Old

I give for the NHS, I really do, but sometimes their valiant efforts to keep me alive are exhausting and I'd rather snooze on the sofa even knowing I might not wake up. Wouldn't be a bad way to go really, for me, though I accept perhaps distressing for whoever found me. 

Talking of finding I give thanks for finding enough assertiveness to request the desperately patronising young female who rang re an appointment refrained from calling me 'my lovely' at the end of every remark, although I did acknowledge maybe she couldn't help it! Possibly she saw my date of birth and assumed I was missing some marbles, but I suspect she was one of those who put on a special baby voice when talking to patients as a general rule. I've encountered a few of these since starting dialysis and oh how it infuriates me! A blue uniform is not proof of superior intellect, and even if you do have a superior intellect it's not usually necessary to talk to others that way. I give thanks on the whole the plain clothes staff I deal with treat me as if I'm an equal. Oh, and for the surgeon yesterday making me laugh when I described myself as a little old lady and he said I wasn't little I was petite! 

I give thanks for getting to my sofa at last for a nap today, and for a documentary with the late and much admired Nicholas Parsons talking about his love of clocks and watches, travelling to Paris to view the  astonishing eighteenth century and nineteenth work of Breguet. He was in his 90s when it was filmed, and no longer nimble on his pins but still so dapper, eloquent and enthusiastic. Marvellous man! 

I give thanks for having  my stoma supplies delivered by driver not shy of door bells this time. For having power in the form of electricity, uninterrupted by the storm. For water to fill my kettle, hottie bottie and bath, water the plants and flush the loo.