Saturday, 24 November 2012

Licenced to Kill . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
I think the confidential information I expressed to you in my last missive may have been breached, favourite nephew.  I received a visitation from the Outer Hamlet 'special branch' in the early hours of yesterday morning, and was asked to attend the Central Opolis police station.  Naturally (dear) it took some while to exchange my night-time attire - a long beaver fur jacket with multiple zippers - for the suave outfit recognized as 'pukka' by those individuals in authority more limited in imagination.  Down at the Cop Shop, and interrogated by one Beagle and his side-kick Piles, I was asked whether my Glock hand gun and my high velocity rifle were actually registered?  The nerve of some people pet!  Deploying my most basilisk-like stare, I quoted the 25-digit-long reference numbers listed on the registration certificates -  and suggested checking with the UK Gun Registration authority.   It was then intimated that I was actually planning an illicit killing (your cell mate I presume . . . ).  I leaned forwards pet, pressing my lips together into their firmest line, and replied: 'It may not be well known to my nephew, or to anyone else, but when engaged upon "special missions" I do still retain my Licence to Kill.'   Honestly dear.  It took quite some hours, and a level of emailing to SIS, before my name was cleared and I could leave!
To change the subject utterly, I then motored over to visit poor Pom-Pom who is still 'incarcerated' in No Return District General Hospital.  He looked worse (half-sitting in bed, very pale, eyes closed) and I was in receipt of a couple of accounts from him about having to try to eat lunch while lying flat in bed.  As far as I could tell, no-one had tried to stand him up - or sit him out in a chair - on this ward either.  His eyes were gunked up with a conjunctivitis-like discharge and I had a go at soaking off some of the crusts sealing his eyes shut.  A friendly nurse, clad in a navy blue dress, did appear at this point with the drugs trolley and she gave me his two bottles of eye drops (left eye and right eye) to dispense.  This did at least make me feel included.  I asked her about sitting in the chair and she told me that Pom-Pom's bottom was too sore for him to be able to do that.  Well he has just spent some weeks lying in bed!
Later on, while waiting for two health care assistants to turn him in bed, I noticed the magnetic white board outside in the hall.  Pom-Pom has the green 'ready for discharge' button up on the row applying to him.  I asked a passing nurse about discharge to community hospitals.  She was very helpful and told me that, if you live in Corsettshire, you are likely to end up one of two destinations.  And, if you live in Littonshire, you are likely to wind up in one of three destinations . . .  These counties are very big pet and one can end up driving miles and miles to visit a relative or friend.  (Heavens knows what happens for people who don't have a car.)  I looked at the nurse and she said, 'I know. It's the system.'  And what a horrifying system it is.  Pom-Pom simply sighed and said, 'I don't know where it's all going to end.'  
How does national care of the elderly regress into such a state as this?  Each small town quite patently needs its own small community hospital/ward so that the elderly person not in need of acute medical treatment has somewhere to go near to the people who care about him or her.  As things stand, hundreds of people spend weeks log-jammed inside No Return District General Hospital - moved endlessly from ward to ward - with absolutely nowhere to go that would be good for them!  I think I need another calming down tablet pet as, coming hard upon the heels of my trip to the Cop Shop, I am feeling a little frayed. 
On a lighter note, I have equipped myself with all the items I need to make some Christmas cards.  These include: the cards(!), glue, oil pastels, charcoal and feathers.  My idea at the moment is to feature robins, owls, and buzzards all in the act of ripping apart some prey!  I am quite patting myself on the back over this notion - despite the slight lack of artistic ability which may hamper my endeavours.  Certainly I need to rip apart something (legally) as I am feeling as cross as it is possible to be!
Take care dear.
Aunt Agatha

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