February 1st 2017 – home

The quiz turned out to be a great success. There were about seven teams competing, including a couple of old girlfriends who were at a table with a bunch of fun, giggling girls who were downing shots. On a  Tuesday night, I ask you. Call the church elders, there are people having fun in the pub! I enjoyed the process much more last night which I think was down to leaving the scribing to mum (we had mum’s mate, D, and the F-I-L on our team as well): this took the pressure off and was necessary as the whippet was a right pain all evening – refusing to settle, dragging me over to where Mr P was compering behind the bar and punctuating the quiet hum of conferring with his grating, high-pitched bark. When I relented and took him over to be closer to Mr P, leaving him attached to a fire extinguisher which, had he been a stronger dog, could’ve led to a messy albeit hilarious moment, he acted exactly the same, only finally chilling out once the quiz was over and Mr P rejoined our table.

We came a respectable third. I don’t we’ve ever won one of Mr P’s quizzes which I am secretly pleased about as I couldn’t bear the other competitors thinking I’d cheated. Mr P switched the questions up a bit as well so whilst they were all music-based, half were clips of songs and half were normal spoken questions which made things go a bit quicker – always a bonus on a rainy Tuesday night when you’ve got a fidgety whippet on your hands. Having said that we didn’t return home until midnight when Mr P proceeded to pour himself a glass of whiskey and made a Pimm’s and orange juice for me – empty drinks cabinet cocktail concocting at its finest.

I spoke to Mr P about his birthday, mentioning that it might be best if he just took the one day off (the day after his birthday) and making out that this would happily accommodate his inevitable hangover without blurting out that it was really because we were staying over in the hotel.

We had one of the private patients in for a consultation today. When I received the patient’s drink order from the receptionist, I made his coffee and took it through to the corridor where he was waiting.

“Mr S?” I asked, holding the tea cup in both hands as it rattled madly on its saucer. I felt like Mrs Overall and would’ve pointed this funny fact out had not the patient eyed the cup as if it was brimming with lqiuid dog shit.

“I didn’t order that.”

“Oh. Are you not Mr S?”

“Yes.”

“Well…”

ordered it,” a man to the patient’s left piped up (I take it he attended with the patient and wasn’t just some cheeky, NHS chancer). He took the cup and I stormed back to my room, annoyed. I had felt like dousing the rude patient with the scalding coffee.

I can’t stand having to pander to the private patients anyway – it isn’t fair on the NHS ones who have to sit in the waiting room absorbing germs and haven’t even got a water cooler to take refreshment from, but when they take the piss, it’s even worse. I don’t drink much tea so I’m not fussy about how it’s served and I only ever make coffee for Mr P who likes it black or, very dark brown at best, so when I last made a patient a coffee and she asked me to put more milk in it, I could’ve slapped her. Making coffee for ungrateful patients, eh? Good job I slaved for five years to get that degree.

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