Sticks & Stones

I knew I had been in London too long after I found myself explaining to a perplexed ambulance driver that he would have to wait to take me to the emergency room until I had moved my car.

It was a great inconvenience to me that the night I had woken up in agony was the same night that I had failed to park in a residents bay. If my car was still there at 8.30am I was looking at a £60 fine, and if it was still there 24 hours later it would be towed away.

To put my dilemma in context; I was unsure whether my BMW was worth £60, and I was damned sure that I would never bother to recover it from the police pound; as it would undoubtably mean driving outside of Zone 1 to Zone 2 or god forbid Zone 3.

I didn't want to risk the altitude sickness.

In the end, I gave into the stomach pain that had me reaching for the phone in the first place, and I begrudgingly agreed to get on the stretcher.

Mainly really for the sake of the neighbours: it was after all only 3am, and as a result of all the screaming from me and the sirens, one by one the lights in the neighbouring houses had gone on. My prioritising the avoidance of further embarrassment over and above anything else at that moment was also surely a sign that I had been in London too long.

I don't remember much of my journey in the ambulance. Regrettably I do remember announcing to the paramedic that I needed painkillers, and that if I had had the foresight to bring my wallet would have happily paid him for them. I even went so far as to offer to buy him a little stash for himself. He thanked me for my not entirely unpleasant offer, but said I would have to wait for the doctor before I took anything.

Surely there is no better sign that I am a failure in my chosen career of advertising: I am unable to score drugs even in the back of an ambulance.

After spending several hours in A&E and being given no less than three shots of morphine (and warned that if I didn't keep the screams to a minimum I would have to be gagged,) I was wheeled into the 'Critical Decisions' ward.

I think the London hospitals would benefit from spending a bit more time brainstorming the names of their wards. I mean if my new ward had been called the 'Double Cheeseburger' ward or the 'Saturday Morning' ward, I would have been more optimistic about how I was doing. A sort of verbal poker face if you will.

I would still be in that ward had an incredibly kind girlfriend not come to visit me, and asked me why I had not been transferred to the private section of the hospital. The truth was that after 18 hours of morphine I could barely move my hands let alone negotiate a bed transfer. The NHS had successfully managed to take my blood, urine and my spirit.

So with some much needed help from a friend I found myself in a private room with all the luxuries not available to the patients on the NHS: water, food, a shower, and visits from a doctor. A doctor finally diagnosed my kidneys and gallbladder were not functioning; somewhat of a story anticlimax given my performance started at 3am.

The rest of my stay was a bit of a blur: I was in a self induced Ribena & 'Antiques Roadshow' coma. It was several weeks before I could look at vase without being tempted to swipe it.

After my first day back at work I came home to find a letter from my health insurance company; they were seeking payment for the excess on my hospital stay.

I am glad my car wasn't towed away: I may now have to live in it.

A NOTE: The author of this blog would like to thank everyone who visited me armed with cupcakes and jelly. I am now considering using the leftovers to build a second bedroom.