Well hello again.
What have I been up to? Well, pretty much fuck all to be quite honest. Just been dithering on. Popped in to Bromley again yesterday and went to change my address at the bank. The woman gets a fella who comes out the back, gives me a form and says 'you can fill it in at that table over there', 'fine' thinks I, then she sort of drags me to see some other bloke who has emerged from the dreaded spiders web of the door to the private interview offices down the bank. I don't really have an option in this so me and the missus are dragged down the back. I know I just need to fill a form out and fuck off and I know what's coming, the full sales pitch. The cunts. I start filling out the form and he brings up my account while doing so. Asks about the PVR we've just bought and have to go through all about how they work and everything as he wants one himself. Asks if we have any time to spare as I'm due an account review, or a big old sales pitch as they should be known. 'err, not really, missus has to meet someone soon' 'ok, I'll keep it brief', take a hint you rotten shit, I don't want to do this. Give me an appointment which I shall cancel later and we can both get on our way. You've already wasted about 10 minutes of my day talking about fucking PVRs. He can't see anything awry so opts to offer me the platinum account instead of my gold one for the sake of some poxy extra AA cover. 'Well, you know how you pay 10 pound a month for the gold account? well it's just 5 more.' I'm not fucking thick, I know that works out at 60 quid a year, for what? Fuck all really. Starts trying to flog some other stuff and missus heads him off with 'Graeme isn't well at the minute'. 'something serious?' don't push it, this could get messy, 'Is it something to do with your liver or kidneys?' 'yes, it is, it's my liver' 'yeah, could tell by your colour, is it an infection?' we've tried to make this subtle but now you've asked for it, I'll roll out the big gun and make you feel like a cunt and produce and awkward silence. 'err, cancer, actually'...awkward looks are exchanged 'well I had a friend who had that and he's completely recovered' 'well it isn't ordinary liver cancer which is quite treatable, it's a very rare cancer, of the bileducts'. Now you feel like a cunt don't you, eh, eh?! Well, you pushed, you got both barrels. He rambled about claiming on my loan insurance before seeing us off and wishing me well. slimy camp nobhead.
Haven't heard anything from hospitals or owt so it's back to the old waiting game. Waiting waiting waiting. It's horrible having this when you get little twinges or aches as your brain can't help but think 'maybe it's spread', I currently have a pain in my lung area, it's more than likely just a pulled intercostal muscle or summat but there's a bit of you goes 'yeah, but what if it's the cancer'. Which is fucking shit. Very shit. Cancer is a reet cunt.
Take away pizza tonight, I wish they'd make it as hot as I like it, 'vegetarian hot'?, vegetarian slightly warming' more like. I'd love a couple of chester-le-streets bridge end kebabs hot and spicey pizzas right now, a pizza that has never been bettered, no matter how hard I've searched. |
