… plot! And one place that would be first in line to be on the end of the Guy Fawkes treatment, if I were well enough to do so, would be the dialysis centre, because we have had yet another run-in there today and having to fight with the personnel almost every session is not doing me any good at all. In fact, it’s getting completely on my wick.
It might have been better had I had an early night, but once again, things dragged on so long here that I heard the immersion heater switch on at 01:00 as I was leaving the bathroom, ready for bed. That was when I checked the time, and as it was far too early to raise myself from my stinking pit, I went back to sleep again.
When the alarm went off this time, it was the real one, so I sat up straight on the edge of the bed. After the second alarm rang, I tried to summon up the enthusiasm and motivation to leave the side of my bed and stand up, but once I was ready, I found to my dismay that I didn’t have the force. I had to adopt all kinds of silly manoeuvres to enable me to leave the bed.
After I’d unlocked the front door, I went into the bathroom to organise myself for the day, and I remembered this time to have a shave in case Emilie the Cute Consultant is there this afternoon. When I’d finished in the bathroom, I came back in here to listen to the dictaphone to find out where I’d been during the night.
As you can tell by the content of this dream, it’s no surprise at all that I fell asleep in the middle of it. It’s another one of these really confusing dreams where a literal transcription of the content means nothing at all. And as if I don’t have enough of those already.
As regular readers of this rubbish will recall, I’m quite at home driving around Eastern Europe, even when the Communist Party was on power, but I don’t know why it’s suddenly been transferred to this neck of the woods right now.
Isabelle the Nurse turned up, nicely on time. And before I let her loose on my legs and feet, I asked her if she would look at my right foot. It’s all gone a shiny shade of red, it’s hot, it’s swollen, and at the base of one of my toes, it’s weeping, and it’s agonising. She had a good look, cleaned it up with some disinfectant and wrapped it up.
She recommended that I let one of the doctors at Avranches have a good look at it. Naturally, I’ll do that, especially if it’s Emilie the Cute Consultant who is en garde – “on the alert” – this afternoon.
After she left, I made my breakfast and read some more of THE REPORT OF THE WOOLHOPE NATURALISTS CLUB 1867.
Today, we were discussing the trees of the area, and I, as well as the members of the club’s committee, were led off astray by an article about the chapel of the Knights Templars of Hereford. They were knights charged with the protection of the road from the Palestine coast to Jerusalem, and as a result, they became rich, even richer than the kings themselves. So as a result, the King of France and some of his fellow monarchs set out to eliminate the order at the start of the fourteenth century. Several Templars were burnt at the stake, but the treasure fleet of the French chapter of the Templars disappeared, giving rise to ONE OF THE MOST FANTASTIC STORIES that you will have heard for ages.
But right now, the effects of dialysis and a bad night have caught up with me, so I’m going to bed before I fall asleep and waste yet more hours. I’ll finish my notes in the morning.
TO BE CONTINUED
