Delays on the road, delays getting into the car park, delays
in the town. Thursday is not a good day to go to Ashbourne, but I can’t be
bothered to explain the reasons in detail. Let’s just say it’s about old
people, old traditions, and old habits.
The bigger loss was the mysterious disappearance of three
£10 notes from my back pocket. They were there when I left the house. I drove
to Ashbourne and went into Sainsbury’s, but when I came to pay for something
the three notes were missing. I dislike
losing any amount of money and £30 is a lot of money to me.
I decided to rationalise the issue, or maybe I should say
fantasize. It occurred to me that some
single mother with three kids might have seen the notes lying on the pavement
somewhere and picked them up. Maybe she was one of those mothers which are
proliferating in Britain ever since the Tories took control of the country –
the sort who can’t afford to give their kids breakfast before they go to school
in the morning, and can only afford to give them dinner at night through having
demeaned themselves by asking for help from the local volunteer-run and
volunteer-supplied food bank. Such kids get meagre dinners, and such mothers
are often on the verge of emotional collapse. It’s a common problem these days.
If that were the case, I would be more than happy to have
contributed positively to her mental state and her children’s tomorrow. I can’t
know, of course, but I can fantasize. Maybe it wasn’t true; fantasies often
aren’t. But it made me feel better. And now for the gain:
Twenty four days after my last set of CT scans I still
hadn’t had any results. Enquiries with both my GP and the hospital had proved
fruitless, so I called in at the GP surgery again and explained the situation
to the young woman receptionist. Not only was she young and attractive, she was
also clued up.
‘OK, let’s have a look,’ she said in a tone which inspired
my confidence and made me wonder yet again where the hell the last thirty years
went. ‘What’s your date of birth?’
‘Do I have to tell you?’
‘Yes. What’s the problem?’
‘Then you’ll know how old I am.’
‘All those years under your belt and you’re still as vain as
ever.’
Actually, she didn’t say that, but she should have done. I
gave her my date of birth.
‘OK, we still haven’t had a report from the hospital but
they can take ages. Let’s look at the correspondence. Ah, here we are. The
consultant wrote to you today and sent us an electronic copy of the letter. Shall
I read it to you?’
Deep breath followed by assent.
Dear Mr Beazley
I’m happy to be able
to tell you that the CT scans you had in April showed no evidence of
recurrence. We’ll see you again in August for another cystoscopy.
I’d say that was fair recompense from the universe for my
lost £30. Wouldn’t you? And by way of celebration I made straight for the
Poundland store and paid £1 for a new soap dish to grace my kitchen. ‘Hang the
expense’ became the order of the day.
* * *
My favourite quotation today came from Dr House. The guy
with the nose asked him:
‘What’s with the death’s head stick?’
‘They didn’t have a death’s ass stick in my size.’
Kudos to the writer, or maybe Hugh Laurie if he ad libbed
it.
* * *
Finally, I enquired in Sainsbury’s today whether Amy was
back yet from her antipodean and Asian travel trip, and was told that she isn’t
expected until late July or early August. Since there’s now a reasonable chance
that I’ll still be here by then, I’ll look forward to it. I like Amy.
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