Soooo…. London Bridge Hospital.

22, Tooley St.  Right next to London Bridge station… and right next to a very high building… with a pointy top… that looks like a splinter of glass.

I wonder why they didn’t call that building The Splinter? …Instead of some other name ..?

I’m not allowed to eat anything today, pre surgery.

Theyve also told be to take various strong laxatives which would give me diarrhoea, and warned me to stay close to a toilet. It’s quite extraordinary to me that the hospital nurse that I had the consultation with didn’t talk about this stuff ( she just said to take the laxatives ).

How on earth am I supposed to rush to the loo when I feel the need?

For a start, I don’t ‘ feel the need’ , I feel nothing at all. What she is effectively ‘ condemning me to ‘ is 24 hours of soiling myself in my wheelchair…  that’s NOT going to happen, I can assure you.

I’m already doubting the expertise of the hospital staff.

This is how ******** up this flat is.
I’ve been in bed for 4 hours. I obviously am unable to move from this bed, or move much in the bed, at that.
No one has enquired after me, or spoken to me 🙂
And nobody will until my carer arrives tomorrow..

Just imagine that.
It’s an odd existence.

It’s  a fast forward to being in a home, and having no family that wants to visit, or perhaps having no family at all.

When I’m in hospital, it’ll be so much more fun than it is here.

Weird for sure, but true.

By contrast, this week 2 complete strangers have approached me and told me that they read this diary, and appeared to think well of me.  I have that  ‘ compensation ‘ at least.

Thanks to B**** for the amusing Pringle exchange.  Pringle may get become common slang for a bloke’s underpants.

‘ Oi, get yer Pringles off, and get into bed!’ ..?

Might catch on?

Essentially my current ‘ routine ‘ involves me sh****** the bed every morning, and then doing my best to clean up what I can’t feel, except with my hands. Lying in bed, I can just about reach to clean myself up, though it’s far from certain that I actually manage that very well with kitchen roll and baby wipes. Getting onto an actual toilet is something that I cannot do.

The District Nurses proved so poor at helping me that I abandoned their services 2 months ago, and self manage. My carer obviously helps in the final cleaning process, once she has arrived. Obviously nobody in my family would dream of assisting me, either. Actually I’m not even sure if they even know?

Living like this is obviously not a fantastic long term proposition, hence the desire for the colostomy. It’s not the greatest start to every day, but it is a necessity as the alternative is sh***** myself in my wheelchair.

Its all relative, isn’t it?

And I have only 2 more days of doing this.  That’s pretty good.

As Pringlegate rumbles on in this apartment, so I take on the words of the Bard about ‘ protesting too much ‘ .

So apparently they are not the property of you know who.. they aren’t mine though.

Neither are they my eldest’ s 15 year old boyfriend’s – way too big.

They’re not my STBE wife’s … she doesn’t wear men’s underwear  ( or does she ? )

Theyre not Lily’s.

They’re not Amber’s.

Apparantly I might have picked them up on my recent travels? One Saturday night in Southampton then, and I come back with an extra pair of pants. As I can’t actually reach the floor myself to collect pants, it must have been someone else that snuck them into my case.

I’m definitely going to have to investigate further, I can see.  The blindingly obvious answer is evidently completely wrong…..and I’m ever so sorry for having jumped to that conclusion.

🙂

Is your new life – surrounded by people who are nice to you and each other – going to seem really dull in comparison?

Officially single.

And it feels amazing 🙂