Some time today Daughter is having an operation on her leg.
Now why would she have to go all the way to Lanzarote for an operation, you ask?
Knowing my Daughter as I do, there is of course a perfectly logical reason.
It started a month or two ago. Daughter announced that she was going to take a holiday in the sun with some friends. I had my reservations but she’s a grown woman and can do her own thing. My reservations were based on experiences, as whenever she embarks on a project there is usually something unexpected that’s bound to happen.
I wished her well and last Friday week she flew off to her sunny spot in Lanzarote.
The next afternoon I got a phonecall from her. That was nice of her as I had asked her to let us know if she had arrived safely. However she told me not to panic, but that she was in hospital with a badly smashed up leg. Apparently she fell off a push bike, damaged her knee and had broken her leg in two places. Now I wasn’t in the least surprised. I was just a bit taken aback as to how quickly she had managed to fuck things up. Nor was I surprised at her falling off a push bike as I swear the last time she rode a bike it had little stabilisers on the back.
I’m not quite sure what happened and she’s a little vague herself. It had something to do with another cyclist who was old, tall and who had a beard. She blames everything on old tall blokes with beards so that was no surprise. I’m off the hook this time though because apparently he was German.
Anyhows she has spent the time since on the flat of her back with a whacking great cast on her leg. So far she has managed to get a bit of a tan, but only on her left arm as that’s as far as the sun reaches in her ward. She is learning Spanish at a fierce rate as it’s a case of survival. Misunderstandings in hospitals and in particular where surgery is involved are to be avoided at all costs. Otherwise she may up with a heart transplant or a missing kidney.
We have been in touch every day. We phone or use text. She’s in good form if a little pissed off that she spent all that money just to lie in bed all day. Can’t say I blame her. She could have done that at home.
The operation is sometime today. Last night I signed of out little chat by sending a wee message.
They said we were going to have occasional snow showers.
I got up this morning to see a complete white-out. I couldn’t see the far hedge for horizontal snow blasting across the landscape. It’s still at it, non-stop which is a bit long for a “shower”? It’s alternating between big fuck-off flakes to fine powdery stuff and it is sticking to everything. Once more, branches are weighed down and the daffydowndillies, which has only just recovered from the last onslaught have been buried again.
They declared one of their colour codes last night on the weather forecast. It’s Code Yellow for today. I checked this morning and apparently in the early hours we have been upgraded to Code Orange. Wow! Be still my beating heart!
I still haven’t a clue what these colours are supposed to mean. I gather that Code Red means we have to go out and buy every last loaf of bread on the shelves but does Orange or Yellow mean we only have to buy a couple of loaves? Either way I’m not venturing out today as I happen to have enough bread and Herself can do without her fags [it is Code Orange, after all?]
I checked, and apparently Code Orange means we have to “prepare ourselves in an appropriate way for the anticipated conditions“. Seeing as the alert was issued at three this morning when we’re all supposedly asleep, it doesn’t give much time for preparation. I’m not even sure what preparation is required. Are we so fucking dim that we need to be told to keep our windows closed and the heating turned up?
And what does preparing “in an appropriate way” mean? How does one prepare in an inappropriate way? Does it mean we have to cover all our dangly bits when dressing? Does it mean no touching? Does it mean that a slip of the tongue may lay us open to a charge of inappropriate behaviour? They don’t explain that bit.
The cat has been driving me mad. She just sat at the door and yowled at me as if it were my fault that the world has turned white again. In the end I just fucked her out for the sake of a bit of peace.
She’s just come in again. She had a lovely cap of snow on her and has trailed it all across the carpet. She is not a happy cat.
I had forgotten the day that’s in it until I looked at the papers this morning.
There was the Paddywhackery in all its glory.
So today is St Patrick’s Day, or in the local vernacular, Paddy’s Day. The day when the whole world suddenly wants to be Irish for some reason that totally escapes me. People dress up in green and wear big floppy hats presumably because they think that in doing so they are being typically Irish. They greet each other with “begorrah” and “bejyzus” again under the assumption that this is a typical Irish greeting. Interestingly enough in my sixty eight years of living in Ireland I have never ever heard either term used in speech other than in American films and in an ironic lampooning of the perception of being Irish.
I can only assume that the perception of Ireland come from films such as The Quiet Man and listening to Barry Fitzgerald? What amuses me is that I can bet with absolute surety that the vast majority of foreigners who claim to be “Irish” don’t even know where Ireland is.
I hear tell that someone is objecting to the name St Patrick’s Day? Apparently it’s not “inclusive” enough as it might “offend” someone who doesn’t believe in saints. Now personally I don’t give a shite what the day is called [though I do draw the line at “Patty’s Day” which seems to be exclusively confined to incredibly dim witted American women]. I would object though to the dropping of the Saint bit, not because I am Catholic [I’m not] or that I believe in saints [I don’t] but purely because anyone who is offended by such trivialities deserves to be offended.
You may think I am being somewhat cynical and mean minded about the whole affair? Nah! I have nothing against people enjoying themselves. If you want to go watch a parade and freeze your balls off then fair play to you. If you want to drink green beer or drown yourself in Guinness then that’s grand.
When you wake up in the gutter tomorrow morning surrounded by puke and half eaten kebabs you may not feel too Irish though?