Once again, it's just like being in e.r. Or on a small plastic horse ranch.

I've been sitting all day in the hospital with Mr H, who woke up from his anaesthetic yesterday demanding smoothies, and proceeded to drink three, yes THREE large smoothies before he hit the wall and could not drink any more. It's very entertaining (the hospital environment, not the smoothie drinking).

I have a lit review due next Thursday, so I've been reading the book for that (The First English Bible, quite fascinating in parts) and taking notes, while Hugo reads the papers, but every now and then there's a new patient telling their story to the admitting doctor (who looks like he's around, oh, seventeen, which makes one think he should be at home chatting on facebook, omg, ur like so hott etc, instead of doing his homework rather than diagnosing serious heart problems, but that's just probably because I am unspeakably ancient mature age student, but I digress) and then both of us stop reading and listen like mad, because it's like the plot of every e.r. episode you've ever seen rolled into one. Today the new bloke opposite (who's just had a heart attack) was being quizzed by the doc:

Doc: Do you smoke?
Bloke: Yeah.
Doc: How many a day, would you say?
Bloke: I'm actually trying to cut down.
Doc: So how many would you be smoking since you've started trying to cut down?
Bloke: Oh, only around forty a day now.
Doc: You do know there's a connection between smoking and coronary heart disease?
Bloke: Yeah.
Doc: Do you drink?
Bloke: Yeah.
Doc: Around how many drinks a day would you say?
Bloke: Oh, about five or six whiskeys...
Doc: You understand drinking that much could also have contributed to your heart attack?
Bloke: Yeah.
Doc: Do you have any family history of heart problems?

Bloke then proceeds to detail how just about every close family member he posesses has had a heart attack. Clearly, there's a bit of the brain that's not connecting to another bit of the brain here... it's not stupidity. When my grandmother was dying of emphasema, I was put off smoking for ever. I haven't touched a cigarette since, and I never will. But two of my uncles, neither of whom are by any means stupid, would go up to say good night to her, watch her lyin in bed gasping for air, and would come back down to the kitchen and roll themselves a cigarette. Fucking mad, I reckon, but there's clearly just something that doesn't make the connection mortality = me.

Anyway, woman in the next bed was complaining that her daughter in law had threatened to kill her, which had made her very stressed and probably caused her heart attack. One of the nurses stuck herself with a needle (must be a ghastly thing to happen, more stressful than a random threatening daughter in law (unless said daughter in law is actually, you know, capable of carrying out threat, in which case well stressful)) - that's always happening on medical shows to enable them to explore pathos, boundary between patient and medical professional, insert other plot cliches here.

I am v exhausted, off to bed - I just wanted to share bloke's convo with doc before I forgot pertinent details in fog of materials about English heresy, Hugo's medical details and the fact that the hospital is sending a nurse around every day for the next ten or so days to give him anti-coagulant injections, and I'm sure they've seen it all before but I slightly feel like I should pick up all the random things that are currently lying on the bedroom floor. With particular reference to sea of newspapers on Hugo's side of the bed that will probably be somewhat difficult to navigate, my clothes, which tend to get shed as I walk around getting changed and only gathered up when it's time to wash them, and a large pile of books about Henry VIII all over my side of the bed. Downstairs isn't so bad, it's just covered in boxes of books. The spare bedroom though, must be seen to be believed (although not by anyone who saw my bedroom as a teenager - they'd believe it without seeing it).

Speaking of, I went round to the PUs' place last night to be fed, after Hugo went to sleep, and discovered there was a plastic bag on the kitchen table. On further investigation, this turned out to be full of the small plastic farm animals (and occasional zoo animals) that were my absolute FAVOURITE THING to play with when I was a kid. And my PU#1 was going to give them to my nieces WITHOUT AKSING ME! Bloody lucky I went round there. I now have a herd of fifty-one (I counted) small plastic horsies. Also, two small plastic bales of hay, in case they are hungry, and a small plastic girl in jodpurs with a plastic bucket of water, in case they are thirsty. Fancy trying to give away my herd!