The Demise of Roland Ratso: Chapter one hundred and eleven

6 minute read time.
Thursday 6th August and Eleanor is back again. We decide to take her to Nottingham by the sea. They have made a sand pit in the market square in Nottingham along with a paddling pool and some fairground rides. Irene brought a towel but we forgot a swimming costume so it was off to the Primark store to get Eleanor a swimming costume. The “beach” was packed but not so bad that you couldn’t find a spot. Naturally the Germans had put towels on all of the deckchairs so I sat in the bar area drinking coke while Irene watched Eleanor “swimming” in the paddling pool. Then she decided that she wanted a bucket and spade (Eleanor – not Irene) so it was off to the souvenir shop to get one and then the major project was to dig a trench and try and fill it with water, which of course soaked away. There was a young girl singer in the bar area who was doing an amazing job – I didn’t catch her name but she sang beautifully. The sun was glorious – a truly great to be alive day. My brother has sent for our father’s second world war medals and they came today, The 39-45 campaign medal, the defence medal, the 39-45 star and the Burma star. There must be thousands if not hundreds of thousands of unclaimed medals – and it is quite easy to get them – you can contact the war department at http://www.mod.uk/DefenceInternet/DefenceFor/Veterans/Medals/ Obviously the more information you can supply the easier it is. Our father’s took about six weeks and there is no charge. The feet are still in quite a mess. My right leg and foot is much more swollen that the left. Eleanor calls it my fat foot and the other one is minging toe because of the split in the end. Friday 7th August and I have to got to the QMC to have my grandfather’s legacy ( a large mole on my right cheek) removed. I arrive at the walk in centre at 1405 (my appointment was at 14.30 but where WAS the traffic?) and check in and sit down. Who decided pink and green chairs were attractive? And wait. And wait. And wait. One of the receptionists comes over and says that they have lost my notes. How did I know that would happen? So I wait again. Then the staff nurse comes out and apologises for the delay but my notes still haven’t been found. “That’s OK I tell her – it always happens.” “Not in my department” she says. So I wait. And wait. People come and go. But not me. I am doomed to sit and count ceiling tiles in waiting rooms. Handrail stanchions. Carpet tiles. Then a lovely young man in a pink shirt (pink is So last year don’t you think?) with matching tie and long blonde hair also apologises profusely for the dealy – rather like the Monty Python sketch where someone finishes up killing themselves for their incompetence. I tell him not to worry. Then someone rushes in with a yellow folder. Yippee – it’s the missing folder!. The receptionist then comes over to say that I will still have to wait as all of the surgeries are being used but as soon as one comes available….. So I sit. And wait. And count chairs, tables, desks and water coolers. Then the staff nurse comes out and stands in the main body of patients and makes an announcement. They have a seriously ill man coming from City Hospital for an emergency biopsy and would we mind if he went in – it might make everyone about 45 minites late. (Only 45 minutes! – LUXURY!) Everyone agrees but then someone who describes himself as a doctor (as I found out afterwards) comes out and proceeds to bawl out the Staffie in front of anyone telling her that she had no right to make arrangements without consulting him. She stands her ground and gives him a right lambasting – which doesn’t bother me but upsets some of the elderly inmates. Where is Mr. Pink Shirt now? A bed turns up with an elderly gentleman on oxygen and with drips and heart monitor attached, He is taken straight in. In the meantime, my yellow folder has been looked at in the reception by Doctor Nasty Knickers. It then goes past the electronically controlled hallowed portals for a while and then back out to the receptionist’ desk, only to disappear again several minutes later. The man in the bad has now gone and finally I am called in to a room with a huge adjustable chair in it. Staffie comes in still fuming. “Did you hear him?” “Couldn’t miss him, actually” “Bloody disgrace behaving like that in front of everyone.” I agree but perhaps the irony is lost on her as she is doing exactly that now – albeit with only one patient. The crux of the matter is they have got a big staff party tonight and Doctor Slime has booked in some extra work which they have said they can’t do because of the emergency. A communication problem. Any way SHE is not going if HE is going to be there and that’s final. There are a number of knocks on the door and mutterings of support from other nurses. I think the quackman has bitten off more than he can chew. So it’s back in the chair after the usual mandatory questions. Allergic to anything? (Only work!) and then we start. My feet rise up and my head goes down and I get a couple of injections in my face which goes immediately numb followed by a series of miniature medieval torture instruments. I hear a bit of scraping but feel nothing. She is explaining everything as she goes along – I feel nothing and she is really good at her job. The mole is hollow so there is nothing to remove – only the ridge of skin where it was attached. Then there is the deep needle biopsy and it’s some cream to stem the bleeding, Plaster on and more apologies. I tell her not to worry – that there are bits of paper floating around the world with my name on – bits of paper that no-one knows what to do with, where to put them, or indeed what they are about – not to mention the bodily fluids wandering in the ether – blood and urine samples, MRSA swabs. It really isn’t their fault. I explain. It’s the black hole gang. There is a parallel universe just below ours where holes are spinning around. If you put something down on top of a hole it disappears until that hole comes back again when the object reappears. That is why purses, wallets, car keys and all sorts of other vitally important items go missing at crucial times, especially my notes and bodily fluids. These holes are manipulated by the Black Hole Gang – a mischievous set of sprites – commissioned by who knows – but their sole role in life is to align the holes with anything that has my name on. Honestly! I am not paranoid. I am used to it!
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