One of the worst things about illness is that your time is no longer your own.
Today we went to the hospital and queued with one set of people just for a blood pressure check, then with the same lot of people again to see the anaesthetist who had an office that backed onto the first room.
Each doorway we went through, we had to take the pedals off Clive’s wheelchair, remove the cushion, fold up the chair, and then reassemble.
Each time a form was filled out, which was often, Clive’s name was questioned – Are you sure this is his surname?
Yes, I jolly well am. When I married him I took it on myself!
We spent all morning on this fruitless exercise – 6 hours used up.
The result sometimes is that I end up picking fruit in the dark, which I don’t mind at all.