Early one morning...

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'I know I'm early, but I'm really happy to sit quietly in the waiting room till the doctor is ready for me'.

This was said to a lovely hospital secretary on Monday.  I'd had to leave Binland early for the appointment, and was pleasantly surprised that I'd managed to find the hospital, get parked, have a coffee and still be early for my 2.15 appointment.

The secretary's reply?

'Well I hope you've brought your pyjamas and a sleeping bag as you are twenty five hours', (pause to look at watch), 'and seventeen minutes early.  You're booked in for tomorrow, not today'.

Oh joy.

Such is the life of the fifty five year old woman.  A brain full of something resembling fluff, and the eternal cockeyed optimism of someone not needing to read a hospital letter thoroughly, or even putting in the calendar.  I'll be honest with you.  I'm not sure what was worse.  Knowing that I'd have to schlep all the way over to Reading again the following day, or admitting to my work colleagues that I was a forgetful old bint with the memory of a geriatric goldfish.  

They were all very kind, and there was only a smattering of ribbing from Master P and Master J which I took in good humour, but when I left Binland at midday today for a repeat performance I did have a sense of deja vu.

Yet again, I was really early, and having checked in with the secretary ('Got here on the right day this time then?') I plonked myself down in a chair in the waiting room with this month's Woman and Home and happily started flicking through it.

'Mrs R? Do you want to come through?'  

Part of me was thrilled to be seen so early, but there was the tiniest part of me which had been quite looking forward to sitting quietly with my magazine.

Well, you can't have it all...

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