I called several times on the number they had given me before dialling another, which eventually got me through to the nurses’ station. The woman I spoke to checked my records and confirmed that I was on a waiting list and I should call Wythenshawe directly for more information. She gave me two numbers, which I dutifully tried every day for a few more days. There was no answer but there was an answering machine so I left a couple of messages. Still nothing.
On Wythenshawe hospital’s website, I found their Patient Advice and Liaison Service—PALS for short—who promise to ‘help make your voice heard and liaise with the relevant staff to sort out any problems quickly.’ I called the number but there was no reply so I emailed them. I’ve still not heard from them. Not very pally, if you ask me.
So as it stands we may go to a pub, or restaurant, but we must sit outside. That ruling is in place till 17th May and has led to a flurry of bookings across April and May—I’ve currently got a birthday dinner next Friday, drinks the following Thursday, lunch then drinks on the Saturday, dinner on 21st May with friends, again on 26th for our anniversary and one last reservation on 1st June because in the olden days we used to enjoy going out for a pizza on a Tuesday night. This might appear to the untrained eye as overkill, but believe me, some of these reservations are rarer than hen’s teeth.
When the pubs first opened again, I was keen to get out there and sip a glistening pint of cold, fizzy lager, poured by someone else, and served to me in a glass—simply because I’d not done that since October. I went into work on the Thursday of that first week knowing that a couple of colleagues would be there and after we’d finished for the day we hit the Northern Quarter on the hunt for a table. Twenty minutes later, I was utterly dejected as we realised it was going to take an eon to find a seat. I had a right face on me. When somebody suggested we buy some cans and drink them on the roof terrace at work I had to apologise for my miserable attitude and mumbled the words, ‘Well, yeah, obviously it’s about the company.’ I don’t think I convinced them, especially when I said, ‘You know if I were on my own I could’ve got in that last pub.’ I eventually got my glistening pint a few days later, and I have made up for it since by necking the stuff like it’s going out of fashion.
As part of the process of returning to normal, there is a new arm to the track and trace scheme whereby people who have no symptoms test themselves at home and report back to the NHS. As a good citizen I ordered my kit of seven tests which should last about a month. They arrived on Monday but I had an important appointment on Wednesday so I pushed it to one side—I couldn’t risk missing it if it turned out that I was positive. Apparently that’s not the right way to look at it, but it was a very important appointment.
I didn’t find time to do it on Thursday (glistening pints of cold, fizzy lager) then, on Friday, I got myself all revved up for it before realising I wasn’t supposed to eat before the test and I’d just wolfed down a massive piece of quiche with some new potatoes and salad. I pushed it aside again and settled down with a slab of carrot cake.
Eventually, this morning, I got round to taking the test. It’s the standard thing you see on the TV of folk having swabs jammed up their noses and into the back of the throat. You then take said swab and mix it in a formula and drop it into a little plastic strip before giving it half an hour to reveal the answer. I imagine that’s what a pregnancy test is like, just with fewer tonsils and more piss. Thankfully, the test was negative because I’m due at a garden party this evening and I didn’t want to cancel.
Finally, I feel I should mention the biggest news of the last month: the death of Prince Philip, the Duke Of Edinburgh, at 99 years old. It’s one of those strange situations where something affects people despite them having no direct link to the event or in this case, the person. There was the usual mix of sentiment on social media with some horrors being completely merciless, as if the money and privilege afforded to members of the royal family negates any need for sympathy or their need to mourn. I mean, why should someone be upset about losing a family member when they have a driver and a nice house?
His funeral was at St George’s Chapel, Windsor, and as current Covid rules dictate, the congregation was made up of just thirty people. The service was solemn and pared back and the Queen cut a lonely figure, standing unaccompanied to the right of her husband’s coffin.
News reports say that she will continue to live at Windsor now and only return to London for work. Others have suggested she might pass the crown on to Charles, though I don’t see that happening. There will always be mixed opinions about the royal family, and whilst the death of Prince Philip was a big deal, you can guarantee the international reaction will pale into insignificance when the Queen dies.
On Wythenshawe hospital’s website, I found their Patient Advice and Liaison Service—PALS for short—who promise to ‘help make your voice heard and liaise with the relevant staff to sort out any problems quickly.’ I called the number but there was no reply so I emailed them. I’ve still not heard from them. Not very pally, if you ask me.
At a loss how I was supposed to talk to anyone at Wythenshawe Hospital, and not knowing who I should speak to anyway because the original letter hadn’t contained that information, I thought I’d try Withington again.
I didn’t mess about this time; I went straight to the nurses’ station number as they were the only people I’d got through to in all this time, and I laid it on. The woman I spoke to was lovely and helpful and professional. When I said to her with a slight shrillness to my voice, ‘I just need to know if I have skin cancer or if I’m going to have my ear removed’ she told me she couldn’t comment on the content of the letter but she’d ask the doctor that wrote it—the first person I’d seen at the dermatology department way back when in the middle of February—to call me.
Ten minutes later, and the doctor was on the phone. She explained that I do not have skin cancer; the further surgery was to be undertaken by the plastic surgery team at Wythenshawe; and that it was an advised precaution given the moderately abnormal cells and the possibility of them becoming more abnormal in time. She went on to say that I do not need to worry and that I should wait for a call from Wythenshawe.
After weeks of moderately abnormal worrying, I finally felt reassured. That being said, I’ve still not heard from Wythenshawe, I still don’t know how much of my ear they want and I can only assume the PALS team have fallen out and disbanded.
In wider national news, the covid rates in the UK are dwindling as the vaccine does its job. Almost half of the UK’s population has had at least one vaccine shot—my first is due next Wednesday—and the country is gradually opening up again. Of course we’ve been here before, and things can change, but last time the country started to get back to normal we had no vaccine and the only thing to assist us was the Government’s ‘eat out to help out’ promotion.
In wider national news, the covid rates in the UK are dwindling as the vaccine does its job. Almost half of the UK’s population has had at least one vaccine shot—my first is due next Wednesday—and the country is gradually opening up again. Of course we’ve been here before, and things can change, but last time the country started to get back to normal we had no vaccine and the only thing to assist us was the Government’s ‘eat out to help out’ promotion.
When the pubs first opened again, I was keen to get out there and sip a glistening pint of cold, fizzy lager, poured by someone else, and served to me in a glass—simply because I’d not done that since October. I went into work on the Thursday of that first week knowing that a couple of colleagues would be there and after we’d finished for the day we hit the Northern Quarter on the hunt for a table. Twenty minutes later, I was utterly dejected as we realised it was going to take an eon to find a seat. I had a right face on me. When somebody suggested we buy some cans and drink them on the roof terrace at work I had to apologise for my miserable attitude and mumbled the words, ‘Well, yeah, obviously it’s about the company.’ I don’t think I convinced them, especially when I said, ‘You know if I were on my own I could’ve got in that last pub.’ I eventually got my glistening pint a few days later, and I have made up for it since by necking the stuff like it’s going out of fashion.As part of the process of returning to normal, there is a new arm to the track and trace scheme whereby people who have no symptoms test themselves at home and report back to the NHS. As a good citizen I ordered my kit of seven tests which should last about a month. They arrived on Monday but I had an important appointment on Wednesday so I pushed it to one side—I couldn’t risk missing it if it turned out that I was positive. Apparently that’s not the right way to look at it, but it was a very important appointment.
I didn’t find time to do it on Thursday (glistening pints of cold, fizzy lager) then, on Friday, I got myself all revved up for it before realising I wasn’t supposed to eat before the test and I’d just wolfed down a massive piece of quiche with some new potatoes and salad. I pushed it aside again and settled down with a slab of carrot cake.
Eventually, this morning, I got round to taking the test. It’s the standard thing you see on the TV of folk having swabs jammed up their noses and into the back of the throat. You then take said swab and mix it in a formula and drop it into a little plastic strip before giving it half an hour to reveal the answer. I imagine that’s what a pregnancy test is like, just with fewer tonsils and more piss. Thankfully, the test was negative because I’m due at a garden party this evening and I didn’t want to cancel.
Finally, I feel I should mention the biggest news of the last month: the death of Prince Philip, the Duke Of Edinburgh, at 99 years old. It’s one of those strange situations where something affects people despite them having no direct link to the event or in this case, the person. There was the usual mix of sentiment on social media with some horrors being completely merciless, as if the money and privilege afforded to members of the royal family negates any need for sympathy or their need to mourn. I mean, why should someone be upset about losing a family member when they have a driver and a nice house?
Thankfully, though most people saw past the ceremony and the bluster of the misanthropes, and recognised the event for what it was: a woman who had lost her companion of over seventy years, human, diminished in stature, and hurting, and having to do it in the spotlight of public scrutiny.
His funeral was at St George’s Chapel, Windsor, and as current Covid rules dictate, the congregation was made up of just thirty people. The service was solemn and pared back and the Queen cut a lonely figure, standing unaccompanied to the right of her husband’s coffin.
News reports say that she will continue to live at Windsor now and only return to London for work. Others have suggested she might pass the crown on to Charles, though I don’t see that happening. There will always be mixed opinions about the royal family, and whilst the death of Prince Philip was a big deal, you can guarantee the international reaction will pale into insignificance when the Queen dies.
