Ploughman’s lunch for dinner

Yesterday I left y’all with the question, which was meant to be rhetorical, of what I would have to eat to bring a doctor round.

Today the universe provided the answer: Shreddies (or at least the Tesco dupe of) and a banana, because that’s what I had for breakfast not long before the community outreach person knocked on the front door.

But wait, you say (because I certainly did): wasn’t she meant to be visiting tomorrow? She was, and she offered to come back tomorrow, but I invited her in as it gave mum less time to panic about it.

The doctor (or whatever her official title was) prescribed some cream for the soreness mum has in a personal area – a cream which the GP I spoke to on Monday insisted didn’t exist – and is going to change mum’s medication for the epigastric pain. The concensus seems to be that it’s a form of acid reflux, and I know from personal experience of it as a side-effect of some of my meds that it can be very unpleasant indeed.

Mum has been much more like her old self this afternoon, although we did have a mildly vexing conversation when mum picked up a piece of folded cardboard because it was stopping a door from closing and I had to explain that yes, that was rather the point.

Dinner was a pick your own adventure of cheddar, brie, Scotch eggs, various salad items, and bread, which I attempted to elevate by calling it a ploughman’s. Then we relaxed with our new pet, a housefly that kept landing on us and making us (well, me, mostly) jump. I’m usually that person who ushers insects back outside, but this one was just asking to be swatted. It’s lucky for the fly that I’m a lousy shot with a rolled magazine, at least partly because I don’t really want to get my aim right.

And on that note, I will wish you all good fly… I mean goodbye.