Back from Ireland but still in pain.  My travelling companions, nurses of the old school, immediately threw my walking aids out the window along with most of the medication which, whilst it caused initial panic on my part, did prove to be A Good Thing.  It turned out that far from helping, the drugs were doing bugger all except making me dozy and depressed.  Now I’m awake, cheery and in agony but as they were quick to point out, two out of three ain’t bad.

The trip did not start well, despite a chum delivering me to the airport and sparing me the vagaries of public transport.  I had been promised ‘Special Assistance’ which meant that a wheelchair would be available at check-in, no-one thinking to tell me that check was a good ten miles from the drop-off point.  My enquiry when I finally reached the Aerlingus desk was met by a brusque ‘It’s upstairs’ from a hatchet faced ogre, clearly enraged that her lengthy career as a KGB interrogator had led nowhere.

‘Upstairs’ meant another ten mile walk and long standing up waits at security and passport control.  Thank God that I was then in Duty Free where the sorry sight of me induced a kind soul to give me her seat behind a makeup counter.  Revived, especially by my purchases which my angel of mercy assembled, I managed to hobble the final five miles to the Aerlingus gate where I was bollocked in no uncertain terms by another of their charmless employees for being late!  I will spare you my answer, suffice to say that it will be sometime before she treats anyone else like that. Possibly never.

Ireland is a delight and you realise within seconds that ‘Father Ted’ was not a comedy series but a fly-on-the-wall documentary.  Every single person we met reduced us to helpless laughter in seconds, even on the rare occasions when stone cold sober and topping the pops was our first hostess, Patricia, a woman who had snogged the Blarney Stone on more than one occasion and whose life mission was to feed you to death whilst talking.  Never mind ‘Just a Minute’.  Just a couple of hours without hesitation or repetition would be nearer the mark and not even a challenge.

What a contrast to England.  The highlight of this week for the newly housebound was a visit to the dentist, always a surprisingly jolly outing because of the lovely people there.  The hygienist was about to polish my teeth when I asked in mock alarm if the toothpaste was vegan.  She rolled her eyes.  Apparently there are people who will now not allow her to floss their teeth because there is beeswax on the string and that is a no-no for your committed vegan.  I hope it goes without saying that anything plastic is frowned upon.  (Bamboo, FYI, being the way forward).

One patient has even gone so far as to complain about the choice of reading matter in the waiting room so they have had to replace ‘The Times’ (Too right wing) with ‘The Guardian’.  It’s a WAITING ROOM sweetie, not your own home.  I’d have rolled up a copy and used it as a weapon before giving them a root canal treatment without benefit of anaesthesia but that’s probably why I’m not a dentist.

I would say you couldn’t make it up but how sad is it that you don’t have to.