Progress??!!

Watch this space, there is definately a Captain's Log brewing - just use your imagination! I, very very foolishly, and naively, and stupidly, and well just downright brain-deadly really, asked Mum if there was anything in particular that she wanted for her Birthday next week. She had obviously prepared her oration, (as clearly, I am predictable, and she is hard to buy for,) and she didn't stop for breath. 'I haven't stopped you know, and would really appreciate your time'. Oh shite, I know what's coming. 'Will you come and babysit him on Saturday?' Despair gentle licked my ankles with the general impact of a tsunami...I just know that, even though they are out of season, Hincksy is going to start eating Sprouts by mid-week..just to make me suffer! You know, my sister must have predicted the parents one-day becoming more demanding, and had the right idea by moving down-south...Bitch, she always had one-up on me! (And she's slim!)

Last week I was summoned at a late hour, in my Medical Advisor role. Dad was said to be in agony with his bad side, and had had enough - could he have some stronger painkillers?. Now, it was only the week before that I had to provide some words of wisdom about his daily routine. Having been stuck in Hospital, usually recumbant in bed or his sedan, and with diet that had as much fibre and roughage in it as my nail clippings, I find it hard to believe that a man, who is usually unphased by the Telegraph Criptic Crossword, did not think living in the real world would have no effect on his body. Thanks to Hincksy's self-directed two hour daily torture on the Geiger (a sado-masochistic device, with the appearance of an upturned tandem bicycle) and an apetite to compete with that of a wildboar, his body has responded in a way that is....well, to be expected. Dad's once a day paper-reading in the bathroom is more frequent and noxious, thanks to his 'child in a sweet shop attitude' to food, and obviously has to have the energy to get off his arse and walk there each time. He is, therefore, knackered and I tried to advise that sometimes, less is more. As his proper physio doesn't start for a few more weeks, I suggested that rehabilitation was not just about physical strength and agility, but about being independant. The practice of going into the kitchen, perching on his stool and making a cup of tea and a sandwich, would be just as useful as sweating like a bison. Sensible I hear you say, but even my Mother raised her eyes to the ceiling. Nevertheless, she bravely passed on the suggestion... 'Fk O, I could make a butty if I needed to, but I don't!'.

Needless to say, after a bit of professional nursing digging to sort out his pain, (well, all patients tell lies, and only intense interrogation discovers the truth) I established that, contrary to medical advice, Hincksy had stopped taking his Tramadol, as his leg wasn't jumping anymore, and he didn't need it. I sometimes ponder that all patients should have their bad-descision making receptors removed at the doors of the hospital. I, somewhat gleefully, informed him that he had actually stopped taking the pain-killers that were specifically prescribed for his neuropathic pain. Safe to say, he is now painfree...remarkable isn't it?

Well, wish me luck. I told Mum that I might whip Dad into the car and take him somewhere. As it is her Brithday, I asked her if she had a preference which mountain I left him at the top of....

I'm sure I will be back when I have recoved enough, emotionally and physically.

Regards, Poor Vick X

Such a long time since my blast blog...you all cheer. Sorry, but I feel the need to share the burden of torture... to cleanse myself.

The day after my last posting was the day I thought I would have to leave the country and would be disowned by my parents. Hincksy wanted the computer brought downstairs, so that he could go on the internet. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about the Blog, and check his savings accounts.. that surpisingly, no longer existed. I came to terms with this easily over a bottle or two of Pinot Grigio; but was dragged into reality when the phone rang at the crack of dawn and Dad's dulcet tones pleaded 'Are you coming over?' I dutifully dragged my hungover arse out of bed; left my partner, kids, shopping, cleaning, cooking, washing & ironing, to address the urgency of Hincksy's demands. On my arrival, he was recumbant on the sofa, and the memory of wildrbeast echoed in my thoughts. 'He's making me suffer', I decided, whilst waiting for them to finish their lunch, and chainsmoking in the garden.

Two days later, or so it seemed, Dad was back basking in the sunshine on the sofa. Past the point of caring, I asked, 'So, where shall I put the computer?' With a slightly deceptive (and evil) look in his eye, he told me he didn't think he would bother with the computer, and to leave it where it was. WHATTTTTTT...all that liver damage for nothing? I was confused. This was out of character.

Still with the attention span of gnat, Hincksy was soon on to the next subject. He was concerned that if he fell over at home, he wouldn't be able to get up. Before I could utter the words...'well you should have a go at crawling', he'd thrown himself on the floor and done an hilarious impression of a lame sloth en route to the armchair on the other side of the lounge. When I finally peeled myself off the floor... I congratulated him on his performance. My confidence resumed (foolish), and being easily entertained, I couldn't help but encourage him. However, he was tired and resumed his position on the sofa, ready for a sleep. Mum and I sneeked out to the garden for some rays, but when I peered through the window to check on him, he'd gone. 'Shit...had he rolled off?!' Noooo...just practicing his new found skill of combat crawling. With strict instructions to stay put, we left Hincksy for another few moments, and again he was missing...

'Of F**k'..how naive am I? Dad was sat at the bottom of the stairs, demanding, 'Walk me upstairs to the Mistress (his computer)'. As a dutiful daughter, and a lamb to the slaughter, I did as he asked...and to this day, I don't konw what he's read...and hope that, as he is easily bored he hasn't managed more than a snippet (well it's hardly the Daily Telegraph is it?)...but he's still speaking to me! Maybe he enjoyed it...but it's more likely that he's in regular contact with his solicitor.

In the few short weeks that Hincksy was back on the ward before discharge, he certainly ensured he wouldn't be forgotton (as if he ever would). Taking on the role of vigilante with pride, Dad soon thought he'd found his moment of valour. His mate, in the opposite bed had been in his wheelchair, and had graciously slid out of it onto the floor. In his V8 powered League of Friends chair, Hincksy swerved in to the rescue...but cornered too quickly, caught his wheel in bedsheets and was sent careering onto it's side. Both of them sprawled on the floor, there wasn't a nurse insight. Nevertheless, Hincksy called the nurses on his mobile and asked if 'Somebody would care to pick up the dead bodies off the floor in Bay One'. Unsurprisingly, it seemed that the majority of the nurses from the entire hospital came to witness this spectacle and heckle from the sidelines. Despite the amount of spectators, there was little offers of help. It does make me wonder if my father's name may have been mentioned in the staffroom?!!

Hincksy was itching to arrange a date to come home. After that first day release, hell I still haven't recovered, he returned to the ward a proud man, and just could keep his big trap shut. First he boasted to the Consultant & Sister that he'd done so well, he went up the stairs, and they agreed that he could stay for the whole weekend next time. Then off to the physio dept, were he continued his monologue - god, don't we all know he's great. But his smug look was swiftly removed from his face when the physio bollocked him for being so stupid and cancelled his weekend visit. Oh Shite - after 6 months of dealing with the stroppy toddler, haven't they learnt anything?! Bypassing his usual channels for getting his own way - hunger strike, rudeness, throwing bedpans - he went straight for the jackpot...'Get me the self-discharge form, I'm off!' I can't imagine why Hincksy thought this would work. He's obviously has delusions of grandure and really believes that they wanted him to stay. Needless to say, the nurses left scorch marks in the new floor to get him the said form...but there was one rather large spanner in their works. My Mother. Not usually an outspoken and vocal woman, she responded in a fashion even Janet Street-Porter would be impressed by - well her independance was now truly under threat, and she hadn't got rid of the landscape gardeners yet. Like a diplomat for the UN, she calmed, soothed, bribed and barked until he was safely back tucked into his starched hospital sheets. If that hadn't worked, I'm sure she would have thrown him out of his wheelchair, just to get a few more weeks. The nurses failed to hide their horrified faces behind their plastic pinnies, and skulked back to the nurses station for a tactical review.

The date for Dad's discharge was finally set, Friday 11th May, the day before my Wedding. Great. Talk about a timing - if Hincksy came home, then Mum couldn't have my boys, and I couldn't have a honeymoon. It never crossed my mind - honest. (Actually managed to make alternative arrangements, and had a fab time in Barcelona, but that doesn't make for good reading!)Dad was that desperate that nothing went wrong, he refused to go for physio for a couple of days in case he fell over and jeopardised the plans. Mum gamefully asked if he was looking forward to coming home. I can't believe that 30 years of marriage to Hincksy has taught her nothing about the miserable old git. He reposded with his usual enthusiasm, 'Well it's fking boring here, and it'll be fking boring at home!' Mum was quick to cancel the 'welcome home' banner and reception party...nothing had changed.

On the Tuesday before discharge, he finally agreed to go the torture chamber - he's still wearing steel toe-capped boots. And within an hour I had a call from the ward sister to say she was very sorry, but Dad was gravely ill, having collapsed in the physio dept, and was being worked on by the resuscitation team. (We're not sniggering now!). By the time I arrived at the ward, in a very unattractive sweat and with my new acrylic wedding nails, bitten to the bed (waste of money)...he looked ok. He hadn't died, or had another stroke...just a funny turn that seemed to provoke a gross over-reaction by the nurses. Maybe they really did care...or maybe they thought that they would be stuck with him a bit longer. Nevertheless they saw a window of opportunity, and transferred him to the Medical Emergency Unit with private hospital timing. Within half an hour of arriving on the unit, surrounded by very, very poorly patients, Dad was zooming in and out of the sluice collecting an arsenal of urinals ('well the nurses might be too busy to bring me one').

Whilst waiting for the doctors, I popped back to ward to pick up a couple of essentials for Dad for overnight, only to be directed into the sister's office. I was met, by the door barely able to open, and the entire Hincks Command HQ crammed into the room. It appeared to have all been been hastily stuffed into plastic bags and amblazened 'Patient Property'. How the f**k was I supposed to get his lot to the other side of the hospital...I'm a Hincks, there's always a way! Impressively, Dad was seen, assessed, monitored, reviewed and returned to the ward in record time - his reputation had obviously preceded him and they wanted rid. I assume Bersham Ward was too overwhelmed for words at Hincksy's hasty return....

Dad is now home for good. Mum isn't looking as cheerful these days. I'm gradually reducing my Job Descriptions. All getting back to some normality really. But then I started to think....at what point has my life been normal? Nice - yes, but normal....no. At the very least I feel another blog coming on, or maybe a book! I'm out of the Will, so who gives a F**k!

(By the way...The wedding went well (except my sister stole the limelight when she collapsed); Dad has a carer (but he says her tits aren't big enough) & Mum....Well, Mum has rather an unhealthy interest in Shirley Valentine.

Health & Happiness to All Who Read,

Regards Vick X

Evening All.

I'm sure most of you have been relaxing in your gardens, with the BBQ gently smoking and a Pimms in hand. You lucky Bs! As Dad is allowed home for the days over the weekend, I have been mowing, strimming & rummaging in the garage...all under the highly critical eye of Hincksy. Even Clive (next door neighbour) looked rather alarmed at the state of me, unfemininely sweating like the proverbial pig, on the end of the lawn mower. Luckily for me the old bugger wasn't as particular about his usual crown green bowling standard lawn, as he could have been. He'd earlier demanded that he be wheeled into his private kingdom (the garage), to survey his loved ones (the tools), and he'd spotted the ancient roller mower... Even I was impressed by my divertional tactics. At a speed Linford Cristie would be proud of, I hot-footed it to the back of the garage and grabbed a tin of WD40. This kept Hincksy amused for at least half an hour, and long enough for him to forget about the lawn. He had the wheelchair upside down and gave it it's first servicing...

Easily bored I then pushed him down to the bridge and around the village. I'm a bit suspicious about the lack of folk around, and wonder whether a pre-warning signal had been sent out to all, that he'd been released! My 11 year old Son was with us, and was down by the river edge trying to skim stones, with Hincksy yelling 'That's not how you bloody do it!'.I have grave concerns that Jake has far too much of his Grandfather's genes for comfort. He came back to us scratching his and explained that if the wheelchair had caterpiller tracks, Grandad could go down the riverbank and over the stones...Hincksy is currently drawing up the blueprints of his invention.

Back on the ward, Dad had been bored and up to no good. He was supposed to come home for the 4 days over Easter, possibly a bit too much too soon for Mum. He managed Friday, then she went down with the Flu and he was stuck on the Ward for the rest of time. It makes you wonder whether all mariages should have strict visiting times only? Regardless, Hincksy was really worried about Mum, and even more, bored...so he took to phoning me on my mobile (even though I was having the 'Weekend from Hell' at work). At first I didn't recognise the number, and every time I went to pick it up, the caller rang off. Eventually, twigging it was Hincksy, I tried to call him back, but he'd turned the bloody phone off in case he got caught. I kept trying...maybe he was ill?...maybe it was Mum?...in a panic, I phoned the Ward and told the nurse that Dad was trying to call me....and she just sniggered...'Mr Hincks...Have you been using your mobile phone on the ward? Your daughter has just snitched on you!' Oh, gee, thanks for that. And what did he want that was so desperately urgent?...'Are you coming to see me tonight, I've run out of Speckled Hen?'

He's also been using his mobile for more insubortinate and self gratifying deeds. He started by sending a text to the nurses' station whilst they were having report. 'If you don't move soon, you'll be getting bed sores'. Then he waited until the Domestic was the closest to the phone, and told that she'd missed a bit. He eventually gave himself away by mentioning the 'shite' that he's given as food...fool!

His bed on the ward if truly under threat. He has completely undermined patient confidentiality, as he has the biggest ears on the ward. He knows the full medical history of every person there, (probably inclusive of staff), and uses it to his full advantage. As he has nothing better to do, he watches every move..what patients do, and not..what they leave on their plate..... He's currently the fittest boy in the bay, and none of the others can speak. Every day he helps the nurses by filling in the guys' menu cards for them. Needless to say, the other patients are starting to look quite emaciated as they don't like the meals that have been ordered. Whilst the return of Hincksy's muffin belly is imminent. Dad is so mercenary that he's been seen hovering outside closed curtains whilst a fellow patient has been having a swallow assessment. 'If he fails it, can I have his tea?'

The first time Dad came home, was with a entourage of health professionals, to assess how he got on. The OT must have got whiff of the how much of a critical 'backseat' driver he was, and arranged an ambulance with full paramedic crew to bring him home. Needless to say, the next time he left the hospital, Mum was expected to hurl him and his wheelchair into her car, singlehandedly. I knew it wouldn't take long...He convinced Mum to let him steer the car from the passenger seat..to see if he could, (more likely that he thought he could do it better than her!)

Tomorrow is the day he no longer speaks to me; the day I get written out of the Will; the day I will be ostrasized as his duaghter...the day I am moving his computer downstairs! When I arrived today, Hincksy was sat in the lounge, and even though he's only been home a couple of times in 5 months...he claimed he was bored!. Like a fool I offered to bring the computer down. I'm hoping that he'll be so distracted by the fact that all his financial investments have been moved, that he will forget to read the Blog. Sadly (for me), and thanks to his visitors' enthusiasm, he is so intigued of what I've been writing, I fear it'll be his first web page. I might just remove the fuse from his plug board...might put him off the scent for a day or two...

Regards Vick X

Just a quicky...I can't resist sharing every last painful detail of this saga...it's better than counselling. I am currently trying to download a very nasty virus onto Hincksy's computer to ensure that he never gets access to the internet again, and hence can't read the inciminating evidence.

Dad has had a personal visit and grovelling apology from the Catering Manager at the hospital...and doesn't he think he's important now (like he didn't before!)? Tonight, he and his buddies were treated to Liver & Onions - bloody lovely - so lovely, that looked practically home cooked...well, she's probably so terrified of his waving of complaints forms that she spent the afternoon slaving over a hot stove. Hincksy has high hopes that this is the start of things to come, and is rewriting his menu card with dishes that you'd expect Gordon Ramsey to bellow 'fk o' at.

The process of rehabilitation (and I use the term loosely, as some people just can't be truly 'normal'), is steaming along at a frighteningly fast rate. Last week I met up with the physio and occupational therapist, who both had a suitable bemused and fearful look upon their faces. They explained that since the last meeting, Dad had improved more than they imagined, and perhaps the home visit could be brought forward. I think they've met the Catering Manager, weilding a sharp object down a dark corridor, for such a hasty change of opinion.

With a look of an abused animal in her eyes, the O.T. said that she would arrange to bring Hincksy for a home visit next week. She may be feeling a certain sense of terror now, but by the time she has gone through King's Mills with Dad navigating, dictating, critising, snarling and grabbing the steering wheel; She'll either pass into the twilight zone, grieviously abuse him and never work again, or need sedation and counselling...for a long long time. Did I ever say that it was Mum who taught Kate and I to drive, that's how we survived!

Back on the ward, Hincksy was interogating the physio as to whether they had a ladder for him to try and climb. A stepladder?...no, one fixed up against the wall. What?!!!! 'Well,' he states, 'I used to be able to climb a ladder one-handed and I think I could manage it now.' Who is he kidding, he's still got us putting cream on his arse, but thinks he can climb a ladder....either we're mugs or he's delusional. Oh Shit, I'm a mug! Turns out, he has decided he definately is not going to miss the sea-fishing this summer, and needs to know if he can get on Alan's boat in Porthmadog. 'Think outside the box Dad...meet the boat in Pwllheli, and you can walk onto the bloody thing!'

With all the bravado from Dad, the physios are looking for any opportunity to welcome him to reality. This morning they threw his socks at him and told him to get ready. Obviously, his team of dressers usually deal with these more mundane tasks..so he was a bit stumped. After 10 minutes of grappling & cursing and one sock on, he threw the other one back at the physio and charmingly requested, with a smile, if he'd help him get it on...he can be humble when he chooses - who am I kidding, he's just manipulative.

I had to bring Mum back to reality today as well. The first home visit is next week, and if things go really badly (for the OT), she may leave him there, and best case scenario, he'll be home in a few weeks. 'Nooooooo', she wailed 'I'm sure it'll be weeks yet'. I told her gentle to get rid of the landscape gardeners, the builders, the chippie, the plumbers, the wine & chick flicks and general sense of freedom ... He's on his way!!! A long time ago we were debating whether we needed to turn the garage into a room for Dad, I suggested that this should have been done at the time, without a door through to the house! My only advice to her.........don't ever, ever, ever..give him a bell to ring if he needs something!

On a final note, when he does get home, normal service will be resumed. Hincksy has already sorted a welding mask that fits over his head, as then one he has would need holding in his bad hand!!

Cheers, Vick X

Well the Hospital, and Dad's daily routine of eating, sleeping, farting and moaning, has become so mundane that I have not felt the need to bore anybody else with the trivialities. But I can't hold my fingers back any longer, and feel the need to share the burden of misery with the rest of you (particularly those in Aussie Land - hope you're having a great time).

Hincksy is making progress, though it seems painfully slow for all concerned. A couple of weeks ago, the nurses arranged a review meeting - which had a sense of urgency about it. Mum had a visit from the occupational therapist, who was mainly interested in measuring the toilet - she's obviously heard him bragging (lying) about the size of it! I was a bit concerned they were going to send the old bugger home - and he'd be shocked to realise that we've all moved house. I was prepared to use every underhand tactic in the book to ensure that he wasn't discharged until he was fit to launch the boat... well, Mum has still got the workmen in to renovate the house out of the 1970's whilst the Power of Attourney is still legal. We were stunned to the core, when the 'team' decided to set a target for a few-hour home visit at Easter! For some bizaar reason, we were all strangely disappointed...it seems like an age away. All of us, that is, except Mum, who is currently negotiating having the gardens landscaped, inclusive of hot-tub.

Dad has been bullying the physios into letting him have a go on the parallel bars in the torture chamber. Last week they dumped him at the doors, and told him to get himself over to them. Once there, with a look of revenge in the eye, they told him walk around them, and not inside, and keep going...and going...and going. Some things are obviously worth waiting for! He was then presented with his very own walking stick, he'd earned his 'stripes'.....fools; just more arsenal for his battles.

Hincksy has once again regained his status as 'Queen Bea' of the Bay, obviously not feeling any more humble since his experience of being New Boy. Grinning menacingly just the other day, he told me that he's now up at the crack of dawn, to be first in the bathrooms...and I'm sure those that follow hold, the soap tightly in thier good hand! Dad, not surprisingly, has learnt to play the system. He rings the bell to summon a nurse to return him to his boudoir...and if they don't respond within the limits of his tolerance, he appears naked at the door knowing that it will put him to top of the list of priorities - the nurses positively climb over the collapsed patients to cover him up!

Dad has crowned himself 'Patient Food Activist' for the ward. He is gathering insurgents in the fight against the catering department, and developing a campaign for White Bread and Sardines. This has been developing like a rash for a few weeks. It started with toast....he wanted white, but got sent brown. So he moaned...no response. Then he ranted... and got cream coloured bread with bits in (don't they know his fetish for toothpicks?). So he aksed to see the head of catering...cream bread with bits. Close to combusting and having another Stroke, he asked politely (unusually) for an official complaint form... the nurse left scorch marks in the floor as she left and returned in admirable speed with 2 slices of white bread......'but I asked for butter, not marg'...(he really is pushing his luck0. It's all come to a head today. Hincksy doesn't tick the boxes on the menu card, he haNd writes it all so it can't be misunderstood. Today's meal should have been: 4 sardines, 2 slices of white bread and butter. What he got sent was: half a sardine and a slice of wholemeal bread - no butter. Oh shite, he now has the home address of the Chief Exective of the Hospital, and the catering manager is coming tomorrow to give her personal apologies.

I haven't helped matters. As I filled in a form for him earlier, I had to write contact details of the ward. Before I knew it, he had the nurse's station number keyed into the mobile and gleefully declared, 'if the buggers try to ignore me now, I'll phone them and ask for the complaint form!' 'As his daughter and main protangonist, 'I would like to personally apologise to all the staff working in the hospital'. Hincksy is also fighting the corner of every man in the bay, and don't tell the old bugger, but I'm proud of him. One of the guys was assessed weeks ago, and told that his swallow wasn't good enough, and he could only eat 'slop'. Needless to say, he has been pinching and eating his body's worth of cheese & onions crisps with no problem. And now the spokesman of the bay has demanding that the Consultant request a swallow review - good on him!

Obviously, as life is settling down into mundanity, the blogs will get less - but expect some juicy ones when Hincksy comes home. We don't know when that'll happen, but I do keep my mobile on as I half expect to get the call that he's been ejected from the ward, and is on his way home in a taxi. In a more loving note... I need him home in time to walk me down the aisle in 8 weeks. Emotion over...he'll only trip me up with him tripod walking stick and make a formal complaint about the food at the reception!!!!! Shit, if he brings one of those cardboard urinals with him... I'll put him in a taxi myself!

Regards, Vick X

Sorry I've not been blogging, but far too busy keeping Hincksy fed, watered, creamed and generally spoilt - perhaps it's in his master plan to keep me away from the keyboard. Dad's even more worried about the blog now. Clive, his nextdoor neighbour, (who's been lazing in Austrailia for so long, he's almost an ex-pat), sent him a card. Between generally boasting about the weather, food etc, he dared to mention the words Buddah, raining rice, blah-blah. He asked Hincksy if I was still in the Will. I wonder whether the nurses could be bribed into sending him into an old people's home, where he surely couldn't get access to the internet?

Dad's obviously still in hospital....Aldi is laying off staff. I think they're only keeping him there now so that they can reap their revenge and use him as a guinea pig for all the new toys in the torture chamber. After the human bowling ball incident, the physios decided to take no risks and presented Hincksy with what appeared to be a parachute harness. Foolishly assuming it was part of the drill and would go nicely with his stilletoes, thank-you, he was happy to be wrestled into it. The principle being, that if he lost his balance again, the harness attached to the ceiling, would avert casualties - very wise. What Hincksy didn't realise was, that war had commenced and the physios had a secret weapon. One scathing remark - no never - and he would fly into the air, more like the pantomime dame than Peter Pan!

Not one to be out manouvred, Dad's enjoying purile games. Hide & Seek is his latest. As, of course, he is the best driver in the world, it hasn't taken him long to master the wheelchair. The child thinks it is hilarious to zip off in the opposite direction en-route to the physion dept, and hide behind the curtains. I think his Muttley laugh usually gives the game away, and the staff seem to have a weary 'we've got a stroppy toddler' look on thier faces.
Dad was a bit concerned the other day, when he was told that they'd put in an order for his own wheelchair. He wondered whether they thought that he wouldn't walk properly again. It's amazing how small his world has become since being on the ward. When I pointed out that the main hospital entrance was about 2 miles away, and that it'd take him about a week to walk there, he conceded. From negitivity, excitement is born...He's now working on technical drawings on how he can achieve the Range Rover of all wheelchairs.

Dad suffered a massive trauma last week....He was moved into a different bay; same ward, next bay along! Most patients are lucky if they know which hospital they are in let alone ward, they are moved so frequently. The spoilt sod was so disgruntled, his blood pressure went up, and the nurses thought he'd gone on hunger-strike. For the whole weekend, he hadn't ordered any food, and informed the concerned nurses (with pitiful doe-eyes), that he didn't fancy anything. 'Paul, you must eat and keep up your strength', they pleaded - fools. Eventually the Ward Sister came and told Hincksy that she had the authority to order him anything he liked from the canteen, but he solumnly couldn't be tempted. Now, one look at the ever-expanding muffin-belly is proof enough that Piggy Hincksy has definately not lost his appetite. What the manipulative sod 'forgot' to tell them was, that his catering department was providing a veritable feast for a weekend of (more) binging.

Despite his whinging and whining, Dad has settled into his new bay quite well - but you have to wonder if it's a case of needs-must. The bay is full of five other guys of a similar age and diagnosis as he. They are all big guys, and some of them are alot more mobile than he his. Queen Bea is not Top Dog any more...he's the new boy! I would have loved to have seen the look on his face when Hincksy was hoofed out of bed on his first morning and informed that there would be no more bed-baths from the gorgeous nurses....he could go to the bathroom and sort himself out. I bet he kept a tight grip on the soap that day so as not to accidently drop it!

This is definatley the Naughty Boy's Bay. I think that the air in the bay is blue most of the time. Dad tells whispered tales of what they have all been up, reminiscent of scout camp days, it seems. There is one chap in there who had to have half his skull removed, and they put it in his abdomen for safe keeping until it can be put back. Over and over again, the nurses fall for it; 'Do you want to feel my bone?' he asks. Naive...Foolish....Nay, Stupid; they fall for it every time.. you can only imagine what he gives them to feel. The same guy isn't supposed to go off on his own, for fear he will fall and cause catastophic damage to his head. He almost gave the game away the other day, when he escaped to a far flung bathroom for some peace, and tumbled over in there. Determined not to reveal his secret wanderings, he took several hours to grapple his way onto his feet, and managed to cause enough damage that if left the bathroom completely flooded. Needless to say, when the WAGS arrive, they all look like 'butter wouldn't melt', and not a choice word or childish prank in sight - until 8pm!

If you visit Hincksy and fear he has radiation sickness or first degree burns, don't. Last week the ward was having a new floor laid and all patients were dispatched alsewhere. Hincksy and his new pals did very well, and were moved to a small bay just off one of the women's ward (I think I saw some of his old buddies in tents on the bypass). There was an almost carnival atmosphere in the bay, with just 2 poor nurses and a drug trolley to keep control. No drugs required, for once! For the first time in over 2 months Dad has seen sunlight..and a car..and a tree..and a bird..... Ecstatic, they all basked in the sunshine and enjoyed and burned, until the first miserable old sod declared it was too hot and the curtains were closed!

Hope to Blog again soon. Keep visiting - I know It's a Chore!!

Vick X

Not the most eventful week, hence no rush to blog. Needless to say, even from the mundane day-to-day rituals, Dad seems to give just enough ammunition to force me to put finger to keyboard.

After his momentous Chinese takeaway, he thought he was on a roll with the food and upped the ante on his requests. As you read on, you'll understand the effect that the constant food troughing and remarkable resemblance to Buddah, has had on his rehab progress. Last weekend, having studied the Menu at length (well he's got f**k all else to do except plan for his weekend feast); 'Yung Chow Chicken Fried Rice & Beansprouts & Noddles' he demanded, though he may as well have just ordered the Set Meal for 4! I can now add 'Scapegoat' to my Job Description, as he explained that he'd only ordered so much food, so that I could have his leftovers. Good job I'm not a skinny bitch needing sustenance, as what he deigned to leave behind wouldn't have fed the cat! Despite only leaving shrapnel on his plate (and in his beard,) he proclaimed that it was dry and he didn't enjoy it...yeah, yeah - he's just not plausible any more, and the ever growing muffin belly, justs acts as proof, Your Honour.

Hincksy's catering team (me & mum) is currently planning how to pull off his latest demand for the perfect bacon butty. On Saturday morning - even though it isn't visiting hours - he wants hot, crispy bacon in a soft, doughy sandwich. What does he think we are - bloody miracle workers... how can bacon stay crispy for 6 miles? Nevertheless, we never shun a challenge, and have drawn out a mass of plans to deliver the golden egg - oh hell, he'll want one of those next!

There is a new chap in Dad's bay (as he is 'Bea - Top Dog in Wentworth Detention Centre' alias Prisoner Cell Block H...it is HIS bay), and the guy can talk. This is a threat to the status quo...Major Alert. The chap has loads of cards and visitors and is a potential danger to Hincksy's status. Fotunately, the guy seems a bit confused, and this only gives power to Queen Bea! I'm sure I heard Dad mutter to one of the nurses; 'He said he was constipated and asked for an enema!' The power is all his.

Dad has a friend in the bay who interestingly can, but doesn't speak much; and he forgets easily. His daughter is fanastic and is there every day urging him to get stronger and fitter, but is worried that he's not getting all the rehab he needs. She's asked Hincksy if he would urge her Dad on and to coax him to go for physio when he says he's feeling tired. Dad is a sucker for a pretty blonde, and can't help himself. Maybe he still thinks the recycled bottle under the sheets is working as a teepee... She also needs advice on what help is out in the 'real world', this has once again added to my Job Description, and I am now Community Nursing Advisor to the whole ward as Dad states 'My Daughter is a District Nursing Sister, she'll sort it out!'

Hincksy is doing better than we ever dreamed. Yesterday they took him
into the Physio Dept. He's been shuffling around before now, but they decided that if he got up a bit of momentum, his balance may be better. 'No Probs', and off he went at high speed; one physio holding his bad arm, and another there for support. Whilst careering across the room, the stilettoe went from beneath him and, now being round, he hurtled like bowling ball through the department taking the staff with him. Thankfully no lasting injuries, but he's now reconsidering wearing the steeltoe-capped boots, with ankle supports.

Dad is also getting alot more movement in his bad hand. He can now touch each finger with his thumb and proudly states that he can 'scratch his bollocks'! I gave him a new exercise yesterday...Hold the ball...Forward to the left..Back..Forward to the front...Back...Forward to the right...Back and lift. 'A new technique in rehab?' he asks......no it's the gearbox on the Range Rover - and a wicked grin across his face!

P.S. As I couldn't remember the names involved in Prisoner Cell Block H, I needed to look it up...and sadly, I have to inform you that they have an Official Web Site - I think I may be a member now...and Bea might be coming to look for me...arrhh!

Regards, Vick

Special Edition / Special Fried Rice

I've never seen anyone distroy a Special Fried Rice at the speed of Hincksy tonight. I left home early for my special mission - but good things only come to those who wait; and wait I did - 25 minutes. When I finally skidded around the corner of the bay, I swear he was just getting togged up to go and get the food himself. 'At Last!' he wailed. Apparently he'd been preparing for his meal for several hours. Cancel tea, go on the pan, backrest up, sheets tidy, tray in front of him, napkin at the ready...he even had a bath this morning to mark this momentous occassion. His spoon was waving wildly in the air even as we were trying to shovel the rice etc onto the plate. At last, he took a big breath and dived into the nosebag.

Mum and I tried to chat over the ecsatatic moaning, thankfully the nurses knew what he was up to and weren't distracted by the bay sounding like a knocking shop. Not to be left out, and worried that we may be gosiiping about some essential details, he tried to join in. Showered in Fried Rice, we asked him to butt out and concentrate on eating. However, in my Role as Happiness Co-ordinator, I couldn't stop myself asking him if he was enjoying the food...Fool, I'm still picking the rice out of my hair as he spluttered 'bloody lovely!'

He ate the lot, and now truly resembles Fat Buddah, and has the smile on his face to go with it. In true Hincksy fashion, he burbed and farted in celebration. Party over, he spent the next hour and a half intensely picked rice out of his teeth, and I mean intense. First the toothpick, then the electric brush, then the toothpick again, then the electric brush again, then the normal brush, then a gargle and finally the noisy teeth sucking. 'I'll still find a bit of rice later' he moaned - he is likely to have the callbell wrapped around his neck at some point; if not by the nurses, then by ME!

Briefly moving away from subject of food...Dad has a very important role in the ward. He too is a daily blogger, but not online. His neighbour's daughter arrived tonight and came straight over to him for an update on her Dad's progress. Hincksy gave her a full inventory of what he'd eaten and detailed his personal care that day. I don't know if he charges for his services, but we were wondering why his chocolate mountain was growing!

He's working really hard with his arm and leg exercises. I told him that he was doing so well, that I wouldn't be surpised if the physios tried him on the bars with some walking. 'Well I've already done that by the bed,' he stated.........WHAT????? And he didn't think this monumenous detail was important enough to mention? 'Well, I only really shuffled.' Shuffled or not, we can all look out, me more than most, because he's back and he's scary!

I would like to just take this moment to thank Phil for telling Dad how much he was enjoying the Blog. Intersted, Hincksy has now demanded that I start printing some off for him to read. I may as well resign as his duaghter and leave the country - there will be weeping and wailing (me, not him!)

Back to his favourite subject...food. When he was in his post ecstatic state, he had a moment of realisation. His one and only tastebud must have exploded back to life and he exclaimed, 'the Hospital food is f*g shite, isn't it!' Welcome back Hincksy.

Vick X

Happy New, and wishing Health & Happiness to you all.

Dad is doing far too well for his own good. The little movements are getting bigger, but alas there is no hope for the really little things... he's going to kill me! The nurses have asked that, when we're all bringing him his toys, could we slip in a pair of handcuffs? Sadly for Hincksy, I don't think they want them for he would be hoping for. His mini fart cushion for exercising his bad hand is really not considered funny anymore, not that it ever was, except to him. The ward has been closed due to D & V, and can't be reopened until 48 hours after the last symptom. Needless to say, now that Hincksy has fully recovered from his bugs, he finds is highly amusing to watch the look of horror on the face of the ward manager when he's exercising the hand. On the other hand, the nurses have an ally. If the ward is closed, they can't admit any patients and can put their feet up....not when their running up and down the ward with bedpans and sickbowls, they can't! I have to say, it does make you wonder, that they only had a problem with this since Dad arrived - perhaps his methane gases are contagious? Another conspiracy theory I've heard is that there are some contaminated Maltesers being passed around the ward....

Hincksy isn't allowed in the torture chamber at the moment. They say it's because of the bugs, but I'm not sure that the physios aren't giving time for their bruised shins to heal. They have, however, stood him next to the bed and done some exercises with him, and he's doing really well. He is having a problem putting his bad heel down to the floor, but curiously this doesn't seem to concern him. Curious, until he announced that a good stilletoe heel would sort that out. I'm very worried about his state of mind. Not because of the heel, but that any self-respecting weirdo wouldn't wear a stilletoe on one foot and a steel toecapped boot on the other.

Hincksy is positively enjoying the hospital food now, and I'm sure he only has one lonely tastebud left. I foolishly suggested that when he's home, he could pop up to the hospital for lunch, rather than his usual, the college - 'not a bad idea, and it'd be cheaper.' I think he's ready for counselling. However, he is getting more of an apetite now that he's doing more. I'd only just poked my head around the door and he demanded his homemade butties out his personal fridge - even though it was only 10 minutes after teatime. 'Didn't you like your tea?' I asked - 'It was bloody lovely, but I'm starving.' I mentioned the words 'Slow Boat' & 'Special Fried Rice' and he was drooling at the thought. Guess what I've got to collect on my way in on Saturday night? Of more concern, is that he's trying to establish which take-aways deliver. Mum needs to take all his money off him or he'll be looking more like a Buddah within the week. I plan to make the old bugger suffer though, and give him chopsticks to eat his long awaited Meal.

All nasty tubes have now been removed and he's back on the bottle. Not that anythins has changed, it's just that the nurses have realised that whatever they do, Hincksy is a pain in the arse. When I arrived tonight, he had about a dozen bottles shoved down the side of his bed - just in case. Thankfully they were all empty. Dad's decided that he particularly likes the night nurses - perhaps they look better in the dark? Worringly his favorite is a male nurse, Gavin. There was a time when he would have called all male nurses poofs...perhaps this has changed him for the better? Maybe it's the lure of all his toys, but Gavin is quite happy to charge up Dad's DVD player overnight, even though he's not supposed to have it in the hospital. And curiously, the chap in the opposite bed, is alot more settled. Dad monitors the guys progress through the day. If he's singing and chanting like a parrot - he'll sleep. But if he has a quite day, there would be hell to pay overnight. Not anymore, a wee chap with Gavin, and he sleeps like a baby. I think Hincksy has pulled rank, as the longest serving prisoner in the bay - think back to 'Prisoner Cell Block H' and you get my drift - thankfully he's not well enough to follow anyone into the showers..yet - and wearing one stilletoe it could be worth filming.

The day nurses keep Dad in his place and have him sussed. He can't understand why they keep putting his table and callbell just out of reach - doh! They keep constantly offer him a sideward, only the gift for those who are dying or who need the door closing on them...we only hope he's the latter. He likes it where he is and can keep an eye on all the goings-on. So much for patient confidentiality, he knows the full history of every patient in the ward thanks to his superman hearing.

Thanks to all the visitors, please keep coming even though he's painful. He relishes the cream of the gossip that he's getting, and may well blog himself about his time in hospital. The Cunninghams weren't due to visit for a couple of days, as they were going to a 'very interesting' engineering conference in London. They turned up anyway, and organised as ever, hadn't realised that the flyers that they were getting through the post for the conference, were to say it had been cancelled, and shouldn't be binned without reading. They are going to try again this weekend, and go the Boat Show - this gave Hincksy even more of a titter. He's hoping that Alan may buy another nautical gadget that will get him into endless disasters. He once asked Dad to sort out his sat-nav on the boat (in Porthmadog), as he couldn't work out where he was when he got out of the bay. Dad still hasn't got over the joy of telling him that his sat-nav was covering South Wales and not North!

Mum had an odd phone call from the hospital social worker the other day. They didn't really give her any information, but I got the impression they were wondering if she was willing for him to come home - have they met him already? She's missed her chance and has said yes. I was more inclined to make the bugger suffer, and suggest we sell up, put him in the dog's home, and sod off to somewhere exotic - wishful thinking, but I'm sure that somebody with my amount of job descriptions deserves a perk.

Hincksy is now starting to think of home. He was very morose at one point and demanded we sell the Range Rover, Boat & Canoes, and give the guns to Alan. As usual, we completely ignored him... but he is still thinking about an automatic Range Rover; but then again... He has confessed that, when he drove back from the supermarket when he was having his stroke, his arm and leg were dead; He can't understand why if he could do it then, he can't do it now. Fair point, but then they are still scraping bodies off Kings Mills Duel Carridgeway and he needs to be stopped.

Hincksy made a special request today. If he asks anyone for some toothpaste on his electic toothbrush, please don't put f*g Conotrane cream on it as it tastes like shite and he has that on his arse!

Best Wishes, Vick X

Hope you all had a fantastic Christmas, and aren't suffering too much from your over indulgence - I am! Sorry to those in Aussie, who rely on this for updates. It's been a very eventful week in every sense, and I've spent so much time on the Bat Phone, there's been little time left to blog.

I was considering being a little more cautious about what I write, as Hincksy is now able to read. He quietly shared with us his fears that his eyesight had been really affected by the stroke, leaving him unable to read, and have a valid excuse for never finishing the Telegraph Criptic Crossword. Tempting though it was, to have a moment of pleasure and let the old sod suffer, we showed him how to work the overbed light and gave him his stronger over-the-counter glasses. A miracle - he can see. Unfortunately, all the toys that he has, still don't relieve the boredom, and he's showing an unhealthy interest in what I'm writing. His visitors have made things worse, sniggering as they say that they've read the blog. Oh, what the hell, I'm going to be written out of the Will when he reads this anyway, so I may as well carry on being rude and disparaging.

Christmas has worked it's magic on Dad...no, he's still a miserable old git and isn't concerned who knows it. On Thursday - he moved his bad leg from his hip. On Friday - he was waving it around in the air like some old tart. On Saturday - he could move his fingers a little (thankfully not enough for the Victory Sign). On Sunday - he moved his arm from the shoulder. On Monday and Tuesday - he showed off his movements to any poor soul that was passing, and expected a 5.9 score at the least. On Wednesday - he showed the physios what he could do (now they're scared,) and they promptly hoofed him out of bed.......and he stood up! He obviously peaked too soon, because today - he's as sick as a parrot and had to stay in bed. We did wonder whether the nurses had a hand in this illness. Maybe even the thought of him being mobile and able to track them down to share his endless opinions and make demands was too much and they slipped something in his food? I for one, won't be making a formal complaint, but will congratulate them for their problem solving skills.

One of the nurses on the ward has got Hincksy sussed. He, foolishly, likes her, as she reminds him of our cousin. Perhaps the evil genes are in there somewhere though, as she's well on board for giving him hell. Dad seems to have taken to the patient role rather too well. On my list of roles to Paul Hincks, I think we can now remove daughter, as he has crossed the invisible-line and really dose treat me like the unpaid help. We arrived the other day and he was out in the chair. It was a huge step forward, as he's been stuck in bed; but within minutes he was moaning that his bum was sore and wanted to get back into his comfort zone. The nurses crained him back into bed, and within seconds we had to call them back as he wanted the pan. Sat on the throne behind the curtains, he bellows my name. Hincksy throws back the sheets and asks me if the catheter is leaking. He couldn't understand why I really didn't care what the catheter was doing as it was attached to...MY DAD. Needless to say - I know my place - I gave in and asked the nurses to take it out. When they had made him comfy - he whispered to me that he wanted some cream on his bum...who does he think he is? Not trusting his new found confidence in farting, I asked the nice nurse for a glove. 'I've plastered his bum in bloody cream' she said. 'Paul, if you're naughty, I've got a Penguin shaped ice-cube..and you know where it's going!' I really like this girl and she has definately got Hincks spirit. Dad gleefully told her that he used to pin me down, as a child, and draw eyes on my bum to make me squeal. Guess what he's getting from the nurses for New Year?

It was really impressive to see the scope of imagination for the presents everyone has given to Dad. He's very excited about going for his bath at the weekend, as he's going to sneak in the 'Grow Your Own Mistress' and wait for the nurses reaction when it gets to full size. Hincksy has had pleanty of exercise for his bad hand with the handheld whoppy cushion - it sounds a bit too realistic for everyones comfort. Though we've suggested for the last four weeks that he has a portable DVD player, Hincksy finally asked us to get one... because it was his idea! I ordered it for mum to collect, and she just had to take it home and charge it up. It died about 2 minutes after he got it, and he had a glint in his eye insinuating that obviously Mum couldn't manage without him. Nevertheless, he's taught his girls well and Vick would sort it out. Confidently, I just told Mum how to charge it, (with Hincksy sighing and eyes rolling), and left it with her. Sadly, she only proved the old git right, and brought it back the next day, as dead as a dodo. It's sorted now, and I've promised him sore porn DVDs that he can flog for a £ a minute around the ward - 'that's me girl!'

Having passed the - 'The food is f*g awful' stage and the 'Actually it's quite tasty' stage - we've moved on to the 'I'm only eating this because I know I have to' stage. It's painful to watch! On Boxing Day evening, the trolley came around. Soup, Tuna Sandwiches and Ice Cream - 'I really don't fancy anything, but I have to.' You've never seen anyone shove a butty in their mush as quick as he did, and manage to splutter crumbs all over us as he explained how awful it was - he's a professional closet patient!

Dad is now starting to think anout home. He has cancelled his subscription Stanner Stairlift Monthly, as he thinks he's better than that. Hincksy is quite pleased that he may need a bit of outside help once he's home. He has had it suggested to him that he could have a rather gorgeous Philipino carer to pander to his every whim, without dipped too deeply into is savings. I looked him in the eye and asked him if he remembered the 'Lives and Loves of a She-Devil'? If he needs help, she'll be the scariest beast he's ever seen !

Hope you have a wonderful New Year. Health & Happiness!

Vick X