The phone rang yesterday.
I answered it.
“Hello! May I speak with Herself please?”
“What’s it in connection with?”
“This is the hospital. May I speak with Herself please?”
“You can try, but if I bring the phone into her the signal is dicey so it’s unlikely you will get very far. I’ll tell her what she needs to know if you tell me.”
At this point we went into a rigmarole of identifying myself to prove I am indeed partnered with Herself. The silly woman phoned the house number so unless the house was full of strange men?….
“Could you tell her that her appointment with the hospital is confirmed and that she is to attend at seven fifteen on Monday morning?”
.”Er … could you repeat the time please?”
“In the morning?”
The head went into overdrive. To be in the hospital at seven fifteen I would have to contend with the fucking rush-hour. I should maybe explain that there is only one main road that links Wicklow and Dublin and that’s the notorious N11. That becomes a car park every morning and evening so people are starting to leave home earlier and earlier and some have taken to using the back roads as well. To get to Dublin at seven fifteen I would have to leave at fucking midnight! Herself won’t like that [and nor will I].
Then I remembered.
Monday is the day the car gets its annual test. It’s booked in for midday. That is going to be somewhat tricky. If Herself is finished in time, I’ll have to bring her to the test centre which means hauling her in and out of the car [I don’t think they do tests if there is a passenger stuck in the car?] which is difficult at the best of times. If the hospital isn’t finished with her, I’ll have to leave her there and nip over to the test centre on my own, get the test done and then nip back to the hospital again.
This is the stuff of nightmares.
I never should have answered that phone.