I was at work this morning – well, where else would I be on a Wednesday? – and up to my jaw-line in boxes and print-outs, when my mobile phone went off. Loudly. Embarrassingly – this is a library, for chrissakes, though at least I was in the office and not in the stacks. And it being my mobile phone, it took me what seemed like seven and a half hours to dig through the print-outs to find it, press answer, and sprint to a private corner. Because, dear readers, it was the Hospital Mother Ship, and they had a cancellation to offer me, so I can have surgery at some point before 2017.
Which meant I had to sprint back out of the private corner to find a post-it and a pen.
Oh well. So much for keeping my innards out of the public domain.
I have been offered 8am on the 12th of July – next Thursday, in fact. I asked if I could call back in an hour, which was fine, and then I tried to get hold of H, in a hopeless, box-ticking sort of way, because he was out of his office business-tripping and his mobile phone had been pretty low on battery when we left home this morning and at that point I just chortled and made rude remarks about his silly phone’s silly shape and general uselessness. And no, the battery had not miraculously refuelled itself on the train. No getting hold of H. I tried, so my conscience is clear. He will have to lump it. Then I consulted Line Manager, who was very cool with it. And then I phoned the Mother Ship again and said ‘Yes! Yes please, let me have the appointment! Yes yes yessity yes! Absolutely!’
So. The Met will have to wait. I have other fish to fry. With a laser. Heh heh heh.