I’ve always thought that I’m a wordsmith – a bit of a writer (although I have no idea which bit!) People that know me well certainly say that I’m an Artist – but they usually precede the word Artist with another word, far too rude to place before your tender young eyes.
However, I’ve had the kind of day that just could not be imagined. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin…….
Last night, I had set the alarm for 07:00 this morning – my reasoning was simple. Get up at 7 – then a leisurely shower. Leave home at 8 and be up in Salisbury Hospital car park well before 9, my allotted time for the Pre-Operative Assessment Clinic. I hate being late – I would far rather be early and get my breath back. I needed to find this particular department, so I allowed myself a bit extra ‘Getting Lost’ time.
The first part of the morning went like clockwork! The alarm chirruped and the shower doused my fit, tanned and extremely well-toned body with steamy hot water. (At this point, you may need to re-read line 1). Anyway, back in the bedroom to rummage for clean socks and nether garments. In the drawer they are, all neatly laid out in rows of ascending shade and colour (Yeah, right). As I pulled the second sock on, the blighter split at the heel.
Hop across the bedroom and find another pair of black socks. All my socks are black. It confuses the hell out of the washing machine, because no matter how many go in, I can always pair my socks up when they come out, because they are all the same length and all the same colour – black!
Except for the brown ones.
And that odd tartan pair that Great Aunt Emmie gave me for Christmas 1988.
Sorry – I got carried away for a moment. Clean socks and other bits on, the next decision is whether to throw on a pair of jeans, then come home after the hospital trip and change into my work gear – or start off smart, just in case I’m late getting back. I cannot go to work in jeans – the boss would flip completely. Posh frock it is – time is ticking on and I need to be out of the house at 8 on the dot.
Shall I have breakfast? No – because they are bound to check the weight I wrote on the form, and I did take a tiny weenie liberty with a few odd ounces! A quick trip to the bathroom just to help the weight down and – at two minutes to 8 – I leave the house.
Unlock the car, sit down, key in the ignition switch and……..nothing. Just to be on the safe side, I try again. Nothing. Then, because it hasn’t turned over twice before, I try again – because it is sure to start this time, isn’t it?
Hah! Snowball – hell – hell – snowball. You know how it goes! Think – what now? I know! I’ve got one of those power-pack things – if only I could remember where it is…….
In the garage? Open the squeaky door (why don’t I keep the car in the garage?) and …….no, it’s not there. Run at full speed back home (please re-read line 1) and open the cupboard under the stairs – and voila! There it is………completely discharged from the last time I used it, two years ago! No hope there, then!
Back to the car again and try the key (because, of course, the Flat Battery Fairy has paid me a visit, charged the battery and left me 50p on the seat) Nope. The only thing on the seat is a rather faded stain which could well have been from the curry pasty I had a couple of weeks ago – at least, I hope that’s where it was from.
No - the wretched car simply refuses to turn over (for those who have even the remotest interest in cars, it’s a Fiat which, I am assured, stands for Fix It Again Tomorrow)
Then, that moment when the light dawns like the sun shining through the burgeoning clouds of doom across a rainswept valley………..
(Get on with it, man!)
The car is parked on a slope. It’s a downward slope and the car is facing down it. That means…….that I can pop it into gear with the clutch in, turn on the ignition and, at the finely judged moment, release the clutch and ……presto. The car starts and the journey can commence. Yay and a swift dance around the car to Radio 4’s Today programme. (Don't knock it untill you've tried it!)
A quick check at the time and I’m 15 minutes behind schedule. Still, 45 minutes from home to Salisbury? Piece of cake!
Sadly, the other drivers on the road had not read my tightening timetable.
Every driving dipstick with no eyes and only half a brain – get out of my damn way, I’m in a hurry to get to the hospital – was parked across the precise piece of road that I wanted – no, needed – to be on.
Especially the dozy lady in the maroon Ford Fiesta Zetec, who clearly had NOT read the owner’s manual well enough to know that there were more than three gears in her car and just because she wanted to drive at 30 miles an hour in a 40 / 50 / 60 mile an hour area, there were others who damn well didn’t. Hmmmmm!
Anyone who knows the 17 mile road from Ringwood to Salisbury will be able to confirm that there are only three places where it is safe to pass a slower vehicle. There are loads of floral tributes at the roadside where people have tried to prove otherwise, but there really are only three.
And every festering one had traffic coming the other way! Not for all the other twisty, winding, unsafe bits. Oh no! Just the three safe passing bits. But there was one saving grace – because of the lady in the Ford Focus Zetec, I drove past one of those camera cars, Road Safety Vehicles they’re called, at 21.5 miles an hours – in a 50 zone.
I drove past so bloody slowly, I could see the bloke inside the van, laughing like a demon! But no speeding ticket for me this time, thank you very much, Mr Nice Policeman.
Time was ticking, but I knew that, at the next set of traffic lights, Zetec Lady would carry straight on to her shopping destination in Salisbury and I had to turn left to get to the hospital – and then she indicated to turn left towards the hospital and my world began to turn in very slow motion. Four minutes to nine and I’m two minutes (and a lady in a Ford Focus Zetec) away from the car park…..
Two minutes to nine and I swing my trusty steed into the public car park, got a ticket from the lovely barrier machine thing……..and……….and………hunt for a space. Quick – over there – next to that gap in the hedge that I can squeeze through and save a few seconds off the sprint (please re-read line 1) to the hospital building.
Salisbury is one of those hospitals where, no matter where you go in, it is never anywhere close to where you need to be. I entered on Level 2, I needed Level 4. Don’t take the lift, they are always slow – use the stairs. The stairs are closed for cleaning, or the Bank Holiday, or someone’s birthday or something – take the lift.
Step out of the lift at Level 4 and it’s just after 9 o’clock – not too bad, but where the heck is the Pre-Operative Assessment Unit? Aha! A sign, follow the arrows……(don’t you dare do the “Arrows? I didn’t even see the Native American Indians!” joke, Drew. I know your sense of humour)
Then the markings ran out, just as I got to what I thought was the end of Level 4 / my tether / the world. (delete that which does not apply) Then a lovely lady pushing a trolley took pity and asked if she could help. “Pre-Op Assessment?” I asked, hopefully. “Just there, dearie,” she said, pointing to the green double doors there beside me, with Pre-Operative Assessment Unit, emblazoned right across them in three inch high letters.
“…..and the ophthalmic unit is two floors above and off to the left.” With that, she left me standing there. Some people can be very hurtful.
Finally, just after five past 9, I approached the reception desk, quaking with fear and trepidation. I wiped on my very best, super-smarmy smile and apologised for being a bit late. “That’s alright, love,” said the receptionist. “We’ve only got two nurses on today, so we’re running about an hour late. Take a seat”
Needless to say, I did as I was told.
Thank you for getting this far – I said you couldn’t make it up.
Much love
Steve
