Hospital

There is something unbelievably comforting about being admitted to a hospital.

I walk through the door and hand my will and my life over to you.  You, in this instance, is Dr Eddy… a wonderful surgeon.

I said, as he was checking my testes, “Well. at least I get my balls played with…”  which, of course, he must hear a million times a year from anxious men willing a joke out of a miserable situation.

Tested testes, blood tests, more scans…I hand my will and my life over to you Kent and Canterbury Hospital.

This wouldn’t be the first time.  After our car accident, when I was a kid, I stayed in the very same hospital for 5 weeks with major head injuries.   It must have been very traumatic for my Mother to have seen me smashed to pieces at the edge of the road..after having lost the big dog like that..what must it have been like to see your own child covered in blood?

Being in hospital is like returning to the womb…like taking heroin.

Georgina drove me to Canterbury and on the way home we  stopped in Tankerton where we had a wonderful lunch at JoJo‘s.  Croque Monsieur.

Georgina waited for me in one of the long hospital corridors and a man in a wheel chair asked her to help him take a pee.  She declined his offer.

Yesterday I drove to Calais and dropped the car at the ferry terminal saving me $500 in fees.  I sat on the boat and marveled at how ugly and badly dressed everyone was.  On the way there I ate a sandwich and on the way back I ate fish and chips.

On the train home I met a really beautiful twenty year old blonde boy who took one look at my pink shoes and..well, he knew what the story was/is.  Anyway, bright as a button, cheeky chappy decorator who I may see later on in the year when he gets back from Australia.   I love men like him.

Somebody else, spotting my pink shoes, called me a homo.  I began to think vengeful thoughts..then I met the blonde man and things took a turn for the better.