Well, well. As it turns out, that awfully cheerful mood could not last long, could it? Life has its funny little tricks to throw at you whenever you are at your most distracted. Or should I say, blissfully happy? So it happens that at the end of that beautiful day, which was suppose to have finished after a nicely cozy dinner cooked by our flatmate A. to celebrate the Jewish Passover - don't ask, I still don't really understand what it means - I suddenly had an Ashma Attack. Yes, that calamitous A.A. I never gave much importance to it, since the last time it happened was well 4 years ago, but this time the boyfriend even got scared at the possibility of my stop breathing. I, then, had no choice but to end in the A&E section of the Big Royal Hospital in Whitechapel.
Rubbing shoulders with drunks, stabbed gangsters, and old people with low blood pressure, I arrived around 11pm, not expecting to stay long or even be attended to. HOWEVER, I was very mistaken, as occurred. Amazingly, I ended up staying nearly 4 long hours, having being seen by 4 nurses, done two nebulazations, a blood test and a X-Ray. Why, I have no idea. In the end, the coolest doctor in the world appeared to give his final verdict, and the way he spoke to me, I felt like a little girl in a pediatrician's practice. I almost asked for my lollipop.
I went home a bit confused, but the whole episode was not too upsetting. I guess I have to thank London's Public Health system for that.
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