thoroughly organised

‘With a surname like mine, I couldn’t very well not be a banker,’ says Samuel Ransom, leaning sideways to see that I get the joke and almost pitching sideways out of the bed in the process. I help him straighten up and re-arrange his inflatable leg supports.
‘This is a damned wretched business,’ he says, surveying the scene. ‘Six weeks I’ve been laid up like this. Six weeks!’
There’s a squeaking and a trundling from the hallway, the door nudges wider, and Sally, his wife, comes in on a seated rolator, punting herself backwards with her legs.
‘Don’t fret, darling,’ she says, manoeuvring herself so she can see him, ‘Now look. I’ve called the bed people and they say they’ll have someone round to have a look.’ She puts the phone back on the base unit, and smiles at me – quite a feat, given the amount of lipstick she’s wearing. ‘The moving mattress thingy,’ she says. ‘It’s stopped making that rustling noise. Is it broken, d’you think?’
I give it a quick look. There’s no error message on the console at the foot of the bed, and the mattress seems nicely inflated. But she’s right, these dynamic mattresses are designed to cycle through alternative pressure distributions, and it does sound suspiciously fixed.
‘Best leave it to the experts,’ I say.
‘Fair enough.’
She pushes herself backwards across the room, over to a pile of clothes draped on a chair.
‘How’s the old duffer looking?’ she says, shaking out a pair of pyjama bottoms. ‘Time for a new model?’
‘You wouldn’t think I was such a sportsman to look at me now,’ says Samuel. ‘Football. Golf. Swimming. You name it. I broke my finger pretty badly playing football. I was a goalkeeper, you see. I dived to save a ball, and got a boot in the hand for my trouble. Knocked six bells out of this finger and – see? – it’s never gone back.’
He holds up his left hand. Whilst it’s true the ring finger is twisted at an unnatural angle, the effect is a little diluted by the general state of his arthritic hands.
‘I struggle to hold a beaker these days, let alone a golf club,’ he says, relaxing back on the pillows. ‘But you should have seen me then! I couldn’t sit still for five minutes.’
‘Or stop talking,’ says Sally, punting backwards to the phone again, and taking it out onto the landing to make another call.
I finish the examination.
‘Not too bad,’ I say, looping the stethoscope round my neck. ‘Better than yesterday. I think what you really need is a course of physiotherapy, to get you moving again.’
‘Great!’ he says. ‘Thank you.’
He watches me write out the ticket for a while, then says: ‘It’s a new kind of problem, isn’t it?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘All these old folk, hanging around, kept going with drugs and so on. How are we to afford it?’
‘I don’t think you’re hanging around. I like having you here.’
‘That’s kind. But look…’ he says, touching me on the hand and lowering his voice. ‘I can see it coming. There’ll be a knock on the door. They’re here! says Sally, because an appointment will have been made well in advance. It’ll all be above board, properly regulated and so on. Thoroughly organised. And she’ll open the door, and it’ll be a smartly dressed man, in a pin-stripe suit – and a woman, too, no doubt – and they’ll be very polite and so on, and show their credentials. And they’ll follow Sally upstairs to see me. She’ll travel up on the stair lift, of course, and no doubt they’ll make a note of that. Then they’ll come into the room, much like you did. And they’ll ask to see my documents, my passport and so on. That’s fine they’ll say. That’s all in order. Then they’ll unpack their case and …’
He raises his hand in the air and gives it a little shake, a motion that has to pass for a click of his fingers.manwomanclipboard
‘Yes,’ he says, relaxing back into the pillows. ‘I can see it
coming. Because really, you know, this can’t go on. This can’t go on at all.’

5 thoughts on “thoroughly organised

  1. I think he was just really depressed with his state of health (although he was on quite a bit of medication, too, so who knows…) It was an extraordinarily detailed fantasy, no doubt based on the fact that loads of official people kept coming and going, but his basic situation and outlook remained the same. He was a lovely guy though. It was a pretty bleak fantasy,but he wasn’t upset about it. I liked the little incidental details – the pin stripe suit, the assistant, the following up behind the stair lift!

    BTW – I’m commenting from round at my mum’s house, and because I can’t remember my login details, this reply might look a little different. Also – this is the first time I’ve ‘experienced’ the ads that you see on the site. I’m not altogether happy with them – it feels a bit strange, writing about these experiences and then seeing an ad for cut-price sandals. What do you think, Sabine? Is it worth me changing sites again? *sigh*

    Anyway – cheers for the comment. Hope you’re well

    J

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    1. I never see any ads because I have adblock installed. I am probably contributing to the downfall of commercial blogging. Or maybe I am missing the ultimate sandal choice.
      Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about them. Most serious bloggers and blog readers just ignore them. Or have an adblock app installed. Or both.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Thanks for the advice.
    Ad blockers good, but then you get bothered by notices saying ‘we notice you have ad blocker installed…’ Bah! I thinking I might have to upgrade the account anyway, though. I’m already 2/3 the way through my size allowance, even though it’s not what you might call ‘graphically heavy’. Looks like it would cost just over £6 a month to have unlimited capacity & NO ADS, so I’m tempted. I’d spend that on a newspaper (if I bought newspapers, and didn’t freeload off the internet…). It’s just that advert for sandals freaked me out a bit.
    J

    Like

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