I've had a few in my time... coughs are obviously very irritating; teenage spots are unavoidably embarrassing (although these days I tend to view the occasional blemish as a sign of youth - despressing ain't it) and experiencing explosive tummy problems in the cubicle adjoining that of my best friend is an episode I have simply blocked from my memory.
While my latest illness isn't mortifying on a major scale, it is slowly driving me mad. I have cystitis. And it's not going anywhere. I actually thought I'd managed to shift it at the weekend, so promptly went out and drank a vat of white wine in celebration. And now it's getting its revenge. I am under strict instructions from all my girlfriends to drink water at record levels (under usual circumstances I average half a litre a day. Today I think I've had about nine) which is supposed to flush it out. But in all honesty I'm getting rather fed up with weeing what feels like vinegar every 20 minutes. It just hurts, okay? Poor MC isn't having much fun either, as a direct result of all this. I bought him a naughty advent calendar on saturday to cheer him up but eating chocolates in the shape of various sexual positions isn't the same is it?
So tomorrow morning, I shall be at my doctors' surgery at the twilight hour of 8am in the hope of securing 2 seconds of time with somebody capable of writing me a prescription for antibiotics. Because of course it would be far too simple for me to do that old fashioned thing of agreeing a particular time in advance to see my GP. I love the NHS. It's the last bastion of bureaucracy at its most farcical, with the possible exception of another organization that's dear to my heart - the one that pays the rent.