Fucky Bucky and the Cripplers: An Update

Now there's a novel name for a rock band-doesn't quite have the same ring as, say, Bob Marley and the Wailers, but it's the best I can do at the moment.

I discovered that Bucky (aka Fucky Bucky, or Matt Buckland, or Tombstone Teeth Goofy) has, after having been unceremoniously dumped by my hospital, returned (tail between his legs, no doubt) to-the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. What a hoot.

Hilary Longhurst, as you know, was the chief crippler in the gentamicin case, and has now bailed out and moved to a private hospital, where she can kill and/or cripple private patients for more money than she could get on the NHS. So who is in charge? The ferret-faced Sophia Grigoriadou, who was ignoring the entire gentamicin disaster for the two months I spent in the hospital. She was allegedly in charge-personally, I think that Grigoriadou, Longhurst and Phil not-so-Bright (now in Bristol, sharpening up his crippling skills) shouldn't be practicing medicine at all. Bucky and the cripplers should be doing something more suited to their abilities and personalities: cleaning public toilets comes to mind.

This means, of course, that with Longhurst gone and Grigoriadou in charge, Bucky was able to return to Barts Trust- aka Barts Never Trust-and hope that nobody will remember the fact that he was so humiliated that he had to leave in the first place.

My last words on the four incompetents until next August, when it will be ten years: what goes around comes around. Wait long enough and those who hurt you will get what they deserve. And I hope that the same people from the Royal London are still reading this blog. More humiliation for the cripplers is more than well deserved.

So that brings me to the latest news about my recovery-which is why I began to blog so many years ago-it almost feels like yesterday-although it doesn't.

I've made the usual rounds of consultants and their clinics-if it's Monday I'm here, if it's Tuesday I'm there, and so on. After nine horrible, depressing years-it seems like I'm good to go. What better news can there be-except maybe winning the lottery so I can get out of the area in which I've been stuck for the past nine years?

I told you about Toothless, Tattooed Terry, the nutcase who lives next door. And I'm sure I've told you about his friends: Sandra, who claims to have been married to a millionaire (who turned out to be a waiter in a pub. Not the owner. A waiter.), and Rob, who was a garbage collector for twenty years, and who is living with another nutcase called Tara, who keeps pointing to people and saying that she hates them and wishes they were dead (they have more class than to say the same thing about her, although it's probably crossed their mind).

So- a few weeks ago, we had a tenants' meeting, and I thought that I was going to see blood being spilled. It was like a geriatric fight club. In fact, it WAS a geriatric fight club. Rob-who is in his 60s- started picking a fight with Bob, who is 80, and another neighbour, who is nearly 90. Imagine the shouting and swearing (from Rob. Bob and the other tenant obviously were raised better), and Rob in Bob's face, pushing and shoving. Everyone else was shocked, but nobody made a move. Wise, I thought. Very wise decision, not to get caught up in a fight with people who are bigger than you are.
The housing manager had to separate them. Everyone else moved backwards.

In all the years I've lived in this country, I never lived in council accommodation-that is, property owned and run (usually badly) by the local authority. What an eye-opener. Our area is small, and looks so benign-unlike some of the tower blocks that wouldn't be out of place in worse areas. But there are vendettas left and right: this one hates that one, these people hate those people, and, of course, Tara, who just simply shouts that she hates so-and-so and wishes them dead.

When I first moved in here, I was only just out of the hospital, and I couldn't stand up, or see properly, or hear properly-I was so badly injured that I didn't have a choice but to move out of my lovely two story property, because a fall downstairs could mean a fracture of something important: like my skull, for instance. The hospital contacted the local authority, and they told me that this flat was the only one they had, but that everyone was disabled. They didn't say that there are people who are mentally disabled, or that they had to empty some of the mental hospitals and put people out into the community. What a challenge!

So now you are up to date, and I am going to Starbucks. Hooray for Starbucks. Hooray for some semblance of sanity. Next time I'll tell you about the rubbish bins and the Bin Thief. It's hilarious.