Categories: uncategorized
Date: 04 December 2004 22:24:43
No, don't worry. Since my last entry Bob's departed taking his drill with him. As he slipped out, the green slime monster took up residence in my lungs. We've been recycling our colds for so long now, we've forgotten who's given what and to whom. (grammar?). Little Miff appears to have chipped or cracked an area of his thumb so tiddly that it barely shows up on the x-ray. Which we tried to explain to the small but scarey nurse and overealous consultant on his return visit the other day. "Does it hurt here?" he asked, prodding the area between thumb and forefinger. "Yes," replies little Miff obediently and rather too literally. He means - a slight twinge. Consultant, who despite my efforts to persuade him to the contrary seems convinced that this is his first visit, means " Extreme discomfort." And before we know where we are he's in the plaster room being offered a choice of football, white, red,blue or camofluage. He chooses the latter, and ten minutes later we emerge with son's right arm encased from hand to elbow. His computer - msn, gameplaying arm, no less! And clutching an appointment card with booking for December 30th! By the time the kindly receptionist confirms that the plaster needs to stay on for six weeks, (six WEEKS? What about Christmas?) Jnr Miff is starting to look distinctly miffed, and by evening, the novelty of being an 'invalid' has completely worn off.
Mr Miff is in no smiling mood when he finds out, either. He's all for storming up to the GP's surgery or the clinic and tell them exactly what he thinks of their new, streamlined efficiency. Luckily for us, one of little Miff's friend's father is an extremely respected local doctor. A long distance consultation (well, tbh, a three way msn chat) ensues, and with a speed even more impressive than that of the plaster nurses, offspring and Mr Miff retire to the bathroom where they perform radical surgery with a pair of secateurs. The camofluage plaster was last seen in the dog's bed. Along with the tattered remains of 'les seins artificiel' from a couple of entries back.
Now what on earth am I going to say to the fracture clinic after Christmas?
Rest assured, the severed head has nothing to do with my beloved's verdict on the workings of the NHS. I'll explain shortly. Along with musings on Jacobean tragedy, dusty houses, creation spirituality, drunken teenagers, nuns and procrastination. (Should be worth a few Google hits. :))