Veins

The temperature may only have been 1°C when I drove Colin to work this morning but the sun had risen almost majestically.

The red brick houses to the north of Ilford were bigger and wider than usual; their chests puffed out to bathe in the sun's glorious rays. The railings of the park cast shadows onto the crunchy, frosty grass. The shopfronts glittered and the cars sparkled. (I was almost blinded trying to drive with a sun so bright but so low in the sky).

Yesterday started in much the same vein but failed to continue. The clouds came over to match Colin's mood. After an hour being subjected to GMTV at top volume in the hospital waiting room, we were told his operation had been cancelled. He was gutted. I was purely angry but kept my mouth shut as it was his shindig. Someone had allegedly tried to ring the day before but the number they had on file was clearly made up. (No mention of the home number, Colin's mobile and mine that he gave them at the pre-op). He has been given another appointment later in April but which is useless as it transpires he's on the wrong consultant's list even though this one does veins and the one he is under now apparently doesn't. Proverbial piss up in a brewery comes to mind.