The weekend was a boozy affair with The Redhead Sister’s birthday all-dayer taking precedence on Saturday. We basically zigzagged across Leicester High Street taking advantage of beer gardens and a roof terraces before stumbling home for a much-needed MSG-fest at 9pm. Oddly, the neighbour’s party which they’d previously kindly warned us would be ‘late and loud’ was very subdued to the point that only four guests remained. They’d really gone to town too, hiring a huge gazebo and decking the garden out in day-glo fairy lights. Mr P (not mine, another one) appeared over the fence at one point and implored us to join them but by then, my Mr P was smashed, the other Mr P was somewhat wild-eyed himself and my greasy Chinese takeaway was calling to me so we gave it a swerve.
I sent Mrs W a text on Sunday to see how she was getting on, as she was already a day overdue D Day. She told me she had a midwife coming around the following day to do ‘unspeakable things to her’ (her words, not mine) but thankfully didn’t elaborate in the text following the nasty encounter. In fact, we even tentatively booked in a vino/Vimto catch-up for Thursday night ‘if I dared’ (again, her words). I agreed after she promised to mop up any fluids but I suspect this might not transpire. We shall see.
I felt sorry for The Boss at work the other day. Every week, the partners have a meeting at which sandwiches or salads are provided as this takes place over lunchtime and. in theory, they wouldn’t have time to pop out to pick up any food. All okay, I guess, although neither me, The Boss, The Bigger Boss or either of the registrars are entitled to the same privilege even though we are obliged to attend the meeting as well. I think some of the partners may play with The Boss’ kind nature at times though as they’ve started being extremely picky about the lunch choices; for example, Dr Tall-and-Newish wants salad but not pasta salad and Dr Gooner only likes white bread (what is he? Eight?) To accommodate these requests, The Boss had to traipse to three different food outlets, one of which was M&S to procure a pasta-less, but still £3+, salad for Dr Tall-and-Newish, like she has nothing better to do with her day like, you know, making sure the practice runs smoothly.
It was brought up at the meeting and, jumping on the defensive immediately, Dr Gooner mumbled “well, The Boss didn’t have to go to three different shops!” Charming.
Why they can’t just buy their own bloody lunch on their way to work is beyond me. Or hey, here’s a novel idea: why not make their own, that way ensuring that they get exactly what they want? How they possibly cope on days when we don’t have a meeting is a mystery.
In the end, The Big Boss stood her ground and said that from then on, lunch would be purchased from one shop and the partners would have to ‘like it or lump it’. Dr Gooner chipped in, saying that he would be more than happy with a Boots Meal Deal every week which is not only a big jump up in price for this impoverished NHS partnership to shell out for seven doctors on a weekly basis, but is also a lot of stuff. I hope The Boss has some sturdy Bags for Life at her disposal. Unbelievable, especially when one takes into account that some years back in a bid to cut expenditure, they refused to pay for PRS meaning that we weren’t allowed to listen to the radio at work (I cheat and listen online through my headphones) and also put a stop to the water cooler. I mean, where exactly are we supposed to dissect the latest episode of The Handmaid’s Tale?
STOP PRESS: Baby W was born at 9am this morning (6th July).