Simply Sue: Only Being So Cheerful
So there you are, ill in a hospital bed, when a visitor wanders in, stares out of the ward window, and says "Poor day for a funeral. They're burying my auntie today.'' Sue Papworth considers the folk who go hospital visiting, then decides which is worst - the thoroughly gloomy or the relentlessly cheerful.
Some people have a real knack for cheering you up.
First prize goes to the lady who visited me in hospital a few years back. She beefed in and plummeted onto the end of my bed - she was a lady of some fifteen stone, so she fired me and all the various drips and drains and machines that go beep that were attached to me several inches into the air.
“I’ve had a really dreadful day!’’ she said.
Mine hadn’t been all that cracky either.
The next one to arrive wandered in looking like Eeyore after he lost his tail. She trudged over, and stared gloomily out of the ward window.
“Poor day for a funeral,’’ she said. “They’re burying my auntie today.’’
The anaesthetic caught up with me just then, and I went back out, which was perhaps as well, because otherwise I’d probably have asked if auntie was dead yet. Given the way my visitor was acting, I wouldn’t have put money on it.
I’m not totally sure whether I detest people who are thoroughly gloomy at you most, or people who are relentlessly cheerful. But probably the latter.
The lady who visited once I’d got back home bounded in glowing with optimism.
“HOW WONDERFUL!’’ she shrieked. “I SEE YOU’RE SITTING OUTSIDE CATCHING THE SUN!!!’’
I was actually wedged sideways on the sofa, and a fetching shade of pale grey. What she meant was, my deckchair had got left outside around a month back. “AND YOUR CAR’S OUTSIDE. YOU’RE GETTING OUT A LOT HOW TREMENDOUS!! AND AREN’T YOU LUCKY NOT TO BE AT WORK IN THIS LOVELY WEATHER!! YOU MUST BE HAVING SUCH FUN!!’’
On the whole I’d rather have been in Philadelphia.
After another fifteen minutes of relentless cheer, it was time to use the desperate ploy I reserve for such moments - like with the chap who always used to yell “Howareyouallright?’’ at me in the pub, and then go on to tell me all about his bowels, without drawing breath.
I told her how I was. In full Technicolor detail. With everything but diagrams. I suggested she might like to see the stitches.
She suddenly remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere.
And as the door closed behind her, my stitches were in grave danger.
