My friends at the National Health Service run this fabulous little place called the Northern General….

Following what seems to officially being recognised by staff in the health profession as an “episode” on Saturday night, my GP has insisted on me getting a chest X Ray. As a now dedicated blogger I thought wouldn’t it be fun to take my iPad with me so as to have something to do whilst sitting in some of the most uncomfortable seats known to man.

It’s such a fabulous place here. In the polite press the mixture of people would be described as cosmopolitan. I have a lesbian in a white vest who looks like Dolph Lungren with a temporary red colour on his hair, an amputee who appears to be a builders mate, a drunk with cuts all over her face who keeps telling us we are all beautiful (I can accept it about me but not some of my contemporaries), two students who must only have been here since the weekend and whom I cannot believe have already come to this part of town and now two gays I recognise from Dempseys. And they say we are only 1 in 10 of the population, I ask you.

It’s so inconvenient being here. I popped to the doctors just expecting to be told it’s hypochondria and to clear off back to work, and instead I get sent for an X Ray, and that she will speak to the bed bureau about maybe stopping in. Well I will not allow that to happen. I struggled in a double bed at my nan’s on Saturday night let alone a single with a rubber mattress and a guard rail. The sleeping experience at my Nan’s was compounded by the “episode”, and the fact that Pete decided the way to compensate for the loss of space in downsizing from King Size to Double was to sleep on the diagonal. Crafty bastard, but it was to my detriment. I think what happened was that due to the fact my grandparents have not turned their central heating off since 1993, and they had put the electric blanket on in the bed we were sleeping in, I had migrated to the edge of the bed, seeking some soothing coolness. I never anticipated that I was to hover on the edge for a full eight hours.

I don’t think the Northern General or my GP know that Tuesday night is Body Pump night. Nor do I think they know it’s imperative I get home between 7pm and 8pm on a Tuesday as it’s Holby City night, so I don’t get the opportunity to watch any Ina on Food Network +1. I’m sure my boss at work will assume all this is a plot to avoid having to hang around that office longer than I need. I must admit, there are times I am climbing the wall, but it’s never seeking an afternoon in what appears to be a casting lounge for extras for Beetlejuice the Musical.

I have formulated my plan for my time spent All Alone. I capitalise this in case Pete reads it, to make him feel a bit bad about it all. He is off to his Niece’s christening in France, whilst I stay home in the UK like a puppy pining his owner. Well, not really, seeing as I have all sorts of plans. Friday night, X Ray permitting, will be Body Attack, Body Pump, a bit of treadmill then home for a quick meal of Pizza or something and then bake some coconut cupcakes. Ina made some yesterday that I think I will adapt alongside the recipe from Hummingbird Bakery. I like the idea of Almond Extract added, not least because I don’t own any and I think I want to. Again, I’m so good at spending my own money.

The baking is sustenance for the road trip to Cheshire Oaks. How excited am I about my trip to the “Oaks”. The Molton Brown. The All Saints, the Mulberry, the Kurt Geiger. And the Le Creuset. What if they have the buffet casserole in Cassis? What do I do? Am I strong enough to resist? Or is it foolish to resist? I may never be presented with the opportunity to purchase my dream in cast iron again. Well, this is the school of thought I shall seek to subscribe to on Saturday when I’m there. That is unless it’s so far from the car and I simply can’t be arsed to cart it all round the shops because it weighs a ton. I may just buy a mug. Or a whistling kettle if there is one in red. I do love a whistling kettle. My Nan has an electric one that whistles, i thought that too cute.

I never thought that blogging would save me, but I have so far been here an hour and I can truly say I don’t think I would have lasted this long without a medium to set down my inner monologue. I’m quite good with my own thoughts usually, but l have my moments sometimes. I thought I was going to throw myself off something half way through the LA Marathon, I irritated myself to such a degree. I run with my iPod plugged firmly in, music to distract me on those days where the miles lay out ahead of me challenging my endurance level like a wicked taskmaster, but on this day, this fateful day of 26.2 miles, I forgot my bloody headphones. I left them on the bed with Pete. I panicked, but then decided to just do it without, enjoy the silence. Switch off, as this American woman on the bus in told me I should. Well, I’m sorry, switching off was not an option. My mind raged. Mile 3, god Adam you’re a right knob head, you could be listening to Britney right now. Halfway point, oh yes that’s when you’d lined up Single Ladies and some Glee soundtrack. You bloody idiot. Mile 23. I hurt. Badly. And you can’t even distract yourself. Look at you, can’t even keep running. Loser. No iPod, no stamina. These are the vicious, self-loathing thoughts that ran through my head. I resorted to singing Destinys Child Survivor to myself, just to pull me through. A courageous battle, mainly with my mind. But let’s just say, I never leave it to chance now. I double, triple check that earphones never leave my side. I’m never going to be forced to hear my own, West Midlands accent interpreting r’n’b/pop again. After nearly 4 miles of it, I will never exercise without it in the future.

So far I have been X Ray’d, drained of blood, and pretty much told I’m symptomatic of nothing. I just think of the other ways I could have spent my afternoon. On, doing actual work, watching catch up episodes of the Great British Bake Off…. Doing anything I would want to do rather than sitting here behind a woman saying “I’m waiting here for my vaccination”. I immediately sat up and listened some more. “No, no. She said it sounds like classic symptoms if Rabies, although it’s not nailed on. The dog has been sent for tests.”. I immediately did that thing you do when someone gets on the bus or tram and is coughing and sneezing, holding my breath, as if breathing is a voluntary action I do out of luxury. It’s not British to be sat in an overly warm room listening to a woman bragging of her infectious disease. I knew I should have sacked this off.

Focus on dinner. Pasta, tomato and chilli sauce with pancetta. Glass of wine and an early night. I think I deserve this. The woman opposite me has two toilet rolls in her bag. What does she anticipate happening? Or what is her issue that brings her here? Im imagining an emergency ‘Code Brown’ being announced. Focus on dinner, focus on dinner. Pasta. Carbs. Sweet, filling ambrosia that is carbs. Double duty in the gym tomorrow. If I get the all clear, just treadmill it. 9 miles to victory. You can afford three meals of carbs! I must revisit sushi. Protein high lunch must come back into my daily menu planner. Today it was egg salad on granary. Loved it. Who wouldn’t? It’s like school day pack up from way back when. Anything that stops reminding me of being 30 is ok with me. However I’m getting to the stage where too many carbs will equal the physique of Eamonn Holmes if I’m not careful.

Spotted: indie type guy, all short at the sides longer on top with swipe fringe, early 20’s doing the crosswords in a Take a Break Puzzle Selection magazine. Currently doing a crossword with a photo of Carol McGiffen from Loose Women in the middle. This place is getting worse as the night creeps in. And more and more trippy. I don’t recognise anyone from when I came in. It must be how it feels when you repeat your A Levels and all your mates have gone to Uni. You have this mastery of knowledge and experience surrounded by the innocence and enthusiasm of youth.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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