radfrac_archive_full

Let us briefly collapse back to three Thursdays ago, as though we could root through the ruins of history after all, as though the storm of Progress had suddenly let up for a moment, leaving us stumbling and winded.

I happened to have inadvertently made a doctor's appointment for the day after physio, which worked out well in terms of shortening the panic window.

I made the appointment back when I made the first physio appointment, but it takes some time to see my doctor, or any doctor, except for that guy at the drop-in clinic who distributes antibiotics like confetti. I'm sure he probably would have given me an antibiotic for my foot drop.

There was some confusion during which the office called me back asking wouldn't I rather have a nurse do my "well person exam"* -- to which I replied that I hadn't realized I had made such an appointment, but I was game if she was.

I did see my doctor. He did much the same pushing and pulling as the physio had. He presented with much less concern. He did agree that I should see a neurologist.

"I'm just going to do this," he said, writing URGENT 2-4 WEEKS on the sheet, "So that you get in at all."

Then since I was being so terribly efficient, I went down the block and spent a very pleasant 45 minutes being fussed over by the optician who looks just like John Cusack.

"These ones make you look like Wolverine." he said. So I bought them.

Then I took myself out to lunch at The Superior, where I ordered the charcuterie.

See, now, I masquerade as a sophisticate, but in fact I am a hick from Prince George. Okay?

I was expecting the rustic bread, the house-ground mustard, the pate, the chutney.

The miniature coffee mug full of snow-white fat, not so much. I thought, you know... meat. In slices. Or something. Not fat in a cup. Nor did there seem to be any fat-cup-specific utensil.

I had one of those moments, you know, where you're looking at something in front of you that you have no idea how to negotiate gracefully. And I thought, "Well, son, you're a hick and you have a cup of fat. Dig in."

And damn. Pure pork fat is good. Eventually there was some meat, in little flinders, underneath, but by then I was wishing it really was a whole cup of fat.

Like all the days on which these appointments have occurred, it was beautiful. The cherry trees were starred all over with their first blooms. The sky was a deep philosophical blue. I wandered about, full of affection for the richness of the world. Impossible to feel anything but grateful.

Okay. Start the wind generators up again. Phoop. Backwards into the future.

{rf}

* VICTORY!!!!!!!