… the phrase ‘that’s a lovely view of the bowel there as this lady is so slim’ is not one of the classics to be treasured all one’s life but I will take what I can get these days. I was in Bigtown Hospital being used as target practice by a trainee sonographer as they hunted down my on-again off-again Brompton-induced* paraumbilical hernia. I didn’t get to see the lovely view of my bowel, but I did get to see the (tiny) hernia although, unlike babies, you don’t get a photo to take home and post on Facebook for all to see, as I’m sure you’re all delighted to hear. I will now wait for the diagnosis to grind back through the system and turn into an appointment with a man (or woman) with a knife, assuming they think a minor case of Brompton belly (as I am now officially renaming my complaint) is worth repairing. It’s all go on the minor injuries front here, I tell you.
Meanwhile, I’m not the only one on the waiting list – with the arrival (until today anyway) of the big yellow thing in the sky, cycling has become so popular in Bigtown that you can’t get a bike serviced for love nor money until ooh, I could fit you in back of next week at the earliest. This is awkward as we’re off for a jaunt to the Netherlands this weekend and my bike’s gear changes had become decidedly random, while its brakes were heading towards the ‘advisory only’ category. In the end I managed to guilt trip my second favourite bike shop owner into at least replacing the rear brake pads while I was in my yoga class (he’s right next door to the studio). As I came out feeling all bendy and relaxed (and well-rested – does anyone else just nod off during naptime, sorry the meditation session, at the end?) I went round to see how the patient was doing. ‘Your gear changes were shocking,’ he said. ‘I’ve put in a new gear cable as well and at least it’s indexing properly again.’ He then charged me a massive ten quid. Which is almost as good a deal as the NHS.
* The surgeon pooh-poohed my suggestion that it was caused by me attempting to lift the Brompton up one flight of stairs too many, but this is only because he’s never carried a Brompton up to a third floor Edinburgh tenement about a million times in a weekend.