An Apple a day dear.

Levy Mwanawasa died. He was only 59 and turns out he had been doing, comparitively, rather a sterling job as Zambia’s Prime Minister. He had actually told Mugabe where to get off. Sadly he had been involved in a terrible car crash some years ago. Dad was one of the medics who helped get him prepped to be medi-vacced (flown out of the country for treatment) and Dad had said he was very lucky to have survived in the first place. He had managed to recover and run a country but that crash had affected his health and well..one thing and another. Diabetes. A stroke. I am sorry.

What now Zambia?

I went to the doctor later yesterday afternoon. I was the last patient and had to wrangle with the receptionist for her to keep the lights on.

I was feeling under the weather.. Not just tired but ‘stupid tired’ to coin the medical terminology. It had hit me like a sack of custard last week and I was still falling asleep all over the place. Given that falling asleep mid counselling session at Citizens Advice with some poor sod desperately trying to tell me about their house being repossessed was hardly fair. I thought I should just have a check up.

The doctor is a pale wearily posh bloke. He ushers me into his room with the heavy exhausted boredom of the British GP. Adorning his spare chair is a trainee who is rather too old for her hairdo. Pigtails. She too looks terminally bored. Immediately I feel mollified for bothering them in their orgy of ennui.

I am a doctor’s daughter. I want them to know I understand basic general practice. I am not your ordinary punter patient. Oh nooo.. I grew up in a place where people died of cerebral malaria in three days..where friends were gored by buffalo….I have shot films in HIV/AIDS hospices. I know about sickness.

‘I am stupid tired’. I say. Its not going well.

Doc nods patiently. I can almost hear him thinking about the chardonnay in his fridge.

I rethink tactics. First always start with an apology based on the doctor’s default assumption that you are a raging hypochondriac.

‘I am sorry to bother you.’ I get into my stride pretty quickly. ‘I am sure I am absolutely fine but the symptoms came on very quickly last week and I can’t shake them and I just want to rule out any potential parasites including Bilhazia and Giadiasis as I was in Zambia last February. Oh…. and you should know that I have a bad reaction to Flagyll. It makes me hallucinate. There was this one time when I was being treated for amoebic dysentery and they gave me Flagyll! It was hilarious….I wondered around the house locking everyone in their rooms for safety thinking we were being attacked by thieves ..my mother had to follow me around unlocking stuff… I mean I know its not dysentery… obviously,... I am not lying on the floor howling..I am sure it is just a low level thing… not malaria..although I did have that years ago..well anyway...perhaps a blood disorder.. I did have tick fever as a child and something similar recurred in 2002 after I was in contact with bacterial meningitis…’

I trail off. The doctor still hasn’t blinked but now I can see the whites of his eyes. Behind him the woman doc has picked up a scalpel and is trying to hide it under her stethoscope.

‘Ahh..I..er…maybe..anaemia due to a blood dis…’,I start hopefully

Sweat has broken out on the pale doc’s forehead. The other one has distinctly white knuckles.

‘Errmm…I..am ..perhaps I am just getting a cold… ‘ I smile reassuringly at them. ‘You know what..I am sure it’s absolutely nothing. Heh ho. The weather’s been atrocious and all that eh? That’s it. Just a cold. ‘

I edge out of the room with a prescription for paracetomol and just manage to spring for the door before the receptionist locks it behind me. They must have telephoned through.

Strangely I feel absolutely fine now. I AM a raging hypochondriac after all. What a relief! Embarrassed yes but also refreshed and energised. I don’t even need the paracetomol. I feel like dancing. And then I notice that I have left my handbag behind…

Sales Pitch

I read that you can sell anything to someone if you mimic them subtly; for instance if you are sitting opposite someone at an arms fair trying to sell your set of Tiger Tanks with cute matching camoflage edging you would do well to watch and then do what your prospective buyer does. He crosses his arms, you cross your arms, she rubs her nose , you rub your nose. See what I mean?

Last night at about 2am on a dance floor in Camberwell I decided to try and sell myself to the man I was dancing with. In case this sounds a bit odd you will need to factor in the 200000 units of white wine I had imbibed previous to the experiment. The man I was dancing with was a lovely old friend who I had a crush on when I was a teenager. He has never expressed any particular interest in me other then in a matey way so I thought, what the hell, I would mimic him dancing and see if that would make me suddenly very, very sexy to him..

Problem is this nice man cannot dance. At all. At all at all.

Soooo by mimicking him, I, who am known for my shuffleishousness on the dance floor, looked as if I was taking the piss.

Problem was the 20000 units of wine made me think the experiment was working and his look of humiliated rage was actually a come hither lear. Poor chap. I nipped off for a quick pee and when I cam back he was cowering weeping behind the bar.

Don’t worry – I ended up canoodling with some huge hunk with tree trunk biceps instead. Apparently he is no longer allowed English girlfriends as he has to marry a girl from his village in Nigeria (even though he is a second generation Londoner) but I know how to snog in Yoruba. So there.

A cracking night in all honesty hosted by my gorgeous Zambian pals, the Munyamas in honour of their joint 40th birthdays. There was a great collection of peoples from all over the place and I felt completely safe and able to use my cane without feeling like a freak when I needed and not use it when I didn’t. (see above)

By the way, I STILL have not heard about the sodding job. Can you Adam and Eve it? I called to ask them to let me know if it was just because my ‘letter was in the post’ but turns out they haven’t made a decision yet.
Ooooo aaarrr…the tension.
Anyway just in case I found an even better job possibility and have applied for that instead. Ha!

Meanwhile I gaze desultorily (how DOES that word work as a verb?) at my bank account and make plans to cut back on the fluffy bits – subscriptions and stuff. Just until I am earning again. One day just know I'll have enough money not to feel nauseous when I walk past Barclays.