Last year
06 Mar '15 07:13Last year, lying in a hospital bed I was worried, as I had no money Handy. However, Andy my brother stepped in and paid a few hospital bills on my behalf. I was going through a red stage, badgering thoughts of ifs and buts. It wasn’t a lol situation, of course, as I was thinking about my son and his mortgage on his house, of my artistic talents, and how I’d never drew no gal.
I started to reminisce about Great Britain and Kew gardens and pork pie, and pondered if I was going to be able to get through this. My health took a dive, and I thought, “gee, disaster. Am I going to meet The Gravedigger?”
I thought of everybody at RHP one night. Believe me; you get strange thoughts when you’re really ill. I went through games in my head, and openings and defence; even the Sicilian and QG, and thought what a sausage and hash of some games I’d made. I’d been robbed and lied to using the caro-kann, but had to bite and accept the Ice Cold losses of such. When I was feeling a bit greener, I and was thinking about a pawn move on 34 in a QGD game, and suddenly another foreigner arrived in the bed next to me. Lo and behold, he was only a scouser.
He looked at me, and said, “Hey, Bob laar. Woz up wiv yer, yer only look 45?”
I said my name’s Mike, indignantly. He said, “Yeah, right, and my name’s Suzianne too!” He started to annoy me with his vulgar monologues, so I said, “Look pal, this is a hospital. There’s no need to continue with ‘yer humour’, because here there is etiquette to be adhered to. You should see that it’s self-explanatory.”
He thought he was a great big man who could steer the show. His annoyance was irritable, especially when he called home and just moaned about the service.
Then out came the creations of his banter. He said, “You know Mike? My name’s really wolf, and I was in a Liverpool gang in ’59. I was castrated; I warn you this is true, and not a nice story 4 me to tell.” So I told him to shut up, I’d had my meds, and wanted to sleep.
-m.
(Anybody care to continue?) 😉
I started to reminisce about Great Britain and Kew gardens and pork pie, and pondered if I was going to be able to get through this. My health took a dive, and I thought, “gee, disaster. Am I going to meet The Gravedigger?”
I thought of everybody at RHP one night. Believe me; you get strange thoughts when you’re really ill. I went through games in my head, and openings and defence; even the Sicilian and QG, and thought what a sausage and hash of some games I’d made. I’d been robbed and lied to using the caro-kann, but had to bite and accept the Ice Cold losses of such. When I was feeling a bit greener, I and was thinking about a pawn move on 34 in a QGD game, and suddenly another foreigner arrived in the bed next to me. Lo and behold, he was only a scouser.
He looked at me, and said, “Hey, Bob laar. Woz up wiv yer, yer only look 45?”
I said my name’s Mike, indignantly. He said, “Yeah, right, and my name’s Suzianne too!” He started to annoy me with his vulgar monologues, so I said, “Look pal, this is a hospital. There’s no need to continue with ‘yer humour’, because here there is etiquette to be adhered to. You should see that it’s self-explanatory.”
He thought he was a great big man who could steer the show. His annoyance was irritable, especially when he called home and just moaned about the service.
Then out came the creations of his banter. He said, “You know Mike? My name’s really wolf, and I was in a Liverpool gang in ’59. I was castrated; I warn you this is true, and not a nice story 4 me to tell.” So I told him to shut up, I’d had my meds, and wanted to sleep.
-m.
(Anybody care to continue?) 😉
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