Do you ever have days when it all goes wrong?

I was all ready to go home last Friday; scrubbed, showered, dressed, packed, taxi arrived, waved off into lift on the second floor.

By the time the lift arrived on the ground floor I was unconscious. Don’t ask me – I was out of it!

Somehow my favourite little Sicilian taxi driver who is knee high to a grasshopper and ankle high to a Raccoon, dragged me out of the lift and pausing only to gather up my purse and hospital papers, legged it – stage left – to get help. The sharp eyed reader will have noticed his error.

The next occupants of the lift, somewhat bemused to find carrier bags full of Heinz baked beans, were even more bemused to discover their exit blocked by a large comatose woman, head resting on a panama hat. No identification, no sign of life. They tore off to the right and found a nurse with a trolley – I was loaded up and sped off God knows where.

Which left my pint-sized Sicilian running round the hospital clutching my purse, babbling an unlikely tale of having temporarily borrowed it from an unconscious Raccoon who belonged in his taxi but was now nowhere to be found.

No one does hysteria quite like a traumatised Sicilian taxi driver with an unpaid fare.

Eventually we were reunited back on the second floor where he fell sobbing into the arms of his fare and alibi to such effect that he was believed to be my husband. I was sobbing and clutching him too, if for no other reason than I believed him to be the only person in this foreign land who spoke English.

“They want to know how you feel,” he said. What kind of a damn fool question is that?

“Like swapping places with Prescott’s hemorrhoids would be an improvement!” I said. It got a tad confused in the translation, I fear.

I asked him to fire the only weapon left in my armoury – telephone he who is contractually obliged to shoulder the blame for everything up to and including the fall of St Petersburg.

“I can’t come home; I’m wired into the National Grid, I’ve got no blood pressure, they’re all shouting at me in French, do something”, I commanded.

You’d think after all these years he would know better than to interrupt a rant; but the damn fool spoke, honestly!

“I’ll just put the video on for the qualifying and………”

Well, I hung up on him, obviously.

Hours later they had inched my blood pressure up to 80 over some thing and I thought I might aspire to a life swap with Prescott’s left testicle instead, when the door opened and Mr G hove into view pushing a wheelchair.

“Come on Gollum, I’ve got permission to take you out for half an hour!”

He parked me in the petit jardin overlooking our camping car and disappeared into the back. The unmistakable scent of bacon wafted over me. I thought was hallucinating.

He was collecting a small audience, admiring the camping car or more probably, that rarity around here, his hair…..when I heard him say “close your eyes”.

When I opened them, a table had appeared, a bottle of HP sauce – the genuine article, a mug of Yorkshire tea, and a bacon sandwich was in front of me – there was a ripple of applause from the audience. If you squint your eyes and focus on the HP sauce bottle, tell yourself the roar of the air conditioning is the crash of waves, listen to the babble of foreign tongues all around you – you could be on Southend Pier.

“Big Ern”, the man formerly known as Mr G is sheer genius – he has learnt something over the years after all, he knows exactly how to raise my blood pressure!

He’ll be back at 7.30 tomorrow morning with more bacon. The nurses are delighted and busy inspecting the ingredients on my prized bottle of HP. Blood pressure’s over 100 now!

Magic stuff.

john malpas September 30, 2011 at 05:50

perhaps I should explain
– we are both over seventy and have experience
of leaving hospitals.
As you found out you are not always well when they
say you are. And a friend can help sort things better than a taxi driver (
well this is so in Australia).
As an aquaintance ( who is over eighty so
knows no rules) said “you can fart freely with a friend” -but not with a taxi
driver.

Anna
Raccoon September 30, 2011 at
09:09

John, here in France, the taxis used by the French health service are all
medially qualified – not to the extent of paramedics, true, but they are not
just ‘run of the mill’ taxis from the local rank.
My little Sicilian
friend stayed with me for two hours until my husband arrived, through
several ‘petit interventions’ as the French like to describe life saving
measures, that a lesser man might have baulked at witnessing. He held my
hand, he encouraged me, he translated for me, he mopped my brow – I could
not have asked for more.
We have a choice – you can request a full
ambulance to transfer you home – but it is pointed out to you that it will
be considerably more expensive for the French health service than a trained
taxi driver, and it should have been completely unnecessary for me at that
time. I am told that the French government have invested somewhere around
50,000 euros in my treatment , I don’t begrudge them saving money where they
can.
What happened was just bad luck, but would have been even worse luck
if it had occurred on the motor way – I shouldn’t be here to laugh at the
French farce at all!

john malpas September 30, 2011 at 01:46

My wife was hugely entertained when I related your story to her over
morning coffee. But then she demanded to know why you were going home in a
taxi. I panicked and said it ws a rule but – was it?

Peter Melia September 29, 2011 at 22:13

We can pick HP up in our local LeClerc, they have an “English”
shelf.
Jellies also, (French mamas cannot grasp the concept, although their
children wolf them down with enthousiasme (that’s the best the French can do
for “gusto”),
Bird’s Custard, much admired by French mamas, better than
their own, pallid, “creme anglaise”.
Oh, all sorts of good stuff.
It’s
hard living near to St Paul, but someone has to do it.
You can do it
too.

John Pickworth
September 29, 2011 at 03:03

Typical bloody woman… tells the world about herself but not a mention of
which floor the Heinz baked beans are currently on!

Johnnrvf September 28, 2011 at 23:10

I should mention that their place of residence is not a million kliksfrom
Chez Vous.

Johnnrvf September 28, 2011 at 23:09

Ms. Raccoon, not more than a kilometer from where I live is a British
couple who deal with an Ex-Pat farmer who makes English sossiges as they
should be, plain and with Leeks, whould you be interested ? ( I believe he
does proper bacon too ).

gladiolys September 28, 2011 at 21:26

Get back behind that bar, wench!. This place has gone to pot without you
(despite sterling effort). The Racoon Arms needs a Racoon,not a comatose
dribbler!

Saul September 28, 2011 at 20:50

If this is the therapeutic result of a Bacon sandwich, then a Sausage
sandwich could have you running a marathon!!

Would you like me to point you in the direction of an establishment in
France that stocks britains finest??

Oh! I think that may have happened in the past, and resulted in me walking
like John Wayne for several weeks!

Jeremy Poynton
September 28, 2011 at 20:25

Pour yourself a stiff one and have a good sit down!

Châtelaine September 28, 2011 at 20:08

Anna, you will agree with Thaddeus that passing-out is “irresponsible”
…

As for Mr. G [Big Ern as he’s called today’s if I understand correctly],
bless him *-) Hi Mr. G

Thaddeus J.
Wilson September 28, 2011 at 18:19

Goodness woman, you are so irresponsible! It’s a good thing that Big Ern is
there to take care of you!

Châtelaine September 28, 2011 at 17:46

Mme Raccoon, I don’t know of anyone [apart myself ],
who can describe misery and catastrophe like you do in a way that sends one
into a fit of guilty giggle.

BTW your HP Sauce mention sent me on a Google quest for ingredients and
origin. I regret having to confirm previous comments: the recipe changed and
it’s being produced in Elst, the Netherlands. I am still in limbo as to
whether I should primo be “proud” that your favourite is produced in my native
country, secundo regret that the recipe has changed and finally if I should
try it myself …

With my best wishes for a speedy recovery and a hope [shame, shame] for
more disastrous stories … Tin hat on. Bye

delcatto September 28, 2011 at 16:22

Hollandaise Parliamentary sauce…

View from the
Solent September 28, 2011 at 16:12

Bad news, I’m afraid. There is no longer a genuine article.
Timmy

JimS September 28, 2011 at 15:58

a bottle of HP sauce – the genuine article

That’ll be the genuine Dutch variety?

Rog September 28, 2011 at 15:24

Well that’s bacon on the list for tomorrow. I bet you spoilt it by having
wholemeal bread instead of utter pappy limp white bread with the nutritional
value of a gnats wing, but gorgeous.

JuliaM September
28, 2011 at 14:39

“If you squint your eyes and focus on the HP sauce bottle, tell yourself
the roar of the air conditioning is the crash of waves, listen to the babble
of foreign tongues all around you – you could be on Southend Pier.”

Hopefully when it’s not reeling under the impact of a repair boat….