It calls for both a 'woo' and a 'hoo', this day that greets me every three weeks when I am allowed to give myself a medicated, synthetic energy boost.
It is my most favourite of medications, 30mg of a liquid known as Arenesp. If I were to create a metaphor (and it would be rude not to) this excursion through dialysis could be regarded as a marathon and the Arenesp days mark the water points along the route.
It comes in the form of an injection. I keep a box of syringes in the fridge, currently next to four bottles of beer and out of reach of any children - though if they are any childer-beasts found near my fridge, they've broken in to my apartment, so I say let them stab themselves in the eyes, that'll teach 'em.
It is I who performs the task of giving myself the injection - and it took some getting used to. Nobody likes needles and fewer still are comfortable with not having a doctor or nurse to silently curse and hold accountable when you feel that pinch.
A quote I read from Ian McEwan recently summed it up nicely. He points out that there is nothing in nature to resemble the sight of a syringe piercing skin. It goes against the natural reflex of every sensory nerve to inflict this upon yourself, to willingly infiltrate the bloodstream with something unnatural.
Deep, I know.
I actually didn't come up with any of that myself. I heard two junkies talking down around the Cornmarket the last night. Deep in reflection they were before shooting up.
I'm an awful woman for eavesdropping.