I have spent much of my day providing a catering facility for Oliver and the young gentlemen who have joined him in the quest to rid the cyber-universe of the undead.
Harry stayed overnight last night, and after they had been up for a little while this morning, Actual Head Boy arrived as well. This was lovely, I like both of them very much. They are unfailingly courteous and charming, and Oliver is happy and cheery whilst they are here.
They ate pizza and yoghurt and sausages and potato cakes and strawberries and kiwi fruit and croissants and bananas, and that list does not include the infinite quantities of tuck consumed from the tuck drawer, which opened and closed like a barn door in a hurricane.
I am going to go to Asda tomorrow.
Harry had to go home in the end, and Oliver and Actual Head Boy went to the cinema, to see the latest instalment of How To Train Your Dragon.
I left Mark in charge for this bit. I had an appointment at the hospital to discuss my surprisingly high levels of cholesterol.
I was not looking forward to this. It did not promise adventure or sophistication. In fact it promised exactly what it turned out to be, which was a lengthy wait in a plastic chair with annoying music playing in the background.
In fact I did not find this especially troubling, apart from the annoying music. Eventually I prevailed upon a nurse to turn this down anyway, having explained, crossly, that it was disturbing my book. The peace and quiet was entirely welcome after this point, along with the absolution from all domestic duties for a while.
My appointment was for half past five, but misfortunately the doctor had forgotten that he was supposed to be in Kendal, and when the nurse eventually rang him at a quarter past six, he was discovered to be still in Lancaster, where he was in the middle of a ward round.
I have every sympathy for this type of misfortunate forgetting, regular readers will recall that I have been known to turn up at school for children on the wrong day. Indeed, it turned out to be entirely civilised. There were two of us waiting, and the nurse explained that the doctor would very likely be there in an hour or so. She went away to ring everybody else who was supposed to be coming to see the doctor, to warn them not to bother, and made a cup of coffee for the two of us who were already in situ.
All in all this seemed to me to be a reasonably pleasant way to spend a couple of hours. I had an intriguing book, about identifying psychopaths, and some NHS coffee, and the nurse assured me that the car park attendant had gone home and I need not worry about overstaying my welcome.
I had just about decided that I might very possibly qualify as a psychopath when the doctor turned up, travel weary and desperate for coffee and biscuits, which the nurse rushed off to find for him.
Once he had been suitably fortified I was summoned to the presence.
He explained that he thinks I have got something called Familial hypercholesterolaemia.
I have had to copy and paste that word from the mighty Internet, because I could neither remember it nor spell it.
This is the dullest of diseases. It is not cured or greatly helped by exercise or a decent diet, although those were recommended, obviously, because doctors are not allowed to let you out of their surgery until you have lied about how much you drink.
I have got to take the tablets for all the rest of my life. That is a bit more than eight quid a month, which is a hundred pounds a year. If I live to be a hundred, then familial Hard To Spell Disease will cost me £4,700.
I complained that the tablets make me fat and tired, but the doctor said meaningfully that there were probably other causes for that. He changed the tablets anyway, because of conceding that some people are made fat and tired by tablets, and told me that I would have to go to the GP for some blood tests. I am not in any great hurry to do this.
He looked at my arms and legs and told me that the tendons in my heels have got thick because of Hard To Spell Disease. This is why they hurt when I run.
I was pleased to have a legitimate excuse for not running anywhere any more, it is not often that you go to the doctor and are given a decent justification for idleness.
He asked lots of questions, and wrote the answers in an utterly incomprehensible shorthand, and then told me that I would be required to turn up at these clinics at regular intervals in order for my slow progress towards a liver transplant to be properly monitored.
He didn’t say that really. He actually said: “Umm,” quite a lot, and tried not to yawn.
I thought afterwards that I might do some investigation and find out what a decent diet looks like.
I have been doing this tonight on the taxi rank.
I think ‘boring’ might be a good word for it.
Have a picture of Windermere.
