Struck Down

So there I was, enjoying my Tuesday night after working all day. Then I get a call from my flatmate. She sounds grumpy. This, in itself, is not unusual. But she sounds super extra grumpy. And demands I come with money to collect her at Shepherd's Bush tube station so I can buy her a cab home.

To me, this sounds too much, and I am clever. I say to her that it would make more sense to hail a cab and I will pay for it when she gets home. This still means I'm paying for a cab ride I'm not benefiting from, but it's preferable to schlepping all the way to the tube and driving back.

She tumbles out of the cab with only one shoe on. Either she's had an excellent time or a terrible time. Turns out she went over on her ankle at the parkour class I sometimes go to on a Tuesday night. She got too cocky and fell over. Kids - take note.

So I'm rushing about tending to her, getting her a yogurt out of the fridge, getting her a tubular bandage, letting her take up the entire sofa with her big fat swollen ankle, and suddenly I start to feel very queer. 

I get very cold and start twitching and shivering like a buffoon. I opt for bed at this point. In the morning I wake up and am very poorly. I resemble death after a heavy night's binge drinking. I am in a bad way. I have a viral infection. I cannot accompany my crippled housemate to the hospital. Then my boyfriend arrives from a trip to the dentist and looks like he's had a stroke as he can't control half his face. We appear to be a house of horrors.

I don't go to the doctor. I don't like going to the doctor. I don't like wasting their time with illnesses they can't help with - like coughs, colds, viral infections... Also, I had a terrible time the last time I went to a doctor in Shepherd's Bush and as such I'm not registered in London. I'm still registered in Cambridge. I need to find a new doctor in town. I'll let you know when I find a good one.

In the mean time - don't get cocky when jumping off things and remember to drink plenty of fluids.