999 Isn't A Joke

On Tuesday I watched Uncle Ray have a heart attack. He's not my Uncle Ray, but housemate Sal's and everyone whose ever met him calls him that too. So, a heart attack eh? It wasn't like Don Corleone's or Superman's adopted dad's, no gripping of the upper arm, no giant redwood fall to the ground, just, "I don't feel too good."

His hands were dark red, the rest of him ashen white, he didn't want to make a fuss but people ring 999 if they've forgotten their lottery numbers so...
I've watched tele so knew what to do - I loosened my clothing, boiled up some towels and waited for Quincy to show up.

The local rapid response guy appeared first, followed closely by an Amazon delivery ['Yes Minister/Prime Minister' box set, a snip at £13] followed by three men in an ambulance. Mister Rapid Response was soon muscled out of things and I felt sorry for him, craning his neck to get a look at the machine that goes 'ping'...
A ticker-tape [no pun intended, and hopefully none taken] reading came out of said machine, Uncle Ray covered in plastic nipples and wires...
"Vent 1, fine........vent 2, nothing there....vent 3 WHOAH! Asprin!"

There now followed an interview where Uncle Ray was economical with the actuals - he didn't tell them about his nothing-until-2PM diet, his smoking, his parents history of heart problems or his brother's triple-bypass operation...
"I did take an asprin years ago and it upset my stomach a bit..."
"Take it, just take it."

Mister Rapid Response was visibly shaken. Uncle Ray was strapped to a chair and lifted into the ambulance...
"The suspension on those things are appalling, I was thrown all over the shop!" He would later remark.

It was lucky I was on a late shift and there when it happened, but I don't believe Uncle Ray would've left it much longer before ringing for help - basic desire to survive kicks in eventually. If you feel unwell and it's not a normal sort of unwell - a cold, sore throat, something you tend to get anyway - ring 999.

He's back home, reunited with pooch Harry & contemplating a low-fat fridge, there's also an ounce of 'Drum' hand-rolling tobacco on ebay.

Sadly, on New Year's Eve 2013, Ray had another heart attack while driving. He passed away a few days later. We have Harry now.

Travel Broadens The Feet

Travel broadens the behind too. I wish my suitcase had wheels - I don't like those little Sholley® jobs, but still. A journey of a billion miles begins with a single step into a cab at 01:30 a.m. on a blustery cold doodah in May.
I'm going to look for America, as if it hadn't already been looked, not by me anyway, at - I'm expecting to jump off the plane [wheee!] and fall into a huge mattress of Americanness. 'Wroxham Travel' - you are my first quarry - when you book someone a flight and a bus to take him to the flight, make sure the bus timetable doesn't change between the booking of the bus and the getting-on of the bus. Arseholes. I should thank them really, they erred [and ummed, if I remember correctly] on the correct side of arsholeness, to wit [to woo?] they gave me a wait of 2 hours for the bus, not a cab ride to Heathrow or a trip home and: "Well I tried but it just wasn't meant to be, y'know?"

Here I am then, dressed for Miami. I look at the notice board and get that little feeling in the middle of the belly. It's the one that's triggered when you realise you've dropped your car keys on the beach at midnight trying to impress someone with your pebble-chucking skills and you're going to have to ring your mum to come & pick you up and that girl is *never*, I said *NEVER* going to speak to you again. That one.
Then hope, cruel hope, crueler than cruel. Up turns a bus with 'Heathrow' on the front. Not 'NOWHERE' or 'DESPAIR', but 'Heathrow'. Out step passengers, like those poor buggered-senseless peeps at the end of 'Close Encounters' and then the driver, lit by glorious glory, hands leathered to a patent leather by decades of chivalrous taxiing......

"Ah, you're the Heathrow bus [well duh, but we've only just met], I thought I might have a wait..."
*studies ticket, strokes chin, looks less fanciable as doubt, realisation & shadenfreude [whatever happened to them? That first L.P. was so promising] take hold*
"Blah, blah, blah, change of timetable, blah, blah, blah, you've got a two-hour wait..."
"So it's not this bus going to Heathrow then?"

Long pause. Suspicious pause.

"Erm, [another one, as if it were possible] nah, he'll pull round here on time, just before 04:00, be sure to have your ticket ready blah, blah, blah"

Have you guessed it too? No? I saw his face so had an advantage. "He" was "me" or "He'll was "I'll". Laughing Boy [amazing how you can fall out of love with people] climbed back into his cab, would have done a big "HHHUUUUGGH-HHHUUUGGH!" on the horn if it had one & drove 40 yards to the other side of the bus station for a cup of tea, a read of the paper, a wank and a sleep.

I could hear nothing but two gulls:
"Look at that idiot down there, waiting for what might be two hours with only flimsy clothing and a suitcase without wheels. If it had wheels he could go for a stroll, nothing's open at this ungodly hour but the.."
"Squawk!"

 Thank fuck for that, his mate was already getting on my nerves. A sign says "CCTV in operation at all times" so I do 'West Side Story' in full and make a bloody good job of it too.

Disclaimer: The assertion that National Express drivers masturbate on duty is not necessarily true - this guy was on a break.