I’ve been having on and off chest pains for the last few months, with increasingly frequency this week, so on Friday I went to see the doc.
(First of all, a big shout out to Lambeth Walk Group Practice. It’s been great every time I’ve been. Nice to see a well functioning, community NHS practice)
“Do you mind seeing any doctor?” asked the receptionist there. “Er…no?”. I didn’t realise what that meant was that I would end up with a final year student. Some people would throw a wobbly about this, I imagine, but I quite like seeing people at that stage of their development – on the cusp, really eager to prove themselves. And hey – she got a real doctor to check me up at the end anyway. “Stress” was the inevitable diagnosis. “Are you stressed at work?”
“Well…no more than anyone else.”
“Perhaps you need to take a look at your work/life balance. It’s consistent with anxiety.”
Rubbish. Who wants to be limited in ambition by their body? At (verging on) 26. How can you tell yourself you can’t work as much because you get ‘stressed’? Sounds like such bullshit. Plenty of people manage long working hours and an active life outside the office – I marvel at them, and I want to be able to do it myself without my body having a hissy. Perhaps I just need to be more efficient. Can always be more efficient…
Anyway – the doc told me to try and think less about things (for truth)…and away I went back to work.
Had a fairly low key weekend, taking in mind what I’d been told. Went to King’s Cross for a quick drink with Zoe and to give her her birthday card. Afterwards, I somehow ended up in a pub in Borough with Fritz and Charlotte (and latterly John Higgins) singing along to a fairly decent pub cover band. We got turfed out at 2 A.M., and me and Fritz hit up the Chicken Cottage, cycled back to mine, and continued talking about women, death and theatre til past 4. Sunday was a mash of watching the epic Nadal/Djokovich Aussie Open Final and swearing to never, ever, let myself encounter a mixed drink hangover again.
I’ve been typing up my expanded Christmas play that I had sent into the Court a couple of years back (They thought it turned into a ghost story..not sure why…) and while it is dull work, I’m finding that the piece itself is…well…dull. Forced jokes and not much dramatic action. Which was fine when it was an 8 page little number but at 25 pages…jeeze. I find myself wanting to slash it down, but have forced myself to type it up properly before I apply the guillotine.
READING AT THE MOMENT: ‘Lovesong‘ by Abi Morgan (Couldn’t get a ticket to this, so figured I’d get the text) and reading through a screenplay treatment Tam has sent me through.