post something on here as I did promise James I would. Don't know why he asked me, to be honest. I have been in something of a foul mood of late, but he laid down the challenge for me to try to get his blog shut down.
Pah. Can't be bothered. I'll tell you why I can't be bothered, shall I? Because my head hurts. People are always telling me that going to the gym is bad for me (except my mother who takes it upon herself to tell me when I have put so much as an ounce of weight on) and I think they may be right. The other week I ended up banging my head on the corner of one of the big wooden locker doors and, since I can't remember much of the rest of that evening besides going to a pub and not drinking alcohol), I was informed that in all likelihood I had knocked myself out.
Things then became worse when I went a bit tardy on the tube on the way to work and ended up in hospital and to kick a girl when she's down, I passed out on Sloane Square when I was wearing my new silk dress. (It was very odd, some guy was running round without his shirt on, but thank you to all the lovely people, whoever you are, who looked after me. And especially to the kind person who gave me a goody bag from the gay pride conference they had just been to. That came in handy during the wait in A&E).
Now I am on horrible tablets that I can't drink on, have constant headaches, can't walk very far unaided and might possibly have to wait weeks to see the neurologist. And Aunty Pat thinks the NHS is in a good state? I waited so long at A&E in a hospital gown with no pillow, no water even though I was thirsty, no pain killers and no chance of seeing a doctor that eventually I discharged myself on the grounds that I would me more comfortable and a lot warmer in my own bed. A health service which is the envy of the world? I don't think so.
I haven't even been able to register with my local GP since I moved house because I don't have a utility bill with my name and address on, since I share a flat, so have to go back to old house when I want to see a doctor. All in all, I am a little bit pissed off. There were lots of terrible things about living in Brussels, like foreign gentlemen of a darker hue regularly trying to drag me into their cars, but their health service was good. I had employee based health insurance and a doctor who I could call up and make an appointment in advance for. I could call up a specialist and make an appointment without having to be referred by my GP and thus save myself weeks of waiting and pain, and, of course, uncertainty.
I am off to Brussels tomorrow even though I am sick and if I do have another funny turn, it may be a blessing in disguise as perhaps I might be able to find out what the bloody hell is wrong with me.
I wish people didn't think a national health service was so good, because quite frankly when you're sick in this country, the waiting around and general hassle of everything makes me a lot sicker than I was to start with.
I'm off to have another sleep now, and if that bloody ice cream van drives past one again, he's getting a corneto up his fundament. Complete with chocolate flake.