Smiley and Sunshiney
Today I will be mainly being smiley and sunshiney. This is because someone told me yesterday that I was usually full of smiles and sunshine, and, well, I don't want to let them down. Actually, I've been contrary to this in every possible way this week, so I have a lot of smiling and sunshineyness to make up. This has culminted in me being at home and reduced to doing what I do every weekend, namely a trip to Morrison's followed by listening to Bradford City lose, and cursing at the radio commentary for which I pay £6 a month. I shouldn't be at home. I should be in Oxford, with some nuns, being silent.
When I put it like that, what was I thinking? The idea of me remaining silent is about as crazy as Benedict XVI announcing he's going to join the Hare Krishnas. Perhaps my week of disasters was some sort of divine intervention to stop me embarking on this ridiculous escapade.
Actually it's not as bad as all that. First of all, Bradford drew. Every commentator in the land talked of "City heartbreak", on account of the fact that Chesterfield's equalizer was scored in extra time, but hey, 1.) we drew. We get a point for this and 2.) this is Chesterfield. They're not just tipped for promotion, it's almost statistically impossible for any other outcome to occur, unless they lose every single game from this point onwards. We, on the other hand, we recently beaten by Barnet. At home. We should have been murdered in yesterday's match.
Still, being a woman and that I probably ought to move on. Listening to the commentary, I know there was at least one offisde offence yesterday, and obviously my brain is in danger of exploding if I think about this for too long. So I'm going to talk about the NHS.
I'm a big fan of the NHS. Having seen the American system, where drugs companies advertise heart drugs on television and surgeons boast about their survival rates on freeway billboards, where insurance companies pay people to find loopholes in people's claims for lifesaving treatment and the poor have to opt to be drug trial guinea pigs in order to get any treatment at all, I know how lucky I am.
Unexcitingly, my need to make use of hte NHS at all came about when I caught my shoe in the back of my work trousers and tumbled down three steps in rather spectacular fashion while suited commuters looked on with indifference. I moseyed off to work, made a cup of tea, and congratulated myself on having not held my hand out to stop myself, snapping my wrist in the process. Instead, I fell on my hand, bashing it against a nice big chunk of concrete. So I watched with interest as my hand got bigger and bigger, until by the evening I had a very worthy bruise and couldn't take the rings off my fingers. One sleepless night later, I presented myself at the local minor injuries unit.
The nurse reminded me of an old-fashioned school matron from an Enid Blyton novel - likeable and no-nonsense at the same time. She introduced me to a young woman who was a medical student and was there to "observe", then she pressed her fingers along my bruise until she touched a certain point and I leapt about two feet out of the chair.
"That's the bit that hurts?" she said, pressing it again a little harder as if to check the reflex was genuine. Satisfied that it was, she summoned her medical student over. "It could be a fracture," she said. "Just here". And she picked up a biro and marked the spot, pressing agonisingly into my hand as she did so. "What do you think?" The medical student came over, looked at it quizzically, then had a prod. At this point, I burst into tears.
Later, the same nurse came back and announced "Now, we can put a cast on, but you'll need to wait until someone's available to do it, and it might make having a shower and sleeping difficult, and you'll have to come in in a couple of weeks for us to take it off. As it's only a hairline fracture it won't really do a lot, but it will protect it. Or I can strap it up for you now, but you'll have to be really careful not to knock it or it will really hurt."
Hmm. I assume this constitutes "patient choice".
So I let her strap it, went home and took codeine and spent the next two nights feeling nauseous and slipping in and out of skippy dreams.
Oh sorry. Smiles and sunshine. Yes. I forgot.
When I put it like that, what was I thinking? The idea of me remaining silent is about as crazy as Benedict XVI announcing he's going to join the Hare Krishnas. Perhaps my week of disasters was some sort of divine intervention to stop me embarking on this ridiculous escapade.
Actually it's not as bad as all that. First of all, Bradford drew. Every commentator in the land talked of "City heartbreak", on account of the fact that Chesterfield's equalizer was scored in extra time, but hey, 1.) we drew. We get a point for this and 2.) this is Chesterfield. They're not just tipped for promotion, it's almost statistically impossible for any other outcome to occur, unless they lose every single game from this point onwards. We, on the other hand, we recently beaten by Barnet. At home. We should have been murdered in yesterday's match.
Still, being a woman and that I probably ought to move on. Listening to the commentary, I know there was at least one offisde offence yesterday, and obviously my brain is in danger of exploding if I think about this for too long. So I'm going to talk about the NHS.
I'm a big fan of the NHS. Having seen the American system, where drugs companies advertise heart drugs on television and surgeons boast about their survival rates on freeway billboards, where insurance companies pay people to find loopholes in people's claims for lifesaving treatment and the poor have to opt to be drug trial guinea pigs in order to get any treatment at all, I know how lucky I am.
Unexcitingly, my need to make use of hte NHS at all came about when I caught my shoe in the back of my work trousers and tumbled down three steps in rather spectacular fashion while suited commuters looked on with indifference. I moseyed off to work, made a cup of tea, and congratulated myself on having not held my hand out to stop myself, snapping my wrist in the process. Instead, I fell on my hand, bashing it against a nice big chunk of concrete. So I watched with interest as my hand got bigger and bigger, until by the evening I had a very worthy bruise and couldn't take the rings off my fingers. One sleepless night later, I presented myself at the local minor injuries unit.
The nurse reminded me of an old-fashioned school matron from an Enid Blyton novel - likeable and no-nonsense at the same time. She introduced me to a young woman who was a medical student and was there to "observe", then she pressed her fingers along my bruise until she touched a certain point and I leapt about two feet out of the chair.
"That's the bit that hurts?" she said, pressing it again a little harder as if to check the reflex was genuine. Satisfied that it was, she summoned her medical student over. "It could be a fracture," she said. "Just here". And she picked up a biro and marked the spot, pressing agonisingly into my hand as she did so. "What do you think?" The medical student came over, looked at it quizzically, then had a prod. At this point, I burst into tears.
Later, the same nurse came back and announced "Now, we can put a cast on, but you'll need to wait until someone's available to do it, and it might make having a shower and sleeping difficult, and you'll have to come in in a couple of weeks for us to take it off. As it's only a hairline fracture it won't really do a lot, but it will protect it. Or I can strap it up for you now, but you'll have to be really careful not to knock it or it will really hurt."
Hmm. I assume this constitutes "patient choice".
So I let her strap it, went home and took codeine and spent the next two nights feeling nauseous and slipping in and out of skippy dreams.
Oh sorry. Smiles and sunshine. Yes. I forgot.
posted by RLS at 12:14 PM
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