Seven weeks on from my negative cancer test, and I'm ill again. The Big C is well and truly back. Fortunately though, in my case C only stands for Chronic Pain. And it's not actually that chronic. To be honest, I'm fine most of the time.
But that hasn't stopped me making a doctor's appointment for this afternoon. I love the healthcare system we have nowadays whereby you have to battle a hundred other people to get through on a single phone line at 8:30am to bag one of the day's appointments. It's like entering the Deal Or No Deal phone-in competition. I made it through at 9:15am, only to be told that all my doctor's appointments for the day had been taken. I asked to book one tomorrow instead, and was cheerfully informed that I can...
... by simply phoning back at 8:30am tomorrow morning.
So instead I've accepted an appointment this afternoon with a Dr Learner. He's new. Obviously.
It's a shame, because my usual GP, Dr Dirmikis, looks like this, and if I'm going to be told that I'm dying from a hideous disease, I'd like it to be done by someone who looks like they've just come in from a hockey match on the school playing field. It softens the blow somewhat. But I'm sure Dr L Plates will be very nice too.
In other news, following my front page exclusive in the last issue of The Kemptown Rag, I'm pleased to say that the reviews are now in. I've had two lengthy e-mails from readers, and I have to admit the verdict's not entirely positive, but I'm sure it's just constructive criticism. Here are the salient points from just one of the e-mails:
"bitchy... negative, ill-informed and misleading... disgraceful, deeply unfair and totally unnecessary... act so irresponsibly... incorrect... hugely unfair... glaringly apparent naivety... negative and personal... I'm so angry... such a shoddy publication".
Believe it or not, all of those comments refer to just four sentences of this article.
It doesn't pay to cross John Craven.