London heat. And hanging out at the hospital.

Arrived at Heathrow a couple of days ago. Ferried home by Chris who managed to pack the three of us with the two bikes, one large suitcase, a large duffel bag, and two marginal carryons into his small, new hybrid. 

But it's very hot here and the guest suite at Mum's flat is more than toasty. Sleeping, or attempting to, without covers or clothes on the clammy sheets. I don't know how Mum manages. 

Not having seen her since before COVID started, the ageing is noticeable. And last night, she had a fall in the flat before going to bed. I thought she was just up late today after a typically poor night's sleep but she was in pain from the fall. We got a taxi to Lewisham Hospital and began the waiting game. Waiting to be triaged, waiting on Urgent Care, waiting for a cat scan, waiting for results. And now, after 12 hours, waiting for transport home. Which could be 10 minutes or three hours, so I was told. A couple of hours ago. 

The wait time increased to 4 hours and 53 minutes before shrinking somewhat. But it was all a fiction.

This hospital, where my brother Nick died astonishingly quickly, is looking pretty shabby. The NHS is clearly under great stress, presumably helped none by the self-harming nature of Brexit making many of the staff either unwelcome or not allowed to remain. Or decades of financial starvation from a government of the elite who'd prefer a private system, and too bad for the less well off. Not even just the less well off, more those unwealthy who chose their parents poorly. I'm feeling pretty fortunate to have made my escape to Canada forty years ago. Not perfect but much better.

0430 now. I wonder when we'll be on the way home. In retrospect, making our own way home by cab seems like it would have been the best, if not sanctioned, option. The good news is that Mum's head and ribs look fine on the cat scan. Clearly some  bruising that is very painful. Bad timing with her 90th birthday, and party, tomorrow.

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