A day of different dickwads

Today has been a festering shit of steamy turd-based arseholery.

I know that sentence makes no sense, but I was trying to express my frustration and anger without using the words f*** or c***.

Sometimes, unfortunately, there just aren’t enough swearwords in existence to allow you to say how you feel.

But you know what? I’m going to leave all that there and make myself change the subject. The world is a wonderful place, and it’s full of beautiful people, and I don’t need to drag myself down by climbing in a pool with the gittiest.

 

So let me tell you instead that I have spoken to our delightful GP, and feel better for it. He allayed my fears about the needs for invasive investigations while convincing me I need to be careful, and I now feel prepared without being patronised, and wary without being worried.

Most of the conversation was about my least favourite word of all time “stress”. He pointed out that many symptoms of digestive problems surface during times of emotional upheaval or a heavy workload. Once I told him I had been working throughout the lockdown, coping with constantly changing parameters and dealing with a daily altering workforce, he smiled (it was a video call consultation) and suggested we may have found the root of the issue. I found it confusing that I had no real problems during the months of March to July, and that I had recently had a very relaxing week off, but he said that was an indicator that we were on the right track, not a point of confusion. Often, said he, you don’t realise how strung out you are until you have a break, and the fact that this has all kicked off since my return to my role is almost certainly a big clue.

So, we talked a bit about finding ways to switch off, and it may be that smashing the hell out of a drumkit twice a week might not be as beneficial as a quiet walk in the country or some yoga. I agreed to keep a food diary, and a sleep diary and a diary of my bowel movements (yummy!) and we’re speaking again next week.

And the strange thing is, my appetite has come back this evening, and the good thing is that Philippa has stopped looking at me like I might be terminally ill.

RC 20-8-20