It's true to say that I hate hospital appointments! The long drive to Manchester and at this particular time of year is bound to be fraught with seasonal shoppers and crazy office party folk. I know I'm beginning to sound an awful lot like Scrooge and believe me I'm far from that Dickensian character, but I sometimes know where he was coming from.
All ready. I've made the fire, fed the goats and done the washing and it's only 7.30 in the morning! I never got as far as the gable when Max the billy goat, clapped eyes on the bucket. He was straight over, up on hind legs and in before I could move any further. I let the bucket go for fear of yet another bruise which would have looked grand upon my impending inspection later this morning -- how I'm going to explain the others is beyond me. How can I tell my doctor that the goats did it?
I have a list as long as my arm which doesn't include my hurdling over fences, grappling with runaway goats. I'm going to be sat spilling the beans on my condition, all the time thinking it's my own fault that my Raynaud's has got so bad and my arthritis is playing up, not to mention the weight loss? I don't think farmyard Olympics has helped my condition and I'm not about to mention my antics.
As the dawn breaks, I'm contemplating my journey and the day ahead! What shall I wear for instance? A jumper which is too tight round the arms will simply not do since the appointment will require blood work and I don't fancy sitting there half naked just for a blood test which will take about 4 hours to get in any case. I simply refuse to take my rucksack with me although she will ask why I'm not using my feeding tube. It's just too much baggage when driving and another thing to worry about all day and yes, it will be all day!
So I must be on my merry way! I still have much to do -- so little time! Oh how I hate hospital appointments!