Weighty Issues

Popped back to my GP this morning for a follow-up visit on my little stomach/throat problem. Since the course of medication completed on Friday, I've been ending the days feeling hints of acid in my throat but, thankfully, nothing serious so far, and it's back to normal by the following morning.

I related this to my GP for the day - who had introduced herself as some kind of Registrar (which sounded terribly impressive, though I have no real clue what it meant) and was very heavily pregnant - and, after reading the notes from my previous visit, she asked if I'd gained or lost weight during the last month. I had to admit I had no idea - my scales decided to stop working recently - so she asked me to take off my shoes and weigh myself on her conveniently located scales. I had estimated my weight, based in my last known measurement, as somewhere in the region of 11st 3lbs. Her scales read in kilograms, and apparently I'm about 75 of them. One quick web-based conversion from Metric to Imperial, and she announced "Yes, that's right, eleven stone three pounds... Oh, hang on... no... eleven stone eleven point three."

"Eek," was my strangled response.

So somehow I've gained about half a stone, though there's no visible sign of this extra weight. Thankfully.

That said, I ain't going to be buying any more skinny-fit shirts anytime soon, just to be safe.

After a quick probing of my belly, just below my ribcage ("No pain?") she printed me out a prescription for a helicobacter breath test, to be cashed in after no less than two weeks (to ensure there's no lingering traces of the medication, which would interfere with the test) if symptoms return... Meaning the next stage is checking to see if I do have an ulcer.

This really is just like an episode of House, but spread out over several months, rather than conveniently trimmed and accelerated to last no more than an hour (including ad breaks).

I headed straight into work, for a day that was mostly quite dull... but for the inane and increasingly stupid banter from the Property team behind me (in particular, their blustering, blundering, giggling new recruit, who reminds me far too much of someone I have no desire to recall), and the inadvisable and increasingly random position requests on some of the ads booked to my Friday magazine.

Oh, and the silly bint who had no idea what she was booking into the magazine when she cold-called a car insurance provider: "I don't know what insurance is... I have a boyfriend for that... He's old... He's, like, thirty... He takes care of me" - sorry, sunshine, but if he deals with all your real-life stuff for you, he's not 'taking care of you', he's keeping you as one would keep a pet. And, speaking as a 36 year old, whose boss is a very girlish 52, 30 ain't old (unless you work in porn, where any woman over the age of 25 can be described as a 'Cougar' whenever it suits the Director).

She just had to rub salt in the wound, by saying "My dad's only 41... You could be my dad!"

Making light of the remark, temporarily, my boss reminded me "You've always wanted kids". "Yeah," I spat, "That's one rumour I'm gonna deny."

I'm guessing she's either late teens or early 20s... and if her father is that young now, it explains a whole hell of a lot about her. As my boss put it so succinctly, "That one only opens her mouth to put her foot in it."

Caught up on The Event this evening... it's still holding my interest for the moment, but I do wish it'd hurry up and get to the point. Mildly sinister aliens who clearly have an agenda that they do not wish to discuss... but is it malevolent? The reimagining of V suffers similarly, even though it appears on the surface to be progressing more rapidly, and we already know the Visitors ain't here for our benefit... After casually mentioning "The Bliss" last week, we were treated this week to a demonstration: Morena Baccarin decending into some kind of milky bath (nakedness implied), telepathically spouting meaningless rubbish to Visitors around the globe (one, apparently, a Tibetan monk) about how all they need is her.

I can't say I'd refuse naked Morena Baccarin... But I digress...

Hmm... naked Morena Baccarin...

Ahem.

Ending for tonight on a random note, one of our advertisers recently misquoted Mr William Butler Yeats, with the line "maybe the marriage bed brings despair, for each imagined image brings and finds another image there" (the actual line, from Solomon and the Witch can be found on the Wandering Minstrels blog if you're interested)... but I feel he missed the point of the line... it's not our self-image that gets broken down in the bride-bed, it's our illusions about our 'loved one'. We silly humans have a tendency to see only what we want to see in those we feel attracted to but, eventually, those illusions will be dashed on the unsympathetic rocks of reality.

At least, that has been my experience... Both directly (all too frequently, I find I like people more before I get to know them) and indirectly (far too many people never bothered to find the real me beyond their fantasy, or what little they saw of me based on such bizarre things as my dress sense... and those that did frequently tried to deny or ignore it, because their version of me was better... even though it really wasn't).

Honestly, for creatures who so deeply crave true companionship, we have developed such complex ways to prevent it ever happening.