Yesterday morning (day 7 recovery after my tonsillectomy) I decided to do something about the pain.
That came in the form of a desperate call to the ENT surgeon’s secretary. It went something like this:
Me: I can’t take this any more. I haven’t left my bed in a week and I have hardly eaten a thing.
Sec: Oh no, we can’t have that. You need to be eating to get better. And you shouldn’t be experiencing so much pain. We need to get you some stronger pain killers.
Me: (pause, tears to the eyes – her words were true salvation)…Thank you.
And hey presto, within the hour, a prescription for Tramadol had been faxed to my local chemist and the very nice pharmacist (whom I will be rewarding with a box of Quality Streets when I am better) had arranged for the drugs to be dropped round to my house. Who says you can’t get good service these days? You do in Hackney.
And hence, my recovery began.
Tramadol, I love you.
Chocolate, I am on my way.