Growl, hiss, spit and every rude word I can dredge up

That blasted black dog has his salivating gnashers deeply embedded in my posterior after yesterday. Think Rottweiler sized mutt, with a Bulldog's tenacity.

As a day's annual leave goes, it wasn't a great day. Most of it was spent at the hospital and my lovely hubby is now back under the care of the (admittedly highly competent and lovely) surgeon/consultant who only discharged him a few short months ago. Now before I go on, yes, OK, I know there's a positive slant to all this, and I am desperately trying to hang on to it - that is that he is being properly checked on and he's receiving a great level of healthcare, but...

That 'but' has the fat lass inner child writhing and screaming 'it isn't bloody fair!' at the top of her lungs.

To cut a long story short(ish), my poor darling has had what we though was a teensy problem with the sight in the eye which has undergone the various operations in recent years. When mentioned to our optician she checked it out but, quite rightly, wanted to get an expert opinion. What she didn't tell us was that the clinic she'd booked him into yesterday was the 'emergency' eye clinic. Oh! Perhaps a few warning bells should have rung when the appointment came through so fast, but... they didn't.

The upshot from yesterday is that, having had a thorough examination, photos, the whole shebang, he's going to see the consultant in about four to six weeks time so they can have another look. Now it obviously isn't an 'oh my God!' urgent issue or he'd be whipped in to see her tomorrow, but they are also obviously concerned about 'something'.

What we couldn't thumbscrew out of the practitioner we saw yesterday is exactly what the concern is. My best guess though, is they are slightly worried about a repeat of the retinal detachment. The tip to this is the sheer number of times we were asked if we were aware of the 'signs to look out for'. Er, yes. Actually we have the tee-shirt, having been there and done that several times.

Whatever happens, we'll deal with it - together. Whatever happens, we'll be fine. But the fat lass worry genes are firmly activated and I'd say we're at DEFCON 4 or maybe 3 right now. Hence those rude words.

Tonight I'll hit the gym and take some of my frustrations and concerns out in a sweaty manner. Onwards, wearily ever...