“Great,” she said brightly, and I could tell that she had realized I was most decidedly not “fun.”
We wouldn’t ever be going bungee jumping or to a fancy dress party together.
What else is supposed to be fun? Sing-a-longs. Sponsored runs. Magicians.
I’ve no idea; personally, I like animals and crosswords and (until very recently) vodka.
What could be more fun than that? Not belly dancing classes in the community hall. Not murder mystery weekends. Hen dos. No.
“Was there something in particular that led you to seek help from your GP?” she said. “An incident, an interaction?
Telling someone how you’re feeling can be a very difficult thing to do, but it’s great that you took such an important first step.”
“A friend suggested that I see my doctor,” I said, experiencing a tiny frisson of pleasure as I used the “F” word.
“Raymond,” I clarified. I rather liked saying his name, the rhotic trill at the start.
It was a nice name, a good name, and that at least seemed fair.
He deserved some luck—after all, given his meager physical blessings, he already had enough to contend with,
without being lumbered with, say, Eustace or Tyson as a first name.
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