Sister came over to escort me to the doctors early this morning. She let herself in silently (how does she do that?) and stood watching me crumble up biscuits in the kitchen, sprinkling them underneath the counters.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I jumped. “Jesus Christ Bea, you wanna give me a coronary?”
“I repeat – what the hell are you doing?”
“I’ve got a mouse problem.”
“And I’m encouraging it.”
She called me a lunatic and insisted that I eat a bowl of Frosties. The mouse issue is really weird actually. I have a cat – a big black muscly bastard called Lucifer, who is so ferocious he once sent my friend Daniel to hospital for stitches. This cat will kill anything, and he doesn’t just kill stuff, he eats stuff. He killed a seagull and dragged it in through the cat flap, hid under the table and ate the whole thing. I could hear him crunching through bones. All that was left was a pair of wings and a beak. Not kidding.
So it is highly confusing to me that Lucifer seems to like the mice. They practically dance around my living room whilst Luce purrs contentedly on my lap, just watching, like he’s enjoying the ballet. Anyway, I know it’s awful and dirty and disgusting to encourage vermin, but I’m awful and dirty and disgusting so it makes perfect sense.
Not much happened at the doctors. I got to chat to my favourite Health Care Assistant Leah. She’s overweight and kinda emo-looking, and her boyfriend writes fantasy novels. My doctor, who is Indian (I have a thing for Indian men) was worried that my nose was snuffly, worried that my blood pressure was low, worried that I’m underweight, worried that I still haven’t given up smoking and worried that my tremor is now so epic I can’t hold a pen. Same old, same old. And then as I was leaving he said :
“Remember Arthur, if you get a sore throat you must go to hospital.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You remember about the sepsis, don’t you?”
Why no Doc, it plain slipped my fucking mind.
Honestly, If I worried like he worried, I’d have thrown myself under a train by now.