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Not Actually Urgent

 Well now, yesterday I discovered that when one receives a hospital letter with the word ‘Urgent’ stamped on it, the ‘Urgent’ refers to the speed at which the letter needs to be posted out to the patient and not to the medical situation itself. And that the waiting list time for my now apparently not that urgent biopsy is 10-12 weeks from the date on the urgently sent letter. According to the cancer care nurse I swapped emails with, they aiming for an appointment somewhere in the first half of October. Apparently.

However, I AM still ‘High Priority’, whatever THAT means in a not-as-urgent-situation as I was first led to believe. I suppose I should be grateful I’m not ‘Low Priority’ because I’d probably still be sitting here this time next year grumbling about the whole hoo-ha. And the cynic in me thinks this is all about the government pretending to reduce waiting lists so they can look good: ‘Oh, she’s not actually on a waiting list. She has been urgently put on a not really urgent conveyor belt of treatment process thing. Which is definitely NOT a waiting list.’ 


Anyway, in the spirit of trying to cheer myself up, I went to the massive antiques centre and purchased a large and very heavy stone moon-gazing hare for the garden. I saw this hare a couple of weeks ago when Heather and I had a day out, and it has been on my mind ever since as something that needed to come home and live with me. Off I trotted this morning, then, with Nell riding shotgun. Cash changed hands, Nell got a freebie sausage from the dealer, and two chunky chaps wheeled the hare to my car on a sack barrow and hefted it into the boot of my car which is where it remains until Lord Malarkey comes home from work and can help me lift it out. 

I did attempt to lift it out myself, drawing on my marvellous sofa moving skills as motivation. However, the last time I shifted an extremely heavy lump of rock by myself (a gravestone - don’t ask) I slipped on the gravel of the driveway and inflicted a dose of Achilles tendonitis upon myself which, six months later, is almost but not quite fully healed. As I haven’t enjoyed the pain of the Achilles tendonitis, and as I am enjoying more pain-free days now it has almost healed, I shall not risk another Denise’s Removal Company injury. But the wheelbarrow is parked by the boot end of the car, ready to receive the hare. She will be in situ by the end of the day. 


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