It’s no good, it’s no bloody good, I have to go to the doctors, and I have to go as soon as possible! Mum’s doctors doesn’t work for the next few days, so it's off to the Medical Centre on Dean Street, where a large aboriginal National Parks Ranger sits under a tree, on a rock, munching lazily on a pie. He looks like he's really enjoying it. I lick my lips at the thought of another Rocky pie. They make them so well up here. Mmm, steak pie.
A youngish Indian woman doctor sees me, her tummy swollen with her second child. We chat and I cough, and cough - she writes me a script, I am grateful. It does occur to me later, listening to my conversation with her, that I really don’t take care of myself enough. I don’t think any mother does, really; we usually come last, and that’s just how it is.