‘You definitely have arthritis in your hips,’ said the consultant, ‘both hips.’ This was said as if he was merely confirming what I already knew. I didn’t. It was a bit of a jolt. He pointed to the X-ray of my femur, ‘see here and here, that’s arthritis. But the white areas, here, we don’t know what this is.’ So it’s more tests. Bloods and a CT scan. ‘What now?’ I asked. ‘No, you have to fast first,’ said the other consultant, a baggier man but also, it turns out, Egyptian. What a bugger. And I’ve so much work to do. And what an afternoon. It was interminable, as was sitting, being forced to listen to, virtually the whole of Jeremy Vine’s radio show. That dreadful mix of the horror of what is happening in Ukraine and Vox pop responses, interspersed with his choice of music. And all the gung Ho machismo.
And before that there had been my big gaff and the pain of irritating her. I tread such eggshells. And then the interview with that gentle being and longing to begin my writing of which I am so a feared.
I am growing old. No, correction. My body is growing old. And I no longer know it.
