Blokey has an appointment to see his nephrologist, Dr. Sanj [not his real name] on Wednesday. He’s been attempting to keep a list in his head of his main Dialysis Grumbles.
He has three Very Important Issues he’s planning on bringing up.
To get us (you and me) into the spirit of the occasion I’m playing the Top of the Pops (musical chart show of all the top tunes which used to be on until the www and its downloads spoilt the whole shebang) theme tune. We’ll use the ’86 to ’89 theme (don’t forget to clicky!), because that’s when I was a teeny-bopper sitting in front of the tellybox taping my favourite songs onto dodgy cassettes.
And at Number 3 we have …
Hook Me Up, by the Veronicas
The Blokey works full-time. He works because to not work would do his head in, and because I like having money spent on me but am a lazy b!tch who only wants to work part-time. He therefore does the twilight session MWF, because he likes having his weekends free (to spend with me, perhaps.) He does dialysis for four hours, and once it is over he has a twenty-eight mile (forty minute) drive home. When he was on for less than four hours he was told that four hour people got priority. Fairy snuff. But, when he has to go to four hour sessions, the goalposts seem to change. It irks him muchly, that those who do less time and have less far to travel (and who don’t work) get the priority. This is something to do with the fact that they now have a designated bed (where they didn’t before) and so obviously if the previous occupant was late, this holds up the next one. Previously, they were called in on a first come, first served basis, making themselves known when they arrived. It seemed fairer to do it that way; Blokey knew that if he was late, he would get put on late. Now, he can be the first one there and the last put on, just because of Designated Bed Syndrome.
And at Number 2, give a big cheer for …
Transvision Vamp with, If Looks Could Kill
There’s a woman. She’s old(-er). And she annoys the dialysiz kidz. When you go into the Dialysis Centre at A, there’s a long corridor off which there are two wards. One ward just has the one entrance. The other ward has two entrances. Everybody traipses up to the second entrance, where the weighing machine is. This one woman opts to ignore the weighing machine (I’m not sure how she gets away with not weighing herself) and slips in the first door to the ward. The nurses smile, ‘Oh, hello Rosemary!’ [not her real name] and get her hooked up.
Katiefinger receives moan-y texts, and imagines eleven grow’d ups muttering under their collective breath whilst giving Rosemary evil looks. By rights, she should be dead (if looks could kill and all that …)
I know you’re dying to know what’s Number 1 … Get ready to mosh with Weezer and …
Yes. Blokey’s top grumble involves the sandwiches. Refreshments come around twice at the dialysis centre. Tea (or juice), biscuits and sandwiches. Every morning they get a big delivery of various pre-packaged sandwiches. Blokey has been lucky enough to do dialysis on each shift, so he is aware that those who are Early Birds get toast too. But as well as toast they get the best pick of the sandwiches. By the time the twilight shift rolls round the sandwiches have reached a sorryily pathetic state, with just the dregs that nobody likes. Obviously they get eaten. Hungry boys will eat anything.
But what really got to Blokey last week was Gerry [nope, not his real name]. Gerry is a forty-year old man who is brought to dialysis by his dad. He’s a little bit backward (or just veryveryveryvery spoilt) and is usually never found far from food. If he’s not munching on burgers, he’s stuffing his face with sausage rolls. He usually brings his own sandwich in, and has been known to spend entire sessions eating grab bag size (bigger than normal, not quite family size) packets of crisps.
[An aside – Gerry has been on dialysis for about four years and prior to this he had a transplant which lasted thirteen. One day Daddy Dearest waved a banana and a grab bag packet of crisps in front of a nurse and asked her which one would be better for Gerry … yikes.]
So on Friday, Gerry was happily gorging on his own food and Blokey could see the refreshment trolley zig-zagging backwards and forwards along the ward. He already knew the sandwich choice was diabolical, so was all geared up for disappointment. However, his disappointment was to become even greater; Gerry got the last sandwich. Gerry was eating his own sandwich when he took the last sandwich. Gerry is a pig.
I have to be honest, it did amuse me that three seemingly trivial things were so high on Blokey’s Must Tell list of grumbles. But having reflected upon them, I’ve realised that of course these are the most important things. They’re all as important as that must-have tea-break at work or the need to kick your shoes off the minute you get in the door.
I must try harder not to be amused by not-so trivial things.