Monday, 17 January 2011

Proton pump inhibitors

More obsessive tidying. Today I found myself knee deep in a pile of paper and photographs that I'd pulled out of a cupboard by our bedroom window. Opening the cupboard door was like watching a dumper truck depositing rubbish in a tip. I feel purged now that I've thrown much of it away.

We went to the gym and I complained bitterly to the manager about the state of floor in there, which was a health and safety disaster. All the floor tiles were broken and bubbling up as though they were sitting on the San Andreas fault, or a geyser was about to burst forth!

I came back from the gym and went to the doctors. I felt a bit guilty as I'd had to book myself in for an emergency appointment because it was the only way I could be seen before January 27th, which felt utterly bonkers. 

I wanted to talk to the doctor about my voice, which keeps cutting out on me. I assume it's just a form of acid reflux but I won't be happy until I've ruled out various sinister possibilities. The doctor seems to think that reflux is most likely, and she prescribed me some proton pump inhibitors to sort my stomach out. With any luck, they'll do the trick, but I also need to be careful about eating too much acidic food, particularly late at night. 

I'm now in the Woodman Pub. We were going to go for a walk, but it's raining miserably. We met Fiona at the newsagents between our houses, which had just been robbed by thugs. Fiona was calling the police as we arrived. The shopkeepers didn't think there was any point. It apparently happens all the time, and the police tend not to take it very seriously, which I thought was sad. 

January 17th 1660, and Pepys took Lady Jemima on a tour of the ships of the navy fleet. There were amazing breakfasts, beautiful boats and impressive 13-gun salutes. Pepys was in his element as he showed her around, all the time trying to avoid his colleague, Sir William Batten and his wife, who were also in town. Pepys was developing a hatred of the man, and all things associated with him.

They took a coach back to London, but it grew dark and was raining so hard that the horses started kicking up, so they pulled up in Dartford and stayed the night in an Inn, by all accounts the worst that the town had to offer!

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