Herself had another hospital appointment today.

I should explain that we have a two-tier hospital system here consisting of public and private hospitals. The peasantry are entitled to the public ones and those of us who pay an arm and a leg can use the private ones. It can get quite confusing as, for example, when I had my little heart “event” I was carted off to the public system and wasn’t given the choice. The same applied to Herself’s eye job which was also in a public hospital. However when it comes to specialists and clinics and the like we have discretion. The difference is better attention and about two years in waiting time.

The appointment this time around was with a private clinic and this involves extra preparation. What’s good enough for the public system is definitely not good enough for the private. We are after all mingling with the horsey set and the elite, and one never knows who one might meet? Standards have to be met apparently.

So yesterday I had to get out her wheelchair and reattach some bits I had removed for ease of access. The chair was easier to get into but it didn’t “look right”. Luckily I managed to find all the bits and bolts and after a struggle involving spanners and bad language the chair was fine. It passed muster. I was then told in no uncertain tones that I was to “tidy myself up”.

This morning Herself announced that she had cancelled the appointment. She “didn’t feel up to it” which was fine by me [I didn’t either, to be honest]. It meant I didn’t have to drive up to Dublin at dusk [a time I dislike driving] and back in the rush hour. Secretly I was delighted. I had to assert my authority though.

“Do you mean to say I spent all that time fixing your wheelchair for nothing?” I growled.

“It’ll be fine for the next time” she replied.

“And are you telling me I washed my hair for nothing?”

“But you look lovely with a grand head of clean hair. You look quite sexy….”

“… You’d be fine if you just cleaned the shite off your shoes.”

Women are so fucking picky.