Effing effing effity eff. With brass knobs on

Warning.  Angry blog post ahead.  Look away if you don't like swearing.

Today I went to the effing hospital to see the effing oncolcolgist to get the effing results from my effing CT scan.

To save me from repetitive strain injury please imagine I’ve typed the word ‘effing’ (the real non mealy-mouthed version) after every other word in the rest of this post.

The results of the scan were not yet available so I have to go back next Wednesday.  I’d be hacked off about this under normal circumstances but I’m doubly pissed off as a few weeks ago, when I was given a scan date just two days earlier than the date I was due to see the oncologist, I rang the hospital to check that the close proximity of dates wouldn’t be a problem.  I was told in no uncertain terms by an obnoxious fuckwit in the radiography dept that the results would be ready in time.  On Monday when I went for the scan I bravely reminded the staff that I would be seeing the oncologist on Wednesday.  ‘That’s fine’ was the response.  That’s fine my arse.

I made my feelings about the situation known to the oncologist (Daddy Dougie) and he did lower himself sufficiently to apologise.  Meanwhile I’ve got another week of vileness waiting for the results. I'm sure I don't need to spell out to people how scary it is waiting for scan results, unless of course you happen to work in my local hospital's CT scan dept.

I am an effing grumpy, stressed out and rather sweary bunny.

On the plus side I’m going to see a friend tomorrow and she has just collected two rescue cats (mummy cat and kitten).  If a kitten-fix doesn’t cheer me up then I don’t know what will.  Stay tuned for further ranting.