I go up to see Dr Michael Perring tomorrow, the man who will give a 'second opinion', a psychiatric opinion, on my suitability for genital surgery. As you might imagine, I've been thinking about this vital interview all evening. I thought about it all the way through a BBC4 programme on German art. Then through another programme on Berlin. Serious, distracting stuff; but not serious or distracting enough to quell disturbing visions of making a complete mess of things when I see Dr Perring.
There's no reason at all why I, a sensible person not given to fits of excitability or to reckless impulses, should behave like an idiot, but my unusually nervous mind insists that I will. Isn't that very odd? I suppose it's the thought of being examined for signs of the wrong motives or mistaken self-perception. I haven't faced that sort of thing since I last had a chance of promotion at work - and that was a very long time ago.
I'm sure I'll wake up tomorrow feeling perfectly cool and easy about it, and will be able to speak in an entirely natural way to Dr Perring. But it doesn't feel like that at this very moment. It feels as if my surgery will be denied because I couldn't stop making a series of silly flippant remarks. A looming nightmare.
Ah well. I'm off to bed. At least I know what I want to wear. I had to sew a button onto a long grey skirt tonight, and that helped, as will ironing a black top first thing tomorrow, and polishing my black boots, and putting on my pearls. Like kitting up for the battle to come.
I hope the trains are running.