Ward 9; 8:00a.m.
Lying in bed, he’s just asked one of those superbly cute and bossy – oooo he does like it when they get bossy 
– nursey types, to lend an arm to lean on and to assist his wobbling to the loo and back.
So off they tootle, he in his dressing gown with no arse in it and tartan Christmas bloody slippers, walking like a bit part actor from Thunderbirds, and her doing the American Smooth trying valiantly to keep him upright and vectored in. 
They both laugh (well she does), but he's one step ahead, or at least one step ahead, one backwards and two steps to either side, and starts 
all over the floor and their feet. Now it’s Dancing on Ice (actually dancing on icky) versus Thunderbirds and icky is winning bigtime (but oddly and disappointingly, no carrots). 
This is not in the least bit at all embarrassing, he thinks, honest it isn’t.
‘Would you like any help in there lovely?’ ‘If you need any help, just pull your cord ok babes?’ He smirks to himself, ‘Oh, I’ll let you work those two out yourself, – ‘lovely’. 
Detouring the icky, they promenade back to bedibyes then its shave time. Nursey kindly supplies a bowl of luke warm water, no shaving cream – and a blue, single blade razor. Oh yes, that mighty fear inducing, face skinning icon, that chin chopping; lip slicing; nose nicking torture tool of the Inquisition known only as - ‘A Bic!’. 
Toottles back to the loo to get the blood dabbed with paper towels that would take the skin off an Armadillo's arse, makes an appointment with the plastic surgeon to have his bottom lip sewn back (made that bit up) and he’s ready for more pills. By now, really really ready, and well camouflaged with a face that looks like he's been hit by shrapnel ad the only medical supplies were post-it notes.
So anyhoo, back in bed nursey spots the mathematics book and from then on he’s called Brains by them all. Ye, go on, go on and laugh bitches, mock the afflicted while their down why don’t you; now let’s see you laugh while you mop up that icky…Hah! 
Shoop next (cutest nursey ever can’t say soup), so hot it had a bloody half-life and Brains is nearly supine, getting spoon-fed because he can’t even sit without help and would for sure decorate the ward with the boiling lava lake of oxtail if he had a spoon (think thunderbirds 8, the ballista). Later he gets told off for arsing about with the bed up-and-down controller thingy so starts to read button play theory. Yep, you read it correctly, button theory! Jeeze!
So we have a thunderbirds marionette reading poker theory, the guy opposite asking for his bill, ‘Thank you very much, I’ve had a nice time and the soup was tasty, but can the manager bring me my bill now please, I want to go home. The guy in the end bed shouting ‘Help!’ ‘Help!’ Let me out, it’s like being in jail! Then of course, there’s the 70+ year-old lady who’s been trying to get into my bed most of last night and is still wandering lonely as a cloud around the corridors; and of course not forgetting the bloke next to me looking everywhere for his shoes – the ones he’s wearing – and you get the picture.
Welcome, to the twilight zone.
I may even do a blog.
VS
T
A
back sir.
, are you able to sit now?
and yes, I'm sitting comfortably now thank you! I'll get back to the whales later.
