Someone told me Aerosmith were planning to tour without Steven Tyler, who is recovering from an addiction to painkillers. This makes no sense. Aerosmith without Steven Tyler would be like a park flasher without a dirty mac.
Speaking of painkillers and bad ideas, I registered with a new GP this week. My new local surgery told me I needed my NHS number to register. I phoned my old surgery (which I visited once in three years) to ask them for it.
They wouldn’t tell me. Computer said no. The woman on the end of the phone answered every argument by citing the data protection act.
For the benefit of anyone considering a career in the diplomatic service, I have learned that asking “Which specific clause of the data protection act prevents you from telling one of your registered patients their NHS number?” in a condescending tone is no way to establish trust and mutual understanding.
They said they could post it to the address they had on their system. “But I’ve moved! That’s why I need to register with a new GP!”
This was all supposed to lead to a bad joke about running out of patients, but I haven’t got the energy; it turns out my blood pressure is low. That’s what the nurse in my new GP’s surgery told me once I’d beaten the system by getting an appointment. She said it in a really snotty way, too; she might as well have said “You’re feeble!”
Even my blood is lazy. It can’t be bothered to flow all the way around my veins and arteries when it knows its only going to end up back in my heart.
What are you supposed to do about low blood pressure? Eat more salt, and cut down on fruit and vegetables I’d imagine. Maybe I need to go back to being a news junkie.
Sucks to be 30
You know your extended adolescence is over when you get excited about a vacuum cleaner. I bought a handheld Dyson this week: the DC30. (Hey, isn’t that a plane?) You have to charge the battery for 210 minutes before you can use it. I’d never looked at my watch so compulsively before.
My skirting boards witnessed nothing short of a dirt holocaust. I ran around my flat sucking dust up and laughing maniacally like the helicopter gunner in Full Metal Jacket: GET SOME! GET SOME!
There are other signs of age: I had a meeting with the CEO of my company, a grumpy Irishman who makes Ryanair’s Michael O’Leary seem a cheery philanthropist. Normally when I have jobs and I meet senior people, I’m waiting to be found out. Something along the lines of: “You, boy! You’re not old enough to be in charge of this! Find me a grown-up!” That feeling has gone.