Groundrush ...

Are we there yet?  Instinct tells me when the big day is within easy reach because there's not enough hours in the day to put the tree up and motor through an entire bag of pick'un'mix washed down with Prosecco.  Best of all, I get treated to my favourite movie of all time.  I spotted a raven in it this year making 'The Muppet Christmas Carol' surely the finest version of the works of Charles Dickens ever made; better even than Patrick Stewart's offering.  I particularly empathise with Miss Piggy as she lays into Michael Caine for being a scrooge; a defining moment for anyone who is overworked and underpaid.  I'm both [still] but this year I'll be home early, my beak in a box of Thornton's finest, instead of being kept prisoner in the Retail Cathedral, piling up mountains of body butter ready for Boxing Day.  I'm almost giddy with excitement.
In Job 2.1, I'm also giddy from the mad rush of patients desperate to get 'done' before the holidays begin.  And so, to make the journey from check-in to bed appear slick, professional and seamless, I've taken on the mantle of a tour guide asking an assortment of fascinating questions while we all wait for the lift.
"Been here before? Good journey? Oh the traffic's awful and the car park's bursting isn't it."  General chit chat is the best I can do really whereas patients reply with,
"I got here early just in case."  Pity, because your surgeon's still operating on the other side of town. "Will it take long?  Am I first on the list? Is my gall bladder supposed to be poking through my shirt?"  I counter this with a short explanation as to my totally non-medical nature and please could they ask a nurse or doctor shortly.  Once we've arrived in the patient's room, I adopt my 'airstewardess' stance from the 1980s and point out the view - sheep, fields, etc - the wardrobe, the television with remote, two over-wing exits and a bathroom at the rear.  And run for it.
Yesterday, I ran a bit too fast and skidded to a halt in front of a gorgeous chap waiting by my desk with his overcoat and scarf on.  In a boiling hospital, he had to be a weirdo.
"Can I help you?" I chirped, an octave higher than normal.  Honest, he's in George Clooney's ER league.
"Not really, unless you can tell me if my next patient's shaved and ready."  Luckily, one of the student nurses heard his question, stopped hoovering up the remains of a jumbo sausage roll and blustered,
"It's okay Professor, he's on the bed and ready to go."  Professor?  When did this bloke start practising medicine - puberty?  I spent the rest of my shift feeling about as groomed and fragrant as Hagrid after a long afternoon mucking out dragons.
There's loads of those in this neck of the woods too, let me tell you. My boss had asked me to help with the minutes of the MedSecs meeting - lunch is a tactical ploy and usually included to negate the impact of bad news - so I sat at the back with my notepad and a serious look as they all piled in, picked up plates and rugby tackled each other for first place in front of the buffet.  Not everyone, but there was a definite amount of fire breathing going on due to over-seasoned the spring rolls.  Worse, I managed to inhale a pineapple chunk and no amount of cheese could stop me coughing through a grim powerpoint presentation.  Why do managers do it?  More slides only make dragons eat more?  One lady, tapped me on the shoulder, hissing
"Don't I know you?"  I'd moved on to the chocolate truffle cake by now and wasn't going to be distracted by her blatant ploy to get a double helping.
"No, sorry, I'm new here."
"Then why are you taking the minutes and not one of us?" Barking ... all of them.

Tip of the Blog:  The Asda advert has been making headlines lately as has the John Lewis weepy with the melting snowman.  But like the Muppets, the best is Morrison's offering and a brilliant pi55-take of all the others, especially the scene with the mother perched on a pile of sprouts covering the kitchen table - genius.  Here, we eat sprouts all year round to keep our tolerance levels up, despite Alphonse moaning that he doesn't need folic acid as he's not having chicks any time soon.  Tough!

 Raven