The problem with commuting as much as I do is that you are constantly hearing snippets of conversations that leave one's over active imagination whirring away like a nuclear powered vacuum cleaner.
Last night on my way home from London, I heard three people discussing hospitals. It was all pretty mundane stuff about bed pans and arse-revealing gowns until, just as they were getting off, the man of the trio said to his two female companions "I didn't know about the black ink until my mother was terminally ill...". One of the others asked, "How do you mean? His reply left me craning to hear more, "They put a line on your hospital chart in black ink when you've been diagnosed with a terminal illness...to warn the nurses and other medical staff...". And then they got off.
Now I'm worried.
What if I have to go into hospital for, say, my sinus problem (I've been a martyr for years, you know) and then after my tests, there's a black line on my chart. What aren't they telling me? How long have I got? Will it be a slow and painful death or one of those when you never know it's coming? One minute you're in McDonald's getting 3 happy meals and a quarter pounder with cheese and the next...you're on a stretcher staring at the underside of a blanket.
If anyone knows the true story on this, please add a comment. The stress could kill me.
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