Phyllis The Hernia is starting to get on my nerves (which are frayed enough as it is, thanks very much MS).
As regular readers will know, I tagged along with The Boss on his recent Geneva road trip, where he gawped at a bunch of cars and took selfies of himself sitting in yet more cars at the Geneva Motor Show.
While he did that, I sat in one of the numerous cafes at the event, poking and prodding Phyllis and pretending to read through the stack of books I’d brought with me.
Luckily, The Boss was satisfied with a couple of hours wandering around miles of … cars, so we spent the other two days exploring Geneva. Just me, him and Phyllis.
I’d packed my hernia support belt (words I never ever thought I would utter in my 40’s) and tried it on. An almost metre-wide band of elastic, stretchy beige material that I was supposed to wrap around my waist.
In the comfort of the hotel bathroom, I breathed in, pulled the belt tightly around me, Velcroing myself into place. With floor to ceiling mirrors, it was easy to see how ridiculous I appeared. Sure, the pressure was great and I felt a lot better, but I looked like a semi-skinned extra-large sausage, wrapped in pastry and ready to cook.
However, and this is a definite positive, hernia belts are the new Spanx. I suddenly had a waist! With this in mind, I dressed, admiring my new figure and dismissing the ever so slight inability to breathe properly.
Anyway, I took Phyllis to have an ultrasound scan today, to see how big she had grown, before I have surgery. I duly turned up at the allotted time, having foregone coffee for hours beforehand and waited for almost an hour.
When I was finally called and had shown Phyllis to a couple of people, they looked at me sadly and told me the doctor had booked me in for the wrong scan, so I have to go back on Sunday.
I got back home, gulped down three coffees in rapid succession and cursed Phyllis. The hernia saga continues …