Day two of two, at the local hospital was a source of further bafflement and observations. Generally, people were helpful and I should go on record to commend the staff. Except the guy that asked if he could help me, when I arrived at the Acute Assessment Unit. He was of course 'teasing', as he proceeded to give no help whatsoever. Instead, after I mentioned we (TMWSC Junior was with me) were there to see Mrs MWSC, he said to wait, and he'd check things out. After almost half an hour, and the greatest exertion of tolerance mixed with patience (sorry for the pun) that TMWSC has ever exercised, it was enough. I entered the ward and loitered by the station. No trains came along, but there were many nurses hanging around. I adopted a certain stance/look and waited. It took a full minute before one of the twelve or so people noticed me and decided she might be able to help. These were not her exact words, and I was thankful for that because having been asked "Can I help you?" once already by a geezer whose mission did not actually include helping, I'd have been somewhat dubious of that line. "Is someone seeing to you?" was the more targeted question. My "No" led to her attending to my query as to the whereabouts of Mrs MWSC [not of course the name entered in the hospital records]. Ward 32. After receiving vague directions, Junior and I set off.
After finding the ward with marginally less success than would have been achieved by a rat searching for cheese in a model of the hospital, we entered it some five minutes later. Mrs MWSC was lying on her bed in the bay at the very end, the other side of four women who occupied the central (in the fucking way) area, having a chat as though they were in a Tesco aisle. I held my hands apart in a 'Moses' manner, and there was a parting as a pair moved back on each side. Mrs MWSC was dressed, ready to leave, but had first to complete one more test. We waited.
Two of the four shuffled off, so we were then left to listen to the verbal exchange of fat patient number one with gossip number two. I actually think Joyce from yesterday was preferable to these two! The fat one was the worst. In the interests of brevity (and sanity) I will save you, reader, from the rubbish this woman spouted. One thing I won't forget, though, was her recounting of an experience with a charity shop. She saw a child's toy in the shop marked at £10, and went to the assistant, offering to buy it for £7. It came as no surprise to me to hear her say her offer was not accepted. She, however, was affronted, and left the shop empty handed - probably as empty handed as if she'd offered £7,000 to a garage for a Mini costing £10,000. It turns out that a few days later, she saw the same toy in the window, marked down to £7 in a 'sale'. She marched into the shop and took issue with the assistant. She recounted her efforts to secure the item for £7 a few days earlier, and being told that it couldn't be discounted. She wanted to know why it was now on sale for £7. I was in fact quite curious to learn where this was going. The assistant apparently confirmed that it was not selling at the higher price so after a review, it had been re-priced at a more appropriate level.
Now, at this stage I was expecting Mrs Pain-in-the-arse to secure the item for the £7 and be on her way. But no, I heard her continue with the story and explain that she suggested that she should have been given the item for £7 in the first place, especially as "it's all profit, because you don't have to pay for anything you sell". It was apparently for this reason she'd haggled and thought it totally reasonable to expect a bit of flexibility. Then, the amazing development was revealed.
"So I said to her: 'You should have taken the £7 which was the right price; no idiot would have paid £10 anyway,' and she didn't have much to say about that. Anyway, I'd said my piece, and so I offered her £5 for it."
What the fuck? This woman seems to make a habit of haggling with charity shops, and challenging them on their approach, sales strategy and margins. Unfortunately (not that I am a fan of charity shops) they do actually have some expenses, but when one goes into a charity shop, the idea is that there's some minor fucking intent to support the charity in question; not haggle like a cunt to knock two quid off a Fisher-Price toy! The absolute cheek of her, trying to beat them down again. If I were the assistant, my response would have been:
"Fuck off to Mothercare, you stupid old bat, and buy a new one for £25"
She'd exhausted herself with all this yapping, and hinted to her audience of one that she needed a snooze - thank God. A few minutes later, we moved to the 'Day Room' and then Mrs MWSC had the final test sorted before we were ready to leave. On the notice board, I noticed [that shows it works then!] a sign that confused me.
How does one "
Deliver same-sex accommodation"? It was one of those useless, pointless, self-congratulatory signs that simply wastes money and takes up space unnecessarily. Then, I was about to proceed when a further issue cropped up when I noticed a notice just below it:
What exactly is a "Discharge Clinic" then? It sounds rather disgusting to me! Also, the notice says (by default) you can go home/escape on a Monday, Wednesday or Thursday. Odd.
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