Emergency No Emergency

On our way to the Surrey Hills for a luscious evening with friends, I received the message from the surgery about phoning back.I am supposed to see the doctor again in a few weeks, but he had warned me that if there was any issue he'd be back in touch as soon as... and here it was, the message. It had been sent on Friday evening, I had no notification of it on my crappy phone til Saturday evening, well out of hours.  So I tried to forget it and enjoyed a night of great conversation and awesome dining. Phoned back today, was told the urine sample suggests infection; there's a course of antibiotics waiting for me to pick up at the local chemist's.

NHS. It's one thing to whinge about it, another to do without it.

Now suddenly I feel utterly exhausted, as I realise how hard I tried not to panic. All I want is to sleep for a long time. But as I am catching a plane early in the morning, the day is full of stuff that needs to be done, so my gift to me is another half hour and then time to get on with things.

I still haven't worked out if I should take my laptop or my nice camera with me.

If I decide against, see you on the other side, dear LJ x

The Jitters

Here I am again, back and nervous.

The reason I am going to Spain is to see Mum, who is quite ill. I have taken a short film of myself in my wedding dress etc,so that she can advise me on it - her taste re beauty/clothes can be very elegant - not that she doesn't have her duff moments, but she generally knows her stuff, and as she won't come to the wedding, this will give her a chance to see the gubbins.

But suddenly I am really worried that she is going to be critical, of my figure, of my hair, of the dress itself.I am losing weight nicely at the moment - not so quickly as to make my face look drawn, not too slowly for my hopes of the day - but Mum is a natural stick insect, and enjoys the interesting state of mind where she can tut at my size ('Fat Fingers,' she told me, 'And there is far too much going on here ,' - waving dismissively at my chest) while insisting on feeding me churros and chocolate til I can't move.

But I have to steel up for the possibility that  she will call my dress ugly/ tells me blankly that she doesn't like it, She has always despaired of my lack of good clothes sense. Right now, I feel a bit vulnerable about it - on some level, if she says it's ugly, little girl me will believe her -  plus she'll do her nut when she realises I am on antibiotics, cos she has a mega-thing about sickness. Her answer to my melanoma was to put a plaster on it.

This is really silly, I realise as I write these words. The more I think, the more I don't want to go, which is truly lightweight.  It is time to pull myself together and go get my money changed.