I got up at five this morning and sat motionless on the sofa, tea in hand, trying not to have a panic attack. I gave myself little lectures and sucked hard on a cigarette, cat purring away on my lap.
(I’m gonna do this. Oh yeah. I am going to shove that thing right up there and I’m going to do it like a pro. I am the king of urine. I will never be hungry again. I have a dream. Etc.)
Two nurses arrived later on in the afternoon, lovely ladies – one was plump and brunette, the other was so unimaginably good looking it was almost surreal, with very gold blonde hair and crows feet around her eyes that made her look like she’d been smiling since the day she was born. We sat down and flicked through horrible self-cath booklets with pictures of laughing people inside (what the FUCK are they laughing about?) and one particularly horrendous diagram of a multicoloured penis.
“So” goodlooking blonde says. “How are you feeling about all of this?”
“Fine. Absolutely fine.” I lied.
“Good. Any pain?”
“Yes, a bit. I have an infection. My urine’s full of blood. Stupid bladder!” I laughed. “Damn thing.”
She shut the booklet. Turns out I can’t try to self-cath if I have an infection. When she told me this – I swear I wanted to punch someone. I had hyped myself up so much since this morning and my body was riddled with adrenalin – if you’d stuck a pin in me I would have burst (bad metaphor, considering…)
So now they’ve gone, and Tosc is coming over, and my heart is all over the place, and I don’t know whether I’m incredibly happy or unimaginably annoyed. I now have to wait until the 30th to have a proper go. I don’t know what to do with all of this weird energy. I must have smoked about eighty cigarettes today. Aw fuck fuck fuck.
(On a lighter note, Lucifer tried to maul the brunette nurse. I like to think he was defending his master.)