Day seven of my latest adventure into the realms of ill health. The general theme here is boredom. And trying not to fabricate something grave and serious out of my quirky little mix of symptoms. Still, after much hesitation, I have booked a telephone meeting with the immunologist. But she is not calling back. Is this a sign? Let's get all worked up about it, shall we?
Hang on, this is only day seven, much too early.
I listen to my father's voice on the answerphone. One of his heroes, a sharp and much admired political commentator, actor and writer died last night. Of course, my father would not speak about this, death is never mentioned. Instead, he informs me of his various plans, a dinner with so-and-so and a concert tonight. I roughly calculate that this means he'll be driving for two hours home in the dark close to midnight. I check the forecast, yes, snow. He thinks he is invincible, in his big shiny car with all its multiple front and side impact airbags and whatnot steering. With his one blind eye, deaf ears and his walking sticks safely stored in the boot. Of course, no mobile phone. He thinks he has the lucky gene of longevity and endless health. The thing is, my brother tells me, that he'll probably take someone with him when he crashes. Could be a bus full of people.
I stop the answerphone but I don't delete the message. Not until I speak to him in person again. Just in case.