The Rarefied Being and Other Conversations.

I had the latest CT scans this evening and for some reason I was nervous as hell. Fortunately, the radiographer conducting the procedure was young, female, plain as a pikestaff, bespectacled, and utterly delightful. So what do I do when faced with such a rarefied being while in a state of nervous apprehension? I talk.

But I don’t talk about mundane things like the weather and the state of Brexit negotiations. I talk about my current situation and try to make light of it all. The problem is, most people don’t get the humorous undertone.

‘Are you able to handle anaphylactic shock?’ I asked the Rarefied Being as I took my place on the inspection couch.

‘Anaphylactic shock?’

‘Yes. Dr House says some people go into anaphylactic shock when injected with contrast dye.’

‘Lots of things cause anaphylactic shock. Don’t worry about it.’

‘But you will know what to do, won’t you?’

‘Yes. There’s a crash trolley outside the door and A&E is just around the corner.’

‘You won’t let me die, then?’

‘No. But you’ll be fine anyway. You’re not allergic to anything, you have no underlying conditions, and your blood tests were perfect.’

‘Blood tests? What blood tests?’

‘The last ones you had.’

‘You mean I’ve had blood tests without knowing about it?’

‘You would have known about it at the time.’

‘So when were they done?’

‘Erm… October.’

‘October? That’s six months ago. My blood might have deteriorated since then.’

‘It doesn’t work that way.’

‘Oh, right. I suppose I must be irritating you.’

‘No.’ (I did say she was utterly delightful, didn’t I?)

‘Well I’m irritating me. Go and get on with it so I can shut up.’

And so she did, and Tiny Tim did not die, and everything was as right as a wet Sunday afternoon in October. But the day wasn’t quite over…

When I left the CT chamber, or whatever it’s called, the woman who’d inserted my cannula came to uninsert it.

‘So what will you be doing this evening?’ she asked.

‘Drinking a lot and watching YouTube,’ I replied. ‘What else is there to do?’

‘Sounds like fun,’ she said with that studied air of nonchalance which seems to characterise cannula inserters. ‘Hope you get to drink lots.’

‘I can’t drink that much. Scotch is too expensive.’

Now, the last time I had a conversation with a medical person about drinking I got the lecture about fourteen units a week being the prescribed limit, along with the instruction to ensure I have two days every week free of the demon alcohol. Today’s woman just said:

‘Go to Aldi. It’s cheaper there.’

And when I walked past the reception desk on the way out, the receptionist said:

‘You look better coming out than you did going in.’

‘Do I? That’s a relief. Bye.’

(And incidentally, I asked the Rarefied Being whether she’d ever watched House. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I hated it. The medical stuff they come out with is rubbish and it irritated the hell out of me.’ ‘Ah, but what’s compelling about House is the relationship issues,’ I answered knowingly. She didn’t say anything that time. Just gave me a funny look.)