Tuesday April 29, 2008
April seems intent on making up for lost time with the showers before handing the stage over to May. Several times yesterday the skies opened without warning, deluging the town with heavy, vertical rain. Today has been much the same but more so.
The first time, Dolly was out in the garden. My goodness but she can shift when she’s a mind. I was just about to heap praise on her when she turned round and swore at me, roundly, as if it was me turned the heavenly taps on.
“Oh, well, be like that, missus. I was going to dry you off. Now you can do it yourself.”
“Don’t be mean,” Graham said. “Look at her. She’s drenched.”
I relented of course, and pulled out a nice warm towel, all dry from the cupboard, and gave her a sound rub-down. She didn’t swear at me again.
The agent didn’t call to tell us what their ‘buyers’ thought, of course and, when it’d gone past office hours, my resolve firmed. “I shall phone them tomorrow,” I said. “I don’t really care what the buyers said but I want my HIP report. Cost me £441, did that, and I want to be able to pass it over to the new agent.”
“You’re right, of course. Just don’t make them cry.”
As it turned out I was busy at the doctor’s this morning, getting the result of my chest x-ray and my full-spectrum bloods tests. Both were fine. The x-ray is clear, and the consultant says my lungs and heart look to be in good order. The bloods are good, too, well within healthy range.
“Well, you’ve got me beat,” the doctor said, giving my left breast another good squeeze; they do seem to love doing that, don’t they? “There are definitely no lumps, and although it is very swollen, there’s nothing much about it. How about if I send you to see a breast specialist surgeon? You’ll be somewhat out-numbered by women in the waiting room but it’s the only way to be sure there’s nothing wrong.”
“I’ve been outnumbered all my life,” I said. “It won’t worry me. How long will it be before the appointment?”
“It’s not an emergency so it’ll not be a ten-day job. [Reader’s note: The NHS aims to get cancer patients onto the table within ten days of initial referral.] More like two months, I’d say.”
“What do you think will be the outcome?”
“Oh, most likely he’ll prod and poke and then tell you just what I’ve told you. You have an enlarged breast. The difference is he’ll be able to offer you surgery if you want it, to restore your figure.”
“Oh, I’ll take advice but I think I’ll give that a miss. Wouldn’t know what to do with my figure if I did get it back.”
And so that was it. Nothing urgently amiss, and all else seems to be in stonking good order. I’m a lucky fella.
I called into the supermarket on my way home, dodging between the showers. Back at the house I found Graham in full house-cleaning mode. The first viewer from our new agent has asked to see the place at six this evening [Tuesday] when he finishes work. He’s a cash buyer, and is presently between houses, lodging in a local hotel.
I phoned the old agent, got the same old run around to explain the absence of their feed-back, and demanded my HIP report to pass on to the new guys. It seems the putative buyer thought the house was too much over-looked at the rear, and that the garage was too far away. Hey ho.
We’re becoming more and more impressed with the new guy. He can’t conjure a buyer out of thin air, of course, and he’s working into a fiendishly difficult market; even so, he keeps his promises, and seems intent on finding us a buyer if there are any around. He made an excellent job of the Rightmove web page, though, and that can’t hurt our project.
So there you go. A funny old day. I seem to specialise in funny old days just now.