Just sprocketing along

Languished, this blog has.   Life gets in the way of idle keyboardmanship, and that’s as it should be. 

Over the last few months, thanks to a mysterious tummy complaint, your correspondent has been poked, prodded, had blood let, had his insides peered into by X-ray and ultrasound, then invaded by the upper gastic and the dreaded rear-end probe in a search for the elusive cause.    With every test coming up boringly normal, the diagnosis is “irritable bowel syndrome”, which in layman speak means “you have a mysterious tummy complaint”.  Some antispasmodic pills later, everything’s settled down, we hope.   In the process of this exercise, however, a small skin cancer was found and has to be excised next week.  It’s apparently not the life threatening type; but since it’s on my temple, the local GP would prefer to leave it to a plastic surgeon so that the scar doesn’t make it look like I attended one of the better German universities.

Being unwell is hard on the creative juices, I find.

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