Behind today’s advent calendar door is another trip to St James’ Hospital, this time for my wife’s monthly oncology treatment. Yesterday’s bone scan went without incident for the stoic Birtley lass; although the results won’t be known for a week or so yet.

Hearing I was yet again en route to a Leeds medical establishment, this morning a mate queried “Do you never get waiting room weary, Gary?” The question asked while we both scraped ice from our respective automobiles.

Actually, what he really said was “Blimey, it’s chuffing cold this morning, Gary!” However, as I don’t want to write about ice and it’s removal from car windows, I’ve used artistic licence. 

That being said, I don’t really want to write another narrative about sitting in a waiting room either. Although, as I try and keep these monologues in part-factual diary format, it’ll no doubt include references of what the French call ‘la sale d’attente’.

Not that the French have any part to play in the rest of this prose. I just wanted to show off how ‘skilled’ I am at utilising the English to French translation app on Google…… I also wanted to cut down on once again using the words waiting room. Although during my explanation of wanting to avoid re-using the words waiting room I actually did regurgitated the words waiting room.

See the source image

Incidentally, I had to utilise an English to French translation app as my French isn’t very good. Last time I attempted to use French conversationally I inadvertently asked a French baker if I could marry his pigeon – An incident where I was attempting to fulfil the purchase of three baguettes.

Bizarrely, the baker responded in English that he was prepared to let me wed Tufty (his pigeon), but I’d have to pay a dowry of 500 euros for the ‘honour’. Having more dignity than having to pay for a wife, I told him to shove it. Disenchanted with my response, the baker clouted me on the shoulder with a baguette, before requesting I immediately leave his boulangerie.

Consequently, I hold the honour of being the only member of Form H in Heathfield Senior High School’s class of ’79 that has been attacked by a French baker for baulking at the dowry cost of marrying his pigeon…… An accolade of such specificity I don’t expect it’ll be matched by my former classmates anytime soon.

This morning’s scraping of frost from the Strachmobile was the first of winter 2018. Like my infamy of being the only member of Form H in Heathfield Senior High School’s class of ’79 that’s been attacked by a French baker for baulking at pigeon dowry costs, an accolade which reaches 0.125 on the Fascination Scale.

With this gauge of interestingness peaking at 1,000, both events are unlikely to grace media channels in the near future…… Unless, that is, Pigeon Monthly magazine gets wind of the baguette attack’s root cause.

As this inanity draws to it’s conclusion, Karen and me have just got back home after she’d received her treatment. We’ve just enough time to eat lunch prior to popping back out to a completely different Leeds Teaching Hospital for another consultation.

As the bible once said, though, ‘Blessed are those who spend their lives in hospital waiting rooms’…….. That’s what Karen and me like to think anyhow – We have to hope there’s a reason for this incessant joylessness!!