I get to see Breakfast Television, which only reinforces for me the reasons that I don’t watch breakfast television.
The subsidence of the pain and the welling of the fatigue coincide to such and extent that I could get to sleep if I wanted. But I have to stay awake now in order to get to the doctors’ surgery. Chiz.
Eventually 9:00 rolls around and I stroll down to the surgery to see if I can get in. I’m told to come back at 10:30, so I come home, lie on the sofa and hope that I don’t wake up at 2:00pm.
But I do manage to get myself back there at the appointed time. The doctor concurs with my notion that I ought, by rights, to be at the dentist, but hearing my sob story prescribes the anti-biotics and some pain-killers. After a chat regarding my ongoing unwellness, she arranges a blood test for tomorrow. This will be assessed after Guitar Craft, when I will find out whether my body can match the fantastic notions my hypochondria is proposing.
Thence to the chemist to pick up the drugs. Then home. One drug must be taken with food, the other must not under any circumstances. I can see that this might become complicated.
Demiconsciousness, that I manage to drag out until 11:00, throwing in listening to a Radio 2 programme about Prince (it’s easy to forget how amazing Prince is, isn’t it…)
Somewhere in there I find my passport. I’d been worrying about that…