Week 42, in which I become a human pincushion and then fly Ryanair
If this past week had a theme song, it would be a very small, very sharp ping. Needles. So many needles.
Let’s start with the baseline: four insulin shots a day, plus the weekly GLP-1 jab. That’s the everyday maintenance package. But this week, the hospital decided I wasn’t pierced enough and added a blood test, followed by a Hepatitis B booster. Then, on Thursday, came the monthly main event: a needle so enormous that the nurses gather round to admire it like it’s a prize marrow at the village show. Luckily, I have the right bum for the job. Every man should know his strengths.
With this many holes in me, I’m honestly surprised I’m not leaking when I walk. What’s left in there must be a truly remarkable cocktail, which probably explains why I’m no longer allowed to donate blood. I’d like to think the Blood Service looked at my file and simply said, “No, that’s a bit much, even for us.”
The quiet bits
Apart from the pincushion routine, it was a gentle start to the week. The days are getting cooler and I’m slowly adjusting. Plans are brewing: a night out in Nîmes before the month is over, and a pile of reservations made ahead of the London trip.
It’s also medical season, so midweek brought my yearly check-up with my new gastroenterologist. Verdict: nothing to report. In medical terms, that’s the best review you can get. Five stars, would be ignored again.
Fête du vin: a tale of unrealised enjoyment
Thursday was a lazy affair until evening, when the annual Fête du vin kicked off, with a few more stands than last year. We made it in time for the opening speeches, which were dreadful. I’ll say no more, other than that the wine could only improve things.
Friends arrived, ten of us gathered, and we enjoyed a few glasses. And by “enjoyed,” I may be exaggerating slightly. The truth is I’ve never been keen on drinking wine outside of a meal, and it’s getting worse with age. My kidneys filed a formal complaint and I went home early. A tragic loss for the festival, I’m sure.
Ryanair, or: Why I Suffer
Friday was all about setting the house in order, packing, and making our way to the local airport for the flight to London. I swear, hand on heart, I will never fly Ryanair again. (Obvious exception: getting home in a few days. I’m not made of money, or of patience.)
But then came redemption. A pint of Tribute real ale at the old Lord Clyde in Southwark, a few minutes from the hotel, followed by an excellent curry at Est India just two minutes further on. By the end of the second course, the journey was a distant memory and I was a man at peace.
London adventures to follow in a separate post. Stay tuned, and stay hydrated. Preferably not with wine.
