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I've not been a very good blogger, recently, dear reader. Go on, tell me to my face. I can take it.

I do have an excuse, though.

The truth is, I've been worried - and that's the understatement of the century.

I've been going back and forth, over the past month or so, to my GP. A lump came up on my tongue, which in turn became a crater, which in turn, began to bleed.

After a few episodes of crossed wires and/or thoughlessness, I, yesterday, went for an emergency appointment at the Ear Nose and Throat Department, Lauriston Buildings, Edinburgh. It's in a building which used to make up part of the former Edinburgh Royal Infirmary before it moved to Little France.

I knew the reasons I was going. I was as prepared as I could have been, and as scared as I could have been. On making the appointment for me, my GP used long, scary and horrible words on the telephone with the registrar. I knew all the by-words for cancer and tumour.

So I saw the registrar yesterday. He was very nice. Jamie, was his name. He wanted to put me at ease, patting me and stroking me on the shoulder on more than one occasion. I can't say it worked. His actions simply promoted the idea, in my mind, that there was indeed something to worry about. When asking my GP if there was something to worry about, her having arranged an emergency appointment for me and using all those nasty words, she responded, "Oh, it's probably nothing."

I asked Jamie, point-blank, if he thought I had cancer. His reply wasn't really to my liking, though it could have been worse.

"You have a small tumour," he said. "It could be benign, it could be malignant. It's about a fifty fifty chance."

Did he study the same don't scare them course as my GP? Her saying, it's probably nothing meant it's probably something. Did his fifty fifty comment mean highly likely? Who knows, dear reader?

I might find out today, once my trip to Little France is done. Having said that, it might take a fortnight. I'm not sure why nor how, but these are the things I can remember.

We live, we die and we forget that all in between is temporary. When we remember, it comes as something of a jolt.

My fabulous boyfriend, Ian, spent yesterday and the day before with me at home and at the hospital. I feel more settled now, knowing what's coming and how long I might have to wait for the answers to questions I might not necessarily want to ask. He's at work now, thinking of me, as I get ready to take the bus to my fate.

I'm not crying any more. I've not done so since last night. I'm used to the idea, I suppose, that is all. I'm not feeling optimistic nor brave. Just used to the idea.

So I'm sorry for not being a good blogger, dear reader. I hope you can forgive me. And I will be trying harder in future. I just hope I'm given reason to look to the future.

It's strange, in the comments sections of recent posts, people have been speaking about tongues and death. One wonders how much of ones subconscious leaks out into ones conscious life.