Philippa is insisting I go to the doctors tomorrow. She is worried my ‘weird weakness’ is a sign of some horrible disease that is festering away in my innards and she wants me to get it checked out. I’m not particularly enamoured with the idea of having my intestinal tract visited by various specialists, so I’d like to give it a few days for my body to right itself and recover. Philippa does not see this as a good idea. She threw a list of rapidly-researched autoimmune conditions at me, citing the dangers of having an ‘underlying condition’ in these present times, where coronavirus is still active in society and the risks of an early death are enhanced by other undiagnosed problems. That was a real shame, because we’d actually gone a few days without Covid19 being mentioned, and I for one was enjoying that.
Anyway, we reached a compromise of sorts where I agreed to call the surgery for an over-the-phone consultation, and she agreed to leave the subject alone for the rest of the evening.
Now I’m just hoping to wake up feeing fine, so the whole sorry thing can be forgotten.
RC 19-8-20
2140 BST
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