Wednesday, 15 April 2015

Iron Man

My GP (who, it turns out, was also the keyboardist in a band I used to play in and now is a dab hand at the ukulele) called me the other day to ask if I had been feeling tired recently, as she'd noticed a dip in the iron content of my blood and didn't want me to be anaemic.

To be fair, I don't really want to be anaemic either.

I told her that I have been feeling tired, because that's true - I have.

I didn't tell her that I'm so far overdrawn that I can't pay the £5 monthly 'phone bill and therefore don't have a working 'phone. I didn't tell her that I occasionally have so much back pain that I have to lie down in a massive contrast to the job I'm supposed to be doing in which I stand up for long periods of time. I didn't tell her that I've had moments of frustrated despair over the past week where I've curled up into the foetal position and rocked backwards and forwards because there isn't anything else to do, or that I've started praying at random moments as opposed to just on Sundays, or that I feel like I'm falling into darkness, like Dynamo but without the cards.

I didn't tell her any of that stuff and I'm certainly not going to tell her about what happened to me at work this morning because I fear she may explode at exactly how incompetent people can be.

And I especially, specifically did not tell her that my sex drive has come in fits and starts and sometimes it's not there and sometimes it's all there and that I would really like a shag.

But I told her that I was, indeed, feeling tired. And I let her prescribe me ferrous fumarate to raise the iron in my blood.

Because why not?

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