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