Marvellous

Christmas and all that. I have to say it was all rather fun. Until it stopped being fun, that is.

So... the minor injuries unit of our local hospital is a wonderful, wonderful place. I've been there now three times, and I've only lived here for 16 months: twice with my son; one broken thumb and one not broken finger. Cricket.
I may have posted about this earlier (you delve, I am exhausted and really rapidly losing the will to live, let alone delve (imagine having to write this rubbish. Be grateful you only have to read it)).
I spent a sizeable chunk of boxing day in there too, with my mum who fell on our steps and has a bad and very deep cut as a consequence. Two months repair, minimum, they reckon. So last night I was doing what I do worst: caring for someone else. Tiring is not the word.

And while I was not sleeping at two, three and four this morning, I was mulling over the cynicism of life. Tony Blair and his lot have said we'll lose out hospital. And we'll lose it because none of us round here vote for him. Well, not none, obviously. But not enough for this to ever be a winnable (new) Labour seat (especially if/when Gordon takes over. GB for GB? Don't make me laugh.) We're not a major-enough urban centre, or Welsh you see.

And thus, we shall lose a brilliant hospital and the minor injuries unit. Yet we are a town of 115,000, and the oldest continually inhabited town in England. But we can't have a hospital. It's so cynical, it's enough to make you sick.
Oh bollocks, write in your own joke about no hospital to go to. I'm way too tired. And, frankly, pissed off with the whole thing.

Love and hugs at this seasonal time

Beep.