When the doc told me this mornig the tumour was smaller but not yet operable, so we'd wait for another three months before another CT scan and a consequent decision about futher steps, it looked just too good to be true - cancer regressing and three months' holidays before me. So I immediately began worrying what bad luck I was in for.
Turned out the bad luck was all about my sick pay. I haven't got a penny for after 17 December, and I seem unable to find a way of making some administrator do what they're paid to do instead of telling me that it's another administrator's job and can you please call this number sir?
I made some half a dozen calls today, which for me is the equivalent of acting for a few hours as an interpreter between two foreign speakers after just a five-day beginner's course in each of the foreign languages. I was more knackered than after a full shift as a factory operative; and yet I only got to a stage when I could temporarily make no further step, not to actually resolving the matter.
So maybe I have before me three nice months off most duties, maybe three months of arguing with bureaucrats and worrying about ending up hungering on the street - and not because of boozing. Every now and then I have a new reason (new in particularities, the generalities are familiar by now) to hate this country.
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