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Jan. 9th, 2007 12:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hathycolLast night, I was in so much pain from my stomach cramping and bloating and just being generally yuck, that I couldn't sleep. This morning, I bit the bullet this morning and made an appointment with the doctor. I can't put up with this anymore and I want to actually speak to a doctor and find out if I actually have something wrong with me and what, specifically, is doing it.
If I am gluten-intolerant, then at least I'll know that when I buy the cheap pasta for 20p rather than the same gluten-free quantity for £1.15 it'll hurt.
The doctor (I actually just capitalised that without thinking about it) must be really empty. Normally, you have to plead your case with a triage nurse to get one at any point soon, or be willing to wait about two weeks. I have an appointment for tomorrow, just for talking to the receptionist. I didn't even mention symptoms! All of St Andrews must be freakingly healthy. Weird...
Anyway. Today I need to go and have a shower, get some lunch and then go to a DocSoc meeting. So at some point I need to work out my Table of People Wot Have Ordered Stuff.
I also need to stop freaking out about the house. I can afford it - not easily, but I can do it, possibly after some careful conversations with my mother and bunging and extra grand on my overall loan repayable which at this point doesn't feel like a great amount - and so can everyone else who will be moving in with me, so if people could stop freaking out and having second thoughts, that would be nice because we need to get this sorted. There are no cheaper houses in St Andrews, and if worst comes to worst, it's only for the next two years, and we can cope with that. Also, it is perfectly bloody possible to work, to have a social life and to do well in a degree. No, honest, it's true, and it's faintly fulfilling to have a job anyway, in a sort of 'hurrah! I am keeping myself well fed!' kind of way. I mean, most other people struggle along like this.
There's also the fact that there's no way I'd get back in Albany, and Fife Park would be tricky to get back into, and if we didn't, then what would we do?
We need to sign that bloody contract and get stuff sorted, pronto, so I can go back to delightedly shrieking 'BATH! GARDEN! DISHWASHER!' at people.
If I am gluten-intolerant, then at least I'll know that when I buy the cheap pasta for 20p rather than the same gluten-free quantity for £1.15 it'll hurt.
The doctor (I actually just capitalised that without thinking about it) must be really empty. Normally, you have to plead your case with a triage nurse to get one at any point soon, or be willing to wait about two weeks. I have an appointment for tomorrow, just for talking to the receptionist. I didn't even mention symptoms! All of St Andrews must be freakingly healthy. Weird...
Anyway. Today I need to go and have a shower, get some lunch and then go to a DocSoc meeting. So at some point I need to work out my Table of People Wot Have Ordered Stuff.
I also need to stop freaking out about the house. I can afford it - not easily, but I can do it, possibly after some careful conversations with my mother and bunging and extra grand on my overall loan repayable which at this point doesn't feel like a great amount - and so can everyone else who will be moving in with me, so if people could stop freaking out and having second thoughts, that would be nice because we need to get this sorted. There are no cheaper houses in St Andrews, and if worst comes to worst, it's only for the next two years, and we can cope with that. Also, it is perfectly bloody possible to work, to have a social life and to do well in a degree. No, honest, it's true, and it's faintly fulfilling to have a job anyway, in a sort of 'hurrah! I am keeping myself well fed!' kind of way. I mean, most other people struggle along like this.
There's also the fact that there's no way I'd get back in Albany, and Fife Park would be tricky to get back into, and if we didn't, then what would we do?
We need to sign that bloody contract and get stuff sorted, pronto, so I can go back to delightedly shrieking 'BATH! GARDEN! DISHWASHER!' at people.
