Second Helpings

Too Much Information

If there's one thing I've learned in my sixty years here on planet earth, it's always be prepared for the unexpected. Assume nothing, don't make plans or believe there's such a thing as a problem-free day. That way, it takes a lot to surprise or disappoint you. Not the greatest of philosophies, but I make no apologies. Sometimes I think some higher force just enjoys playing havoc with we mere mortals and maybe we're just here for their entertainment.

I've started to dislike Saturdays almost as much as Sundays. In recent years my Mum died on a Saturday and I discovered my Dad trapped behind the door with a broken hip on a Saturday. Maybe it links to the fact I was born on a Saturday under very difficult circumstances which I suspect my mother never totally forgave me for. But enough of this deep, philosophical stuff.

Saturday dawned this week and as always I decided to try and ignore it for as long as possible under the duvet. In the middle of one of my bizarre dreams the telephone blasted me into the real world. It was my Dad. That only means one thing as he never calls unless he has a problem.

'I've got a problem.'

'What's the matter?'

'I've got a pocket of fluid on my...'

I leave the exact location to your imagination. I'm not mentioning personal, male body parts in my innocent blog.

'Okay. I'll call the doctor's surgery and get back to you.'

Of course it's a Saturday and the doctor's surgery is closed, so I have to go to the emergency helpline and explain the situation. A very nice lady takes all the details and asks me to call Dad and inform him a nurse will phone him to see what can be done. After yelling the details down the phone to him I await the outcome.

The phone rings again.

'Hello.'

'Hello. Is that Linda?'

'I think so.'

'It's Bob' Does he not know he's my father, or is he in denial? Maybe he doesn't realise I'm his daughter or possibly thinks I'm not. Maybe I'm not, but I can't ask my Mum now.

'Yes, I know. What did the nurse say?'

'Well, she thinks it's a fluid retention problem and something to do with the water tablets I'm taking.'

The only flaw in this theory is he isn't taking any water tablets.

I give up on trying to ignore the dawn of a new Saturday, force myself from under the duvet and collect the mail from the doormat. A brochure advertising forthcoming Humbug activities does nothing to improve my mood. I head up to Dad's house, go about my usual duties, but refrain from focussing on the fluid issue. Apart from nappy changing I've not been in the habit of studying that particular area of the male anatomy for some years now and would hate to think the last one I ever witnessed belonged to my ninety-year-old Dad. Or should I say Bob?