Inspections

We live in interesting times, they say, and that is probably true for some outlandish value of ‘interesting’.

A number of people have indicated their desire to inspect me to ascertain that I am indeed as ill as I claim to be. Thus, I saw my employers’ tame doctor the other day. This involves a 50 minute drive, a 5 minute visit to confirm my condition (that’s 1 minute for Doc to say ‘how are you’ and me to say ‘poor’ and him to say ‘yes, I can see that’, and then 4 minutes to work my way out of the visitors’ chair), and a 50 minute drive home. On the up side, I still don’t feel safe to drive, so this translates into two 49 minute naps for me and a waste of time for Marie.

Coming up soon is a similar visit to my new boss, which I expect to be an almost exact rerun of the work doc visits. Oh well, it gets me out of the house. Seriously, though, work has a legal obligation to do their bestest to rehabilitate me into some form of gainful activity, so maybe New Boss wants to chat about that. I don’t see much scope at the moment, but live in hope.

Interesting event of the week: New Boss is of course much to grand to make his own appointments, so a lady minion rang me. After arranging a time, she was kind enough to express the wish that I ‘get well soon’. Oh yes right – they just discovered PD isn’t incurable and degenerative after all, didn’t they? Actually, this ‘get well soon’ is particularly funny coming from a woman I happen to know is confined to a wheelchair. The power of social convention is surpassing strong!