Hospital-ity

I hate hospitals.

Last night, following an incident involving my Granny, the kerb, a stone wall, a broken kneecap and a severely battered and bruised face, I spent six hours in the accident and emergency ward at Ninewells Hospital in Dundee.

Besides the obvious feelings associated with watching someone close to you endure having their nose stitched shut and their broken knee prodded and manipulated, the hospital is not my favourite place for other reasons.

All of the seats and chairs in hospitals seem to have been designed as a cruel but inventive Medieval torture technique whereby comfort is hinted at but can never be achieved. None of the vending machines work properly, and the television in the waiting room is always too loud or too quiet.

However, the reason that I most dislike hospitals is that nothing ever seems to happen quickly. I half expected to leave the casualty ward to find that Scotland had popped up somewhere near the Bahamas thanks to continental drifting, or that a new mutant race of genetically-superior humans was now running the show.

In the six hours that we spent in the hospital, three things happened: my Granny's cuts were cleaned, her nose was stitched and her knee was x-rayed. Now, does any of those activities sound like it requires two hours to itself?

Please excuse today's groanin' - I've only had three hours of sleep, and I'm struggling to stay awake at work. Roll on 4.30pm and the end of another working week.