For some reason there is a television showing Doctors in the waiting room at the hospital breast care clinic. It’s a bit better than last time – when there was a ghastly programme where RSPCA inspectors turned up at houses to investigate animal abuse – but not much. It’s a shame that one can’t be anywhere these days without a television being on.
Mum carries on with The Times crossword regardless, but I’m unable to start my book – the new Philippa Gregory – or to make a start on the article I’m meant to be composing. This place makes me nervous. On the television, There is a policeman explaining to a family that their cat hasn’t been stolen and has probably just gone missing.
“But cat and dog theft is a growing problem,” the grandmother says. “Someone tried to kidnap Paris Hilton’s chihuahua.”
If someone steals my kitten I don’t know what we’ll do. He is very bright orange with amazing long fur. Someone will want to steal him.
As usual, the waiting room is crammed with the very elderly and their daughters who are my age. We are the only ones this way round – the only healthy mother and sick daughter. It is hot in here and airless and I’ve developed a headache and we may well be here for hours.
On the plus side, a bright young thing just sent me a message. He is 28, tall, lots of shaggy dark blond hair, and wears a navy blue cashmere sweater in his profile photo, where he has a glass of red wine in front of him. He appears to enjoy hiking, messing about on boats, opera and drinking wine. I’m meeting him tomorrow evening. Wish me luck?
Scars, Tears and Training Bras 