I have never felt as nutty as I’m feeling right now. My computer isn’t working properly. There’s something horribly wrong with its internal mouse, which is making it almost impossible for me to work on the motet, and yet I need to start sending the parts out. Add to this the almost mind-numbing frustration of trying to sort out rehearsals for the two choirs I’ve now chosen singers for and you have a composer teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown! I firmly believe that computers were sent down to earth to create mayhem and that one day they will eventually control us all. It is always at the most inapportune moments that they decide to conk out. Always when we're most in need of their assistance. I suppose I need to start backing things up in case it just packs up suddenly out of spite.
I went back to the hospital today to have my feet looked at. Unfortunately I managed to miss my appointment. There was a rather unpleasant en-route altercation with a lorry driver, but I was mostly late because I’d forgotten what time the appointment was actually booked for! Luckily they agreed to still see me, but I had to sit like a plank in the waiting room until the doctor had worked his way around everyone else. It was always going to be a waste of time, however. My feet are a great deal better, and I certainly wasn’t about to go for another hideous injection just in case the pain came back. The double-edged sword, of course, is that by acknowledging that I’m getting better, I’m effectively taking myself out of the system. If the pain comes back, I have to start all over again with a visit to my GP. This, you’ll remember, is the GP whose reception staff told Nathan to try Boots, when he went in to ask who might talk to him about the possibility of a course of injections to help with his dreadful hay fever.
As I sat in the waiting room at the Royal Free Hospital, I realised how much of an old people’s game orthopaedics is. There were a group of old women in there, nattering, gossiping, and complaining bitterly about the long queues and the smell of murray mints was wafting into the sanitising gel-filled air. I'm rather proud that I'm no longer one of them. That's one in the eye for the ageing process! I hope I don’t need to return until I'm at least 79.
For those of you who enjoy reading blogs, I recommend the following;
It’s written by a friend of mine, another fan of Pepys, who’s recently been diagnosed with a rare form of lymphoma, which I’m absolutely convinced he’ll beat. His journey, however, has only just begun, and I'm sure he’d be grateful to know that people were with him at every stage.
Saturday September 15th 1660, and Pepys was up early at his office dealing with naval business. He lunched in Westminster with Mr Dalton who was about to buy the Axe Yard lease from him. They feasted on one “great court dish”, which was a massive plate of meat containing cuts from every conceivable dead animal. Later in the day, Pepys was told off by his boss at the Privy Seal for making several mistakes, which included allowing the fees of six judges to pass unpaid. Pepys was put into something of a panic, fearing he’d have to pay the money out of his own pocket. Nevertheless he called in on his father to bespoke a mourning suit to mark his respects for the Duke of Gloucester. Collective mourning, in those days, was a big business.