A funny thing happened on the way to the theatre

A collection of climate stories mostly

I was all set to write my first 2024 newsletter with a spin on new year resolutions. Why do they happen when they do and who amongst us genuinely takes the time to reflect on what is happening in our lives? Too few I expect.

Aside from our own resolutions, whether we make them or not, change is going to happen which will effect us all. It happens on a daily basis even if we might be thinking in terms of new years right now.

Planned changes may not be very comfortable, but it’s the unplanned ones we’re really don’t like. These upset us the most because they’re surprising and we have a distinct lack of control.

I’ll be honest, I’ve not been looking forward to the start of this new year because of a planned, impending date with a new hip.

I know, stop being a big baby. It’s one of the most successful operations you can have. But an element of doubt still stubbornly sits there somewhere in the margins, general anaesthetics are no laughing matter.

My date looming as December closed was offset with the pleasure of new year celebrations with friends in our new mountain home. It’s been a pipe dream for me and Mrs H. since we started our business back in 2008. Back then our office was a kitchen table in our linked-detached rental near Reading. A cup of tea was easy, the thought of a ski chalet, beyond our wildest.

Courtesy of Lancs.live

Our lovely friends from the west country had managed to buy 4 tickets for Peter Kay at the O2 last weekend.

We’ve all only waited a year. By the time Saturday night came round, Mrs H had retired to the sofa with a heavy cold. I suspected that I might be joining her soon, but this was Peter Kay, the hilarious, ebullient, chubby comedian who has everyone in stitches.

I didn’t recognise him when he walked on stage. He doesn’t bounce around anymore, and his voice sounded more like a distant cousin of Peter’s. He’s lost a lot of weight - good for him.

Maybe there was something wrong with me not him, because I didn’t laugh for the first half of his set. The funniest gag, was the one about the famous celebrity in the audience, just before the interval. I’ve said enough.

I made my apologies to our friends at the break and went home.

Was it the new facsimile of Peter Kay I didn’t find funny, the fact that we were in the gods and felt a bit disconnected, or was it me? I still had my coat on and it was warm up there in the rafters.

In defence of Peter Kay, he’d filled the O2 yet again and most of Lancashire seemed to be enjoying his act.

Of course it was me. The countdown to Monday had been louder than expected in my head. I wasn’t in the mood for Peter’s reminisces down memory lane anymore.

Monday arrived soon enough. They kept me waiting. I was early. I didn’t mind. What else was I going to do. At least in their reception I could watch. I like people watching.

There’s always lots of hustle and helpful staff, who significantly outnumber their clients. I say clients rather than patients because no one seems to be ill. It’s more like a hotel, an illusion which feels comforting somehow. Bad things don’t happen here.

You never see anyone being trolleyed around, flat on their back. Nor are their zimmer frames and drips standing outside, ill fitting slippers and garish night garments, that insist on smoking another cigarette. Just one more.

The smell is different too. You’re more likely to smell oud than disinfectant.

An occasional glimpse of a man or woman in green fatigues, walking with purpose and the overly bright lighting are the only real signs that this might be something other than a hotel lobby.

I’m escorted to my private room. It’s a ward of private rooms really with a central nurses station. I’m announced as a number, my room number. I chirp up that you can call me Andrew if you prefer. It barely raises a response.

The nurse looking after me has accumulated a thick file already. She wanders in 20 minutes after I’ve been left to settle in. I’ve unpacked, plugged into the wifi, the nice man from catering has my order for tonight and the pharmacist has checked my current medication.

You get asked the same questions a lot, even though the answers have already been written down somewhere. Maybe in that fat file the nurse is clutching.

As the afternoon fades, my nurse has measured the length and circumference of my legs, my blood pressure is high and I’ve put on my theatre gown the wrong way around. She helps me but not before reminding me that it will be removed anyway later. Thanks for that.

I’m also now sporting some unflattering transparent undies and a lovely white compression stocking on my left leg. The other one will follow later.

The anaesthetist pops in. Not long after that, the surgeon gives me my one hour call and marks the black arrow on my leg - THR, total hip right.

The physiotherapist who I saw on Friday also appears. She explains what will happen tomorrow. Apart from walking, I can expect some cold therapy compression from a machine now parked in the corner. I think the RICE approach is taken seriously here.

And then the Covid test which I’d done 30 minutes before seeing most of these people is announced as positive. A second one is quickly done confirming the situation. The negative result I’d obtained before leaving home is most definitely wrong.

Bother!

I wait.

I know the game is up, but my surgeon wants to see me and he has to finish his list of patients first.

He kindly explains why it can’t go ahead aside from the obvious. There’s an increased risk of infection as well as blood clots, a risk I don’t need to take, so it’s re-scheduled.

Anyhow, as Mrs H has taken to saying when I’m monologuing, a happy new year.