Bloody Crumblies!

Just when I was thinking that it was a real struggle to obtain enough material for the blog this time, I had to attend the West Berks hospital to give some blood and ended up getting enough happenings to drown a battleship. Now I hate going to give blood with a vengeance. Nothing to do with needles or medical procedures, but just the absolute hassle it is to perform this simple procedure.
OK, just to explain what happens, the hospital runs the bloody (pun) clinic from half past eight in the morning until half past three in the afternoon, you can turn up any time during this and give your sample. What happens in reality is that people start queuing outside the clinic at half past seven. At eight o clock we’re let into the waiting room and at half eight we’re allowed in the clinic.
This morning, if you’d turned up at half eight, i.e. when the clinic actually begins you would have been number THIRTY ONE! That’s right, thirty other people decided they had nothing better to do with their early morning that take a trip down to the hospital and sit in an uncomfortable waiting room with lots of smelly people. But what makes me really really blow my top is that 90% of these early twat birds are pensioners. Admittedly we all know that the older you get the less sleep you need, but for God’s sake have you got really nothing better to do than jam up the blood queue when you’ve got all bloody day to get your fat old arse down the clinic? And then the doddery old farts sit in the waiting room moaning and groaning, there were three old boys behind me, and everything that came out of their mouths was a bleeding moan. In Newbury at the moment they are pedestrianising the market square and from the work that’s been completed so far, it looks like it will be a pretty attractive piece of work, apart from banishing the speeding taxis that used to career around it will maybe bring some much needed sophistication to what is a fairly grotty area. Perhaps the project won’t turn the space into the continental bar scene that no doubt the councillors imagine but it might get the prowling drunks to move on somewhere else. Anyway the three stooges back in the clinic are damning the improvements at every breath (although no doubt they were similarly slagging off how the square used to look);

”Why do we want to look continental anyway” says one happy chap
“Yeah, keep it on the continent, “adds the care bear next to him, “We’ve got enough of that with all the foreign workers over here”
Acknowledging this salient point the third twat (sorry I’ve given up trying to think of an sarcastic nickname for him) says “I bet if you ask any English person in Newbury if they want a new square they’d say no!”

I’m now kicking my self with both legs that I didn’t spin round and tell him how much I loved the project and can’t wait to invite all my European friends over to sample the café-bar culture that is Newbury Town Square, and stick something wet and soggy into his pipe. But I didn’t.

The other thing that made my blood boil (good job it calmed down before spraying the nurse in molten haemoglobin, ho ho) was the poor old fella who was the next number behind me. He staggered in with his stick and was then joined by someone who I presumed to be his daughter. She was about 50, top heavy and smug. One of these very well dressed wealthy types who believe they thoroughly deserve their elevated status achieved through their husband’s hard work. The other thing that occurred to me was that it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d spent the last fortnight saying to friends and family “Well of course I’ve got to take Dad down the hospital on Friday” as if she deserves the martyr of the month award. Anyway she comes in and plonks herself down next to “Dad”. She then says in a loud voice (I must say that throughout my observation of the couple he always answered promptly and quite lucidly so why she insisted treating him like an idiot God only knows) “Are you cold?” to which “Dad” answered, “Why, what are you going to do?”
Now I instantly took his meaning to be “Look, even if I say, yes I’m cold, what are you actually going to do about it? Lend me your coat? Pick me up and place me next to the radiator? Bring out a concealed sleeping bag and suggest we strip off and cuddle together and create our own heat?” So anyway Mrs Bucket then continues “What do you mean, what am I going to do? Did you understand me?” all said in this uber-condecending tone that you would normally use on a kid.

Then, joy! It was half past eight and we were allowed into the clinic. The nurses started to call out the numbers and, shock, horror when they got to number nine, the person wasn’t there! Cue much muttering and gasping from the gathered crumblies to which Mrs Bucket commented to “Dad” “Mmmmm I wonder where number nine’s got to?” and “Dad” laconically replies “Who cares.”
Good for you thinks I, only for the horrible old bag to say (loudly) “Did you hear what I said?” Quick as a flash the old chap comes back with “Yes, you said where’s number 9” and he could have pulled off a complete coup de grace if he’d then stood up and walloped her with his stick. But he didn’t.

When I left the hospital I then saw a green liveried car with “Berkshire Hospital Community Car” painted on the side. Out of said vehicle came three more old crumblies, but this was definitely your more upper crust class of crumbly. They all then very nicely thanked the driver who answered that she’d pick them up at so-and-so a time. OK, so this must be some sort of service that the infirm and frail can have to get them to appointments and the like. Why then on other visits to the hospital do I often see old people who are poor, i.e. no teeth, carrier bags, greasy hair struggling off the bus and these three who could obviously afford a taxi are chauffeured around like Lord and Lady Muck.

I was then making my way through the temporary traffic lights in Didcot when the white contractors van in front needs to actually pull into the road works. Unfortunately for the driver the area is coned off so he has to jump down from the cab and move a cone or two. As he does this out of the cab leaps a bulldog and starts following his master around the cones. The bloke then points back at the cab but the dog just looks up at him as if he’s gone mad. Cue then a hilarious episode as white van man scurries after dog and finally lifts him back into the van. Needless to say when he’d finally pulled off I then completed the zone whilst the lights for the opposite traffic was already on green, resulting in the most dirty looks every given to a single person (me) in 5 seconds.

Highlight of the day – Orval glass from Didcot
Lowlight of the day – Price of birthday cards - £2.20! It’s a card yeah, i.e. made of card!
Tip of the day – Get served breakfast by Tuffy in the canteen. She doesn’t know the prices and makes them up on the spot!