There’s a very fine line between getting arrested and not getting arrested when you speak to a strange woman on the phone and describe your genitalia, and its problems, to her. That fine line depends on whether she is a doctor or not. And even then you would be wise to ring during working hours. At 3am, for instance, it is less acceptable.

Even then I came off the phone wondering if I should have been quite as informative, as we had never been properly introduced.

Yes, I rang the surgery this morning. At 8am I was Number 17 in the queue. It seems they have started opening at 7.30. I’d have tried earlier if I’d known. I was in the queue for 20 minutes and got through to a receptionist, who informed me that there were no more appointments available today. However, she did say, after listening to my story, that she would arrange for a phone appointment later that morning. So I went back to bed. A week of disturbed sleep had left me exhausted. Last night, for instance, I was up more than once an hour as my bladder sprang into action on a regular basis. I say “action” as it’s part of the expression. In truth there was just about enough action to stop me exploding but not enough to empty properly.

The doctor rang at 11ish and proved to be a very good doctor. She listened to the full story and quickly grasped the essentials (no that wasn’t meant to be a double entendre but I’ll leave it there as it seems too good to lose). I have another week off work as it is impractical to work in  a shop whilst having dodgy bladder control, so I no longer feel guilty about being absent. I also have a referral to Urology, albeit with a note about ringing them if I haven’t heard from them by 22nd December.

To be fair, two months is pretty good compared to some of the old waiting lists we used to have.

In the 1920s, before the NHS, one of my Uncles was born with learning difficulties. The doctor’s bill for his early care was equivalent of two year’s wages for my grandfather. This, was the Land Fit for Heroes that Lloyd George had promised. Despite this start my uncle grew up to be a man much admired in the local community for his great good humour and work ethic.

My mother, in the late 1960s, (the Golden Years, if you listen to people going on about the Good Old Days) came close to death as she waited patiently for an operation on  a goitre. It seems it had grown so large that it could have suffocated her in her sleep. This was, apparently her fault, though how she was supposed to know was never explained.

I’m obviously not happy about fifteen hours spent waiting in A&E, but compared to previous generations I’m not doing so bad.

It’s birds again today. Birds are calming, though they illustrate another fine line. I typed “tits” into the search box. I once got into serious trouble with Julia about doing that until I showed her the pictures. You would think they would either Americanise it, as with so many things, to chickadee or go back to titmouse, which was what they were called prior to the Great War.