Feeling Sleepy

Ongoing trouble in Chez His Nibs and me.

You may or may not have read at the weekend that I have become a martyr to insomnia.

It doesn't suit me. 

It's been going on for about ten days now.  A friend of mine offered to give me a sleeping pill on Friday, but I refused on the grounds that they're addictive and make you groggy and if I'm not able to sleep, one of my great skills in life, I may as well give up the ghost now.

It never dawned on me that she might be offering for her sake more than mine.

I think it's possible that His Nibs is finally getting a bit afraid of me.

The whole bank holiday weekend passed, with me being absolutely no fun and getting grumpier and grumpier, and His Nibs doing everything in his power to avoid me, and probably saying private novenas that I'd go to sleep for pity's sake.

I arrived in work on Tuesday morning, in even worse condition than I'd been on the Friday. A good friend took one look at me, and suggested that maybe it was time I started thinking about dropping in to the doctor, just to get one or two sleeping pills to put me back on the straight and narrow.

I was caught at all times between shouting and bursting out crying.  I was staring at my computer as though I'd never seen one before.  I suppose poor Julianne could no more face the thought of a day in my company than His Nibs could.  Or, for that matter, no more than I could face the idea of listening to myself whinging for another day.

By half past nine, I was ready to give in, and went to the walk in doctor's surgery around the corner.
The doctor in there seems to be demented, and kept me talking for thirty five minutes.  Not, as you might imagine, about the reasons for my insomnia, but about how the roads in the republic are now better than those in Northern Ireland.  And I still didn't go asleep.

In the end, he gave me the prescription and sent me on my way.

I've never taken a sleeping pill before.  The doctor suggested that half a tablet might be enough, and in fairness the pharmacist said the same thing.  He also said I should take the tablet at least an hour before I wanted to go to sleep.

At around nine o'clock last night, I took half a tablet. I was in bed by half past nine. I wanted to be ready if I suddenly conked out, I didn't want to end up sleeping on the stairs. I assumed that once the tablet kicked in, I'd lose consciousness immediately.

His Nibs, interested in the experiment, decided that he should go to bed too.  He lay there in silence, perking up every few seconds to inquire whether I felt sleepy yet.  That was no help.

I don't know why I'm telling you this, but at a quarter to twelve, I sat up in the bed and burst into tears of exhaustion and temper.

His Nibs suggested I might like to keep the noise down, so I started shouting.  About how I'd probably never get a night's sleep again, how I couldn't be expected to keep up full time work in these circumstances, and that he'd better start looking for a better paid job to make up for my wages.  Then I turned around, took a good look at him, and announced that I didn't like him anymore, and I didn't know why he was still living in our house.

Fair play to him, he didn't announce that he didn't know why he was still there either.  If it was me, I think I would have jumped out of bed and started packing my bags. 

Instead, he remained silent for a few minutes, probably trying to resist the temptation to give me a belt in the chops for myself.  Then he quietly suggested that maybe I'd like to go downstairs and have a chocolate biscuit and a glass of milk.  And maybe the other half of the sleeping tablet. 

I'm not a fool.  Hysterical and all as I was, the thought of a chocolate biscuit soon quietened me down.

Suffice to say that I took him up on the suggestion.
I was asleep a few minutes later.  Thank God.  Six full hours later, His Nibs woke me to go to work.  Again, he managed not to kill me when he shouted upstairs ten minutes after we were due to leave, and I finally woke up.

Obviously the doctor only gave me a limited number of tablets.  I hope to Christ they work, and that my brain soon realises that I'm supposed to go to sleep when I go to bed.

But scarce and all as they are, I won't be messing about with any more half tablets, I can tell you that. 

Operation Middle Aged

I was the bravest of warriors one morning last week.

As middle age continues its merciless and insane march on me, a new problem has raised its repulsive head.

Skin tags.  They’re rather unattractive things, at the best of times.

The one on my neck was absolutely repulsive.  And so big that it was like a second head.  Or at least I thought so.

I’ve been walking around for weeks, holding my hand up to my throat, in an attempt to cover it, and looking like an alarmed lady from an old film.

And wearing scarves that I’ve grown quite fond of really, and might continue to wear in happier days to come.

I know that everyone noticed it.  They were all very nice and didn’t mention it but it was unmissable.

The last time I saw my doctor, after I’d put him through my usual litany of ailments, I told him about the skin tag.  Like everyone else, I’m sure he’d noticed it, but he was probably too worried about his patients who are actually sick to think about it.

He had a look at it and told me not to worry, that it was harmless.  I hadn’t been worried about that. I told him that as far as I was concerned it was more noticeable than my nose (not dainty itself), and that I wanted it gone.

He seemed surprised, maybe he doesn’t consider me to be a person with a neck that needs to be unblemished.

Anyway, he told me to let him know the next time I was going to be in his surgery, and he’d deal with it.

On the Friday, I rang his receptionist.  I gave her my name, and told her that Monday was the day I’d be attending for my surgery. 

I’m only messing, I didn’t say that, I just told her to let the doctor know I’d be there.

She seemed bewildered.  So I let her know that I’d been told to give some notice, because the GP would need a local anaesthetic and something to cut the damn thing with.  I tried to make a joke about him possibly needing a crash cart as well, but she had absolutely no sense of humour and started reassuring me that it wouldn’t come to that.

My mother was with us for the weekend, exerting her bad influence and generally encouraging me to  behave badly (see last blog for details) and she was staying until the morning of the doctor's visit.  She decided to come with me, just so I’d have someone to pity me when I arrived out with the ludicrous white tape holding a pad of cotton wool onto my throat.  Or in case I needed a blood donor.  Joking, again.

Anyway, in I went, and told him why I was there.  He knows I have a penchant for the dramatic, so he was very business like, and told me to get straight up on his doctor table yoke. 

I think I got confused between an anaethetic wipe and an antiseptic wipe.  I know that doesn't really make sense, but I hadn't even thought about the possibility of an injection.  But he came at me with a needle.  He told me that I’d feel a little jab, which I did.

In order to encourage him, and be supportive, I told him that it really hadn’t hurt at all.  But he’d only just put the needle under the skin.  While he tried to give me the stupid injection, I started feeling a bit anxious and unhappy.  So  I started talking to him.  I was sort of blathering on about nothing in particular, and he had to tell me to stop, since he had a needle in my throat at the time. 

That shut me up.

I didn’t feel the skin tag actually being cut off, it was fine.  But the white tape and cotton wool did me no favours, especially with my double chin resting as it was on the little white pad.  It looked like it was holding my head on.

And my advisor (mother) was incorrect.  He didn't just snip it off with a scissors or something.  It was a little scalpel.

Truly I am brave.