Friday, 9 January 2009
I've been having blood tests lately, since the results of a medical exam suggested I might be diabetic. I called today for the results of the latest one, and the receptionist said 'Dr Crippen's looked at the result and it is normal, he's marked it 'no action', none need therefore be taken, that will be all, and I bid you good day.'
So that's OK, then. I was hugely relieved, to be sure, but most unexpectedly I detected, in the primitive outback of my brain, the merest glimmer of a sliver of a soupçon of anti-climax. Disappointment, God bless and save us! Go figure. I had had none of the classic symptoms of unquenchable thirst and endless peeing. I'm not obese - I'm not even overweight. I had nevertheless pretty much resigned myself to being mildly diabetic, deriving comfort all along from such thoughts as, well, it might not be so bad, at all, at all - I'll have to cut down on the red wine, and that'll save money, and won't that be nice, drinking less and putting a bit more aside, being sensible and moderate for a change, eh?
Now there's no pressing need to do that, so in a couple of hours I'm off up to the Tobie Norris with a friend for a few glasses of Merlot, to re-accustom myself to the idea that I won't be giving it up any time soon after all.