Bangkok   © PJ Croft 2017

I’m home again, officially sans gall bladder. It’s a bit galling (sorry) that I’ve spent $750 (after all rebates) to pay for an operation when I didn’t feel I had a problem, and when I feel no different afterwards. It would have been nice to feel some improvement.

I get a few jabs of pain in my gut from the five incisions, but it’s not enough to make me take pain relief. I might take some paracetemol tonight before bed.

I have to go to a school reunion (it’s our 70th birthday year) tomorrow, involving a long 1-hour drive each way. I’d better be careful, and I might have to leave the function early.

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I was fed with a pain killer called tepantadol in the hospital. It seems to be a new one. I was having weird visual hallucinatory effects. Patterns on the curtains were constantly moving downwards. A pair of slippers on the floor were moving toward the wheel of the bed, even though it was impossible. The pattern in the floor was moving away from me. The hinges between the door and its frame were slowly moving downwards. Crazy. I wasn’t bothered, but … At one stage I was sitting in a chair and falling asleep and dreaming, and speaking to a person next to me, then suddenly waking up, aware of what had happened.

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Women complain of sexist language used by males. In the hospital, I was repeatedly called “darling” and “love” and “luvvie” by the nurses. One very bossy nurse even ordered me around, calling me “buddy”, “mate” and “matey”.

For 30 years or more, my mother used to invariably call me “sweetie” and “snooks”. I hated it. I’m always being called these types of names in shops. I don’t mind it. What’s the problem? But if I called women “cutie” or “darls” or “babe”, I’d be condemned. I don’t say these things, and I don’t appreciate being criticised for sexist talk. Fair’s fair – it happens both ways! Women don’t realise they’re doing it and neither do most men.