...all clear. A slightly nerve-wracking week (the results actually came through on Wednesday, but my Doctor doesn't believe in dispensing good - or bad - news over the phone.)
Git.
First-born calls him "Doctor Nasty-Man", usually to his face. I think he rather likes the nickname. The guy is quite proud of his bedside manner. I suspect he'd call it "no nonsense", while his patients would describe it as "Crikey, I'm sick, you know? A bit of sympathy, please?"
However, he did save my life a few years back when I came down with pneumonia which The Ex declared was just a bad cold coupled with jet-lag after a trip to Montreal. My mother popped round to say hello, took one look at me and called the guy out. He packed me into an ambulance within the next 10 minutes, and I spent some quality time in intensive care.
Ah, you can't beat the good old National Health Service. I was eventually put in a mixed ward, full of seriously mad old people (one woman was convinced I was her grandson, another frequently pottered around the ward in the altogether.) The ward itself featured a pervading odour of urine.
On my last day the source was discovered. One of the old guys had knocked over a full bed pan under his bed and the cleaning contractors only clean under beds once a fortnight.
Its amazing I survived.
On my second to last day, some of my friends turned up (having visited earlier) and broke me out of the ward. We went to the pub for an hour. I was pathetically grateful.
Happy days...
Incidentally, its been pointed out to me that the previous post may have implied that First-born was an 'accident'. Not at all. And I'm still agonising over that question, you know. Can't have First-born without The Ex being involved along the line...
