meatal oedema, not myathlon lemur, you fool!
Another classic typing error that I thought they'd never discover.
I can't tell you how spirit destroyingly dull typing doctor's letters are. Particularly when they mumble into their dictaphones about English Graduates who should be able to spell meatal bloody oedema. My sleep habits haven't changed a jot while I've been covering Duch's job, so I've been crashing around 4am, which tends to lend a rather grumpy bad tempered flavour to the day. Got home at 5.30 tonight, then fell into a deep sleep on the bug fluffy white rug, and didn't wake till 9ish. I feel extremely disoriented, now!
Today I saw the Chancellor of the Exchequer of Bahrain (nice man), and Jeremy Paxman (very grey haired now, far too grey haired for the foxy chick he was rather desperately trotting alongside, in my opinion).
I also remembered the power of the short skimpy skirt to get seats on trains, stop traffic, get you free lunches, etc. Bizarre. Like cobweb covered Harley St doctor's surgeries, it's all about the window dressing, I suppose.
Anyway, it was as torpid as ever working in an office today. It's certainly cured me of any grass-is-greener work syndrome. Thank christ for Pears, who involved me in an hour long phone call from France, to save me from the typing. He gets full Samaritan points!
Tomorrow, I'm going to meet the texter of the slug text for a glass of fine Sangiovese and some choice moist Italian nibbles at 6 in Belllini, in High St Ken. If any of you lot are nearby and want to come along, feel free*! I've already hacked into jatb's udate account and tried to man-trap her date tomorrow into coming along. Hehe.
* = unless I really don't know you at all, in which case I shall tolerate you, but ask the waiter to spit in your food when you look away.