I have a brain tumour. Actually I have rectal cancer with secondary tumours in the brain. Or, possibly, I'm just a bit knackered and don't get to bed early enough. The thing is, I haven't been ill for years, not so much as a sniff. This is a terrible burden because it makes me think I'm being saved for something truly hideous. And, worse than this, undignified. Anyway, to keep the hypochondria at bay I have booked myself a well man check at the surgery for Tuesday. And a trip to the dentist and bought some socks and pants. I'm in full on MOT mode. I would say I'm giving myself a bit of a service, but I know what you're like. You with your mind like a sewer - so I won't.
And I've got to ring the tax office about child-tax credits and about a self-assessment number. And I've got to book the car in for a service too. Ring the electrician about coming to fix the cooker like he promised he would weeks ago. And there's all sorts of nipping and popping to do. (to the co-op, to the community centre to book a badminton court, you know how it is - never a dull moment round here). It's the summer holidays. A chance to do some routine stuff cos I can't do much else cos I'm looking after seven. (We've two other children called respectively 22 and 15 - I know, what were we thinking...). Anyway, I'm keeping my mind occupied because apparently my next book Life! Death! Prizes! is in an acquistions meeting even as I type.
I love that book. It deserves a chance. It's a book worth being ill for. Not rectal cancer or brain tumours obviously, but I'd go as high as swine flu easy.