Here again, with an all new crew of sick people. Unusually sick, apparently.
Ward D9 has been suffering from an outbreak norovirus or nordivirus or norah-virus* or something for the last 10 days. So, yesterday (Thurs 21st) I turn up like an idiot on time and on the right day (freaky, I know) and find that they won’t let me on the Ward. The conversation on the intercom went like this:
Chemorat – Hi, It’s [my name]. I’m due in now. Can I come in?
Voice – No.
Chemorat – erm….ok……why not?
Voice – There are sick people in here….
Chemorat – er…right….erm….Isn’t that the point?
Voice – I’m sorry?
Chemorat – Don’t you usually have sick people in there to, you know, make them not sick?
Voice – Yes, well we’re not taking visitors at the moment due to sickness.
Chemorat – But I’m not a visitor…
Voice – Then why do you want to come in?
Chemorat – erm…well..er……………….I’m a sick person.
Voice – Oh my god! How did you get outside, you could spread it!
Chemorat – I don’t think I’m contagious…
Voice – Stay where you are! I’m coming to get you!**
After some confusion and some explaining on both sides and some hasty phone calls it became apparent that the ward has been closed against visitors and new inpatients to prevent the spread of a nasty bug and I was sent home.
Where, like any loving boyfriend, I misled my other half into believing that I was in hospital, then scared the snot out of her when she got home. Beware, potential burglars, if you get caught in my house you may get fainted at with extreme prejudice.***
But, of course, today I received a call at TEN IN THE MORNING from the bed manager; saying that the virus is gone and I need to get in this afternoon. Breakfast and buses then. I fucking hate public transport, just like I hate the proletariat. Bloody proles. It may come as a surprise to some that I don’t like buses, considering that I’m the closest thing to a tramp/leper without actually living on the street, but buses are full of weirdos. They’re the same sort of nutcases who like shaking hands or talking about stuff which has nothing to do with cheese. Freaks.
Anyway, back to important little me. I now look like Moby (the musician, not the whale) and consequently feel the urge to resurrect the rotting corpse of Techno. And moisturise my head.
The nurses have started hiding the papier-mâché tubs. This could end in tears.
El ChemoSnob
He’s contagious, woah woah woah, he’s contagious…
* Nordivirus, as you know, leads to large bristly facial growths and an urge to quaff, not to mention raping and pillaging (and we all know that the pillaging is just there to give credibility to the whole endeavour). A more recent strain has lead to great rally driving, efficient design ethics and a penchant for operatic melodic rock. Norah-virus simply results in the patient singing dozens of near-identical BORING songs dripping in tacky romantic drivel. There will be a reckoning, Miss Jones…
** I can’t count the number of times that someone has shouted “Stay there, I’m coming to get you!” at me. Since none of these was a fireman, firewoman, or indeed any fire-related professional, it generally resulted in me giving it legs. Somehow, when someone screams that they’re going to ‘get me’, I’m always certain that they’re not planning to establish open and honest dialogue with aim of understanding my innermost hopes and dreams. The only person who needs to ‘get me’ is my dog and she has no trouble understanding a mind that revolves around eating, sleeping, shitting and sniffing arses. Sometimes girlfriends just don’t understand….
*** Not to be mistaken for Ian Flint’s house, where you will be feinted at, then parried and riposted at, possibly even LUNGED at, often before you’ve even noticed that a well-groomed ‘young’ man has rumbled you. Also not to be mistaken for Catapult Col’s house, where you would be dead. FACT.
It’s true…
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