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Monday, September 21, 2009

Power play

Another Mrs Nunn Plog. I try not to, but sometimes it's just too easy.

"I'm reading Barack Obama's autobiography at the moment," proclaims Mrs Nunn. She pronounces Obama to rhyme with Go-slam-a. That isn't a real word by the way. Other words Mrs Nunn mispronounces include (but are not limited to) "buffet" (boofay) and "chihuahua" (shi-wow-wow).

"Anyway," says Mrs Nunn, after I have finished teasing her about her inability to pronounce possibly the most famous man in the world's surname, "his biography is really good, and I definitely fancy him."

"Sorry?" I say.

"Barack Obama" (Go-slam-a) she says. "I definitely would."

"OK Mum," say I, not even a little taken aback. For I am used to the weird and wonderful way of Mrs Nunn. "You're telling me that you would have sex with Barack Obama?" (Oh-balm-er).

"Yes," she says. "I bet his fantasy is a middle-aged white woman from the Midlands who runs a church orchestra and has her own mini apple orchard. And you know what they say, don't you?"

"No," I said, "I really, really don't."

"Once you've had white, there's no going back."

Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you Mrs Nunn.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Feline fortune

So, what's my excuse for tardiness? Well, I'm going to blame the NHS. That and TheBloke (TM)'s tendency to use his head instead of a cricket bat. Safe to say the last few days have mostly been about hospital appointments, surgery and failing to do any type of housework whatsoever.

Monty Cat, being the ginger git that he is, needs special food to stop him weeing blood. Stupid faulty cat. This costs (per week) almost exactly the same as TheBloke (TM) and I spend on our food shopping per person. And it has to be bought from the vets, at which there is no parking, and which is only open for thirteen minutes every other Tuesday, so long as it's not Whitsun.

So yesterday, being a Tuesday outside of Whitsun, I made the fortnightly visit to the vet to stock up on his special Monty Cat food. I parked illegally as usual, and dashed into the shop.

"Hi, I'd like some incredibly overpriced food please, preferably the stuff branded with 'I saw you coming' stamped on it," I said. Not really.

I said, "Could I get two packs of the Royal Canin feline wet food for cats with urinary problems?"

"Of course," said the receptionist. "Could I take your surname please?"

"Nunn," said I. Thankfully, this didn't turn into one of those interminable conversations where I get looked at sceptically and asked, "None? You don't have a surname?"

"Nunn," the receptionist repeated, "is it for Monty?"

"No," I said. "I find it so delicious that I serve it with potatoes and carrots twice a week. And my bladder has never felt better."

The receptionist looked a bit worried. Then realised I was joking. I'm not sure she approved. The food seemed to cost even more this week.

Furry ginger git.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Rent girl

With a little bit of luck, we've let the flat. We're still waiting for an exchange / completion date ourselves, but we've found a couple who'd like to rent the one we're living in at the moment. TheBloke (TM) was a little bit overexcited when he found out they are a lesbian couple and insisted we installed CCTV immediately. I refused.

I told Mrs Nunn the good news about letting the flat.

"Excellent," she said. "That's fantastic. And great that you'll have two girls living there. They'll definitely look after your flat. I rented a property to a gay couple once. I have to tell you, they were great. I had a very good experience with lesbians."

"Sorry, Mum," I said, deftly putting her on speakerphone so TheBloke (TM) could hear. "What did you just say?"

"I have had a very positive lesbian experience," she said brightly and loudly.

You heard it here first.

Sunday, September 06, 2009

Bleeding the NHS dry

Day 1 (last Saturday)

TheBloke (TM) appears home early from cricket.

"Hello," I say. "I didn't get your text saying you were coming home." TheBloke (TM) looks a bit sorry for himself and appears to have a Post-It stuck to his head. On closer inspection, this is not a Post-It but in fact a large piece of medical gauze taped to his head.

"Oh," I say. "Are you OK?"

"No," says TheBloke (TM).

At this point, reader, I asked him what we were all thinking, "Is the Mini OK?"

It was. TheBloke (TM), as you know, tried to use his head as a cricket bat, and despite wearing a helmet, managed to get himself a nice crack on the bonce. The ambulance were called but let him go. TheBloke (TM) then drove home for two hours (whilst vomiting and bleeding) instead of calling me to come out and get him. I told him off and put him to bed.


Day 2

TheBloke (TM) is beginning to feel a bit better. He joins the pre-FABE party for Wii and cider.


Day 3

TheBloke (TM) has a worse headache than the day before and is feeling sick again. He elects not to come to the FABE. He tells me I should go ahead to the FABE, which I do. I return early, and find TheBloke (TM) has been bleeding profusely from the nose. I insist on a trip to A&E. TheBloke (TM) submits.

Our love affair with the NHS begins. Four hours in total, a doctor (about eleven years old) who didn't think it was at all serious, but at the last minute decided to do a CT scan... revealing a fractured skull, eye socket and broken nose. He sent us home, with instructions for TheBloke (TM) to take at least one day off work.

People in the waiting room evidently think he's in an abusive relationship.


Day 4

TheBloke (TM) has a little bit of a nose bleed but is generally feeling a bit better.


Day 5

TheBloke (TM) rings me at work to say he thinks he'll go to A&E again as he's got a bit of a nose bleed. This is TheBloke (TM) subtext for "I've lost most of my bodily fluids". I call a cab for him. An hour later, I get a text telling me he's likely to be admitted.

I leave work, pop home and grab a non-blood soaked spare shirt for him (these are becoming rarer in our flat) and head out to A&E. I find a very sorry looking TheBloke (TM) awaiting transfer by ambulance to another hospital, having just filled two bowls with nose blood. He has a large sponge stuck up each nostril. Yum. I suggest we go into the black pudding making business, but he doesn't seem keen.

We are here for three hours. Every time I ask a nurse how long the ambulance will be, I get told "imminently". After another hour passes, and still being told "imminently", I ask what "imminently" means, as in my vocab, it means in the next five minutes or so. I am informed, "That's not what it means on the NHS." How right they were.

He remains for the next four hours in total. I eventually kick off and ask the nurse to phone the ambulance people. Turns out the ambulance bloke "couldn't find" him first time round, so just left again.

The ambulance comes half an hour later. TheBloke (TM) is left in a hospital gown shivering by an open door, while the ambulance driver tries to find his ambulance keys.

I am not allowed in the ambulance, so make my way by public transport. I still manage to arrive at St Paul's before TheBloke (TM) who has been taken on a whirlwind tour of London by the fuckwit driver.

We find out TheBloke (TM) has to stay until Friday, when the specialist can see him.

You know what, I genuinely can't write the rest of this out because I can feel my blood pressure rising. Let's just say that although yes, he probably did need to be in hospital, the hospital he was transferred to gave him nothing other than drugs - and he never even got to see the specialist before he was discharged. (The discharge itself was supposed to happen at 8 a.m.... so off I duly trotted nice and early to the hospital. It actually happened at 7 p.m. that evening. The reason? The doctor was a bit busy. Brilliant.) I had to ask about nineteen million questions and hassle three hundred medical staff, most of whom did not speak brilliant English.

But it was all worth it. Want to know why? No, not the safe return of TheBloke (TM) - that was just a happy by-product. It was the following exchange.

Laura: Hi, TheBloke (TM) is in bed nine and doesn't have any water. Could I get a jug for him please?

Medical man: I... sorry... I no... understand.

Laura: (doing miming) Bed nine. Needs water (more miming). Can you get some (some pointing)?

Medical man: Oh! I sorry - no. You need nurse for water. I neurologist.

Laura: For God's sake, it's not brain surgery.

(I couldn't resist it.)

Anyway. He's home and fucked off his socks on morphine. It's brilliant! And there's enough left to sell on Ebay.


Day 8

The lazy bastard let me cook breakfast AND dinner AND do the washing up.

Thursday, September 03, 2009

A moving issue

It has been - for various reasons - a mostly rubbish few days. There have been some highlights (I would definitely recommend Forbidden Broadway at the Menier Chocolate Factory) and the cheese and bacon burgers at the Fourth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza were perhaps the best to date.

I would not, however, recommend The Royal London's A&E department as a fun place to spend your Bank Holiday Monday afternoon.

Or, as TheBloke (TM) keeps reminding me, "Do you remember that time you went to the barbecue when I had a fractured skull and a broken nose? Did you enjoy your barbecue?" Git.

That is by-the-by. It has been a fairly rubbish few days. But, something strange happened today. Something strange and a little bit wonderful. A company called "Move Me" called me. I assumed it was a removals company - I have been touting for a man and van as we're (hopefully) moving house soon. So I chuntered on to him about various quotations we'd had and how I wasn't yet in a position to make a decision.

He then told me he had a broken leg. I said, "Oh, well you're not going to be doing any removals any time soon, are you?" He sounded a bit confused.

I eventually found out why. The company he's from don't do removals. They do a brilliant, brilliant (free) service that enables you to change all your address details with utilities companies online, or, where you can't do it online, they provide templates for all banks and building societies, they have all the addresses on a database and you can print off the letter, sign it and put it in the post. Job done!

Weirdly though, I have no recollection of seeing this site. And, weirder still, it wouldn't let me sign up as I was apparently "already registered". When I tried logging in (using all the various passwords I'd ever choose), it wouldn't let me. So I genuinely don't think it was me who registered my address. Still, a simple password change request, and I've got full access to the site. Admittedly as a Mr Laura Nunn. The phone number and email address was right though.

I have a moving fairy! Woohoo! Not quite as good as a guardian angel, but at the minute I'll take what I can get.