The scan

 Yesterday was a strike day, so there would be fewer trams and buses, and those that did run would be stuffed with people. I needed to get to the scanning centre by 10:10. It would take two trams. Normally it’s a 30 minutes journey. I allowed an hour.

The strike is to protest at the government’s plans to move retirement from the current 62 to 64. People are genuinely shocked that my official retirement age is 66, and for people younger than me it is later. At the same time there is a general acceptance that something has to be done in the face of longer life expectancy and better health. We live too long, and my prediction is that for future generations governments may well doctor in your financial health as well as your physical health in order to limit longevity. This is the subject of the short story that I have not yet written. 

Other people are striking for other reasons. I read of one young man that he is striking for good treatment of migrants, refugees and asylum-seekers.

I digress.

The first tram arrived at the same moment as me. It was practically empty. I hopped aboard and sat in the first seat. We glided through the quiet streets passing the station, the conservatory, and the gardens and games of the south quays. I had to change at the Pont de Pierre, and the timing of the trams could not have been better. I mounted my second tram and sat in one of the many available seats, then worked out how early I was. Yes. Half an hour.

Just before the scanning centre there’s a huge supermarket. I needed some ink cartridges so I could go and look for them, then walk through the 1970s brutalist Meriadeck centre to get scanned.

Meriadeck is fascinating. Just to the west of the cathedral and town hall, in the 1960s the city decided to raze the slums and build a utopian vision of the future. Vehicular traffic would be relegated to the ground, while pedestrians would frolic through the lush gardens and alleyways between the majestic concrete towers. People who live there love it while everyone else thinks it’s an eyesore. I like the camellias and the juxtaposition of wintering shrubs and trees and geometric concrete and mirror-glass buildings. But I keep well away from the dark alleys and quiet corners at night.

I got my cartridges, frolicked through the gardens and arrived still 20 minutes early. 10 would be OK.20 would not. So I went back to hunt down more camellias. How come they’re blooming in January? 

At 10 I went to see the receptionist.

How did you make your appointment?   

Online.

We don’t normally do both feet at the same time, and your doctor has actually asked for X-ray as well as ultrasound. See?

I didn’t really see at all.

I’ll just go and speak to the doctor.

I pondered what I ought to have done. Come back four times? One per procedure per foot? Could I have got successive appointments and just scuttled out to the waiting room between feet…

It’s OK. Since you’re here and you have both your feet with you we can do everything.

In one go? 

In one go.

I came out with a firm diagnosis of plantar fasciitis, « ça saute aux yeux » and with the confirmation that my feet have lovely bones.

Now the doctor has decided that it might be fun to make a map of the whole of my body, and the next step is to scan my neck. This because my salivary gland has decided that now is a good time to get blocked and swell up. ‘Lemon juice. Drink lemon juice and vinegar.’ The ophthalmologist mentioned in passing the possibility of doing an MRI of my optic nerves. 

They know I’m not retired yet, don’t they?