I was sitting in my kitchen, yesterday morning, in pre-work mode. Cup of tea, the morning paper open, just about to unveil the daily banana (what I call ‘cooking breakfast’) and I thought I’d check my emails. My morning check to see how much Groupon love me. And with Black Friday coming up, they love me lots. Thus I was in delete mode when a message caught my eye. ‘Appointment reminder’, it said. Ooooh. I wasn’t aware of any upcoming appointments, but there again, I live in a state of total oblivion and unawareness of the world going on around me. I clicked it. “Your appointment for the check up on your shoulder is on 23/11 at 9.20”. Oh, so that’s… TODAYYYY!!!! And as the time was 8.40… that’s… 40 minutes. In the West End. And I’m in the wet and windy north-west of London, eating a fucking banana.

One short car ride, a tube journey and a 10 minute walk in the pouring rain, and I calmly (yeah, right) walked through the door of the hospital at 9.19:57. Though not so much a ‘hospital’ as a clinic, but I don’t like that word because it invokes thoughts of STDs and syringed ears and other horrible, sterile, bleach-smelling, ultra-utilitarian industrial paintwork and metal folding chairs. And this is not like that. This is a HOSPITAL (clinic) that was only completed last year and its like an upmarket hotel. Full of helpful staff smiling and beautiful furniture and automatic doors and integrated TVs everywhere and fabulous design and computers operated by other computers, such is the level of high techiness in this place.

But they can’t work out that sending a ‘reminder’ ain’t no fucking use if its sent just minutes before the appointment time. Tossers. High tech, upmarket tossers. Like ‘yesterday’ wouldn’t be a better option?

However, the purpose of my visit was for a 9 month check on ‘the shoulder’. And my shoulder man moved to this hospital mid-way through my time with him. It’s him I want to see. Because I love him dearly. Like a father. A son. The step-sister I never had. Whatever. And I don’t care where he happens to be, I’ll go there. Because he saved me. From a life without tennis. Or ever scratching my arse with my right hand again. And this is what my shoulder now looks like. This ‘selfie’ was taken yesterday, which is why my arm looks a bit older than on the one they took back in February.

And the shoulder was such an amazing and brilliant improvement to my life I’m even prepared to put up with administrative incompetence to enjoy it. (Such a princess, I’ve become). And I don’t need to see my man again. I’ve been fired. Best news ever.

Until things start wearing out…

Happy, healthy Thursday

A xxxx