I am one of the worst adults in the world, as evidenced by my recent (a couple of hours ago) decision to register with a GP in the area.
Now that’s a consummately adult thing to do, don’t get me wrong. I’d go as far as to call it ‘grown up’, except I’m not eight years old so I don’t actually say ‘grown up’. The decision to register with a local doctor so I can make him or her pretend to give a shit about my pathetic, unimportant problems is something no self respecting Big People should do without.
But I’ve lived here for two and a half years, and I’m only just registering. I have also never registered with any other doctor at any other time in my life, aside from the obligatory uni registration which I only did because I wanted those two doctors to shove their fingers up my arse.
Too much information? Nah.
Alas, it has come to be that I think I’m going to have another utterly brutal headache during the night. The warning signs have been and gone and, if it’s the condition the internet tells me it is (“explosive head-cancer-AIDS syndrome”, or something) it will roll around at the same time it has struck two times before – about 3am or so.
Yes, I am being a bore and talking about something that isn’t interesting to anyone other than me and my future GP, but it’s just something playing on my mind right now.
I mean, what if I embarrass myself in the doctor’s? What if they ask me for my previous GP’s name, address or anything else and then kick me to the curb when I say “I have no idea about any of these things, I used to go just so I had someone to talk to”, even if it is a lie?
Maybe I’ll just pretend to be an immigrant, then I’ll get all the healthcare and benefits and jobs and houses and anybody who had even so much as a pang of genuine agreement with this sentence towards the beginning can kindly piss off from my readership now, thanks.
How I’ve swung this to be a Grauniad-themed ending I do not know. Night, y’all. I’m sure I’ll be whining if the mega-headache does indeed roll through town.