The day is almost done here, but still just awakening elsewhere – so I pass on my good will to all.
My own day didn’t go quite to plan when, at about 7 last night, my son rushed me to hospital.
The experience, as usual, has not been without its laughs.
Upon admitting me the nurse looked up at my son prior to jabbing a few needles in my bum and asking a few personal questions. He’s an ex professional sportsman and, with a massive frame (and beard) and a baseball cap looks a bit threatening. He doesn’t look a whole lot like me.
“Are you related to the patient?” she asked as she pulled down the back of my shorts.
“No,” he replied, dead-pan, “I’m just the Uber driver that brought him in.”
A little later in the evening, when things had gone down hill somewhat and I had changed colour dramatically and was writhing around on the bed mouthing obscenities, he took a photograph of me which he entitled ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Very Old Man’.
I elected not to include the photograph in this post.