I am basking in the afterglow of wonderful lovemaking with the love of my life Lee. As Lee lay beside me gently sleeping I began to reminisce, first coming to the firm conclusion that I am "one lucky boy". As my mind drifted I found my thoughts back to the time when I was a day boy at a minor public school (Americans read that as private school) in the county of Suffolk, England.
My thoughts of school and the enjoyable time I spent there are always a comfort to me. It had been one of those startling moments in ones life, actually sat in a math's class, when I had first admitted to myself that I was more than likely gay. I was 13 at the time. This did indeed prove to be the case, and as I lazily turned my head, I looked lovingly at the evidence laid sleeping beside me. Most of my time at school had been spent in acceleratedprogrammes, and at the age of 16 I could have sat the entrance exam for any number of near the top universities. I'm not trying to brag here, just stating things as they are.
Apart from a handful of boyish fumblings, school was totally sexless unless you count the lustful staring and watching of the many particular boys who took my fancy here and there. There really were quite a lot of those, and my mum's Kleenex purchases were remarked on more than once. I couldn't swear to it, but I think my father explained it to her one day when she mentioned it at the dinner table. He gave me the most sympathetic look when he saw the blush that had risen to my cheeks. Kleenex was never mentioned again, but a box magically appeared in my room from that day on.
My fathers business was originally the repair and restoration of antique furniture. He is a master craftsman who constantly maintained and enjoyed full order books for 2 years into the future at any given time. He diversified into reproduction "antique furniture" after having accepted several commissions to make copies of original pieces for customers who had been unable to acquire the matching piece to make up a pair. From that point on, the money rolled in. Within 4 years he employed 32 people, footing anannual wages bill of well over half a million pounds.
I had spent many weekends with my father at the "factory", starting at the age of 10 which would be 6 years after he had commenced the reproduction side of the business. At the time, we lived on the outskirts of Colchester in Essex. Colchester is the earliest recorded town in England, and was also a Roman garrison that still has and maintains its original Castle. It was also the Roman capital of Britain.
The house we lived in was a quite ancient structure commonly referred to as a timber frame house. The date of construction was the early fifteenth century, (about 1407 I think). Originally, it would have been a quite wealthy merchant's house with a shop/warehouse on the ground floor.
The days of it being a shop were long gone and the floor space it provided made it a very spacious house in which to live. All the timber in the house is solid English oak, and when you consider the size of some of the timbers involved, the trees they came from must have been well over a thousand years old. We also had a paddock and various outbuildings, plus an ancient orchard with many varieties of Old English apples. I spent many hours of my boyhood here, playing all sorts of games with my best friend Lee. We had the most wonderful adventures playing amongst the trees, and in the outbuildings. These buildings were also the place where my boyish fumblings took place, with us seeing who could cum first and who could shoot the furthest. We quickly learned that if we "did" each other, it always shot just that little bit further, and was infinitely more pleasurable.
It was also in these outbuildings that father had started off and run his antique's business until the eventual purchase of his present premises in Stowmarket. Living there as a child was not the idyllic setting you would expect. The house creaked and groaned 24 hours a day and had my child's imagination running riot. It was worst of all in the summer evenings as it cooled down, and in truth my childhood there was not an enjoyable one, other than the time spent with Lee. I always thought the place was creepy, and suffered it till the age of fifteen when we finally moved the few miles into Suffolk and the new bungalow I now own.
Dad had bought a seven acre plot in Suffolk that had planning permission for one house to be built. He quickly had a road laid in and a boundary wall built all around the property. He then began construction of his dream bungalow with all the timber fixtures and fittings being made at our "factory". It took him two years to complete.
I, on my many weekends at the factory had fallen in love with the finishing side of the operation and from about thirteen onwards began to spend a lot of my holiday time there too. By the time I was sixteen I could apply French polish and any number of other finishes alongside the best of them.
My life wasn't all work of course and I was able to pursue lots of hobbies and pastimes including my passion for fishing, my growing fascination with the internet, and my other passion of photography. Living in Essex and ultimately Suffolk, meant we were on the edge of the Norfolk Broads, which is a very extensive network of rivers and lakes. We live only 30 or so miles from the coast so sea fishing and boat trips were, and indeed are, a regular occurrence.
The Suffolk coast is very diverse with lots of rivers along it, being wild one minute then moving on into the prettiest of villages, and small resort towns. There are lots of bird and animal sanctuaries too, with rigid protection enforced. It also boasts the section of the British coastline that is its furthest point eastward, and is actually the site of a town called Lowestoft. It was famous as one of the busiest fishing ports in Britain and was the main source of Herring for Britain, and the cured barrels of fish that were shipped Empire-wide. Of course the fishing has all but disappeared, with it now being mainly a resort town. Many of the huge ocean-going-trawlers have been converted to luxury motor yachts. Dunwich is also there, and was the site of a land slip where parts of the small town fell into the sea during the 1800's.
Another plus is the fact that within a couple of hours we could be at the Channel Ports. Certainly within three to four hours of leaving home, we could be in France, sail overnight to Germany or The Hook Of Holland, departing from Harwich in Essex. I love the wonderful area in which I live.
I accompanied my dad on many of these journeys where he would be on buying trips, looking out for likely stuff to restore and ultimately sell on. I loved the many weeks we spent there, and the ultimate thrill of unpacking the container once it all arrived back at the factory. To see it all come back to life, to its full beauty, and to actually have a hand in the finishing of many of the pieces was a complete buzz. I knew that in one or two hundred years, people would still be admiring the piece and the finish that I had put on it.
Another hobby was collecting Staffordshire-ware figurines. I accompanied dad to many auction houses and was always on the lookout for pieces I could buy. By the time I was fifteen, I had maybe 50 pieces worth around £6/7000. Adding all the purchases up in my little book, I was proud of the fact that the entire collection had not cost me more than £2000.
As summer approached, and the day of my 16th birthday arrived, my mum and dad took me out for dinner. Dad was quite serious and almost stern when he said he wanted to chat with me about my future. I couldn't help wondering how he had found out; it wasn't as if I had ever had a boyfriend in my entire life. To be truthful my imagination got the better of me and I was quite frankly, shitting bricks. In reality, I couldn't have been further off the mark.
He began by saying, "I know you are very bright Matt, and what I have to propose is going to affect what I see as your future, but will affect it in a wonderful and challenging way." He went on to ask if I had given any thought to what I wanted to do. I replied, saying I wanted to finish school and eventually get a degree, but what in; I wasn't as yet too sure. I went on to say that I saw my future as being totally immersed in the family business, stating that I was sure it would never lose its buzz for me.
Dad looked relieved and began to outline his vision for my future. He asked how I felt about leaving school at the end of this term and starting to work at the factory. I could work my way through all stages of production, eventually making my way to the top. He pointed out that this approach would give me a thorough grounding and insight into many of the production problems that arose, and the way they were subsequently solved. I would then be in a position to jointly work with him till such time he thought I could confidently run it.
This would allow him to retire sooner rather than later, going on to achieve his long held dream of going to live in Wales. The summer break at school wouldn't begin for another month so I could think about it till then and give him a decision at that time. I began to tell him that I didn't need any time to think about it, but he wouldn't let me finish, insisting I take the time to work out all the pluses and minuses of his plan. He went on to say that I should also anticipate having a couple of days a week at the sixth form college taking business studies if I chose to start work. By the time dinner was over I was ecstatic.
The following week at school I made an appointment with my house master in order to talk over the whole thing. At first, he was amazed that I was even contemplating leaving school, but as it became clear that the plan was well worked out, he had to agree it was in fact sound and totally viable. When I mentioned that the company turned over around £20,000,000 a year his eyes bugged out. He wished me all the best for my future saying he was sorry to be losing one of his 'A students' (blush blush). I admitted to being sorrowful to be leaving, also telling him that I had enjoyed my time there, and feeling they had indeed stretched my mind enormously.
I remember that over the next few days I began to develop an awful pain in my left lower abdomen. Mentioning it to mum one morning when I found as I got up that I could hardly move, she promptly rang the doctor making an early appointment. Within the next 30 minutes he had me laid out on his couch thingy, painfully probing my tummy and surrounding area, going as far as to give my balls a good feel too, all this, with my mum watching over me in a very concerned and worried state. Talk about embarrassing. He diagnosed cystitis, which is a urinary tract infection that is quite serious in males. It apparently travels up the urinary tract going on into the kidneys doing lots of damage if left untreated. I returned home with a course of antibiotics and orders to spend a couple of days resting up. Cystitis in females apparently is very simple to treat. Just the application of a topical cream is all it takes to cure it. In males it is quite difficult to shift if left, and is as I can attest, very painful.
Sure enough, it quickly cleared up with me being able to finish my last two weeks of school. The final few days, and ultimately the last one, were very emotional for me. I really did like going to school and swore to my friends that I would keep in touch. I had spent half an hour wandering the hallways, picking out the framed pictures of my class. They hung on the walls everywhere you went, all mixed in with classes from maybe a hundred years past. Studying them studiously, I quickly picked out the dishwater blonde haired boy, his cheeky smile lighting his sparkling emerald green eyes. I whispered to him, "Well! No more of these photos for you Matt, it's off to work, and into the big bad world you go." Sighing softly, I slipped away silently, and to my last class.
The first couple of weeks of my summer holiday I spent with mum in Cape Town. Father joined us for the final two weeks beginning to do his best to constantly psyche me up about starting work. It didn't work, and I'm sure he was a little pissed at not being able to get a rise out of me. I knew I was going to miss school dreadfully, yet the thought of beginning what was to be my career very soon, was also very exciting. I don't know why, but I just couldn't respond to dad's often funny little digs.
Cape Town btw, is truly awesome, with Table Mountain rising behind the city. The occasional clouds rolling off its uppermost lip make it a truly awe inspiring spectacle. Dad arranged for us to see it at dawn from about ten miles out to sea. 'Awe inspiring' is definitely not an adequate superlative. The sprawling city with its huge skyscrapers looked tiny with the amazingly flat topped and enormous mountain as its backdrop. As the sun quickly rose behind it, I felt truly insignificant, and have since sworn that it is a sight I shall strive to see with my love beside me. It is something which, I am sure, we will definitely remember to the grave.
The twelve hour flight back to Heathrow was a killer, and about half way through it, the pain of six weeks ago returned with a vengeance. It was extremely worrying and embarrassing seeing the flight crew scurrying around then hearing the Captain's voice over the speaker system ask if there was a doctor onboard. Thankfully there was, and after having a word with my mum and dad he expressed his doubts over our family doctors diagnosis, saying he would have an ambulance meet us at Heathrow. He gave me an injection which, thankfully, must have been a quite powerful sedative because the next thing I remember is waking up the next day in hospital with the worst headache of my life, and a mouth that felt like the desert.
Feeling around I found monitor thingys stuck all over my upper body and a tube coming out of my dick. I also had a canula inserted and taped to the back of my hand which in turn was connected to a bag that hung from a stand. My mum sat dozing next to my bed and awoke with a start when she heard my croak. She gave me a tired smile asking how I felt at the same time that she was reaching for, and pressing a buzzer that was on my nightstand. A nurse entered before I could croak out an answer proceeding to ask me the same silly question. My croak must have convinced her that my throat and mouth were dry because she immediately lifted a glass with a straw to my mouth to allow me to sip water. It's the best water I've ever had in my life.
The doctor arrived, did his thing, and then left the room after telling us I could probably go home in a couple of days. I asked my mum what was wrong with me. She replied that their best guess was that I had an aggressive form of the cystitis virus, but I was responding well to antibiotics that were being fed through my IV drip. They were going to do a scan the next day to check for anything else (kidney stones were mentioned) but they didn't think they would find anything. Their best guess was that my first course of medication had simply put the infection into hibernation, and it had re-manifested itself with a vengeance during the long flight home. She went on to tell me not to worry, to relax and rest in order to speed up my release and recovery.
I took her at her word, and the next thing I knew it was dark when I awoke absolutely busting for a shit. I found my dad was sat beside me, and as I made my predicament known he smiled and went to see the nurse. He came back with a bed pan telling me I couldn't get out of bed, and that after he had argued with the nurse she had agreed to let my dad help me take my dump.
I thought that having my balls felt in front of my mum was embarrassing, but the amazing dump I had was far worse, not least being the smell. I could feel the heat on my face and shoulders, so severe was my blush. It got worse when I had finished and dad had me leaning forwards to see to my bum. He was really kind and gentle, finishing off with a warm damp cloth then drying me off. Thank God mum had gone back to the hotel and wasn't here to insist that she do it.
Five days later, after being back in Suffolk for the previous three, I was trying to convince my mum and dad to let me go fishing. My friend from school, another day boy, was visiting me from the nearby village where he lived. He was aiding and abetting my cause, giving all sorts of assurances that he would look out for me. They convinced us both that it wasn't a good idea, but if I was still on the mend in two days time they would certainly reconsider. The closing argument that won their case was citing the fact that it was only seven days earlier that I had beenstretchered unconscious, off a Jumbo Jet. We ended up in my room playing the computer games I had. Tony beat the shit out of me.
It wasn't till a week later that they and the doctor agreed I could now begin to go out. The instructions were to still take it easy with definitely no bike riding. Dad did agree to me sitting on the mower to cut the front lawn, but as soon as I felt tired I was to park it up and come inside. I actually got about half of it done. This was no mean feat as this particular lawn is over an acre in size. The one to the rear of the property that leads into quite dense woodland is closer to two, with maybe another half acre on each side of the house. It seems my dad really likes grass.
Three weeks passed by before the doctor cleared me to start work. I was fed up of going to his surgery every 3 days or so with piss samples, and to also have blood taken. I had been stuck with needles so often I felt like a pin cushion. I actually felt great and was well back on form and up to reasonably full fitness. I couldn't wait to actually start work and to begin earning a proper salary.
Dad had taken me to his bank where we had opened a current account for me, this would enable the wages office to pay my money in each month. How he did it I don't know, but I also had a debit card issued which I was surprised to find actually worked in the hole in the wall too (ATM). He took me to the machine telling me to draw out what I thought I would need for the week in expenses. That's when I found out he had started my account off with £500. He went on to explain, very tongue in cheek, that he had underpaid me for the past two years and to consider this a little bonus in recompense..............Whooooo Hoooooooo!!!!
I already had a savings account that I refused to touch, and it was in fact where all my Christmas and birthday money ended up. I also deposited the cheques from sales I made when selling unwanted but profitable porcelain pieces, picked up at various auctions. The money dad had paid me when I had worked whilst at school ended up there too, so without going into vulgarities about the balance, suffice it to say I could very well have gone out and bought a new car had I been old enough to drive one. That however, would have to wait for another year until I was seventeen. I would try to con mum and dad into buying my first car anyway.
Monday, my first day starting my new routine was spent getting a lift off my mum to Diss rail station. There, I got on a train to Norwich for my first day at 6th form college to start my business studies course. It's a two year course which would take place on Monday and Tuesday each school term week. The rest of the week would be a lift off dad to the factory, and the start of my 'apprenticeship' working my way through all the production processes. The plan was that I would eventually end up, at around the age of 21, a full partner with dad. He had already had the signage around the factory changed to end in "& Son". It was in fact the factory foreman who drew my attention to it as I had totally failed to spot it. I was really proud and went racing to dad's office, burst in without knocking, and hugged him madly. He was overjoyed at my reaction to the new signs and company stationery.
I don't need to go into the boring details of the regular humdrum pattern that followed, just maybe touch on the fact that my dad seemed very happy with the progress I seemed to be making. Without being a snitch about it, I soon turned into an extra pair of eyes on the shop floor for him, and was able to keep him up to speed on the general mood of things. The sixteen mile drive home was filled with those chats.
One typical instance was another boy about my age who I fancied gutless. He had started work just before me and was a really hard worker. I found out how much dad was paying him and it seemed to me to be a pittance when compared to my own pay scale. I know I am the owner's son and all that, but fair is fair. A hard day's work deserves a fair day's pay, and it is one of the few times my dad began to get annoyed with me. As ever though, he is nothing but fair, and once I had got my point across he agreed to look at the situation.
Martin got his raise, and with some overtime he virtually doubled his earnings....Not bad! At the time I thought "it's not your thanks I want, but your dick will do very nicely". He frequently starred in my bedtime fantasies, and cost mum at least another case of Kleenex.
The next moment of excitement if you can call it that, came around two months before my seventeenth birthday. Dad at the time had an XJ6 (Jaguar sedan). It was really pampered and got everything it wanted, and at eighteen years old it still looked like new. He adored the car, and had bought it new before I was even conceived, let alone born.
This particular morning we were on our way to work taking our usual route which took us along a narrow, winding, and twisting lane called 'Cutting Lane'. A section of it ran across a bridge then up a hill that bends to the left as you travel up it. We had literally just got onto the bridge when a white Ford Mondeo came blinding around the bend weaving from one side of the road to the other. Dad tucked himself in as far as he could but the twat hit us on the offside front end taking our front wheel off as he went. He bounced off us, hit the bridge wall with a huge bang, demolished it, and traveled on through the hole falling the 15 feet or so into the stream below. I gave my head a really hard bang as we hit the wall on our side, ending up with a mild concussion. I also sprained my wrist badly where I had reached out to brace myself on the wooden dashboard.
My dad was unhurt altogether. The lunatic in the Ford was out cold. There was water swirling around his feet which we could see through the driver door that had burst open on impact. His car was totally fucked, as very painfully, was dad's. It was the first time I ever saw my dad with tears in his eyes. He still had his wits about him though, and after checking the guy was breathing etc, he grabbed the 35mm camera I kept in his car, and began to take pictures of our skid marks. Some more pic's to prove the fact that there were none from the Ford, and some of the general situation to show how it had all ended up.
The Police and paramedics arrived at around the time he finished. The car phone was still working so he had called them using that. After rescuing the now conscious lunatic and breathalysing him, they arrested him for drunken driving (7.30am). One of the cops accompanied him to hospital. The paramedics had called another ambulance after finding I had injuries and a concussion so I was carted off to hospital too. Dad, who had to stay at the scene, must have rung mum because she was there soon after I arrived.
After spending the night under observation and having my wrist splinted and strapped up plus being treated for shock, I was allowed home late the next morning. I had also been fitted with a neck brace for whiplash injuries to my neck. My mum picked me up from hospital and I felt like a total prat being wheeled down to her car with all my different dressings and braces. My left eye by this time was a wonderful shade of purple from where my head hit the door window.
Dad was out buying a diesel Citroen from the garage who did all the servicing work on his old Jag. It would do until he either got his car repaired or found another Jag he liked. It was a week to ten days later he found that his car had indeed been written off by his insurance company. That was the second time I saw him cry, with me right alongside him in sympathy. After all, I had never known another car in our family except for mum's runabouts. The only consolation was his payout which they agreed would be relative to its condition and the love and care he had lavished on it. It seems it pays to keep evidence in the form of receipts.
I think the fact he wasn't claiming a hire car whilst he was immobile helped his case somewhat too. I found at the same time that I too was in for a good payout. The whiplash injury attracted over £1000 let alone the sprained wrist. The concussion and time off work plus any reasonable expenses I could think of would boost it even further. I have to say though, it certainly isn't a way I would choose to come by money, but it would without doubt go a long way towards helping me to get over it.
Next up was my seventeenth birthday with a week off work to attend a crash course on driving, taking my test, and with everything I could cross, crossed, I very thankfully passed. We celebrated with a wonderful cake and lots of congratulations. Dad had by now found another Jag he liked up in Derbyshire. It's a 3 litre S-type with all the good shit attached. It's like a midnight blue metallic. The Citroen meanwhile was sat in one side of the garage unused. I had tried all my best wiles to get a new car for my birthday but you guessed it, I got the bloody Citroen plus a substantial raise in pay.
It was in truth a very nice car which I kept for over two years. I also got a lecture along with the pay rise going something like this; "I've given you a pay rise Matt. This will more than cover you to buy your own car which I am sure you will appreciate more because you have had to buy it yourself. Meanwhile, you can have the Citroen which is diesel, is also very economical to run, and will go a good way to help you save more. I will add you to the company insurance policy for as long as you don't earn any speeding tickets, don't drink and drive, and generally refrain from being reckless. I know you are extremely careful in most aspects of your life, but by adding these constraints we feel that it helps us to feel you are safer. Remember that we love you dearly and could never replace you".
Even though to all intents and purposes it was a lecture, it touched me to my very core, and I had a hard job holding back the tears. All I had ever known from my parents was their absolute love, and certainly viewed my relationship with my dad as more than that of father and son. He was in fact my friend and ultimate mentor. I also admired him very much. I loved my mum dearly too, and couldn't envisage my life without either of them in it. The only thing that really gets on my nerves with my mum is the fact that she insists that I wear a shirt and tie to the meal table on Sundays. It's the same for dad too. In protest, we often eat out of fast food joints when we are traveling, just to be able to use our fingers and generally pig out without any of the nagging.
She comes from a quite well to do family, having gone to one of those fancy girls finishing schools as well. Her expectations therefore, are quite high with her sense of decorum being flawless. I often regard it as outright snobbishness. I suppose that at the end of the day though, her quote of "manners maketh man" is probably spot-on.
Having a car at last was a total blast. It's like starting life all over again with all the boundaries redefined. The sense of freedom is a total buzz and where I had been reliant on lifts, poxy buses and trains, this was now without doubt a whole new life. I could get about to see friends from school whom I hadn't seen for over a year. I could go fishing at the drop of a hat; I didn't have to wait for dad when I finished work. If I fancied KFC or a MacDonald's, I didn't have to whine on at dad to drive me the 25 miles to the nearest branch (it's very rural here). I could never in a million years have asked my mum. She would have had kittens over the prospect of not being sat at a table using cutlery as all civilized English people do. In short, I now loved my life more than ever.
It was around this time that quite by chance I met up with a boy I had known when we lived in Colchester. He is half American. His father, who is a bit of an arsehole with him, is a serving NCO with the American air force. He is based at the biggest American base in the world outside of America. It's called Lakenheath.
I had gone into Stowmarket town centre direct from work, and was doing some shopping one Saturday afternoon when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning to see who it was, I was very happy to see Lee with a big cheesy grin on his face. I had always liked Lee all the time we had been friends, and was very sorry when we lost touch with each other once we had moved up to Suffolk. In the event, finding that Lee now lived in Stowmarket, we were both very happy to find that we now lived only sixteen miles apart. Colchester from home, was more like fifty to sixty miles away.
Sitting in a coffee bar drinking milkshakes, we exchanged numbers, e-mail addresses and IM tags. I invited him up to visit us, and to go fishing together. He, like me, is an avid photographer and never left home without a camera. We both had digitals, and amazingly, both were compact Sony's. The more we talked, the more we came to realize just how much we both had in common. It is amazing that even though I had known him since I was about ten, I found out more today than I had in the previous seven years of our friendship, albeit having lost the best part of two years due to our move. My mind was most definitely on whether his assets had grown to the same degree as his body. I remembered vividly, the two years we had messed about when we were thirteen, up to just before we moved from Colchester when I was fifteen.
We parted company and I drove home really quite excited at his agreement to visit us next Friday, and staying with us until Sunday afternoon. He had after all, been the boy I had had a pubic fumble with when I was thirteen fourteen and fifteen, and my memories of his cock were very fond indeed. His visit however was to be delayed by three weeks because by 7 o'clock that night I was laid low with the return of cystitis, and in considerably more pain than last time.
The sweat poured off me in bucketfuls as we waited for the doctor to arrive. After having a good feel all around and concentrating on my lower left abdomen his diagnosis didn't vary too much from the previous. He did say though that it was his suspicion that I was ultra susceptible to this awful virus, but to be safe, I should maybe go to the hospital first thing Monday and have another scan. He left me with more antibiotics and pain killers and a letter for the hospital.
The next few days were an absolute nightmare. I was in excruciating agony and finding it difficult to cough, sneeze, get out of a chair or indeed lie down. My mum or dad had to help me to do this because the pain was so severe. I could only move around the house in a sort of stooped shuffle whilst holding my abdomen with my arm. I couldn't even manage a shower for three days.
By the time Monday dawned, the meds had obviously kicked in because I was in considerably less pain, and thanked God for it. My mum drove me to the hospital that morning where again my abdomen was smeared with this freezing gel and they scanned me. Guess what? Nothing! My mum was a little concerned because of the frequency of the attacks and the fact that I kept coming up clear when her gut instinct told her differently. She did quite a good job transferring some of her worry to me too.
The doctor had made me stay home for the week and had insisted that I spend the next weekend as quietly as possible. I rang Lee and explained the problem and though he sounded disappointed he agreed that visiting us the following weekend would pose him no problem. My week of enforced rest was painfully slow in passing. Mum wouldn't even let me drive myself to the shops but insisted that if I wanted to go anywhere she would drive me.
On the Thursday afternoon however, the hospital rang and they spoke to my mum for about 30 minutes. The upshot was that I had to go down there now. I would be prepared for a battery of tests to take place on Friday. With a knot of fear growing in my tummy, I asked mum if they had said anything, but all she would say was that having once more looked at my scan results; they thought that my spleen was a little enlarged. It would be better if they did a battery of blood tests as soon as possible. What she did keep to herself, was that I was to have a bone marrow test......
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