Thursday, March 31, 2011
Doctor & The Medics
As I write this you find me in a state of complete and utter shock. A state achieved by doing nothing more taxing then opening a letter and reading the contents therein. So stunned was I after having performed this rather everyday action, that I had to go and lie down with a damp flannel on my forehead to soothe the raging torrent of blood pounding through my temples. And the day was supposed to be one I was so looking forward to…
I was up bright and early and feeling giddy as a schoolgirl at the prospect of the big brown UPS van arriving with my latest purchase. I have, over the last few months, been diligently disposing of several items of unused guitar equipment I’ve accumulated over the years, in order to free up some space in the house, and allow myself a small budget for non-essential purchases that an unemployed layabout shouldn’t be asking his missus to buy for him. In this case it was……er……well, more guitar equipment……
Yes, having sold a guitar, two amps, and several effects pedals, I decided, as only I could, that what I really needed more than anything else in my life was another amplifier. To be fair, I am a little short of guitar amplification options. When the new one arrives, it will only mean FIVE guitar amps in our living room. Luckily, there’s another one upstairs and two in the garage….
So there I am like a small child on their birthday hopping from one foot to the other and trying by sheer will power to make the truck arrive. The letterbox goes and I run to it like an over excited puppy, only to find the usual selection of rubbish that the postie shoves through as if to somehow justify his existence in lieu of any real letters. Nestled amongst the usual tat offering two for one deals on pizza and bogof double glazing is a rather official looking letter. It is the opening of this letter that left me in the discombobulated state you find me in. Because, dear reader, the letter is about…
Money.
Filthy lucre.
The root of all evil.
Now before you get too excited and start writing me begging letters, I feel I should point out that no, my numbers haven’t come up on the premium bonds, and neither has some long lost uncle bequeathed me fortunes in his will. Most surprising of all is that it isn’t from that nice Nigerian lady I was corresponding with who promised to send £500,000 for letting her use my bank account details last year.
No, the letter was from the hospital. The one that spent six hours torturing me last week with needles, disgusting oral tests, and food and tea depravation that left me feeling limper than a Julian Clary handshake. Yes, the hospital that subjected me to all that has decided it wants to charge me for the privilege. It wants to charge me £1,520.88.
And so a day that started with much promise ends in shock and disappointment. When the UPS man eventually arrives, resplendent in chocolate brown and wheeling my long dreamt of amp on a trolley, I shall wave him away, back to the shop from whence he came, to return my lovely new amp untouched, safe in the knowledge that instead of me enjoying the finest tones American boutique amplification has to offer, my hard earned money will be keeping some evil syringe wielding bitch-Nurse in Chianti and fava beans for the foreseeable future. Arse….
I was up bright and early and feeling giddy as a schoolgirl at the prospect of the big brown UPS van arriving with my latest purchase. I have, over the last few months, been diligently disposing of several items of unused guitar equipment I’ve accumulated over the years, in order to free up some space in the house, and allow myself a small budget for non-essential purchases that an unemployed layabout shouldn’t be asking his missus to buy for him. In this case it was……er……well, more guitar equipment……
Yes, having sold a guitar, two amps, and several effects pedals, I decided, as only I could, that what I really needed more than anything else in my life was another amplifier. To be fair, I am a little short of guitar amplification options. When the new one arrives, it will only mean FIVE guitar amps in our living room. Luckily, there’s another one upstairs and two in the garage….
So there I am like a small child on their birthday hopping from one foot to the other and trying by sheer will power to make the truck arrive. The letterbox goes and I run to it like an over excited puppy, only to find the usual selection of rubbish that the postie shoves through as if to somehow justify his existence in lieu of any real letters. Nestled amongst the usual tat offering two for one deals on pizza and bogof double glazing is a rather official looking letter. It is the opening of this letter that left me in the discombobulated state you find me in. Because, dear reader, the letter is about…
Money.
Filthy lucre.
The root of all evil.
Now before you get too excited and start writing me begging letters, I feel I should point out that no, my numbers haven’t come up on the premium bonds, and neither has some long lost uncle bequeathed me fortunes in his will. Most surprising of all is that it isn’t from that nice Nigerian lady I was corresponding with who promised to send £500,000 for letting her use my bank account details last year.
No, the letter was from the hospital. The one that spent six hours torturing me last week with needles, disgusting oral tests, and food and tea depravation that left me feeling limper than a Julian Clary handshake. Yes, the hospital that subjected me to all that has decided it wants to charge me for the privilege. It wants to charge me £1,520.88.
And so a day that started with much promise ends in shock and disappointment. When the UPS man eventually arrives, resplendent in chocolate brown and wheeling my long dreamt of amp on a trolley, I shall wave him away, back to the shop from whence he came, to return my lovely new amp untouched, safe in the knowledge that instead of me enjoying the finest tones American boutique amplification has to offer, my hard earned money will be keeping some evil syringe wielding bitch-Nurse in Chianti and fava beans for the foreseeable future. Arse….
# posted by Bucko! @ 6:46 AM 
