volcanic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- cleansed... You want the good news? You can have the good news: we've got a place to live at the seaside! It all started like this: I woke up this morning, and read my moon meditation(don't snigger...), and it said: "Moon Meditation: "Work now, relax later ..." A project is now coming to completion. It's something you've had to get very serious about. It might be at work, it might be on the home front, but it's as plain as the nose on your face and it's been demanding your attention. Whatever this issue is, it's not as much fun as you wish, but it's important and it's not just going to go away, so you might as well give it all you've got. " ... and that got me thinking, shit, Ms V, you're meant to be moving in just over a month, and you've got nowhere to move to..., so I rang the local newspaper [local to there, rather than here] and placed a classified ad for a 2 bed property, blah-de-blah, and felt like I'd at least made an effort. Then I rang the Environmental Health Dept, to report the evil people who sell poisonous curries to unsuspecting volcanics and their innocent children. [ And yes, Kymee, karma certainly DID come along and kick me up the arse!] Alas, I have to digress here, and segue gently into more Noxious Slurry news, because the nice Environmental Health lady insisted I rang my GP to organise what are politely described in the trade as "stool samples". For the uninitiated, this is nothing to do with Shaker-style or Chippendales: it means a pot of poo. So, I phoned the surgery, only to have the over-reactionary receptionist shriek that we had to get to the surgery AT ONCE! Or at least before the morning session ended at 10.00am. We had eight minutes to get there, and thus ended up getting a cab. The receptionist was still in imminent-plague-outbreak mode, and ushered us into a secret side-room to wait for the doctor in isolation. he came in through a cunningly-disguised secret back door, and hurried us into his room. He was extremely reluctant to give us the sample pots (special blue ones, which are made of blue transparent plastic, so the sight of brown poo won't offend anyone unfortunate enough to see the contents. Only, of course, everyone who's ever likely to see a blue pot knows EXACTLY what they contain. Pointless, and silly). He made all these huffing noises, and told me that they "didn't usually bother..." to send samples, and that it was probably viral, hum-de-hum, and tried to make me feel guilty for wasting his time. Strangely, though, he was very interested in which take-away it was that we'd visited, and made me describe exactly where on the street in question it was located. So he obviously won't be going there in a hurry. Now, if it'd been my regular doctor, and not the first one available, he would have known that I work for the NHS too, and that I know full well that GP Surgeries hold their own budgets, and thus have to pay for, and account for, all the lab tests they order. I personally think he's a dangerous cheapskate if he'd rather cut costs than pinpoint a potential public health hazard. Anyway, we got the pots, and the lab forms, went home, did the unpleasant deed (they even provide a matching blue spoon in the pot, bless 'em!) and then had to take them up to the Pathology Lab, which involved four busses. Total cost of obtaining and transporting two bottles of poo: £8. Bargain. Not. So yes, when I said to Grim that an Indian would sort me out, little did I know how wrong I was. Cleaned out (intestinally) and cleared out (financially), but sorted out-- no. Except... if we're going to get all Karmic about it (which I'd rather avoid, because I don't really believe in it, but it fits in nicely with the theme), then today's good news redressed the cosmic balance a little. If you remember, before I meandered off into poo territory- something I seem to do here with alarming frequency- I'd just placed an ad in the paper for a house. I then decided, on the offchance, to ring the Uni. accommodation lady, who up until this point had been lovely, but not very useful. Today, she came up trumps, and thus Ms Volcanic & Son have been allocated a 2-bedded property, on campus, set amongst trees, detached, and hopefully with a sea-view. The rent is very cheap, and includes all energy bills. If this sounds too good to be true, there IS a catch: it's a mobile home... that's right, we're going to be trailer trash! Seriously, though, I couldn't be more happy. It means I've got to throw virtually everything away, and I can make a total fresh start. I'm filling black bin bags like it's going out of fashion, and it feels fantastic. Cleansing, even... [Ms V has puerile giggle to self about synchronicity disguised as poo analogy] 11:31 a.m. - 22.07.02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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