He's back

In a fit of moral devastation at my abhorrent cowardice the other day, I marched myself round to the doctors' surgery this afternoon to reschedule the appointment I had previously cried off.  I thought about phoning but I get nervous and tongue-tied on the phone sometimes, and it gives me too much opportunity to slam it back onto the receiver and once again achieve fuck all.  Besides, their 'hold' music is absolutely, utterly diabolical.  It puts one in mind of a violin and a kitten stitched inside the stomach of a still-living man who's just been thrown off a cliff.  And is on fire.  And everything in his stomach is on fire.  It's quite poor music, essentially.

So I arrived at the doctors' and apart from the receptionist sporting a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp, all was well.  The only slight blip in the conversation was when she asked for my name.

'Cecil,' I said.  'Cav-'
'Oh yes.'  She widened her eyes and tapped something out on her keyboard.  'Cecil.'

I can't imagine what she was typing, but the more anxious part of my brain - and that would've been about 90 per cent, at that particular moment - told me it was probably a covert and denigrating message to Dr Watson to alert her of my reemergence.

'He's back.  What's he got this time?  Probably a terminal case of housemaid's knee.'

Perhaps I should be flattered that I have reached such a level of notoriety at the doctors' that I no longer have need of my surname.  A bit like Elvis.  Or Madonna.  Or Jesus.  Unfortunately I believe that may primarily be due to the fact that there are very few other Cecils in the area, as the name is considered unfashionable and shit.  Would that my parents had had the same consideration.

The appointment is booked for next-next Tuesday, which is an early finish at work and thereby gives me some time to summon up the sad, tattered rags of my courage before I force myself out of the house and begin the slow march on.  I haven't bothered to write it on the calendar this time, gargantuanly-nibbed pen aside, because it did fuck all last time and this time it feels more like it's inscribed into my very psyche.  If I fail again, the disappointment will be frighteningly severe.

So I'd better just suck it up and go.  Maybe after a whiskey.  Or two.

Or three.

I bet he never got housemaid's knee.