"Oh, nice," you say, except that we've been to the hospital and I find that medicine makes me want to swear. It makes me want to swear a lot. It's not that I don't appreciate the expertise or the wonderful treatment we get without having to mortgage our houses but I find the waiting, the confusing language, the inability of anyone to look you in the eye, or tell you anything unless you ask, the fact that you could walk in with your limbs in your handbag and no one would care because it's not their department and appointments where they look at a scan and decide they'll have to have a meeting before they can tell you anything sending you home again to come back to be told nothing that they couldn't have said on the phone frustrating. Boy, that was a long sentence! Sorry. Breathe!
But my mum and sister are funny.
The hospital is the Royal Free, right next to Hampstead Heath. We've been many times before. It's a long way to go, so we usually have coffee in one of the bakeries, frequented by male couples and mums with the latest pushchairs. You get a choice of breads, quinoa salads and any kind of coffee you fancy. My sister prefers the pub where skinny old ladies, who have had fascinating lives talk to you about their gin habit.
It's a place where many interesting people live and have lived. You could bump into Judi Dench or Sting and there are blue plaques everywhere.
"George Orwell," my mum read, "Who was George Orwell?"
"1984," I replied.
"I didn't want his birthday," she said, "What did he do?"
We laughed. When there aren't enough swear words, laughter is the best medicine.
No comments:
Post a Comment