Tentatively at first, I’m ushered down a long corridor and into another by Bob: The Cheeky Chappy. However the jingle, jangle go-lucky-character, I had previously witnessed on the ward appears to have lost his Mojo. He doesn’t talk to me or reassure me with some whitty banter. No, none of that. Instead Bob’s upped his pace and moved ahead of me and straight into the middle of the corridor allowing no room either side of him for me. I’m forced to tail Bob, one step behind, past closed doors, open rooms and passers-by. Am I invisible? This extreme insecurity is not helped by the fact that I go unnoticed by the passers-by as well. Even in my generally uncharacteristic outfit of two NHS branded dressing gowns, worn front to back, I go unnoticed. I am invisible.

Bob continues to march onwards and upwards and we turn a corner into yet another corridor. Glowing within this dark dead end corridor is an open double doored room. We have reached our destination. 

Unlike the corridors before this room is a hive of activity. I’m greeted by three people dressed in burgundy boiler suits and easy clean plastic plimsoles. A slow motion arm is held out directing me towards a cold unfriendly theatre bed. I climb aboard and instantly search the walls for a clock. 09:05am.

The three burgundy boiler suits waste no time and I have no time to think. ”We have Alex here today. 10 04 78. For a Mastoidectomy of the left ear. Have they marked what side? Yes they have. Are you left or right handed?” “ummm right, right handed.” My left arm is raised and a tourniquet is applied. ”So where would you be today if you weren’t here?” “… Er at work, designing.” I breath deeply as a vain on my hand is slapped to the surface and a cannula is inserted. My NHS dressing gown is lowered and electrocardiogram leads are attached to my chest, wrists and lower legs. The anethatist closes my notes and approaches, he applies a syringe to my cannula. ”I’m just administrating a relaxation drug first of all Alex”. The ceiling is gridded with silver mesh tiles, I study them and been to count. An anesthesia mask is applied and the sound of my breathing consumes me … 14 full tiles and some cut on the sides … the anethatist applies another syringe “Going to sleep now Alex” and I’m anesthetised.

One element to the worksop was to think of a ‘Cause’, write about it (in five minutes) and then read it out to the rest of the group in an attempt to persuade everyone that your ‘Cause’ is a worthy one!

This was and still is my ‘Cause’.

…………………………………………………………………..

Say less words.

Some people talk to much.
Some people don’t talk enough.
Say exactly what you need to say and then move on.
Do not waffle.
Less is more.

…………………………………………………………………..

I have been walking past this Christmas Tree for about 36 days now!

Eight to Nine weeks, thats roughly 63 days ago, this Christmas Tree was proudly brought into a warm loving home.

Dressed, watered and showcased for all to see. He was a part of the family and despite the over weight fairy on top of his head, that family would awake every morning to see Mr Christmas Tree stood head held high as Lord Protector of the presents. He was the man.

Yet despite all of that Mr Christmas Tree has found himself victim of the classic “Christmas is over Mate … so f**k off…” scenario.

Literally left against a stone cold brick wall. Cheers. The owners – yes owners – of Mr Christmas Tree MUST now be walking past this sorry state each and every day. They might as well give him a kick as they walk past.

Unfortunately Mr Christmas Tree is not alone. There are others just like him dumped and left to work it out for themselves. Come on Mr Christmas Tree pick yourself up. Sort it out.

Turn your back for 5 minutes and what do you know, your loose change has been morphed into a spider. Brilliant.

Isabelle knocked this 2p, 1p, 5p and 20p spider together without any prompting and to be honest I think it’s pretty good. I am of course slightly biased. But you do agree with me don’t you.

Alice and frank are in their usual seat. As per usual. What would happen if someone was to sit in ‘their’ seat? Well we can only wonder, as I don’t think they would ever leave it. Maybe they never have. Just commute back and forth all day everyday. Judging by the look of this cackling duo tonight that may well be the case.

Lets just say minus the slippers these two look quite at home. Why? Well Franks only gone and whipped out a couple of glasses and a bottle of fine red wine. And why not while your at it, a little bread board with a selection of French cheese. Less not forget the French bread as well.

These two are pissed. The trains just stopped and Cowboy franks just left the train for a piss! Frank there is a toilet on board, 6 metres away!

Cars don’t like motorbikes. Because cars feel they are king of the road. They are also impatient and don’t like to be beat by motorbikes that drive down the middle of the road past other cars and buses. Cars get stuck behind buses.

Cars don’t like buses. Because when a bus stops, it stops the flow of traffic. A bus also carries pedestrians. Pedestrians leave the buses and happily cross the road in front of the cars.

Cars don’t like pedestrians now. Cars are bigger and stronger than pedestrians so feel pedestrians are inferior. But man made the car, the bus and the motorbike so man feels he has more right to walk where he likes than anyone or anything. Car, bus and motorbike all disagree but appreciate man made them so look out for him. As pedestrians proudly cross the road they overlook the danger of oncoming bicycles.

Bicycles don’t like anyone because no one sees or hears bicycles. That’s only part of the problem. Bicycles are victimised as man made the road for cars, buses, motorbikes and the pavement for pedestrians. Leaving bicycles with no right of way. It’s not quit as simple as that though as there is another contributing factor: Value Added Tax.

Value Added Tax really likes cars, motorbikes, buses and pedestrians. They add a lot of value. Bicycles don’t. Bicycles don’t pay Value Added Tax on a regular basis. But as a gesture of goodwill Value Added Tax provides bicycles with some bicycle lanes.

So cheers Value Added Tax and cheer up bicycles.

Not all that difficult a band name to get your head around, but suprisingly add a bit of conversation either side of we have band, and it throws people.

” … So your in a band?” / ” … You know a band?”

No.

As a result Danger is now everywhere. Lurking on every street corner. If your into surprises your in luck as Danger likes a good surprise, it’s what he does best. Danger will very rarely give you a pre-warning. It’s just not in his nature.

NOTE: Danger can and will come at you in whatever form it chooses to. So think about it.

Fellow pedestrians please be vigilant and watch out for leaves.

Tonight whilst walking to the station, at some pace I might add, I unknowingly set foot on a leaf at the right projectory with sufficient pressure and pace to slide along and into oncoming pedestrians. Much to there amusement. Fortunately for me the freshly dropped leaf was a good diameter and had just the right amount of moisture under it to carry me for long enough to allow me to reposition my upper body and extend my arms out to style the danger out and commute my way along via the leaf. For a short time at least.

Others may not be so lucky. Think about it.

Brilliant.

My life is now being drained away from me through the inconsiderate space consumption of this Grey-middle-aged-humidifier. As a result the lack of oxygen to my head is leaving me slightly delirious and I’m left wondering why he would choose to sit in a two seat bay on his own when he can humidifier the area around me instead.

You couldn’t forget this guy. As grey as John Majors spitting image doll and as backdated as Marty McFly’s father George from “Back to the future”. Less dithering and more disturbing this guy’s facial expression is one of disgust. There is something in his throat or mind that is forcing his jaw, cheeks and mouth into a constant pre-vomit state. With the addition of jet black eyes there is no question that this is an evil man. And on top of that this tall, lanky 1920s throwback is in no need of a haircut.

The usual Eastern European curly red head had been replaced with another equally hard as nails Eastern Block hairdresser.

Greeting him, then me with a “Heylow”, followed by a “yeys plez” and a gesture towards the chair for Mr. Morgue. *

I sit and wait.

Mr. Morgue removes his glasses and asks for a wash followed by a tidy up. A head wash is needed but the slick side parted black and grey mop hasn’t a hair out of line. He’s wasting Helga’s* time and mine.

Helga lowers Mr. Morgue’s head into the sink directly in front of the chair he was seconds before gestured into. She holds Mr. Morgue’s head down and rigorously goes at his scalp. Aaaaaaaar it’s a horrendous sight. She remains emotionless. She has to just to get through the experience of touching such an evil man let alone washing one. What is running through either mind at this very moment could and would no doubt fill many more pages. We can only ponder.

Meanwhile Mr. Morgue raises his head and a towel is thrown over it. I’m sure an all to familiar experience. Reminiscent of arriving and leaving a courtroom shamed. This time though to have his hair dried. Once dry Mr. Morgue returns his round glasses to his black eyes. The tidy up begins.

Surprisingly Mr. Morgue attempts to converse with Helga. That’s a waste of time. What he didn’t realise was that Helga’s captives had limited her vocabulary in case she ever worked out her true identity and therefore location. The vocabulary was limited to the following:

Heylow.
Yeys pleze.
Eyt powndz pleze.
Uleven powndz pleze.
Tank uw.

Though evil, Mr. Morgue was not stupid and soon realised that questions mixed with nods and eyebrow twitches wasn’t about to make great conversation, so he soon shuts up.

The tidy up takes as long as an unnecessary haircut would take and as Mr. Morgue pays for services rendered, I’m ushered into the chair with the familiar “Yeys pleze.”

So as not to confuse I try, best I can, to go for minimal instructions. “Grade 4 back & sides. And then a bit off the top, but not to much…” The later line helped along with a little circular hand motion above my head and then the killer line. “A tidy up, on top”

My instructions are simply met with a nod and the ‘Grade 4 back & sides / tidy up on top’ is quickly underway.

Possibly as a result of her upbringing in War-Torn-Bosnia, Helga’s hair cutting style is a pretty unnerving one. Her left arm had been replaced with a permanently set to ‘ON’ scissor wielding arm. The constantly cutting scissor arm was then lowered, when required, towards your head to cut what ever stood in its way. With hair of differing lengths flying everywhere Helga’s pirate scissor hand was soon covered in a layer of my hair and my head of hair was now ‘Grade 4 back & sides and a little tidier on top’.

Perfect. See you in 3 months.

*As always names have been changed / made up to protect the innocent.