I slept well, I didn’t wake until nearly
6am which was something of a result. Over brekkie I watched an old episode of ”Dad’s Army” then sparked up my lap-top
to have my usual morning rummage in cyber-space. With nothing going on in there
I set off to work.
I went to get petrol; having filled the
tank I joined the queue at the till. We waited. And waited. Rather than taking
money the person on duty at the petrol station was sweeping an already clean
floor. After a few minutes one of the chaps queuing with me asked how long she’d
be. She looked up and did a double-take. Did she *really* have no idea how many people were waiting?
I got to work and did my bit. Yesterday
I mentioned how happy I was at work; today I was rather surprised to hear that
a chap who started only a few weeks before me was actively seeking work
elsewhere. He isn’t at all impressed with the early starts and late finishes. It
is a discussion I have had so many times over the years. Having a shift pattern
which effectively covers every hour of every day is an integral part of working
in a hospital. Surely people realise this when they first consider applying to
work in one, and if that doesn’t occur to them, then don’t they pay attention
when the working pattern is described at interview?
At lunchtime we had something of a treat…
or so we’d hoped. A rep was coming to tell us the latest developments in the
world of von Willebrand’s disease. The chap turned up, put up a PowerPoint
presentation that someone else had made, and read the slides to us in a dull
monotone. I slept through most of it. I’m told I didn’t actually snore.
Although we got free dinner, it was
forty-five minutes of my life that I would like back.
As I came home my phone beeped with a
Facebook notification. A chap with whom I’d once worked had died. I was rather
amazed to read the glowing obituaries that some of his other colleagues had
left for him. No one liked him, and now people who wouldn’t have pissed on him
if he was on fire are now crying for the loss of their best friend in the
world.
I realise it is bad form to speak ill of
the dead, but is it really? Why paint the chap to be some sort of wonder-saint?
He was a scout leader at the same time that I was. Scout leaders make a promise
to keep
the Scout Law. The very first part of it says “a scout is to be trusted”. I don’t think this chap said a true word
ever. I certainly lost count of the amount of lies he fed us at work; I wouldn’t
trust him to tell the time.
I still ache from the canoeing… Being in
constant pain is making me *such* a
misery-guts…
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