On Hearts and Heroes.

It’s been a generally sour sort of day today, culminating in a phone call from the hospital late this afternoon. I hate getting phone calls from the hospital:

‘We’ve now had a look at your heart scans. Your valves appear to be working properly (phew!) but there’s evidence of some deterioration elsewhere. We’d like to scrap your next scan and do a full angiogram instead.’

I know I mustn’t complain because these good people are doing their best and it’s all for my sake. I know that. And it’s all free because of our wonderful NHS. But I’ve had four years of being investigated for one thing or another and I’m thoroughly fed up with it.

I suppose it will at least be of some comfort to the residents of the Shire. If they really want to get rid of me, they won’t need to bother with the burning mill and pitchforks routine (I mean, who would want to burn a perfectly good mill?) All they need do is get somebody to don a Margaret Thatcher mask, climb up to my bedroom window at four o’clock in the morning, tap on the glass and shout ‘boo.’ That should do the trick. Much more Agatha Christie.

(Having said which, somebody did wave to me enthusiastically as they drove past me on the lane this morning. Does that mean somebody likes me? I’ve no idea who it was.)

But just to finish off a difficult day, I watched the rest of Suffragette all the way to the end. I wasn’t sure I’d make it since it was so harrowing, but I did. I felt shattered even before the credits rolled. Mel said that when she watched it she was in floods of tears at the end. Frankly, I know what she meant, and now I need a good dose of MR James to take my mind off it. And I still think it odd that I find the achievements of those I consider heroes far more moving than the more obvious sadness of tragedies.