This morning saw me making an early trip to my doctor's surgery through a beautifully sunlit and deserted city for the first appointment of the day. I came away holding the thing I'd asked for, a fit note.
Fit notes are an example of our government's penchant for meaningless re branding. We used to call then a "sick note", but to call someone "sick" is obviously not enabling enough, hence we now have the same piece of paper but with a different name.
As it happens though it my case it's a good description. I wasn't looking for a pass to Easy Street, I'm very anxious to keep working. As an insomniac I'm concerned that the combination of alternate insomnia, girl fog and the cumulative effects of the anti-insomnia drugs have blunted my edge somewhat when it comes to doing my job. I make money with my brain, and when that brain goes walkabout half way through a thought that money-making ability is dented. My employer is really good and fortunately I seem to be at last reigning in the insomnia, but I feel it's still worth having the fit note to provide a legal cover for my arse in the event his patience runs out.
My doctor was kind enough to describe the cause of my malady as "A hormonal imbalance awaiting the assessment of a specialist" Which is I guess the truth, sort of. And which neatly avoids my coming out at work. I'll leave the Long Chat with them until after I have a proper diagnosis in my hand.
So I've officially joined the ranks of the Unwell. The sick, the infirm, the ailing, the ill. And I have the paper to prove it. Which is kind of weird, as I've almost never been more physically fit in my life.