You can call me Al

Never really understood the original lyrics but then the whole Paul Simon thing kind of passed me by in a “who cares how clever you are, it still sounds shit” kind of way. But anyway, my blazing trail of the entire medical facilities of North Buckinghamshire has highlighted something mildly interesting.

Lots of starched uniforms have poked a head round a corner with a query “Alexis Leigh, is he here?“. Most of my fellow sufferers – on what I’m starting to think off as death row – perked up to see if there were any shoulder pads and eighties Dynasty icons* in the building. My mum – bless her and frankly I blame the drugs they doshed out at childbirth in those days – came to the strange decision that Alexander would be a bit much too sign. Instead I was christened (actually they never got round to it and for the first three years I was known as “whatsit over there” which is possibly at the root of my insecurity complex) Alexis after some Greek God of Furniture or something.

No-one ever called me that. I kept it shrouded and hidden away as my guilty secret preferring Alex in my youth, Al later on and back to Alex once that bloody song came out. I can’t look a Chevy Chase movie in the face anymore**

And it was a good instinct because when my registration to the secondary school saw Alexis Leigh placed on the GIRL’S list, you can probably imagine the humuliation and suffering at the first assembly. And then the registration for the following 8 classes. It’s hard to be cool when you’ve got a pudding basin haircut, national health glasses and the baying of 29 other kids screaming “what’s your real name you bloody ponce“. I learned alot in the first two weeks about fighting – or to be more accurate getting beaten up – and displacement activity.

Sorry about that, it was almost like therapy 🙂

So having been prodded, X-Ray’d and sorounded by happy leaflets which you really don’t want to open, never mind read, sometime in the next 10 days, medical science may offer some diagnosis of my mono lung downgrade.

It’s probably nowt. The nurse looked at my notes raising a quizzical eyebrow and asking “a full set of full blood tests? again?“. She didn’t add “you bloody hypocondriac, don’t you know we’ve got some proper sick people here“. But she didn’t have to, the eyebrow was enough. Honestly, go in with a cold nowadays and the next thing you know the buggers are putting you down for a CAT scan. It’s seems almost surly to refuse.

I’m definately getting old tho. I found a liver spot but my guess is that’s just the organ trying to leave my body by any route possible, such is the punishment it’s had to suffer this last twenty years.

I tried riding to work this morning. That was – on reflection – a bad idea ending in the kind of heavy breathing that would merit an ASBO or an arrest or, more likely, both. By 2pm, it was clear that whatever the medication needs to be, being at work wasn’t it. I cycled back at normal lung minus 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} and actually it was rather pleasant taking just three minutes longer than my normal sweaty, aerobic one man charge at the station.

I feel like the Giraffe in Disney’s Madagascar***. Smell a bit like it too.

* I could do a link but I really can’t be arsed. Google is your friend if you care even the tiniest bit.
** See above 😉
*** Take a wild guess

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