Work Hard, Play Hard, Work Hard All Over Again

Wednesday, 30th July

Yuck, back in the driving seat. Reported 26 MRI scans by lunchtime, but it’s nice not to have to physically go into work the day after a holiday. Erk, I split an infinitive. Went to the Castle to watch Liverpool play Villarreal, a game so stultifyingly boring that heavy drinking was the only option. The fact that Rafa made nine substitutions, and still came out with a no score draw, and today signed Robbie Keane for £20 squazillion, has convinced me that he has finally lost the plot. Before that, Xanthe and I had planned to go to Harvey Nicks to buy a Paul Smith shirt for my Dad’s birthday, and was slightly surprised to find Perry asking to come along. It turned out that he thought we were going to PC World. Ha, ha, ha! Nevertheless, he was quite taken with a Paul Smith wallet, until he found out how much it was.

Oly failed his audition for a Hovis ad today. I think it's probably because he could: lie down, sit in a chair, and 'speak,' rather more impressively than his co-star - Wayne Rooney.


Thursday, 31st July

Pappou is eighty today. I had such a heavy day at work that I didn’t even get into shower (second of the day) until fifteen minutes before his party. Nearly thirty in total went to Manny’s, and it was great to see so many of the old crowd looking so well, and barely smelling of wee at all. Troy developed a new coterie of admirers. One guest wistfully bemoaned the poor looks of her daughter’s boyfriend. ‘I always thought I would be able to sort of fancy her husband,’ she said. ‘It looks like I’ll just have to fancy yours instead.’ I went into the kitchen to check on Daddy’s surprise cake. ‘Guillaume, ou est le gâteau?’ I asked. ‘Lequel gâteau?’ He asked, innocently. ‘Le gâteau au chocolat, pour mon père.’ ‘Ah, le gâteau au chocolat que j’ai manger?’ ‘Oh, ha! Ha!’ I said in English, as I don’t know how to say it in French. I hope the impact of my irony wasn’t lessened by that inadequacy.

Everyone ate well, and drank well, and looked like they went home happy.


Friday, 1st August

Woke up at seven this morning. I can’t remember the last time I saw seven unnecessarily. I thought about getting up, and then realised that I wouldn’t have the foggiest what to do at that time of the morning. I lay in bed for three hours, holding my sleeping husband’s hand. I heard a great story from a patient today. Being in the RAF, he got posted all over the world for the last twenty-two years. Arriving on a new base in Wales, he was sized up by the locals, ‘You’ll do… an excellent prop, I think.’ Brilliant, he thought - a drama group – wanting some sort of back stage help. ‘No’ came the reply, ‘rugby.’ BTW, I wish I could write Wales in a regional stylie. He turned up on the next Saturday, clutching his football boots and newly purchased gum shield, and was surprised when his new colleagues pounced on him, strapping rings of sticky tape around his head, to protect his ears. ‘Don’t try to catch or throw the ball, just keep an eye on who has it, and if he’s wearing a different fucking shirt from you, trample him.’ And people think rugby isn’t a game for thugs.

Got a weird request through today, for an arm scan, the doctor was worried that there might be a clot somewhere. I decided to seek clarification. ‘This scan you want, what exactly do you want me to look at?’ ‘The um, arm?’ Came the reply. ‘Yes, I’d sort of figured that out,’ I said, ‘but which blood vessels do you want me to look at? Specifically??’ A long silence ensued, and I think I could just about hear Antipodean mental cogs dredging through long-forgotten anatomy. ‘Veins… arm veins… axillary vein!’ He shouted in triumph. God, I love reminding clinicians how much they’ve forgotten.

We went to the Big Easy, on the King’s Road, for supper tonight. Double portion of Voodoo Chicken Wings for Troy, and a medium rare Filet Mignon for me. Why is it only Americans who call it that? Both ends of the social spectrum are to be found there on a Friday night. We arrived to find a couple of blondes with Croydon facelifts, and giant hoop earrings, arguing the toss over whether they’d get a table. They were followed by a Hooray so fat, that he could only be described as a double chin-less wonder. When the chavs left, I noticed that one was inhaling oxygen through nasal specs. Her friend was carrying the bottle of oxygen, and smoking a fag. I can’t wait for the next allocation of Darwin awards.

The waiter came over and asked if we wanted pudding, ‘Got any no-cal desserts?’ I dead-panned. ‘Sorry,’ he retorted, ‘we’re far too Americanised.’