I’m wondering how many females receive the answer they require when asking a male, ‘How do I look?’ or ‘Do I look OK in this?’
That was the question that began my day yesterday. ‘Do I look OK?’
If you remember, the last time we ‘spoke,’ I told you that we were taking Richard’s mum, Betty, to the hospital for her six-monthly check-up on her weakening knee? Obviously I couldn’t wear my normal daily attire so a little effort was put into scouring through my wardrobes for something suitable. I chose black leggings, a lovely long flowery top (pink roses) and a pink cardigan. I polished off my look with my posh three-quarter length coat. It was cold yesterday (and today) and I figured with my state of health right now I’d better keep warm. I realise I’m sounding like I’m a hundred years old but …
Richard trotted up the stairs and we met on the landing. ‘Do I look OK?’ I said.
He viewed me silently for a moment, always a bad sign because he always speaks immediately and always without thinking.
‘It’s only the hospital you don’t have to dress up,’ he said.
‘I haven’t dressed up,’ I said.
‘Well you’re more dressed up than usual,’ he said.
‘Well of course I’m more dressed up than usual,’ I said, through gritted teeth, ‘because usually I’m cleaning up chicken shit and rolling round the garden! Do I look OK? Tidy?’
He looked me up and down again. ‘Well, yeah, you look tidy, like you are going to a posh funeral or something.’
I rethought the coat and changed it to a more casual looking one … but, as a form of rebellion, dug out the pink shoes, which Richard hates with a vengeance. Ha! Posh funeral. Any more comments like that and it’ll be his funeral and I’ll be wearing the whole ensemble.
With Betty loaded into the front seat of the tiny UP and me shoved in the back, we set off. They chatted away – well Betty chatted away. I couldn’t hear what she was saying and Richard gave the impression of listening but I know him and I knew that the ‘lights were on but know one was home,’ as he concentrated on the road and traffic.
We took the wrong turning into the hospital and spent valuable time scouting for the orthopaedic department, as per Betty’s instructions. Richard abandoned us in the car and went walkabout attempting to find orthopaedics. He returned twenty minutes later, through a cloud burst, looking half-drowned and about to go off on one and said, ‘It’s NOT the orthopaedic department, MOTHER, it’s Out Patients. Why do you always get these things wrong?’ Betty fumbled around for her disabled parking pass and pretended not to hear.
Eventually we found the right department and Richard evicted us from the car and screeched off to find a parking place. Are you beginning to see into his character yet? See how the smallest things throw him? Haha. Betty linked her arm in mine and off we trotted – well – not exactly – she does have a buggered up knee and two metal hip replacements. She’s pretty bionic – our Betty. We settled in the waiting room for a bit and then I toddled off to find Richard who was just entering the building having parked the car in the next county. He’s also hopeless at finding parking spaces. And he ALWAYS has to reverse into a space.
The consultant was ‘behind,’ apparently and we had to wait quite a while. Betty stressed. Richard stared blankly ahead. And I had a nice conversation with a man in a cowboy hat who looked like the American country singer, Alan Jackson, whom I simply adore. I had been nominated to go in with Betty as her spokesperson and intelligent being in residence. That’s a joke. But you only have to fool some of the people some of the time, don’t you? Betty’s consultant was lovely. L.O.V.E.L.Y. Truly. I have had some experiences with these ‘professionals’ and many of them have had humour bypasses. I say something that I think is hilarious and it washes straight over them. But THIS man was super. So friendly. So super. So lovely … you get the picture? Joking apart, I do get it. I do understand that these consultants, doctors, nurses etc have to deal with the general public and lets face it, the general public can be moronic at times, yeah? I couldn’t do it. I’d murder someone and wham them through the nearest window yelling, ‘Don’t be such a frigging, pathetic tool, so your leg’s hanging off … you have another.’
Mr R (I’ll call him that) put up Betty’s hip and knee X Rays on his computer screen and delved into simple, layman’s terms regarding her condition. He made lovely little jokes along the way and had us in stitches … not literally. He asked to examine the knee and whoosh, Betty sprang to her feet saying, ‘I’ll have to take my trousers down because I can’t get my trouser leg up past my swollen knee.’
This was the only warning we had as her checked, polyester trousers hit the floor, faster than Usain Bolt, and I was presented with her bottom in my face. Mr R and I exchanged glances. I think I fell a little in love with him at this point. Well you would, wouldn’t you? And thinking about it I think he rather liked me. He kept having a sneaky glance across at me when Betty was on the couch having a bloody great needle driven into her right knee. He could have just been checking that I was not going to hit the deck at the sight of his big needle?
In conclusion, Betty is now on the waiting list to have her knee replaced. She will have to go back to see Mr R as a pre-op appointment and I shall have to go with her. I mean, who would expect a sweet, (?) eighty-two-year-old lady to have to answer all those complicated questions on her own? It’s the least I can do, right?
And I’ll probably put a little more thought into my appearance because I certainly do not want Mr R to think that I’ve stopped off at the hospital on the way to a funeral. I think he quite liked my pink, rose top. As far as I could tell, unlike Richard, Mr R had exquisite taste.
Have a lovely weekend. Catch you Monday.
Take care my lovelies x