And Nothing Happened

I really think we’ve got to the boring bit of this story. Our youngest son, Inigo, whilst at primary school, used to write a strip cartoon called ‘the adventures of Dilly Dan Doo. There was often a little blank white square interspersed amongst all these amazing shaded drawings that simply had the caption: ‘And nothing happened’

Yesterday I was sick, today I wasn’t. Yesterday I was wheeled across to the Gartnavel Hospital X-ray unit armed with nothing but a face mask. The whole grim grey building looks like the Maryhill slums: a massive slab of a tower block. I did not have long to wait before I was wheeled in and stood with my chin above the screen. They needed to check-out my lungs because of odd spikes of temp over the last 3-4 days. Then came the wait to get a porter to take me back - they are elusive as gold dust and grumpy to a man. After a half hour or so of listening to harsh coughs and wet sneezes emanating from every room and corridor in the vicinity I decided it might make a lot more sense to get back under my own steam. Alas I only made it as far as the end of the corridor before an “excuse me” hauled me back to my place damn it. Should just have dashed out the front door instead of trying to retrace my steps down to the tunnel. Well another 15 mins went by and at last a porter arrived wheeling in a grey-haired old lady. I gave him a friendly hail only to be met by a look from him that you reserve for what you normally cough into a handkerchief during a heavy cold. ‘And a merry christmas to you mate ! ‘ I muttered under my breath, as he stomped off without a word. Eventually the nice young irish lass that had actually done the X-ray took the initiative and wheeled me back, avoiding any crowded lifts. The whole adventure took well over an hour.

Today's results were inconclusive so they’ll just continue to be vigilant until Mondays X-ray meeting. What it has done , though, is to slow down their plans to throw me out of here at the minimum one month period. Things may be delayed by another week or so. ‘Thank God’ shouts Christine, who was getting in a total panic at their mutterings of discharge. She’s planning to be up again on Sunday having sort of caught up on the ‘mail mountain’, the laundry mountain, and the fluffy ‘can-I-have-a-cuddle?’ puss mountain.