“Right. I see.” I speak slowly into the telephone, trying to collect my thoughts.
I have been foolish in telephoning the surgery rather than making a proper appointment. It means that I have not prepared myself at all for unexpected news. “So that’s it, then?” I ask.
A while back, I wrote of my suspicions that I might have the onset of coeliac disease – a sort of chronic allergy to wheat – due to the fact that in the past couple of months I have been unable to drink more than three pints of beer without getting overly drunk, feeling very sick, and wanting to go home to sit down quietly. I’d been given the heads-up as to the possibility from a friend, who has a family member with the condition, and wrote about it in a jocular sense, as is my wont. Anyway, I’d popped off to see the Doctor, and we had joked about me rather having a serious illness than wanting to be considered a wuss.
“Right. Ok,” I reply. “So what do I do now then?”
“Well, nothing really.”
I replace the receiver and give a long, long sigh. I am a bit shaken by events. Then I pick up my phone to send a message.
“I am just a wuss,” I text.