I hate ironing I view it as a sartorial conceit. It is an etiquette I have no need of.

The reason why I loathe and detest ironing, is because it's a wholly unnecessary social etiquette. It's something that you should do to clothes that you absolutely don't have to. You do have to wash them, for sure, otherwise you would be unthinkably smelly, but you do not actually have to iron anything that you wear. It's like having sartorial cosmetic surgery and yet somehow I feel like such a social pariah when I don't.  People literally cross the road away from me. Unless I'm wearing linen, because, apparently when one wears un-bleached linen, it's totally acceptable to look like a walking sheet of discarded newspaper. However then the proviso,  is that you have to be living in Capri. As an Italian millionaire.

Achieving precisely neither; tethers me somewhat ungraciously to a steaming piece of electrified triangular metal every time I have to do something vaguely sociable. Grrhuh.

My Kidney is quite stoned so just ignore what it’s saying

I was in pain. I still am in residual what the fuck was that but I can live with it. What I had before was excruciating. I honestly felt my back and left side we’re going to birth something that would later ruin a tee shirt and threaten Sigourney Weaver. The NHS is marvellous. What isn’t is the outcomes for Black women. While uniquely equipped to be both polite firm, helpful, kind and professional they can also inadvertently misread a room. One evening everyone around me was asked about their pain threshold you know “How’s your pain now? On a scale of one and NHS is grossly underfunded “?

No one asked me. Believe me I offered, like some demented bingo caller but I was frowned at. It was only until 5 hours into my urgent visit that I was finally asked only to discover that my results from triage had not been handed over. When they saw my results. I was admitted , but even then no cannula in case I needed anything like drugs hopefully. Each time a new medical professional saw me I was asked the same thing exactly word fir word carbon copy same thing one person repeated with an air of police procedural and they all said “What no cannula?” as if it had been my responsibility to pack my own and shunt it in, but none attached one.

Once looked at and quizzed within an inch of my university challenge, I was given the most mind altering painkillers and discharged me at 11pm to return the next day. Or week. Or galactic aeon. I couldn’t tell what timeframe they were describing p, I was so high I thought I was driving my own uber and I can’t even drive, so I hope I was hallucinating.

At home I cried. A lot. I made a hot lemon ginger and turmeric drink with a lot of honey and cried some more. I went to bed in my living room as it is closer to my kitchen and drifted off to the bars of Netflix, next thing I knew it was 8 am and I knew Sundays in the hospital are like when they open the doors before the support act of a live gig. Crowded confused delirious irritable anticipation. With the occasional dry heaving noise in the distance. I awaited my scan. With a bum full of self administered ardent painkiller. Im utterly thankful that the blue latex gloves now stranded in yellow stripy bin in a toilet cubicle can’t talk.