Diary of an up and coming sociopath

I’ve recently learnt that knowing 2 people in one hospital brings unbridled convenience to a hospital trip. At the moment, I can drop Nikki off to see her mum and go and see Nan just upstairs from her in a single journey. I’ve become quite familiar with hospitals these last few weeks, as I’m sure Nikki and Jo have too. Let me consider some of the finer points of them.

1. They stink of death. Hospitals are filled with a tepid, dry, air. It’s not so much sterile as stagnant. Hospitals smell like I expect someone’s last breath would.

2. Healthcare professionals are generally just guessing. I’m not quite sure where the impression medicine was an exact science came from, but as I can see if you’re ill, they generally just sit you down, go “Hmm.” and then pull into some kind of “diagnosis tombola” and give you pills until something happens. Whether it’s sending Nikki’s Mum home because her aneurysm was a migraine or giving Nan insulin because they can’t really think what else might be up, they’re actions do not fill me with an all-encompassing confidence.

3. They are incredibly boring. I don’t know what I expected of hospitals. Not like, a games room or anything, but something. Magazines published this side of the ice-age perhaps? Books? Today’s newspapers?! My experiences have lead me to the conclusion that hospital “entertainment” consists of TVs which can’t be turned on lest they upset or disturb the patients and a shop which is either closed or not stocking your desired foodstuff.

Insightful, I’m sure.

This afternoon we were due to go to Dad’s pub for a meal, but he wasn’t really in the mood, and no-one else was too bothered, so Rob and I got a KFC between us. It was alright, but it wasn’t a Sunday Dinner. This led to further problems for me when Dad came to the hospital having got nan a beef sandwich from the pub, as she requested. I realised I should’ve asked for one too, but she needed it more than I so I even stayed my tongue from asking for a bite. Dammit. I’m going to have to use tomorrow to create some kind of extra-brilliant “Monday Dinner” to compensate.

When I got back to Oxford, I discovered that Rachel had deposited the Oriel plate she got me through the letterbox. It is most excellent. I will place it with my legendary St. John’s placemat and eat off it whenever the occasion warrants a feeling of academic excellence. I bet students who have actually attended the colleges come away with less.