And I thought I was doing a brilliant job of avoiding his x-ray vision until was standing at my side with a bacon sandwich, his not mine, and spoke these immortal words;
"Okay. So when's the deadline?"
"What deadline?" In denial as usual Raven?
"The one you're obviously avoiding ..."
"There is no deadline. You are wrong for once." He's a Virgo. He is only misguided but never wrong. Unexpectedly for a Sunday morning, Alphonse seemed to want to point out some serious home truths.
"The water filter has been changed. The camera is on charge even though it won't be needed until Halloween. Both sock drawers are in pristine order. My ties are sorted into colours ... even though I don't wear one. I can see my face in the cooker hood and someone ..." How he loves those dramatic pauses and yet I was determined to remain defiant in the face of a full MI5 interrogation session.
"Someone has taught the cat to select his preferred flavour pouch from the box." He was on to me and my diversionary tactics; all those irritating little tasks I only do in the face of a deadline. Finally, I caved in and mumbled,
"First of November."
"Not a chance." He was almost gleeful in his assessment of my situation
"Why not?"
"You've started making jam."
"Why's that stopping me writing?"
"Because you could nip over to Lidl and buy it like you have done for the past ten years."
Excuse the rather fragmented nature of this blog post, I've just had to wander into the kitchen for a sandwich and a warming cuppa. Since I was in the vicinity, I've washed up too and chopped the veg for dinner, and considered how many kilos of assorted sweets we'll need for the Trick-or-Treat bucket. I could go to the enormous Tesco, the one with the wide screen televisions and enormous 'reductions' section; it's only 14 miles from here which should kill about three hours or I could do the smart thing and buy 10 bags of charity sweets from the box on Reception and save some time. Although Amber, one of the medical secretaries, had got there before me on Friday night and was routing through the box with a sugar-deprived glint in her eye.
"What are you still doing here?" The first answer that came to mind was 'minding my own business' but I like her and her daughter who taught me everything I needed to know about my job. The interesting stuff you understand, not the mind-numbing filing.
"I'm here 'til eight. Such is life." I watched in horror as she used her teeth to gain entry to a bag of quasi Galaxy Minstrels with an extra crisp candy coat that sounded like maracas when shaken.
"Know that. I mean why are you here every night doing this horrible job when you have better things to do with your life?" I opened my beak but no smart answer emerged. I felt like a guppy on a fishmonger's slab.
"You've got me there ..."
"Well do something about it or you'll end up like the rest of us saddos. Chocolate?"
"No thanks. Not unless you've got an ice pick to remove the hard-as-granite shell."
"Wimp." Amber's laser vision eyes had started to return to their usual green as she sucked hard on the sugar.
"Expensive choppers."
"Great excuse. Just don't find a reason to stay here after your sell-by date." I checked out the chocolates later and they were good to the end of this century.
Tip of the Blog: There's been shouting on the ward this week. By me at someone who has been wasting my time. I should tell you all about it but there’s a whole box set of Porridge to watch before bedtime.
Raven
