Irrational Fears Update.

The visit to the hospital produced no wrecks and there was nobody drownded (and just to remind those for whom English is not a first language that there is no such word as ‘drownded’ in the lexicon. It’s a colloquialism quoted here from Albert and the Lion.) Today’s main problem was having to take circuitous routes several times because of unexplained road closures, which nearly made me late.

The visit was a preliminary assessment using a fancy pulse reader and some blue jelly. The resultant diagnosis confirmed the GP’s tentative effort: the blood is flowing in my left leg but not as well as it should. The next step is to have a more sophisticated scan on a date to be arranged to find out where the problem lies, and then I will almost certainly have to have an operation to fit a stent in the offending vessel. And that will mean having to have yet another pre-op procedure. All in all, therefore, I have the prospect of making at least four more visits to the dear old Royal Derby over the next few months (which includes yet another bloody cystoscopy next Friday.) If this were an episode of House it would all be done in one day, but it isn’t.

I wonder whether this is fate’s way of doing me a favour. It occurs to me, you see, that I shall probably die in the Royal Derby one day, and maybe this is fate preparing me for the eventuality by giving me the chance to feel at home there before I do. How very kind of it. Thank you, fate; you’re a pal.

On the way back I decided to make a detour to Ashbourne and treat myself to lunch of an egg and cress sandwich and a large cup of Americano with cream. That was good, but what came next was unusual.

I was walking back to the car when I was accosted by a comely young woman who held up a notice for me to read. It said something about deafness and the desire to set up some kind of centre in the area. ‘Do you just want me to sign the petition?’ I asked. She nodded (and smiled nicely.) And so I did, but when I got to the last box it said ‘Donation.’ Oh.

I could have left it blank, of course, or I could have entered a zero. But that would have been churlish, and it might have upset the comely young woman who had by then intimated that she was deaf herself. And so I gave her a £5 note, whereupon she mouthed ‘thank you’ and blew me a kiss. Being the perfect English gentleman I declined to reciprocate, but mouthed ‘you’re welcome’ in return.

And then it occurred to me that the whole thing might have been a scam. But it probably wasn’t.