Item – Yes, OK, I have a morning off work next week. I’ll take my oesophagus to the GP then. I promise. You’ve all made me even more nervous than Google did. And I mean, hell, why not have things shoved down my gullet? I’ve had pretty much everything shoved up the other end. Equality for orifices!
Item – As for the two-week-wait symptom-watch, I have nothing to add. As you were, soldiers.
Item – Oh, yes, some of you mentioned omeprazole, for hideous heart-burn. I was on that, when I did have hideous heart-burn back in 2007. Worked wonderfully, right up until my GP told me I could stop taking it. And the heart-burn came back within HOURS. In the end, what worked was tweaking my diet (less coffee (*sob*), no skipping meals as getting hungry made it so much worse, fewer curries, giving up white wine, sherry and most types of beer), losing weight (augh. But yes). I now only get heart-burn, mild, a bit sicky, during the two-week-wait, and also when I am stressed out of my mind, eating crap and drinking too much coffee (these two do not coincide. Well, the stressy bit does, but I’m eating broccoli! I’m drinking de-caff!). It’s easily squishable with over-the-counter antacids. Anyway, I had such hideous heartburn, for so long, I’m sure it did damage, but this only became a problem recently, because over the past year or so, I’ve been throwing up hard at least once a month. You know who else gets oesphageal strictures and scar-tissue? Bulimics. Hahahahahahah.
Item – And then, Super-stressy Secret Squirrelling being over, I went back to my real job this week. I had been so looking forward to the silence of an office full of people quietly minding their own business. Instead, I’ve barely taken my coat off before I get abuse bellowed at me by someone from another department because he’s screwed up his paperwork and this apparantly is my fault and I should do my bloody job properly. Except, I’d never met the man before (thank fuckitty) and have never had anything to do with his idiotic paperwork. When he’d finished shouting at me, he shouted at my boss, and shouted at my other coworkers, and now has a report filed against him for abusive behaviour in the work-place. Tosser. He owes me three doses of Bisodol.
Item – Tomorrow is Red Nose Day. For the non-Brits, this is a biennial (NOT biannual – that would mean every six months. I am embarrassed to tell you how long it took me to work out there was a difference) telethon, where many many comedians, singers, actors, celebrities, etc. give up their time to raise money for a sizeable clump of charities in Britain and Africa. It’s something of an institution for us to get home by 7pm, flick on the telly, order a pizza, and get roaring drunk while alternately laughing hysterically, sneering, and crying our eyes out at the ‘this is what we do with your money’ bits, which always involves abused children, someone’s mother very nearly dying of AIDS, a toddler really dying of malaria, and a dear old lady with no one to look after her. And then we phone in and pledge a wad of cash and go to bed at three in the morning, feeling drained and virtuous. A highly cathartic experience all round. Meanwhile, all over Britain, perfectly sane adults have been wondering round train stations with collecting buckets while dressed as penguins and singing opera.
Item – People at work were complaining that they didn’t feel they could spare much money for Comic Relief this year, because of the disasters in Japan. I made myself HUGELY unpopular by chirpily remarking I’d just gritted my teeth and coughed up double (Red Cross, thank you for asking). Yes, I know, I am a pompous self-righteous twatweasel. You may throw tomatoes.
Item – And if you have any kind or brave thoughts to spare, send them to Liz at Womb For Improvement.