Apologies!

The post below on gender should have appeared yesterday. Fate in the shape of our dog and my wife's ankle intervened. A dispute over which was going to stand on a particular piece of our local woods was resolved in the dog's favour with said wife's ankle bent at a very strange angle. Luckily the contretemps occurred near the road and both were returned home.

Great pain and an inability to do more than hop meant that a major, possibly life threatening, course of action was contemplated. With heavy hearts, a check of our respective wills and a quickly penned note to whoever might wonder over our whereabouts if we failed to return, the fateful decision was made. We set off on the 20 mile journey to the nearest A & E hospital.

Our initial encounter was not promising. The security guard was definitely wider than he was tall. His efforts to hold the door open for my wife, with me by her side in support, resulted in all three becoming jammed in the doorway. Still, it at least held my wife upright while standing on one foot. She got in one good jab with the golf umbrella she was using as a stick. I expected him to suddenly deflate.

The reception area held three other casualties. I went to queue in order to register. A barrier prevented more than one person standing at reception at any one time, while a sign asked visitors to keep back to ensure the privacy of the person currently giving their details. Unfortunately, the barriers erected to preserve the girl behind the desk from assault and abuse left only a minuscule hole to speak through.

In fact speaking was useless. All personal details had to be shouted as loudly as possible. A couple of hoodies were busy taking down the addresses of suitably local residents whose homes were certain to be empty for the next few hours. When my turn at the desk arrived we encountered our first major problem. My wife did not exist.

Name, date of birth, address, previous hospital visits, no detail, however intimate, was sufficient for the system to legitimise her existence. Same with her local doctor. He did not exist either, although we see him in the pub most weeks. Worse was to come. The town where the practice was located had also mysteriously vanished. It was with an air of sniffy resignation and muttered cursing regarding the system that the details were entered manually.

Clutching our little brown folder we set off to follow the yellow line to the double doors where we had to ring the bell. My wife hopped, supported by me and the golf umbrella. On our way we passed the waiting room. Arriving at the double doors and ringing the bell, a nurse said she would get a wheelchair, but in the meantime directed us back to the waiting room. My wife hopped back. Time passed. I went to find the nurse.

She told me with some indignation that she hadn't forgotten. I gave her the brown folder. Time passed and passed and passed. Still no wheelchair. Other casualties sat around, blank faces staring at walls festooned with admonishments to not insult the staff, stop beating their wives, examine their testicles, give up smoking, have a check for HIV. Where to get clean needles. All the usual stuff.

The only magazine to read concerned itself exclusively with the efforts of 'your fav celebs' to regain their shape following childbirth. I was a little puzzled as to why the before shots were always monochrome and taken at 7.00 am, while the 'this is feisty Martine stepping out a month later' shots were all in colour. One bored lad in the corner seemed to have started on the testicle examination to pass the time. An old lady on the back row was either asleep or dead. Finally my wife's name, or at least a reasonably close approximation, was called. Still no wheelchair.

The doctor ushered my hopping wife into the room and prodded and probed said foot. An X-ray was required. The requisite form completed and a wheelchair found we set off to the X-ray dept. The chair had a will of its own. We soon became jammed between equipment and wall. We were told the chair would only work when walking backwards. Bit like the NHS generally I suppose.

X-ray reception was closed. Signs told me variously to ring the bell, not ring the bell, only ring the bell if no-one else had rung the bell or only ring the bell between sunset and dawn. Confused, I rang the bell expecting an irate radiographer to appear and ask why I couldn't read the sign. I could even be reported for my felony

I just knew that the patrolling policeman who was prowling the corridors looking like an assault commando from Starship Troopers was aching for a bit of trouble to relieve the boredom and had me marked as easy meat. I needn't have worried. After half an hour we were told we were waiting in the wrong place anyway.

X-ray over I walked backwards to the waiting room, dragging my wife. Time passed. The lad had given up on testicle examination and switched to nose-pickings. The old lady was still motionless. I thought I should give her a poke to check for life signs but my wife pointed to the posters regarding respect for others irrespective of.....oh, haven't got time, the list was endless and written in fifteen languages.

The doctor came. It wasn't broken. It did require bandaging and some crutches would be provided. Someone would call soon. We waited. Time passed. Then some excitement. The cleaner arrived. I had never before realised just how detailed the specification in a cleaning contract must be. The cleaner, who pushed a metre wide mop in front of her, described a tortuous route around the waiting room. The manoeuvre was carried out with remarkable precision. In and out, she wove her way around the room, deftly managing to leave every mouldy crisp, discarded coffee cup and ancient newspaper untouched and safely in its accustomed place.

We waited. Time passed. I felt a bit like the becalmed Ancient Mariner, a painted person in a painted waiting room. Time ceased to have any meaning. Fluorescent lights bored down. The earth shook occasionally as another casualty arrived. Most injuries seemed to have been caused by failing to keep the centre of gravity of a distended body acting safely through the supporting legs. I picked up a discarded newspaper, open at Women seeking Men.

'Authoritative 50 yo GSOH seeks meek man for pos LTR'. There were some pretty formidable women in the room. I wondered if 50 yo GSOH had already scored and was sitting there. I looked back to the paper. 'Tracy, 22, seeks man, all activities, not fussy'. Blimey! Wonder if the lad in the corner knows her. We waited. More time passed. The old lady hadn't moved. I was seriously concerned.

Finally a miracle happened. The bandage was applied. The crutches found. My hobbling wife and I left. Jealous faces, hating us for our early release from purgatory, followed us to the door, doubtless willing my wife to fall flat. Suddenly, somewhat precariously, we were free!

Oh no we weren't. To exit the car park we needed to throw an offering to a ravening monster in the corner. I joined the queue. The machine hoovered up banknotes like autumn leaves disappearing into a road-sweeper. Free at the point of delivery? Maybe. Very costly at the point of exit though.

All the way back we discussed torture methods. The rack, thumb screws, that dog was going to pay somehow. When we got back he wagged his tail and looked crestfallen. Pangs of guilt immediately gripped my wife for abandoning him for so long. He was rewarded with special food and looked smug for the rest of the evening. Next time my son, next time, you just watch out.