To my mild surprise, there was a letter from The Professor’s clinic in the post-box on Wednesday morning. It contained an invoice for the thromboelastogram I’d had back in December. Odd, I thought. I’m sure we paid for this at the time. I showed the invoice to H, who said ‘But we paid for this at the time,’ and I said ‘That’s what I thought,’ and then H went off to check his credit-card statements and even found the receipts and yes, we did pay for it at the time. So H emailed the clinic.
I was feeling fairly mellow about this. Anyone can make a mistake. But I was also aware that there was a gigantic volcanic caldera of boiling vitriol bubbling happily away in easy reach, and if they did not reply promptly with abject grovelling, I would unleash it on them. This thought was oddly cheering. There is something wrong with me.
Today, they emailed back with abject grovelling. A mistake in their record-keeping. Of course we’d already paid that bill. Sorry, oops, etc.
Which is excellent. But what do I do with my volcanic caldera now?
Meanwhile, it’s 7dpo, and I am being tormented by nausea, heartburn, sore breasts, headache, yada yada yada. Oh, and a ferocious temper. I’m like an attack-hen set on peck.
I’m even considering peeing on sticks tomorrow morning.
No! No! This is madness!