Don't learn to touch-type if you're ever going to allow your right index finger to get caught in a falling double-hung window.

That's about it, really.

(It has stopped bleeding now, which is a bonus. It's amazing how hard it is to get blood out of denim 3/4 pants without it, either.)

Typing has become painfully slow (as my brain tries to work out which finger to substitute) or is just painful.

But how many words need a 'y', 'u', 'h', 'j', or 'n' anyway?

... *earl* ever* o*e *o* ca* t*i*k of. (Wait! I can write 'of'!!!)

The cold that Will. Not. Die.

I'm nearly over it.

I hope.

I have said that on at least 3 other occasions in the last couple of months.

It is lingering.

It is not an infection.

Therefore there isn't much the doctor can do about it.

But she has put me on a whole heap of supplements to strengthen my immune system, a magic nasal spray that I could only use for three days, and suggested keeping away from the hospital for a bit.

Still sneezing.

Still coughing.

Still fighting sleep each afternoon.

And the chance that I'm not soooo over being sick?
... Mmmm.

But the fish oil makes your hair all soft and shiny.

It's a Good Thing my Dog knows Sign Language...

Well, he doesn't really. But when we were training him there were certain gestures that went alongside some commands, and I must admit it is useful at times to be able to send him off without words.

Especially today, when the cold in my head has almost entirely removed my voice from usefulness. I can manage an impassioned whisper with occasional squeaks or croaks.

It was frustrating when planning worship for a couple of weeks time not to be able to sing the verse of a song so that everyone knew the tune I was thinking of.

And answering the phone today has been a riot, particularly when woken from a drug-induced doze and totally getting confused about precisely who was answering my message from when. I actually corrected my caller as to who she was.

For the record, she was right.

Anyway, it is frustrating for someone who... well... talks easily not to be able to effectively communicate. Particularly when a Little Black Dog is in the wrong place, and you want him to come in, but you can't inject the appropriate command with sufficient authority to get him to obey. He did follow the finger-snap and point. Quickly. Good Dog!

The number of words I've managed today?

... Approximately None!

The girl who deserved donuts and didn't buy them.

I decided to walk down town today. It was a beautiful day and I had a few things to get and so decided to pick up the LBD's lead and take him for a walk.

I walked the 30 minutes into town, left the LBD tied up under a tree, then walked around some shops. Bought two reams of paper and put them in my backpack, picked up the LBD and came home again.

As I left the shopping centre I had to walk past Donut King.

I was tempted.

I didn't stop and buy any.

I felt good about that decision.

But two reems of paper are heavy, and I was struggling for the last little bit of the walk home.

I deserved those donuts, but the chance I regret not buying them?

... Approximately None!

Better than The West Wing

I've said before that when I'm trying to get fit I've been putting on an episode of The West Wing and then doing my stretches and rowing.

A 41 minute episode allows for stretching, 30 mins of rowing (even with occasional breathers) and then either a sit for a couple of minutes or warm-down stretches. It helps me to keep going when I'm really not enthused by the prospect of exercise.

I'm not a huge fan of exercise, but without it I become simply huge, so I perservere. And The West Wing helps with the mind-numbing process, because it gives my brain something to think about, other than the fact I'm tired, puffed and want to stop now.

Yesterday I decided to use the time to pray instead. And it worked! There's something about rhythmic breathing that helps me keep focussed on prayer, and the prayer keeps me calm about doing the exercise. I can work out why I've not thought about this before, except that I'm not usually that awake of a morning, so I can't think. Yesterday was my day off, so I was rowing later than usual, which means that my brain had a chance to get into gear.

I'll have to see if it works on a normal day (particularly in winter when the sun doesn't get up till 6.50am).

The chance that I can think of a witty way to segue into my tagline from here?

... Approximately None.

Jen is Burstin' Out All Over

Trying madly to remember where the song I've adapted comes from. I'm guessing "Carosel".

So, I might have not met my exercise goals and best eating patterns in the crazy time leading up to Easter.

And I might have pretty much indulged in the "Food Tour of Malaysia" while overseas.

But although I refusing to get on the scales for three weeks after my return, there are some indicators that I'd better get cracking on the exercise programme.

So here is my little secret.

I have had three sets of clothes fail in the belly department.

Yep. Three (and that doesn't count for the 3/4 pants that split in the sideseam in the vicinity of my thighs).

1. A pair of new 3/4 pants where the stitching beside the fly began to let go and I had to sew it up. I tell you, those pants would have gone back to the shop (it was about the 2nd time I wore them) if it hadn't been in Toowoomba and I needed them to wear on holidays. I was cranky, because it was obviously woeful manufacture and not that I am getting a bit porky.

2. I busted the zip on my board shorts when I went swimming with elephants in the Genting Highlands. I blame the fact that when the elephant rolled over and I hit the water I must have contorted somehow in a strange way and that was the reason the zip broke - Definitely not that I am getting a little porky!

3. When I got home I was wearing an old favourite pair of suede-finished pants and the stitching beside the zip let go. Of course, they are getting on a bit, so it is probably not that I'm getting a bit porky.

Chance that I've not gained a few centimeters?

... I neither confirm or deny! (Basically because I haven't measured and don't want to know!)

Poor Mumsy

This post had many possible titles:

Emily Sue DON'T read this (you've been warned)

Exercise is bad for your health

My Rabid Mother

Did you bite him back?

My Mum, who has been walking to get fit for our overseas holiday was out on Wednesday afternoon when a dog jumped over a fence and bit her.

Thankfully she was walking with my Nan, who then fended the dog off when it tried to have another go. When I told my Nan that she was very brave for trying to scare off a dog that had a demonstrated ability to attack, she simply indicated that there really was no other choice.

They flagged down a passing car and got them to ring for the ambulance, and Mum was taken up to the hospital. Nan also borrowed a phone to call Dad to tell him what was happening, and he came down, picked up Nan and took her home and then went up to the hospital.

The first I knew about it was a late phone call from Dad. If I'd been looking out of my bedroom or family room windows I could have seen the whole incident.

The dog was taken straight on a one way visit to the vet.

Mum was told to keep her leg up for 48 hours, then to go back yesterday, then told to keep her leg up for an additional 48 hours (but she's allowed to have crutches now). We're off to my Grandmother's 90th birthday party in a park today, so that's going to be easy!

We're hoping that she'll be better for our trip overseas - but the doctor doesn't think she'll be able to put weight on it for a week. He reckons that it was quite a bad bite. We've all been praying that it will heal quickly and there will be no infection. When the doctor looked yesterday he said that there is no sign of infection yet and that it seems to be healing well. Strange, huh?

What I have learnt?
1. Exercise is bad for you.
2. Don't wear your good, comfortable (and expensive) shoes and orthotics walking, because when you get bitten by a dog, one shoe will fill with blood and will either be wrecked, or have to be cleaned out by your husband and/or daughter (and possibly still be wrecked because of the extreme measures needed to try to get them approaching clean).

The chance that we're not continuing to pray for a speedy recovery?

... APPROXIMATELY NONE!!!

PS for any overseas readers, rabies doesn't exist in the Australian dog population - so we're fine on that score.

Breakfast

I've said before that I'm Not a Morning Person.

I'm really not.

And why do I find it necessary to defend this position? Well that's another psychological track entirely, and I'm not going there today.

One of the manisfestations of my NaMP status is that breakfast can be a bit of an ordeal. I don't decide easily at an early hour, so it needs to be quick to prepare and all the relevant bits need to be easily procurable and either store for a long time, or be something we usually have in the house.

I will usually have exactly the same thing for a couple of months (lets say toast) and then one day I will wake up and simply not be able to tolerate the thought of toast for breakfast. The smell of toast toasting will turn my stomach. The very thought of toast is repugnant to me (and yes, I have been reading both Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer recently, in case you're wondering).

Then I need to come up with a new idea in a short period of time because I've got to get out and doing for the day, and my higher executive powers don't wake up as early as I have to be vertical, and my Mum always told me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day so I can't skip it, and my life is a mess of stress for the morning.

I've recently been on a healthy Vita-Brits-are-whole-grain-no-sugar-isn't-that-healthy? kick. Add a little fruit in natural juice and some milk and I've got to be doing something good for my body. Haven't I?

I've been jokingly calling it 'chaff' and have realised that, while cleaning my teeth after breaky is usually pleasant and to be desired, the consumption of chaff means that it is absolutely imperative IMMEDIATELY because otherwise I find bits of chaff all around my teeth and I don't like that.

But the writing is on the wall for chaff for breakfast, because my half-awake brain this morning recognised that, actually, horsefood tastes better than Vita Brits. Yep, when I was in primary school we used to nibble on the working horse mix, and my memory is telling me that it tasted better than my breakfast (at least, it did if you got a bit with molasses in it).

So how much breakfast am I likely to have tomorrow?

... approximately none (but don't tell Mum).

Wanna buy a good second hand congenital heart defect?

I don't know if you do this, but for me when a friend, acquaintance, or someone I love is diagnosed with an illness I get on my computer and Google it to get some basic information so that I know what is going on.

Of course it's dangerous, because it is often the worst case scenario that is presented, without any of the specifics of their particular case. But at least I get a bit more of an idea.

So on hearing a pretty way out diagnosis, I Googled and was working my way through what seemed to be fairly authoritative sites when I noticed a strange thing...

You see, I've often noted that there are sponsored links to the right hand side of the screen.

I've always marvelled that whatever item I'm Googling for, eBay seems to have, but this is ridiculous!

What the?

The chance I'm simply longing to get a Ventricular Septal Defect of my very own (even at bargain prices)?

... Approximately None!!

It's all Mum's fault, really...

You might recall that about 12 months ago I commented that I was having some vision difficulty and probably needed to go to an optometrist.

I also want new frames because I'm needing my glasses more and more often, and they really aren't fashionable anymore, and I need them in public now rather than just at my desk.

Well I decided I'd go on Tuesday of this week.

Vanity is an excellent motivator.

First appointment at a new optometrist they ask you about all the family history and what you know about your eyesight problems, then they start the actual examination.

I knew that I have three basic problems:
1. I need glasses for reading (can never remember which is long-sight and which short-sight)
2. I have astigmatism in my left eye (this is my Mother's fault, but she blames her Dad.)
3. I have a convergence problem



Lately I've been needing glasses more and more often for further and further distances. So it was time to go, and I was excited that I could get new frames, having had these since 1997 when I first got glasses. It's time. Well past time, actually, but moving on from my innate miserly tendencies...

So the young bloke finished his examination and then asked me if I'd ever been recommended eye exercises for my convergence problem?

The answer to that is 'yes' from some optometrists, but others say that you can waste your time if you like, but they don't help. So, my natural disinclination for any form of exercise has won the day and I haven't been doing any.

Possibly a mistake, because there's absolutely nothing that glasses can do to help a convergence problem.

And I have a spectacular, off-the-scale convergence problem for close work. This means that each eye contributes the image it sees, but can't reduce it to one, focussed image. Hence I can't see well unless I close one eye. Which might be a bit distracting for the congregation when I'm reading sermon notes.

It does help if things are in focus, though.

... So I need to wear my glasses for preaching and meetings and stuff (at least still my eye muscles decide to behave again due to enough time spent cross-eyed).

... But they are ugly.

... But the fact of the matter is that there is absolutely no change in my prescription.

... So there is no reason to get new frames.


And while they kindly offered to sell me new glasses anyway, my aforementioned innate miserliness will not allow me to buy new glasses for no reason.

... And my parents always told me to be a good steward of this world's resources, and that means taking care of things.

... So my existing frames are still in really good condition, and there's no discernable scratches on the lenses (then again, could I see them if there were?).

... So there is no reason to get new frames.

... And it's all my Mum's fault.

By the way, if I happen to see any of you who are my friends or relatives and you happened to, say, sit on my glasses, my level of unhappiness would be...

...Approximately None!!!

In fact, don't be surprised if I see you about to sit down and I throw my glasses across the room onto your chair.

The problem is that those of us with convergence problems see two images of things partially superimposed, so the chance that I'll hit the right chair?

... *sigh*

Another theory busted...

One of my theories that I've held to in the years since I started college is that once I was an adult, my shoe size would stay the same.

I may have 'blossomed' late, and put on a few extra kilos since then, but ever since I was in the last couple of years of high school my shoe size has been consistent. Or rather, it would have been consistent, except that european and US sizes are now being used for some brands, which means that the number is different even if the foot inside is actually the same.

I have in my possession a pair of knee length, high heeled black boots. I rescued them from cetain death while I was in college when Mum was culling her shoe collection. I had always loved them ever since Mum had had them.

At the moment the are actually fashionable again, but a couple of years back they lost the sole of the heels and I keep forgetting to take them down to get new ones put on. So I haven't been wearing them.

Last week I was doing a heap of silly things down town, and for a wonder remembered my boots. Sixteen dollars later and I had (re)new(ed) shoes to wear. I got them out on Sunday to wear to church.

I don't know what has happened. Feet don't change size, but obviously my calves have, because there was no way I could zip them up.

It's not like they missed by a tiny fraction, either.

And this confirms a suspicion I've had for a while that my lower legs are putting on weight. I told myself I was being overly critical and that it wasn't possible, but my calves are not something I've ever measured for any reason, so I have no point of comparison.

Except a pair of black, knee-length boots.

So, my ideas for where to go to from here?

... Approximately None. *excuse me while I have a little cry in the corner just here*

Seeking Engine De-greaser...

I presume that not many people are in this same boat.

I presume that because if there were heaps of people in this same boat, the supermarkets would still stock the particular item I need.

And they don't.

I stand in front of the wall of hair care products, reading all the labels of all the products for all the brands looking for something that deals with oily hair. There hasn't been anything in a supermarket since Revlon stopped making (or at least selling into the supermarkets) Flex for oily hair in the late 1990s. For a while I did find a Pears product for normal hair that sort of filled the gap, but they don't seem to exist anymore either.

Obviously no-one has normal hair anymore, because I could get colour longevity, frizz reduction, perm protection, hydrating, rejuvenating, split-end inhibiting, body enhancing, long hair strengthening, super moisturising, every-day use type of products. 'Everyday' or 'frequent' use is pretty pointless for my hair, because I don't want to have to shower at lunchtime just to wash my hair so that it doesn't have that greasy sheen for the afternoon. And I'm happy to wash my hair every couple of days, if I can get away with it.

I've discovered lately that if I hairspray to within an inch of its life, I don't seem to get greasy so quickly (or at least it doesn't look greasy).

I don't put conditioner anywhere near my head, but confine it to the ends only.

I put the shampoo into dry hair as recommended by a previous hairdresser in the hope that the shampoo gets a better 'grip' on the grease before I wet everything.

And I'm still left wanting to slip down to the local Supercheap Auto and buy something that will actually get my hair clean enough that I only have to wash a couple of times a week.

More dangerous, of course, is the bottle of dishwashing detergent under the sink. They wash race horses in dishwashing detergent. It says it's 'easy on your hands' so how bad could it be?

I sometimes think phoning my hairdresser in Yeppoon and buying some more Redken super grease removing shampoo, even if it does cost about 5 times what I would normally pay for shampoo.

And at this point I remind myself that greasy hair and face has got to be good for me as I age. I've never needed all the moisturising stuff that people spend so much money on. Surely the grease has to pay off in fewer wrinkles?

... please?

But of course the chances of it working out for me?

... Approximately None!

Cooling Tip for events during a long summer

Although we've had a reprieve from the hellish heat of a couple of weeks ago, it's still warm. Particularly at inside events where there's no air-conditioning or fans and that have limited windows to let the breeze through.

But I've discovered a useful tip to aid in such situations and I'm about to share it with you to apologise for not being a good, regular blogger.

Aren't I kind?

Are you ready?

Sure?

Look around the audience or congregation and sit next to a post-menopausal woman. As the room heats, she will begin fanning herself. And although she may not actually be fanning you, there's enough air moving in the general vicinity to make life a little more bearable.

And, of course, if you have lots of post-menopausal friends, you may be in the enviable situation of finding a seat between two post-menopausal women who will both start fanning themselves.

And the chance that life gets any better than that?

... Approximately None!

O Lord, set a watch over my mouth...

Well, there is probably more than one problem. My brain is mostly here, but sometimes I am still doing dumb stuff. On Tuesday I signed my name on a very important, official business document and signed the wrong name.

Oh no, not my maiden name - I made up an entirely different surname by exchanging the final letter with a totally different letter. A letter that has never existed in my name in the lower case.

What's more I didn't find it until the next day, which was saved by the fact that my dodgy brain forgot to take it around to Dad's office to fax it off. I discovered the error before anyone else saw it. (Then blogged about it. For everyone to see. Hmmm. Maybe I have more problems than I thought)

The main problem I'm confronting is that my jaw hasn't yet let go. I can actually get my index finger between my teeth, but I can't open my mouth any more than that.


So while there are many things that I'd be game to eat, unless they are thinner than my index finger it's just not going to work for me.

I can have a sandwich - as long as I take it apart and eat all the components separately. I ate a sausage at the sausage sizzle last night - but had to cut it in half lengthways. I could eat a pie or hamburger - as long as I cut them up with a knife and fork. My meals are taking ages to eat because I've got to bash down each forkful to be thin enough to go through the 'letterbox'.

And what's worst is that I've had this much opening for about a week now and it's not changing much.

So yesterday I went shopping and decided that I deserved a little treat:-

But I forgot one very important thing:-

Close. Very, very close.

But possible. Just.

The chance that I didn't get just a fraction more room by sheer effort of will and a little discomfort?

... Approximately None!

Getting there

My Dear friend Givinya asked me how I've been going since my original post-op picture (complete with ice-packs). You remember this?


Well, a couple of days later I could stop applying ice-packs and I looked like this - I've never had a square jaw before!

Nevermind, it seems that my cheekbones have returned, the extensive double chin is gone (or at least back to normal) and my chin is now just part of my jawline, rather that stuck on a puffer fish. And I hope I no longer look like I'm spaced out on drugs.

Back to driving and doing some work and the surgeon seemed pleased with my progress last week when I went for my day 7 check-up.

Feeling is starting to return to the half of my lower lip and chin that has been numb, which is a bit of a relief, given that there was no change up until yesterday.

At least one of the stitches has dissolved itself, although some of the others seem to be going strong.

The one thing that remains a frustration for me I will talk about tomorrow, and that will be appreciated by my loyal audience...

... Approximately Not at All - but hey, it's called delayed gratification and there should be more of it in the world.

Romance and Reality

I seem to be approaching human. No stamina and I certainly can tell when the drugs are wearing off, but I'm approaching human.

Unlike last week when I'm not certain what I did (good drugs!).

Friday I decided that entertainment should be all five hours of the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. It's a story I know well so it doesn't matter if I doze through parts of it, it was long enough to fill the day and required no effort on my part.

I was at Mum and Dad's, so Mum sat down and made lace as we watched - and organised food at regular intervals.

I was glad when she decided it was lunchtime. It was coming up to Elizabeth's refusal of Darcy's proposal scene and I had been a bit dozy. This was one part I didn't want to miss, so food should keep me awake for a bit.

I've been describing my ingestion of food as 'eating', but that's a fairly loose interpretation of the term. It's closer to a careful slurp from the end of a teaspoon, followed by swallowing with very little attempt at any form of chewing. At the time I could hardly open my teeth and couldn't control my tongue terribly effectively. It was also necessary to have a tissue handy for the inevitable spills across my numbed lip.

So my favourite scene in P&P ended up going something like this:-

Darcy (striding across the sitting room): In vain I have struggled...
Me: Schhleeck
Darcy: ... it will not do...
Me: Schhleeeck
Darcy:... you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire...
Me: Schhleeeckk
Darcy: ... and love you.

By this time I'd twigged to the interesting sound effects and went off into the giggles, thereby ruining the scene for me forever. (Have I mentioned that laughing, smiling, giggling are none of them terribly comfortable?) Hopefully the chances of splitting the stitches are...

... Approximately None!

Some people have surgery to improve their appearance...

... others, not so much.

Surgery went well. I had none of the nausea or other side effects common to general anaesthetic, apart from headaches, which could also be caused by someone drilling and cutting into my jaw, for example.

Declined the morphine last night due to side effects (not to mention the fact it's given via injection into the thigh) and the fact the pain was irritating, but not excrutiating.

Very aware of the fact that the killer pain killers will only last about 3 days if I take the maximum dose. At the surgeons recommendation I'm trying to space them out with Advil which is an anti-inflammatory as well. Unfortunately not recommended for asthmatics, but I just have to keep an eye on any breathing issues. It should be okay, I've had similar before with no problems.

Jaw is sore, can't open my mouth much (for example to take my inhalers - my front teeth copped half the last dose) and the lower right hand side of my lip is numb. The surgeon believes that I should have that back within about a week, and I'll believe him because it's itchy and tingly. Problem is, it's numb as well, so I can't feel when I try to scratch the itch.

All in all it was a reasonably good experience of surgery as these things go. Mostly under medication it is no worse that it used to be when the teeth were giving me gyp - it's just that they didn't all used to give me gyp at the same time.

But the best thing - the chance that they will ever give me gyp again?

... APPROXIMATELY NONE - TAKE THAT YOU STUPID TEETH!!!

Official Teeth Day

So I'm off having my wisdom teeth removed - I thought I'd schedule a post for you all - more of Grandma's letters.

I'm going to ask Mum to comment below when she knows anything. Unless she's decided to stay in Toowoomba overnight, in which case I guess she won't.


This is Aunty Judy going off to College.

She steps over the front fence of the Church.

She has her music in the bag.


The chance that you can't guess what my Aunt has been doing for a career for the last hmmmpf mumble years?

... Approximately None (particularly all the family).

Competition: A question that needs to be answered...

I just have to ask a question.

And that question is one that I'm certain many of us would like an answer to. I'll get to it in a minute.

I've heard some of my friends who have been pregnant express concern about the fact that any friends, relations, acquaintances and perfect strangers in the street feel obliged to tell their own pregnancy stories.

This means that either they:

1. Freak you out with the absolutely terrible things that happened during conception, gestation or labour. Therefore you feel you are not as worried as you ought to be, and had better get worried, terrified and panicked quick smart.

2. Make you want to hit them because the whole thing is apparently no bother, you'll have no trouble at all. It's just like sneezing, then you have a new baby (who will probably sleep the night through from the very first one) Therefore you are making too big a deal out of the whole thing, probably just playing for sympathy (whether you have life-threatening pre-eclampsia, a history of miscarriage, or some other nasty).

The underlying irritant for the one being preached to is the fact that, whether these women have had one pregnancy or a hundred and fifty, they have personally experienced all that there is to experience of conception, gestation and labour.

Do you know the difference between this phenomenon with respect to gestation and having your wisdom teeth removed?

Men can't have children.

Therefore the proportion of the population able to provide stories has increased exponentially. So I've been really getting hammered with teeth stories for the last few weeks. This Wednesday afternoon I'm scheduled to have all four wisdom teeth removed under general anaesthetic in a hospital in Toowoomba. I will be in overnight, then Mum will come and pick me up and bring me home.

So my question for you all is which is worse?:

a) Someone who tells you dreadful stories
b) Someone who thinks you're too worried, after all, HE/SHE was perfectly fine - and they had to walk 300 miles to the surgery through 3 feet of snow, had them out in the chair without anaesthetic, and then had been entered in a steak-eating competition for later that same day (probably in a town 250 miles in the other direction).
c) Someone who contributes SOMEONE ELSE'S stories "My husband's cousin-once-removed's father-in-law's sister had THIS happen..."
d) All of the above and they all should die. Horribly.

I'd love to hear your responses. But if you feel obliged to give me your teeth stories, not only have you entirely missed the point of this post, but the chances of me not deleting it are...

... Approximately None.

Why didn't I write a list?

Went for my annual inspection at the doctor’s yesterday, armed with my mental list of four things to ask about or for and then get out as quickly as possible.

I was pretty impressed to have got a 2pm appointment, because that’s first after lunch, and they’re usually on time again.

One of the problems of living in regional Queensland is that doctors don’t like to stay here. At least we have doctors (after all some towns can't keep one at all), but the strong pull of Brisbane keeps them moving through, so if you go to the doc once a year you’re unlikely to get the same one twice. And sometimes you simply hope that they speak English better than I can get my mouth around their name. The principal of the practice is great and has been here for years, but you need to book about three weeks in advance to see him.

I like yesterday’s doctor - he seemed a gentle and polite soul – but I am hoping that one comment was the sort of dumb mistake that I’d make, not that he actually meant to say what he said.

On my list of things to ask the doctor I had to check that the antibiotic that the oral surgeon uses is okay, given that there’s two families of antibiotics to which I have a demonstrated reaction. The third thing on my list was to get repeat scripts for my asthma medication.

Then I made the mistake of mentioning a forth thing (should have made a real, rather than mental list). I was going to ask about vaccinations for our family trip to Malaysia next year. I had made a mental note not to ask about my allergies, because they aren’t too bad at the moment and some doctors tend to get fixed ideas about things like allergies and I wanted to eliminate food possibilities to my satisfaction first before they start poking and prodding about.

But in the heat of the moment I couldn't remember vaccinations and all I could think of was itchy spots, and so mentioned them. And the doctor asked me if I have any problem with allergies, any asthma or hayfever?...

…Hello?... I’ve just asked you about my allergies to antibiotics and you’ve just printed out a script for asthma medication. I think I might have a few problems with allergies, don’t you?

I dutifully mentioned my recent problems with itchy eyes and blocked nose, hoping that it was just a typical example sentence that he always uses and that he did remember the asthma and antibiotic issues.

So now I have to have blood tests. Of course, that’s enough to turn me against pretty much any doctor.

Doctors just don’t understand the facts that :-

1) I really hate needles. Ever since I was tiny. I can’t even watch them on TV. I would never contemplate a tattoo. I hate them to the point that if we had kids I’d be conning either my Beloved or my Mum to take them in for injections because I wouldn’t be able to be calm enough to do it; and

2) I HAVE NO VEINS. Particularly not in winter. I don’t. I tell you this is true. On one occasion it took four different nurses at the pathologist to be confident to have a go. Another time they saw what they thought could be a vein and hit the nerve whereupon I passed out.

The other thing is that the doctor wants to check all the usual subjects (including glucose) so it has to be fasting, which means early morning. Early mornings are the coldest part of the day, resulting in even fewer discernable veins. And not having had breaky, I’m not keen on a jog around the block to try to get the blood pumping.

The other thing is I need to find a day I don’t have to do anything in the morning, and when I can con someone into driving me down (and more importantly BACK again). I tend to go into shock with blood tests, even to passing out - so I can’t trust myself to drive home.

And so the doctor just wants a blood test. The chance that I appreciate the “just” part of that?

… Approximately None.

They just don’t get it.