Holy Mac. My stats tell me I've not posted a blog for about 2 months. It's actually true that as soon as you get out of Uni you forget how to string a sentence together unless it includes the words 'vodka', 'coke' and 'please', and lets face it, by the tenth glass the 'please' is out of the window too. I've not had a lecture since March and won't have another until late September. I blame my timetable entirely for the pure volume of wine I've consumed in the last two months and it doesn't look like it's about to stop. Although completing my second year of Uni has meant I've been out and got so drunk that I've got home, tried to open the door to my house with the key to my flat, complained to my Mum that she locked me out and sat in the garden in the rain for an hour until my neighbour (young and attractive thankfully, not old and perverse... no wait he's still perverse) came to the rescue, I have found the time to start writing my book. I call it a book, it's just a short story, but if it wins first prize at a Manchester literature competition it gets me ten grand. Yes. Ten grand. (If anyone reading this tries to befriend me after I win I WILL know your game!) Writing my book reminded me that I have a poor neglected blog and so seeing as I've become a lady of leisure as of late, I decided I better get the creative juices flowing as well as the rose. Winning the literature prize money would probably have its downside though - I'll have enough money to carry on 'socialising', I'll pay for Charlotte to bathe in Malibu and she'll get to that point of intoxication where she tells every guy in a low cut t-shirt he looks like he's in The Wanted. (They do though don't they?)
Let's get to the point. My sister is in hospital once again. She loves it there apparantly. To shed some light on the topic, she has Lupus, something to do with her immune system blah blah blah, so every now and again she takes little vacations at the highly acclaimed resort known as Pinderfields. I'm kidding. She doesn't get to do karaoke or go swimming and there isn't an all you can eat buffet. There is, however, an endless supply of bedpans, a button which goes through to a nurse at your beck and call (apparantly) and a tiny TV which shows CITV and the Russian News (Why? Seriously? I've walked up and down that ward and I haven't seen one Russian child.) Haven't they ever heard of MTV?
The most annoying thing about hospitals is that they claim to be making you better, but I swear more people die in there than walk out of their own accord. They take hours to administer simple medication - I can get a packet of Paracetamol for 30 pence. Never mind how fast your liquid drippy shit goes in to their veins, it took you 2 hours to carry it out. I could have run to the shop and given every patient in the hospital some if they wanted! (Although probably not the guy in the opposite room who has a bottle of whiskey stashed under his bed... I'd end up arrested for assisted suicide.) My point is they're happy to ignore most of the patients in that place. At one point my sister had a fever and was throwing up, Jack Daniels was drawing up an escape strategy and Little Miss Diabetic in the room next door was trashing everything and dishing out threats to the hospital staff. I had a few for them myself, although "Touch me again and I'll smash your fucking face in" definately surpassed anything I had in mind on the aggression scale. To be fair she was sectioned, but they probably lock up everyone who dares to defy their rules. Has anyone noticed the rise in admittants to mental hospitals lately? They're not crazy! They just want some damn attention! Nurses take note: when you hear the ding! when a patient presses their little button it doesn't mean you can recline in your spinny chair and ponder another brew (Yes I've seen you.) It means get off your fat (more often than not - too many custard creams in the staff room) arse and see where it's coming from. Because Jack Daniels has already dug himself out of his room with a spork. Well done.
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