Ronnie looks poleaxed for a split second, then bursts out laughing. Stupid people, these English. Look at him, bulging out of that gown, and he’s not even having a bloody operation… ‘Sorry’ he giggles. ‘I didn’t recognise your British name. ‘YOU take of all your clothes please, put them in the wardrobe there, and get yourself into bed. I will be back in a couple of minutes.’
My wife can barely stand. ‘Come on Richards Cristina, give me my gown please! Ohh look, you’ve busted the seams, squeezing your great fat corpse into it. Damaging hospital property indeed. Still, I will have air-vents in the sides I suppose, in case it gets hot in the operating theatre!’
Niftily, with the utmost decorum, she slips the gown over her head, then manages to undress from the inside, a feat of endeavour beyond my wildest imagination, being someone who often manages to get two feet into the same trouser-leg. Now, of course, it is my turn to extract the Michael. ‘Bloody hell, you look like a bell-tent! How many Wolf-Cubs do you have under there? Will we be sitting round a camp-fire later, eating burned sausages, singing Ging-Gang-Goolie-Goolie!?’
‘Yeah, well at least we won’t have to see your burned sausage and your Ging-Gang-Goolie, will we? I told you to keep your leg…..’
A rat-a-tat-tat at the door and in slips Ronnie, followed by a nurse, although sadly not the same one last seen sprawled across Pablo, which is probably just as well. This one means business, clearly, bearing a saline bag which she hooks up to a stand, while Ronnie attaches the wrist-band to the correct patient. The nurse then produces a cellophane package which looks suspiciously like something which might contain a needle, involving blood, and I just about manage to stagger to the window and fix my gaze on the far side of the car-park, and very interesting it is too, lots of cars, all different colours, many displaying the usual Spanish battle-damage, and ooh look there is that tranny-via thing, with no tranny, which Gobby-Enry he fixy, apparently, much embarrass-ed, and will you look at all those olive trees stretching to the horizon, I wonder if there are any dohhs weeld out there today, jumping into the branches.
The closing of the door announces that we are alone again, and I turn, ashen-faced, in severe need of a Spanish shoshage, to see my wife sat up in bed, draped in tubes, involving needles, I assume, although I cannot bear to look, which causes my stomach to lurch, although she seems extremely relaxed about the whole thing, surprisingly. ‘Looks like I’m on the way, shortly’ she smiles, brightly. ‘Try not to faint, while I am gone, you poor chap. Best have a lie down, we don’t want you falling over, causing any more damage to hospital property, do we? Would you like a quick peek at my NEEDLE before they take me down?’
SHUT UP, OK! Suddenly there is another tap on the door and in strides the nurse. ‘Follow me, plees.’ Suddenly she glances at my wife’s lack of footwear, as presumably barefoot-Chrissie was under the impression they would wheel her down to the theatre. Or not, then. ‘WHERE ARE YOUR SLIPPERS?’
Er, at home? Nobody said anything about slippers. The letter didn’t mention anything, did it? A change of interior clothes yes, footwear, no. Anyway, what does it matter? She has her trainers, so I cross to the wardrobe, where they have been safely stored, as instructed by Ronnie, and hand them to my puzzled-looking wife. The nurse is not happy, however. ‘No, not trainers. You must have slippers?’ What is this? What difference does it make? Is the operating theatre fitted-out with ruinously expensive shag-pile, or magic carpets, woven by nomadic tribesmen from the fleeces of rare Himalayan mountain goats? Priceless Roman mosaics? Chrissie has a pair of slippers, of course, mules I think they would be called, but she wears them into the street, in the mornings, gathering her daily bread from Jose the Pan, and into the garden in the afternoons. So they are hardly sterile. Is that what all this is about? Undoubtedly, had she known, she would have bought a box-fresh pair, removed the tissue under the nose of old Hattie Jacques here, who, incredibly, appears to be refusing to budge.
Bloody hell, does this mean the operation is canceled? Do I need to dash off somewhere and buy a pair? Where? Is there a hospital shop? A retail outlet, like in the UK, an over-priced rip-off emporium, where the same stuff is half as much again as in the equivalent high-street store? Didn’t see one, on the way in, although we didn’t spot the reception either, did we? Suddenly, there is another tap on the door and in pops Ronnie, with a what the hell is keeping you look on his face. ‘She has no slippers!’ Hattie cries, accusingly.
Mr Corbett is dumbfounded. ‘You have no slippers? Why do you have no slippers please?’
I have had just about enough of this. Inwardly raging, but nevertheless maintaining a sunny demeanour as the last thing we want is to jeopardise the whole operation over a stupid pair of footwear, I cross the room, extract the letter from Chrissie’s bag, point to the bit about the change of pants and the after-shave, and swallow my pride. ‘Sorry, we are English. We didn’t know.’
Ronnie smiles. Oh what a store of tales he has for out in his street, tonight. ‘OK, don’t worry, but next time please remember to bring your slippers.’ And he turns to Hattie. ‘OK you can take her down, now.’
Hattie hasn’t finished yet, however. ‘OK, you can wear the trainers, but don’t tie the laces, please. Just tuck the laces in.’ And she mimics this action, in a well you’re too stupid to remember your slippers so here we are on the first day at primary school kind of way. Grrrr. How did we possibly make it to the grand old age of nearly sixty without this woman? ‘Follow me, please.’
Blimey, this is it! She is off. Got to give her a quick kiss, for luck, Chrissie I mean, not Hattie, or, heaven forbid, Ronnie, so without looking down, in case I spot something sharp and awful, and placing my hands on her shoulders to avoid ripping out any important tubing, I do just that, and the three of them file out into the corridor, closing the door behind them. I slump flat-out onto my camp-bed and close my eyes. Been a hell of a morning so far, all this hospital business. I mean, it’s fine for my wife, she used to work in one, two actually, so she is used to this stuff, whereas me? Someone who gave their first pint of blood back when Bohemian Rhapsody was number-one, then promptly collapsed? Still, got a restorative pint of Guinness out of it from my concerned colleagues that day, thus setting the standard for every subsequent donation, but I’m just not good with matters medical. Gonna need that shoshage soon, but I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes…. actually, why am I scrunched up on this contraption, when there’s a perfectly good hospital bed across the room? Who’s going to know? Not coming back any time soon, are they? Closing the curtains, I hop up, adjust the pillows, stretch out luxuriously, and……. gone.
…... Suddenly I am running down a hospital corridor, pursued by the Two Ronnies, Freddy Mercury dressed in a blood transfusion uniform, and the entire cast of Carry On Matron, all of whom are shouting slippers, don’t forget your slippers, tuck in your laces, JONNEEE POR FAVOR! Cornish pasty, no bloody carrots, JONNEE POR FAVOR! Just gotta get out, just gotta get right out of he-re, which way Glass-ton-boor plees, where you raddyo-graffia from Eengland, take her to the oor-hen-thee-ya, neighbour, tell your woman to take one, three times a day…. Frantically, I crash round a corner to be confronted by Peter Pan and a huge great jaw-snapping crocodile, hollering Soutt-end, Lon-Donn Soutt-end, fees and cheep, then Tinkerbell is hovering above me, laughing, laughing…. I open my eyes to find Chrissie, hand over her mouth, tittering helplessly, and Ronnie, who is also finding it funny. Well, sleeping is a national pastime in this country.. but thank God Hattie is nowhere to be seen….
My wife is still attached to her drip, so Ronnie plumps up her pillows, ostentatiously brushing down the blanket, thus removing all traces of large Englishmen, and helps her up. ‘Relax now, please. I will return in two hours. Enjoy your siesta!’
Chrissie is clearly flagging, eyelids drooping, mouth numb from the anaesthetic. ‘I need to sthleep!’ she smiles, ‘buth everythingth wath fine. There were three polypths, they removth them all, and the biopthy report will be…. a….
couple…. oth…. weekths……‘ Away to the land of nod.
Still haven’t had my Hundred Montaditos yet, or even a single one, come to that, but I can hardly pop out now, can I, in case she wakes and needs something. Just have to pray that my rumbling stomach doesn’t wake her…. I climb aboard my camp-bed, wince painfully as my hip-bone jars against the frame, close my eyes…..
Several minutes, or it could have been several hours, later, comes another knock on the door and a tiny, smiley nurse enters the room. ‘Time to have the saline removed! Then you can have a drink!’ Thank God, I am parched. Or maybe she means Chrissie. Hang on, saline? Needles? I scrabble to my feet and dash to the window. Ooh look at that, a Chinese restaurant across the road. Iron Wok, buffet libre it says. Libre? Free? Surely not, they must mean eat all you like. This is torture, as I am absolutely ravenous, probably better off watching the needle removal, actually, but there is the tranny-via, still no tranny, mind you, wonder how much the Chinese buffet is? I could kill for a spring roll. NO don’t think of that, has she finished yet? It appears she has. ‘The doctor will be round in half an hour, then you can go home’ she confirms, to my evidently-relieved spouse, who I have to say is looking vastly improved, having been relieved of her pipework.
Smiley departs, then immediately another tap on the door heralds the arrival of a trolley, a food trolley, pushed by a saviour, a Goddess, a bringer of nourishment to famished visitors, sorry, patients. But what if it is meat? Shoshage, even. A repast entirely unsuitable for vegetarians? Couldn’t let it go to waste, could I? Would be rude, wouldn’t it? Ungrateful, even. Fingers crossed… Our good shepherdess places a large tray, easily two feet wide, onto the bed-table, grins, knowingly, and departs. Blimey, looks big enough for two, this tray, covered as it is by a molded plastic top, in the shape of a cup and at least three plates and dishes. She can have the dessert. I reach across, and start to prise off the lid. ‘Oi, hands off, fatty. Oww! Yes I am feeling much better. Oww! Thank you for asking. Oww! The anaesthetic has worn off. Oww! But my throat is really sore, and it hurts to swallow. Oww!’
‘Sorry!’ I giggle. ‘It is so long since I last ate, I have become delirious. Who are you again? Is this an oasis? Are there camels, lapping contentedly from a palm-fringed watering-hole? Anyway, you are off solids, for a few days surely? Bread and milk, like a hedgehog. Which is there, look.’ And I tap the dish-shape. ‘So get the lid off, and let me get at it!’
‘No! Oww! This is mine. Ahh! You had the chance to go down Hundred Montaditos, while I was gone. But what did you do? Ahh! You fell asleep. So get back on your camp bed.’ She narrows her eyes, and cackles, like some demented old witch. ‘This is mine, all mine! Oww!’ Slowly, she peels of the lid, and bursts out laughing. ‘Oww oww oww!’ She throws the cover across the bed, in disgust, to reveal a plastic mug sitting forlornly in the middle of the tray, and a cellophane pack containing two cheap, plain biscuits. ‘Milk. Hot milk. I hate hot milk. Oww! Can you believe this? I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed in my life. Apart from our wedding-night, of course. Oww! Why did they need this damn great tray for a stupid little cup of milk? Oww! My mouth feels like the armpit of one of those camels you just mentioned, and they give me bloody milk. OWW!’
I am slumped on my camp-bed, tears streaming down my face. ‘Told you, didn’t I? Bread and milk. Biscuits and milk. Just dunk your Rich Tea, and suck! But could you let me have one of your biscuits, please?’ Absolutely priceless, her face was a picture, although that wedding-night jibe will be a discussion for another day. I thought it was a fantastic evening, actually. What was it, fourteen or fifteen pints of McEwen's Export I drank? Anyway, I still have one last surprise up my sleeve. Been a difficult day for her, hasn’t it? A difficult few weeks, all in all. ‘Listen’ I smile. ‘Tonight, when we finally get home, I will be serving salmorejo, you know, that chilled, thick, spicy, tomato, gazpacho soup. We had some in Cordoba, remember? You loved it, and it will be easy on the old tonsils, for you. Rick Stein has a recipe for it, in his book.’
She reaches across and squeezes my arm, although sadly not to pass me her remaining Rich Tea. ‘That sounds great, and thank you for today. Oww!’
My eyes crinkle. ‘Me? What have I done, today? Been asleep for most of it! Couldn’t find the way in, or the reception, ripped your gown and wrinkled up your sheets, told a few Two Ronnies jokes, almost got naked and exposed my Ging-Gang-Goolie. Great help, wasn’t I? And I have no idea where I left the car!’ Still, I know what she means. I think.
The doctor duly arrives, discharges his patient, I manage to locate the car, and before we know it we are approaching home, just as dusk is falling. ‘Tell you what’ I smile. ‘I will try to find a parking space on the zigzag, to save you walking. I am dead on my feet, so I can only imagine how you are feeling!’ And by a miracle, there is just enough space to squeeze a little white SEAT in, although sadly I fail to factor in the possibility that one or two locals might be sprawled on cane chairs, clinging to the rocky hillside, enjoying the cool of the evening. Pirate Pete. Oh no. ‘Where you been, neighbour?’ he cries, spotting the overnight bag. ‘Your caravan? Loli didn’t say you were going to your caravan. Did you know they were in their caravan, Antonia? Manuela? Did anyone know? Nobody told me! Why did nobody tell me?’
Wearily, Chrissie explains that she has had a small operation on her throat, her garganta, to remove a few polyps. Why did she say that? Why didn’t she just agree with him. None the wiser. Gonna take the next hundred years to get home, now.
‘Poly-pus, neighbour? You don’t get poly-pus down the garganta! I had poly-pus, neighbour. Up the arse! You hear that, up the ARSE! Isn’t that right, Antonia, tell the English, I had poly-pus up the ARSE!’ There might be one or two people on the Costa del Sol who didn’t get that, but I doubt it.
‘You disgusting old man!’ Auntie Vera groans. ‘Who cares about your ARSE? Cristina here has been to HH-ayen for an operation on her garganta, today. Shut up and go to bed!’ And she envelops my wife in a massive bear-hug.
Pedro the pirate is not letting it go, however. ‘Manuela! Where did I have my poly-pus, eh?’ And he extends his middle finger, jabbing it in the direction of where the sun don’t shine.
Leopard-skin Woman regards him distastefully, extends her own middle finger, and cackling manically, waves it under his nose. Antonia joins her, digit duly extended, and for a few seconds we relish in the spectacle of a Spanish finger-fight, like the Three Musketeers on their way home from the pub, after a skinful of beer. We finally make it home, mentally and physically exhausted. Wear you out, the Spanish neighbours, don’t they? The hospital was a doddle, compared to running the gauntlet of that lot. Bless them, though. We wouldn’t have it any other way…... Chrissie slumps on the sofa, I pour us a restorative glass of red each, then head out to the kitchen and start work on my creation, which I have to tell you goes down an absolute treat. Chrissie is in raptures, although bearing in mind she has only eaten two biscuits and drunk a half-cup of tepid milk in the last twenty-six hours, she damn well ought to be.
Insisting she is feeling very much better, she offers to take care of the washing-up, what little there is. Oh hell, I forgot… I’m for it now. Suddenly, comes the sound of agitated bellowing. ‘You cheating swine! What is this? A carton? An empty carton of supermarket salmorejo? And you pretended to make it yourself! Oww! I can’t believe you lied to me like that!’
I am rocking with laughter, tears in my eyes. ‘Au contraire, my sweetness! I merely said there was a recipe, in Mr Stein’s book, I didn’t say I was actually following it, did I? Is it my fault, if you failed to pay attent….OWW!’
THE FINAL CHAPTER. WASHING THE MONEY.
It is with such overwhelming relief that I splutter down the final hill into Cherbourg, northern France, navigate the last few nondescript roundabouts, following the signs for Poole Ferry, and bring the bike to a juddering halt next to a half-dozen hairy, pierced and tattooed bikers slouched over a few scruffy benches outside a r
un-down chip van. Journeys end, for now at least. Relief for my aching torso, and soft bodily tissue, after two whole days in the saddle, over eleven-hundred miles across Spain and France, staying last night in Bayonne, in one of those French chain-hotels which bizarrely only sell overpriced beer, if you are prepared to buy overpriced food. Une biere et une bag of Planters, s'il vous plaît? Non. Relief too for my poor Harley, front brake having given up the ghost, the side-stand spring broken, held up temporarily by a bungee hook to avoid it dragging on the road, and unforgivably, bald patches showing in places on the back tyre. I deserve to be taken out and publicly shot, letting it get in that state, and I don’t even have the excuse of the bike being a fifteen minute walk away on a dusty side street. No, it lives in our hallway, and I pass it dozens of times a day. In my defence, there was tread visible when I left home yesterday, so it was five-hundred miles of rough French tarmac wot did it, officer. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Anyway, all this, together with a brand-new MOT, will be sorted by my old mate Anton, in his excellent bike shop, two days hence, provided I can avoid any broken glass on the A35 that is. Chrissie will then fly over and we will have a holiday, visiting her mother, our girls, old friends, same as we did last year, only without the stress of petty parking regulations, and jobsworths, hopefully.
Wincing painfully, all the while grinning at my fellow road-warriors, I un-clip the bungee, allowing the side-stand to drop into position, and ease my right leg, which is numb from the waist down, over the saddle, and stagger to my full height, more or less. ‘Anything in there worth eating?’ I enquire of the hirsute horde, nodding at the kiosk. Christ, you should see the beards on these fellas, like a ZZ Top reunion gig, with extra hair. The one nearest me is ginger, half a dozen shades of, and he reminds me of a toddler who has just consumed a Cow & Gate peach dessert, then vomited the lot down his bib. His mate must be twenty-five stone, easily, face the size of a shovel onto which eyes, a nose and a pair of rubbery lips has been painted, with a forty-eight inch waist crammed optimistically into a pair of thirty-six inch leather trousers, the resulting muffin-top resembling a kiddies rubber ring stuffed under his bulging Iron Maiden tee-shirt. Or perhaps I am doing the guy a disservice. Maybe he is actually the size of Twiggy, but a nervous sailor, bearing in mind we are about to cross the busiest shipping lane in the world, in the dark, and has brought his own life-belt, which he is already wearing, in case, I dunno, unable to see his feet, he topples into the turgid waters of the dock?
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 40