Thursday, 11 January 2007
Dauntless Captain Dad has emerged, all guns blazing, from Hypoglycaemic Attack No. 2, which ambushed him in the small hours this morning. Fortunately, Hypoglycaemic Attack No. 2 made the strategic error of striking while Cap'n Dad was in a coronary ward surrounded by medical folk. He came round to find astronauts fiddling with his arm and trying to force lemonade down his throat (typical astronauts), but they were gradually replaced by the aforementioned medical folk. Again, a crying shame that the Aged P. wasn't able to pre-empt this attack with seven courses of sticky date pudding.
He's up for a quadruple bypass on monday. That's if they can find enough spare veins. (On spare veins: the Aged P. rather anxiously observed the surgeon's lustful appraisal of his lower legs. My own feeling is that surgeons should keep their lustful appraisals to themselves, although perhaps it's best to be forewarned that one's right foot has been deemed dispensable to gangrene.) I'm doing my best to believe everyone's reassurances that the rerouting of an old fellow's circulatory system is nowt more than basic plumbing, but the siblings and Our Mum and I are feeling, all the same, a little shaken. Dad is the very model of a modern parent general, and we'd like him to push on as long as possible.
Meanwhile, I'm preaching Tennysons and Brontës to the young people, and planning a scandalously profligate one day real-estate reconnaissance mission to the wilds of Melborneo. All this seems comparatively petty. But as the Aged P. sensibly said, "It won't seem petty if you don't have anywhere to live."