It's a miserable day; the clouds opened this morning and we've had a constant drizzle since then.
'Good for the garden,' says Marilyn, after her efforts yesterday to repot the tray of pansies.
I had an appointment this morning at the Plastics Clinic at the hospital to check up on a little sunspot I had on my head. I've been going every four or five weeks and the staff take it in turns to squirt liquid nitrogen on my skull. I don't mind the visit but it's always a pain to find a parking spot, so I was pleased when Jamie offered to drive me. I warned him that he might have a bit of a wait because my last visit stretched out over a few hours, but he said he would head for McDonalds and fill in time there.
I was only sitting for a couple of minutes when I was called in. It was a young female doctor I hadn't seen before and she scratched around without finding anything. 'I'll go and find the doctor who saw you last,' she said, and came back with another young woman.
'It's here,' she said, "In a direct line from his eyebrow.' Now, how did she remember that? She didn't refer to any notes or diagrams; maybe I'm unforgettable. Anyway, the two doctors conversed for a minute, agreed the cancer had disappeared and told me not to bother coming back.
I left with a spring in my step. Jamie didn't even have time to finish his coffee.
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