Its Wednesday - so it must be a physio day. Up at the crack of dawn. My transport arriving at 9am. Have to be ready on time. Am in the bathroom when my phone rings. Leave it to ring onto the answerphone (a regular occurrence these days). Listen to the message, so astonished, I listen again...
It was the driver - couldn't find a parking place because all the parents were driving their kids the (very short distance) to school - mayhem - and could 'I please get my mother ready' so that 'we could take her down and get her into the ambulance'... My mother! I hopped down the stairs into the sun. Smiled at the driver. 'I am not my mother' I asserted - grinning. The driver was mortified (well, he gave a good show of it at least!). Explained that 'my answer phone message sounded like someone very young'. I'm not convinced. Hopped up the steps into the van - and we headed off. I pondered. Is the working assumption that all mobility impaired folk are old? And if so, what on earth should I do about it? Arriving at the hospital though, I was beginning to look and behave 'like an older infirm person'. I couldn't get down the steps of the van. Had to be lowered down on the ramp - hanging onto the driver with crutches asunder. Not stylish...
On to the physio. The usual pulling and stretching and tugging. My knee is now an 'active 125 degrees'. This is good apparently. I am a compliant patient. I point my toes on command. My appointment with the psychologist was cancelled at short notice. No time to change the transport times. Given a fly cup of tea by the physio and sat down for a long wait. Had forgotten my book because of the answer phone message.
Driver redeems himself by returning an hour early - didn't even have time to flick through the People's Friend that I've been eyeing up for ages. On the return journey I hear that the driver doesn't own a car - and has no aspirations to own one either - brilliant! Tell him about City Car Club. He tells me about the difficulties of finding a public toilet when out and about collecting folk in the van. Was even refused the use of the toilet at a local police station. So much for community policing...
Back at home my cleaner arrives - Kate from Poland. Kate is quiet, efficient and pleasant. I attempt to clean the oven from the safety of my perching stool while she does the rest of the apartment. Then, miracle of miracles, my drugs turn up. Delivered by a fine young man who doesn't stare at my gammy leg which is naked because he turned up in the middle of my physio... Then a phone call from a fellow ex-patient of St Johns. And suddenly I've managed to get through another day.
It was the driver - couldn't find a parking place because all the parents were driving their kids the (very short distance) to school - mayhem - and could 'I please get my mother ready' so that 'we could take her down and get her into the ambulance'... My mother! I hopped down the stairs into the sun. Smiled at the driver. 'I am not my mother' I asserted - grinning. The driver was mortified (well, he gave a good show of it at least!). Explained that 'my answer phone message sounded like someone very young'. I'm not convinced. Hopped up the steps into the van - and we headed off. I pondered. Is the working assumption that all mobility impaired folk are old? And if so, what on earth should I do about it? Arriving at the hospital though, I was beginning to look and behave 'like an older infirm person'. I couldn't get down the steps of the van. Had to be lowered down on the ramp - hanging onto the driver with crutches asunder. Not stylish...
On to the physio. The usual pulling and stretching and tugging. My knee is now an 'active 125 degrees'. This is good apparently. I am a compliant patient. I point my toes on command. My appointment with the psychologist was cancelled at short notice. No time to change the transport times. Given a fly cup of tea by the physio and sat down for a long wait. Had forgotten my book because of the answer phone message.
Driver redeems himself by returning an hour early - didn't even have time to flick through the People's Friend that I've been eyeing up for ages. On the return journey I hear that the driver doesn't own a car - and has no aspirations to own one either - brilliant! Tell him about City Car Club. He tells me about the difficulties of finding a public toilet when out and about collecting folk in the van. Was even refused the use of the toilet at a local police station. So much for community policing...
Back at home my cleaner arrives - Kate from Poland. Kate is quiet, efficient and pleasant. I attempt to clean the oven from the safety of my perching stool while she does the rest of the apartment. Then, miracle of miracles, my drugs turn up. Delivered by a fine young man who doesn't stare at my gammy leg which is naked because he turned up in the middle of my physio... Then a phone call from a fellow ex-patient of St Johns. And suddenly I've managed to get through another day.
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