I’ve been in hospital for an operation. Stuck in a six-bed ward during the Euro 2016 Championship, five geezers shouting at their televisions at eleven o’clock at night. Very conducive.
I returned home yesterday and slept twice, once for five hours and the second time, for twelve hours. I was absolutely on my knees. The young guy in the opposite bed stayed awake all night and slept all morning; he kept his lights on; buzzed fairly constantly for the nurse; clattered around, went to the toilet, ate a packet of chocolate digestives every night; never off his phone. Don’t know what he was watching but it isn’t hard to guess. Tosser. On Thursday night about five o’clock he died. Crash teams running up and down the corridor; you could hear his whole body shaking on the bed, legs rattling. About fifty doctors and nurses telling him to open his eyes.
They brought him round. He was so, so lucky. Marie the little Filipino nurse must have noticed how cold he was. Later, when things had returned to normal I asked her if she was the one who had saved his life and she fluttered her eyelids and nodded. And he was completely oblivious. Sitting up in bed ignoring her. Ignoring the wog.
These are the people the Brexiteers want chucked out.
Incidentally, I am not in the clear and if this blog stops suddenly you will know the reason.