First of all I had a doctor's appointment, made last week, pre-cancer (well, pre-my knowing about it, anyway), originally with the aim of finding out what was going on. As it turned out, I got to tell her what was going on, and in return she got to fill me out a medical certificate. Fair exchange, I guess. What she wasn't able to do was give me any practical advice on financial help or support groups which, in an ideal world, you'd think would be the sort of thing a medical practice would know about. She did, however, confirm that the company can't make me redundant while I'm off sick - although I bet that won't stop them trying.
Then I walked into Bicester, a proud achievement in itself, went into the NatWest bank, and cancelled just about every direct debit and standing order in sight. I feel especially guilty about the Cats Protection League and the WWF, but hey. When I get better, I'll send them some extra, okay?
I walked back home from Bicester, too, an even prouder achievement. Of course, by the time I got home I was fit for nothing but to crawl into bed, but what else is new?
In non-cancer news, I watched the film version of The Little White Horse that I had for my birthday. It wasn't utterly horrible, although it departed from the text in any number of directions and seldom for the better, but I think I would have taken it more seriously if the Black Men hadn't all been wearing guyliner. On the upside, Tim Curry was not riding around with a big, black cock on his shoulder ...
Surely there must've been someone in the wardrobe department who could've designed a riding habit, though? And I do hope that the black lion was CGI. I've never stopped being angry at The Beastmaster for painting a tiger black (the question 'how?!' also springs to mind), as a result of which the poor creature died.
A charity bag which has just come through the door appears to tell me that 'one in three people die'. I like those odds, but feel they may be being just a trifle optimistic.
