No, wait!
There IS something to write (complain) about after all. My frikking ulcer.
I don’t know how, but it manages to make the entire left side of my tounge feel like someone is stabbing it with a hot poker covered in limescale. Talking is hard; drinking is painful; eating is near-impossible.
The irony is that could have been gone by now. Yesteday, relatively early in the day,this conversation happened:
Dad: James, I’m going to the shops. Can I get you anything?
Me: Yeah, can you get me some Bonjela?
Dad: Yes.
And that should have been that. But, upon returning…
Me: This is toothing gel.
That’s right. A grown man, a man other people trust with their money, cannot distinguish a tube of anti-ulcer gel and a similar-sized, yet clearly labelled (yes, I probably spelt it wrong) tube of TEETHING GEL. It even had a picture of a baby on the side.
Actually, I’ll take back what I said earlier. The BIGGEST irony is that teething gel is actually stopping me from eating solid food.
