Wednesday, August 09, 2006
FREE TICKETS TO LIVE PUB COMEDY AFTERNOON
"I only put sunscreen on the burnt bits." - one of the nurses, in reference to her continuing solarium attendance and the resulting lobster impersonations.
A couple of nights ago I met an interesting chap.
He's pretty old, some claim he came out here with the first fleet and can remember when Columbus discovered the Americas.
He still works with his son in a business that produces distress flare components and trims for Toyota Camry interiors.
He spoke of racing at the Isle of Man Tourist Trophy before the war on a 350cc Norton and how he was on fire watch in a factory making components for artillery in WWII when it was bombed with incendiaries, forcing him to leap across to a neighbouring building at a height of four storeys.
He later moved to Australia and has been running his current business for 35 years.
He's in here due to some complete imbecile running into him, fracturing his neck.
Remember the motorcyclist I met last week in the Alfred, well he's moved in a couple of doors down.
He appears to be in fine spirits and adjusting well to the better grub and nicer surroundings here at the Epworth.
Having a bad hair day is everyone's right.
Although I can't imagine my cellmate having one of those, considering the amount of bathroom products at his diposal.
That's my stuff on the left ( minus the hair brush ) and his on the right.
To be fair, I do have a can of deodorant, comb and a tub of cream in my drawer.
Having a bad body day is indeed an unusual thing and a privilege reserved for those with battered ( and I don't mean rolled in a floury dough ) bodies.
My cellmate had one of these today and it required a sensitive, subtle and contemporary kind of approach to snap him out of it.
After all, we are talking about a modern twenty seven year old metrosexual male, having trouble dealing with the hand he was dealt this particular day.
Dealing with any bureaucracy is as frustrating as trying to find a 100% beef cheese burger in India, at the best of times.
But when it involves your bodily health and rehabilitation, it can be even more infuriating.
So, there was some shoe and clothing throwing, the 'drawing of the drapes' ( a ritual performed by cellmates when all the curtains around the bed are drawn in order to shut the world out ), and sulking for an hour or two.
In order to make life easier for everyone, I managed to coax him out of his shell, into some clothes and down the pub so we could have a couple of beers and indulge in that age old pastime of watching people's cars get towed out of the clearway zone.
There we are, enjoying a couple of cold ones, waiting for the inevitable 4:30pm car clearance, when we spot the ward's two team leaders walking down the street.
Now these two, from my experience, appear to have limited personalities and are made of classic manager material.
It might sound a bit harsh, but in the near five months of my residence here, I have not seen anything to convince me otherwise.
As they walked back up the street, the male mouths something through the window.
Not being able to decipher his gesticulations, I motioned for him to come inside.
That was when he delivered his silly little barrage regarding his duty of care, his preference for us not being in the pub, etc.
What a load of SHIT!!!!
Honestly, we aren't on any drugs which could be affected by alcohol to the point that they're not effective anymore.
And as far as I'm concerned, a bloke's mental health is pretty bloody important, especially if he's been stuck in a hospital for five months and it can be maintained with a couple of cold ones and some live comedy.
That's the despondent owner of one of the cars, note slumped shoulders.
He walked up and down the road a couple of times, checked the ticket machine and the clearway signs, the realisation of the truth slowly washing over his face all the while.
It must be a terrrible feeling when it's happening to you.
After all that, I was joined by Gino, Rino, Alicja and Mum for some lovely pub fare and a few laughs.
It was a darned good thing and a nice way to finish off the day.
.
A couple of nights ago I met an interesting chap.
He's pretty old, some claim he came out here with the first fleet and can remember when Columbus discovered the Americas.
He still works with his son in a business that produces distress flare components and trims for Toyota Camry interiors.
He spoke of racing at the Isle of Man Tourist Trophy before the war on a 350cc Norton and how he was on fire watch in a factory making components for artillery in WWII when it was bombed with incendiaries, forcing him to leap across to a neighbouring building at a height of four storeys.
He later moved to Australia and has been running his current business for 35 years.
He's in here due to some complete imbecile running into him, fracturing his neck.
Santa with body piercings.
He appears to be in fine spirits and adjusting well to the better grub and nicer surroundings here at the Epworth.
Having a bad hair day is everyone's right.
Although I can't imagine my cellmate having one of those, considering the amount of bathroom products at his diposal.
That's my stuff on the left ( minus the hair brush ) and his on the right.
To be fair, I do have a can of deodorant, comb and a tub of cream in my drawer.
Having a bad body day is indeed an unusual thing and a privilege reserved for those with battered ( and I don't mean rolled in a floury dough ) bodies.
My cellmate had one of these today and it required a sensitive, subtle and contemporary kind of approach to snap him out of it.
After all, we are talking about a modern twenty seven year old metrosexual male, having trouble dealing with the hand he was dealt this particular day.
Dealing with any bureaucracy is as frustrating as trying to find a 100% beef cheese burger in India, at the best of times.
But when it involves your bodily health and rehabilitation, it can be even more infuriating.
So, there was some shoe and clothing throwing, the 'drawing of the drapes' ( a ritual performed by cellmates when all the curtains around the bed are drawn in order to shut the world out ), and sulking for an hour or two.
In order to make life easier for everyone, I managed to coax him out of his shell, into some clothes and down the pub so we could have a couple of beers and indulge in that age old pastime of watching people's cars get towed out of the clearway zone.
There we are, enjoying a couple of cold ones, waiting for the inevitable 4:30pm car clearance, when we spot the ward's two team leaders walking down the street.
Now these two, from my experience, appear to have limited personalities and are made of classic manager material.
It might sound a bit harsh, but in the near five months of my residence here, I have not seen anything to convince me otherwise.
As they walked back up the street, the male mouths something through the window.
Not being able to decipher his gesticulations, I motioned for him to come inside.
That was when he delivered his silly little barrage regarding his duty of care, his preference for us not being in the pub, etc.
What a load of SHIT!!!!
Honestly, we aren't on any drugs which could be affected by alcohol to the point that they're not effective anymore.
And as far as I'm concerned, a bloke's mental health is pretty bloody important, especially if he's been stuck in a hospital for five months and it can be maintained with a couple of cold ones and some live comedy.
That's the despondent owner of one of the cars, note slumped shoulders.
He walked up and down the road a couple of times, checked the ticket machine and the clearway signs, the realisation of the truth slowly washing over his face all the while.
It must be a terrrible feeling when it's happening to you.
After all that, I was joined by Gino, Rino, Alicja and Mum for some lovely pub fare and a few laughs.
It was a darned good thing and a nice way to finish off the day.
.
