I have started to feel that I am losing my edge writing this blog
I started it at the same time as I started as a cabbie in 05
And throughout that period
I have ridden along on a wave of random angst
And my own eventual demise
Though Spencer the cabbie will be back
Because although I don't think cabbies are born
I do think cabbie types are
And I am definitely one
So in the meantime I will have to stay sharp
Today I was feeling sharp enough
And was down at the hospital again
This time for the pre-admission clinic
Basically a little chat with a couple of nurses
About what is going to happen to me
And what I have to do to help everything along
They unrolled my fate in detail
And like all the other times
I reach a point
Whereby before I was bounding along slightly adrift
As if this is all happening to someone else
They say something
That galvanises the world around me
Making it hard and bright and more real
I can feel my breath and my presence
And know that it is happening to me
They had reached a point where they described the night before
How the nurses will help me shave various parts of my body
It felt like the precursor to an execution
Then they held me there with a clear rendition of the aftermath
The routine that will face me once I re-awaken
There followed more samples and tests
Then they answered questions
Ones that formed during doctor and surgeon sessions
But I never asked because of the intensity and brevity of the meetings
This was the last hospital visit before the big push
I left the nurses and went to the hospital restaurant
And helped myself to a big pile of cheap pasta
Whilst reading
Stone Junction It was very hot outside
I ambled along in the hot sunshine
Reaching the corner of my road
Breathing in the lovely baked atmosphere of the Italian restaurant
And there was a sight that most irritated me
Part of the “Which Italian restaurant has the biggest peppermill contest”
A waiter dispensing pepper with a mill the size of a fucking lighthouse
I would be sorely tempted to tell him to fuck off
I can put my own pepper on if need be
Just another excuse to bother you
Keep an eye you
Is everything ok sir?
Oh look
Sitting there at one of the tables was my heart surgeon
Mr Cohen
Still wearing his blue blazer
I returned home
Made a cup of tea
And started reading the booklet from the hospital
Towards the back was an introduction to the surgeons
There were four of them
At this I was shocked
Four operations a day...four surgeons
So that means that they often do two a day each
With the amount of people filing through that hospital
It just looked like a top level factory job
Maybe even some great minds need deeply repetitive routine
Maybe it's because I abhor routines
I sat back and recalled one of my early misadventures
A factory job at a large caravan fabricator
I had a menial job of cutting away plastic profile
To make way for wooden coving
I used to watch the gang behind me
They were called 'Furnies'
Short for furniture joiners
They had such an air of importance
When in fact...compared to other carpenters
They had become craftless robots
Their skill and memory eroded by the bish bash bosh of the assembly line
By local standards of the time they earned lots of money
A man on that line could afford to buy a Porsche
Yet when he came to renew his car
He turned up in the latest top of the range Ford Orion
There was just no style to the factory man
I wandered around in the empty house for a while wondering what to do
Wondering what I felt like doing
I have been off work now for over a month
And my twisted daily grimace has relented
I can breath and think
I returned to the computer
And continued to edit my way through a bunch of albums I had downloaded
A collection of Brazilian blues
I had thought when I first downloaded this stuff that somewhere in the universe
Musical waves would cross paths
And Samba and Rumba and Bossa Nova would change direction and tickle their way across the blues scale
I was right and unearthed a few gems
But it was like trying to find diamonds in the pennines
It was heavy going
As I listened...a gradual confirmation formed
The Portuguese language is alien to human music
It's hard to bear
The words are rough and angular
And lack rhythm and poetry
A forced jarring grind
Half an hour was the most I could do
Before I gave up and went to the toilet
"Good Lord!"
Lying in the bottom of the pan was an enormous turd...unflushed
It could only belong to my 7 year old son
35 to 40mm in diameter...disappearing around the bend
How the hell does a boy of his frame produce such a thing?
If only I could produce such a thing myself
I flushed but the big intruder hung on
Well I wasn't going to fight him
Maybe it'll be gone the next time I visit
I entered the hallway and yawned
I couldn't take any more Portuguese shouting
Time for my afternoon nap
