I am to have an operation shortly and went to the pre-op. assessment recently. The nurse conducting it remarked on the coincidence that we both had the same birthday. “Not the same year, too?” I asked. “Oh no, I’m five years younger than you”. OK, fair enough. Then going down my notes she came to my profession; I’d put ‘tutor / writer’. “Oh! You’re a writer. Have you had anything published?”. I still love this bit. “Yes,” I replied, “my first book was published in 2013 and I’m working on the second.” “Well done!” said the nurse (for her sake, she will remain anonymous), “you must be very proud.” Now, because I’m British and female, I can’t take a compliment and, worse, I have a slight case of OCD that obliges me to be to be absolutely, totally honest. So, I confessed. “Well, actually, I self-published.” “Never mind,” said nursey, “at least you got it out there”. I thanked her. After a brief pause, she continued, “My daughter’s a writer, too. She went to some event and a publisher rang up afterwards saying they liked her work. They’ve published three of her books now and she’s writing the fourth. And they’re flying her out to California to discuss the film rights. I just don’t know where she finds the time because she’s a psychiatrist, really”. A minute or so later, she took my blood pressure. “Whooo! Your blood pressure’s a bit high!” (Yes, I’m sure you, dear reader, wonder why that was, too.) But the assassination of my self-worth wasn’t finished. “I expect you were frightened of the machine,” she said, smiling.
I have spent the days since sticking my ego back together. Anyone got any super-glue? (I’d probably feel better if I sniffed it.)
295 words. Hooray! (You see? OCD) Oops!) (301 – now 302, now…)