Even though the post had apparently vanished, I actually found all the comments on the post, in a part of Blogger I had never previously looked at. Talk about doing so many things in a half-baked way. At least finding those comments proved I did actually post it. And when I posted it again, from my drafts (how did it become a draft when it had been posted?) all the comments jumped back to the end of the post. Most mysterious.
It was rather a bad day, as I turned up for a doctor's appointment, only to find it was for today, and then went to the dentist, only to be told on arrival that because I had an unexpected appointment a few days ago, they had cancelled this one. I am SURE that they did not tell me this, but acknowledge that I must have written down the date of the medical appointment incorrectly. My mind is not quite as high-powered as it used to be, I ruefully acknowledge. I am doing my best to rectify this.
Never mind. I walked to and from the dentist, and felt ineffably virtuous in consequence.
The correct appointment was with the dermatologist, and I had a couple of thingies removed, and various others squirted with liquid nitrogen. The afflicted parts are not a pretty sight, and they had to stay dry for 24 hours after the cutting out procedure, which meant my hair was a total disaster. My vanity is thus exceedingly offended, and I hate that.
Like lawyers and dentists, dermatologists know how to charge. What is more, I am now evidently worth having as a patient. There is value in everything and everyone, it seems. Come back in six months, they said.
The doctor's appointment today was to assess how I am going, and what, if anything, to do about it. I did not expect this to be a comfortable appointment, as the tears inevitably gush forth. It is for my own good, I expect. Partly I think it is a good idea, and partly I think I am doing as well as can be expected, and am doing all I can and should be doing. Evidently it is not enough. One of these days there will be memory transplants or replacements, which would certainly be discombobulating.
Having seen the doctor this afternoon and obtained another prescription, I hastened to the chemist. They greeted me somewhat bashfully. " We found your prescriptions" said the pharmacist, "underneath this little tray."
Trivial though it may seem, it is some small consolation.
And I have done my Italian homework, started on my next argomento, endured an hour of gridlock in the city, sewn in most of the ends of the wool in the almost completed sweater (one sleeve remains to be sewn in) and I think/fear it might be slightly too large and that the sleeves are too long, and if that is the case what am I going to do about it, or with it? Raffle it?
I think the Productivity Commission should know about me.