Argh!
Yesterday, as is my want, I travelled once again to London. On the way back towards the car on the London Underground I was bitten. Not by a gorgeous man in just the right way, but by a horrid insect of some sort. By this afternoon, the red and itchyness had developed so much the swelling could be seen through my clothes. I'll be a responsible adult, thought I. I'll leave work early and go to the doctor's. My doctor is closed on Friday afternoons "for the weekend". The pharmacist took one look, drew in a sharp intake of breath and said "that's infected, that is. You need to see a doctor, but the doctor's closed this afternoon." He wouldn't be persauded to sell me anything, "not till you've seen a doctor. I will then."
It's Monday morning then ... great!
(I could have gone to my old doctor's surgery, right next door to where I used to work as they were open this afternoon. With no-one at home to "accompany" me, I wasn't feeling brave enough. Either they're bigger bullies than I thought, or I'm a bigger wimp than I realised.)
"resists scratching*
It's Monday morning then ... great!
(I could have gone to my old doctor's surgery, right next door to where I used to work as they were open this afternoon. With no-one at home to "accompany" me, I wasn't feeling brave enough. Either they're bigger bullies than I thought, or I'm a bigger wimp than I realised.)
"resists scratching*