Tales from the Ward Chapter 46:

Sunday soccer, Match Report

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We’re a small group of football fans gathered around the tv to watch the Liverpool vs Man City game.

I’m the only Scouser (well technical only) Genuine Woolly Back coming from the south side of the Mersey. I’m on the exercise bike looking with my iPod on.

Bernard’s a City fan complete with blue and white scarf.

Michael loves soccer but is half asleep. He wakes for the kick-off but disappears for a cigarette after 20 minutes.

Liverpool are 1-0 up by then so my eyes have wandered away from the screen.

Bugger, City have just equalised.
Karin and now Morris appear drawn by the excited cries of Bernard.

I’m multi-tasking now watching the game, listening to Jill Scott and writing.

Half time and as tea is at five the crowd dwindles. Michael’s gone for another smoke and I have to shout at him to shut the bleedin’ door, as cold air is blowing in from the balcony.

He supports Arsenal anyway and they lost earlier.

It’s just me and Bernard left.

Liverpool score two in quick succession. A brief hiatus, then City’s goalie is caught off his line. 4-1. Woohoo. Come on you Reds.

A late second half wobble though and City claw it back. Oh gawd.

I fear the headlines: Liverpool throw away easy win.

But they hold on.

Bernard’s son, a Man Utd fan, is on the blower within seconds of the final whistle to rub it in.

Final score: Four-three.

Result. 🙂

Time for a cuppa and a catch up with Quadriplegia.

#LiverpoolFC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tales from the Ward Chapter 45

Grand Theft Laundry

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This morning was a first for me.

Not quite a blue lights flashing nee-naw nee-naw moment, but a call to the cops to solve a heist perfected nevertheless by a well oiled criminal (washing) machine.

Seven weeks in at rehab central and a crime so dastardly had taken place right under my nose.

Who was the knicker nicker? The person loose with my lingerie and swindler of my socks? Could they be an evil team of clothing cons, adept at the lucrative second hand dress market?

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It was a snatch so fiendishly clever that even the top ranks of the local CID had to confess after a day of rigorous police investigation it was a crime they could not solve.

My losses to laundry include three vest tops, 10 pairs of knickers, one pair unique yoga pants and now a pair of quirky left-right socks (which you’d be amazed how many carers have difficulty putting on the right foot (pun intended). HTF anyone passes a driving test in this country God only knows)

The last item being the last simple gift my father bought me before he died.
So while not of great monetary value, carry a huge amount of sentimental baggage with them.

Hey, maybe I’m just expecting too much of a facility which costs me more than two grand a week. But if even a two-bit $5 a night hotel in butt-fuck south-east developing world Asia can sort my laundry you’d hope FFS these people should.

Now those of you who know me well will know how little patience I have for fuck-wits, fuckwittery and any manner of fucktardiness.

Not to mention the amount of data and rehab time I’ve used tracking down replacement items. And that just pisses me off.

In addition to staff who refuse to acknowledge their ‘system’ isn’t working. Bit like the government and the NHS.

Tales from the Ward Chapter 44

New Year’s Eve

 

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Rehab is no one’s preferred location for New Year, but you’ve got to make the best of what you’ve got.

Thank God then I’d saved a bit of wine, as Noelle’s extravagant promise of free-flow champers to 25 patients, most of whom need help eating and slurping liquid of any kind, proved a non starter.

But when hubby left at four (presumably for a party with grown ups) and even the Party Queen herself was in bed by five thirty I knew it was game over for a night of debauchery or even mildly tipsy on bubbles.

Notwithstanding what alcohol might do to people’s meds. (Not that that has ever stopped me) 😂

I wheeled round to Quadriplegia, who I’d not seen for a few days, and together with fellow Quaddie Terry we plotted a midnight skinny dip in the hydrotherapy pool.

The fact that we had only one fully working limb out of the 12 available between us, a mere detail.

Stealing key fobs needed to get us there no problem. (Lets forget the fairly Herculean task of getting us all out the Ward first, then down the lift, across 25m of carpeted floor, and through three sets of doors all opening against us before even before we got to the pool)

How do we get into the water? I ask. Easy, throw ourselves in, of course. Doh, says Terry.

Oh silly me, didn’t think of that, Captain Obvious

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What about getting out?

We’ll worry about that later.

We could just let the plug out, says Quadriplegia. Now admittedly it’s been a while since I dived. But…

But it is Karin who provides our biggest laugh.

A diabetic, she narrowly avoided death after getting her insulin/sugar levels wrong. She passed out and was not breathing for some time. No one knows for sure how long, but now she has only a short term memory.

Which is why she’s always going home later or tonight or tomorrow depending on the time of day.

So you’re going home in 2018 then?

No tomorrow

Ok then next year.

No tomorrow.

We do several rounds of  this year/next year, and I know we shouldn’t but we do anyway.

I’m trying not to but we begin laughing at her confusion.

I’m struggling to hide my mirth. Quadriplegia picking up when my giggles falter.

We’re in a feedback loop of self induced hysteria.

Until my lips begin to feel numb and the rooms begins to spin. Shit I need oxygen. I can’t breathe. I’m going to pass out, I gasp. Which only makes quadriplegia shake even more.

Not. Fucking. Helping.

My eyes are screwed tight and tears stream down my face.

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You two are so funny, Karin says, oblivious.

If only she knew.

I can’t take anymore and I retire hurt.

My sides ache.

 

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