A Day in the Life of a Twitter Thread:
Place : Newcastle
We’re at the RVI for Catherine’s injection. She gets it every month – something to do with really long words and her not wanting to be dead.
This place is massive. Lots of shiny spaces with funky angles and light. There’s lots of light.
Surprisingly, I’ve been invited into the consulting room with C. They are talking really long words.
The nurse is called Louise. She has a canny Geordie accent – it’s like watching Byker Grove.
She sounds lovely, and probably is attractive, but I’m not sure cause she’s dressed up like a welder.
More long words.
And numbers now. Catherine is spouting numbers like she’s Carol Vorderman on crack.
More long words.
Catherine has Numberwang. Yes!
It’s injection time and Louise the welder has drawn a curtain so I don’t see the incursion. I’m fine with that.
She wants Catherine to do it lying down! FNARR FNARR!!!
Lying down, as opposed to… With one leg up in the air… What the fuck?
Apparently welder Louise’s predecessor used to be a vet and the best way of nobbling horses was to make them lift the hind leg.
That last tweet may be inaccurate.
I’ve offered my opinion on best way to inject someone – cos, obviously, I’m the only bloke in the room and I am a builder.
There are eyes silently telling me that I’m fucking stupid.
Anyway, more long/strange words: hydrocortisone something, paturity, chemo something therapy, remission, thyroid.
Ooh – we are off to the blood place, it’s in another section of the hospital, it’s like the Crystal Maze here.
We have to wait. Catherine took one of them tickets that you get at the butcher’s bit in Morrison’s.
Ticket 13. We are not superstitious.
We = me. C is losing her shit – 13 ffs.
Anyway – they have her blood so they can do what they need to do (link scene from The Thing, Kurt Russell with blowtorch and aliens).
And that’s it, we’re done. We are rewarding ourselves with Earl Grey, Americano and flatbreads. In typical fashion, I want her flat bread, it has beetroot in it.
Seconds 😃 they have a lemon meringue cheesecake! That fucker is going straight on to my love handles. Fantastic.
For future reference: lemon meringue cheesecake equals 60 miles on a bike on Sunday. Uphill. Carrying a sack of spuds. Bring it on, bitch!
Conversation has moved onto social housing. Dull.
And now repressed murder dreams!! Erm…
Don’t think I’ve murdered anyone, though there seems to be a modicum of doubt – something to do with a manhole.
Right! I’ve now got to take an online sexual orientation test. What the fuck? Think I’ll try steering conversation back to social housing. In as much a masculine way as I can.
We finish our conversation discussing education, with Catherine wondering what Gavin Williamson’s qualifications are for the job? Which nicely allows me to finish on, ‘other than being a cunt?’
All done, walk back to car through Leazes Park. Birdsong under willow, kids playing, sun shines, cows grazing on the town moor. Life wins. Hurrah.
Brief #3 Like the Prose 2021: Twitter story.
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