The government re-assess me medically even though the medical ex-spurts have given up on me years ago and put that prognosis in writing.
Like a bad smell a huge form comes through the post and I have to repeat everything I said four years previously about old injuries, mobility, and other issues. The photocopier glowing red for a few hours.
Then the reminder letters arrive. Threat this, threat that, on and on.
Anyway this time it was decided by ‘them’ I would have to meet with a medical professional who would carry out an assessment. Sigh. Up goes the stress levels, the anger, and I’m like a bear with a sore head for 6 weeks.
On the appointed day I went to this farce and, as luck would have it, SWMBO parked right outside the place. Only by now I’m high. WELL HIGH.
They were told to make a morning appointment as by the afternoon I’m fit for fk’all when taking my pain meds. Except we’re talking about not very civil, civil servants so they totally ignored that bit. Thus, in short, I’m numb from the hair down and generally out of it!
SWMBO is there for a number of reasons.
Driver (as I can’t drive when high), to keep me from falling over (which by the afternoon is always a possibility), mediator (due to anger issues) and I (and them) need her to calm me down as I don’t suffer fools well when bombed.
Definition of stress, opiates, and me?
The confusion created when one’s mind overrides the body’s basic desire to choke the living daylights out of somebody who desperately needs it!
This is what happens next.
We sat down, and waited, and waited some more.
Finally I need to walk around as I don’t do long-term sitting.
So, on my sticks, bombed out of my head, SWMBO watching over me I stagger around a bit. Twice more after that, an hour passed. Finally I kicked off my boots, stretched out on a long bench, and was asleep in seconds. Which is usually a good move.
Next thing I know is SWMBO is shaking me awake!
By now the speech gives in my mouth feeling like it’s stuffed full of cotton wool.
My IQ drops to politician level (negative numbers), and cognitive thinking doesn’t happen.
Thus SWMBO is now translating the burble coming out of my pie hole.
Within what felt like 5 minutes the guy says it’s obvious that I’m “in distress” so he wants me to go home. Then comes the kicker.
He’s come to that conclusion about an hour ago from the supporting paperwork (we took a ton of that), talking to me (although I can’t remember about what), and from watching me in the car park and waiting room (CCTV). Sneaky shit!
By now I’m past caring such is the power of meds on a hot day, no food, or sleep.
Only that’s not it. Not by a long chalk!
This guy now writes a report and submits it to another faceless “not very civil” civil servant to decide my fate. Time for that? Another 6 weeks.
Total time will be 12 weeks then they will probably declare me fit for everything as that’s what they do nowadays to everyone who doesn’t drop dead in front of them. Even to the point of demanding that a dead person attends further interviews.
Sigh. If they do I’m going back to my old profession of Vermin Control and fk. the government’s ‘assistance with strings’. The black economy calls (once again).
Anyway that’s the beauty about being good on a long gun.
You don’t need speed, just loads of guile, and a little biddy slice of experience.
Thus I can take my time getting into position, get comfy, and from then on shooting is one relaxing ‘pastime’.
Well past my sell by date, it’ll probably only be furry and feather control.
So we won’t starve but ultimately its dead boring.
However I could get lucky and as the star in the movie Despicable Me 2″ said:-
“Sorry, I didn’t see you over there, or there!”