Crabby

Oh I'm a moany old git today. I had an appointment at the Royal Brompton Hospital this afternoon, the result of reaching near breaking point a while ago. (See - A Series Of Unfortunate Events) The good Dr Toosy wisely decided to have my current medical situation assessed by the mighty minds of the Brompton and (early next year) some one at Kings. So, today, Polly, Matty (off school with what Sam had last week) and I ground our way through the London traffic, waving at snails as they whizzed by, to Kensington. Parking in the area around the hospital is virtually non-existent, with about 9 disabled parking spaces to share between both of the hospitals main buildings. We found one of the precious bays unoccupied for a nano-second and nipped in, no doubt causing some one with an iffy leg to have to pay at one of mortgage requiring 'normal' parking spaces.

On the way up Matty had been asking about our astrological birth signs. I'd given my stock response, “I'm Pyrex and your mother's Caesarean,” but Polly admitted to being Libra and told him I was Cancer.” “The crab?” “There's no one crabbier,” remarked Polly. Then warming to her theme, “he's so crabby he moves sideways.” The reason Matty was asking about this nonsense was not because we were encouraging his enquiring mind to explore new age mysticism but because it had been mentioned on The Sarah Jane Adventures, a spin-off of Matty's beloved Dr Who.

Anyway. . .

We waited on Lind, a corridor on the top floor, for a doctor to see us. The clinic is always busy, full of people who for the most part make me look like an Olympic athlete. (Mind you, they probably look at me and wouldn't fancy my chances in the 110 metres hurdles.) Eventually, after blood had been taken from my ear-lobe and tested for various gasses, we got to see Consultant Dr Michael Polkey, who is, as all the staff are, very nice. Apparently my blood gasses are fine. . . and that's it really. There is not a lot more they can do. They did, very kindly, offer to take me in for the odd weekend if I need a break. And he was very sympathetic and supportive, prepared to write as many letters as we need writing to any one who we think might be able to help. The trouble is, I can't think of anyone for him to write to. Does anyone know the address of good stem-cell researcher?

The journey home made the journey there feel like Lewis Hamilton's qualifying lap at Monte Carlo. Tortoises and three-toed sloth rush passed us as we crawled home to pick up Sam from where he was being looked after. So, there goes another afternoon of my life I won't get back. Bah humbug.