Who researches the researchers?

It’s happened again. I shouldn’t even notice by now, I should just take a deep breath and accept it. But I can’t. It just gets to me. I had another attack of foot-in-mouth disease. And at the doctor’s as well, o irony most foul.

As we were chatting away, he asked me if my husband was supportive, and whether he was a patient man, to which I blurted the response “he has to be, he loves me”. Which rather sounded like “I, Helga Heffalump, am thoroughly enjoying  abusing my poor devoted wee husband’s love for me by making him endure all this shit on purpose. Ha ha.”

Of course, what it should really have meant was: “I’m aware that putting up with me on a daily basis already requires so much patience – and a mild form of insanity -that my husband is, by definition, the most patient, sweet and understanding man on the face of this earth and I am very lucky to have him by my side…” Of course by the time I realised how corrupted the message had become between my tired brain and my hyperactive voicebox, the moment was long gone and my doctor was firmly convinced that I’m some kind of horrible oppressive husband-beater.

Then, just to complete my day of bumbling, on my way downstairs (or rather downlift) from the doctor’s office, I helpfully prevented a woman from getting out at the wrong floor. She had pressed the 1st floor button when we got in, and the lift stopped at the 2nd floor to let on a young Asian lady. The other lady was about to leave the lift when I said “Hang on, this is the 2nd floor”, to which she smiled and said “Oh, so it is, thank you.” And I could have left it there, and all would have been well.

But no, I had to add “Well, they do all look alike, don’t they!”.

This, of course, was greeted by a very frosty stare from the Asian lady, despite the fact that all the floors of that building do indeed look very much alike, with only a very tiny sign to tell you what floor you’re on.

And that kind of thing happens to me all the time. Literally all the time. In fact most of my waking hours are spent thinking about what I should have said in hindsight at such and such a moment. Some of my sleeping hours too in fact. The examples above are actually fairly mild ones compared to some of the catastrophic cock-ups my ramblingly random lack of brain-mouth coordination has gotten me into.  Surely there must be some way – short of chopping out my own tongue and eating it with a nice Chianti and some beans – of preventing this?

Honestly, with all the money poured into medical research every year, why is there no work going into finding the cause and the cure for this terrible, terrible and relatively widespread illness? Surely it must have caused many deaths, conflicts, international incidents, even whole wars, over the years? Once again, scandalously only the sexy diseases are getting a share of the limelight.

Maybe we should get some fellow sufferers from the world of celebrities to organise a charity concert or something. I’m sure Geoff Lloyd would support the cause, at the very least…  In fact, we should probably be able to get at least half the British Royal Family to endorse it, after all, they were the first to prove it was hereditary…

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