Julia was stung by a wasp on Tuesday and her leg gradually started to swell, turn red and feel hot.
It became worse overnight and was quite painful when she woke up. So she woke me up to tell me.
I wasn’t, to be honest, as sympathetic as I would have been if she’d waited a bit.
She ignored my advice about going to see the doctor so we went off to explore the breakfast deal at Harvester instead. I dropped her off, did a few errands then went home to find her in even worse shape, so, despite her protests, I made her go to the supermarket for advice from the pharmacy.
They told her to see a doctor.
Impressively, she rang at 2 pm and was given an appointment for 4.10. I rang for one this morning, needing to get my painful hand seen to, but it seems not to be a priority and my appointment is for 8 am next Wednesday.
Next time they ask me why I want an appointment I may invent a life-threatening condition. If I’d told them my chest was playing up I’d have been in before lunch. But tell them you have a hand X-Ray to discuss, and despite the pain being too bad for you to pack parcels or tuck your shirt into your trousers, they don’t seem bothered.
She came out with a prescription for antibiotics, because the sting has turned into an infection. They also recommended drawing along the line of the infection to check it isn’t growing worse. That was fun, as the only suitable pen we could find was a green highlighter, which didn’t improve the look of things.
The moral of this story, if there is one, is avoid wasps, do what your husband says and exaggerate when speaking to receptionists.