sausage, two eggs, one canned tomato, two slices of bacon and a spoonful of beans doesn’t really make a ‘full English’, even if you do add toast and tea.
“How do you feel now?” Graham asked.
“Ready to face the world,” I said, patting my tummy contentedly.
“Good. Now, wipe that drop of sauce off your shirt and we can go shopping.”
By the time we’d searched for and purchased a good-looking black glazed earthenware planter and done a pass through Sainsbury’s on the way home I was pretty well exhausted. It was the strain of anticipating and undergoing a poke and prod in my chubby areas of course. I’m happy about it all now, though.
We’ve done everything we can to get our house sale moving, mostly because we’ve found a house at the other end that we’d dearly like to buy.
I’m not going to say where, or too much of anything about it, but it’s on the market, has been for some time, is somewhat rundown, and is empty–a foreclosure job, we suspect. I’ve emailed the selling agent and we’ll probably pop over to Wales to look at it next week, restraining our curiousity until then. Through the magic of the Internet, I can however inspect it and its surrounding areas quite intensively from the air. The online HIP helps, too. Another few years and we’ll not need to go out viewing houses at all. Wanna peek? Here you go: