Some of what follows looks like melodrama – I can assure you that it is not.
The perceptive among you will have seen that I’ve been in hospital recently. Arrowe Park Hospital, Wirral or, to give it its full, ticked-all-the-boxes name, Wirral University Teaching Hospital NHS Foundation Trust. Shame we don’t have a Wirral University, but there you go…
It all started in the early hours of Thursday, 20th, when I woke up feeling as if I’d been shot in the left-hand, back ribs. Fuzzily, I put it down to a sudden cramp from sleeping awkwardly, but by morning I was in agonising pain in my left lung, which appeared to have almost no capacity at all. I was breathing very fast and very shallow – faster, in fact, than my heart was beating, just to get enough air to remain conscious, and that was touch and go.
I got up, fired up my PC and faxed the GP surgery, detailing what was wrong and pointing out that I was faxing because I couldn’t speak. So what did they do? The clueless bastards phoned me back to say I should call an ambulance! Er, hello! Can’t speak – why didn’t you fucking do it?
Anyway, I managed to phone – one word = one breath – and Continue reading