Yesterday it was time to face ‘The Beast from the East’ snowstorm,  who was consorting rather too closely with Storm Emma for my liking, and take a 5 mile trip to the doctor’s surgery to have a routine blood test to check my thyroxine level after a small reduction in medication.

The prospect didn’t fill me with undiluted pleasure.  This is me below in our garden, just trudging to the shop for a loaf of bread, so you can imagine what the country roads around our village are like:

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Sam did his gentleman bit and offered to drive me there, so off we set, slipping and sliding about.  Sam didn’t drive too fast – about 20 mph for the 4 mile journey to the main A143, taking extra care on the bends.  We live in the arse end of nowhere, and it was only the last mile or so on the main road that we could get a bit of speed up.  The A143 had been gritted, and the doctor’s surgery was just off the main road.  We were gone a good hour, due to the time and trouble we had to take in order to arrive in one piece.

The nurse who took my blood was rather harassed.  She’d had to dig herself out from her driveway at 6am, and leave her 2 teenagers on their own at home because once again the schools were all shut (a closed school has got to be because of possible litigation, as it must be much more dangerous for kids to go sledding or snowboarding than sit in a warm classroom – what do you think?).  Apparently she and the rest of the surgery’s staff had been told that if they could not get to work because of the snow, then they would have to take the time off out any remaining annual leave.  Surprise surprise, all the staff had turned up for work.

Blood test done, we made the treacherous journey back home.  I had not been home but 20 minutes when the phone rang.  It was the nurse who had taken my blood.  She said she was phoning with some bad news.  In the split second before she told me why she had called I found myself doing that thing I’m not supposed to do – catastrophise.  I started to wonder if my blood had been a funny colour, been too thick or too thin, or had something nasty swimming in it.

Anyway, the upshot of it all was that the courier could not get to the surgery to pick up the blood samples because of the snow, and I would need to call again to make an appointment to have the blood re-taken.   Grr!  However, if I wanted to I could go back to the surgery, pick up the blood, and take it to the hospital myself.  The thought of that 4 miles before getting to the main road was enough to make me decline her generous offer.

How come the courier couldn’t get there?  How come they couldn’t drive from the hospital down the main A143 to the surgery just off a main and clearly gritted road?  The nurse had dug herself out on her driveway and turned up for work. We had battled the snow down lethal country lanes.  What was the courier’s problem?

Now I’ve got to go back and have it all done again.  This time I’m waiting until the snow goes!