Still Waiting

It was a glorious early-autumn day here in Leeds, all very season-of-mists-and-mellow-fruitfulness - if you'd like to read the whole, excellent poem by Mr Keats, Honey quoted it on her blog on September 19th.


Here was Gledhow Woods this morning:

I had been told to ring at two to find out how the Communist's operation had gone. I took my mother for a walk to distract us both for a bit, and then did lots and lots of work in the office to distract myself.

Then I rang at two and he hadn't gone down for surgery yet, but it should be soon - they would ring me - - -

David came round and took me for another walk - great - and Mark kindly manned the office, and I did a bit more work and finally I rang them and it has all been postponed until tomorrow. Nothing to do with the Communist, presumably because someone else's operation had taken longer than expected.

But the poor Communist had had nothing to eat or drink all this time and so they finally gave him some food.

We went to visit just after six and took him a scone, which he enjoyed - here he is, all ready for the operation in his hospital gown.

He was remarkably philosophical - the Very Very Important Surgeon had been to apologise to him, and the staff were being lovely.

But I like to think that if I were In Charge of Everything (not that I am by nature a despot but hey, some things really need sorting out) then they would not do this waiting thing to an eighty-four-year-old, or indeed to anyone.