"What's A Matter wi THEE then.."

I've always been rubbish at the doctor's. Went years without meeting the same one twice. Sometimes I'd get as far as the surgery with some twinge or other and even dig out the old Medical Card (with everything spelt wrong...Two Gees in Blogga - that's right.)

And I sit there with the young mums, and the bewildered pensioners confused by the new chairs and paint scheme, and I totally forget why I was there. Probably to get some sick note to cover up some extended sickie I took. Or it might have been some legit illness that clouded a day or two that I thought I might cloud further with some script druggery.

I just never think about it. I'm fine almost all the time. Happy even, if the cat smiles at me, or the news has some particularly daft item on it, or the sky was blue. Something.

And tonight, well same old same old. Didn't given it a nanosecond's thought until "Whatsamatta Wi THEE then!!"

"Wah???"

Now I could tell our lass was vexed about something. Genuine vexed. She had the same look on her face that mi mam had the morning I wandered in the kitchen with measles. Or Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny has when they meet some particularly repulsive alien.

This instantly had me worried. Praps I'd turned blue grey or something, or I'd grown an extra head. It were mighty startling I can tell you, and it stopped me in my tracks completely.

You see I like my gal happy - I can waste whole weeks just watching her be happy. She's an expert happy person and I adore her for it. But sometimes I forget that I play a part in this fab state of affairs, and that when I do summat out of the O she's apt to notice.

And today I did.

I wasn't hungry.

Now I think not being hungry sometimes is a bloke thing. I didn't even notice. Too busy thinking of something else, like what the goldfish do all day.

'Wahh??"

" You didn't eat. What's wrong."

Dunno - I wasn't hungry I suppose.

It seems this is BAD. Michael Jackson Bad. I'm alert now. This not hungry thing is apparently WAY off my normal coming home from work modus operandi. She filled me in. I usually make a beeline for the fridge. Have a Yogurt. Have another yogurt then I'm going what's for tea within about 30 seconds.

And tonight this did not happen. At all.

"Something's wrong, isn't it..."

I'm now getting a bit worried myself. I'd no idea. I start looking for clues. Bit of toothache? Been farting a bit more than normal? Clearly there must be something else. I start being uncomfortably aware of suspiciously regular breathing. Blood pressure? I don't thing I've ever had my blood pressure taken in my life - maybe it's too high or two low or something.

Or Cholesterol! The telly ad people are always on about it. I never buy the stuff, so I've always thought I was OK. Or Caffeine! Must be it. I have real coffee! And the pop - I pour ultra-regular full-strength high-sugar aluminium-wrapped Coke wi' nowt taken out down my neck all day.

Praps I should have been scoffing no-caffeine, no-sugar, no-bubbles no-flavor stuff and rationing myself to one a week. I must have had three full tinnies of the stuff this afternoon alone! This is clearly not good.

So instead of blogging I start browsing around hypochodriaville - that scrubbed antiseptic part of the net where everything is squeaky clean. Even the colours, which are blue and white, like the toothpaste people on TV.

In this part of the net, EVERYTHING is worth freaking out about. Long fingernails can cause rare forms of beri-beri. Blue clothes are bad for the karma. That telly in that corner means your right legs going to be slowly turning into an arm.

I go to the fridge to get something to scoff (gal's off looking for the cat or something) and I stuff my face whilst burrowing through the medical sites.

She comes back with this big theory that Men Change. They seem fine for a few years, then suddenly from being a hearty trenchman they turn into Mr Anorexic, living off of Altoid Mints and Red Bull for the rest of their lives. I nod in agreement, cos my mouth's full. It's OK", she says, resigned to a life of sheer culinary hell.

Then she spots the bones of the leftover pizza.

Then I get the look.

"Whaaa??"

That was half an hour ago.

She's fine again - busy trying to remember Stanley Holloway's 'Albert And The Lion' monologue all the way though and thinking of something far more important than my eating habits. Back to worry free, and that's how I like her. She's good at that.

But now I'm silently worried that the five day old pizza I just rooted out of the fridge is going to change me forever. Delicious though. Wonder if there's any more...

Blogga.