On November the something or other, I go for a follow up appointment with the gut doctor. He will tell me that I am indeed allergic to wheat, barley and rye and that those things are in an awful lot of food, and laugh in my increasingly emaciated face. He'll then refer me to a dietitian, and God knows how long it'll take to see him. I was told I'd have my results within 14 days, but it's been 37 and no sign so far. But when I finally do see the dietitian (by the time Romney's invaded Canada at this rate) then they'll say stay away from the gluten, because if you munch it down then you'll get bowel cancer and osteoporosis. Then they'll send me back to my GP who will write out a prescription for me. There is no cure (they're working on one) for Coeliac's disease, so what could this prescription be for? It'd be for gluten free bread, pasta, flour and bourbons. That's bourbons as in the biscuits, sadly, not as in the whisky. I do like the idea of going to the chemists and picking up 250cc's of Tagliatelle and 50cc's of sticky buns. Actually, maybe not, as I just read this article. If the NHS are going to get utterly ripped off by companies with things that I could buy for a fraction of the cost, then I might not in all good conscience be able to go along with that. I shall use that as the justification I need to obtain a disabled railcard (for the epilepsy).
I was happy to note a bit of personal growth for me yesterday. I went past a bakery and caught the strongest smell of freshly baked cakeys, and I smiled and walked on. There was a time when if thoughts would kill, anyone holding a pastry within thirty miles of me would have been a twitching corpse, riddled with mind bullets. This, then, is progress. Now if I can just stop hanging around the supermarket cake aisle screaming at the ceiling "Why, God, why", then I'll have it cracked.
Today's Tune
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