Chronic

This is chronic. It’s Saturday night and I’m sitting at home on the internet. I am, however, wearing a nurse’s uniform and black stockings (no, really). I wasted some revision time yesterday ringing my way through D’s little black book to get the loan of a proper uniform – reasoning that if D can’t have his birthday party he can at last have me soothe his fevered brow dressed in something bracingly erotic. But he’s too wretchedly ill to really appreciate the gesture.

Instead, I’m getting myself into a state about still not having an operation date. It’s now nearly 6 weeks since my allergy test; I’ve had the report for over 4 weeks; and it’s 2 weeks since I rang my surgeon’s secretary, discovered he doesn’t have the report and sent in a copy of mine with the request that she acknowledges receipt, which she hasn’t. I’m going to ring again on Monday and I’ve been rehearsing in my head how the conversation might go but it’s making me a bit weepy. ‘Hysterical’ is never my favourite presentation of myself but it’s increasingly how I feel when I think about this.

I also feel absurd, sitting here all dressed up. I want to get a big roll of bin bags from the kitchen and stuff them full of clothes and make up and sex toys and shoes and put the whole lot out for collection, because I don’t feel like that woman any more.

I want a big, clean, white room with nothing in it that I don’t need. And I want us both to be well again.