Hospital food gets a bad rap in my opinion which is a shame because it’s good, honest, reliable food. It is the steady shag of the culinary world. It might not be the best looking girl at the party but it’s the one you’ll end up going home with.
Nutritionally I reckon it would be better than most of the food we eat too. Taking a dump was never as easy as it is when you’re on hospital food. Almost too easy. I wonder if they lace the stuff with laxatives, the benefits of which would be twofold; patients get a good ring clean every day and the nurses have something to do between talking about what happened on Greys Anatomy last night by having to clean up those that can’t get out of their beds in time.
I never get enough to eat though so I supplement my menu with processed crap from the real world which always comes out looking the same as it went in. It’s made for some impressive flatulence too, this mixture of nutritional and garbage. All weekend I’ve unleashed the fury from my bed like an old man physically incapable of keeping it in even if he tried. I figure if you can’t fart loud and proud whilst in the hozzie where can you aye? I was quite impressed with my crescendo of the puckered anus right up till the moment I happened to make my way out to the kitchen and realised that an attractive young nursing student had been camped outside the door of my neighbour, only meters away, the whole day. Bugger.
My neighbour has some sort of round the clock suicide watch thing happening, hence the student outside her door 24 / 7. She sleeps most of the time but spends the rest of it calling at the top of her tiny old lungs for her daughter to come rescue her from the kidnapping she believes she’s caught up in. Ms Conspiracy Theory doesn’t appear to have a high opinion of the nurses that are trying to help her either and likes to claim that they are assaulting her. It’s amusing the first few times you hear, a bit sad the next few times and just downright annoying every other time after that. Perhaps the 24 / 7 watch is to protect her from the other patients sick of the performance?
Maybe she thinks she’s in a prison camp. There are some similarities I’ve noticed. Including an ‘us’ and ‘them’ attitude which cultivates camaraderie between patients who only really have the one thing in common – none of us want to be here. It’s a camaraderie that has people who probably wouldn’t otherwise look twice at their neighbour lean over to ask ‘how long you in here for’ or ‘where did you get hit’ or even ‘fancy a shared shower’.
It’s the same bond that has a morbidly obese guy in a revealing hospital gown and pink cardigan lurch into your room one morning whilst half way through a bowl of cornflakes to ask if you know who won the rugby. I didn’t as it happened but I suspect it was all code speak anyway and what he was actually letting me know was that tonight was the night of the big break out. I seriously hope the escape committee has a backup plan to tunnelling though because we’re seven stories up.
I have mixed memories of school camps as it happens. I was quite the sick boy back in my youth – not the deaf dumb blind kid who got leukaemia for Christmas sick – but only marginally better than I seem to be these days, so camping in a tent was not allowed. As decreed by my mother, the master respiratory consultant and authority on everything. So I had to bunk with the men. Two problems with this; Sleeping in a cabin is not really camping and the only time that that little arrangement is going to be beneficial to everybody is when you’re out camping with the American Man Boy Love Association (AMBLA).
No really, it exists, Google it. I dare you. Then sit back and wait for the authorities to arrive.
My one lasting positive memory of anything camp is that it led to quite possibly the first ever instant erection I can recall having. I was about 10 and the night before it had rained so heavy that the girls were all forced from their tents into the main hall of the camping area. Now me being a farm boy I was accustomed to an early rise and an early mug of tea so I had left the AMBLA cabin and made my way over to the main hall where the kitchen was located. Imagine my surprise – and arousal – to find 30 odd girls in the various stages of dress and undress that usually accompany getting dressed in the morning. Needless to say my head wasn’t the only big hairy thing sticking out of my jammies that morning.
Well it was actually because I was only ten and given that I would prove to be a late bloomer, I had quite the bald man purse right up till about the age of 17. I was never so ashamed to shower with my undies on after footy mind you, I simply waited till I got home to shower. Little did I know, back then, that several years later I would go on to remove all hair from the area willingly.
Sure made it look bigger though.
No comments:
Post a Comment