Well, here we are, after another three weeks in hospital and sporting a shiny new right hip. Apart from a wound breakdown caused by an over zealous under experienced nurse ripping out the protective dressing 24 hours after surgery, all is going well and I have a constant companion, a vacuum pump which gurgles away and is working wonders with the hole in my leg. I should be half decent by Christmas. During all the time I have spent in hospital over the past 18 months, roughly half has been spent in a six bedded ward and the other half in a side room. I cannot decide which I prefer. The side room is quiet and easier to make dark(ish) at night so sleep is better but it is easy for the staff to forget about you and it can be quite lonely. On the six bedded ward, there is camaraderie with the other blokes but much more light and noise. There is always one man who insists on talking loudly into his mobile ‘phone until late at night and, for a time, we were blessed with a slightly confused gent who always used his very noisy electric razor between 3am and 3.15am. A Polish gentleman shouted all night, looking for beer, and concluded that “This is a terrible pub!” An example of the camaraderie – Every breakfast tray includes a small plastic pot of orange juice. These pots are completely impenetrable and we were all convinced that part of the specification to the manufacturers must have read “the pot must resist opening by all strengths of person”. Occasionally, someone would overcome the pot and gain access. The cry would go up “I have found a defective pot – I have the lid off”. Hilarious at the time but I have to admit that, outside the walls of a six-bedded ward, it sounds a bit lame.
All in all, the side room wins as the chronic sleep deprivation endured in the open ward is really destructive and not at all conducive to good healing.
A group of guys, all turning 40, discussed where they should meet for lunch. Finally it was agreed that they would meet at Wetherspoons in Uxbridge because the waitresses were well proportioned and wore mini-skirts. Ten years later, at age 50, the friends once again discussed where they should meet for lunch. It was agreed that they would meet at Wetherspoons in Uxbridge because the waitresses were attractive, the food and service was good and the beer selection was excellent. Ten years later, at age 60, the friends again discussed where they should meet for lunch. They agreed that they would meet at Wetherspoons in Uxbridge because there was plenty of parking, they could dine in peace and quiet with no loud music, and it was good value for money. Ten years later, at age 70, the friends discussed where they should meet for lunch. Finally it was agreed that they would meet at Wetherspoons in Uxbridge because the restaurant was wheelchair accessible and had a toilet for the disabled. Ten years later, at age 80, the friends discussed where they should meet for lunch. After much discussion, they agreed that they would meet at Wetherspoons in Uxbridge because they had never been there before.
Ever since I was a child, I’d always had a fear of someone under my bed at night. I went to a psychiatrist and told him: “I’ve got problems. Every time I go to bed I think there’s somebody under it. I’m scared. I think I’m going crazy” “Just put yourself in my hands for one year,” said the psychiatrist. “Come and talk to me three times a week and we should be able to get rid of those fears.”
“How much do you charge?” I asked. “£150 per visit,” replied the doctor. “I’ll sleep on it,” I said.
Six months later the doctor met me on the street. “Why didn’t you come to see me about those fears you were having?” He asked. “Well, £150 a visit, three times a week for the six months I would have been seeing you, is nearly £11,700. My wife cured me for nothing and, so far, I have bought a new car with the money I have saved.”
“Is that so?” With a bit of an attitude he said, “and how, may I ask, did your wife cure you?” “She told me to cut the legs off the bed. There certainly is nobody under there now!”
Bert was sitting at the bar staring at his drink when a large, trouble-making drunk stepped up next to him, grabbed his drink and downed it in one swig. Bert burst into tears. “Come on, man,” the drunk said, “I didn’t think you’d CRY. I can’t stand to see a man crying. What’s your problem?” “This is the worst day of my life,” said Bert. “I’m a complete failure. I was late to a meeting and my boss fired me. When I went to the car park, I found my car had been stolen and I don’t have any insurance.Then, I left my wallet in the cab I took home. I found my wife in bed with the postman and my dog bit me. So I came to this bar to work up the courage to put an end to it all.I bought a drink, dropped in a poison capsule and sat here watching the poison dissolve.Then you show up out of nowhere and drank the whole thing!”
“But enough about me, how’s your day going?”
Deannie joins me in wishing you all a very happy Christmas and a healthy New Year. Best wishes Ian Nisbet