The one without a title. Because I have a hangover.
So, that’s it then. No more comfy mornings with the Lovely Nurses at the phototherapy department.
I’ve had my last cup of tea, turned up for work an hour late for the last time, and am cursing my ill-judged decision last week to tell my boss that my treatment was finishing today. Nobody would have been any the wiser and I could have had an extra hour in bed twice a week for the rest of my life. Bugger. I’m going to miss the Lovely Nurses, with their innocent smiling angels-of-the-NHS faces and their foul-mouthed invective. Seriously. I would never have guessed that language like that could be heard at my local hostipal, but Lovely Nurse #1 (the one who makes cups of tea and bitches about Madonna with me) has a tendency to swear like a docker on a three-day bender at the slightest provocation, and Lovely Nurse #2 (the one who presses the buttons on the complicated machine and who sometimes forgets about me, forcing me to sit helplessly in school-chemistry-lab safety goggles while other patients smirk at me from the corridor) has got quite a temper once provoked on, say, funding in the NHS, or noisy neighbours, or her boiler. Shocking. But it’s all over now. The end of an era. The treatment was magical and I don’t need to go back. But I will pop in from time to time to have a cup of tea with the Lovely Nurses. I will do this until they move the phototherapy department and take down all the signs so that I don’t know where it is any more. And then I will track them down, and find out their home addresses, and peer through their letterboxes at three o’clock in the morning (on alternate nights, obviously), until they promise to take me back on as a patient so that I can get two hours off work every week. Forever.
Oh, and the man in the hostipal car park? The one who blocked me in and then snorted derisively when I asked you to move, as if I was being a ridiculous girl for not being able to reverse my car out BECAUSE YOURS WAS IN THE WAY? You’re a fucking twat. I hope your wife leaves you and your house burns down. Twat. And you look really fat in those trousers.
I’ve had my last cup of tea, turned up for work an hour late for the last time, and am cursing my ill-judged decision last week to tell my boss that my treatment was finishing today. Nobody would have been any the wiser and I could have had an extra hour in bed twice a week for the rest of my life. Bugger. I’m going to miss the Lovely Nurses, with their innocent smiling angels-of-the-NHS faces and their foul-mouthed invective. Seriously. I would never have guessed that language like that could be heard at my local hostipal, but Lovely Nurse #1 (the one who makes cups of tea and bitches about Madonna with me) has a tendency to swear like a docker on a three-day bender at the slightest provocation, and Lovely Nurse #2 (the one who presses the buttons on the complicated machine and who sometimes forgets about me, forcing me to sit helplessly in school-chemistry-lab safety goggles while other patients smirk at me from the corridor) has got quite a temper once provoked on, say, funding in the NHS, or noisy neighbours, or her boiler. Shocking. But it’s all over now. The end of an era. The treatment was magical and I don’t need to go back. But I will pop in from time to time to have a cup of tea with the Lovely Nurses. I will do this until they move the phototherapy department and take down all the signs so that I don’t know where it is any more. And then I will track them down, and find out their home addresses, and peer through their letterboxes at three o’clock in the morning (on alternate nights, obviously), until they promise to take me back on as a patient so that I can get two hours off work every week. Forever.
Oh, and the man in the hostipal car park? The one who blocked me in and then snorted derisively when I asked you to move, as if I was being a ridiculous girl for not being able to reverse my car out BECAUSE YOURS WAS IN THE WAY? You’re a fucking twat. I hope your wife leaves you and your house burns down. Twat. And you look really fat in those trousers.
posted by surly girl at 11:43 am
11 Comments:
Light therapy? Sounds pretty heavy to me. (Badoom tish!). Hope you don't get a recurrance and are all better now.
I really hope the car park bloke reads this 'cos you certainly told him.
He probably told you there was inches to spare and we all know blokes have no concept of size !!!
Nice one Surly. Tell 'im ... oh you did. I'm feeling your anger.
My blog's broken :( Apparantly it's a known error and the lovely people at blogger are trying to fix it. It's a filer that's broken and they have to move the posts saved on it or something like that. So, I'll just hog a bit of space here so that I can have my daily fix. Fuckers. Rant. Piss. Ok - that's better. Ah.
Lovely Nurses are lovely. They are, in my experience, all saints.
If I ever get brave enough to post my Traumatic Horrible Hospital story I'll also pay homage.
(My blog's disappeared again as well though - I'm just getting "forbidden" messages. WTF?)
glad it isn't just me blocked from Spinsterella's blog. If it's herself too I shouldn't need to take it too personally
word ver:
time to use the pohtei, Quentin
How are all nurses just the loveliest people alive? When my sister-in-law had her baby, they were fighting over who got to love and wrap him up tightly. And these are women who work in the maternity ward, so you think they would've had their fill of swaddling children.
Not so. Still delightful and caring.
Two hours a week, I could kill for. I'd definately keep up with the tea chat.
We were going to visit yesterday to wish you Happy Burpday, but we forgot.
Slipped our minds it did. We were far too busy thinking about other insignificant things.
Besides, isn't it much nicer getting Happy Burpdays today?
Anyway (fave word), are you going to let us know if you woke up with your tits further down towards your belly button this morning?
oh you get 'em girl. 'you look fat in those trousers', a fine parting shot!
sg, that is a genius idea.
Suggestions for reasons to tell the boss that I need to visit the hospital twice a week will be welcome, thanks.
Jokes about mental wards will be deemed predictable and unimaginative.
Bastards.
(my blog's fine but I'll use some space here too, if that's okay with you. Ta)
Bugger it. I was first here earlier but blogger wouldn't let me comment. I've obviously lost something here as to why you are having this procedure in the first place. I'm glad it's over though.
I suggest you set the nurses on Fatarse in car-park.
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