The extent to which I have become acclimatized to the challenges which this country can present you with, could possibly be illustrated by my experiences going to have a blood test this morning.
The doors to the medical centre open at 8.00 am sharp and the crowds flood in, jockeying for a position to have their veins slit. This is pointless because once inside, one of the medical staff reads out a list of names and the people are expected to stand in the order in which they are called.
Today was slightly different as a desk had been set up in the concourse and a seated lady called out the names. Mine was called forth fourth (sorry couldn’t resist that) and I walked over to the extraction cubicles. I duly went when called and had my blood taken in the normal way.
And that was the problem. At the end of the second little tube being filled with red the medical assistant smiled brightly and bid me adieu! When I said that I was ready for my drink, she looked at me blankly and gave me one of those worried smiles which I know so well from attempting to communicate in a language not mine own!
I was there for a glucose drink and two blood tests to see how my system dealt with things. No, I was assured, that sort of test was only done on a Monday, never on a Friday.
Pushing my linguistic boundaries to the limit I tried to explain in spluttering Spanish that I had taken time off work and so on. There was (it would have been muttered in Britain, but was quite audible here) a conversation while a collection of people decided what to do.
Eventually it was decided that I would have my drink and my second blood sample taken and then I would have the privilege of taking the second sample to St Boi. How kind!
The glucose was presented to me in a small bottle taken from the fridge and looked like a mature vintage Sauterne but tasted like an alcohol free, flat, slightly over-sweet white wine. Better, I have to admit, than some wines I have drunk! Thinking about it, I ought to revise that to “many” wines I have drunk!
I can’t say that the concentrated glucose had much effect on me, though I was listening to my i-pod and with a languor that I find is quite common to listeners of a certain age, I allowed the tracks to continue from whatever electronic choice had previously been made.
So I sat there for two hours listening to the Best Ever Tracks From The Eighties while waiting for my body to do whatever it is supposed to do with a pretty comprehensive shot of concentrated glucose.
While I could feel no physical effects my sudden realization that the lyrics of “I’m a Barbie Girl” were both profound and also extremely incisive might possibly indicate that there was some sort of mental effect!
At the end of two hours I eventually found the lady who had taken the first sample and, with many exclamations of what I took to be apology and fluster, she stuck the needle in for a second time and produced a bloody test tube which she indicated was my property. She then disappeared and reappeared with my blood sample inside a suitable envelope to ensure the safe delivery of same to Sant Boi. Some time later, with envelope in hand I was ready to visit the dark interior of Sant Boi rather than the fringes (or IKEA) that I had previously known.
There are no parking spaces in the centre of Sant Boi.
None.
At the point when I was about to lose my temper and give up, a parking sign suddenly appeared and I disappeared into the subterranean cavern which took cars.
The clinic was a gargantuan building with seven floors and on the floor for me a disgruntled lady who looked at my blood sample with undisguised contempt. Luckily I had Toni on hand to translate the fact that nothing was my fault – apart, possibly for the undisputable fact that it was my blood supply and circulation that was in question.
After taking the sample with barely concealed irritation there was nothing more to do except for me to have some fluid and something to eat. A slovenly served cafe con leche and an uninteresting cake was not quite what I had in mind - but it served!
My leisurely morning disappeared in the fiasco of my enforced visit to Sant Boi and I had to return to school much later than I intended. Not so late, however that I couldn’t do my lunch duty and, after relating my epic story of blood testing, help get the last class of kids down to see a film.
Their behaviour was so appalling that we had to stop the film and while I sat with three even more appallingly behaved miscreants; my younger colleagues threatened and cajoled the rest of the year group to adopt a more civilized form of behaviour. Which they didn’t.
I know that every generation looks askance at the youngsters coming up to take their place, but I think that we in school have every right to feel disturbed by the callous, arrogant lack of respect and cynical rejection of authority that our future senior pupils display.
Were I in the position to pay the swingeing fees that we charge, as a parent I would be disturbed to have my children in the same class as those who so signally fail to live up to the ethos of the school. Or at least the expression of the ethos that I have always felt to be essential to reinforce any ‘ethical’ teaching taking place inside the institution.
But who cares. It’s the end of term, and i don’t have to think about such things.
But Easter is not a fortnight here in this benighted country: it is a week and two miserable days. And that is one day more than the public sector of education! We go back on Wednesday and the pupils in state schools on the Tuesday. Thank god for small mercies.
Today has shown signs of promise with temperatures in the low twenties. My only hope is that they increase as we make our way through March.
Please.
The doors to the medical centre open at 8.00 am sharp and the crowds flood in, jockeying for a position to have their veins slit. This is pointless because once inside, one of the medical staff reads out a list of names and the people are expected to stand in the order in which they are called.
Today was slightly different as a desk had been set up in the concourse and a seated lady called out the names. Mine was called forth fourth (sorry couldn’t resist that) and I walked over to the extraction cubicles. I duly went when called and had my blood taken in the normal way.
And that was the problem. At the end of the second little tube being filled with red the medical assistant smiled brightly and bid me adieu! When I said that I was ready for my drink, she looked at me blankly and gave me one of those worried smiles which I know so well from attempting to communicate in a language not mine own!
I was there for a glucose drink and two blood tests to see how my system dealt with things. No, I was assured, that sort of test was only done on a Monday, never on a Friday.
Pushing my linguistic boundaries to the limit I tried to explain in spluttering Spanish that I had taken time off work and so on. There was (it would have been muttered in Britain, but was quite audible here) a conversation while a collection of people decided what to do.
Eventually it was decided that I would have my drink and my second blood sample taken and then I would have the privilege of taking the second sample to St Boi. How kind!
The glucose was presented to me in a small bottle taken from the fridge and looked like a mature vintage Sauterne but tasted like an alcohol free, flat, slightly over-sweet white wine. Better, I have to admit, than some wines I have drunk! Thinking about it, I ought to revise that to “many” wines I have drunk!
I can’t say that the concentrated glucose had much effect on me, though I was listening to my i-pod and with a languor that I find is quite common to listeners of a certain age, I allowed the tracks to continue from whatever electronic choice had previously been made.
So I sat there for two hours listening to the Best Ever Tracks From The Eighties while waiting for my body to do whatever it is supposed to do with a pretty comprehensive shot of concentrated glucose.
While I could feel no physical effects my sudden realization that the lyrics of “I’m a Barbie Girl” were both profound and also extremely incisive might possibly indicate that there was some sort of mental effect!
At the end of two hours I eventually found the lady who had taken the first sample and, with many exclamations of what I took to be apology and fluster, she stuck the needle in for a second time and produced a bloody test tube which she indicated was my property. She then disappeared and reappeared with my blood sample inside a suitable envelope to ensure the safe delivery of same to Sant Boi. Some time later, with envelope in hand I was ready to visit the dark interior of Sant Boi rather than the fringes (or IKEA) that I had previously known.
There are no parking spaces in the centre of Sant Boi.
None.
At the point when I was about to lose my temper and give up, a parking sign suddenly appeared and I disappeared into the subterranean cavern which took cars.
The clinic was a gargantuan building with seven floors and on the floor for me a disgruntled lady who looked at my blood sample with undisguised contempt. Luckily I had Toni on hand to translate the fact that nothing was my fault – apart, possibly for the undisputable fact that it was my blood supply and circulation that was in question.
After taking the sample with barely concealed irritation there was nothing more to do except for me to have some fluid and something to eat. A slovenly served cafe con leche and an uninteresting cake was not quite what I had in mind - but it served!
My leisurely morning disappeared in the fiasco of my enforced visit to Sant Boi and I had to return to school much later than I intended. Not so late, however that I couldn’t do my lunch duty and, after relating my epic story of blood testing, help get the last class of kids down to see a film.
Their behaviour was so appalling that we had to stop the film and while I sat with three even more appallingly behaved miscreants; my younger colleagues threatened and cajoled the rest of the year group to adopt a more civilized form of behaviour. Which they didn’t.
I know that every generation looks askance at the youngsters coming up to take their place, but I think that we in school have every right to feel disturbed by the callous, arrogant lack of respect and cynical rejection of authority that our future senior pupils display.
Were I in the position to pay the swingeing fees that we charge, as a parent I would be disturbed to have my children in the same class as those who so signally fail to live up to the ethos of the school. Or at least the expression of the ethos that I have always felt to be essential to reinforce any ‘ethical’ teaching taking place inside the institution.
But who cares. It’s the end of term, and i don’t have to think about such things.
But Easter is not a fortnight here in this benighted country: it is a week and two miserable days. And that is one day more than the public sector of education! We go back on Wednesday and the pupils in state schools on the Tuesday. Thank god for small mercies.
Today has shown signs of promise with temperatures in the low twenties. My only hope is that they increase as we make our way through March.
Please.
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