Sunday, 23 July 2017

The hospital song...Part 2...

So, going on from yesterday, the trouble with doing my unexpected Florence Nightingale on daughter number two, was that I had come unprepared.  I had been expecting to be coming home on Wednesday evening having tucked her up into bed with a cup of tea. What I wasn't anticipating was that on Wednesday evening I would be washing my knickers in the sink and wondering whether daughter number two had anything suitable in her wardrobe which I could borrow to wear the next day.  

I came up with the grand idea of stretching my drawers across a clippy hanger and hanging them up at the bathroom window to dry overnight.  Goodness knows what my daughter's neighbours must have thought seeing the vast drawers flapping in the breeze. At my age, dental floss type knickers are no longer an option, and I'm more of a Harvest Festival Knicker wearer (all is safely gathered in).  So these glorious drawers flapped all night at the window, and obscured the streetlight so I didn't need to pull the blind down.  

So getting up the next morning, the knickers were dry, but there was nothing suitable in the wardrobe for me to wear to the hospital.  Throwing on yesterday's clothes, I headed to the nearest Sainsbury's and bought jeans, a top and a new pair of knickers.  As it was so early, there was only one lady on the till, and I explained my predicament about why I had no clothes.  She wished daughter number two a speedy recovery, and I changed in the loo and felt human again.

Fast forward twenty four hours and I'm back at Sainsbury's again, buying another top and another pair of knickers. Unfortunately, the same lady was on the till, and eyeing up the pair of knickers, she said, 'I bet you wished you'd bought a multipack of them now'.  Well yes, I did, but how was I to know that my daughter would refuse to co-operate with the medicines, choosing instead to take a freefall into cardboard hats and plastic sheeting?

By Friday, she had improved somewhat and in my boredom, I suggested we put a couple of bets on the horses.  Her hands had swollen up for some reason, and looking through Friday's runners, I spotted the perfect horse.  

'That's the one we're betting on', I said, brandishing the Daily Express Racing section.
  
'Sausage Fingers'.

Well, she wasn't amused (neither was I when it limped it seventh), but luckily, I had picked another horse which romped home at 20-1.  

'That's brilliant!' I said, 'I doubled my money!'  

'Great', said the invalid.  'You and go and buy yourself some more knickers now'.

Not funny...


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