I had an appointment with the nurse at my GP’s office today – nothing serious, just a check-up; blood-pressure, etc. And I’m ok!
Anyway, I decided to walk from my house in Walderslade to the doctor’s in Lordswood. I haven’t been into Lordswood since I left primary school, about 12 years ago. It was very odd walking through there and seeing all these places I could vaguely remember. It’s a lot more run down than the last time I was there – most of the shops are closed, and there’s a depressing emptiness to the place that just makes you feel a little sad. It’s a bit like Morecambe, but not as bad obviously.
Anyway, the walk takes about 40 minutes or so, and I arrived a little before my appointment was due and checked myself in at the reception. The response at the desk was cold.
“You’re supposed to be here next week.”
I explained that I originally had an appointment next week, but had received a phone call telling me to come in today instead. This didn’t seem to go down well, and I was left waiting at the desk while the receptionist went out back to investigate.
I was really hoping they weren’t going to send me home. It’s not that I mind the walk – I actually really like going for walks; it’s refreshing, and it’s great for contemplation and going over ideas. My issue was more that I had carried a tube of hot, fresh urine in my pocket all the way from my house, and I didn’t want to then have to carry it all the way home again.
Just to be clear, the urine was to give to the nurse (at her request) for testing. I wasn’t just carrying it around for fun. Although I did splash it on a couple of trees, the sides of some houses, etc. Marking territory, you understand.
As it happens, this story just sort of peters out there, because they just said I could see the nurse anyway, and the urine was handed over. But just think; what if I’d had to walk home with it and had got into some sort of humorous caper? Wouldn’t that have been funny? Haha! Imagine that!! Oh God, that would’ve been priceless.
I noticed in the news yesterday that there’s a lot of people who are unhappy about these new scanners at Manchester airport that can see through your clothes. The problem people have is that whoevers checking the screens can see your genitals (and breasts, if you have them). Quite honestly, I’d rather have someone get a peek at my goods than have my goods blown apart and away across the sky by a hidden bomb.
Looking at this picture, I think the images make you look kind of like Dr Manhattan. They should just call it ‘The Manhattaniser’ or ‘The Manhatt’a'man’ and offer people a printed copy of the picture. People will be queuing up to go through there. Even people who aren’t actually flying anywhere would come in wanting a go. What a money-maker! Now we’re cooking with gasoline. Or ‘Manhassoline’.
As a farewell gift for today, enjoy this fat slice of geniards. All I have to say is “eurrrgh. eeuurrgh. eeeurrrgh. eeeuuurgh. haaawh. HAAAWHH. AAAAUHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
Review in Haiku
Urban Ghost Story (Geneviève Jolliffe, 1998)
Strange little movie.
Does well by not showing if
Ghosts are really there
