January 8th Revisited.

I used to make fun blog posts, but not any more. How can I make fun posts when I’m feeling repeatedly nauseous, the joy of heartburn is never very far from another flare-up, little pains niggle and nag, the cloud hanging over my future can’t decide whether it’s going to dispense its cargo or drift on, I have a tendency to fall asleep when I should be wide awake, and somebody with a tray full of sharp instruments is about to invade my body again?

I dislike being invaded. If there’s one part of our bodies that is undeniably private, it’s the inside. Even I’ve never seen it for heaven’s sake, so how should I feel about some stranger laying it bare while they pick and poke and prod and slice, then sew it up and say ‘that’s nice’? It isn’t nice; it’s obscene.

The road on which I set my unwary foot when I visited the GP on January 8^th is proving a little rocky. Did I ever mention that a number of notable episodes in my life began on January 8^th, and that they always led to notable periods of difficulty and distress? I have now.