I don’t anticipate writing any specific ‘Christmas’ posts this year, but as I do tend to get wrapped up in the spirit of it all, I’ve no doubt that a small amount of pantomime is likely to creep in anyway. If you’re not into it at all, I can only apologise.
Here in the UK we had our first proper snowfall at the start of December – going by the previous few years, it might be first and only – and by now the kids are almost as excited as me. I watched ‘Nativity’ on the 3rd and it has taken a superhuman effort for me to put off ‘Love Actually’ and ‘Miracle on 34th Street’ until now. I have not been quite so restrained with the port and mince pies.
Somehow December has a habit of being an incredibly busy month and a peek at the calendar shows that we don’t have a free day now until well into the New Year. One of my appointments – an Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm (AAA) scan – lies ahead of me as I write this, but will be behind me by the time I publish. It is, apparently, completely routine for men of my age and, should the result be ok, the test will not be required again. Should the result be less good, however, a world of worry lies ahead. And boy can I worry.
My problem lies, of course, in writing this before I know the result. I am by nature a very optimistic pessimist, but going forward, I’m not at all certain how that will stand up to the possibility of finding out that I am one good fart away from a fatal heart attack. My outlook may not be so sunny then. Of course, it could be that all is well, but what is it they say about counting chickens? (Well, the only thing I would say is that they are a whole lot easier to count before they hatch than afterwards.) There is little in this life more galling than going to the doctors well, and leaving ill:
Dr. – How are you feeling today?
Me – I feel great.
Dr. – Well I’ll soon put a stop to that…
The entire appointment – according to the accompanying leaflet which, on balance, seems to assume bad news – will last less than twenty minutes and I will be given the results immediately. It feels a little like voluntarily sticking my neck into a guillotine. But if I don’t go? Well, my mind is not going to entertain the possibility of good news is it? In my mind, what I don’t know is almost certainly designed to kill me, so I will just have to suck it up and see what the doctor says.
It would help considerably to have a set of symptoms to be aware of, but apparently there are none: fine, fine, fine, dead is the way it goes. I will take the test and hope that I don’t need any treatment. If I do, then at least I’ll know it.
Now, I feel as if I should point out here that I am in absolutely no way special. Every man of my age is eligible for this scan. You are not invited to get the test, but simply contacted with a appointment and a letter telling you that you don’t have to go, but if you don’t it will be taken down and may be used against you. The problem is, if you are like me, you are completely unaware that the possibility is even there… until you get the letter, at which point it becomes impossible to think about anything else.
But think about other things I must. As I write this, the clear-up from the leak is in full swing, because all stains must be gone before Christmas. Give me a paint brush, a roller and a can of paint and pantomime season is always just around the corner. I am Panto Painter: one man, both Chuckle Brothers. I know from past experience that water stains are unfathomably difficult to cover up and the more coats that are needed, the greater the potential for disaster. Bizarrely, the harder I try, the more inept I become. My whole life is like an inverse apprenticeship. Lord help us all if I ever qualify.
“All the world,” said the Bard “is a stage” and mine, it would seem is always set up for panto.
“Whatever happened to the best years of my life?” I ask.
“They’re behind you,” scream the audience…
Getting On 