Fuck a fucking firetruck. Gotta wait until next week for the doctor to tell me I'm still ticking over. Bastards.
Went back just now to have the heart monitor thingy peeled off. When they bung it on they make you strip to the waist and cover you with round flat sticky things, attach them to wires then hang a little box round your neck. Sleeping with that lot on is okay as long as you lay on your back like a starfish and don't move for eight hours.
Taking it off again is just a matter of them peering intently at the box for a while and making notes then peeling off the round sticky things and telling you to go away. I was all set to trot straight round to the doc with the printout.
"That'll be ready next week some time," say them, breezily.
Nervously, "Your doctor will let you know when he wants to see you."
I considered laying one of Inexplicable Device's General Hexes on them but if they broke out in boils before I was out the door they might bung my printout at the back of the queue.
So here I am with a week to wait and no booze in the house. Must remedy.
No proper walk today (wasn't allowed) but snapped one pleasant fifties place in Dwyer Avenue, just round the corner from the hospital. It's a warm day. 28 Celcuis (83 F) blue sky and only the slightest breeze. A taste of summer.