Going down

An inauspicious day.

Just got back from the doctors, with a crisp new Paranoid's Pay-cheque.

That is right, aliens and misfits, I'm going back on anti-depressants for the first time in a decade.

My depression has, over the last six months, become increasingly unbearable. The arrival of the nipper has both added to this (as an entirely reasonable extra strain) and, more importantly, made it far more essential that I don't lose my shit and let Liz and Corben down. The doc took the time to establish if it was in fact the baby that was making me depressed but agreed that it didn't sound so, just that he's obviously a new and weighty factor to drop into the mix.

After a few minutes talking to the poor guy, he was hurriedly thrusting a prescription for Citalopram at me. I explained that I wasn't begging for drugs, I really wanted to discuss the options. He gave me a questionnaire to fill out and I probably got filed as a Mental when I laughed, realising it was like an LJ quiz and wondering where the "Ticky box!" option was.

I answered conservatively. I scored perilously highly. He reached for the prescription sheet again. Slowed him down again and asked him about contra-indications, would it wreck my sleep, could it make me much worse, is it particularly bad with alcohol (as I remember Seroxat being), etc.

This bought me a blood test when he asked how much I drank. 'Teach me to be a wise guy. Oh well. This was something else I'd been putting off.

Anyway, upshot is (despite my tone) positive. I'm doing things to sort myself out, booze is still greatly reduced because you can't hit the bottle like I did with a baby in tow, and there's a reasonable chance the drugs may actually do their job and make me feel like the world isn't crashing down every other day.

Fuck it, I'm on a roll. I'm going to call the fucking dentist.

anarchy in the uk

Oh! Almost forgot.

Almost caused a riot in the waiting room. You know, as you do.

I noticed a sign that said that the surgery's phone number was changing to an 0844 number. You know, for our convenience. No mention of how much it would now cost to call from now on, but I knew this meant that instead of getting an engaged tone, we'd now be put on hold while they made a few pennies a minute from our call.

[link]

It cunningly used the term "lo-call" a few times (do you see what they did there? genius...)

So, I stood up and asked the receptionist loudly and clearly how much the new toll-line would cost to call.

You could hear a fucking pin drop as the (quite full) waiting room's ears pricked up.

Grumpy Old Indian Lady (which I think you'll find is her given name) informed me in a crisply enunciated oration the exact cost of a call and the many and numerous benefits conferred upon the practice's much-valued patients.

Of course she didn't. She mumbled something about "from head office". I said that this didn't answer my question. I got some pained expressions, and a shake of the head with a 'no' attached. "Do you not think you ought to find out? Or at least mention this to someone? Apparently, everyone in this room thinks you should." (they sounded like they did).

Anyway, I got much more than I'd anticipated when I sat down. The room was buzzing with "shouldn't be allowed!" and "the liberty!"-type talk and to my delight and horror, a clearly excellent quality Mental leapt up and started shouting about how The Bastards had rinsed out his phone credit to the tune of six quid in a few minutes when he called another similar number recently.

I tried briefly to explain to him that mobiles are even worse because they can dictate how much comedy numbers cost, but he was clearly enjoying his Mental and I saw no reason not to sit back and do the same.

Fairly rapidly, the receptionist got into a bit of a shout with him and (bless her) used her powers of Repeating the Same Concept Until the Other Person Shuts Up to secure his quiescence. Demonstrating, too, that she was perfectly capable of communication when the situation demanded it.

"Would you like to discuss that outside?"
"What? It's a fucking disgrace!"
"Yes, but would you like to discuss that outside, this is a waiting room."
"Why? Aren't I allowed to talk here?"
"This is a waiting room."
"I know where I fucking am, love, I'm not down the fucking market now, am I?"
"Would you like to discuss that outside? This is a waiting room."
"Oh, for fuck's sake."

Cheered me up substantially, I can tell you.