Monday at the cancer clinic didn’t go well, no surprise there. I’m reaching the stage where ‘the drugs don’t work any-more’, as the song goes. There are a few more things to try, and my specialists uncontainable optimism is charming but……it’s time to really speed things up.
The suits have wasted six months of my life, burying my complaint against St. Peter’s Hospital, Chertsey. Well, they can try to ‘bury’ my complaint but they won’t bury me – not just yet, anyway. In one of my first Blogs, back in December, I said this would be my last fight and that is what it will be. Bring it on!
Sometimes just complaining is not enough. Sometimes only really bad poetry will do;
The Ankle Rankle.
I’ve got a problem
and it’s really starting to rankle.
You see, I hurt my leg
in fact, I broke my ankle.
The problem was my mistake
Oh what would that be?
The ambulance took my break
to St. Peter’s A and E.
Because instead of trying
to fix it there and then.
Some idiot, what was he was doing?
Sent me home again.
You can mess up a finger
You can bugger up a wrist
but only a consultant at St. Peter’s
would think a break was a twist.
Meanwhile, last night instead of moping about, I made it to The Red Lion, Linkfield Road, Isleworth for my jazz club. It’s a great place with a really good atmosphere but on Monday my heart wasn’t really in it.
I was looking for lively music, angry even, to match my mood. Probably not helped by playing Oasis on the way up there.
Instead it was a fairly languid night. Great performances, though; Steve Waterman on a bright sounding trumpet and flugelhorn, while Karen Sharp seemed dwarfed by a tenor sax, but the sound was big and throaty.
I start to look out for the quiet Trevor Tomkins moments – his delicate cymbol work is about as good as it gets.
The rules are simple – it’s free but you buy raffle tickets to pay the musicians. There are no better Monday nights to be found.
(a don’t stop till you drop production)