Took No.1 Son to hospital yesterday for an operation on his mouth. Spotted this chap shuffling along and dragging his drip behind him, desperate to have a drag on a cigarette.
The hospital is one of those endless, sprawling agglomerations of single storey Nissen Huts, held together by chilly, painted brick corridors containing spatio-temporal anomalies that make you pop up in a totally different part of the hospital from where you logically think you are. You know the kind of places I mean - they have signs for toilets which, if you're foolish enough to follow them, lead you round the entire universe and bring you back to where you started. They were either PoW camps, or Butlins in previous incarnations.
Spotted a cleaner mopping out my son's ward. He managed to mop the entire ward without rinsing out his mop once. Now that's what I call efficiency! He was obviously doing his bit to save the NHS a fortune on water and cleaning fluid.
Some minster is under fire for calling a PC a pleb in the Gategate (or is it Plebgate) affair. Since when was being called a pleb offensive? Many on the left indeed view it as a badge of honour. Labour's own publication is called Tribune, which derives from 'Tribune of the Plebs', a Roman official whose job it was to protect the plebians - or landed commoners - from the excesses of the patrician and equestrian orders. Our lower house is even called the Commons. A storm on a chipped tea mug, if you ask me. Those who take offence are obviously proles who have no Latin...
No comments:
Post a Comment