On Hospitals and the Matter of Heat.

I went for my CT scans today and the department was notably thin on the ground in the matter of clinical staff. The preliminary processes normally done by three different people were all undertaken by the same person today. And what a disappointment the scanner room was. No delectable duo of Gorgeous Girlie radiographers, just a small black man and a big white woman (it’s usually the other way round, isn’t it?) But they were splendid as ever, so I still gave them the box of chocolates I’d brought with me as a small token of recognition for all the pressure they’ve been under for the past two years.

When it was all over the young guy asked me whether I’d felt strange sensations when the dye was injected. (They didn’t tell me when the dye was about to be injected, by the way, which they’ve always done before. Fatigue, I expect.) Well of course I did; I always do. This isn’t my first time, you know, it’s my seventh.

‘It was stronger than usual, though’ I remarked. ‘Did you give me an overdose?’

‘No,’ replied the young guy.

‘Well you would say that, wouldn’t you? It won’t stop me suing you if I should wilt irretrievably overnight, you know.’

(Note to self: must watch my sense of humour now that we’re multicultural. I like the fact that we’re multicultural, by the way.)

While I was there I spent an informative fifteen minutes observing the other patients’ faces. Some looked resigned, some looked alert but generally unconcerned, some looked blank, and one woman looked as though she had no idea what was going on. I swear she was completely out of it. None of them spoke to me so I returned the favour by saying nothing back. And then I left once the nurse was reasonably convinced that the cannula wound wasn’t bleeding. ‘Keep an eye on it,’ he said.

(Note to self: must take a look at my cannula wound before retiring for the night. Wouldn’t want it bleeding on the sheets, would I?)

On my way out of the hospital I wasted fifteen minutes and £2.20 on a cup of hot chocolate from the vending machine. It’s good, if a little too hot for comfort unless you're prepared for it. I’m an old hand, so I was.

*  *  *

I had to drive a different route on the way to the hospital because the main Ashbourne road from here was supposed to be undergoing repairs. (I later discovered that it wasn’t happening. I suppose the workmen had been laid off because of the ‘ferocious heat’ we’re suffering at the moment. According to the BBC news website, this ‘ferocious heat’ – their term, not mine – is going to be killing people in droves if they dare set foot outside. They’re even giving us advice on how to stay alive, one particular little gem being: ‘stay in the shade as much as you can.’ I ask you, what would we do without experts? According the my car thermometer – which is fairly accurate – the temperature when I reached the main road close to where the repairs were supposed to be taking place was 27.5°C, but anyway…)

The detour took me along some narrow, twisty country lanes, and I discovered that the mowing of the barley has begun. This is my world, you understand, in precisely the way that driving to city hospitals for CT scans isn’t. I decided that ‘The Mowing of the Barley’ should be the title of an ancient English folk song, and maybe it is.

(I’m not suffering from heat stroke, by the way, just in case you’re wondering. The temperature in my office is a perfectly pleasant 20°C. Maybe that’s why I haven’t seen any beetles yet. The heat isn’t ferocious enough.)