How to speak in idiot-Part 2

Ah, what a joy-hanging out with the mentally deficient (also known as "brain-dead"), culturally dysfunctional, rude, obnoxious, arrogant (for no discernible reason), verbally incontinent, emotionally stunted, completely obtuse-and now we can add completely incompetent. Yes- it's the Brits, you got it in one.

There was a big deal about having me get to the hospital by 5pm-or they wouldn't hold the bed. So I got there at 3:45-and they still didn't hold the bed. Idiots. So I had to wait in a little room for three hours until they sorted the whole thing out. I very nearly left; I said I'm not waiting around all night for them to figure it out. I had a clean (ish) bed by 7pm. The first cannula went in at 9pm. And it was all downhill from there. By the next night I was moved into the bed I was supposed to have when I got to the hospital on Friday. Hmmm...doesn't do much for confidence in the system, does it?

And-it's taken me this long to be able to post, because-this building is less than four years old, has fifteen floors, and-has no Wi-Fi. Who builds a brand, spanking new building and forgets to add Wi-Fi? What can anyone say? This building was built to British standard. So was the Titanic.

I'm on cannula number 6. For some reason, my veins (very tiny and terrible at the best of times) kept breaking. So I finally-after the third one blew my vein after less than two days-went to the senior charge nurse and suggested (politely, naturally. I can be very polite when I want something) that we use a very small cannula and put the antibiotic in a bag and run it over 45 minutes. Do everything very slowly, I said, and let's see what happens. The pain of having veins blow is severe. So they said, good suggestion (of course. I was the one who suggested it. They are the professionals-why didn't they figure it out?). And it worked. At least something got done right.

The food is just horrible. There are no salads. Since this is a hospital, I went to one of the nurses and asked why there are no salads. She told me that everything is cooked. It is: cooked to death. Then they cook it for another couple of hours just to make sure that nothing is moving or breathing. Or in any way nutritious. Yesterday I spent ten minutes pushing something unrecognizable around the plate, just to see if it pushed back. Happily, nothing was moving on its own, but I still didn't eat it. Thank goodness for baked potatoes (they have those a couple of times a week. What can you do to destroy a baked potato-especially when it's been microwaved?

The broccoli is the same color as my walls: tombstone grey. I'm sure they prepare the stuff for people who have no teeth. And I was given chicken something or other (it was hard to tell) that resembled big yellow turds. So I eat the baked potatoes, and Kettle Chips, and fruit that I buy when I walk up the road to the supermarket. I'm starting to look like a Kettle Chip (at least I will resemble something identifiable), so tomorrow I'm going to buy some salads, and for the rest of my time here (I should be finished on Friday afternoon-if they haven't killed me off first) I will eat decent food-that I will buy myself. Mystery meat that looks like regurgitated dog food is something I don't find appealing!

You know you are middle-aged when the doctors who come into the room look like they aren't even old enough to drive. Or vote. Or shave. They look so young-and they are so dishevelled-they look like vagrants, not doctors. One came into the room this morning-and I wanted so desperately to tell him to come back when his voice has changed and his balls have dropped.

No-I didn't. I decided to be a model of restraint, so I said nothing. After all, you never know who will be wielding the next cannula.

If I can get to the computer tomorrow, it will be part 3 of how to speak idiot. Really, there is so much more-and here I thought these ten days in the hospital would be boring!