Slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

To (mis)qoute Shakespeare, I am now suffering in a sling (no arrows involved), due to the outrageous fortune of being bitten by some terrible beastie that had obviously been gargling with raw effluent before sinking it's fangs into me.

It looked bad enough yesterday, so when it was even redder, more swollen, and creeping further up my arm, it seemed like a trip to the GP really was on order.

Unfortunately, due to availability issues, I couldn't get an appointment today, so trudged into work, vowing to keep an eye on it.

Eventually, after succumbing to much peer pressure, which as the name implies, involves a lot of peering and poking, I begrudgingly went to A&E.

I felt like such a fraud, apologising first to the nurse on Triage, then the receptionist that I had tried to get to the GP. Self diagnosis and 15 years of nursing told me that all I needed was a good dose of Flucloxacillin, and I'd be on my way and right as reign in no time, but with the rate the infection was creeping up my arm, I needed to start anti-biotics today, and with no joy with the GP, I'd have to come and sit with the rest of the walking wounded who really should have been at the GP surgery.

The waiting area of A&E is a fascinating, although sometimes uncomfortable place to people watch. I'd removed my ID badge, so there could be no accusations of queue jumping and favouritism should my infection prove more important than the man who'd had a lump on his foot for three weeks that gave him no pain, but today decided it was urgent enough to come straight to hospital.

There was a couple there who were clearly on a family day out, having brought flasks of tea, sandwiches, and several magazines. I have no idea which of them was waiting to be seen. They were there when I arrived, and there when I left.

I patiently watched as other people impatiently challenged any staff who accidentally made eye contact (which is quite hard when people walk up to them and put their face 6 inches in front of them), and demand to know why they have been waiting 2 hours. Or just walk straight into the treatment area to see 'just what all the staff are doing'.

Um....because it's busy? And you're not dying, whereas someone came in an hour ago that was, so we had to..you know..re-prioritise things a little bit.

Not that that's what the staff said. They were polite and courteous, without being patronising. How they get through the day without saying "Just fuck off and stop wasting our time with your insignificant little scratch, that I bet if it happened at home you'd do fuck all about, but because you're on work time you come here with your muddy boots and your 'I'm the center of the universe' attitude, demanding we stop everything to deal with you, you self centred little prick. Fuck off to Boots and buy a packet of plasters you insufferable cunt." I'll never know.

So I was seen after 90 minutes, which I thought was pretty good considering the triviality of my complaint, and now have a course of anti-biotics, and been told to keep my hand in a high sling.

Feeling a bit useless at work, I opted to come home, and being as Mrsslippy was nearly done, and her work was quiet, she nicked off too and will pay them back the hours.

She's gone to Tesco - I couldn't face going with her and enduring the cruel stares, nor would be much use with pushing the trolley, or pack and carry bags.

Nor will I be able to make dinner, or wash up.

I will be able to drink coffee, watch and control the TV, and pootle on the computer (different to work, where a lot of actions involve using the mouse and the keyboard at the same time - not so here).

As long as I avoid doing anything too heavy, or that takes two hands I should be safe, so I hope Mrsslippy comes home soon.

I think I need the toilet.