Right now I feel like my head has taken on Neanderthal shape; it hurts, it’s foggy and all I want to do is grunt at people and stick a pointy stick into a bee hive to get honey big jar of honey to try and soothe my throat The fact my throat hurts isn’t a good sign… normally I avoid sore throats since I had my tonsils ripped out. If I’ve still got a sore throat this could be a major lurgy coming to take me down.

All the time, however, there’s this little voice moaning at me, telling me I’m pathetic and that if I just tried then I would feel much more awake. Annoyingly, there’s a voice on my other shoulder which is convinced that I’d feel better if I went and raided the sweetie box in the kitchen. It’s probably right.

Most people have an angel and a devil on their shoulders. I have a school nurse and a sweet shop owner.

By my estimates that’s 47% sugar and oil, and 330Kcal/100g. Honey, for comparison, is 310Kcal/100g.

Yeah… go Tescos…

Right, so then, what has happened in the world of me?

My doctor’s stuff that I was obsessing about was as scary as it could be but in ways I hadn’t anticipated. My heart seems to be fine and my glucose response is fine, so it looks like heart was a false alarm (even if my BP is high) but my results came back with fucked liver enzymes. Seeing as how Pop’s pancreatic cancer was diagnosed from “fucked liver enzymes” this didn’t scare me at all. Oh no…

Apparently the likely cause is either random variations (so a retest on wednesday) or fatty liver, which sounds highly pleasant. So more tests on Wednesday, a week for them to remember what to do with blood and then back to see the doc and try (again) to get an increase in meds. It’s not looking promising, but I think I need them to stop my stomach lining from eating itself or me killing the boss. Considering how I warned him I wasn’t doing overtime and not doing stress, he’s not exactly made things easy for me.

Last night was fun. HelenFin came round for a little celebration and we hit the town for a night of drunken debauchery. Well… kindof. Not nearly enough alcohol was drunk and too much time was spent talking about life, the universe and everything, and not nearly enough time staring at behinds. I tell you, her tastes are slipping… not only was there very little pleasant scenery, there was a surprising lack of slappers to be spotted too. So we retired to an old man’s pub and drank there til midnight.

’twas a great night and much of the world was put to rights. When I take my rightful role as benevolent dictator of the Commonwealth, I think I may have found my minister for ethics and alcohol.

Many conclusions were reached. The most conclusive one being that no-one in their right mind should be friends with anyone who even knows a larper, D&Der or roleplayer (ahem…), but that it would be quite cool to go to a Renaissance Fair and run about like a prat in silly clothing. My only problem is that I’d spend all my time pretending to be Brian Blessed

But I’m crapping myself about the test results that I’m due tomorrow. My fasting glucose somehow turned into a complete cardiovascular and liver enzyme workup complete with an ECG. This isn’t a great sign.

The doc asked if I had any important family history… “Well, my father had diabetes and died of a diabetes related heart attack about six months before his replacement artery was predicted to fail, losing him at least one leg. My grandfather has had a long series of minor heart attacks, has angina and is currently refusing to die of pancreatic cancer. My grandmother has OldTimers, emphysema and asthma. My mother is an unknown quantity apart from the fact she’s an alcoholic. Oh, and my brother has high BP too.”

“I’ll take that as a yes then”, she replies.

Something tells me that the answer is either going to be diabetes (hardly a shock) or a heart problem. I already know I have high (but not dangerous) cholesterol, so it would hardly be a shock.

Moving up the morbidity stakes (what with this being such a cheery post so far) I’ve quite liked the idea of a heart attack as a way to die. Do it properly and it’s fast and the pain is major but brief. Pretty much the only other alternative is blowing a good sized blood vessel in the brain for speed and pain. And either of them let you joke about dying aged 90 whilst being ridden by an 18 year old nymphet…