I’m starting this second blog of the day while sitting in the Nuclear Medicine/PET CT waiting room of a Leeds Hospital.
Awaiting the missus’ return from a bone scan, my eyes are constantly drawn to an ornament of two pottery ducks who’re co-joined at the beaks, which reside on a nearby table.
I assume the beak connection on this contemporary piece of art is the passing of food from the larger duck to the smaller bird. Proffering it’s not an exhibition of affectionate kissing by the waterfowl, which I’m pretty sure they don’t undertake…… And if they did, they’d certainly be banned from my local swimming baths, which enforces a robust ‘no kissing or heavy petting’ policy.
I’m sitting alone at the moment in this area of St James’ Hospital’s Bexley Wing. My audio companions the chatter of nearby receptionists and a distant piano lament emanating from the floor below.
Presently, the elderly pianist plays Johnny Mercer & Henry Mancini’s refrain Moon River. The serene tones drifting upwards via the mezzanine to join me in the waiting area. If the tones could speak they’d probably say to me “You here again, Gary?….. Chuffing heck they’ll be charging you rent at this rate!”
The ducks are as unimpressed as inanimate pottery ornaments generally are when they hear songs from iconic Hollywood movies. To be honest I’ve probably been overly specific in the previous sentence. I’d venture pottery ducks would show the same levels of disinterest to any genre of music. I’d go one further by suggesting living, breathing waterfowl don’t pay much mind to melodies……. Even if the song has got river in the title.
As hard as I try to eavesdrop, I’m unable to comprehend the topic of the receptionists’ conversation. Located on the other side of the waiting area from me, the only words I’ve managed to pick up so far being shoes, chloroform and eagles. Even with my random and creative mind, I can’t begin to think what their verbal interaction is referring to.
Incidentally, I’m no longer the only non-staff member waiting room in situ. A few minutes ago a patient walked in, sitting four or five seats from me. God bless, he relayed his name to the receptionist as Rupert (fictional moniker), along with assurances her his date of birth was 35th November 1834.
Admittedly, the poor guy doesn’t look too sprightly, but I still suspect he was confused while communicating his age. If however you were born on the 35th day of November in 1834, Rupert, I apologise unreservedly for questioning your integrity……. I’d also like to extend my best wishes for your 184th birthday on Wednesday.
As I commence this paragraph, Rups has now started to feed bread to the pottery ducks – Commenting on how ungrateful they are for not consuming the food he’s throwing them. Occasionally he wanders over to stroke them and whistle an out of tune version of Moon River. The ducks as unmoved by his interpretation of the song as with the pianist’s earlier rendition.
I’ve gotta say, attempting to write a blog while being distracted by a 184 year old bloke whistling on off key version of Moon River is a life challenge I never thought I’d experience.